by V. R. Marks
"How long has Ross had you tailing me?" Was that a blushing creeping into his face?
"Not as long as you think. We were all happy to help while you were recuperating. You saved Allie."
"Okay, okay," she held up her hands. "I'll back off that topic. It's just weird. I don't like the thought of people hovering and pampering. There's a reason I'm not going home for the holidays."
He laughed again, softly, but it was no less effective. "We're lucky none of Ruth's neighbors have been by with a 'welcome to the neighborhood' pie or casserole."
"They would do that?" She rubbed at her shoulder. "It's not like I'm really moving in."
"In a heartbeat. If only to get a read on what we're doing here together." He pushed a hand through his hair.
She dragged her gaze away from the movement and hauled her thoughts away from how it would feel to touch him. Think of Shannon. She flirted, teased occasionally, but she never poached. As much as she hated it, this man was off limits.
It was a welcome relief when her email pinged a new message. She leaned forward, mentally crossing her fingers it was the file Nichols promised her.
"You seem pretty happy with the FBI set up."
"It's sweet," she confessed without thinking. "Please don't tell Nichols I said that. I knew they had cool stuff, I just didn't know how cool."
"Why do you hate him?"
"Hate is a strong word." She sighed. "It boils down to having different philosophies."
"Got it. He strikes me as a rules guy."
"And I don't strike you as a rules girl?"
His half grin did terrible things to her equilibrium. She turned her attention back to the monitor and clicked to download the file. "Rules are fine," she said at last. "I wouldn't have made it in the Army if I couldn't follow rules. Maybe it's more accurate to think of Nichols as a good agent who hates my methods."
"What are your methods?"
"Pretty straight forward. I do everything in my power to get the job done." She cut him a glance from under her lashes. "And I know how to uncover the things people most want to hide."
Chapter 6
In a New York City penthouse, Bakr Morcos sipped warm brandy while waiting for word on the woman he hunted. As he'd expected since his opening move, her handlers had closed ranks to protect her. It would be a pleasure to dispense with them one by one. The first to fall were hardly worth the time, the price a mere necessity for setting the stage.
Outside, snow fell gently on Central Park, but his gaze was locked on the antique chess set on the low table in front of the fireplace. Hand-carved from camel bone, it had been in his family for generations and, though it was cumbersome, he rarely traveled without it.
The pieces gleamed in the leaping firelight. He plucked the black queen from the board and held her carefully in his palm. Like the dark queen he hunted, the fire was greedy and passionate, all too eager to act without regard for the result.
Theirs was a delicate game of strategy, made all the more intriguing because he didn't know what to expect from her. Reports could state her skills in the most clinical manner, but gave no true insight. Tapes from the night his nephew died were his only indication of how she behaved in a crisis. He would have to react as she did, yet stay within the confines of his goal.
He swirled the brandy, picturing her lovely face pale and contorted with pain when she realized everything she loved was cinders – burned by her own choices.
So close. These final moves would play out and then he wouldn't have to imagine anymore. The queen would be at his feet, begging him to kill her.
Winner takes all.
* * *
Eva woke to pale winter sunshine seeping through the bedroom window. She hadn't closed the shades when Carson dragged her off the couch and pushed her up the stairs. He'd let her work well into the night before insisting the computer could run the facial recognition program without her.
Rolling over, she checked the cell phone. Four hours of sleep wasn't bad. No new messages from the hospital or anywhere else. Probably a good thing under the circumstances. She stretched, appreciating the soft flannel sheets, content enough now to admit Carson was right about the bed being a vast improvement over the couch. Aside from the excellent accommodations, the intensity of the situation and the schedule made her feel like she was back with her team.
Only this wasn't her team. This time she was in civilian clothes under the direct protection of a sexy guy with a charming accent. This time she had no idea who would act on any intel she provided. Both factors should make this search for the Morcos brothers easier for different reasons. Instead she felt worse.
Eager to get back to work on the sweet set up Nichols had brought, she gathered a change of clothes and padded quietly down the hall for a quick shower. The hot steamy shower did wonders for her tight shoulders. Dressed in jeans and her favorite red sweater, she crept past Carson's room and down the stairs.
She measured out coffee and set it to brew while she checked for any return on last night's queries. "Where are you, Abe?" she whispered to the screen. There'd been no confirmation of the obituary in the email Bart received. Until she had the news from a reliable and independent source, she would not accept his death.
Her stomach rumbled as she turned to the second computer. According to the facial recognition program, courtesy of the FBI, Bakr Morcos had yet to enter America. She wasn't sure she believed that either. With the nearly unlimited resources of his family business and the wide network of associates on both sides of the law, there were too many plausible options for entering the country undetected.
"One good lead and you're mine, you twisted jerk."
She went to the kitchen to fill a mug with coffee and start breakfast. Ruth had every gadget and top of the line appliance and Eva couldn't resist the lure any longer. Cooking kept her hands busy while her mind worked through a problem and Morcos was nothing if not a problem.
Last night's dinner had been smothered chicken from the Midnight Rooster. While Eva appreciated the gesture, she was determined not to put Ruth out any more than necessary. The sheriff had delivered the delicious meal personally, along with news that Hannah and Special Agent Nichols failed to draw out the sniper.
He considered it a ploy failed, but Eva put it in the 'win' column. To her, it meant the sniper and Bakr – the man most likely pulling his strings – knew she was right here. While it felt a bit constricting, it also meant as long as she stayed put, he had to come to her.
How to make that happen sooner rather than later?
She stewed on the question as she pulled eggs, cheese, and a package of thick-sliced bacon out of the refrigerator. When the skillet was hot, she added the bacon and started cracking eggs into a bowl. She paused at four, two for each of them, then added two more for Carson. He had a lean build, but there was a lot of it.
As if summoned by the thought, Carson came down the stairs. In well-worn jeans and a white t-shirt, his gun in a dark leather holster at his hip. With his hair damp from the shower and his jaw shadowed with morning stubble, he stirred a different kind of hunger inside her. It took a supreme effort not to whisk the eggs right out of the bowl.
"Good morning." He placed the radio on the back counter on his way to the coffee pot. "Need topped off?"
"Please." Topped off by him would be ideal. She pushed that image out of her head in a hurry. "I hope you like eggs."
He added a splash of cream before taking a long sip of his coffee. "Yup." He glanced from the bacon sizzling in the skillet to the wall oven. "Want me to make biscuits?"
"You cook?" At his raised eyebrow, she laughed. "Ah, another area of Morris family training?"
He winked. "I've learned it pays off."
That was a loaded reply if she'd ever heard one. It sent her imagination on another wild ride, but this one ended on a less than happy note. How often had he cooked morning-after biscuits for Shannon? "Then why do I always see you at the Rooster?"
"Your boss had me
tailing you," he reminded her, turning on the oven.
She set the eggs aside. "Before that."
"Oh, come on, the Rooster's got the best food in town." He turned suddenly, his face going red. "If you tell my mom I said that, I'll deny it."
"Huh." She slid a glance at him while she moved the bacon to a plate to drain. "I'm open to negotiations."
"Cooking for one is more hassle than it's worth." He started mixing dry ingredients. "Really, the Midnight Rooster is a department tradition."
"Sure." She found the blush staining his ears was adorable. "Supporting the local economy."
"Exactly." He surprised her, rolling out the dough and cutting biscuits to uniform size with the rim of a juice glass. "How's that FBI set up working for you?"
"Don't change the subject." When the biscuits were in the oven, she poured the eggs into the pan. "It's no big effort for me to hack your email and send your Mom a message."
"I bet it's not." After putting things in the sink, he started setting the kitchen table for the meal. "What will it take to guarantee your silence?"
"What are you offering?" Something about him inspired her to laugh and flirt. Whatever unidentifiable character trait it was, she let him see a side of her she typically hid from the rest of the world. She had to keep reminding herself he wasn't available.
"Tomorrow morning at the shooting range isn't enough?"
She shook her head. "Those plans were made prior to your incriminating admission."
"I see. No leniency for the exhausted?"
"Not a chance."
"You're tough."
"I am." She dished up the eggs and topped them with cheese while he slid the fluffy, golden biscuits into a basket and carried it to the table. As she sat across from him, she wondered if normal mornings with a man like Carson were in her future.
It didn't seem likely. This kind of calm domesticity had never been on her radar and she didn't have the type of career that lent itself to an easy, steady routine. RC Investigations was a big improvement over the Special Forces commitment but the hours were often still long and the risks atypical, even for a person who spent most of her time in the office.
As evidenced by current circumstances.
"The biscuits are fabulous," she said, taking another one and slathering it with butter. "My compliments."
"Is the recipe the right price for your silence?" He wiggled his eyebrows.
"No." She tossed her napkin on her plate before she gave in to the temptation of a third biscuit. "Just answer one question." She waited until he met her gaze. "What were you going to tell Shannon about 'asking me out'?" She put the phrase in air quotes, trying to be casual when the reality of being Carson's assignment hurt her feelings far more than it should. "On the stairs, before the sniper attacked yesterday, you made it sound like a date."
"It was supposed to." He frowned into his coffee, turning the mug back and forth between his hands. "I'm thinking the better question is what were you going to tell Bartholomew?"
"Bart wouldn't care about us going to the range. Unless I couldn't hit anything." Eva pushed back from the table and gathered the dishes.
"Right."
What the hell did that mean? She wanted to know, but she couldn't form the question in a civil manner. His irritated tone got under her skin, ignited her temper. She'd been the fool who believed his attention was sincere. Clearly the love virus that struck Ross and Rick had infected her too. Her thoughts raced around, none of them settling long enough to make sense. Instead of taking the easy, satisfying route and throwing the dishes at his head, she methodically rinsed each piece and loaded the dishwasher.
"I wouldn't have asked you out if I'd known about him."
"Bart is just a friend."
"I know better, Eva."
"You know what better?" She spun around, fisting her hands in the towel. Better than throttling him. Ross was right, she was stressed out and spoiling for a fight. Carson couldn't be faulted for helping Ross keep an eye on her. If she could be logical for two seconds, she'd realize he'd done a good job. It wasn't his fault she found him so damned attractive. She didn't even want to find him attractive.
With a deep breath, she tried to dial it down. Seeing the self-righteous look on his face, she failed. "What's that mean 'if you'd known about him'? You and Shannon were looking for a third?" Sneering, she leaned back against the counter and indulged in a long, hungry look. "It's always the quiet ones."
"Don't do that."
"What?" She batted her eyelashes. "Tempt you to stray?"
"Invite me to fight," he said in that calm, slow way he had.
Something changed on his face, in his eyes. Anger had given way to a softer emotion that fell somewhere between understanding and sympathy. Not acceptable. She turned away, seeking a distraction as her bravado faded. Her eyes lit on the skillet and she snatched it off the stove top and started scrubbing.
No man – no one at all – had ever read her as well as Carson, and they didn't really know each other. The knowledge should be a balm considering their forced proximity; instead his perceptive nature gave her chills. Not the good kind, though he set off plenty of those too.
"Shannon dumped me last year," he said. "I'm not sure who's feeding the sheriff gossip, but I'm not seeing anyone. Particularly not her. Yes, I was supposed to keep tabs on you, but I would never have asked you out on a date if I'd known you were involved with someone."
She paused her ruthless scouring of the skillet, tossing her hair out of her face. "Who's feeding you that worthless gossip?" Bart had never been to Haleswood before yesterday. If Ross or Rick were pulling some kind of prank on Carson, she'd put an end to that with a quick phone call.
"Not gossip. I heard him tell you he loved you." Carson poured more coffee. "Right after he took a bullet for you."
Eva cursed men in general as she tested the weight of the skillet, wondering if it would be enough to knock some sense into him. "First of all, I think the sniper wanted him all along. It's not my turn yet." She held up a hand when Carson started to argue. "Secondly, if I remember correctly, Bart professed his devotion – sarcastically – after I threatened to finish him off. For a tough guy, he whines a lot when he's hurt. It was annoying."
For a long moment they just stared at each other. The heat in his eyes amped up her already charged senses until nothing existed beyond him, beyond this room. Her eyes drifted to his mouth, imagining how it would feel to kiss him. Helpless against the reaction, she licked her lips.
"Don't do that."
His ragged whisper was more eloquence than she could manage. A raw, aching desire pulsed through her veins, sizzling along every nerve. She was evaluating which part of him she wanted to taste first when the radio and phones launched a bizarre, discordant symphony.
They leaped apart like teenagers caught steaming up a car, both of them scrambling to answer their respective devices.
Recognizing Ross' number, she worried Morcos had gotten past Bart's security detail at the hospital. "Talk to me," she answered as she rushed toward the computers in the den.
"Matheson's gone missing."
Eva sagged against the counter. Phillip Matheson had been on the team that stormed the hideout to rescue Abe's son.
"Didn't know he was here," she managed. While she appreciated the loyalty, it surprised her that Ross would invite others who'd been on that team to step right into Morcos' line of sight.
"He wouldn't stay away."
"What do you mean?" She struggled to hear Ross' voice through the memories of that awful night.
"Everyone involved with the mission got a head's up and a number to call in case of trouble. That wasn't good enough for Matheson. He insisted on being here."
"Retirement doesn't sit well with some people."
"Like I don't know that," he grumbled. "We disagreed about how he could pitch in, but he insisted on guarding the house, claimed he owed you one."
"What happened?"
"From the lo
oks of things, he fell asleep at the wheel and drove his car into the ditch."
"Is he dead?"
"The only thing I've got is a deployed air bag, a smear of blood on the door and a ransom note."
Two years ago Abraham Morcos' son had been snatched from his car in a similar accident on his way home from a work site.
"What's it say?"
"It's not written in English."
"Take a picture or copy it in a text. Do something, Ross. Matheson might not have much time." When they found him, she'd bloody his nose for making her worry. The man had a wife and little girl for crying out loud. What was he thinking to get involved in her troubles?
"I've sent a picture."
The message was in Russian: "My price is an audience with the queen."
Eva's breakfast threatened to come back up the hard way. "Come get me."
"No. You stay right there. What did the message say?"
She read it back to him. "Come get me," she repeated, willing him to change his mind. "I want to see Matheson's car."
"No. If you're out here, it means you're not doing your cyber thing. Stick with your strengths," Ross said. "He wants you to suffer and feel guilty."
"Well, give him a gold star."
"Not today. Focus, Eva. Find Morcos. Let us find Matheson."
Fingers flying, she brought up her private and corporate email accounts, no longer concerned about the FBI tech genius hunched behind a desk somewhere ghosting the set up to help her trace any incoming communication.
Finding nothing new at her personal email address was small consolation. Either her enemy didn't have the skill or just hadn't exercised it yet. The newest message in the primary RCI email inbox gave her chills. Matheson's name was in the subject line and Bart's email address was listed as the sender. "Dammit." Fairly sure it wouldn't help, she did as instructed and started a trace on the IP address anyway.
The little paper clip indicated an attachment on the message which had arrived three minutes ago. Braced for anything, she opened the email. The only message was the same request, in Russian, that had been left at Matheson's car. The first attachment was a picture, the second indicated a video file.
