Mysterious Circumstances

by Rita Herron

  She stiffened. He was purposely trying to throw her off balance. A tough, brooding, silent type now playing the comforting, caring man to siphon information. She knew the game. Had used it herself.

  And he had his technique down pat.

  But she couldn’t fall into the trap.

  “How do I know that you don’t already have the answers?” she asked. “That you aren’t keeping the truth from me?”

  Touché. She could see it in his eyes. He’d planned to lie. “Is that what happened with your mother?”

  She swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected that tactic. “What do you know about her?”

  He shrugged. “Just that she died while researching a virus years ago.”

  “Yes, and the government covered it up.”

  “You have proof of this?” Craig asked.

  She hesitated, wishing she had. “No.”

  “Maybe your father wanted to protect you.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, Agent Horn? Trying to protect me like you did my father?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw, a long silence stretching between them before he finally replied, “I’m sorry about your father, Olivia.”

  His gruff voice barely hinted at the emotions teetering to the surface. But he squared himself to his full height, ungiving. “I know you want to investigate,” Craig said in a steely voice. “But this might be dangerous, Olivia. Stay out of it.”

  “I don’t care if it is dangerous.” She jutted up her chin. “I’ve lost everyone, Horn. The only thing I have to live for is to find out the reason why.”

  His eyes darkened, the silence so intense she could have sworn she felt the molecules of air colliding around her. Then his gaze dropped to her hand. She’d forgotten she was still holding the threatening note.

  The paper crinkled between her fingers as he slid his hand over hers and pried it from her fingers.

  Chapter Five

  A tingle jolted Craig as he wrapped his fingers around Olivia’s hand and lifted it. Her fingers were long, slender, her nails short but manicured. And her skin was so soft it felt like silk.

  She clenched the note tightly, as if she didn’t want him to see what she held. “What’s this?”

  She shrugged, acting nonplussed. “Nothin

  He wasn’t going to fall for her innocent act. “Then you won’t mind me taking a look.”

  It was more of a statement than a question. She tossed her head back—a reaction to the sound of his husky tone or simply stubborn bravado? His body twitched with arousal at the thought. In spite of being obstinate and determined, she was so damn sexy he was tempted to drag her in his arms and kiss her.

  At the same time, he wanted to handcuff her to the inside of his car and keep her there so he could prevent her from causing more trouble. Or getting into it herself.

  He did neither.

  Her soft, warm hand contrasted sharply with the unyielding resistance in her eyes. Then he unfolded the small scrap of paper and all teasing left his mind.

  Dr. Thornbird, if you don’t back off, you’re dead.

  His gaze shot to hers. “Where did you get this?”

  She hesitated long enough to make him wonder if she would lie.

  “In one of my father’s lab coat pockets.”

  “I can’t believe CSI missed that. And now your fingerprints are all over it.”

  This time, the defiance slipped at the contempt in his voice. But she recovered quickly. “It’s proof that someone wanted to hurt my father.”

  “Evidence that you hadn’t planned to give the police?” he growled.

  She hesitated as if she meant to argue, then clamped her mouth shut.

  “You have to work with me here, Olivia. How the hell can I solve the case if you withhold evidence?”

  “How the hell do I know what you’ll do with it?” Her voice exploded with anger and distrust. “For all I know, you’re hiding information from me now. And when you find out the truth, you’ll finagle a big government cover-up just like before.”

  “You said yourself you have no proof of a cover-up.”

  The pain that clouded her eyes tore at him. Chipped at the layers of ice.

  “But I know it’s true. Your father is a senator, Agent Horn. And you work for the feds. You’re probably all in cahoots.”

  His temper flared, halting the thawing process. “If you’re suggesting that my father is corrupt or that I can be bought, Miss Thornbird, you’re wrong.”

  She shrugged, as if untouched by his harsh tone. “Then prove it. Work with me. Give me the story.”

  “So you can print speculations that will terrify the city and create panic?”

  “Maybe people should be terrified. If they know the truth, then they can protect themselves.”

  He hesitated. He saw her point, but her theories were flawed. Panic would only compound the problem, hinder the investigation. And the crazies that would call in would only complicate things, occupy much needed, valuable manpower that would better be used in another capacit

  His past rose to haunt him. His father’s ridiculing words. His stupidity in falling for another beautiful woman. A sexy reporter who’d used him…

  He wasn’t a young ignorant man any more. And he wouldn’t fall for Olivia, no matter how much he wanted to soothe her pain.

  No. Craig Horn was FBI. He couldn’t make promises he might not be able to keep or let things get personal.

  And he couldn’t share anything with Olivia that she might put in print.

  But what if she was right? What if he did discover a cover-up?

  He dismissed the thought with the calculated ease of a seasoned agent. If he did, he’d deal with it like a professional. Weigh the costs. The benefits. Do what he had to do, just as he always did. The end justified the means. Emotions couldn’t enter the picture. “I don’t have to prove anything to you, Miss Thornbird.”

  “Spoken like a true agent. The Iceman, right?”

  He fisted his hands by his sides, wondering why her comment irked him so. When others called him that, he swelled with pride. “That’s what I am. Now, don’t get in the way of my job.”

  Olivia’s eyes flashed fire. “I’m doing what I have to do, too.”

  Apparently they’d reached a standoff. The sooner this case was solved, the sooner Olivia Thornbird would be out of his life. “Did you find something other than the note?”

  She threaded her fingers through her hair, lifting it from her neck as if she was hot. Unfortunately, the movement only drew attention to the slender column of her throat and its satiny softness. He loosened his tie, perspiration beading his neck. The air conditioner must not be working.

  “No, but I’d like to look around some more.”

  “Did your father have a safe-deposit box?”

  “I told you, no.”

  He dragged his gaze from her hair, gestured toward the threatening note. “I’ll have this analyzed.”

  She nodded, the tension between them vibrating with distrust and other emotions neither of them wanted to acknowledge. The memory of her father’s last few moments filtered through the haze, connecting them.

  But the questions about his death created a gulf that separated them.

  Craig’s guilt lay somewhere in the middle.

  The pain in her eyes beckoned him to cross over. Their jobs, their beliefs, her need for vengeance stood as firm reminders that he couldn’t.

  FOR A BRIEF MINUTE, Olivia had almost allowed herself to believe that Craig Horn was human. That he was going to reach out and assuage her worries, offer to help her, to tell her everything.

  But she knew better. He was just as cold as she’d heard.

  The feds, the cops, the politicians—they were all alike. Sure, they did their jobs, and even put their lives on the line for others. But in the end, they protected their reputations no matter who got hurt in the process.

  Just like those scientists at Nighthawk Island. Playing God. Conducting unethical experiments. Perf
orming mind-altering games on that one cop. Killing one of their own scientists to keep their secrets.

  She’d made attempts to get the scoop on the inner workings of CIRP for months, but so far had made little headway. Ian Hall appeared to be trying to change the image.

  But an image was only what one saw on the surface. It was what lay beneath that intrigued her.

  Just like Agent Craig Horn was beginning to intrigue her.

  But she didn’t want to be intrigued by him. Or attracted to him. And she especially didn’t want to wonder what would happen if she could melt the ice around his heart.

  “All right,” Horn said, “let’s look around.”

  His deep sexy voice pulled her from her thoughts. She glanced up and moved away from him, rattled. He was too close. Too intense. Too good at what he did—uncovering the truth.

  And she had no intention of letting him see inside her, of knowing the real Olivia.

  “I don’t need help.”

  His harsh bark of laughter didn’t surprise her.

  “You don’t need help with anything, do you, Olivia?”

  She swallowed, wishing he wouldn’t say her name in that husky timbre. Even without meaning to, it reverberated with sultry undertones that sent sensations skittering up her spine.

  “I’d like some privacy, that’s all.” She gestured around her father’s room, noted the fingerprint dust on the surfaces, and shuddered. “I deserve that, don’t I?”

  His quiet breath hissed through the air, adding to the steeping tension. “Yes. But we both know whatever you find might be useful to my investigation, so I don’t intend to leave.”

  Anger churned through her. At him. At the circumstances.

  But he was right, and she couldn’t deny it.

  Besides, two could play the game. He probably had connections to privileged information at CIRP. Maybe he’d slip up and reveal something.

  Maybe she could use him.

  “Okay.” Ignoring the hint of a smile that indicated he thought he’d won this round, she turned away and searched her father’s closet. The same few pairs of brown and black slacks that were nearly threadbare hung side by side with his white dress shirts that were equally as old, some with missing buttons and tattered collars, along with an overcoat he’d had since she was a child. The house shoes she’d given him ten years before lay on the floor, three pairs of socks rolled up beside them, another stack of medical journals in the corner.

  She knelt to examine the back of the closet in hopes of finding a lockbox or something filled with notes, but found nothing. Behind her, Hornnightstand, then pawed through the dresser. Irritated, she reached for the top shelf. Two hats, an umbrella, gloves and a pack of cigarettes. She ran her hand along the back of the shelf and discovered a photo album.

  Her breath caught as she opened the book and saw the carefully inserted pictures. Her parents on their wedding day, looking happy and young and in love. The two of them on a jaunt to Asia. Then her mother pregnant. She ran her finger over her mother’s face, affection welling in her throat. The next page held pictures of her as an infant, then cataloged her growth to a toddler. Her in her mother’s arms. Her father giving her a bottle. Her mother carrying her in a backpack as they hiked into the mountains.

  Odd, but she didn’t remember many family outings. By the time she was five, both her parents had turned their focus back on their careers, as if their research were more important than her. She remembered cold TV dinners, late nights with a babysitter, phone calls from foreign countries.

  And her mother’s last trip—Egypt. She’d phoned saying she was coming home early. Olivia had been so excited, she’d taken markers and created a half-dozen Welcome Home posters. In a rare moment, her father had come home early, and they’d baked homemade chocolate cookies for dessert.

  She swiped at a tear trickling down her cheek, the memory so real it felt as if it had just happened. And then the phone call. Her mother was never coming back.

  Her father’s anguished cry. His fury at the authorities for not answering his questions about her death. The sudden silence in the house when he’d walked out and left her alone to cry.

  It was the last time she had allowed herself to. Until the day her father died.

  “Olivia?”

  Embarrassed, she closed the book and hugged it to her.

  “Did you find something?”

  She shook her head. “No.” The room suddenly seemed stifling. Her father’s smell lingered in the air. His memory. It was choking her.

  And the sympathetic look in Horn’s eyes—she couldn’t handle it.

  He moved closer, the faint woodsy smell growing closer.

  Unable to breathe or remain in the room any longer, she turned and fled, hugging the album to her. When she drove away seconds later, she didn’t look back. Although she knew that Craig Horn had followed her outside, that he was watching her. That he’d started to say something to comfort her, but then he’d pulled back.

  Because he was the cold man she’d always thought. And just like her father, he put his job first. He didn’t have time for emotional entanglements.

  And neither did she. Getting involved only meant getting hurt.

  She’d already suffered enough pain and loneliness for a lifetime.

  IN SPITE OF HIS VOW to harden himself against Olivia, Craig’s chest squeezed as he watched her flee the house and drive away. Her sorrow had moved something inside him, something he hadn’t felt for a long time. Maybe nev

  He scrubbed a hand over his chin, banished the images, told himself she was part of a case, that was all. Nothing more.

  Except she was persistent and would be back.

  Her momentary escape had been a spontaneous reaction to the circumstances. She would beat herself up later for revealing those emotions.

  He was beginning to understand her. She wasn’t as tough as she wanted everyone to believe. And that tiny chink in her armor, that small vulnerability that had peeked through the mask, was getting to him.

  His cell phone jangled and he grabbed it, grateful for the interruption. “Agent Horn.”

  “Horn, it’s Adam Black from the Savannah Police Department.”

  God, he hoped they didn’t have another victim so soon. “Yeah?”

  “We’ve been searching the national database for similar cases to the suicides. We might be on to something.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  He hung up and headed toward the door. On the floor, he spotted a small photograph that must have fallen from the album when Olivia had run from the house. The picture showed a gap-toothed first-grade Olivia traipsing after her mother on a hiking trip. He frowned, those sad, big blue eyes yanking at his insides.

  Her comments about her mother’s death echoed in his head like a broken record. Ruth Thornbird had died of a strange virus in a foreign country.

  And now her husband had died of one, too.

  But Olivia’s mother’s death had occurred fifteen years ago. They couldn’t possibly be related, could they?

  FURIOUS WITH HERSELF for getting upset in front of Craig Horn, Olivia make a firm pact with herself that it wouldn’t happen again. She was tough. Invincible. Going to do her job in spite of the barricades tossed in her path.

  Desperate for answers, she decided to go to CIRP. Ian Hall had already proven to be a dead end. But if she could get into her father’s office…

  She swung back by the house to see if Agent Horn was still there, but he’d left, so she slipped back inside, borrowed one of her father’s lab coats, found a clean scrub suit and pulled it on over her clothes. Then she found her father’s name tag, coded with his entrance passkey, and stuffed it in her pocket. Hopefully, they hadn’t disarmed his code yet.

  The muggy heat was stifling as she headed toward the research park, the scents of salt water and fish swirling through her car windows as she drove along the shore. Perspiration dotted her neck where she’d twisted her hair into a knot beneath the surgical cap
. Confident she could pull off the disguise as an employee, she parked and climbed the steps to the research building where her father had worked. She scanned the area, went through the front door, then waited until a group of med techs filed through security to mingle with the crowd. Thankfully, she passed through unnoticed. Grateful she had visited her father at his office, she understood the layout of the building, knew she’d need the passkey on the third floortering the wing to his office. Two doctors were conferring in the hall near the security lock, so she ducked behind the corner until they left, then hurried forward, swiped the key and waited for the lock to be released.

  Seconds later, she was in her father’s office. The scent of chemicals floated through the sterile atmosphere, the various test tubes and machinery familiar although she’d never actually paid attention to her father’s ramblings about their functions.

  Now she wished she’d listened more carefully.

  Her nerves fluttered at the sound of voices outside the door. She stooped lower, then slid into the desk chair, waiting until they passed by. Finally clear, she booted up her father’s computer and tried to access his recent files.

  When she scrolled down the menu, she noticed a file marked Ruth Thornbird. Her heart fluttered. She clicked on the file, tapping her toe while she waited. Seconds later, just as the information began to appear on the screen, the door opened behind her.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  She had just enough time to glance at the screen, to see the name Dr. Martin Shubert, before the guards yanked her out of the chair and dragged her down the hall.

  CRAIG SHOOK HANDS WITH Detective Adam Black and claimed the seat across the desk from him. His partner, Clayton Fox, spread several computer printouts on the table.

  “What did you find?” Craig asked.

  “We’ve been investigating CIRP for some time now,” Detective Black began.

  Horn nodded, then turned to Clayton Fox. “I know that they altered your memory to make you think you were someone else for a while in order to throw you off your investigation.”