Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  She stilled in the act of folding her robe, then immediately forced herself to continue as normal. “Really.”

  “Yeah. Got the SAC in the Tulsa office to give him my number. Said he had some info and wouldn’t give it to anyone else.”

  That sounded like Tony—cautious. Stubborn.

  She laid the robe in the suitcase, then pulled the turquoise linen dress from its hanger and concentrated on keeping her hands steady while she folded it. Her stomach was knotted and her chest so tight that dragging in a breath was difficult. She’d wanted to talk to Tony so many times since they’d arrived in Savannah, had wanted to hear the reassuring strength of his voice.

  But now he’d called.

  And he hadn’t even asked to speak to her.

  “He got an ID on that Heinz guy you and Long were talking about. Name’s Charles Hensley, and he used to work for the IRS in Philly. He’s wanted by the feds for various and sundry financial crimes.” Robinette scowled. “Not that a name’s much good when no one has a clue where the guy is.”

  “A name is more than you could come up with on Charlize Pawley.”

  He gave her a disgusted smirk. “He also said some jerkwad lawyer hired some jerkwad PI in Tulsa to find out anything he could about you. Ceola talked to the PI last night, and he’s going to see the lawyer in the morning. The guy’s clean, no arrest record, and likely to claim attorney/client privilege to avoid answering any questions.”

  Breathe, she counseled herself. Slowly in, slowly out. “We knew Sonny would be gathering whatever information he could.”

  “Him, or maybe Barnard Taylor or Vernell Munroe. What can this guy find out in Tulsa?”

  She tucked her cosmetics bag into a corner of the suitcase, then zipped it shut. “Nothing much. That I run along the river most days, I work out at a gym on Memorial, and I spend most of my time alone.”

  “That’s not ‘nothing.’ He can learn your routine. He did learn that you lived on Princeton Court.”

  “But my routine’s changed. And he didn’t find out that I’m now living on Riverside Drive, did he?”

  “No, not yet. Who did you tell you were moving in there?”

  “Nobody but Tony.”

  “Who would he tell?”

  She gave him a dry look. “He’s a homicide detective. He doesn’t want his girlfriend to become one of his cases. He didn’t tell anyone.” Except possibly Frank Simmons. Frankie was an odd one, but Tony trusted him with his life, so she would, too.

  “He doesn’t have to worry about that. Now that you’re working for us, if anything happens to you, it’s federal. Our jurisdiction.”

  “Thanks so much for the reassurance.” She hefted the suitcase off the bed and set it on the floor. “When are we leaving?”

  “The pilot will call as soon as the plane’s checked out. Be ready.”

  With an absent nod, she turned to gaze out the window, listening as he left the room. The garden that filled most of the yard was lovely, overflowing with flowers and a green so lush that it looked unnatural. Ordinarily, she would look at such a scene and yearn to paint it, but the only ache she felt at the moment was in her heart, not her empty fingers.

  Tony hadn’t even asked to speak to her. The hurt was sharp and raw. He didn’t have it in him to be cruel, which meant he was still very angry with her, still unsure they could work things out. If they couldn’t, she was going to be free to live her own life, but have no one to live it with.

  It was late afternoon when Selena returned to William’s estate with the FBI. Jamieson escorted Long across the lawn to the guesthouse, Gentry headed to the servants’ quarters in the north wing, and, after carrying Selena’s bag to the foot of the grand staircase, Robinette disappeared into the parlor. He returned carrying a fat manila folder, held shut with rubber bands, and offered it to her.

  “What is that?” she asked, making no move to reach for it.

  “Davis’s journal for the year you met him, as requested. Everything you don’t need to know was blacked out.”

  She stared at the folder. She’d asked for it, negotiated for it, but, even so, she was surprised. Surprised that her hand didn’t tremble. Surprised that she could remove the rubber bands and open it. William’s elegant handwriting filled the photocopied pages—at least, the ones she could read. Page after page was blacked out. Everything you don’t need to know. She smiled faintly. She needed to know everything.

  But what they’d allowed her would do for the moment.

  After replacing the rubber bands, she cradled the folder in both arms. “Thank you, Mr. Robinette.”

  With an uncomfortable gesture, he headed for the kitchen and the back door. “We’ll get something delivered for dinner,” he called over his shoulder.

  For a time she stood there, listening to the silence, wondering whether any of the answers she sought were inside the folder. When the grandfather clock in the parlor began to chime, she started, then picked up her bag. She’d climbed only a few steps when a chime of a different sort echoed through the foyer.

  Who would be visiting, or even knew they were back in town, didn’t concern her as she set the suitcase on the step and crossed to the door. Whoever was there had been cleared by the agents pulling guard duty.

  She undid the locks, pulled open the door, and froze. Tony stood there, wearing denim shorts, running shoes, and a faded Tulsa Run T-shirt, and looking uneasy and wary and amazing. She was torn between wanting to fling herself into his arms and remembering his cruel words before she’d left for Savannah. She settled for folding her arms tightly around the folder and waiting silently.

  He shifted his weight. “I, uh, heard you would be back sometime today, so I thought I’d check . . . How was Savannah?”

  “Lovely. Hot. Humid.”

  “Not too different from here. Other than the lovely part.”

  “Tulsa’s lovely enough.”

  He acknowledged that with a shrug that might have meant agreement, or just the opposite, gazed out across the lawn, then back at her. “Can I come in, or can you come out?”

  In response, she stepped back to allow him entry. After closing the door, she gestured toward the library on the right. “We can talk in here.”

  Before they’d gone more than a few steps, Gentry came into the foyer from the hall. When she saw them, she stopped short. “You know, we’re supposed to answer the door. What if it was one of the bad guys?”

  “Who’d taken out all the guards, gained access, and then was polite enough to ring the doorbell?” Selena countered.

  “It could happen.” Gentry shifted her gaze to Tony. “Why’d they let you in?”

  “Because I asked nicely.”

  “What if Long sees you?”

  His jaw tightened. “They told me to stay away from the back of the house, and they told whoever’s with him to keep him in the guesthouse.”

  She looked unconvinced. “What if he still manages to see you? He thinks you’re out of Selena’s life.”

  Selena wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his jaw tightened even more. She said a silent prayer that the agent wouldn’t mention that she was telling people she’d truly intended to kill him, and still might if circumstances warranted it. “If he still manages to see me, then you’ve got a problem with your security.”

  The library was as cozy as a large room with twenty-foot ceilings could be. A fireplace took up a portion of one wall, leather chairs were placed in front of it, and a tall ladder leaned against the shelving to provide access to the upper reaches. Selena had explored it her first night in the house, examining the art that graced the walls and shelves, but hadn’t returned. The books were rare, first editions, and hardly the stuff for a little light reading.

  Now the truly interesting reading was in the file in her arms.

  She seated herself in one of the chairs. “I understand you’ve been checking out this private investigator. Thank you.” Her breath caught as she waited for his response. If he dismissed her with It
’s my job, she vowed she would hurt him.

  He just shrugged and turned his attention to the collection of small bronzes on the fireplace mantel. Running his fingers over an Indian headdress, he remarked, “I plan to talk to the lawyer in the morning, though I doubt he’ll tell me anything.”

  “Do you think his client is one of William’s people?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.” Abandoning the bronzes, Tony turned to face her. “What’s that?”

  She laid both hands on the folder, her fingers curling around the edges. “It’s a copy of William’s journal. The one that had the photo of me in it. It was waiting for me when we got back.”

  He understood the significance at once. “Have you begun reading it?”

  She shook her head. She was anxious to get to it . . . and more than a little reluctant. She might learn nothing at all, or more than she’d bargained for. The truth of her life as she knew it was tough enough. Who was to say it wouldn’t turn out to be even tougher?

  He hesitated, dragged his fingers through his hair, then asked, “Want me to read it?”

  The offer eased a little of the chill inside her. He would do that for her, telling her everything she needed to know, leaving out anything she didn’t. Part of her was tempted to accept, to give the folder to him so she could remain in the dark just a little longer, but the stronger part made her decline. “Thank you, but . . .” She shook her head. She needed to read it herself, needed to know what William had written in his own words.

  He didn’t mind her refusal, but merely shrugged, then drew an ottoman to sit a few feet in front of her. “I met Henry’s sister this morning. You knew he had a sister?”

  She nodded.

  “She didn’t know that he had a ‘niece’ until the FBI told her last week. She wants to meet you. She wants to know about your relationship with Henry.”

  “The FBI told me to stay away from her.”

  “They’re good at telling people what to do.” Then he shrugged again. “You don’t have to meet her. It’s just that she’s grieving over her brother and she’s overwhelmed by everything she’s learned about him. You might be able to answer some of her questions, and she might be able to answer some of yours.”

  Selena resisted the urge to point out that if Kathryn hadn’t known she existed until the past week, how could she possibly know anything of interest to her? But Kathryn had known William all her life. They’d grown up together. She knew him in ways Selena never could, and maybe, somehow, she could help Selena understand him.

  She couldn’t agree to meet her just yet, though. Not until she’d thought it through. Read the journal. Discussed it with Robinette.

  Because she knew that last wouldn’t sit well with Tony, she offered a noncommittal answer. “I’ll think about it.” Then . . . “Is that why you came here?”

  His smile was faint, chagrined. “It was my excuse.”

  “What was the real reason?”

  “I wanted to see you. I—I’ve missed you.”

  The tightness in her chest eased, making it easier to breathe, to feel, to smile tentatively in return. “You could have called. You could have asked to speak to me when you did call.”

  Color tinged his cheeks. “I wasn’t sure you would talk to me after the way I behaved last week.”

  “I would have.”

  “So you could have called me, too.”

  “I didn’t want to argue with you,” she admitted. She had trained to handle physical danger; she always had options, strengths, solutions. But she didn’t have a single idea how to handle emotional danger. Intimacy was still too new to her, too fragile.

  She studied him—the hair that always needed a comb, the dark eyes, the stubborn line of his jaw—then drew a breath for courage, and said, “I’ve missed you, too, Tony.”

  “Took you long enough to admit it,” he gently teased, uncurling her fingers from the folder, lifting her palm to his mouth, and pressing a kiss there. “This has been the hardest week since I met you.”

  “Harder than when you found out I came here to kill you?”

  He grinned. “Harder than that.”

  “Someday,” she murmured, “this will be over, and I’ll be just a regular person again.”

  “Aw, you’ve never been just a regular person.”

  “Then I’ll become one.”

  Suddenly serious, he tilted her chin up to gaze down at her. “I don’t want you to become anything other than what you are. I love you, Selena.”

  The words should have brought her great pleasure, and they did. But it was tempered with the knowledge that it might not be enough. They could love each other with all their hearts, but without compromise, understanding, and acceptance, that meant . . . The word was silent in her head, too painful to give voice to even in her thoughts. Nothing. Their love just might mean nothing.

  The thought sent a shiver of sorrow through her, and made her voice unsteady when she whispered, “I love you, too, Tony.”

  He didn’t ask if she was cold or frightened. He just held her tighter, stroked her, and brushed gentle kisses to her hair, her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, finally reaching her mouth. It started as a sweet, claiming kiss, lazy, tasting, savoring, but before long it turned into something greedy, hot, and demanding, and she kissed him back in exactly the same way. The air around them was thick and steamy and practically sizzled, and her blood was thick and steamy and practically boiled. She thought about how much she’d missed him and how desperately she needed him, and she tried to remember if there was a lock on the library door; but her brain had turned to mush, too busy processing sensations to worry about little details like that.

  Her lungs were threatening to burst, her skin was tingly, her muscles weak, when he ended the kiss and dragged in a breath. His voice was rough and hoarse as he asked, “Want to invite me upstairs with you?”

  Unsteadily stroking his jaw, she managed a smile. “Want to go upstairs with me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” But he didn’t head for the door. Instead, he cradled her face in his palms and stared intently into her face. He looked so serious that her heart clenched. “Whatever happens, Selena, know this: I’ll always be here. I may get angry with you—hell, I’m sure I will—but that won’t change anything. I’ll always, always love you.”

  She wanted to believe him, and she did. For that moment, for the next however many moments they were together, and even after he was gone, she would believe him.

  Until time, or fate, or the FBI and Sonny Yates proved him wrong.

  The dream hadn’t come in years. Though she was asleep, Kathryn was aware in some part of her brain that it was just a dream—familiar, frightening, but, in the end, powerless. All she had to do was wake up. Give herself a shake. Banish it back into the darkness where it belonged.

  Easier said than done. Its hold was so strong. The muggy night, the scent of jasmine hanging in the air, the river smelling of mud and the mill upstream. Lightning had split the sky, and rain had begun falling before it was over. Tears, she thought. Even Nature had wept that night.

  The smells were strong, the sounds magnified, the emotions overwhelming, but the voices were tinny, nearly lost in the reverberation of the thunder. She knew the words, though. They were burned into her soul. My baby . . . what are you doing . . . noooo. A wail of heartbreak that went on and on, filling the night, drowning out the beat of her heart, the thunder, the rain, the curses, the sirens . . .

  That small part of her conscious mind caught. There had been no sirens that night, bringing help—or damnation. What the Danielses wanted, they got. More accurately, what Henry Daniels wanted, he got.

  The siren continued, short bursts, insistent, pulling her back to wakefulness. As soon as she opened her eyes, the noise stopped. Breathing heavily, she stared at a ghastly contraption of antlers and lightbulbs before realizing where she was. The B&B, with its owners’ mistaken belief that animal parts equaled decor. She had fallen asleep on the sof
a, and the damn dream had returned.

  As if that was a surprise.

  The siren started again, making her jump. No, not a siren. Her cell phone. She located it on the coffee table beneath the information her lawyer had sent her on various long-term-care facilities and answered with a hello that sounded distant even to her.

  “Well . . . considering all the messages you’ve left for me lately, I expected something a little more enthusiastic than that.”

  The voice was familiar and warm, its Southern accent far more pronounced than her own, flowing as lazily as molasses in winter. Nothing could ever be too bad as long as that voice, and its owner, were a part of her life. “Jefferson, baby, it’s so good to hear from you. You know, if I was any less secure, I’d think you were avoiding your mama.”

  “No, Mama, I’ve just been busy with work.”

  She had wanted him to go into the law, like his daddy, but he’d had no interest in that. Instead, he’d gotten his degree in finance and, in spite of the turbulence of the stock market in recent years, made a handsome living in Orlando. And though it would have been nice to have another lawyer in the family, she really didn’t care as long as he was happy.

  “You know what they say—all work and no play makes Jefferson a dull boy.”

  He chuckled. “I find a little time to play.”

  “Have you found anyone you want to settle down with yet?”

  “I’m too young for that, Mama.”

  “Maybe you are, but I have a terrible yearning to be a grandmother, and since you’re my only child...” She thought of Selena McCaffrey, Henry’s “niece,” and her fingers clenched until her nails bit into her palm. Wishing for a stiff drink, she settled for a deep breath instead and forced her tone to remain light. “Did you just happen to find time to call, or did one of my seventeen messages pique your interest?”

  He laughed again. He’d lived with them two months before he’d laughed for the first time. She’d thought it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard, second only to his calling her Mama, and still did. “Seventeen? I thought I counted twenty-seven. But, yes, you could say they piqued my interest. So the high-and-mighty, straight-and-narrow, long-arm-of-the-law Henry Daniels was a drug dealer. Good God, Mama, there was more to the old bastard than I ever imagined.”