But her pregnancy scare was a world of difference from what had happened with the Verango case. There had been nothing noble about her actions, and what she’d done was exactly the sort of thing someone might use against her.
She came this close to telling Tom about it. After all, he’d opened up to her. They were moving into uncharted territory here. How easy would it be to say, I did a favor for a friend and my debts were paid off in full? One sentence. Less than twenty words. It wasn’t like she’d accepted a bribe intentionally—her law professor had manipulated her. But she hadn’t returned the money because she hadn’t known how.
Instead, she’d made donations—once she had a salary—to charitable causes, including the Rutherford Foundation. By her rough estimates, she’d given away slightly more than the original amount of the loans that had been paid off with dirty money.
“I don’t talk about that. About any of that,” Tom said, sounding more like himself. “It’s...”
If he was trying to convince her that his hardscrabble life and his wife’s death were things he should somehow be ashamed of, she was going to kick his butt. “It’s brave and honest and true, Tom. To take something like losing your wife and turn it into something good? Not even good—amazing?” Tears pricked at her eyes, and she cupped his cheek. “You are the best man I’ve ever known.”
He slid his arm around her shoulder and touched his forehead against hers and said, “It was different tonight. And that was because of you.”
Her confession died on her lips. Whatever this was between them, it was good. She cared for him and he cared for her, and there was that something between them that neither of them could deny. This wasn’t pretend. This was real.
If she told him about her one mistake, would he still look at her with that tenderness, with that hunger? Or would he see nothing but a criminal?
The most she could hope for was that no one would put her student loans and Vincent Verango’s plea deal together. It was perfectly reasonable that a first-year prosecutor would offer a plea deal to a supposed first-time offender.
“Caroline...” His voice was barely a whisper. “I...”
Yes, she wanted to say. He’d taken her to his house, brought her to Washington. He’d taken her to a gala benefit and introduced her to his late wife’s parents. He’d made crazy, passionate love to her. He’d said he wanted to see her after tonight. She’d cast aside common sense to follow him, because there was something between them that was real and true.
Whatever he wanted, the answer was yes.
Suddenly, he pulled back, all the way to the other side of the limo. It hurt worse than a slap to the face. “After we get back tomorrow, I’ll sweep your house myself.”
Maybe that was supposed to be a tender gesture from a man who had forgotten how to discuss emotions. When you care enough to sweep the house yourself, she mused.
But there was no missing the way Tom had pulled away—not just physically, but emotionally. Caroline swore she could feel a wall going up around him. “When will I see you again?”
The silence stretched until she was at her breaking point. “We have to be careful to avoid the appearance of impropriety,” he finally said.
He wasn’t so much throwing her words back at her as using them as laser-guided weapons, because they hit her with military precision. “Oh. Right.”
Objectively, she knew this was true. She’d fallen into bed with him this weekend. She’d skipped work today—and tomorrow—by claiming she had the flu. She was wearing ungodly expensive clothing and jewelry that he’d paid for. She was taking stupid risks with her heart, her health and her career. She hadn’t had this much sex in years.
If someone really were looking to blackmail her, this weekend would be a great place to start.
So, yes, she knew they needed to put some distance between them. It just made rational sense.
But there’d been that promise of something more in the shower today. She’d started to believe that this wasn’t just a crazy weekend—that this was the start of a relationship.
That explained why Tom’s mixed signals hurt so much.
“I have to put the job first,” he went on, not making it any better. “My feelings for you...”
Hey, at least he had feelings he was admitting to. That had to count for something. “No, I understand. We both have jobs to do. I just...forgot about that for a little while.”
Maybe it was just her, but she thought he visibly sagged in relief. “It’s easy to forget everything when I’m with you. But when we’re back in Pierre...”
Yeah. When she went back to being Judge Jennings and he went back to being Agent Yellow Bird, neither of them would forget.
Damn it all.
Thirteen
“Fourteen.” Tom flung the small bag of recording devices onto James Carlson’s desk. “Fourteen damn cameras in her home.”
It took a lot to piss Tom off. He’d been doing this for a long time. He’d thought that his rage had burned out of him in the years after Stephanie’s death.
Apparently, he’d been wrong.
Carlson looked up at him, eyebrows quirked. “That does seem a little excessive.”
“A little? There were two cameras in her bathroom—one in the shower and one guaranteed to get an up-skirt shot on the toilet. And three in her bedroom! You and I both know the only reason you would need three separate angles of her bed was if someone was planning on mixing footage.”
Several years ago, Rosebud Donnelly had been secretly filmed with her husband, Dan, and the tape had been used in an attempt to blackmail Rosebud into dropping a lawsuit against an energy company. She had come to Carlson and Tom for help.
One minute of Rosebud having her privacy violated and her dignity assaulted. It had been a trade-off then because Carlson and Tom had thought—after all these years—that they’d finally found the man behind the curtain, as Tom thought of him. Dan Armstrong’s uncle Cecil was an evil man. For years he’d been blackmailing people and paying off judges—including the judge who had made a mockery of the judicial system by using Maggie so very wrongly.
That should have been the end of the case. If this were a movie, it would’ve been. But it wasn’t. Fourteen cameras made it loud and clear—this wasn’t over by a long shot.
Why wasn’t it over?
Tom sat in the chair in front of James’s desk, vibrating with anger. He was capable of violence, but he rarely resorted to it. However, right now? Yeah, right now he could shoot someone. Repeatedly.
What would’ve happened if he had let Caroline convince herself that she was imagining things? What would’ve happened if he had left her alone all weekend? If he’d dropped her off Monday morning and gone on his merry way to DC alone?
He’d been right to take her with him. Fourteen cameras proved that. But he’d also been so, so wrong to do so, because he’d still put her in a position of risk.
“You seem a little worked up about this,” Carlson said casually, picking up the bag. “What did Judge Jennings say when you told her how many cameras you found?”
“I didn’t. I mean, I haven’t—yet.” He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to tell her, because he knew what it would do to her. It would destroy her sense of peace. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, to shower—to do anything personal and intimate.
Like this weekend. When she’d stripped and floated in his spring-fed pool under the fading sunlight. Or when she had straddled him and ridden him hard, crying out his name. Or in DC, when he’d paid God only knew how much to outfit her in gowns and jewels so he could introduce her to his in-laws. Or when he’d taken her in the shower.
If he told her about the cameras, she wouldn’t be able to be herself. He would take that freedom away from her.
He wasn’t sure when he realized that Carlson wasn�
�t talking. It could’ve been seconds later, it could’ve been minutes. He looked up to find one of his oldest friends staring at him. Anyone else and Tom might’ve been able to keep his cards close to his vest. But Carlson was no idiot, and they knew each other too well.
Tom dropped his head into his hands, struggling to find some equilibrium—or at least a little objectivity. But he didn’t have any. He hadn’t since he’d heard her voice on his phone on Friday, small and afraid.
Hell, who was he kidding? He hadn’t had any objectivity when it came to Caroline Jennings since she had walked into that courtroom. And after the last four days, he couldn’t even pretend there was distance between them. Because there wasn’t. He had been inside her, for God’s sake.
“Do you ever think about her?” he heard himself ask. “Stephanie?”
“I do. She was a good woman.”
Silence.
Normally, silence would not work on Tom. Waiting was what he did best. In the grand scheme of things, what was a few minutes when someone was hoping to make him slip up?
What was almost ten years without his wife—without anyone?
“Do you think...” He swallowed, calling up the image of Stephanie at that last party, her body wrapped in a silky blue cocktail dress and her mother’s sapphires. Stephanie, telling him she was tired and ready to go. Stephanie, smiling indulgently when he said he had just a little more business to see to—he’d catch a cab. She should take the car. The car her money had paid for, not his.
Stephanie kissing him goodbye—not on the lips, but on the cheek. Stephanie, walking away from him for the very last time.
He had loved his wife with every bit of his heart and soul. But in the end, he’d only known her for four years. It hadn’t been enough. It would never be enough.
In the end, he’d put the job ahead of her. He should have been with her and he hadn’t been, because he’d been chasing a lead, hoping for someone to slip up under the influence of alcohol.
Had it been worth it? Tom couldn’t even remember what that case had been. He hadn’t finished it, he was sure. He’d been lost in burying his wife.
No. The job hadn’t been worth it. Maybe it never would be. Wasn’t that what Mark Rutherford had said?
“She would’ve wanted you to move on.” Tom looked up and realized that Carlson was no longer sitting behind his desk. He was now leaning against the front of it, looking at Tom with undisguised worry in his eyes. “It’s been almost ten years, Tom.”
Mark’s words, almost exactly. Tom let out a bitter laugh, because it was that or cry, and he didn’t cry. Not ever. “It’s not like I’ve been moping. I’ve been busy.”
Carlson smiled indulgently. “That you have. But can you really do this forever?”
“I’ll do it until it’s finished.” Yes, it was easier to think about the job—corruption, the people who were hurt by faceless men of evil.
“No one questions your commitment to this case.”
Tom collapsed back into the chair, defeated. “I took her out to the cabin. And then I took her to DC with me. I introduced her to Celine and Mark. There. Happy now?”
It was difficult to shock Carlson, but in that moment, Tom was pretty sure he had succeeded. He knew for certain when Carlson said, “No shit.”
“It might have been a mistake,” he conceded—which was an understatement, to be sure. Because before Caroline had called him, fear in her voice, Tom had been content to watch her from a distance. But now?
No distance. None. Which was why he’d practically begged for distance that night in DC. It had hurt like hell to push her away, but it’d been the right thing to do. This proved it.
He glanced back at Carlson, and if he didn’t know better, he would say his friend was trying not to laugh. And if Carlson laughed, Tom was going to punch him. It would feel good to punch someone right about now.
“I’ve got to meet this woman. Maggie will love her.”
Tom groaned. This was only getting worse. “I might have compromised the case.” Because he had definitely compromised Caroline Jennings. Repeatedly.
Carlson did burst out laughing. “Right, because I’ve never done anything—including sleeping with a witness—that might have compromised a case. Or do you not remember how I met my wife?” Carlson actually hooted, which was not a dignified noise. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Damn, man—you’ve been an FBI agent for too long. There’s more to life than arresting the next bad guy, Tom.” He leaned over and picked up a picture of Maggie. He had several scattered around the office, but this one was newer—a soft-focus shot of her in the hazy afternoon sunlight, cradling her pregnant belly. “So much more.”
Tom worked real hard not to be jealous of his friends’ happiness, but he was having a moment of what could reasonably be described as weakness, and in that moment, he was green with envy. “Be that as it may, I’m not going to continually compromise this case. Someone sent her flowers. Someone bugged her house. I’m going to go sweep her office after this, but I’m not going to be shocked if it’s bugged, too. Sooner or later, someone’s going to reach out to her.”
Carlson looked at him for a moment before silently agreeing to go along with the subject change. “Do they have anything on her?”
Tom shook his head. “She’s so clean she squeaks. I think that’s why they resorted to the cameras—there’s nothing else to blackmail her with.” Except for how he’d flown her across the country and showered her with gowns and jewels and...
“We need her,” Carlson said, any friendliness gone from his voice. “If they reach out to her, I want her to play along and see how much information she can get before they become suspicious. This could be a game changer, Tom.”
Carlson wasn’t just stating an obvious fact—he was reminding Tom to keep his pants zipped from here on out.
He stood, knowing what he had to do and knowing how damned hard it was going to be.
He wanted her. But that need scared him—because it endangered her, of course. His wants and needs had nothing to do with this. Not a damn thing. The only thing that mattered was that he couldn’t risk her. “I need to keep an eye on her, do regular sweeps of her house and office. But I’ll do anything to keep her safe between now and then. Including not seeing her.”
Carlson considered this. “Does she mean that much to you?”
If it were anyone else but Carlson, he’d lie. And Tom hated lying. But Carlson was one of his oldest friends, and he owed the man nothing less than the truth. “She does.”
“Well, then,” Carlson said, pushing off the desk and resting a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You do what you need to do.”
Tom nodded and turned to go. But when his hand was on the doorknob, Carlson spoke again. “She would’ve wanted you to be happy, Tom. You know that, right?”
It was like a knife in the back. Tom opened the door and walked out without responding.
Fourteen
Caroline did her best to go back to normal, but it wasn’t easy. The trip left her drained in ways she hadn’t expected. Apparently getting up at crazy hours and jetting across the country was exhausting.
But that minor inconvenience wasn’t the only problem.
Where the hell was Tom Yellow Bird? He was like a ghost in her life. She hadn’t seen him in the weeks since they’d come back from DC, but she got regular text messages from him that included the date, time and location he’d swept for bugs. He apparently had checked her office and her house on alternating days—but never while she was there. And he didn’t tell her if he’d found anything, just that her house was clean now.
Not that she needed a text to know he’d been in her home. Just like she’d felt it when someone had broken in several weeks ago, she could feel Tom’s presence. It was unnerving how easily she could tell that he’d been in her home. Maybe i
t was the faint smell of him that lingered in the air. Whatever it was, it led to some of her wildest dreams yet.
But when she texted him back to thank him or ask how he was, she’d get one-word replies, if that. It was as if he were still barreling across the highway, inscrutable behind his sunglasses and avoiding any and all questions.
Where was the man who’d swept her away to DC? Who couldn’t keep his hands off her? The one who helped her live out some of her favorite fantasies? The man who caught her in his arms when she slipped on wet rock rather than let her fall and couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight? She missed that man.
Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that he hadn’t come around. She didn’t quite understand what had changed at the Rutherford Foundation gala, but clearly something had. The Rutherfords had been warm and welcoming—but there was no missing the fact that they were Tom’s late wife’s parents. Maybe it’d messed with his head to see them all together.
If she could talk to the man, she’d reassure him that she wasn’t trying to replace his wife. How could she? She’d never be Stephanie—not in looks, not in family history and not in the way she loved Tom.
Because Stephanie had loved a different Tom than the one Caroline had entrusted with her safety—and quite possibly her heart. Stephanie had loved a younger, more insecure Tom, a man more desperate to prove he belonged in the rarefied DC air. Perhaps Stephanie’s Tom hadn’t been quite so dangerous, so inscrutable.
That wasn’t Caroline’s Tom. The man she missed more every single night was unreadable and playful, commanding and commandeering. He could blend seamlessly into a courtroom, a cabin on the high plains and a DC ballroom.
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