If Looks Could Chill, page 13
He’d just given her one of his killer smiles. Yikes. Bad choice of words. “Now, what would that be, cher?” Then he’d distracted her with a kiss.
Like she couldn’t see right through that well-worn tactic.
Though admittedly, it had chased the whole what-was-he-doing question right out of her head. At least until he’d winked and started paddling again.
The second building he’d checked out had literally been in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded on all sides by nothing but black water and massive trees, they came suddenly upon a small country store built high on stilts, with a veranda full of crab traps and a newly hand-painted sign in bright yellow that read T-Garou’s Bait and General Store. Night Crawlers! Faut Carot! Sea Bob!
Marc left her behind again, with instructions to stay put. Again he took the dry bag. And disappeared for twenty long minutes. Which was a lot of time for her to think.
The man was obviously on a hunt. For what, she couldn’t guess. But one thing was clear. The pressure he’d put on her last night to hire him had nothing to do with their attraction or him needing a job. He’d been worried she would interfere with his plans—whatever they were—so he’d put himself directly in her path and tried to deflect her.
The setup was obvious now: sexy Cajun guide leads the clueless statie on a wild-goose chase, doing everything he can to scare her off so he can return unhindered to his real agenda. And when that didn’t work, he’d seduced her with his amazing body and skills as a lover, so she wouldn’t question him when he boldly pursued whatever it was, right under her nose.
She definitely wanted to know what that agenda was. And if it was against the law.
Could he be working for drug dealers searching for a new place to cook? Gunrunners looking for a remote place to stash stolen weapons? Or even the people responsible for the deadly pollution she was investigating, searching for a new dump site?
That thought raised goose bumps on her arms but good. Along with the thought that until now, she’d been so thoroughly misled about his motives that she’d actually had sex with the man. Twice.
Jesus.
A violent shiver worked its way down her spine, radiating out to her arms, raising more gooseflesh in its wake.
She was in such deep shit.
She had to find out the truth about him. And what his plans were for her once he found whatever he was looking for. Soon. Before it was too late.
Now they were paddling to the third building on Marc’s short list, and she was having a very hard time staying calm.
The sun was about to disappear completely. No way did she want to be out in the swamp with this man after dark. Her imagination was coming up with all sorts of scenarios. None of which she particularly wanted to experience first-hand—none of the ones that were likely to happen, anyway.
“What are you thinking about, cher?” he interrupted her burgeoning panic from behind her, breaking the tense silence between them. “Your back is stiff as a week-old baguette.”
The kayak slowed and shifted, and she felt him slide his seat up close behind hers. Her pulse thundered. He touched her upper arms and her whole body jumped.
“Hey, hey.” His fingers tightened on her briefly. “What is it, cher? You’re acting like you’re suddenly afraid of me.” He paused, then asked, “Are you?”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Should I be?”
His eyes were dark and shuttered, unrevealing of whatever was going on behind them. Long-lashed, lean-cheeked, stubble-jawed. He was the epitome of a bad, bad boy. Despite the danger, her heart sped faster. Or maybe because of it. A bad boy could still be a good man.
Or not.
Oh, God.
Her throat ached with desire just looking at him. What was wrong with her?
“Tara, you’re my lover. A man protects his lover.”
“Not all men,” she murmured. In her job, she’d seen plenty who’d done the opposite.
He cupped her face and angled his head around to meet her gaze. “This one does.”
He kissed her, his mouth gentle at first, then his tongue slowly going deep and thorough. An unwelcome surge of need swept through her body. Her nipples hardened painfully, and between her legs a desperate want coiled like a tight spring.
Pulling away, she shook off the unwanted response. “Then tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on, cher.”
She gripped her paddle and faced forward again. Nobody should be that good at lying. And he was. Lying. She could feel it. “Take me back to the Au Chien. It’s getting late and I need to do those interviews.”
“All right,” he said. “After I check out this last place.”
She let out a measured breath. “Marc—”
His warm breath spilled along her neck, sending a tingling shiver across her pulsing nerves. “And when we’re done with those interviews, we can go back to your place and I’ll show you you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
She swallowed down the urge to turn around and give him a big piece of her mind. Best not to piss him off. But, like, hello? Can you say no way in hell?
The only thing she’d be doing after making it back to the safety of her police cruiser was to radio in and have someone from the department run a thorough check on him. He seemed to forget she was a police officer. You couldn’t go around acting like a criminal without invoking suspicion. No doubt he thought having sex with her would make her forget about doing her job.
Fat chance.
When he slowed the kayak a short while later and steered it up to the shore, she made a decision.
She had to stop being a wuss. He was never going to voluntarily tell her what he was doing. She had to use her own skills and ingenuity to find out if he was up to something illegal.
So this time when he went to check his “building,” she would follow him.
That was the plan, anyway.
But the man was like a ghost.
After he left her in the kayak, she counted to thirty, then took off in pursuit. Ten seconds later, she’d lost him in the junglelike vegetation. There was barely enough daylight left to walk without tripping, let alone follow anyone.
As it happened, he was heading away from the bayou on a spit of land surrounded on three sides by water, so it wasn’t hard to figure out which way he went. And the moon was coming up, so it should get a bit lighter soon. She decided to keep going.
Almost right away she passed a dense flowering shrub with an isolated scattering of dropped flowers around the base—a lot more than the neighboring bushes. A childhood spent in the woods of Pennsylvania had taught her that usually meant the flowers had been knocked off by an animal.
An alligator? Big cat? Or had it been brushed by an animal of the two-legged variety . . . ?
She stopped, turned back, and studied it. Picking up a long stick, she cautiously lifted the lower branches. And wouldn’t you know, there it was. The dry bag. Stashed beneath the bush.
Damn, she was good.
She knelt down and quickly opened up the bag, digging around for her SIG. Instead, she found something hard and rectangular. She pulled it out.
What the—
A walkie-talkie? Except larger. Like some kind of military communications device. She glanced up through the dense trees at the nearly dark patches of sky. Cell phones didn’t work out here in the bayou. A satellite phone would.
But why would he have one of those?
Most likely because (a) whatever he was involved in was big enough to warrant serious equipment, and (b) there were other people involved.
Oh.
Shit.
She contemplated the satphone for a long moment. Was anyone on the other end of this thing? Waiting for Lafayette to check in? Maybe she should find out.
Pulse hammering in her fingertips, she turned it on. And pushed the call button. After a short burst of static, it didn’t make a sound. For about ten seconds.
Then a voice—a female voice—said, “STORM Alpha Zulu here, go ahead STORM Mike, over.”
Military-speak? She’d thought earlier this morning that he might be ex-military. Damn. No one better to run guns than a group of disillusioned ex-grunts.
“STORM Alpha Zulu to STORM Mike, come on back, over.”
Okay. Mike stood for the letter M. Obviously meaning Marc. So he and the woman on the other end were on a first-name basis. Who was this zulu chick?
She sounded young.
And pretty.
Tara silently groaned. Wow. So much for objectivity. Jealous of a voice? How screwed up was that?
She took a deep breath.
Hell, being jealous at all was so far beyond screwed up she was completely appalled at herself.
She switched off the satphone and replaced it in the dry bag, giving one last grope for the SIG. No joy. But she did find a Kel-Lite. At least she could use that.
He must have taken the SIG with him. Was he expecting trouble? She thought about the shotgun he’d kept hidden. Or was he expecting to be the trouble . . . ?
Rubbing her arms against a growing chill, she stashed the dry bag, switched on the flashlight, and took off again in the direction he’d disappeared.
And prayed she didn’t live to regret it.
“SPECIAL Agent Haywood?”
Rebel glanced up from gathering her notes from the table. It had been a stressful briefing. And endless. Two hours and change. The whole time spent wishing she were anywhere but there.
All because the man Rebel had just put on her Top Two Suspects List in the Gina Cappozi disappearance had unexpectedly—and hair-raisingly—turned out to be the new SAC on the case.
She had to think about this. Hard.
Not a single word had she spoken during the entire briefing. Terrified if she opened her mouth the accusation would come hurtling out. But without proof, there would go her career, just as fast. Her stomach felt like she’d swallowed nails.
Nuts on thinking about it. Even if she didn’t have proof, she needed to tell someone. Preferably Chief Jansson. He’d yank that poser off the case so fast he—
“Special Agent Haywood? Is everything all right?”
She came to with a start. SAC Wade Montana was standing right behind her. Her heartbeat took off at a gallop.
“Yes,” she blurted out, spinning around so fast the papers in her hands flew all over the place. “I’m fine.”
Montana’s brows rose as he watched the snowfall of notes. “Sure?”
She felt her face go crimson. She didn’t answer, but dropped to her knees to gather them from the floor, praying her stockings didn’t run.
“I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t say anything during the meeting,” he said.
Of course he had. Dealing with sixteen unfamiliar agents, including the five other Cappozi task force members, all new faces in a new office, with a new chief and on a new case, he would notice every detail. Obviously his reputation was no accident.
“It’s my first week on the task force, sir,” she said. “Just getting my bearings. Better to listen than talk, and all that.”
“Commendable.” He watched her stuff the papers into her notebook and rise. “But complete bullshit. Walk with me to my office.”
Just kill me now. She swallowed. “Sure. Sir.”
“Please. I’m not one for formality. Call me Wade. I assume I may call you Rebel?”
“Um. Yeah. Of course, sir. Um . . . Wade. Sir.”
He chuckled. “How long have you been with the Bureau, Rebel?”
She had the creepiest feeling he already knew the answer. “Five years.”
“Mm-hmm. And before that?”
“University of South Carolina. Masters in criminal justice.”
He nodded. “Good.”
They arrived at his office and he opened the door, indicating she should go in before him.
Which was the last thing she wanted to do. “It’s late. I’m sure you have things to—”
“Yes, I do. And one of them is to talk to you. Please have a seat.” He held the door and gave her a hard look.
Help.
She went in and sat down in the visitor’s chair. He perched on the corner of his desk so his knee was almost touching hers.
Oka-ay.
She risked a glance up at his face. What exactly was going on here?
Wade Montana was handsome, no doubt about it. Probably at least ten years her senior, but the kind of fortysomething that made a man look affluent, sexy, in his prime—fit, tanned, tailored, and financially sound. Any female in the office would be drooling all over him. Had been drooling all over him since he arrived. Every female except her.
Because she knew the truth about him.
“So. Rebel. What am I going to do with you?” he said conversationally.
A shiver tingled up her spine. “What do you mean, sir? Wade.” She caught the look in his eyes. “Sir.”
“I mean, you know. About me. Don’t you.” Not a question.
She didn’t insult either of them by pretending not to understand. It was crystal clear in his expression: she was so busted. “What gave me away?”
He smiled wryly. “Your poker face could use work.” He sobered. “Have you told anyone else?”
Her pulse took off faster than Jeff Gordon at the pole, but she kept it together and regarded the SAC coolly. “Is this the part where I tell you I’ve left a letter with my attorney to be delivered to the chief if anything bad happens to me?”
Again he chuckled. But there was no humor in those sharp eyes. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? How much do you know?”
“Everything.”
He sighed. “Oh, I doubt that very much.”
“Then, enough,” she amended. “Enough to know you shouldn’t be the SAC on this case. You shouldn’t even be working on it.”
He glanced at the floor for several heartbeats. “It’s true I have history with Gina Cappozi,” he admitted. “We were engaged, and she broke it off. Which means anyone with half a brain will automatically shoot me to the top of their suspect list.”
He looked up and studied her, but she kept her mouth firmly shut. He was doing perfectly well without her input. Her poker face might need help, but her interrogation technique was just fine, thank you very much.
“Here’s the thing,” he said somberly. “I may be responsible for setting off a chain of events that led to a woman I care deeply about being kidnapped by God knows who and made to do God knows what. Me.” He closed his eyes and took a breath. Opened them. Drilled her. “Do you understand? I may have done that to her.” His voice cracked and he rose abruptly from the desk, turned away, and plunged his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got to find her, Rebel. If it’s the last thing I do with the Bureau.”
She stared at his back for a long moment. He stood straight and tall, uncompromising. Yet the heavenward tilt of his head, the tenseness of his shoulder muscles radiating through the fine cloth of his suit jacket, it all made him seem incongruently vulnerable.
God help her, she wanted to believe him.
She thought about her own involvement in the case, being so determined to solve it simply because of a tenuous connection to Gina through Alex Zane’s friend Kick. How must this man be feeling?
“Okay,” she said at length. “I guess I do understand.”
Visibly relieved, he exhaled. Faced her. “Then be my assistant. Work with me. Help me get her back. Watch my every move, if you must. So you know I’m not trying to cover up anything.”
It all sounded so reasonable.
Almost too reasonable.
Not really joking, she said, “Looks like I’ll have to give one of those letters to my attorney, after all.”
He smiled anyway. “Whatever you need to get the job done.”
She stood up. “Let me sleep on the offer.”
His smile dimmed. “I could order you to do it.”
“And I could rat you out.”
He held her gaze. But she didn’t intimidate that easily. He nodded once. “Fine. Let me know in the morning.”
“I will.”
Assuming she lived that long.
Good grief. The man was personally involved with Gina Cappozi, and he had just confirmed setting in motion her kidnapping. Exactly as Rebel had theorized. The question was, had it been inadvertent? An unforeseen outcome of trying to help her find her best friend, Rainie? Or had he done it deliberately, as revenge for Gina having jilted him, or for some other unknown reason . . . ? Like a hefty payoff from a terrorist looking for a scientist with skills matching hers? Maybe a little of both?
Either way, bottom line, he shouldn’t be on the case. But Wade Montana’s reputation was spotless. Before she reported him and possibly ruined his career, not to mention hers, she needed more solid evidence than the say-so of a ditzy octogenarian and her own paranoid instincts.
The first thing she needed to do was talk to Kick Jackson.
Tonight.
TWELVE
SOMEONE was following him.
One guess who.
Fils du putain. He supposed it had been inevitable, but hell of a time for Tara to go commando on him.
Jetting out a sigh, Marc racked the Mossberg. Just in case he was wrong. Back at T-Garou’s Bait and General Store, he’d casually asked about this last place on his informant’s list—a crumbling, deserted cotton mill. Been warned to give it a wide berth. Some bien mauvais drigaille had squatted in what was left of the building and were supposedly using it as a meth lab. Garbage who would shoot first and never bother to ask questions.
Just the kind of scum Marc was looking for. He wouldn’t put it past the al Sayika terrorist cell to masquerade as drug dealers.
And he was pretty sure this was no meth lab. There was no trace in the swamp-scented air of the distinctive putrid odor of chemicals cooking. Non, this was something else. Like a secret bioweapons lab?
Raising the thermal imaging night-vision binoculars he’d taken from the dry bag, he did a visual sweep, looking for any sign of a guard or the occupants. Dense trees were like a curtain surrounding him, so all that popped were a few birds and lizards, and something furry on four legs, possibly a possum or squirrel.
