Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  He glanced at her. “But that’s not what we’re going to do, is it?” he said. No, because she was innocent, and she needed to know what happened last night. That didn’t mean Charlie had to be involved. In fact, his idea of taking time off and leaving town sounded perfect. “Our involvement could kill whatever case Benton builds,” he said. “We’re officially radioactive.”

  “I know.” If she was guilty. Which she wasn’t. Hello? Wasn’t it his job as best friend to keep pointing that out?

  “So, we help Benton. Make sure we don’t ruin his case.” There he went using that “we” word again.

  “Not we, Charlie. That would mean putting your career on the line,” she said. “I can’t allow it. Why don’t you take some—”

  “Your life is on the line.” He glanced at her, his eyes intense. “You witnessed murders. There is no scenario that doesn’t include me watching your back.”

  “I blacked out. I don’t know anything.”

  “The killer doesn’t know that.” His hands gripped the wheel like he was strangling it, though his speed stayed steady, and his eyes were firmly on the road.

  “Then why did he leave me alive if he thought I could ID him?”

  “I don’t know. Believe me, I wish I did.” He visibly reined in his jacked emotions, inhaling sharply. “And until I do, I need you protected, or I can’t function.” He glanced at her. “Let’s make a deal. When you’re not buddied up with one of your FBI team members, you’re with me.”

  “I can’t—” She ran her fingers through her drying hair, feeling the flyaway strands, feeling harassed.

  “Your instinct is always to push me away. I’m protecting you, even if you don’t want it.”

  “Of course I want you!” As soon as the words left her mouth, she cringed, because yeah, she did want him, more than she’d ever wanted a man in her life. “I meant to say it.” She sank deep in her seat, folding her arms over her chest. “I want it.”

  The silence in the car pressed down on her until she couldn’t resist glancing at him, only to see that a calm had settled over his features. His shoulders were relaxed, and when he took the turn at the stoplight, Charlie almost seemed his old self again as their car approached the hustle and bustle of the crime scene. He seemed confident, indomitable.

  “We tell Benton nothing until we clear you, solidify your alibi best we can. Hopefully we can get that done today,” he said. “And then we work the case. You stay with me or with one of your team at all times. We clear?” He glanced at her until she nodded.

  She’d nodded, because she was afraid, and he’d convinced her his way was the safest way to protect Charlie and the FBI task force’s careers.

  “We work the case,” she said. “Find this killer.”

  “Yeah. That means we need to protect ourselves,” he said, glancing between her and the road. “Do this right.” She arched a brow, having lost the thread of his point. “This.” He used his right hand to indicate her and then him. “Technically, this is collusion, and that’s an avenue the DA can pursue to create a conspiracy case against us, maybe even implicate Benton and the team. Not good.” His expression gave her no indication of where his mind was at.

  “What are you saying?”

  “We need to get married, Cynthia.”

  Chapter Four

  “Huh?” Cynthia was surprised. No, shocked was more like it. That, more than anything else, told Charlie she really hadn’t thought things through. The streetlight turned red, forcing him to brake a block from the crime scene. He could see the center of the chaos, where the media and local law enforcement converged. Before he and Cynthia stepped into the glare of that attention, they needed to be on the same page.

  “We need spousal privilege,” he said. The testimonial and communication privilege of proof of law. “Otherwise, everything we say or do from this morning on can potentially be held against us in court.”

  She kept shaking her head. “If I’m guilty.”

  “Which is determined by rules of law, and spousal privilege would prevent them from forcing us to implicate or testify against each other. If we don’t marry, Cynthia—” Now it was him shaking his head. It was almost as if she had no sense of self-preservation.

  “I’m vulnerable,” she said. “No. We’re vulnerable. I get it.” She bit her lip, her expression stricken. “You’ve thought this through.”

  He had. In fact, ever since she’d told him that she’d erased the tapes at the safe house, he’d suspected this was where they’d end up. The only reason he’d delayed telling her was because he knew she’d argue. Well, he could no longer justify factoring in her feelings. This was happening. If some part of him suspected he’d jumped to this solution with more speed and enthusiasm than circumstances warranted, well, that was an opinion best kept to himself.

  The light changed, and soon he was pulling up to the curb inside the sectioned-off crime scene perimeter. The noise pollution was loud, even inside the car. Hundreds of voices, shouting directions, or simply talking over the fray. It was also comfortingly familiar, so a calm settled over Charlie. This was where he belonged.

  “Will you look at that?” she said, pointing to the gaggle of news outlets waving microphones and aiming cameras as they lined the curb in front of police cruisers, ambulances, and the forensic van. “They act as if it’s a red-carpet event. People were murdered here, for heaven’s sake.”

  Cars honked, pedestrians jaywalked around them. Ahead, uniformed policemen directed traffic. Through the windshield, and the spaces between passersby and cops, Charlie could see flashes of white hazmat suits. His team was working the scene, and he glimpsed the FBI task force off to the right, a gaggle of black suits against the backdrop of the tall brick building. Special Agents Benton, Gilroy, and Modena hadn’t noticed he and Cynthia had arrived. They seemed deep in discussion, somber and intense.

  “Let’s shelve this topic until—” Cynthia gave him side eye, but didn’t finish her sentence. Charlie grimaced, knowing that meant she’d shelve it and label it “never.” He understood her resistance. She didn’t want to marry him. Well, tough.

  “I don’t think so.” Charlie shifted his body in his seat until he faced her, determined to have this out.

  Cynthia opened the door, and slammed it behind her before Charlie could protest. He got out, too, also slamming his door. Glaring at her over the car’s roof, he saw she’d donned her FBI persona, so her expression gave nothing away. No panic. No arguments locked and loaded. That, more than anything else, was telling. He suspected she had no arguments, knew marrying him was necessary, but still wouldn’t agree to it. Then he saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes and suspected he might not be reading her motives clearly. His track record was abysmal. Over the years, he’d relied on Cynthia to be his interpreter for Cynthia. It was easier to ask what she was thinking than guess; it had saved time and misunderstandings. In this case, however, she had incentive not to be forthcoming. Charlie suspected she believed them marrying wasn’t in his interest, but he feared she just didn’t want to marry him.

  Either way, she’d miscalculated his resolve. She’d be Mrs. Foulkes by end of day.

  “I could go old school on your ass,” he said. “Toss you over my shoulder. Get a shotgun.”

  “That’s not old school. That’s a hostage situation.” Her eyes narrowed, staring back at him across the car’s roof. “And I have a gun and a badge.”

  He arched a brow. “You think either of those will stop me?”

  She glanced toward the hubbub at the crime scene. “No. But a JP wouldn’t marry you to a fiancée who’s throwing punches, and if you dare toss me over your shoulder again, there’s another mid-knuckle to the kidneys in your future.”

  She was being difficult. He rested his forearms on the car’s roof, his attention fully on her, making her see reason. “Shotgun it is then.”

  “Not
at my wedding.” She walked away, showing him her back as she headed toward the crime scene tape. Charlie sighed, not surprised, and then pushed off the car to catch up with her. He never thought Cynthia would welcome his plan, but he’d thought he could convince her of its necessity. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  “Anything look familiar?” he said, gesturing toward the area behind the crime scene tape.

  Masked by the confusion on the street and sidewalk, they still hadn’t been seen by anyone, but that wouldn’t last long. It was reckless of Cynthia to meet up with the team without agreeing to his plan. She needed to take his proposal seriously and do the right thing.

  Marry him.

  “Everything’s familiar,” she said, navigating through the passing crowds. “Not informative.” She swallowed hard. “Mostly, it’s like remembering a nightmare.”

  He grabbed her hand, stopping her before they got too close to the ring of media and uniformed policemen surrounding the crime scene tape. Once they were seen, they’d be on the clock, and questions would be asked. Their stories needed to sync. She tried to pull away and walk on, but he wouldn’t allow it.

  “What are you going to tell the team?” Charlie willed her to say “nothing.” It worried him that she hadn’t called her team last night. None of them. And it seemed a strange oversight for her to make, which made him fear it wasn’t. Not calling them could have been a conscious decision. Her blackout made it impossible to know one way or the other, and his fears had Charlie hesitating to trust anyone. It was probably nothing. Maybe her phone had died and the opportunity to call didn’t appear until after her blackout, but what if there was another explanation that wasn’t so innocent? For safety’s sake, he wanted her trusting only him.

  She pulled at her hand, looking around, as if fearing people would see their intimacy. Charlie held on tight, tugging her closer. He could smell her floral shampoo, and it triggered a wave of longing that hit him hard, making him want to bury his face in her hair and feel it against his skin.

  “We agreed I’d say nothing,” she said. “So, I’ll say nothing.” His relief was real, but he’d hold off celebrating until she’d agreed to the big ask. When she tugged on her hand again, he still didn’t release it.

  “Do you want to announce our engagement, or should I?” he said. Cynthia scowled, and hit a pressure point on his hand until his thumb released and she was free from his grip. Instead of walking on, she shook her hand out and surreptitiously scanned the bustling scene ahead.

  “You drive me crazy,” she said under her breath. So, no colossal fight, just whispered annoyance, because in her eyes, his fears weren’t credible, and didn’t warrant a confrontation. He blamed her miscalculation on stress, and residual confusion from a head wound.

  “We’re getting married,” he said.

  “We’re friends,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. “And we’re staying that way. If evidence points to me, I’ll deal with it. You will not so much as sneeze to help me. Got that, Charlie? As for spousal privilege, we won’t need it, because I have no intention of breaking the law, or even bending it.” Her eyes narrowed, and then she poked his chest. “And neither will you.”

  His suspicions were right. Cynthia was protecting him. She was willing to risk her career and freedom with this stubbornness, because she feared embroiling Charlie in her legal jeopardy. And…she was walking away again.

  “Cynthia,” he said, chasing after her. She, of course, ignored him, so he slipped off his MIT college ring, wishing he’d had his grandmother’s emerald on hand. When he caught up with her, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  Then he took her left hand again, and slid his MIT ring onto Cynthia’s left ring finger.

  She gasped, her wide eyes trained on their joined hands. They’d been spotted by the news people, and uniformed officers who recognized them. Interest creeped into their expressions. And now, even the FBI special agents were focusing on them.

  “What are you doing?” Cynthia’s cheeks had flushed.

  “What’s necessary.”

  “No.” If glares could kill, he’d be dead.

  “If you fight this,” he said, “I’ll find a different way to protect you, and believe me, you won’t like it. Take this easy route. Smile. Say you’ll marry me.”

  “You think you’re easy?” Her eyes lost focus as she peeked to her right, aware of the growing crowd of witnesses. “I won’t allow you to do this.”

  “Don’t you understand?” He nudged her chin up, forcing her to hold his gaze, and he felt her tremble, saw her hesitancy, her unease. He did not, however, see rejection. “There is nothing I won’t do to keep you safe.”

  He dropped to one knee. She gasped, pressing her right palm to her chest.

  No way Cynthia would leave him hanging this way. He knew her. Knew what she couldn’t allow. She was far too protective of him to allow people to think he was proposing and she was rejecting him.

  “You’ll pay for this.” Her smile stretched her lips, but didn’t lessen the ire he saw in her eyes. She was being silly. Spousal privilege would allow him to withhold the damning information he knew about her whereabouts last night. It might be the only thing that kept her out of jail if her prints were found at the scene. She knew it, and should be happy this legal loophole existed.

  “Everyone’s watching,” he said, “and they believe I’m baring my heart and soul to you.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her left hand. “They think I’m telling you I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy, building a family, a home, a life.” His cheek kicked up as he spoke behind cover of her hand. “They think we’re in love. Don’t ruin it for the romantics in the crowd.” Tenderness softened the edges of his amusement, because he was self-aware enough to know he envied that fantasy version of events.

  “Get up.” She bit her lip, stepping to the side, presumably attempting to hide that a six-foot, three-inch, one hundred and ninety-pound redheaded bruiser was bending a knee. It wasn’t an accident that he’d created this romantic tableau, and Cynthia, whether she realized it or not, was doing a convincing turn at “lover overcome by emotion.” She blinked, eyes wide. “I can’t—” And he believed her. Cynthia couldn’t imagine marriage to Charlie.

  It suddenly occurred to him that this must be how Teresa Johnson, his forensic tech, must feel. She’d had an unrequited crush on Charlie for months, unbeknownst to Charlie until his other tech, Kevin Hilliard, accidently outed her.

  Like Teresa, Charlie was barking up the wrong tree. Cynthia had no interest in Charlie, despite their tequila-induced kiss, and she was acting much like Charlie would act if he was suddenly faced with having to tie the knot with Teresa. He almost felt sorry for Cynthia. Almost.

  “I know I’m not what you want,” he said, “but I’m what you need.” Still hiding behind her hand, his lips against her knuckles, he watched as his words failed to mollify her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cynthia. Divorce me later, but smile now.” He adjusted his weight, easing a pebble out from under his knee.

  “No.” She’d become pale, her hand shook, and her smile had become a mere baring of her teeth. “I won’t marry you.”

  He dropped her hand from his mouth and clasped her hand between his. “There is a killer on the loose, and he’s targeted you once already. I need you safe, which means I’m working this case. That makes us both legally vulnerable.” His argument seemed flawless, and yet Cynthia refused to buckle to his demands.

  “I’ll handle it,” she whispered furiously. “Alone.”

  “You’ll go into protective custody then.” It was the only alternative. “If the killer didn’t know who you were last night, after your face is on TV, they’ll know. They could come for you.”

  Her strained smile faltered. “I won’t marry you. Even Terrance wouldn’t ask that.” As soon as she said it, she flinched, as if she understood she’d been unkind. “Get off your knee.
When I marry, it won’t be to stay out of jail.”

  “You will agree to marry me,” he snapped, “or I’m not getting up.” Though he wanted to. His knee hurt, and he wasn’t a big fan of garnering attention.

  She squeezed his hand, glancing at the gathering crowd. “Fine,” she whispered. “I’ll say…maybe.”

  He smiled and stood, grateful that the ordeal was over. “Ah…the smell of abject surrender in the morning.”

  “Let go of my hand.”

  “Get ready,” he said, licking his lips, pulling her against his chest.

  “For what?” she squeaked.

  “A kiss will be expected.” He wrapped his arms around her, embracing her as a lover would. News cameras swiveled toward Charlie and Cynthia, and suddenly they were awash with flashes. “She said yes!” Charlie yelled for the people in the back, then cupped the back of her head, careful to avoid her laceration. “Here we go,” he whispered, moving his face closer to hers. “I’m going to kiss you now.” He felt her breath on his face. “Don’t punch me. Make it look good for the cameras.” He smothered her response with a kiss.

  And told himself not to enjoy it. He told himself the hunger in her eyes was his imagination. He didn’t expect her to wrap her arms around his neck, or for her mouth to open under his. When his tongue instinctively swept into her mouth, and the kiss became less about a show, and more about…damn, she was a good kisser, lots of wet heat, tongue. Its only flaw was its audience.

  Charlie broke their kiss, shaken by his instant arousal. Multiple flashes lit Cynthia’s face. It took a moment to realize the occasion was being recorded for posterity.

  She trembled in his arms. “I will not marry you, Charlie Foulkes.” Each word felt like a stab to his heart, so he kissed her again, only releasing her when she sagged against his chest, sighing.

  A particularly bright flash caught Charlie’s attention, and he turned to see a phalanx of smiling faces. Then it was Charlie’s face flushing as he hustled Cynthia forward. Forcing smiles, they flashed credentials to the amused uniformed officers and ducked under the crime scene tape. Charlie caught the attention of one photographer. She was young, and nearly dwarfed by her camera.