Her gaze darted to the spot he’d indicated, and she licked her lips.
Was she afraid of him? Afraid he’d make a move. She had called him when she got the video, so she must trust him on some level—maybe just not the sitting-with-him-on-her-bed level.
He pushed off the bed and grabbed the laptop. “Where do you want this?”
“You can plug it into the charger on the nightstand.” Rising, she wrapped her ponytail around her hand but still didn’t sit on the bed. “I’m going to call the FBI tomorrow morning. Do you want to be there when they question me? If they question me?”
“I’m sure they will want to talk to you, but I’m not gonna be there. I don’t want any government official to know I’m involved in this. I’m supposedly on leave, and I don’t think my superiors would appreciate my interference.”
“You’re not the only one...interfering, are you? You said they have more evidence against Denver that others debunked?”
“They do, and two of my Delta Force team members were able to poke holes in that evidence, but that hasn’t cleared Denver’s name or changed the course of this investigation. We need names. We need motives. Right now I have no idea why anyone would want to set up Denver.”
“I wish I could help you. How can I help you?”
Joe raised his brows at Hailey, arms folded, clutching the material of her pink-cloud pajamas. “Why do you want to help? Why do you go to places like Syria? It’s dangerous. You could be playing tennis and lunching like most rich women do.”
She tilted her head to the side, and her ponytail swung over her shoulder. “Is that your image of most rich women?”
“That’s what they seemed to be doing in Beacon Hill all the time.”
“And you know this how?”
He shrugged. “My mom used to clean house for them.”
Hailey blinked. “Oh. Well, some of us do more than that. I don’t even like tennis.”
“You must have something driving you. Guilt?”
A pink tint crept from her neck to her face, matching her pajamas. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Some rich people feel guilty about being rich and then try to make up for it by doing philanthropic stuff.” He jerked his thumb at her laptop on the bedside table. “Like fund-raisers and running off to dangerous countries to try to make a difference.”
Hailey bit her bottom lip, her face still flushed.
“I’m sorry. That was rude.” He took a turn around the bedroom. “I don’t care what your motives are and they’re none of my business anyway. You’re obviously generous with your money and your time and willing to take risks to make a difference. That’s more than most people do. I respect that.”
“I didn’t take offense.” She flicked her ponytail back over her shoulder. “Crazy rich people and their money. But I really was serious about wanting to help. Why wouldn’t I? Marten has been murdered. Andrew is in danger. What next?”
Joe clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to scare her any more than she already was, but she just might be next. “Maybe the FBI can tell you when you talk to them tomorrow. I guess I should be going.”
He didn’t want to leave her, but he couldn’t exactly invite himself to spend the night. She’d be safe here with her tricked-out alarm system and cameras.
“Should I—should I tell you what happens after I talk to them?”
“If you don’t mind. I’m going to try to look into Andrew Reese on my own—at least find out what he told the army about Denver and if he had a change of heart lately.”
Joe started backing out of the room, waiting for one sign from Hailey that she wanted him to stay.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks so much for showing up tonight. That video creeped me out.”
“It would creep anyone out. Do you feel okay now? Safe?”
“I do. I’m fine.”
They said goodbye for the second time that night, and Joe assured Hailey that he’d call for a car when he got to the bottom of her steps.
Instead, once he hit the sidewalk, he rubbed his hands together and huddled into his jacket. He loped across the street and stationed himself on a bench bordering a small park with a view of the bay...and Hailey’s house.
Hell, morning wasn’t far off anyway, and if he couldn’t be guarding Hailey from inside the place, he’d guard her from outside. Either way, she did need guarding. And he’d just appointed himself the man for the job.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING Hailey woke with a start. She sat up, her heart pounding in her chest. Marten. Andrew.
She threw off the bedcovers and padded to the window. As she peeked through a crack in the drapes, she saw a man with reddish hair ducking into the back seat of a car.
She curled her fingers around the material of the drapes as the car sped off. Then she blinked. That was Joe in the car. Had he tried coming over this morning?
She spun around and grabbed her laptop, plopping back down on the messy covers of the bed. She’d better get used to accessing her security footage, anyway.
She brought up the video of her front porch and scanned back through the previous half hour—nothing, nobody. If Joe hadn’t been at her front door, what had he been doing on her block?
She fell back on her bed, the computer still resting on her thighs. What did Joe hope to accomplish? If someone embedded in the army or the government, as Joe had implied, wanted to paint Major Rex Denver as a traitor, the words of some lowly aid worker were not going to stop that train.
Huffing out a breath, she draped an arm over her forehead. Joe burned to do the right thing. She could understand that sentiment. She had the same fire.
She showered and dressed and then turned on the TV news when she got downstairs. Marten’s body still hadn’t been found in the bay, and authorities were beginning to question whether anyone actually went overboard or if a few passengers had overactive imaginations.
But she had Marten’s hat. Her gaze darted to his familiar headgear still perched on top of the coffee table. She planned to tell the FBI everything today.
After breakfast, she placed a call to one of the agents who’d interviewed her when she returned from Syria and left a message. Avoiding the email with the video of Andrew, she returned to the work she’d planned to get done on the fund-raiser last night. When her phone rang, she jumped.
She’d programmed Joe’s name and number into her phone, and seeing that name now sent a warm ribbon of relief down her spine. “Hi, Joe.”
“Everything okay this morning?”
“As right as it can be with Marten presumed dead and Andrew bruised and battered probably somewhere in England.”
“No more emails or late-night visits to your porch?”
She swirled her coffee in the mug. “Nobody but you.”
Joe sucked in an audible breath.
“That was you this morning getting into a car, wasn’t it?”
“Guilty.”
“You spent the night outside my house?”
“Technically across the street from your house.”
“Are you nuts? If you thought it was a good idea to keep watch over me last night, why didn’t you say so? You could’ve spent the night on the couch or in one of the many bedrooms in this house.”
“Hailey, we’d just met. I didn’t want to crowd you.”
“You also didn’t want to worry me. You really believe I need a bodyguard?”
“A lot happened yesterday. We didn’t know if they were finished warning you or not. Just playing it safe.”
“Well, thanks, but now I feel guilty.”
“Do you always automatically feel guilty about everything?”
Hailey clasped her hand around her cup. Joe obviously never had any reason to feel guilty about anything.
“Okay, scratch that. Not guilty,
but you should’ve told me. You must’ve been freezing out there, and I could’ve at least offered you breakfast.” Maybe she would’ve offered him much more than that.
“I’ve stood watch under worse conditions, and I had breakfast at my hotel. Did you call the FBI yet?”
Hailey let out a silent breath. Joe McVie was all business. Even if she had offered more, he probably would’ve turned her down. “I left a message with one of the agents. He hasn’t called back yet.”
“I did a little research this morning on Andrew Reese.”
“Already? Did you get any sleep?”
“A little.” Joe coughed and continued as if to brush off his lack of shut-eye. “The only thing I could find on Andrew was a story he wrote about Syria for an online geography journal. He did report on the bombing of the refugee camp and the effect it had on the peace progress.”
“Maybe that was enough to get him noticed. I’m not doing anything to get noticed.”
“Are you sure? What’s this fund-raiser you mentioned?”
Hailey swallowed. “I-it’s for the children of Syria affected by the civil war.”
Joe’s silence hung over the line between them.
“Who could object to that?” As soon as she uttered the words, she answered her own question. “The very people who indiscriminately bombed those refugees.”
“Can you cancel it?”
“Cancel it? It’s scheduled for this week. There’s no way I can cancel. Too much work has already gone into the event—invitations sent, money spent.”
“Watch your back.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” Hailey cleared her throat. “Would you like to come and watch my back for me?”
“At the fund-raiser?”
“It’s just a party for rich people—food, music, dancing. I have to give them something for their generous donations. Your donation can be my safety.”
“You want me to be your bodyguard?”
“How about my date?” She held her breath.
“A bodyguard posing as your date.”
All business. “Sure, if you want to think of it that way—but the date part requires a tux.”
Joe snorted. “Damn, forgot to pack one of mine.”
“I can send you to my dad’s tailor to get suited up. He’ll do it quickly and put it on my dad’s account.”
“I don’t—”
She cut him off. “Listen, McVie. I’m not going to pay you for this bodyguarding gig, so you might as well take what you can get—and that’s a tux.”
“Yes, ma’am. Where is this tailor?”
“Mission District. I’ll give you the address and let Tony know as soon as we get off the phone. He’ll hook you up.”
“You’re your father’s daughter after all.”
“If I were my father’s daughter, you’d be paying for the tux and thanking me for it.”
As soon as she ended the call with Joe, she placed one to Tony, her father’s longtime tailor, and gave him the heads-up on Joe. Then she returned to her laptop, flexing her fingers before launching her email. She didn’t need any more surprises this morning.
Sucking in her bottom lip, she scrolled through the new messages. When she reached the end, she slumped against the sofa cushion. No more torture videos.
She picked out the message from last night and wrinkled her nose. The little paper clip indicating an attachment had disappeared from the email icon.
With a sweaty palm, she grasped the mouse and double clicked on the message—nothing in the body and no attachment.
Had she deleted it by accident? Her pulse racing, she searched her deleted items and then all the videos on her laptop. Not that she wanted to see Andrew’s battered face again, but she needed some evidence to show the FBI.
She pushed the computer from her lap and jumped up from the couch. How had they done that? How had they gotten into her computer and removed a file?
She jerked as her phone rang, and then she lunged for it. When she saw the FBI’s number on the display, she blew out a breath.
“Ms. Duvall? This is Agent Porter returning your call.”
Hailey’s gaze shifted to the laptop abandoned on the couch. “I need to meet with you—today.”
“Is this regarding the incident at the refugee camp?”
Hailey squeezed her eyes closed for a second. “I think so. Did you hear about the man who fell off the Alcatraz ferry last night?”
Porter paused for two heartbeats. “Let’s not discuss this on the phone. We’ll meet you this afternoon.”
“Now. We need to meet now.”
“Name a place close to the Financial District and we’ll be there.”
“Do you know Caffé Luce on Columbus?”
“We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Hailey placed a call to Joe and put her phone on speaker as she scrambled around the room, stuffing her laptop in its case and her feet into a pair of boots.
Joe answered after several rings. “Are you checking up on me? I’ll be heading out to Tony the tailor’s in a few hours.”
“It’s not that. The video from last night showing Andrew is gone. Someone deleted it from my computer remotely—at least I hope it was remotely—and I’m on my way to a meeting with the FBI.”
Joe whistled. “At their offices downtown?”
“No, we’re meeting at Caffé Luce in Little Italy.”
“You won’t have anything to show them.”
“No, but I’ll have plenty to tell them.”
“I don’t have to ask you not to say anything about me, do I?”
“Don’t worry, but I am going to tell them about Marten last night and the video. I mean, they have to be connected, right? Why would anyone care about what happened in Syria? It happened. The terrorists were successful. Why revisit it now?”
“Because there are elements about that incident that someone doesn’t want revealed.”
“I know. I know. Major Denver’s involvement—or rather, noninvolvement.”
“Get to your meeting. I’ll get fitted for my tux.”
“I’m going to tell them everything—except about your presence here.”
“You should. Keep me posted.”
“Lunch later?”
“Yeah, a debriefing.”
Debriefing? Joe was determined to keep their...relationship on neutral territory. “Yeah, whatever. And, Joe?”
“Yes?”
“No velvet on the tux.”
She ended the call and strapped a purse across her body. She didn’t have enough time to catch public transportation, and she had no intention of driving and trying to find a place to park, so she called up a car on her phone.
Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out of the car and jogged across the street to Caffé Luce. One look around the half-empty coffeehouse, crowded with small tables, told her she was a little early.
She ordered a cappuccino and cupped the big mug in her hands as she carried it to a table outside. She set it down and dragged a wrought-iron chair from another table to hers. Agent Porter had mentioned that they were going to meet her. FBI agents usually traveled in pairs, so he must be bringing his sidekick, Agent Winston.
Two suits with matching Ray-Bans hustled up the sidewalk, and Hailey lifted her hand to Agent Porter. She’d discovered the man had played football at Stanford, and he still carried himself like an athlete.
The two agents stopped at her table, and Porter said, “We’ll go inside to get some coffee. Do you want a refill?”
She tapped her cup. “All set.”
Hailey watched the thin crowd on the sidewalk—too late for morning rush hour and too early for lunch...also known as debriefing, according to Joe McVie.
Her head jerked up at the squeal from a car’s tires, and her eyes narrowe
d behind her sunglasses as she watched some idiot making a U-turn where six streets intersected. The car continued to careen down the street and swerved sharply.
Hailey’s heart slammed against her chest as the car leaped the curb, one set of its wheels on the sidewalk.
The out-of-control driver plowed through some foliage and knocked over a wooden sign, and still he kept coming straight toward the tables on the sidewalk...straight for her.
Chapter Five
Joe’s legs were pumping before the car even hit the sidewalk. By the time he made it to the other side of the street, several tables had been knocked on their sides, their spindly legs pointing at the sky.
Hailey, wide-eyed and white-faced, had plastered herself against the side of the building, debris from the wreckage at her feet.
The blue sedan that had jumped the curb squealed in Reverse, and Joe threw himself at the hood. The driver punched the accelerator. The car disappeared from beneath him, and Joe landed on the sidewalk in a belly flop, the smell of burning rubber and exhaust scorching his lungs.
“Joe!” A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and practically ripped it off him.
He rolled to his side and squinted up at Hailey looming over him, her sunglasses shoved to the top of her head.
“Are you crazy? He could’ve run you over.”
“Did you get a license number?” He scrambled to his feet, smacking his hands together to dislodge the grit embedded in his palms.
“It’s running through my head right now.” Hailey held up one incredibly steady finger. “Wait.”
As she dashed inside the coffeehouse, sirens wailed down the street, and the two FBI agents Hailey was meeting hovered over the scene.
They wouldn’t recognize him, would they? He’d never met them before, but he could bet they’d know his name and his connection with Major Denver. Joe ducked his head.
Hailey rushed back to the sidewalk, waving a white napkin with not a hint of surrender on her face. “I have it. I have the license plate.”
The two agents approached her, and the tall African American spoke first. “Are you all right? Did a car come up on the sidewalk? From inside it sounded like an explosion.”
Delta Force Die Hard Page 5