Glancing at the clock on the wall, Charlee stood and clapped her hands in front of her. “Okay, since you were all very attentive, despite not wanting to be here on a Friday afternoon, we are going to cut out early today—” Exclamations of “yes” and the sound of laptop lids closing filled the room—“but, I will expect you to come prepared to talk about the demise of the Romanov’s and the birth of the communist state on Monday.”
Students rushed out of the room with a great deal more enthusiasm than when they had come in. Not that Charlee could blame them. Her day was done, and she was looking forward to getting home and having a nice quiet evening. Alone.
She gathered her notes together and placed them into her messenger bag.
“Professor Finch?”
Charlee looked up and nearly groaned at the sight of her student standing in front of her. She usually enjoyed discussing Russian history with Luka, but sometimes—like that day—she really wished the kid would take a breather from the past and enjoy the present. He was a smart guy, had an uncanny interest—or love affair—with Russian history, but had a tendency to want to tie Charlee up for over an hour debating the sustainability of communism.
“Hey, Luka. What can I do for you?”
“I was curious about one of your statements—”
Charlee looked past Luka at the man who walked through the door, and nearly gasped at the sight of John. She had written off ever seeing him again. Yet, there he was, his dark brown eyes as warm as melted chocolate. A smile slid into place when he saw her, and Charlee felt every bone in her body liquify.
He walked toward her, his stride so confident, his demeanor relaxed. He stopped next to Luka and held her gaze hostage.
“I’m sorry Luka,” Charlee said, unable to pull her gaze from John. “Can we talk about this next week?”
“Uh, sure,” Luka mumbled. “Have a good weekend, professor.”
Charlee looked at Luka as he turned to leave. “You, too.”
John’s heart thudded in his chest and he wondered if the steady drum could be heard. Damn if Charlee didn’t look even better than he remembered. Her blonde hair barely touched her shoulders. Her chestnut eyes were bright and he hoped to god the happiness he saw in them was in seeing him again.
He took a quick looked over his shoulder as the young man left the room without looking back. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Charlee chuckled. “More like saving me.” She sighed. “I love my students, but I don’t think any of them believe I have a life outside these four walls.”
John snorted. He could sympathize. “After a couple of decades of training kids about the same age as that young man—I completely understand where you’re coming from.”
The fog that invaded his brain the moment he saw her was dissipating, and he remembered the items he clutched in both hands. He raised the one holding the bouquet of flowers. “For you,” he said and handed them to her. “And because I wasn’t sure if you were a flower person, I also got you a box of chocolates.”
She lifted the bouquet to her nose and inhaled deeply. Lowering them, she narrowed her eyes slightly. “I thought you had forgotten about me.”
John laughed—not at her, but at the idea that he would ever forget her. She had been in the foremost of his thoughts since he met her. Days were a little easier because he was able to focus on work. But at night, she invaded every dream, and he woke disappointed at her not being there.
“I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t get a hold of you sooner. I had to leave town unexpectedly.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Business or pleasure.”
“Definitely work-related, but that’s about all I can tell you.” A split second of suspicion flashed in her eyes. “Not because I don’t want to—it’s a highly classified situation.”
“Well, that’s better than just blowing me off. As long as it was for the good of the country, I guess I can let it slide this once.”
She had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that was like a lightning bolt that hit his heart and traveled straight between his legs. Christ, how long had it been since a woman affected him this way?
Before his wife had died. In the years since her death, he had never felt that pull…that all consuming tingle that comes from mind-numbing attraction to someone. He had believed he would never feel it again, and was damn near giddy at its return.
“Well, since you’re in a forgiving mood, maybe you would also agree to have dinner with me tonight—if you don’t already have plans.”
Her eyes looked into him, as if she was searching for the true reason for his request, and whether she could trust that he would actually follow through. Her eyes dropped to her hands for a moment. When she raised her head, her smile reached to her beautiful hazel eyes. “Hard to say no to a man who brings your favorite chocolates.”
Chapter Six
The waiter slid two cups of tiramisu after dinner coffees. Charlee took a sip, leaving behind some of the whipped cream on her lip. John stifled a laugh, not wanting to embarrass her. But when her tongue darted out and she licked the foam away, he nearly groaned with want. He couldn’t deny the physical attraction—blonde hair, hazel eyes, fit body with mile long legs. But it was more than that—it was the brains behind the beauty that grabbed his attention, and her wit and humor that held it.
“You said you have two sons?” Charlee asked. The entire dinner conversation had been about the rise and fall of communism, and how the former version has been modified from its current condition. This was the first mention of either of their personal lives.
“I do. My oldest, Randall, flies jets for the Navy. Justin is a chef in Seattle.”
“Wow,” she chuckled. “That’s quite a difference. Must create some contention with you?”
“How so?” John didn’t feel anything less for Justin and his chosen profession than for Randall.
“Kind of a slap in the face, isn’t it? Your son not following in your footsteps and instead joined the Navy?” Her features remained serious for about three seconds, then a smile slid across her face.
John chuckled. “Yeah, family get-togethers can be quite combative. Luckily, Justin makes so much food we are either shoveling in food, or in a food coma. Pretty sure he does that on purpose.”
“Sounds like my kind of a guy.”
“I thought it was guys who fell in love through their stomachs?”
“Every rule begs to be broken.”
Charlee glanced over John’s shoulder. Her smile disappeared and she paled. John turned to see what she had seen that had obviously disturbed her, but didn’t see anything obvious, and no one looking at their table. He slid his hand across the table and grasped hers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She inhaled deeply, her smile widening the deeper she breathed in. “Yes, sorry. I thought someone at the table behind us was choking…” she looked back over his shoulder, “but he must have been telling a story with some animation.”
Something in her eyes darkened, and John got the distinct feeling that she was not being honest with him. He didn’t push it—she didn’t owe him an explanation and if she wanted to keep whatever had made her look as if she had seen the devil, that was her business. Although, John filed it away. It wasn’t a game-changer, but if she continued to keep things from him, that wasn’t going to sit well with him.
The waiter stopped at the table and asked if he could get them anything else, as he slid the black leather folder with the check inside onto the table. John looked Charlee. She shook her head, and John dismissed the waiter with a thank you.
“I’m going to the ladies room real quick,” Charlee said as she stood. “Be right back.”
John pulled his wallet from his wallet, his gaze followed Charlee as she weaved through table to the hallway where the restrooms were. He put his credit card in folder and placed it at the edge of the table.
Something had shifted with Charlee. They had been having fun. The conversation flowed e
asily between them, even debating things they didn’t agree on was respectful. But whatever she had put her on edge. The tension coming from her was palpable. He hoped whatever had upset her would be reset when she returned to the table.
He had been enjoying himself more than he had expected, and was not in a hurry for the night to come to a crashing halt.
Charlee dried her hands, grasped the door handle and exited the restroom. She brushed her hair from her face and walked toward the table. John looked suspicious of her answer, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to admit what she had actually seen—or rather, who.
“Charlee.” The voice came from behind her. Familiar, but still caused a cold dread to race down her spine.
She spun on her heel and faced her ex-husband. “What are you doing here, Peter?”
“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed, as if he was worried she knew something about his appearance at the restaurant. “I’m here to eat dinner—much like you, I assume?” He glanced toward her table. “On a date, I see.”
“Did you follow me here?” The cold changed to a burning heat of indignation.
“Follow you?” Peter smirked and shook his head. “Paranoid, Charlee?”
He was enjoying that he could still make her paranoid and anxious, and that pissed her off more than him ruining her evening with John.
“Where is Connor? I thought he was staying at your house tonight? Did you leave him alone after making such a big deal about being able to spend more time with him?”
“Connor went out with his friends to see a movie. It is purely coincidence that we are both here.” He stepped forward and grasped a lock of her hair between his fingers. “Or maybe it was meant to be. Perhaps there is something still between us that draws us back together, even when we are convinced our relationship is over.”
Bullshit. Charlee had been married to the man for nearly twenty years before they divorced and she knew when he was lying. He was hiding the real reason he was there, and Charlee suspected it was closer to her speculation than he was willing to admit.
“You’re delusional, Peter. Whatever was between us died the day I discovered your dirty little secret.” She pulled head back so her hair fell from between his fingers. “If you don’t stop stalking me, what you really are may become public knowledge. How would your employer handle that news?”
Faster than lightning, his hand was around her throat and he had her back against the wall. “Don’t be stupid, Charlee. Your career might be in just as much jeopardy as mine if you squeal.” His hand loosened around her neck. He brought his lips to the side of her head. “Don’t ever threaten me again.”
She placed her hands on his chest and shoved him away. He grabbed her hand and raised it to his lips, and kissed the tops of her fingers. “See you around, darling.”
He turned and walked down the hall and out through the bar. Charlee began breathing again.
John checked his watch. Charlee had been gone for ten minutes. How long does it take?
He hadn’t been around many women—unless he counted the CIA analyst he worked with, Riley Bray. She was more like one of the guys, so he sometimes forgot she was not one. He couldn’t remember his wife taking this long in the restroom, but could admit that he may not be remembering history accurately.
He glanced down the hallway, and caught a glimpse of her coming back toward the table before she stopped and turned away. She was talking to someone, but John couldn’t see who.
Suddenly, he watched a man grab Charlee and push her against the wall. John jumped from his chair and make his way toward Charlee. The man stepped away from her and kissed her hand. John got a quick look at the man. About his height, dark hair, wearing a very expensive business suit. He turned and walked away before John reached Charlee.
“Charlee?” he said. Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said and grasped his arm. Turning him away from where the man had left , she slid her arm into the crook of his, and led him back toward the table. “Sorry I took so long. My son called just as I came out of the ladies room.”
“Is he in trouble?”
She shook her head, but kept her eyes down. “No, just wanted to let me know he was going out with his friends to a movie.”
Why is she lying to me? Red flags were nearly blinding John. A part of him deflated in disappointment. He couldn’t be with someone who lied to him, and with such ease. If he hadn’t witnessed what had transpired with her and the man in the hallway, he would be buying her story. She was convincing, he’d give her that, but not much more.
“Ready to go?” John asked.
“Yep.” She smiled at him, so sincere, and it broke John’s heart that he had been so wrong about her. And frustrated that any chance at a relationship with her had crashed and burned before his very eyes.
Chapter Seven
What little warmth the day provided had disappeared as the night settled in. The restaurant sat at the end of the pier over the Newport Harbor. The wind was always an issue this close to the water, and with the thirty degree temps, it was like shards of ice slicing through any exposed skin. Charlee sucked in a deep breath and wrapped her arms around her midsection to ward off the cold.
“Brisk,” John said, and wrapped an arm around her and attempted to block some of the wind.
Charlee chuckled through chattering teeth. There was a little bit of a walk down the pier to the parking lot. Every few feet there was a dim, orange light that barely illuminated the dock. John wondered how patrons, especially those coming from a night at the bar, didn’t slip and fall into the dark water.
The parking lot was no better. At least John’s truck was big and stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all the Newport yuppies BMW’s and Mercedes. As they got closer, John could barely make out a large mound in the middle of the lot. A man came from between a couple of cars and rested his hand on the top.
“What is that?” Charlee asked under her breath.
As they approached, John realized it was a body. The man pulled something out of his pocket. John pulled on Charlee’s arm to stop her, and stepped in front of her. He didn’t know who this guy was or what was going on, but he wasn’t about to put Charlee in harm’s way while they figured it out.
The man glanced at them, a cell phone against his ear.
“What’s the problem?” John asked, keeping a close eye on the man, and the human lump in his periphery.
“I’m not sure,” the man said. Charlee tensed beside him, and tightened her grip on his hand. “It looks like maybe he fell—hit his head—not sure, but there is a lot of blood. I’m calling 9-1-1.”
John turned to Charlee and handed her the keys to the truck. “Why don’t you go warm up the truck while I see if I can help.”
Her eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder at where the two men were, and slowly shook her head from side-to-side.
John placed his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “I need you to get the truck running in case something happens and we need to get away in a hurry. Can you do that for me?” He pulled back and looked into her hazel eyes that looked as if she were weighing whether to tell him he was full of shit or go along with his request.
Finally, she closed her hand around the keys. “Be careful.” The words were terse. A command. John nodded and gave her a little nudge toward the truck.
When he reached the men, he took in the pool of blood around the body. Although his eyes were closed, his skin was pasty. John tried to see if the man’s chest rose and fell, but couldn’t see in the dim light. Running his fingers along the man’s throat, he searched for a pulse but found none.
He stared into the man’s vacant eyes. The man looked familiar…but from where? He sucked in a breath as a vision of the older gentleman standing behind the podium from the lecture he had attended. The one he met Charlee at.
“An ambulance is on the way,” the other man said.
“I don’t think they can help him. He’s already
dead.”
“What?” The man ran his hand through his hair. “Are you sure?”
John blew out a long, slow breath. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He had seen enough death in the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan to recognize it.
What John wasn’t sure of was why Andropov was dead. Had it been a mugging gone wrong? Or was he targeted and killed on purpose? It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination that he had been murdered due to his open discussions regarding the Russian terrorist organization.
“This is…horrible,” the other man said, rubbing his hands along his thighs as if warding of the cold shroud of death.
Up close, John recognized him—he had assaulted Charlee outside the restrooms. John wanted to grab the man by the throat and toss him to the ground and pound on him until he learned not to touch a woman the way he had grabbed Charlee.
Blue and red lights bounced off the building s around them. Sirens wailed, and soon the parking lot was filled with cops, fire engines, and an ambulance. As the EMT’s worked on the dead man as if they could bring him back to life, the cops shuffled The man and John away from the scene. A couple of cops had approached Charlee, and were questioning her by the truck.
A grisled detective gnawed on a toothpick and stared at John through a narrowed gaze. “You have ID?”
John fished his wallet out of his pocket. Instead of handing the cop his driver’s license, he gave him his military ID. Law enforcement and military usually respected one another, and John hoped his service and rank would lend credibility where perhaps his skin color would bring his responses into question. Growing up in a Virginia suburb of DC, John’s ethnicity had forced him to produce ID and field questions simply for walking in “nice” neighborhood or “nice” store. All of which was code for “you’re a little too dark skinned to be here.” Once they saw where the address on his ID, they were forced to back down. Of course, there was always some asshole who had to make a snide comment about being the hired help at the upper middle class home where he lived with his parents and younger brother and sister.
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