by Tawny Weber
Maintenance could be drilling out the locks right now. Just the distraction she needed—to find out what was in the top-secret file cabinet she’d been forced to live with for two years. Mara was probably in the conservation lab with Cressida and the cabinet, and she needed to let her know she was done using her office.
She found both women in the corridor, pushing the old reinforced beast down the hall on a hand truck. “Just wait. I bet it’s going to be full of old health manuals,” she said. “The ones they gave to sailors with warnings about VD.”
Cressida snorted. “Just so long as it doesn’t contain peen syringes, or other ‘cures’ for the clap. I do not want to catalogue used syringes.”
Trina opened the door for the lab, and Cressida pushed the truck through while Mara held it steady.
“So, Trina, what happened with the SEAL?” Mara asked.
“He apologized for last night. And he wants to go out to dinner to celebrate his new job offer.”
“That must be the one for Raptor. Alec mentioned it yesterday. Curt’s going to have him vetted.” She grinned. “Too bad I can’t get that report for you. So where are you going to dinner?”
“I turned him down.”
Cressida pushed the hand truck upright, and the file cabinet slammed to the floor. “You what?” she asked. “The guy is seriously yummy, and he apologizes like a champ. Flowers and an office visit. You said last night he didn’t use any lame-ass qualifiers when he said he was sorry at the party. And he made sure you got home safely. Are you insane?”
Trina frowned. “Possibly.”
She didn’t even have to close her eyes to remember how he’d looked standing shirtless in his kitchen. Thick biceps on already broad shoulders, sculpted pecs, six-pack abs to die for. He had the body of an active-duty SEAL, the face of a model, and a vast library of books he organized using the Dewey decimal system.
“Oh, shit! I’m really stupid, aren’t I?”
She bolted for the stairs, heading up to the ground floor. It was too late. She knew it was too late. He was long gone. But she had to try. She darted out of the building and jogged down the road for the nearest parking lot. This was ridiculous. She didn’t even know if he’d driven to the Yard.
She scanned the lot for his Land Cruiser. It wasn’t there.
Dammit. Why the hell did she have to have so much pride?
She returned to the building, to her cubicle. She didn’t have his phone number but could probably get it through Mara. Or she could e-mail him.
She glanced at her watch. She was supposed to put in another hour today. She drummed her fingers on the desk.
After her cold treatment of him, she had to do more than send him an e-mail. He’d probably think she was e-mailing him about the Somalia op and delete it unopened—if he hadn’t blocked her already.
She’d go to his place. If he wasn’t home, she’d wait. She left Mara a voice mail, packed up her laptop and the report she’d been editing, and headed to the Metro. She could work on the train and while she waited in front of Keith’s town house.
With every Metro stop, she reconsidered her decision.
What the hell was she afraid of? That a great guy who turned her on to an insane degree might actually be interested in her? Or that he was far too good, too cool, too perfect, for a woman like her?
Yeah, she had her insecurities. And it was time to let them go. Either they’d hit it off or they wouldn’t. But she had to give him a chance.
By the time her train reached East Falls Church, she’d gotten a grip on her nerves. His town house was a quick walk from the station. Finally, at his door, she took a deep breath and rang the bell.
A minute passed. Two. She knocked again. Her heart pounded in time to the passing seconds. Her resolve to wait for him to get home flailed. She’d leave. Get his number from Mara and call him.
She turned just as the door opened and whirled to face him, her heart fluttering as she took in his unwelcoming expression. “What the hell, Trina? It’s not bad enough you handed me my ass at your office? You need to come to my home and kick me in the balls too? No, thanks.” He stepped back and slammed the door.
The bang echoed in the quiet afternoon. Her face reddened. Okay, maybe this reaction was what she’d feared. But if he could grovel like a champ, so could she.
She rang the bell again. And again.
Finally, the door jerked open. “I will never answer your questions about Somalia. So unless you came over to watch me jack off, you need to leave.”
She set her laptop bag in the doorway and grasped his shirt as she stepped up to bring them chest to chest. “I’m here to help you jack off.”
His jaw settled into a firm line of distrust. “Are you for real? You seriously expect me to believe you changed your mind after the way you walked out at the Navy Yard?”
Her heart pounded. She couldn’t believe she was being this forward, but dammit, she had nothing left to lose. “I don’t expect you to believe it,” she said, echoing his words from yesterday. “But it’s true.”
The tension in his jaw relaxed a titch.
She pressed closer to him and tightened her grip on his shirt. “I’m sorry, Keith. I’m a fool. I should have accepted your apology and dinner invitation. Can I have a do-over?”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then he slowly slid his hands around her waist and pressed her body against his, lifting her slightly as he lowered his head and kissed her.
She opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue. The kiss was hot, deep, and left no doubt it would lead upstairs and into his bedroom.
Keith broke the kiss. “You sure this is what you want, Trina?”
Her answer was a kiss, followed by more as she traced his jaw, enjoying the feel of the slight abrasion of afternoon stubble against her lips. She kissed downward, over his throat, down his neck, to the closed buttons on his shirt. She paused and undid the top button, then licked the bare skin revealed underneath.
Keith scooped her up with one arm, swiped her bag inside the enclosed stairwell with his foot, then closed the door and slid the dead bolt home with his free hand. He shifted her to his shoulder and climbed the stairs. Without pausing on the main floor, he crossed through the kitchen and living room, then climbed another flight. Finally, they arrived in his bedroom, and he stopped at the foot of his bed, where he slowly lowered her, her body sliding against the length of his until her feet hit the plush throw rug on the hardwood floor.
She spared a glance for his room—noting without surprise it was spotless. Nary a dust bunny in a bedroom that could grace the cover of a Pottery Barn for Men catalog, if there were such a thing.
His neat-freak tendencies were a decided turn-on, and she made a mental note to clean her apartment before inviting him over, because she had a feeling her habits would have the opposite effect on him.
This was crazy fast for Trina—she never jumped into bed with a guy this quickly—but it felt right. He felt right. For whatever reason, she wanted him, and hallelujah, he wanted her too.
She dispensed with the rest of the buttons on his shirt while he untucked her blouse and unfastened hers. Her mouth was on his in an unending hot kiss that spurred her to work faster at undressing him.
She reached for his belt and opened the buckle, and had moved to the button on his fly when a crashing boom split the air and rocked the town house. All at once, the floor beneath them shifted. Then it cracked, and a sudden fissure split the room. Keith shoved her backward onto his bed, as behind him the floor fell away.
Chapter 6
Keith covered Trina, shielding her from the raining debris. His brain had gone straight to combat mode as he assessed threats. The front of the town house was three stories, starting with the garage, but it was built into a hillside, so the back, where his bedroom was, was only two stories above ground.
The blast must have been to the front… What the hell was it? It had sounded like an IED, but what could have triggered it?
More importantly, who and why?
The bedroom was still intact—for the most part. A fissure had split the room, and the hardwood floor on the other side of the break had collapsed. The interior wall slumped. A bad sign. A structural beam on the ground floor must have gone down.
No getting out through the bedroom door.
He didn’t smell smoke—it must have been a quick flash. It took out the beam but hadn’t caught fire…yet.
The gas line could have cracked. The garage would be filling with gas right now. Only a matter of time before the pilot light on the furnace would trigger a real explosion. No time to wait for rescue. He had to get Trina out of there. He ran his hands down her body, checking for injury. “You okay?”
His words were muted, as was her affirmative response. The boom had been loud enough to ring his bell and it would be minutes or even hours before hearing would return to normal.
He spoke directly into her ear. “We’re going out through the back window. Quickly. Before the gas furnace goes.”
Her eyes were wide with fear but, thankfully, not panic. They could panic together when they were safely on the ground and away from the town house. He prayed to hell his neighbors were evacuating their homes now.
He shifted his weight, slowly, carefully, just in case the room teetered on the brink of collapse. Pulling Trina with him, he crossed the short expanse of floor to the window. A narrow roof, cover for the back porch, jutted out two feet below the window. It should hold both their weight, as long as the joists hadn’t cracked.
He swung his legs over the sill and tentatively placed his weight on the tar-paper shingles. The roof lurched. His weight could pull the whole thing down, but it might hold Trina. He straddled the sill and urged her to climb through.
She placed a foot on the roof, and nothing shifted. Thank God.
With his mouth next to her ear, he said, “Climb down the support post and run clear of the building. There’s a gate in the back fence. Go through it, cross the road, and keep running. Don’t look back. I’ll follow. I promise.”
She scooted across the roof. At the edge, she dropped flat to her belly, then slid her legs over the edge while gripping the gutter. She quickly shifted one hand to the corner post and dropped out of sight.
Keith waited until she ran clear of the roof before putting his weight on it, then he followed her lead and made his way to the edge. He slid on his butt, only flipping at the last moment to shove off the roof and jump backward. A support beam collapsed as he did so, and the roof came down, the debris falling with him to his small brick patio. He rolled to his feet and chased after Trina, catching her just on the other side of the gate. With an arm around her shoulders, he pushed her forward. They just needed to cross the lane and run up the rise, then they’d be far enough away—out of the blast zone.
But they didn’t make it. A thunderous boom shook the ground. The shock wave sent him forward. He caught Trina and rolled, taking the brunt of the impact as he was ground into the paved road.
Trina couldn’t breathe. She tried to suck in a breath, but nothing happened. Logically, she knew the impact had knocked the wind out of her, but it was hard to control the panic.
A high-pitched whine filled an otherwise silent void.
Can’t breathe.
She rolled off Keith and struggled to her feet. He did the same. Massive road rash covered his arms. His back could only be worse.
The ground felt like it was still moving, but that was probably her battered equilibrium. She swayed. Tried to take in a breath. Nothing.
Keith cupped her face and said something. His mouth moved. Sound and air had both vanished, like she’d entered space but with a minimum of gravity.
A great, gasping groan sounded, breaking the noise and air vacuum. She’d made the sound and managed to take in a sliver of oxygen. Her lungs expanded, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
“Slowly, Trina.” This from Keith. A muted sound that drifted below the buzz. “Don’t try so hard.” His shirt was open and hung from his arms in pieces. His belt was still undone. Blood dotted his arms and tattered clothes.
She managed another grunt, then a shallow breath. Slowly, her lungs filled with the acrid, smoke-filled air. She held her hand to her chest—her shirt was open like Keith’s, but thankfully not shredded—and turned away from the burning crater to gasp for cleaner air.
With shaking hands, she buttoned her top. She had a million questions, but between her dulled hearing and inability to breathe, she could hardly voice them. Keith placed a hand on her back and pulled her close, hugging her against his chest.
She took in several slow breaths, utterly grateful for the feel of his beating heart against her cheek.
He spoke directly into her ear. “Ambulance, police, and fire will be here any moment. You need to be checked out at a hospital.”
“So do you!” She yelled the words but could barely hear them.
He nodded. “I won’t leave you.” She read the words on his lips, heard them in a faint echo of sound that rode above the high-pitched ringing that tried to block everything else.
His lips touched hers, then he took her hand, and they slowly walked down the street, Trina with a slight limp. She’d twisted her ankle either when she climbed from the roof or when they rolled. She hadn’t felt it at the time.
They had to circle a long block to get back to the street Keith’s town house faced. Or rather, had faced. The wail of sirens cut through the ringing in her ears. The first responders were arriving.
They reached the corner and saw a crowd had formed a block ahead in front of the row of town houses. More people were filling the street as they approached. People’s eyes widened and they cleared the way for them both as she limped toward a fire engine that blocked the wreckage that had been Keith’s town house from view. Two firefighters were directing pedestrians to back off, creating a buffer between the people and the blast zone.
Trina scanned others in the crowd for signs of injury but saw none and hoped everyone had fled their townhomes after the initial blast, before the second, devastating one.
Depth of sound slowly returned, as if a filter had been removed. She heard both low murmurs from the onlookers and the high-pitched cry of a baby.
They rounded the tail of the fire engine to see the crater that had been his town house again. Debris still floated down. His house was on the end of the row. The adjacent home had also been destroyed. Only the far wall of the structure remained, sagging with jagged, crumbling edges.
Keith’s gaze dropped. She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
“You’re okay. I’m okay. As long as my neighbors are okay, I don’t give a damn about my stuff.”
A boy about eight years old shouted, “Keith!” and ran toward them with his arms out.
Keith dropped to his knees and hugged him. “Tyler, please tell me your family is okay.” He ran his hand over the boy’s dark curls.
“We’re all fine. Even Patches is okay.”
Trina looked up to see an African-American woman running toward them with a younger child in her arms and a dog on a leash. Keith let go of Tyler and hugged the woman. “Thank God.”
She hugged him, but the toddler in her arms balked and squealed. The woman stepped back. “We got out right after the first blast. It shook the house, woke the baby. Tyler put Patches on a leash, and we bolted. Tyler wanted to go into your house to see if you were okay—” She caught her breath and spoke in a choked voice. “I couldn’t let him.”
Keith scooped the boy back into his arms. “Your mom was right. You’re very brave, but never, ever go into a building after an explosion. Always do just what you did—grab your mom and your little brother, and get out. Fast. ’Kay?”
The boy nodded. “I wasn’t scared.” But his voice shook as he said it.
“It’s okay to be scared, Ty. I was scared. And if your daddy had been home, he’d have been scared. Sometimes being scared is what keeps us safe, makes us stro
nger.”
“You promised to teach me how to throw a football. Guess that won’t happen now.” Tyler glanced back at the burning wreckage, and Trina’s heart went out to the little boy who’d just lost his home and was trying his best to figure out what it meant.
“I will,” Keith said. “This weekend if I can. We’ll take a video and send it to your daddy so he can give you pointers. He’s a better player than me.”
Tears burned Trina’s eyes. The boy was handling the situation better than she was. Shock, fear, adrenaline, and now seeing Keith interact with this family—three people who could have died just moments ago—was almost her undoing.
First responders descended upon their small group, clearly alerted by their disheveled state. “Are you Keith Hatcher? Is that your home?”
Keith set Tyler down and nodded.
“Was there anyone else inside?”
“No. Just Trina and me.” He put an arm around her and pulled her forward.
The questions began. First, she and Keith were put in the back of separate ambulances, and Falls Church police and a fire department investigator questioned her as a paramedic assessed her condition. Then the FBI arrived.
Except for scrapes, bruises, and a sore ankle, she was fine. She insisted on forgoing a trip to the hospital so she could be questioned on-site—and stay near Keith, who remained inside his ambulance long after she’d been released from medical care. She imagined a medic was cleaning the road rash on his back and arms.
In embarrassing detail, she described for the FBI everything that had happened. From arriving at Keith’s house, his slamming the door in her face, to ending up in his bedroom. It was too early to determine where the initial blast had come from, but from eyewitness accounts of the state of the town house between the two explosions, they suspected the first had occurred at the front of the structure, on the lowest level.
Speculation ran in favor of the second, larger blast being caused by damage to the gas line from the first, but whether the initial one was an accident or deliberate was anyone’s guess.