As his exit came into view, he changed lanes, checking his rearview mirror to see if anyone was following them off the freeway. There was one car behind him, but it moved into the left lane, turning in the other direction at the stoplight.
A few blocks later, he pulled into the garage of his two-story townhouse, located in a duplex in Santa Monica, a few blocks from the beach and his office, making it the perfect location. The other side of the duplex was owned by Beck, so he also had the perfect neighbor. They'd put a security system on the entire building, with individual controls for each townhouse. Work rarely followed him home, but occasionally they needed to put a witness or a fellow agent somewhere safe, and his apartment or Beck's apartment could double as a safe house.
As the door shut behind his vehicle, the lights came on in the garage. He put his hand on Callie's leg.
She jerked awake, giving him a startled, fearful look.
"It's okay," he assured her. "We're in my building. You're safe."
"Oh." She straightened in her seat, blinking the daze out of her eyes. "I guess I fell asleep."
"About ten minutes after we left Palm Springs. How do you feel?"
"Kind of groggy, but not too bad."
"Let's go inside." He got out of the car and went around to her side to help her out. "You can lean on me."
She put her hand in his and took a second to get her bearings. Then she squared her shoulders and let out a breath. "I'm okay."
"Good." Despite her assurance, he didn't let go of her hand until they were in the house.
The garage door took them into the hallway outside the kitchen. He led her through the kitchen to the adjoining family room, urging her to take a seat on the brown leather couch.
As she sat down, her gaze moved toward the dark windows. "What time is it?"
"Almost nine." He walked across the room to pull down the shade. The back of the house was completely secure, but he wanted Callie to feel safe. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want to go to bed? I have a guest room."
"Slow down," she said with a small smile. "I'm still waking up."
"Sorry."
"Why don't you sit?" she suggested.
He opted for the chair adjacent to the couch, rather than sit next to her. She gave him a thoughtful look.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"It's fine."
"So, this is your place." Her gaze moved around the room. "It's homier than I would have thought."
He shrugged, knowing that he wasn't at all responsible for the colorful rug or the buttery-soft leather furniture or the throw pillows with just the right accent of color. Although, he had picked out the recliner and the TV. "I had some help on the décor," he admitted.
"From who? A girlfriend?"
"No. It was from a friend of my mother's. She's an interior designer. When I bought this place, my mom called her and asked her to make sure I wasn't sleeping on the floor and propping my television up on empty crates. My mother doesn't seem to think I've grown up since I was nineteen and living in my first apartment."
"Which, I'm assuming, had you sleeping on the floor and using crates for tables."
"Possibly," he conceded. "But it didn't bother me. I can sleep anywhere."
"Well, I like this place. It's comfortable."
"And it's safe."
"Even better," she murmured. "Flynn…I think I might have said a few things at the hospital that I shouldn't have. Or maybe I was dreaming. It's all a little foggy in my head."
"You didn't say anything worth worrying about."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Your secrets are still intact. Well, except for one. When we got in the car, you did tell me that you backed into a pole at a fast-food restaurant when you were sixteen and told your mother that someone else had hit you. But that was really the only time you lied."
"I can't believe I told you that."
"You were a little loopy. As crimes go, it wasn't all that bad. Although, I'm curious who Rick was."
She flushed at that. "I told you about Rick? Wow, that's embarrassing. What did I say?"
"Actually, you didn't tell me, but if it was embarrassing, I'm now curious."
"Rick and I went to the prom my junior year. I thought he was going to be my boyfriend, but it turns out he had his eyes on another girl. My friend Kim and I went to the fast-food restaurant to see if he was cheating on me. And he was. He and this cheerleader were practically devouring each other. I got so angry I couldn’t see straight."
"And you backed into a pole."
"I felt like an idiot."
"We've all been there."
"You've had someone cheat on you?"
"Not exactly. Or if they did, I didn't know about it. But I did some stupid, reckless things when I was a teen. I'm probably lucky to have made it through those years. I became especially careless after my father left. I think deep down I wanted him to see that his leaving had really screwed me up. Of course, he didn't see, because he wasn't around. I eventually realized I was only hurting myself."
"At least you figured it out before you did hurt yourself." She paused. "Did Olivia have a good influence on you?"
"She did."
"What was she like?"
"She was…calming. She had a very chill personality. She didn't worry about much. I'm not sure if that came from growing up in a world that was pretty damn good to her. She had everything she wanted and needed. She was secure in her family. She had a lot of friends. She was smart and pretty. She never faced any real adversity. I tell myself that's a good thing, because her life was so short. At least she was happy for the time that she had."
"I thought you said she and Arthur got into it sometimes."
"Occasionally, yes. They argued because he was controlling, and she rebelled by hiding things in her room, like tickets to concerts where he'd told her she couldn't go. But it was just kid stuff. As much as she felt her father had too much power over her, she really looked up to him, as did I. But I don't think he was ever as good as we thought he was."
"Maybe he was good. He might not have gotten involved in stolen art until recently. It could have been just one bad, reckless mistake."
"A mistake that cost him his life."
"But not one that should erase all the good things he did. Until you really know the extent of his crimes, maybe give him the benefit of the doubt."
"If I wasn't investigating his murder, I could do that, but I can't let my feelings for him cloud my judgment or obscure the truth."
As she shivered, he frowned and got up to grab a blanket from the back of the recliner. He came back to the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said. "I suddenly got a chill."
"What else can I get you?"
"Maybe some coffee."
"I don't have any decaf."
"Good, because I was thinking some caffeine might clear my mind."
"No way. You need to sleep tonight. The doctor said rest is important."
"I just slept in the car."
He smiled at her beautiful defiance. "You're very stubborn. But we're following doctor's orders. You are taking it easy, and I'm going to make you some herbal tea."
"You have herbal tea? Isn't that kind of for sissies?"
He laughed. "Make fun of me all you want. Green tea is good for you. It builds the immune system."
"Coffee is better for kicking ass."
"Well, we're not doing any more ass-kicking tonight. Do you want anything with your tea?"
"What if I said I wanted a kiss?" she asked, a reckless light in her eyes.
"I'd say that would be as bad for you as coffee," he returned, feeling a rush of desire run through him. "No more excitement tonight, Callie."
"I feel wired. I need to burn it off. And since I assume you won't let me go for a run—"
"You assume right."
"Then I need another way to release all this tension, and I can think of a really good one."
He
put up a hand, as she leaned into him. "You are not making this easy."
"I'm not trying to," she said with a smile. "I almost died today, Flynn. I feel like savoring how alive I am."
"I get it. I've felt that way before."
"Then why are you resisting?"
"Because I want to protect you."
"From you?"
"And from yourself. I'm making you tea and then you're going to bed—alone."
"You're not as much fun as I thought you'd be," she complained.
"I don't have fun with women who just suffered a concussion. You need to rest." He got to his feet, which required an almost superhuman effort. But he was going to do the right thing tonight.
Tomorrow might be a different story.
Callie woke up Monday morning around nine. As she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, she was surprised she'd slept so late. She was usually an early bird, rising with the sun, getting in a run before a shower, but that wasn't happening today. While she felt immensely better, she still had a small ache in her head, reminding her of yesterday's close call.
As she slid out of bed, she heard Flynn's voice in the kitchen. He appeared to be on the phone. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but there was energy in his voice. Hopefully, he was getting some new leads.
She used the bathroom, making a face at her tangled hair and pale skin. She needed a shower before she could see anyone.
Stripping off the sweats and T-shirt that Flynn had loaned her the night before, she hopped into the shower, letting the warm water ease her aching neck muscles. She'd been hit on the back of the head, but fortunately she'd only had some minor bleeding and hadn't needed stitches. But she still washed her hair with gentle hands, as the bump on her head was quite prominent.
When she moved back into the guest room, she found a bag of clothes next to those she'd stripped off the night before. And they were her clothes. Where had they come from? Frowning, she got dressed and then made her way into the kitchen.
Flynn was off the phone and at the stove, flipping pancakes and frying bacon. He wore dark jeans and a navy-blue crew-neck sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes. His blond hair was damp and a bit curly, his cheeks cleanly shaven, his mouth looking oh so sexy as it curved into a welcoming smile that put a knot in her throat. Every time she thought she was imagining how attractive he was, he appeared in the flesh, looking just as handsome in person as he was in her head.
"You're up," he said.
"And you're cooking. I love pancakes."
"Good. I also made coffee." He moved over to the coffeemaker and poured her a mug. "Do you take anything in it?"
"No. I like it strong."
"I figured."
She took a sip and sighed with delight.
"You're easy to please," he said with a laugh. "I have a feeling you might be a coffee addict."
"Guilty. Although, your tea wasn't bad. It put me right out last night, even when I thought I was too hyped up to sleep." She paused as he moved back to the griddle. "Those look good, perfectly golden, just the right size."
"You missed my first batch," he said with a grin.
"Well, no one makes a good first pancake. You have to get the heat of the griddle just right."
"So I've been told. Anyway, these are almost ready."
"How did you get my clothes?" she asked, as she watched him flip the pancakes.
"I went into your apartment early this morning."
"But you don't know the code."
"I watched you put it in the other night."
"Oh. I guess I should have been more careful with an FBI agent looking over my shoulder."
"Sorry, habit." He gave her a smile. "How's your head?"
"Better. I thought I heard you on the phone earlier. Is there any news?"
He slid the pancakes onto a plate and turned off the stove. "Yes."
Her body tightened at his answer. "Good or bad?"
"A little of both. Sit. We'll eat and we'll talk."
She sat down in a chair at the kitchen table as he handed her a plate. "This is the second time you've cooked breakfast for me. I might be getting used to it."
"You shouldn't. I'm almost out of ideas. Eggs and pancakes are the total sum of my breakfast skills."
"Well, you won't starve." She munched on a piece of crispy bacon. "I think you could probably cook a lot more if you wanted to."
"I don't have time."
"So, tell me the news," she said, as he sat down across from her.
"My team located the vehicle our attacker was driving. It was a rental car. The driver was listed as Olin Sergei, a Russian national. We got a photo, but it turns out that the ID was stolen. Sergei died three years ago." He held up his phone. "Do you recognize this guy?"
She gave the picture a good look, but the man with the greasy brown hair, dark eyes, and prominent cheekbones was not familiar. "I've never seen him before. Does this mean we've reached another dead end?"
"No. We caught a break. Lucas was able to isolate the man who dropped off the car and tracked him to another vehicle, a Jeep also registered to Olin Sergei. Apparently, this guy took over Olin's life. At any rate, the Jeep was driven to the Wickham Hotel in West Hollywood. The cameras picked up our man exiting the fifth-floor elevator. Eventually, we got a room number. That's where the good news ends. Savannah and Wyatt went to the hotel. Our attacker was found dead in his room. He'd been poisoned with the room service breakfast he'd ordered an hour earlier."
She was disappointed and a little terrified by the ending to his story. "Poisoned? Just like Arthur?"
"Yes. My guess is that our attacker was hired to retrieve the painting. When he was unsuccessful, he was eliminated."
"Eliminated," she echoed. "That's a scary word."
"I wouldn't feel too bad for him. He could have killed us both."
"I know. So, whoever hired him took him out."
"Yes."
"What about the person who delivered the room service? Are you looking for him?"
"Unfortunately, that individual was able to avoid showing his face to the camera. Lucas is working on blowing up different angles and checking other cameras, but so far, no luck."
"Wouldn't the hotel know who the waiter was?"
"It wasn't a hotel employee. The man who was supposed to deliver the food was found unconscious in the hallway near the freight elevator. He's awake now, but he never saw who hit him, which is where the trail goes cold."
She poured maple syrup on her pancakes, thinking she needed to eat after that story. "A lot happened while I was asleep. The bad news seems to outweigh the good."
"Not necessarily. The trail may be cold, but at least there's something to follow. Are your pancakes all right?"
She swallowed her first bite. "They're delicious, Flynn. It's nice to have someone cook for me. It doesn't happen very often."
"I was happy to do it. I still feel badly about you getting hurt yesterday."
"I'm pretty sure there's nothing I can say that will change that, but I don't hold you responsible. I made some mistakes, too. I'm going to try to do better."
"You don't have to do better. Finding Arthur's killer is my job. I've already involved you way too much."
"I still want to help, so don't shut me out completely." She could see by the look in his eyes that that was exactly what he intended to do, but she wasn't going to let that happen. However, she needed to think about what he'd told her and to eat, so she concentrated on her breakfast for the next few minutes, as a myriad of thoughts raced through her head. When she was done eating, she said, "If the man who attacked us is dead, and we no longer have the painting, then does that mean we're not in danger anymore?"
"I never like to get too comfortable or overconfident," he replied.
She frowned at his very careful response. "I was hoping for a different answer."
"I think the danger has diminished, but I still want to keep an eye on you, Callie."
"I don't mind that
, but I need to go to the hospital this morning to see my mom."
"I'll take you there."
"I'm planning on staying for a while. It could be hours. If she's sleeping, I'm going to wait for her to wake up. I need to talk to her."
"That's fine. I'll drop you off on my way to the office."
"Is it really on the way?"
"It's a short detour. You can call me when you're ready to leave. It doesn't matter when."
"Or I can just call a car and go home."
"That would prevent me from keeping an eye on you," he returned. "Let's play it by ear. There are a lot of balls in the air at the moment. I'd like to see where some of them are landing before I let you out of my sight completely."
She didn’t know if Flynn's protectiveness was just due to his strong sense of responsibility or if it was more personal, but it was nice to have someone worry about her for a change. "I guess we can see how the morning goes," she said. "Where's the painting now?"
"It's in a secure room at my office."
"The killer seems to have a way of getting in and out of secure places."
"The painting isn't going anywhere. Don't worry about that."
"What do you think the person will do without his calling card?"
"I don't know. Maybe he'll paint another one—start the game over."
"It is odd that they would deliver the painting, then steal it back. You said they also left a photo when they took the painting, so they wanted credit for the crime."
"It could just be part of their twisted game. Or there could be something identifiable in the painting. I have an art expert coming by later today to take a look."
"I hope they can find some way to identify the artist."
"So do I. I'm also hoping that the killer's frustration in losing the painting will lead to a mistake, something that could break this case wide open before anyone else dies."
"I hope so, too. Your eye looks better today, but I can still see the bruise."
"This is nothing."
"Which means you've probably been hurt a lot worse. Your job is dangerous, isn't it?"
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