He had come into her office just forty-five minutes earlier. When they shook hands he had smiled, revealing boyish dimples and a set of perfect white teeth. Her breath had caught in her throat, and ever since that moment, her professional poise had seemed an arm’s length away, just beyond her grasp when she needed it most.
“So, Mr. Nichols,” she said, deliberately emphasizing the seductive quality of her voice. Her eyes were locked onto his. “I think we’ve made some good choices here. When would you like to take a look at these properties?”
He covered his mouth and faked a cough to hide his sudden grin. Just hearing her say it made him want to laugh. He had chosen it on a whim three years earlier, and in retrospect, he knew it had been a mistake. The very name itself occasionally drew attention, something that he was definitely not looking for.
Still, it was amusing.
He moved his hand away, once again in full control. “As soon as possible, Nicole,” he said with another charming smile. “I have time today, if you do. And please, call me Tim.”
He thought the third house would suit his needs perfectly.
It was a farm, really, 97 acres situated on earth that would now be teeming with hundreds of rows of red winter wheat if the fields had been seeded in early September. Because they had not, the recent rainstorms had washed away much of the topsoil, leaving behind what could only be described as a lake of mud.
The property was located just off Chamberlayne Road north of Richmond. It was a rural community; the closest house was a half mile away, but Interstate 295, which ran east and west, was less than 3 miles away, and I-95, which ran north to Washington, was not more than 4 miles to his west. He turned his attention back to the one-story red brick house as they walked away from Milbery’s Ford Escape and up the hard-packed dirt of the driveway.
“As you can see,” she was saying, “the house itself is somewhat modest, but really quite lovely. I know it looks small, but the basement is finished and quite extensive. Perhaps the best part of all is the privacy.”
They were inside, moving steadily through the small structure. “This is the den. Hardwood floors in every room.” She stamped her heel lightly as if to prove her point. “Plus, a cozy little fireplace for the cold nights that we’ve been getting. Perfect for you and… Is there a Mrs. Nichols?”
Will Vanderveen held up his left hand, which was missing a ring on the third finger. When he winked at her, she blushed and turned her face away.
He looked around at the depressing surroundings. What a shit hole, he thought. He would never have been caught dead living in such a place voluntarily, but for less than a month, he could suffer in silence. Besides, he was interested in the property for other reasons.
“Nicole, do you think we could take a look at the barn?”
It was far more impressive than the house, a solid structure with staggered floors that followed the contours of a gently sloping hill. Vanderveen looked around, pleased by what he saw. From the road, only the very top of the barn could be seen, as it was located behind the house. The interior was dry and warm. It offered an entrance on only one end, but there was a large sliding door with a heavy lock. More importantly, the single entrance was wide enough to accommodate a large commercial van. He kicked aside some of the straw to reveal a hard concrete floor.
It couldn’t have been better.
He turned to ask a question and found her facing away from him, leaning over to pluck a wayward piece of straw from the top of her shoe. He thought she had timed it well. His eyes moved over her ass, firm beneath the short red skirt, and down the long, taut legs to the three-inch heels she was wearing.
She removed the offending article and stood up quickly. Turning to face him, she immediately caught his wandering gaze. A small smile played over her glossy red lips. “Do you like it?” She was trembling with anticipation. “The place, I mean.”
He wasn’t embarrassed at all. He held her eyes and said, very quietly, “It’s perfect.”
“So you’ll be taking it, then?”
“I think you could say that, Nicole.” He was already walking toward her, slowly working the buttons loose on his shirt. “You could definitely say that.”
It had been two days since the meeting with Director Andrews at Langley. Ryan spent the mornings at Headquarters, but the afternoons were reserved for Katie alone. They went window shopping in Georgetown, and for long walks hand in hand through the stark winter contrasts of Rock Creek Park. They ate at ridiculously expensive restaurants on the Hill, and even took in a play at Ford’s Theatre, something she had wanted to do for a long time.
It was late in the evening on the third day when they arrived at the Capital Grille, a small, elegant restaurant on the corner of 6th and Pennsylvania. As always, Ryan felt a pleasant little jolt at the way heads turned to follow Katie’s passage through the crowded dining area. She was wearing a slinky black dress that ended at midthigh, and sling-back heels that perfectly accentuated her long, slender legs. Her usual glossy pink nail polish had been replaced by a clear lacquer, and her hair was swept up into an impossible pile that she had somehow secured with a number of silver barrettes. Ryan thought she had never looked more beautiful.
The meal was delicious and the surroundings nothing less than spectacular. Katie was amazed when Senator John McCain came walking through the door, immediately followed by a phalanx of junior staffers. Ryan almost had to restrain her from jumping up to point and scream like a giddy schoolgirl; Katie followed politics with the same degree of enthusiasm her peers reserved for musicians and celebrities.
He wondered how she might react to the fact that he was meeting with President Brenneman in less than a week, but decided that the reserved atmosphere of the restaurant was no place to find out. He pictured her probable response: You’re kidding, right? You’re so full of shit, Ryan!” All of this in a loud voice, overheard by the horrified waiters as they tried to figure out what to do. The image caused him to laugh out loud, as did the questioning look that she shot him across the table.
When they returned to the Hay-Adams just after midnight, the warmth of their suite was a pleasant reprieve from the damp snow that was drifting over the city. Katie collapsed onto the bed without kicking off her shoes, still floating from her Congressional sighting and the excellent ’94 California chardonnay they had consumed with their meal.
“God, that place was great! This hotel is great, too. I think we should move here. There’s nothing to do in Maine anyway. What do you think?”
“I don’t think you mean that. Besides, there’s plenty to do in Maine. You could take up fishing.”
She pouted her lips and gave him a skeptical look. “Do I look like a fisherman?”
He smiled and joined her on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow as he began to remove the silver clasps from her hair. “No, you don’t look like a fisherman. That’s a good thing, by the way… I’ve never found them very appealing.” She laughed a little at that. His voice took on a different, more serious tone when he spoke again. “As long as you’re still marrying me, we can do whatever you want, Katie.”
She looked up at him in amazement as the last clasp came free and the honey brown waves tumbled down around her face. “Are you serious?”
A brief pause, and then he grinned. “No, I just thought it would be a romantic thing to say.”
She slapped him hard on the arm as he laughed. “I really do hate you.” But she didn’t mean it, and couldn’t help but respond when he leaned in to steal a kiss. A few minutes later she was sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders as he began to explore her body, his strong fingers running slowly down the lean curves of her back.
She moaned as his head dropped and she felt his lips grazing her breasts. She tugged at his pants as he unsnapped her bra in a practiced motion, sliding the black lace down until it caught for an instant on her hard nipples. Her dress slipped from the side of the bed to the floor, her fingers wrapping tight in the sheets as she f
elt his mouth move on her flat stomach. She sucked in her breath and squirmed as he kept going down…
A sound penetrated the waves of pleasure, and it took her a second to realize that it was Ryan’s cell phone. He got to his feet and reached for it. She whispered an expletive under her breath as he hit the TALK button and turned away from her.
“Kealey here. Yeah… Good, it’s about time. Okay, that works for me. I’ll see you then.”
She was sitting up on the bed, pulling the sheets around her body and staring at him as he cut the connection. “Who was that?”
He hesitated, and that said it all. “Oh, I get it.” Her face changed. “It was that Naomi, right?”
“Yes, it was. Listen, I need to head out early, Katie. I might be gone when you wake up.”
“Why?” She gazed up at him with worried eyes. “Where are you going?”
“Just to Langley. It’ll be a long day, though. I might not make it back tomorrow night.” He set the phone down and moved to join her once again. As he leaned in to kiss her, though, she turned away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m fine, really.” But Ryan couldn’t see her face or read her thoughts, and had no way of knowing how hard his words had hit her: I might not make it back tomorrow night.
The unfortunate double meaning of the statement served to remind her of the fear she had been living with over the past several weeks. It had been hard enough to deal with in the first place, but now that they were engaged, it just seemed like she had that much more to lose, because there was the implied promise of a family and a life together that seemed so close she could almost touch it.
She wanted to tell him how she felt, to try to make him understand. At the same time, she didn’t want to be a burden. Katie sensed that whatever he was involved in was much more dangerous than he was letting on, and she couldn’t help but think that the less she bothered him with her concerns, the clearer his mind would be if he was headed into harm’s way.
Ryan was confused by her sudden change in demeanor, and automatically assumed it had something to do with Naomi. Jesus, he couldn’t help but think. How many times do we have to go over this? She still had her back to him. Realizing that she obviously didn’t want his company, he wandered aimlessly over to the French doors that led out to the balcony. Pulling them open, Ryan stepped out into the cold night air wearing nothing more than his boxers. The view below was spectacular, as the Federal Suite overlooked Lafayette Square and St. John’s Cathedral, the lights below illuminating the fresh white powder that blanketed the streets.
The scene was lost on him. Instead, he was remembering something that had occurred more than five months earlier.
They had still been getting to know one another at the time, enjoying the thrill of a new and exciting relationship, too caught up in each other to notice any flaws. She spent the night at his house on the Cape more often than not, although she kept a small apartment in Orono. On one particular night, some of Katie’s friends had come over for what she called, with an impish grin, “margaritas and a movie.” Evidently the emphasis was on margaritas, because after at least four of the sweet frozen drinks, her best friend from Orono had made some highly suggestive remarks about Katie’s new boyfriend, with Ryan in clear and obvious earshot.
Katie had tried to brush it off, but once her friends had gone, it was clear that she was still upset. When he asked her what was wrong, she refused to talk about it. Finally, after a great deal of gentle coaxing on his part, she had tearfully confessed that she didn’t think she could compete with that particular friend for Ryan’s attention.
That incident summed up everything he loved about her: she simply didn’t know how beautiful she was. The friend, while remarkably attractive in her own right, was plain in comparison. Strangely enough, a large part of Katie’s allure was her complete disinterest in her own appearance; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen her stand in front of a mirror for more than a few seconds. What made her modesty so remarkable was the fact that it was completely unfounded. She was a goddess in every sense of the word, but no matter how many times he told her so, she just scowled and told him to quit teasing her.
He loved every inch of her, from her delicate toes to the strands of gold in her hair — caught and brought out by the sun, a rare-enough sight in Maine. The way her full lips felt on his own, the way her cheeks had flushed when he found a book of her poetry and proclaimed it to be, with complete sincerity, “really good,” and in response to her skeptical gaze: “Seriously!”
What really held him, though, were her eyes. They were the perfect shade of cerulean blue, beautifully framed beneath long, dark lashes, and they changed dramatically with her mood. Lighter when she was amused or happy, turning to deep, dark pools of indigo in moments of concern or anger, and at the precise moment of climax…
Damn! Ryan shook his head angrily. If only she wasn’t so touchy when it came to Naomi, or just about every other woman he had ever met, for that matter. As he emerged from his thoughts, the scene below suddenly came into focus. In the dim light, the snow swirled furiously around the statues of Andrew Jackson and the Comte de Rochambeau, as if struggling to breathe life into the marble figures. All in all, it was a breathtaking sight.
But it was incomparable to the view that greeted him when he walked back into the room. The woman he loved was still turned away from him, but it didn’t matter; she was beautiful from any angle. He could not help but admire the way her skin glowed in the soft light of the suite, as the stunning curves of her body seemed to perfectly complement the elegant atmosphere that suffused the room.
Seeing her in this way, Ryan came to a sudden realization. He would put up with these petulant tantrums forever. He didn’t care if she grew out of it or not. If that was the price of knowing her, then it was a small price, and he would pay it gladly.
A few minutes passed. Katie tried to push the worry out of her mind and go to sleep, but her skin was still tingling from his touch. Her gaze drifted down to the diamonds that twinkled on the third finger of her left hand. The last of her resolution disappeared, and when she turned over to face him, her heart lifted when she saw that his attention had not wandered. That was all it took. “Well, come on,” she said with feigned impatience and a precocious grin. “You’re not going to give up that easily, are you?”
His smile lit up the room. Three steps later he pounced on her, and she was shrieking with laughter until his attention became too much, and her cries of ecstasy spilled out into the night.
CHAPTER 23
NORFOLK, WASHINGTON, D.C.
When Will Vanderveen arrived at Norfolk International Terminals late in the afternoon to collect his consignment, the last-minute rush in the container yard rendered him almost invisible to the workers who hustled over the broad expanse of rain-slicked cement.
It was how he had planned it. The change in shift allowed him to blend easily into the crowd, and it was not a coincidence that his navy blue coveralls, steel-toed boots, and wool knit watch cap closely resembled the outfit worn by many of the lower-level NIT employees.
The cement was littered with hundreds of 20- and 40-foot containers, stacked four high and seven deep, as port regulations required. Towering above the identical metal boxes were the rail-mounted gentry cranes that were in constant motion, depositing one container after another onto an endless procession of flatbed trucks.
As he crossed the open space, he approached three men standing next to a row of containers. One was holding a clipboard and a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, and his uniform identified him as a captain in the Virginia Port Authority.
Vanderveen studied the captain, an older man with iron-gray hair cut close to the scalp and hard ridges carved into his face. His pale blue eyes were almost unnaturally clear. Vanderveen was almost certain that he was an ex-Marine, most likely an upper-level NCO.
“ ’Scuse me,” Vanderveen said as he approached. No one noticed
him, and he gave it a minute before tapping the man on the shoulder. “ ’Scuse me, sir.”
The captain turned with an annoyed expression on his face. “Yeah, can I help you?”
Vanderveen set his jaw, narrowed his eyes slightly, and carefully added a generous measure of hard Southern inflection to his own voice. “Sorry t’ butt in.” Fishing some paperwork out of his folder, flashing the captain a sincere but unapologetic smile. “I need to get m’ consignment, but I’ve never used NIT before. Can I bring m’ own truck in here?”
“No, I’m sorry, son,” the man drawled. He paused. “Well, hold on jes’ a sec. Yer gettin’ it l.c. l?”
“Yes, sir, I sure am.”
“Well, now, that’s another story. They might let you bring ’er in.” He pointed to a barrier in the distance. “Other side a’ that fence, there’s an access road to the l.c. l yard. You jes’ show ’em your ID and ya bill a’ ladin’ and you’ll be set.”
Vanderveen nodded his thanks. “Well, I ’preciate it, sir. Hey, where can I get me some a that?” he asked, pointing to the man’s steaming cup.
The captain laughed and spit noisily on the ground. “Hell, you don’t want none a this, son. Tastes like shit.”
Ten minutes later, Vanderveen was pulling a rented U-Haul cargo van up to the gatehouse outside the smaller yard reserved for l.c. l shipments, otherwise known as less than container loads. These, as the name implied, were exports that did not require the use of a whole container. It was an excellent way for small companies to save money on shipping.
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