“It was like discovering Santa was real because he’d made my greatest wish come true.”
“Santa isn’t real?” She sniffed.
He huffed out a laugh. “My mom let him spend the day with us; probably the night, too.” Matt would put his fist through the guy’s face for that alone—keeping his mother dangling on a string. “But he was gone before I woke up the next day.” Leaving that desperate little boy devastated on what was supposed to be the best day of the year. “We never heard from him again, but every Christmas I’d be wishing as hard as I could that he’d come back…”
“He never did?” Scarlett’s voice was small.
“Not then. Thank God.” But the kid he’d been hadn’t known that until later. “He got in touch once when I was in the Navy. I told him if I ever heard from him again I’d send one of my buddies to kill him.” Her hair tickled his jaw, but he didn’t move. “I was probably joking. Anyway, he never tried again.” His arms tightened around her. She felt good. She felt right. “I told myself I didn’t want him hurting my mom’s feelings anymore. I’ve never been a fan of men using women or deceiving them for sex.”
There was silence for a moment. Then a pensive, “Maybe he thought he loved her when he first met her? Maybe it was an honest mistake.”
“Maybe.” Matt allowed himself a slight lessening of tension. “But he married her, he ditched her, and he hurt her. Once I was old enough to figure that out, I never wanted to see him again.”
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Eight.”
Her fingers rubbed his chest. He covered them with his own.
She’d been twelve when she’d lost her father. Richard Stone had been taken away by the justice system, a system Matt believed in and fought for, every day. The idea it might be corrupt was not reassuring. He didn’t want to get to the end of his career and discover he’d been played for a fool by something else he’d believed in.
A rumble filled the car’s interior.
Scarlett’s shoulders started shaking again, with laughter this time. “Sorry.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “I’m starving.”
He lifted her back onto her own seat. He was damned pleased with himself for not turning the moment into another excuse to kiss her.
Gold star for Lazlo.
He had a handle on this. He wouldn’t mess it up with all the complications that came with sex.
Then she smiled at him and her eyes sparkled with happiness. His heart skittered like a teenage girl’s. If he’d been anywhere except in a semi-public place he would have kissed her, and a whole lot more if she’d let him. Damn. He was doomed.
She took the ham sandwich and he took the turkey. Seemed appropriate under the circumstances. He checked his cell. No signal. Dammit. He needed to speak to Frazer.
Chapter Fourteen
They drove for another hour, down quiet country roads and through small towns all dressed up for the holiday. She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the kiss—she’d seen the cops pull up beside them and knew he’d done it as some sort of camouflage mechanism even though the kiss itself had almost melted her bones.
Later, when he’d held her in his arms and she’d cried like a baby—that had affected her more. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d been in a man’s arms since her father had gone to prison.
Matt’s embrace hadn’t felt like any of those other embraces. It had felt super-sized and bulletproof. Strong enough to protect her from Dorokhov. Smart enough to help save her father. Gentle enough to deceive her foolish heart.
She’d never met anyone like Matt Lazlo before. He was not your average man, and her response to him was anything but ordinary. There were plenty of jerks in the world, but it seemed wrong to compare Matt to them.
He was a former SEAL and an FBI agent.
Despite what her father had gone through, those things meant something to her. She respected him. Respected what he stood for. Somehow in the short time they’d known one another, they’d become allies. And something else, too, something she didn’t dare put a name to.
They passed a sign. Greenville. For some reason the name of the town seemed vaguely familiar, though she didn’t think she’d ever been out this way before. “Why’ve I heard of this place?”
“It was on the news last month.” He cleared his throat. “Serial…killer…” Cough.
The memory connected. “Agent Rooney is Senator Tremont’s daughter? The one whose sister was abducted all those years ago?” A shudder moved through her. “We’re not staying at the same house, right?”
Matt sent her a sideways glance. “Guy’s dead, Scarlett. No one there is going to harm you.”
Oh, my God. She tried not to breathe too deeply. Tried not to panic. She couldn’t even watch horror movies and he wanted her to sleep in that house? On Christmas Eve? No one in their right mind would want to stay there.
Suck it up, Scar. This is all your own doing anyway.
They drove a few more miles out of town, then turned down a leafy driveway. “Eastborne” was written on a small discreet sign. She sank further into her seat.
The house when it came into view took her breath. An old, red-brick mansion, creeping vines growing over the entire west wing of the house. White trimmed windows. White portico. It was gorgeous, but a little girl had been stolen from this beautiful house eighteen years ago and you could almost see the sadness etched into the stone. “It looks like it has a thousand bedrooms.” A thought hit her. “Is the senator here, too?” The woman had just announced her retirement.
Matt nodded.
Was she putting the senator in danger? Or would the fact they were staying with a senator keep them safe? Maybe it didn’t matter as long as Dorokhov believed she was at the bottom of the seabed.
“Special Agent Rooney helped catch the guy who killed her sister, right?” A light went on in one of the downstairs rooms. A shiver of fear crawled over her shoulders and raised gooseflesh in its wake.
“Yeah. And Frazer shot the guy. He’s dead. He isn’t coming back, Scarlett.”
But the ghosts of his victims seem to hover in a dark cloud over the place. She needed a distraction. “Is this what your grandparents’ place looked like in England?”
He shrugged. “They had some big old country estate in Gloucester, but not enough space for their youngest daughter and her infant son apparently. I haven’t looked into it. Mom didn’t talk about them. They didn’t want her, so I didn’t want them. Probably a little immature in terms of attitude, but it works for me.”
She smiled. “I can live with immature. I just don’t like nasty.”
“I don’t like nasty either.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He was probably remembering the important work he did, work she was taking him away from.
“Have you caught many serial killers?” The idea of a human predator was chilling; someone who enjoyed killing for killing’s sake. Who would do that?
“It isn’t like the way they show it on TV. I rarely get to arrest anyone.” His quick grin suggested he did it sometimes though, and enjoyed it. She almost made a joke about him arresting her, but didn’t want to destroy the easy truce between them. “My profiles have helped narrow the suspect pool and aided convictions, but the most important thing in catching serial killers is good police work and solid investigations.”
He was being modest. Obviously he was good at his job. Good at tracking down killers. He was tough and smart—she could see him going head-to-head with monsters. She didn’t like that idea at all. “What qualifications do you need to be a profiler?”
“Behavioral Analyst,” he corrected, then shot her a glance. Maybe he realized she needed to be distracted from the huge hulking shadow of horror that the mansion represented. Stupid to be nervous of a building when she was being hunted by someone as ruthless as Andrei Dorokhov and some shadowy spy.
“You need a four year degree and three-to-ten years of experience in the FBI dealin
g with violent crime. But it’s very competitive, so even if you cross all those boxes you’d need to find a way to stand out of the crowd.”
“Like maybe being a Navy SEAL?”
“It didn’t hurt.” He slid her another grin.
A little pop of lust reminded her of the feel of his lips on hers. She’d much rather think about lusting after Matt than about serial killers. The timeline put him probably in his mid-thirties.
“The most important quality is the ability to avoid getting sucked into the darkness of the crime scenes, and being able to see clues amongst the gore—my time in the military got me used to gore.” Silence simmered for a moment. “You also need a really good memory.”
“I have a good memory.” Scarlett sometimes wished she didn’t, because maybe then past slights wouldn’t hurt so much. “But I couldn’t cope with the subject matter.” She swallowed to ease a suddenly dry mouth. “It’s too…”
“Yeah.” Matt nodded slowly. “It is.”
They were almost at the house. A huge, elegant holly wreath decorated the front door. Somehow the reminder of Christmas didn’t make it feel any more festive. She squared her shoulders. She could do this. It was just a house, not the Lubyanka.
Alex Parker stepped out the front door and indicated they drive around the side of the house. He was in jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt. They pulled into a five car garage beside a Bentley, an SUV, an Audi, and a Mercedes.
Crikey.
Matt got out and slammed the door. She scrambled to follow, dragging her blanket around her waist like an extra-long kilt. Parker raised a brow at her attire, then nodded his head to indicate they follow him. Even without its disturbing history, the house was so out of her social circle the whole experience felt surreal. She felt like she was in a movie. Groomed grounds, dormant and cold, surrounded by a dense, dark forest. She shuddered as she remembered what had happened in those woods.
They went inside, through the mudroom into a big, brightly lit kitchen to find Mallory Rooney pouring champagne into glasses of orange juice. Scarlett hovered uncertainly near the center island. The last time she’d seen Rooney was when Scarlett was being questioned at FBI HQ after she’d broken into the Russian Ambassador’s office.
What did she think about Richard Stone’s daughter turning up at her family home? Especially during the first Christmas they’d had since they’d solved her sister’s abduction case.
“Matt, Dr. Stone.” Rooney nodded determinedly. “I’m going to take these through to my parents in the drawing room and I’ll be right back.” She headed off with the tray.
Parker pointed to the stove. “There’s soup and bread if you’re hungry. The housekeeper went off to a carol service but she’ll be back later. I told Mal’s parents this was a time sensitive matter and the less they knew the better. Trust me. They won’t interfere.”
“A federal judge and a retired senator minding their own business? What did you put in the soup?” asked Matt.
Alex grinned. “I have a few aces up my sleeve.”
“Thank you.” Scarlett smiled. Then it faltered. “But considering what happened to Maidstone, perhaps we shouldn’t stay here.”
Matt put his hands on her shoulders and she relaxed a fraction.
Alex’s eyes flickered over the connection. He turned away and pulled bowls out of the cupboard, serving up food even though Scarlett wasn’t sure she could eat.
“Right now the Russians and feds believe you’re dead and no one’s looking for you, yet. That will change as soon as the cops run that print from Maidstone’s house. I have an alert placed inside the system so we’ll know when we need to start worrying. It won’t be long.”
“I-I don’t want to put you out,” she stammered.
“She’s freaked about what happened here.” Matt ratted her out.
“I had the security completely overhauled.” Parker held her gaze and obviously recognized her unease for what it really was—cowardice. “You can relax for a few hours. It’s safe. I wouldn’t let Mallory stay here if there was any danger.”
The FBI agent came back into the room with raised brows. “Wouldn’t let me?”
Parker mouthed a curse.
“Busted,” Matt said in an amused undertone.
Parker grimaced. “How about ‘Would do everything in my power to help keep you safe?’”
“Better.” Rooney leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “But you need to work on remembering that while I might be pregnant, I’m also a federal agent who can take care of myself. I have a job to do and I don’t need you to protect me.”
Parker managed to choke down whatever he wanted to say, with effort.
Rooney handed Scarlett a pair of yoga pants.
She took them, surprised and grateful. “Thank you. Congratulations on your pregnancy, by the way. I had no idea.”
Rooney smiled. “It’s not for general consumption as I’m not that far along. But it might help you understand why Alex is so over-protective. The pants are capris on me, so shouldn’t totally drown you.”
She went into the mudroom and slipped the pants on beneath the blanket. When she was done she folded the blanket neatly and placed it on a stool beside the backdoor so they didn’t forget it on the way out.
By the time she got back, Matt had grabbed a bowl of soup and started eating. Apparently nothing put the man off his food.
“Is Maidstone still alive?” he asked between bites.
Parker nodded. “In ICU, but he doesn’t look good. Frazer managed to finagle some security for the guy.”
“How do you know the guards are trustworthy?” Scarlett asked, then grimaced. These people all worked for the FBI too.
Alex Parker grinned. “He was able to hire some people from my firm at a very good rate. Trust me, they’ll keep Maidstone safe.”
“But why should I trust you?” she asked in all seriousness. “No one has ever listened to me before. How do I know you’re not just placating me until I’m arrested or Dorokhov turns up to claim his prize?” She shifted from one foot to the other, half-tempted to run and not knowing where she’d go. Was she being a fool? Was she being lulled into a false sense of security? Matt trusted these guys, but she didn’t know them at all. She didn’t really know Matt either, for that matter—he’d arrested her once already, she had no doubt he’d do so again if ordered.
But she did trust him, as naïve and dumb as that seemed.
Alex’s gray eyes were suddenly piercingly direct and she felt as if she was seeing another side of the seemingly easygoing guy. “You shouldn’t trust us. Not without more information. But know this—if I was going to betray you to the Russians or to some other unknown entity, I wouldn’t do it here. I wouldn’t put Mallory in danger—gun and all.” He acknowledged his fiancée’s stare with a humorless smile. “But look at it this way, if you’re mistaken about your dad being innocent, then all we’re doing is giving you protection while Dorokhov cools his jets—no harm, no foul. On the other hand, if you’re right about your father, then the FBI and CIA fucked up, and there’s a good chance a Russian agent is still active within the US system.” His lips curled slightly. “One of my specialties is cyber-security, which means he’s probably circumventing everything I do from the inside. That makes me look bad.”
“Now you care about appearances?” Rooney snorted as she chewed a piece of fresh bread.
“Well, my future wife seems to like her job, and I want to know she’s working for the good guys.” Parker shot Rooney a grin that turned him from nice looking into devastatingly handsome. The glow on the other woman’s face said she knew exactly how gorgeous her man was.
“So assuming I’m right,” because she was, “you guys create profiles. What type of characteristics are we looking for in a spy?” Scarlett asked.
Matt and Rooney looked at each other. Matt gave Rooney a nod.
“Most exhibit antisocial behavior—think classic sociopath who only care about their own needs with no sense of right or
wrong.” Rooney looked enthusiastic about her subject. “Many show traits of narcissism and grandiosity with a huge sense of entitlement, decided lack of empathy. When they don’t get what they think they deserve they blame other people and can be petty, vindictive, and vengeful.”
Matt took over. “Impulsive, immature. Emotionally unstable assholes unable to form a commitment. They can’t stick to one career choice, often have affairs and can be reckless to the point of lunacy because they think they’re better than everyone else.”
“None of that sounds like my dad.” Scarlett interrupted. “He was career law enforcement, did a stint in Vietnam and was given a medal for bravery. He and my mom were high school sweethearts.”
“Profiles can be wrong.” There was sympathy in Rooney’s eyes. “But, you’re right. Richard Stone doesn’t fit the typical profile of a spy.”
“And I’d agree on the psychological traits of spies with one caveat,” Matt added. “If someone was being blackmailed because of some indiscretion then they might spy for Russia for different reasons.”
Rooney nodded in agreement. “Motive is everything. Can we actually assume Dorokhov was a spymaster?”
“I checked out some more of his background but frankly the information is spotty,” Parker admitted. “Dorokhov has been what the Russians professionally term as ‘framed’ and is now squeaky clean. Even his KGB roots have been sanitized. According to documents, he’s a career diplomat with modest Russian origins. In reality he’s been holding hands with leaders in the Kremlin for the last twenty years—he and the president both served in Germany at the same time and have apparently been friends ever since.”
Powerful friends indeed. Powerful enough for the man to be confident in acting alone? Scarlett hoped so. The idea Dorokhov had the approval of his government in killing her sent a shiver of unease along every nerve in her body.
“Have you heard anything new on the other investigations?” Matt asked between bites. He noticed she wasn’t eating and pushed a bowl and a hunk of bread in her direction. “Eat.”
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