Jacob led her past a laminate bar and into a kitchen. Or what could have been a kitchen. Tile had been pulled up to expose a concrete subfloor, and there was an empty space where a stove should have been. A white bucket sat in a sink beside a brown refrigerator that looked older than Bailey. Jacob pulled open the fridge.
“Shiner Bock or Shiner Blonde?”
“I’ll take a Blonde.”
He grabbed two with one hand, then regarded her warily as he twisted the tops off. He handed her a bottle and leaned back against the counter.
“How’d you find my address?” he asked.
“Way too easily.”
His eyebrows tipped up.
“There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”
He tipped his beer back, watching her as he took a sip. He set the bottle on the counter and reached for a dish towel. He wiped down his neck, and the towel came away yellow with sawdust.
“Nice shelves,” she said, nodding at the living room.
“They will be.”
“You’re sanding them by hand? Isn’t there a power tool for that?”
“By hand’s better. And better for working out frustration at the end of the day.”
“Why are you frustrated?”
He wiped his neck again and tossed the towel in the sink. Then he stepped closer and gazed down at her. She tilted her head back to look at him, trying not to seem intimidated even though her heart was thrumming.
“What’s on your mind, Bailey?”
His voice had an edge, and she knew she was the source of his frustration. At least, some of it.
She cleared her throat. “Robin Nally.”
His jaw tightened. “Where did you get that name?”
“Guy Elliott with the Chicago Trib.”
“Who?”
“He covers the courts beat. I called him up and asked him if he knew of a federal case about two years ago in which a woman in her early twenties had testified against someone and become a protected witness.”
“Where’d you get Chicago?”
“I didn’t originally,” she said. “Celeste Camden told me she thought Dana was from St. Louis because they once watched a Cardinals-Cubs game together. The court reporter in St. Louis didn’t have a case in mind, but he remembered something in Chicago that fit the timing, so I tried the Tribune.”
She set her purse down on the counter and took out two folded pages that she’d printed out at her office. The first was a copy of the Tribune story about Will McKinney’s conviction.
Jacob closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.
“There are two of them, Jacob. Two civilian witnesses testified in this trial. And check this out.” She unfolded the second article. It was from the lifestyle section and showed a couple on a red carpet outside the Art Institute of Chicago. The museum’s famous lion statues stood on either side of the carpet.
She had Jacob’s interest now. She pointed at the woman. “That’s Robin Nally at a charity gala with Will McKinney six months before he was indicted.”
Jacob’s brow furrowed as he stared down at the picture. Robin wore a shimmery yellow gown that was backless. She looked over her shoulder to smile at the camera, and a cascade of curly blond hair tumbled down her shoulders all the way to her elbows. Her boyfriend rested his hand possessively on her hip as he gave the photographer a cool stare.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Jacob glanced at her but didn’t comment.
“Now, look at this.” Bailey took out her phone and opened a photograph she’d taken during her second visit to Villa Paloma. It was the Rossetti painting.
Jacob frowned. “What’s this?”
“That’s a painting hanging in the library at Villa Paloma. It was Dana Smith’s favorite. She called it ‘the Sunshine Girl.’”
The resemblance between Robin Nally and the woman in the painting with the yellow dress and hair was striking. Bailey looked at Jacob to gauge his reaction. She could tell he saw the resemblance, even if he didn’t admit it.
“Uncanny, isn’t it?”
“Dana Smith had brown hair.”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “She dyed it. Brown hair was part of her cover. The blond would have been too conspicuous— I mean, look at her. She looks like a movie star. But I bet she missed the blond.”
Seeing the photo of Robin Nally had made Bailey view the Sunshine Girl painting in a whole new light. And she’d also thought about some of the cryptic things Dana’s friend Alex had said. Looks can be deceiving.
“You know, when I interviewed one of Dana’s friends at the museum, he even pointed out that she looked like the woman in this painting. ‘Except for the blond,’ he said. ‘Her hair is much darker.’”
Alex had also made a point of saying Dana was evasive about her background. I’m from everywhere and nowhere. Bailey had a hunch Alex knew that Dana wasn’t who she’d said she was.
Jacob was watching Bailey now with a look she couldn’t read. He definitely seemed tense, as though he had something he wanted to say but couldn’t.
“I’m not asking you to confirm, Jacob. I know I’m right.”
The muscles in his jaw bunched.
“And I also know there are two witnesses who testified. Where’s the other one? Where’s Tabitha Walker?”
He didn’t respond.
“Someone needs to find her and warn her that her life’s in danger. Assuming it’s not too late.”
His look darkened, and she felt the tension coming off him, but still he didn’t say anything.
She stepped closer, close enough to see the tiny bits of sawdust in his hair. His skin was slick, and she wanted to slide her hands over his muscular shoulders. Instead, she just looked up at him, watching the conflict burning in his eyes.
“I’ll be right back.” He stepped around her.
“Where are you going?”
“To shower.”
“You don’t need to shower. We’re having a conversation.”
But he ignored her and disappeared down a hallway.
She huffed out a breath and scanned his empty kitchen, annoyed by his abrupt exit and his lack of reaction to her discovery. This wasn’t going as she’d expected.
She sipped her beer in an effort to relax and then stepped into the room just beyond the kitchen. As opposed to the front room, this space looked finished. More rich golden floors, plus some brown leather furniture and an intricate rug of deep reds and blues. The furniture faced a huge TV where the Rangers game was on, but muted, and she guessed he’d been watching it when she rang the bell.
Bailey crossed the room to check out the big windows that looked out on a wooden deck illuminated by floodlights. She glanced back at the hallway and heard the pipes running. Then she opened the glass door and stepped outside.
The deep yard sloped down, and the back was shadowed by towering pecan trees. Cicadas droned in the distance, luring her across the deck. She took a few steps down to the lawn, then turned around to look at the house.
It glowed like a lantern, warm and inviting. She skimmed her gaze over the ladder and the bare light fixtures in the front room. It was a work in progress, an endeavor that absorbed his spare time and energy, and she felt a sharp prick of envy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had that. Outside of rowing, she’d let go of all her hobbies. Basically, she worked. And when she wasn’t working, she was thinking about work. And when she wasn’t thinking about work, she was catching up on laundry or cleaning or maybe stealing a quick coffee at Hannah’s. Ever since the first round of layoffs at the newspaper, her life had become an endless quest to rack up bylines and hang on to her job.
She sat down on the wooden step, facing the darkness of the trees. Acoustic guitar music drifted over from the neighbor’s yard, along with the scent of marijuana. She tipped her head ba
ck and looked at the sky. The stars were out, along with a full moon. She closed her eyes and realized how good it felt to sit and just be. Jacob’s yard was an oasis, removed from the hustle and noise only a few blocks away.
The floodlights went off. Then a dim light came on beside the back door as Jacob stepped outside.
“You getting eaten alive?” he asked.
“Nope.”
He wore a gray T-shirt with his jeans now, and his hair was damp from the shower. She stood up to join him on the deck, setting her beer on the railing.
“Did you build this yourself?” she asked.
“With some help from my brother.”
“Does he live here in town?”
“In Fort Worth. We got the posts and piers done together, then I finished the rest.”
He rested his beer on the railing and settled his gaze on her. He smelled amazing. Not like cologne or aftershave, but something subtle and masculine that made her want to bury her face against his chest.
She thought of their kiss again, how everything had ramped up in an instant. Physically, they clicked. It was the rest of it that seemed off. She kept getting mixed signals, as though he liked her, but then he didn’t. Or maybe he didn’t like that he liked her.
“Are you mad that I looked you up?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you pissed that I’m on this story?”
He took a sip, watching her, and set his bottle down. “Not pissed.”
“What then?”
He hesitated, seeming to carefully choose his words. “I’m concerned.”
“Why?”
“You’re digging into something you know nothing about.”
“Not nothing.”
Irritation flickered across his face.
“We may as well be honest,” she said. “I know more than you thought. I’ve managed to find a lot in only a few short days. You never thought I’d find any of it, did you?”
“You’re resourceful.” He turned to look at her, leaning against the railing. “And, yeah, I underestimated you. But that doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes things for you.”
“How?”
“You’re not my only source on this. I have others. Many, in fact. So you can relax. None of this is going to blow back on you.”
He dipped his head down. “That’s why you think I’m pissed off? Because I might get blowback over a fucking news story?”
She flinched.
“I couldn’t give a shit about that.”
She gazed up into those dark eyes, and again she saw the conflict. The frustration. And in her heart, she understood what was really bothering him. He didn’t want her getting hurt.
She went up on tiptoes and kissed him.
Last time had been hot but controlled. Not this time. He dug his fingers into her hair and pulled her against him as he delved into her mouth. The kiss was hard. Demanding. And she slid her hands around his neck and kissed him back the same way. His warm fingers dipped into the back of her shorts and cupped her buttocks, bringing her close against him, and she felt the hard ridge of him through his jeans. Desire surged through her, and she arched her back, pressing her breasts against him. He answered by pulling her in tighter.
She loved the way he kissed. The way he tasted. She loved the way he smelled and the way he touched her, like some forbidden temptation that might be snatched away if he lingered too long.
His hands moved, and she felt them close around her waist, and suddenly she was up off her feet. She gasped as he set her on the wooden railing. They were at eye level now, and she saw the desire burning in his deep brown eyes. She kissed him again, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him in close, and he made a low moan. She slid her hands up his sleeves, over those muscular shoulders she’d been wanting to touch, and his skin felt warm under her fingertips. She wanted his shirt off. Hers, too. He seemed to read her mind as his fingers slipped inside her T-shirt and glided around her back.
A faint buzzing noise penetrated the haze. It blended with the cicadas and then was gone. But then it came back again.
Bailey pulled away. “Your phone.”
He blinked at her.
“Inside,” she said.
He muttered a curse, and she slid down from the railing.
“I have to get that. Don’t move.”
He went into the house, and she watched him grab his phone off the breakfast bar.
Bailey shook off the daze. Her flip-flops had fallen, and she slid her feet back into them. She looked up. Jacob was watching her through the window, but his expression was a million miles away. She knew what that meant.
She picked up both of their beers and went inside. From his clipped words, she could tell it was work-related, and she set the bottles on the bar and went to her purse to see if she’d missed anything from Max. No new messages, so whatever it was hadn’t gone out over the police scanner.
Jacob ended the call.
“Sorry. Something’s come up.”
“No problem.” She searched his face, and his tense expression didn’t change.
“I should go.”
He nodded.
She grabbed her purse and walked to the door. Without a word, he followed her out to her car and opened the door for her.
“Sorry,” he said again as she slid behind the wheel.
“It’s fine.” She smiled. “It’s probably better, actually, if we put the brakes on.”
His expression darkened, but he didn’t argue, and she felt a twinge of disappointment. She pulled the door, but he caught it.
“Nothing’s changed, Bailey. I don’t want you on this story. You don’t understand the risks involved.”
“Well, I’m on it, so you’ll just have to deal.” She sighed. “Maybe if we worked together instead of butting heads, it would be easier for both of us.”
“How do you mean?”
“You help me. I help you. Collaboration? I’m helping you already, you just haven’t acknowledged it yet.”
He frowned at that idea, as she’d expected he would.
“No one has to know you’re talking to me, Jacob. I can be very discreet.”
His frown deepened.
“Think about it,” she said, and pulled the door shut.
* * *
* * *
JACOB WATCHED HER drive away, frustration churning inside him. Collaboration. Right. He didn’t want to collaborate with her. Not on this case or any other.
Especially not on this case.
He wanted her way the hell away from it, and he didn’t want Will McKinney or any of his hired guns to know Bailey Rhoads even existed.
We’re talking brass knuckles and steel-toed boots. Guy had to have his jaw wired back together.
Jacob went back into his house and eyed his phone on the bar. Talk about shitty timing.
Or maybe not. Maybe it was good that his phone had stopped him from doing what he’d been dying to do for days now, which would have been a mistake for both of them. Why did she have to be a reporter? And not just any reporter—a reporter covering his case, one of the thorniest cases he’d worked, a case that he shouldn’t even be working at all if he valued his career. But—just as with Bailey—he couldn’t seem to resist.
Jacob scrubbed his hand over his face and checked his watch. He walked over to switch off the baseball game and heard his front door opening and closing behind him.
“Well, well. Progress.”
He turned to see Morgan standing in the front room. She wore a skirt and heels again, which meant she was probably in town for another trial.
“Thanks for seeing me,” she said.
“You said it was urgent. What’s up?”
She crossed the room to his kitchen, where she leaned her hands on t
he bar. “You’re still working the Dana Smith case.”
“That’s right.”
She huffed out a breath. “Jacob.”
“You knew I wasn’t going to hand it over to Mullins from the second you told me about it.”
“What? I asked you—no, practically begged you—to let this thing go. And now days later, I hear you’ve been withholding evidence and talking to the Marshals Office?”
“I haven’t withheld a damn thing.” He crossed his arms. “But while we’re on the subject, why didn’t you tell me about Tabitha Walker?”
“Who?”
Jacob just stared at her, waiting. Morgan was an exceptionally good liar. But she had one tell, and he’d figured it out the first month they were together. She always asked a question to stall for time while trying to make something up.
“The second witness in the McKinney trial,” he said.
“What McKinney trial?”
He waited, and it turned into a staring contest. She looked away first.
“She’s not safe,” he said. “Someone has to pull her out of wherever they put her—”
“We didn’t put her anywhere.”
“The Bureau, the Marshals, someone has to step up and do the right thing for this woman. She trusted you guys. You used her as a witness. And now someone with a federal badge fucked up, and your program’s been penetrated. A woman is dead, and Tabitha Walker could be next.”
Morgan tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. She muttered something under her breath that Jacob didn’t hear. Then she glared at him.
“You’re impossible, you know that? I knew I never should have called you.”
He waited, watching her. He had no patience for games right now. Or relationship bullshit. He needed information.
“Where is she?” he asked.
She scoffed. “I have no idea.”
“You haven’t warned her, have you?”
“I haven’t? This isn’t my case. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Mullins hasn’t. The Marshals haven’t.”
Guilt flickered in her eyes, and he knew that he was right.
“Goddamn it, Morgan. Are they just going to stand by and let her get whacked? What the fuck’s wrong with you people? She trusted you guys.”
Hidden Page 14