Body of Evidence (Evidence Series)

by Rachel Grant

  That made him smile. “Because we like to make things sound complicated.”

  She resumed pacing. “Like charging my uncle with ‘influence peddling’ when the words ‘taking bribes’ would be clearer.”

  “Don’t forget ‘obstruction of justice’ instead of ‘cover up.’”

  She stopped and frowned. “Has Uncle Andrew been charged with obstruction?”

  “It was added to the charges against him weeks ago.” He couldn’t nail Andrew Stevens or the CEO for selling arms to a Sudanese war criminal, but he could damn well convict the corrupt former vice president for covering it up.

  She dropped into a chair and pulled her knees to her chest. She looked small, delicate, and exhausted. Remembering the hell she’d been through today, he felt like a shit.

  She met his gaze with a faint smile. “Why couldn’t the North Koreans have demanded George Clooney as envoy?”

  He laughed. “Maybe Clooney was too busy arranging a human rights march, whereas I had a lull in my schedule between kicking kittens and destroying the lives of honorable men for personal gain.”

  Her smile deepened, flashing that warm dimple, and he felt a jolt of heat that made him want to curse. “Get back to Raptor, Mara.”

  She cleared her throat. “My interrogators asked about my uncle’s work for Raptor, repeatedly.”

  “What did the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea want to know about your uncle’s job as chief of operations for Raptor?”

  “Like you, they were suspicious about Raptor’s role with JPAC. They wanted to know if Uncle Andrew was paid to use his influence as vice president to get Raptor mercenaries placed on JPAC recovery teams.”

  He leaned forward. If his numbers were correct, that was the million-dollar question—and that figure didn’t include the company shares Stevens had received, worth quite a bit more. “What did you tell them?”

  She met his gaze with a defiant glare. “The truth. He didn’t have anything to do with JPAC’s decision to hire Raptor. JPAC contracted crew positions to Raptor before my uncle’s term in office was even over. He had nothing to do with the private security company at the time.”

  As much as he wanted to pursue this line of questioning, they were supposed to be talking about her arrest in North Korea. Her version bore little resemblance to what he’d been told, yet it sounded strangely plausible. How else could she have gotten to the DMZ? She didn’t speak Korean, and as she’d pointed out, her blond hair and blue eyes were tantamount to waving an American flag.

  He took a sip of his drink. “According to JPAC, you left the site alone. None of your coworkers knew where to find you when the Korean People’s Army showed up with weapons drawn and demanded JPAC leave the country.”

  Mara jolted to her feet. “No way! Call Roddy.” Her voice shook with anger. “I want to talk to him.”

  “You can’t. Not until you’ve been debriefed by the State Department.”

  She struggled to regain her composure. “Then let me call Jeannie.”

  “Jeannie?” he asked, even though he knew perfectly well who she meant. He wanted to hear her take on the JPAC assistant forensic archaeologist.

  Mara shot him a skeptical look. “Jeannie Fuller—my coworker. She’s my best friend, and she saw me leave with Roddy. She’ll set things straight. I want to call her.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Dammit! Why not?” She leaned over him, her face so close that her hair tickled his cheek. Her blue eyes locked on his while she patted his breast pocket. “You’ve got a phone right here.” She touched his cell through his jacket, “And I want to use it.”

  Christ, he was jealous of his phone. He never reacted to women this way. The glimpse he’d had of Mara Garrett’s inner strength had gotten to him, but that didn’t change who she was…or who he was. Gripping her invasive hand, he stood, forcing her up and back. “No,” he said.

  He stopped, her hand caught beneath his. She touched his chest, not the cell phone, and his heart kicked up a notch. With only inches separating them, he’d have to be made of stone not to be affected by her. Her chest rose with each angry breath as her eyes pierced him with a sharp glare.

  “You may not speak with your team. You may not speak with your uncle.” The State Department had set the rules, but he had no problem enforcing them. “You will not get your story straight with anyone in JPAC or Raptor before the State Department debriefing.”

  GET MY STORY straight?

  Her team—including her best friend—had said she’d left the site alone. They knew she’d left with Roddy, and they’d lied. And Curt Dominick thought she wanted to get her story straight? She just wanted to get the story, period.

  Curt stood before her, his face no longer merely impassive or remote. He was downright glacial. She knew his nickname, The Shark, and now she understood he wasn’t just ruthless in the courtroom.

  When People magazine placed him in their Sexiest Men of the Year issue, NPR’s Nina Totenberg had done a story on Curt Dominick, explaining that legal-news junkies had a new, swoon-worthy star. Nina really should have done a better job describing his chin or mentioned the dark mole on his right cheekbone, but more important, Nina had failed to prepare Mara for the man’s megawatt looks, commanding presence, and utter lack of heart.

  Now, face-to-face with The Shark, she stumbled backward until her knees hit the arm of one of the recliners. “Do you have to be such a prick?”

  His eyes glinted with amusement. “Sweetheart, you think I’m a prick now, but you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  The man before her wasn’t a rescuing superhero. He was the powerful US attorney who prosecuted mobsters and politicians. He was formidable, harsh, exuding distrust, and she was stuck on a plane with him for at least fifteen hours. “Is there a shower on this flying yacht?” Her words lacked the punch she’d been aiming for and were clouded by weariness. “I haven’t had a hot shower in months.”

  “There’s a suitcase full of clothes for you in the bedroom.” He waved toward the rear of the jet, but his voice was less harsh. “After you shower, try to get some sleep.” He pulled out his cell phone. She’d been dismissed.

  She walked toward the bedroom on legs that ached from constant tension. Pre-North Korea Mara would have seen Curt Dominick as an interesting challenge. Post-North Korea Mara didn’t have the emotional wherewithal for challenges.

  “Palea? It’s Dominick. Bring Roddy Brogan in for questioning. Now.”

  She halted midstep and whirled to face him. He met her gaze and offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Heat started in her belly and spread outward.

  He held her gaze even as he continued to speak into the phone. “I don’t care that it’s one in the morning in Honolulu. Roddy Brogan needs to answer some questions.” His rich, deep voice, uttered words she’d never expected him to say, while his intense stare held her rooted to the spot. He had listened to her. He was following up on her allegations.

  In one area, at least, her uncle had been wrong about Curt Dominick, making her wonder what else her uncle was wrong about.

  CURT WATCHED HER escape into the cabin as he told his friend, Honolulu FBI agent Kaha’i Palea, what he needed. Conversation complete, he returned the phone to his breast pocket.

  He had a job to do. He’d hoped she’d give him something on Raptor, but he had no idea what to make of her claim Roddy Brogan had essentially abducted her. But he wasn’t operating at top capacity. Everyone had a breaking point, and after being awake for most of the last thirty hours, he’d passed his—probably right about the time he was a complete ass to a woman who’d just survived a firing squad.

  He grabbed a blanket and stretched out on the wide sofa. The moment he closed his eyes, images of the petite archaeologist bombarded him: her proud posture as she marched blindfolded down the cobblestone path; the anger in her eyes as she called him on his dickish behavior.

  More images followed, but these weren’t based on memories. A carnal fantasy of slip
ping into the shower with her and washing the grime of imprisonment from her skin; her blue eyes darkening as he thrust into her for the first time.

  He jolted awake.

  Shit.

  He sank back into the couch. It wasn’t like him to have sexual dreams about women he’d just met, but he could cut his subconscious some slack. After all, he’d been researching the woman for months, and she was as impressive on paper as she was in person. Smart, savvy, and hardworking, she’d graduated with honors from Stanford University and held a masters degree in archaeology from the same institution.

  Her uncle had visited her deployments several times when he was vice president, and an Associated Press reporter had interviewed her during one such photo op in Vietnam. She’d explained how her career choice stemmed from personal family history. Her maternal grandfather—the former vice president’s father—had been shot down over North Korea in 1951 and never returned. Then she’d described the loss of her own father when she was in her teens, and how the only place she’d been able to grieve was at his graveside.

  When asked what working for the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command meant to her, her dimple had appeared and her face lit up as she responded, “I’m providing closure for families like mine. I’m bringing them home.”

  That clip had been played thousands of times in the last months. In the US, Mara Garrett was a hero. But inside this jet, she was a puzzle he needed to solve.

  She idolized her uncle. Understandable, given the fact that he had taken over as father figure when her dad died. But a problem for Curt because her uncle was a corrupt son of a bitch who’d sold out the country he’d sworn an oath to defend and bear allegiance to.

  Curt had hoped she’d prove to be a pretty twit who’d created an international incident, but she might be the victim after all. He rolled to his side and tried to get comfortable. He needed to sleep so he could hit the ground running when they reached DC. Once there, the State Department would take Mara Garrett off his hands, and he would lead the prosecution of her uncle.

  Whether she was a pretty twit or an alluring victim didn’t matter. She was somebody else’s problem, and after tomorrow, he’d only see her in his dreams.

  AFTER TWO MONTHS of cold sponge baths, hot spray sluiced down Mara’s back. She rolled the lavender soap between her hands, building a thick lather. Like the ice cubes earlier, the luxury of scented soap and running water undid her, and tears slid down her cheeks.

  She should be overjoyed. She was on her way to the mainland. But nothing felt right. Her best friend had lied. Roddy had flown home to Honolulu with the rest of the team. And US Attorney Curt Dominick had rescued her from a firing squad. There was no universe in which those three statements made sense.

  Released after two months of isolation and interrogation, she should also be free from the gut-wrenching fear, but painful knots still twisted in her belly. What was she returning to? The mound of lather grew, hiding her hands beneath a thick layer of bubbles. She needed to talk to her uncle. Maybe he knew something.

  The water turned cold, startling her out of her emotional spiral. She shut off the spray and washed while bracing for the cold rinse. Her first hot shower in months and she’d ruined it. Once again, she’d failed to think things through and see the pitfalls of her impulsive actions.

  Rinsed and clean, she shut off the frigid water. She leaned against the fiberglass stall, powerless against a noisy sob that engulfed her. The battle she’d waged to control her emotions for two months was over. She was alone and safe. She could let down her guard and really cry.

  She slid down the slick wall and hugged her knees to her chest. Where was the euphoria of rescue? Why did she feel like the trouble had only just begun?

  Jesus. Curt Dominick, of all people. Another painful, embarrassingly loud sob escaped. Even his selection as envoy was her fault. If he ever learned the truth, he’d hate her. More than he did already.

  For a moment, when they stood in the courtyard and he held her, she’d met his gaze and the strongest, most head-spinning, gut-clenching emotion had shot through her. Hate was the last emotion she felt for Curt Dominick.

  A LOUD THUMP jolted Curt from his light doze. He bolted to his feet. Mara. Was she hurt? He hurried down the short aisle. He’d been dozing for only a few minutes. It took him a second to get his bearings. Was she in the private cabin to the left or the shower to the right?

  He shook his head to dispel sleep and heard a noise coming from the shower. He reached for the knob when the sound registered. A sob. His hand froze an inch from the door.

  Shit. He was not cut out for this.

  The woman had just been through a nightmarish ordeal. Her two-month-long imprisonment had culminated in a firing squad and ended with her being rescued by a man who was not known for his ability to sympathize.

  Should he knock? Enter? Talk to her through the door?

  Another sob sounded, and his heart twisted. He leaned his forehead against the panel. A better man would open the door, take her into his arms, and comfort her.

  But he wasn’t that man. Where she was concerned, he had to be a prosecutor first, last, and always.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RODDY BROGAN WAS dead. He’d been shot on Oahu sometime in the last four hours, and the death scene had been staged to look like a suicide.

  Curt hung up his cell and ran his fingers through his hair, distantly registering he’d missed an appointment with his barber yesterday. Or was it today? They must have crossed the international dateline already. But he had far bigger problems than a missed haircut.

  If his information was correct, Roddy Brogan—gifted linguist and cold-blooded mercenary—had provided translation for the Sudanese weapons deal. The man’s death could be the key to finally indicting the CEO, and Curt had a hunch Raptor’s sharp talons were all over the death scene.

  The trial would start in twenty-one hours whether he was there or not. Without changes to their itinerary, they would reach DC in thirteen or fourteen hours.

  But if he changed their refueling stop to Oahu…he was looking at two hours—three at most—added to their travel time. Cutting it close, but doable.

  He pulled out his cell and dialed his co-counsel, Assistant US Attorney Aurora Ames. She was going to freak when he explained the delay, but when she heard why, she’d understand.

  MARA EMERGED FROM the bedroom when the plane started to descend, surprised they’d reached the mainland already. All she could see from the portside window was the vast blue ocean, but one of California’s coastal airports or military bases must be ahead. She hoped someone from the State Department would join them for the rest of the journey. Then the official debriefing could begin.

  Once that was behind her, she could return to Oahu and find out if she still had a job, but deep down, she feared she already knew the answer to that question.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep during the long flight. The dark, tiny room transformed into her cold cell every time she closed her eyes. She’d battled the illusion by turning on the bedside light, but the dim glow made sleep impossible.

  Curt sat on the sofa with his laptop open before him, looking handsome and refreshed, his shirt crisp and tie straight, like he expected to argue before a judge at any moment.

  Mara felt rumpled, frazzled, and haggard. Her hair was too long and had darkened after months of being out of the sun, the clothes provided for her were too big, and she had bags under her eyes from yet another sleepless night. She resented the hell out of the fact that he looked so damn good while she resembled an escapee from rehab.

  “I’m glad you’re up,” he said, lifting his gaze from his computer. “I have something for you.” He picked up a file from the seat next to him and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “We’re getting ready to land on Oahu, and I want you to understand why you have to continue with me to DC.”

  She dropped the file and turned to a starboard window. Sure enough, Oahu was i
n the distance as they passed Kauai. “Oahu? I’m going home?” Her heart surged with joy.

  “No. We’re just refueling here, then continuing to DC.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “But surely I can stay—”

  He picked up the discarded file and pressed it into her hand again. “No. We’re going to DC. That’s a subpoena. I’m calling you to testify for the prosecution in the case of the United States of America vs. Andrew Stevens.”

  CURT FELT A slight stab of guilt but shoved it aside. He had a job to do.

  “I—I—don’t believe you. You’re supposed to be my hero, the man who flew halfway around the world to rescue me… My blindfold dropped, and I see the most handsome face I’ve ever seen in my life, and it’s you, with a subpoena.”

  He ignored the jolt of pleasure her compliment caused. “I’m no one’s hero, Mara. I’ve never been accused of being anything but a shark.”

  “Really? Maybe you should hire a new publicist!”

  He couldn’t help it, he laughed. She had a gift for making him laugh while insulting him.

  “Why the hell would I testify against my uncle?” The hostility in her voice revealed a fire she’d shown only fleetingly earlier, and he was relieved she’d turned angry. An angry Mara would be far easier to deal with than the wounded sprite. He could be his usual, ruthless self without qualm.

  “You’ll testify because you’ve been subpoenaed.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I want to know why you think I can help your case. I haven’t even seen my uncle since he visited me in Egypt a year and a half ago. I don’t know a damn thing about influence peddling.”

  “You work with Raptor operatives, and you dated one for five months.” Five months, two weeks, and three days, according to his information, but it tended to creep people out when he spoke in such precise terms.

  “So I dated Evan. That doesn’t mean I know anything about my uncle’s work for Raptor.”