by Rachel Grant
And revelations.
She dropped the plastic bag filled with clothes purchased somewhere in Texas on the table and flopped onto the bed.
“Sorry there’s only the one bed,” Curt said as he unbuttoned his shirt. “But I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
Mara was exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but the last thing she expected to feel was a hint of anticipation as he peeled off his shirt. Her toes curled as each button revealed another patch of firm muscle. It was criminal how sexy this man was and shameful how titillated she was under the circumstances.
He caught her gaze. His eyes darkened, nostrils flared, and his hands slowed.
The air thickened. She took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into her lungs. “I’m so tired, I don’t care,” she lied, then darted into the tiny bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.
Her heart beat rapidly as she fought urges she could not, would not, give in to. After minutes of deep breathing, she found her composure and left the safety of the bathroom.
Curt was stretched out on the bed, all lights but the dim nightstand bulb extinguished. He rose and passed her, toothbrush in hand. She slid under the covers on the far side of the bed, presenting her back to the now empty room. A few minutes later, he joined her. The nightstand light went out with a click, and he slid under the covers, the old bed drooping under his greater weight.
She slid toward him. Really, it was gravity’s fault.
She didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the man beside her. From his breathing, she could tell he was battling the same preposterous desires.
Minutes passed. The ticking of the old clock did nothing to ease the tension. Instead the sound reminded her of the passing of time, and suddenly she felt like she was hurtling toward DC.
She’d been telling herself she’d be safe in DC, but now she questioned that assumption. The fear Robert Beck would inflict smallpox on an unsuspecting community merely for financial gain made her pain at Curt’s assertion she hadn’t really earned her spot at Stanford seem selfish and petty.
These thoughts twisted in her mind, and her anxiety intensified. It didn’t help that the blankets were thin and the night cold.
She turned to face the man who had saved her life and torn her world apart. The neon motel sign glowed behind the closed curtain, allowing enough light to discern his open eyes. “Go to sleep, Mara.”
“I’m cold.”
He let out a sigh and pulled her against him. She twisted so her back spooned against his front. Warmth seeped from his body to hers. His breath caressed her neck as his arms held her in a tight grip, and heat spread from her scalp to her feet. Curt’s arms represented safety. Something she’d been short on for far too long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MARA WOKE WITH a jolt. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtain. A glance at the clock revealed she’d slept for six hours. The bed next to her was empty, but the sound of the shower told her Curt hadn’t abandoned her in this remote Oklahoma town.
The direction of her thoughts startled her. She had no reason to believe he would abandon her like her team had, but what would happen after she testified? Would she face the legal equivalent of wham, bam, thank you, ma’am? Her government would no longer need her, but what about Curt? Had he meant his flirtatious joke yesterday?
How would she feel about him if he succeeded in sending Uncle Andrew to prison?
The shower stopped. A quick glance around the room showed he’d taken all his belongings—including their cash, cell phone, and car keys, into the bathroom with him.
He didn’t trust her.
But had she ever given him reason to?
A minute later, the door opened and he appeared, wearing a towel around his hips and shaving cream on his face. Her heart gave a lurch at the casual intimacy. At some point on this ridiculous journey, the attraction had transformed from simple lust to something deeper.
No. She was just following her usual pattern—as he’d so deftly pointed out last night—and was idolizing him. There was nothing more to it than that. She cleared her throat. “I remembered something. About Egypt.”
He took a startled step forward, and the towel around his hips slipped an inch. “What?”
Did he have to have such amazing abs? She lifted her gaze, focused on the white cream on his jaw, and tried not to think about how good it would feel to have his hard body against hers. “Because he was no longer VP when my uncle came to Egypt, there wasn’t a press corps. No photographers. No fanfare.”
Curt nodded. “I knew that.”
“The photos, the ones that ended up on the AP wire, were taken with my camera.”
“I knew that too.”
“That evening, after the official photo op, we had dinner in the local village. It was a community affair—the village elders, a gift exchange. The usual. I don’t speak the language and, having been through a number of those, was bored. But I had my camera with me. So I took pictures. Lots of them.”
His hazel eyes widened. He took a step toward her, then stopped and shook his head. “Who attended the dinner?”
“Uncle Andrew, his Secret Service detail, Robert Beck, Evan, Roddy, Jeannie, the rest of the JPAC team, a few dozen villagers.”
“He still had Secret Service protection?”
“Former vice presidents may maintain protection for six months.” She frowned, feeling certain he was asking questions he knew the answers to. Again.
“How many agents were there?”
“Is this a real question, or a test?”
“Real,” he said.
She tried to remember. One agent, handsome, dedicated, and competent, had always caught her eye. Had he been there? No. None of the regulars had been present. “I’m not sure, but I think there were only two.”
“And you have pictures of all of this?”
“Yes.”
“Of your uncle at a dinner with locals. In Egypt.”
“Yes. Dozens of them.” She could tell the idea excited him.
“Where are they?”
“The photos are on my computer.”
The flash of glee in his eyes disappeared so quickly she could almost believe she’d imagined it. He pivoted into the bathroom.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything, but I thought you should know.”
He applied the razor to his cheeks. “It’s worth a try. I’ll call Palea.”
Done shaving, he leaned over the faucet and splashed water on his cheeks. The motion made the towel slip again, which he caught, just in time. Holding the towel up with one hand, he grabbed a washcloth and wiped his face dry.
Her belly churned even as she watched Curt with avid interest. If her uncle hadn’t done anything wrong, then she hadn’t just betrayed him to impress Curt. If her uncle was truly innocent, then he had nothing to fear from random snapshots.
Maybe now, when Curt was pleased with her, was the time to tell him about tossing his name out as a potential envoy when her interrogator kept insisting no one short of a sitting cabinet member—preferably the secretary of state—would do.
They’d wanted someone with power, with clout, and with the ear of the president. Not someone formerly powerful. Not an ambassador or a humanitarian. They’d wanted a representative of the president.
The demands were impossible, and she’d countered with Curt’s name as merely another avenue to pursue. The TIME issue must have come out within days of her offhand suggestion, elevating Curt’s visibility and upping his appeal.
But she’d known, even then, even when she never thought they’d choose him, that his selection would mess with her uncle’s prosecution.
No. Now wasn’t the time. That revelation could happen when they parted ways. Or never.
She took a deep breath. “What comes next? Breakfast, then drive to DC?”
“Palea wants you to text Jeannie. He thinks she might answer you.”
She jumped to her feet. “You’re just telling me this now?”
; “I talked to him right before I got in the shower. You were sound asleep. We’ll figure out what you should say on the road.”
Anxiety twisted her belly. She was worried and heartsick for Jeannie. Leaning against the open bathroom door, she met his gaze in the mirror. “Do you think she knows about Eric?”
“I don’t know. But Palea thinks she’s alive.”
Water droplets speckled the smooth skin of Curt’s muscular back. Slowly, she raised a hand. With gazes locked in the mirror, he said nothing as she traced a pattern on his skin, connecting the dots. His mouth tightened, but he didn’t stop her. Emboldened, she stepped closer. With her hand flat against the warm skin of his shoulder, she leaned against him and pressed her cheek against his spine, then closed her eyes and breathed in the clean scent of soap, shampoo, and skin.
She felt the rise of his back and heard the accompanying deep, guttural breath. Slowly, he twisted, and she leaned back, expecting him to step away. But his arms surrounded her, halting her retreat. She snuggled against his chest.
His mouth pressed against her hair. “You’ll be protected in DC. We’ve got safe houses there and FBI agents I know and trust.”
“I’ll be a prisoner. Again.”
He tilted her face up and cupped her cheeks in his palms. She thought he was going to kiss her, but at the last moment, his lips landed on the healing cut on her forehead.
The words she wanted to say clogged in her throat. Making love with him would get him disbarred, and his work was his life. She needed to stop wanting the impossible.
With regret, she stepped back and pulled the door closed as she left the bathroom. “Hurry up,” she said through the panel. “Just once I want to eat a decent breakfast without being in a rush.”
CURT TOOK THE first driving shift of the day and chuckled when Mara vehemently expressed her disappointment in his choice of breakfast—a fast-food restaurant with a drive-through window.
“All I’ve eaten since I met you is junk! I feel fat and bloated and want to go for a run.”
“You could stand to gain a few pounds,” he said, noting that she did look like she’d gained weight since Monday in North Korea. Her cheeks held a healthier glow, and the fatty food they’d subsisted on had more bulk than the fare she’d been given in North Korea.
“Yeah, but I don’t need greasy-food pounds. When we get to DC, I’m going to eat nothing but fresh salad for days…” She let out a soft sigh. “I had hardly any produce in North Korea. The sad part is, I probably ate better than the average citizen.”
“I’ll take you to my favorite Italian—” He stopped, realizing he’d been about to make a promise he could not fulfill. When they got to DC, this would end. She would be placed in a safe house until it was time for her to testify, and he would convict her uncle.
She brushed crumbs off her lap and tucked away the empty food bags, ignoring his aborted offer. From the center console she plucked the brand new prepaid cell phone they’d picked up before they’d purchased breakfast. “Okay. Time to text Jeannie. I need to say something so she knows it’s me.” She paused, staring at the phone. “How about ‘Jeannie, you changed my field notes in NK. Please call me. I can help you.’”
“Sounds good. Send it.”
“Is the FBI hoping to trace Jeannie through her response to me?”
“They tried to get a lock on her number yesterday. Her phone is off. Right now the goal is information, to confirm she’s alive and to convince her to head to the nearest FBI office.”
Mara quickly typed out the message and hit Send. He wished he could check the text, but he needed to watch the road. Besides, he trusted her. Didn’t he?
After everything she’d been through, the jury was going to love her. Hell, they might even forgive her uncle for the Stanford influence peddling, because it had helped her when she was young and shattered.
Even Curt was considering forgiving the son of a bitch for that one.
He glanced at his watch. They probably already loved her. If the selection process had gone smoothly, the jury had been selected and opening arguments would commence after the lunch recess, and he still had a thousand miles left on this nine-thousand, five-hundred-mile journey from hell.
In the seat next to him, Mara gripped the phone as if her life depended on it.
“Turn off the phone and pull out the battery. We’ll check at random intervals for a response.”
She sighed heavily. “I’m terrified something has happened to her.”
“Save your sympathy for someone who deserves it. She took a bribe and sold you out.”
“Her brother is dead.”
“And it’s her fault he was even involved.”
“Everything is black-and-white with you, isn’t it?”
“When it comes to prosecuting, guilt is guilt.”
“But you plea bargain.”
“Not all crimes are created equal. A shoplifter doesn’t deserve the same penalty as an abusive husband. And a shoplifter who can help me convict the wife abuser can cut a deal.”
“But you don’t handle those kinds of cases.”
“I can’t. I oversee three hundred and fifty assistant US attorneys. I rarely try cases at all anymore.”
She shot him a speculative look. “You said the courtroom was your happy place, and yet you’ve made no secret of the fact you want to be the next attorney general. Why do you want a job that removes you from the courtroom?”
He clamped his jaw shut and focused on the road.
“Oh no you don’t, Dominick. You know all my secrets. Time to spill yours.”
“I’m not the one under investigation here.”
“So it’s tit for tat.”
“That game ended last night.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s complicated.”
“You don’t let anyone inside, do you?”
He cut a glance sideways. “Other women have aired that complaint, but you’re the first one I haven’t slept with first.”
“You’re probably a crappy boyfriend.”
“The worst. I’m neglectful and obsessed with my work.”
She laughed. “Don’t put that in your eHarmony profile.”
“I’m not looking, Mara. I like my life fine the way it is.”
“God. You probably get great play from that line—the ultimate challenge. You’re the George Clooney of the legal profession.”
He laughed. “I don’t suffer for lack of attention, but it’s not a line. I’m always upfront.”
“I shudder to think of how many women have fallen at your feet.”
He gave in to dangerous curiosity and asked, “Are you one of them?”
“Not anymore. I’ve sworn off superhero lawyers. They don’t put out. A woman has needs.”
He laughed again. She ought to come with a warning label. He’d nearly jumped in the sack with her in a sleazy motel in Phoenix, and honestly could have made the same mistake in Oklahoma.
Before he’d boarded the jet in DC to retrieve her, he’d arrogantly believed he understood her. But he’d been utterly and completely wrong. Whether she was marching out to face a firing squad, diving into the ocean to wash rivers of blood from her skin, or revealing she’d been ill with smallpox, she rose to every challenge in a way he’d never imagined the Mara Garrett he’d read about could.
Every moment they were together made him more determined to figure her out, to reconcile the woman she was with the woman he’d believed her to be. But that was a hazardous road, filled with perils he’d sworn off years ago.
“If you won’t tell me why you want to be attorney general, I’m going to guess.”
“Let it go, Mara.”
“No way. You’ve given me something to puzzle over besides Jeannie. Let’s see… You are the great-grandson of a former US attorney general who died in disgrace and ruin after he was caught in a sex scandal with a ferret, and your lifelong goal is to restore the family name.”
He snorted. “Um, no.”
Oh Lord, she really was going to keep guessing, needling him until he divulged his past.
“—and his name was General, and he—”
He broke. “I was arrested when I was sixteen.”
She gasped, and her jaw snapped closed.
He noted the upcoming mile marker and wondered how far they’d drive in blissful silence.
She lifted her feet from the floor and twisted sideways in the seat. “No. Way. You? Oh my. Nope. I don’t think I would have guessed that.”
He frowned. Not even a tenth of a mile.
“So. What happened?”
He shouldn’t have said anything. She’d have tired of guessing after an hour or two.
“C’mon. Spill. You don’t get to drop a bombshell like that, then clam up.”
She was either the world’s greatest interrogator, or she’d done more damage to his patience than he’d guessed. He’d like to tell himself it was the former but knew it was the latter.
“I was in a fight. At school.” He glanced sideways at her, taking in her bare feet propped on the seat, followed the line of her delicate ankles to the full breasts pressed against her knees, and upward to those mischievous blue eyes. A perfect package he wanted to possess but couldn’t, and a reminder of the pain of being sixteen and in love. “Over a girl.”
She raised a pale blond eyebrow.
“The guy pulled a knife on me.” He returned his focus to the road ahead. “I, um, won. He went to the hospital—”
“Not from the knife—”
“No. I disarmed him. It was a fair fight.” Tightness gripped his shoulders, as it always did when remembering the rage and violence he’d unleashed. “We were students at a private prep school. When he pulled the knife, he announced he could kill me without repercussions because I was a scholarship nobody while his dad was a senator.”