Hell on the Heart

by Nancy Brophy

  Two steps forward, he extended his hand across the stainless steel table. “Agent John Stillwater. I’m a federal agent, but you were right, I’m not FBI. How’d you know?”

  Her height increased by inches. She’d been working barefoot? He looked at feet now encased in wedge-sandals. Slowly, he dragged his gaze over her body, letting her feel his presence, not just as a federal agent but as a man. Her eyes widened briefly before she thrust her chin out and reached across the table to shake his hand.

  A quiver she wasn’t quite able to suppress ran down her spine. Usually that response from a woman gave him a green light for a physical encounter. Maybe, even sex, but the glimmer of fear that flickered in her eyes made him cautious in his assessment.

  As her small hand gripped his large one, she pumped up and down three times, then snatched back her hand before finally answering his question.

  “FBI guys look like lawyers who work out enough to pass the physical. You and your buddy look like mercenaries who’ve been slapped with a coat of fresh paint to look respectable.”

  Chapter Six

  Cezi watched the man. That low rumble of a voice that came from deep within him didn’t suppress the power it welded. If he yelled, glass would rattle.

  Had he been related to her, she’d have given him a solid piece of her mind to keep the upper hand. And despite his status as a fed, might have anyway, had the appreciative gleam in his eyes not stopped her. He liked what she said about the agents looking like mercenaries.

  “What agency?” If she lifted his wallet, would his answer match his ID?

  “FBPA, Federal Bureau for the Protection of Americans.”

  Okay, she’d never heard of it, but not wanting to appear unknowledgeable, said nothing.

  “The sheriff’s office called you a gypsy.” He shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “I thought the politically correct name was Roma or Romani. Which do you prefer?”

  Oh, yes. Let’s do go for political correctness, here.

  “Do you like Native American, Indian or American better? Every label is just a handle so someone else can make assumptions about you. I am gypsy. I am also Roma. I am also an American.”

  His face indicated his comprehension, which pleased her. “When Poppy immigrated he took the last name of Romney to honor our heritage, but most people use the word gypsy. Neither offends me.”

  His roadmap of a face was lined with evidence of a life lived in the trenches. His scars screamed serious burns and she bet his body was littered with wounds from other near-fatal encounters. Pride was not his Achilles heel. A proud man would have undergone operation after operation to bring his skin back to normal. No, his face had dedication stamped on it like an indelible tattoo. Probably left the hospital early just so he could return to work.

  His ancient black eyes saved him from a look of perpetual sadness by the contrasting mesh of deep smile lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks and chin were smooth at a time when most men would have shown a late afternoon shadow.

  She boasted both the black eyes and hair but not the control. Her curly mess ran amuck while his stayed tightly in line as if on a military formation. But it was their skin that defined the difference in heritage. His glowed a deep rich copper while hers was pale ivory.

  Tall, close to six feet, with broad shoulders. He was fluid and ferocious as a linebacker. One with six-pack abs and rope-like muscles delineated in his arms and legs.

  His voice wasn’t smooth and manipulative like Cain’s. Her impression of him, despite the lie of his career, was one of a straight shooter. She’d watched his toe tap during the argument with her father. No, this was a guy on a mission with very little time to spare on the niceties.

  His eyes crinkled and his lips partially curled. Did he think she was funny? Her heart fluttered. How silly. One minute she was tired, grumpy and cross. And the next she hoped to make him laugh. Squinting her eyes she inhaled trying to catch a whiff of his essence.

  His eyebrows shot skyward. “Did you just sniff me?”

  Heat flushed her cheeks as she turned her head to focus on anything but him.

  “What? Did I fail to put on deodorant today?”

  “You smell fine.” Better than fine actually. He smelled earthy, but fresh, like wild chanterelle mushrooms, pine needles and a crisp, tart Granny Smith apple.

  He stepped closer. Any fantasies Cezi harbored disappeared like smoke in the wind. No matter how he smelled, he was an outsider or in the vernacular of the gypsies, a gajikané.

  “Be sure,” he said in a rough whisper. “I wouldn’t want you to make a mistake.”

  To look him in the eye demanded she raise her chin. To do anything less would give him a victory he hadn’t earned. When he was within inches of her body, looming over her, his amused look vanished. In its place was the face of a man used to being in charge and definitely used to getting his own way - a man who expected her to conform.

  He’d start by demanding information from her. Well, guess again, buster. She wasn’t easy. He’d have to earn anything she told him.

  He opened his mouth, then frowned and closed it again. She didn’t have all day. “Do you have a question?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his frowned deepened. “Your skin’s like buttermilk. How can a Texan have such creamy skin?”

  It was Cezi’s turn to frown. One, she never thought of herself as a Texan. She was a gypsy who happened to live in Texas. Granted she’d never lived anywhere else, but calling oneself a Texan gave one more allegiance to a location. One’s loyalty was to people not places. And two, what kind of investigation was this? How was he going to get any information by asking irrelevant questions?

  “Not a sun worshiper.”

  “No wrinkles when you get older.”

  An intelligent response eluded her.

  “You saw the limo?” When she nodded, he asked, “and the men connected with it?”

  “Uh-huh”

  “If I bring in a sketch artist, do you think you could describe them?”

  “I could.” She paused for effect. “Or it might be faster if I sent photos to your artist. That way he’d get the details correct.”

  She had the distinct feeling that Agent Stillwater was seldom at a loss for words. Delight surged through her when it took him a full minute to ask the obvious question.

  “You have photos?”

  Chapter Seven

  Luray, Virginia

  In the flickering neon light of the bar, Cain McIntosh watched the young girl, noting with satisfaction the alcoholic glaze of her eyes and the slackened features of her young face. Not old enough to have mastered drinking; too innocent to be wary of an attractive man plying her with liquor. But still a female, prepared since birth to snag the biggest checkbook around.

  Her girlfriends had long departed, giving her sly winks of encouragement after nudging her in his direction. Two dances later, she sat firmly ensconced at his table, telling him everything, but her social security number.

  Only because he hadn’t asked.

  Leaning close, he tucked a random lock of hair behind her ear, half-smiling when she shivered. She lifted her lips to his, expecting a kiss, but he drew back while gathering her body closer. Had he not been sitting so close he would have missed the faint scent of her flowery perfume.

  “Come home with me,” he murmured in her ear.

  A smile lit her face. The cornflower-blue eyes and silky blonde hair screamed her Anglo-American heritage. Dark, heavily inked lashes fluttered when she shyly nodded. He chuckled deep in his throat. Just the type he liked, eager to please, easy to train. Not like last-week’s brunette.

  He closed his eyes and hugged the blonde to him so she couldn’t read the flash of anger that surged through him. Women were commodities, each exactly like the last. So why was he unable to shake the brunette from his mind? She’d occupied his thoughts all weekend long.

  Brianna shifted, drawing his attention. “No, sweetheart. I want you to come h
ome with me but not for sex, although I can hardly wait to make love to you. I want you to meet my family. They need to see that I’ve finally met the angel I’ve dreamed about.” He pulled back to study her reaction to his words.

  At her startled stare he stroked a finger across her soft cheek. “I’m rushing you. You probably don’t even believe in love at first sight, but I knew the minute I saw you across the room. Something special about you calls to me.” He clasped her hands, trying to manufacture an urgency that didn’t touch his heart. “If you don’t feel the same, tell me now.”

  A slow blush, evident even in the honky-tonk’s shadowy lighting, crawled up her cheeks. Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes as she returned the pressure of his squeeze.

  “So this is what it’s like to fall in love,” she whispered.

  He touched his forehead to hers. “You are too precious. I can’t believe I’ve finally found you. Let’s get out of here.” He rose and pulled her up with him. Tossing an extra twenty on the table for a tip, he wrapped his arm around her and propelled her toward the door.

  Eli slouched against the driver’s door of the black limo eying an audio system in the store window next door. Cain tugged the girl tighter to his side and slammed the bar door against the wooden structure. The driver jumped, straightening his backbone and plastering his cap on his head as his attention became riveted on Cain and the girl. Cain scowled at the younger man’s look of surprise.

  Eli grinned at the girl, her posture stiffened against Cain’s side. He gave her waist a squeeze of confidence and was delighted when she gazed upward at him with a look of trust in her eyes.

  Eli’s face fell. He was used to women falling all over the slow, sizzling promises in his smile, but he recovered quickly enough.

  “Boss,” Eli mumbled, hurrying to open the rear door of the town car.

  “Eli,” Cain smiled with a joviality he hardly felt, “meet the girl of my dreams. Brianna.”

  The black limo prowled through the urban streets as silently as a panther on patrol. Only a few miles outside the city limits, the car turned into the entrance of a small airstrip.

  “Where do your parents live?” she asked as the car pulled up to the open rear of a private jet.

  “About an hour from here. C’mon.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the tarmac, tugging the girl behind him. She handed him her purse as she rose out of the rear seat.

  Cain steadied her, then reached behind her and tossed the bag into the car before shutting the door.

  “We’re flying? Whose plane is this?”

  “Mine.”

  “They’re loading the car unto the plane?”

  “Of course.” He trundled her toward the stairs. “Watch your step.” Within minutes, he had her buckled in and the door closed. The plane taxied toward the runway.

  “I should call my mom.” She hunted for her purse only to discover it was missing. “Have you seen my purse?”

  “I think it’s in the car, but I wish you’d said something earlier about using the phone. You’ll have to wait until we land. Would your mom want to hear from you at this hour?” He glanced at his watch, surprised to find it wasn’t that late. A couple of hours of charm and boring small talk took its toll. He ran his fingers through his wavy hair.

  “She’d want to hear from me, cause I’m leaving town.” Brianna tried to hide her yawn as she stretched back in the seat.

  “Take a nap. We’ll call when we get there.”

  She’d barely closed her eyes, when he eased out of the seat next to hers and headed toward the bar opting for a straight bourbon in an attempt to get the taste of her out of his mouth.

  Brianna didn’t stir. He nursed the drink, being careful not to over indulge when he still had work to do.

  Three hours later, Cain wrapped his arm around the woman and gently shook her awake. “Drink this.” He held it to her lips and watched while she sipped, then scrunched her mouth in distaste.

  “Eww. What is it?” Her raspy voice sounded hoarse.

  “A little something to pick you up. You were sleeping pretty hard. Drink a little more.”

  Obediently, she downed the glass. “Where’s my watch? What time is it?”

  “I removed it while you slept so you didn’t scratch yourself. Eli is bringing all our stuff, but the van’s waiting. If you want to brush your hair or wash your face, there’s stuff in the bathroom.”

  He admired the curve of her ass in her tight jeans as she swayed an unsteady path toward the bathroom. The drugs would kick in almost immediately. By the time she met the “family” her resistance would be minimal. They couldn’t afford to damage the merchandise if she decided to fight.

  # # #

  Armadillo Creek, Texas

  “How’d you get photos?” John followed Czigany to the metal file cabinet in the rear of the lab.

  She opened a lower drawer and withdrew a thick accordion file. Judging by the heavy thud it made when she plopped it on the stainless steel table, she had been thorough in her collection of information. John steeled his face, trying not to look too excited.

  “Button-hole camera.” She unwound the string that held the reddish file closed and slid her hand inside. He wanted her to empty the entire contents on the table, but had to satisfy himself with the slender manila file she withdrew.

  “I was doing surveillance on a cheating husband. This guy, right here,” she pointed a long slender finger with ruby polish to an eight-by-ten photo at the top of a neat stack, “sat at the next table pouring beer into an artificial plant. I noticed him when the beer splashed on my leg.”

  A photo of the sandy-hair man reminded him of a young Brad Pitt. The girl with him thought so, too, judging by her adoring gaze. “Cain?”

  “No.”

  He purposely crowded her, making sure his shoulders and hips touched hers as they leaned over the lab table. She tapped the girl’s photo and inched away from his body. “This is Ellie, the girl who was murdered.”

  He pushed the picture toward her and closed the distance between them, wanting to keep her off-guard, uncomfortable. “You’re outside. Where is this?”

  Her nostrils flared slightly. She sniffed him again. He resisted raising his arm to check for body odor. His plan to keep her on-edge backfired since he felt like a specimen under her lens as she checked him out. Many women wanted to touch his face, but unless they were naked at the time, he refused. He wondered if she’d ask.

  As though aware he covertly watched her, she re-focused her attention on the table. “Cottonwood Inn. I’d finished my job and was headed toward the surveillance van when the limo caught my eye.”

  “Are these digital? Can we email them to my team?”

  Mechanically, she bobbed her head, but he noticed the tension in the way she held her shoulders rigid, her lips pressed together in a tight line. What was she hiding?

  “Do you want me to send the fingerprints and the copy of Cain McIntosh’s,” she pointed to another photo, “driver’s license and credit cards?”

  “You have that?” He reached in his pocket for his phone. “I’m calling the team in. They can be here in the morning.”

  Chapter Eight

  This was what she’d wanted. Dreamed of, actually. To be part of a real investigation. To have access to data she wouldn’t normally have. To solve problems that made a difference. Cheating spouses were repetitive and boring. Without thinking, she clutched his forearm, ignoring the steel band of muscles that bunched underneath his jacket. “Will you let me help?”

  He froze, the phone call suspended as he looked at her hand. Immediately she drew back.

  “No.”

  He’d used her. She’d spilled her guts and now he brushed her aside. This wasn’t right. “You expect me to blurt out everything I know, but you can’t let me be of assistance? I have skills. How do you think I got this stuff? You haven’t even seen the photos of the limo, yet.”

  He tilted his head and studied her like a big dog approached an ou
t-of-control kitten hissing and spitting, unsure how to proceed. Something about that gesture made her grit her teeth. Why did men always think they knew better, simply because they were bigger.

  “You,” she stepped forward and poked her finger in his chest, “expect to ride in like the hero and scoop up information I risked my life getting.” Maybe a slight exaggeration, but he didn’t need to know that. “And then gallop off to save the day for untold women everywhere. Except I’m the one who’s been threatened.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she cursed her tongue. Just like her cousins, he growled when he wanted answers. “Who threatened you?” He gripped her hand to cease her finger poking. She hadn’t realized the air conditioner had chilled her skin until his warmth seeped into her.

  “The guy with the limo.” She struggled to wrench her hand from his, but he didn’t release it.

  “Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.” He snagged her second hand and forced both behind her, backing her until the stainless-steel table and the ungiving wall of his body hemmed her in. “Calm. Down.”

  “How will that help?”

  “Look at me.” He spoke quietly into her ear. Cezi flung her head backwards prepared at least verbally for round two. It was his eyes, she decided. She frequently thought her own looked like the shiny black buttons sewn onto stuffed animals. But his… His were endless deep pools that sucked one closer and held them in thrall. Hypnotic…. Compelling….

  She failed to suppress a shudder.

  He grinned. Not a little amused smile to taunt her. No, a Cheshire cat grin. And she’d been right. All those little lines radiating from his eyes crinkled. Smiling changed his face, softened it. The Billy Badass look he’d perfected faded and left in its place, a man she’d like to know better. Except he was only passing through Dillo Creek and he was gajikané. And that wasn’t the worst of it. An outsider might be tolerated, a Federal agent would never be.