by Tawny Weber
She shuddered at the terrifying image.
As quiet as a mouse under the nose of a starving cat, she packed her bags and gathered her things.
Then, after one last, desperate look at the man sleeping in a fog of sexual satisfaction, she ran away.
* * *
HUNTER WOKE SLOWLY, irritated before he’d even opened his eyes but not sure why.
He’d fallen into a sexual stupor, exhausted and satisfied, hours ago. Now? He forced his eyes open to a squint and gauged the light coming through the window. It was morning. Time to get up.
Alone, he realized as he rolled to the edge of the bed, looking for Marni’s warm, soft body.
Suddenly alert, he shifted, looked around. Where the hell was she? The sliding bathroom door was open, and the rest of the room took less than a second to peruse.
One thing he’d learned from pre-awesome sex with Marni was that she wasn’t a morning person. She didn’t slide quietly and happily from bed. Nope, she arose in a grumpy state of clumsiness, banging into walls on her way to her shower.
So where was she, and why wasn’t she here, sharing that endearing grumpiness?
He showered and threw clothes on in record time, determined to find Marni and haul her back into bed. He didn’t care how much she needed her caffeine. He wanted morning wake-up sex, dammit. And he wanted her, there, where he could see her, touch her. Be with her.
As irritated with himself for that deep, intense need as he was with her because her absence forced him to admit it, he yanked open the door.
And stopped short.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
All of a sudden, Hunter realized the train was still.
He’d been so obsessed with finding Marni, with getting her back in bed, it’d totally escaped him that they’d already arrived in San Francisco.
“I’m here to make sure you didn’t screw up the case,” Murray said, his smile bland as he stepped around Hunter and into the cabin.
Hunter would have shot back a pithy remark about never screwing up anything. But there was something in his boss’s stance and expression. A taunting sort of triumph that said the guy thought he had something embarrassing to gloat about.
Frowning, Hunter cast a fast look around the cabin, making sure Marni had all her stuff tucked away as usual. He relaxed. Other than her scent, there wasn’t much sign of her.
“Screw up? Based on what? You weren’t happy with the amount of info I got for you this week? Something wrong with me building enough evidence against Burns to add five more criminal counts to the charges? Including suspicion of murder.”
That last one had been a major triumph, as far as Hunter was concerned. He’d dug deep enough into the email files Beverly had provided to find three instances he suspected were execution orders. He’d forwarded the information and his suspicions to the New York office for his guys to track down. He’d heard just last night that they’d found enough to tie Burns to one, possibly two of those murders. Hauling the guy up on murder one without bringing the wife he’d tried to blow to smithereens into it? Success in Hunter’s book.
He waited to hear what it was in Murray’s, though.
“You spent the entire trip here in this cushy berth?” the deputy director asked, twirling his finger to indicate the cabin.
Hunter leaned one shoulder against the wall and shrugged the other.
“I thought participation in the events was mandatory,” Murray continued, his smirk a reminder of why he’d booked Hunter on this particular train in the first place.
“I think we’ve established that I’m okay ignoring rules that get in my way,” Hunter shot back.
Murray’s smile was replaced by an irritated grimace. Then, saying the words as if they were painful, he told Hunter, “Looks like your refusal to follow directions paid off in this case.”
“Because you didn’t get any photos of me looking like an idiot?”
“Because I got a tip that there was a reporter on the train. She’s been asking questions about the Burns case, digging around. I don’t want this story broken on the cover of some magazine.”
Hunter grimaced. Damn. Unlike Murray, he didn’t begrudge them doing their job. Hell, there were a lot of times their job made his a lot easier. Still, this case was as sensitive as a teenage girl with self-esteem issues. The extra charges could fall apart over the slightest detail. The last thing the FBI needed was some half-assed article on the case to put a screw to the works.
“Who’s the reporter?” Everyone he’d met had been using their mystery event pseudonym, so he probably wouldn’t recognize the name. Still, it was good info to have.
“Marni Clare,” Murray said, consulting his pocket computer. “Writes for Optimum magazine.”
What the fuck?
Hunter’s expression didn’t change.
His body didn’t shift from its casual stance leaning against the wall.
But his mind?
Well, it took a good ten seconds to get past the vicious swearing for his mind to engage.
Marni was a reporter?
A freaking reporter?
He mentally put his fist through the wall, cussed up a storm and heaved a chair out the window. In his mind, he threw a fit so ugly, hardened criminals would hide.
But, thanks to years of practice, on the surface he kept it casual.
He cast another glance around the cabin. This time he noticed that Marni hadn’t tucked her bags away, keeping things neat. She’d tidied herself right out of there. Her suitcase wasn’t under the bed. Her lotions weren’t on the tiny bathroom shelf.
“Nope. Didn’t meet anyone claiming to be a reporter, or anybody asking questions about the case,” he said honestly. His brain raced, reviewing the week. She’d never mentioned the case, or even hinted that she knew anything about the Burns case. Either Marni was a hell of a lot better reporter—or actor—than any he’d ever met, or she had no clue that he was FBI.
“Figured you kept it under control, but I had to check. Wanna get coffee before the official debarking time?” Murray suggested, glancing at his watch.
A vat of it might kick-start his brain, pushing him past this mental stuttering shock that the woman he’d been falling for had used the hell out of him.
Hunter still kept his expression neutral, but his gut churned with fury.
He’d love nothing more than to get coffee and find his erstwhile roommate for a few words, except he was sure she was long gone. Which meant she wouldn’t be outing him as an idiot to his boss.
Still, discretion and valor and all that crap deemed it smarter to just get the hell out of here.
“Let’s just go. Meals in this place are a circus, complete with sideshows. We’ll check into the hotel and load up on room service.” To emphasize his choice, Hunter grabbed what little he’d unpacked and started tossing things into his suitcase.
His eyes fell on the bed, still rumpled from his and Marni’s last mattress tussle. The image of her face, glowing and tight with passion, filled his mind.
Watching her fly over the edge, listening to her laughter, seeing her curled up asleep next to him... He’d finally understood how a guy could put his career in second place for a woman.
Damn, he was an idiot.
Murray poked around the cabin. Cozy when it’d just been Hunter and Marni, with two large men—one of whom was bristling with barely controlled fury—the space was more fitting to a dollhouse.
“Yeah, let’s go. I’ll bet you’re tired of this cramped space, right? Done with the whole train experience?”
Packed bag, briefcase and laptop in hand, Hunter offered a bland smile.
“You have no idea how done I am with this entire affair.”
10
SHE SHOULD BE EXCITED and filled with anticipation. She was about to make one of her dreams come true. Meet her hero, the woman who’d inspired her every career decision since the second grade.
Marni stared at the looming town house, as
elegant as the rest on the steep San Francisco residential street. But the flowers flanking the steps were a blurry yellow, difficult to focus on through eyes that kept tearing up.
She’d done the right thing—for both of them—by leaving Hunter.
She’d done the right thing—for her career—by tracking down the information from that hotel receipt, pulling every string she had to find out who had been in that hotel suite in the week after the explosion. While she hadn’t been able to get a photo or name confirmation, she had gotten a physical description from a room service waiter describing the temperamental redhead who’d thrown her chocolate cake at the back of the head of the guy who, as the waiter put it, looked like an extra from Men in Black. Marni was sure that redhead was Beverly Burns, and that the cake-splattered suit-wearer was FBI or someone from WitSec.
She’d spent two days writing an edgy, hard-hitting article that would break open not only the case against Charles Burns but also point to the games the FBI played.
She should be thrilled.
Instead, she felt ill.
She should be exploring the excellent San Francisco shopping venues to choose a perfect edgy reporter wardrobe.
Instead, she was wearing her oldest jeans and a T-shirt as black as her mood.
Telling herself to focus on now, instead of crying over then, Marni wiped a nervous hand on her hip. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps, raised her hand and knocked on the bright red door.
“Yes?” the woman answering greeted. Her hair was as blond as sunshine, the creases around her eyes deep and cheerful. Slender and stylish, she looked at least ten years younger than the forty-eight Marni knew her to be.
“Robin Clare?”
“That’s me. You selling something? I hope it’s cookies. I’m partial to those chocolate mint ones.”
Marni answered with a smile and a shake of her head.
“Actually, I don’t have anything to sell. I’m here to meet you.”
“You a reporter?”
How cool was it to be recognized as a reporter by one of the best in the business? A tiny thrill tickled its way up Marni’s spine, but was chased back down by a trickle of doubt. Because she wasn’t sure she had what it took to deserve that recognition. Not yet. And for the first time since she was eight years old and had started the Gradeschool Gazette, she wasn’t positive she had what it’d take to be a great reporter.
“I’m Marni Clare,” she answered slowly, her words as hesitant as her confidence in a warm reception. “Melinda and Jason’s daughter.”
Robin’s eyes, the same blue as her own, rounded for a second before narrowing to inspect Marni.
“Are you, now? Did something happen? Last I checked, everyone was healthy, hearty and whole.”
“You check on the family?” Marni asked in surprise. Didn’t estranged mean you locked that part of your life in a dark closet somewhere, pretending it didn’t exist except in middle-of-the-night-insomnia-induced memories?
“Course I do. Better to know all the facts, even when you don’t plan to use them.” After letting Marni mull that for a second, Robin waved her inside. “But I can see from your face they’re all fine. So you must have some other reason for crossing the country to show up on my doorstep. C’mon in. We’ll talk.”
Marni followed her aunt into the chic condo. Red walls, white trim, stark black leather furnishings all made a vivid backdrop for... Marni squinted to be sure. Was that art? Tall and slender, short and squat, black metal sculptures dotted the room like scary shadows waiting to jump out and yell boo.
“Be comfortable,” Robin suggested, pointing at a thin leather bench and taking the one opposite. Marni perched on the surprisingly comfortable seat, still looking around.
“This is an incredible space,” she finally said. Incredibly scary, but that little clarification was probably too rude to mention during their first meeting.
Robin looked around with an assessing and indulgent eye before nodding. “It is incredible, isn’t it. I’m about finished with it, though. I’ve got my eye on a Persian theme next. A lot of carpets, silk pillows, gilt and tassels.”
“I beg your pardon?” Marni shook her head, confused.
“I get bored. Oh, the constant travel helps, but it’s not enough. I used to move every two years. But staying in one condo is financially smart given the real estate fluctuations. Instead, I redecorate. Well, not personally. I couldn’t tell a Chippendale from a chifforobe. I hire a decorator. They send me a catalog each year, I choose a theme and by the time I get back from my next story, the entire place is redone. Right down to the sheets.” She wrapped her hands around her upraised knee and gave a satisfied nod.
Marni could only stare.
It wasn’t as though she came from an unsophisticated nowhereville. She lived in Manhattan, for crying out loud. But she’d never heard of anything like that. It was so, well, indulgent. So impersonal. She frowned, looking around again, wondering if it felt as empty as it seemed.
Marni’s nails dug into the tender flesh of her palms as she tried to pull her emotions back where they belonged. This was crazy. She shouldn’t be second-guessing her choices because her aunt had a bizarre decorating style. She should be excited, craving the same privileged life. That was her goal. Freedom, fame, the ability to create a life that was perfectly suited to her own particular tastes.
Still, all of a sudden, she missed her mother’s china cabinet. The one that had been in the family since before Marni was born. The one her mother wished, time after time, that she could get rid of because it was so huge and ugly, but wouldn’t for sentimental reasons.
“So. You’d be my niece. Marni, right? That makes you the fifth girl from the oldest.”
Marni started to correct her since she was actually the eighth oldest of her thirteen cousins. Then she did a quick count of just the girls. Devon, Meghan, Sammi, Carrie, her. Then Kyra, Lannie, Sheila and Marla.
Wow.
“You really do keep up with the family, don’t you?” Was that because she missed it? Her heart a little heavy at the idea of her aunt being so shut out, Marni almost reached over to give the woman’s arm a pat.
But Robin’s shrug didn’t seem sad. More...disinterested.
“You’re not here to borrow money, are you?” Robin asked, her affable smile fading a little. “I’ve got a strong policy against lending.”
Borrow money? Horrified, Marni opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. Was that better or worse than asking for career advice?
Before she could decide, Robin wrinkled her nose and added, “But family is family, so I might be willing to reconsider once I hear your story.”
Holding out one hand in dismayed denial, Marni shook her head so fast, she whipped herself in the face with her own hair. “Oh, no. Thank you, but no, I’m really not here for money.”
Robin arched one perfectly groomed brow, leaned back on her own bench and waited.
“I’m here to ask about your life,” Marni blurted inelegantly. She winced, pushed her hand through her hair. “I mean, I want to know more about you. About your career. What it’s like, leaving the demands and expectations and, well, the burden of everything you grew up with and chasing your dream?”
“Exhilarating. Have you ever jumped from an airplane?”
“No. About the closest I’ve ever gotten was maybe jumping on a trampoline,” Marni offered with a weak smile.
Robin dismissed that with a wave.
“The drop from the plane, knowing you’re completely at the mercy of fate, it’s fabulous. That you can depend on just yourself, your equipment and the elements... That’s the life, Marni.”
Marni didn’t get it. What did willingly stepping out of a perfectly sound airplane to plummet to the earth, dependent only on a flimsy piece of fabric and the wind, have to do with being a reporter?
Her confusion must have shown.
Robin leaned forward, her hands hanging loose between her knees, the look on her face inte
nse.
“That’s what it’s like walking away from family. Leaving behind the safety net and demands. It’s like diving into the unknown. It’s fabulous.”
“Couldn’t you be the same reporter, have the same drive and success if you hadn’t walked away, though?”
“Not a chance. There’s no way I’d have pushed as hard, or felt as free if I hadn’t closed that door.”
Marni bit her lip. Well, then. Maybe she could settle on a similar career, with half the success, and keep her family ties. Just sort of distance them a little. Like, from the opposite coast. California, from what she’d seen since getting off the train that morning, was pretty.
The train.
She sighed.
And Hunter.
She was standing in a tidal wave of misery. As if she’d just wrenched open that door and let all the pain she’d tucked away pour out. She’d left him there, sleeping. She hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t left a note. Nothing.
He’d figure it out, she knew.
The man was FBI. All he had to do, if he cared enough, was run her name and he’d know she was a reporter. Would figure out that she was a liar.
That she was a heartbroken, miserable liar was still her own secret, though.
“Can I ask a personal question?” she blurted.
“All questions should be personal. Otherwise they’re a waste of air,” Robin declared.
Right. Marni grimaced.
“You want a drink?” Robin offered after a few seconds of pained silence as her niece tried to figure out how to word her nosy question so it didn’t come out like a waste of air.
Tequila would be nice.
Marni settled for ice water.
And used the couple of minutes while her aunt was gone to pull herself together. She wasn’t a sucky reporter, dammit. She was just an emotional mess after leaving the man she loved. She was pathetic, not talentless. There was a difference. This was an interview, not a desperate plea for some answer that would paint a clear path for her own life.
Treat it like a biography, she decided. She was writing Robin Clare’s life story. What information did she need to tell it right?