by Vicki Hinze
“Excuse me? I understand plenty.” He shoved back from the table. “I’m already convicted, man. I didn’t do a thing, but that means nothing to anyone but me. I trusted you, and you bring some hotshot in here to ask me questions like that. What? You expect me to spill my guts and help her shove the freaking needle into my arm?”
“She isn’t here to push for the death penalty or a lethal injection, M.C.”
Mark spoke loudly, but not loudly enough to be heard past M.C. Harding’s temper. He glared at Amanda. “Here’s the kicker, Captain West. I don’t have any guts to spill.”
She held her patience, kept her tone low and even. “Meaning, you don’t remember what happened to you during that time? Or you’re being coerced by a third party into not admitting what you remember about what happened to you during that time?”
“You want my life? You’re going to have to take it without my help. I’ve lost all I’m going to lose in this deal, Captain.” Harding stood up. His chair flew backward. “This interview is over.” He walked to the door, pounded on it, summoning the guard. “Don’t come back. I have nothing more to say to either of you.”
“M.C.,” Mark intervened. “This isn’t what you think.”
“Yeah, right. It never is, is it? I can trust them to find out the truth—of course I can. That’s why my tail is parked in a four-by-six with bars. Because they’re all so interested in the truth.”
“She’s one of—”
The guard arrived and Mark stopped abruptly. He took M.C. away and Mark dragged a frustrated hand through his hair and glared at her. “Did you have to set him off like a rocket, Amanda?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. I had questions, and I asked them reasonably. Harding is hiding something.” Residual effects of some sort that Dr. Vargus had mentioned; she’d bet the bank on it. “I got too close and he got nervous. That’s what happened here.”
“No, Amanda, it isn’t.” Mark let out a sigh that heaved his shoulders. “You ticked him off because you didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt on believing he’s innocent.”
“Do you know how many guilty people in jail claim they’re innocent?” She snagged her purse from the floor. “My faith can’t be demanded, Mark. Not by anyone. If Harding wants it, he has to stop being hostile and earn it.”
“Harding doesn’t give a flying flip about your faith, he cares about his own.”
“Well, that makes a lot of sense.” It made no sense at all. Mark rolled his eyes, then returned his gaze to hers. “He knows what he has and hasn’t done and you’re casting doubt on it. Knowing is all he’s got left. Knowing he didn’t kill his wife. Knowing he’s innocent and rotting here. He’s lost his wife, his family, his career—everything important to him in his life, including his freedom and reputation. Think about it, Amanda. He woke up just like you and I did—clueless—only he’s accused of murder. All that, and you want him to stop being hostile and earn your trust? Situation reversed, would you be interested in earning his?”
She’d be beyond hostile, she’d be postal. “Probably not,” she confessed. “Let’s go run some data and see what turns up. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that all four of us are in the same boat.”
Mark looked into her eyes. “No, you don’t. You have the feeling there are even more than the four of us.”
He’d read her thoughts. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but she didn’t much like it, so she didn’t confirm or deny his statement.
They walked out and Mark passed her a set of car keys.
“The green Honda is yours.” He gave her directions to the VOQ, and then left for his own car.
He was a good-looking guy, and a considerate one, finding compassion for Harding when he had to be ticked off because M.C. wasn’t cooperating. Intriguing man, Mark Cross. “You do know your office phone is bugged,” she shouted back at him.
He stopped in his tracks, sighed so heavily it lifted his shoulders, then turned toward her. “We’re backtracking calls on it, Amanda.”
She tilted her head and looked over at him. “I did it again, didn’t I?” Underestimated him. Insulted him.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Apparently, he was getting pretty tired of it, too. “Sorry.”
That apology earned her a killer smile that knotted a hitch in her chest. She swallowed hard and told herself it wasn’t a hitch at all. It was too much potato salad. That was a lie, of course. It was him. But she needed this lie as much as he’d needed his about his love of privacy being the reason he’d set out alone on a three-month boat trip, so she hung on to it, slid into the Honda and keyed the ignition.
The baking sun had heat rolling up off the seats and the dash, nearly suffocating her. The engine roared to life. She cranked the air-conditioner full blast, cracked open a window, then risked blistering her palms to hold on to the steering wheel to drive out of the parking lot and away from the jail. She left the facility and headed south toward Highway 98. According to Mark’s instructions, she’d go through a five-mile barren stretch, then dead-end at 98, which ran east and west. She was supposed to hang a left and then drive until she saw the base. Providence was on high alert for terrorist attacks, like the rest of the country, which meant it could take a while to get through gate-guard security.
So far, base police hadn’t turned up anything on the black Lexus. Maybe by the time she hooked up with Mark, they’d know if anyone had registered one. Every vehicle on the base had to be registered or have a valid ID and visitor’s pass.
Midway through the barren stretch of open road, a blue pickup got on her back bumper and, no matter how many times she tapped on the brakes to warn its driver to back off, she got ignored. The truck windows were tinted dark; she couldn’t see who was inside. Getting more annoyed by the tailgater’s persistence, Amanda slowed down. At a wide bend in the road, the jerk passed her and then swung deep into her lane. She swerved hard to the right to avoid hitting him. Her right tires hit the soft, sandy shoulder and grabbed, twisting the car. Off the road, she struggled to get back control, but failed. The car fishtailed, careened through a wooded area. It took total, constant focus to dodge clumps of pine and oak. Near a tall-grass clearing, she finally got the car slowed down. The truck paused on the road and waited. To avoid being seen by the driver, she grabbed her purse, cracked open the passenger door and rolled out onto the ground. Her upper arm hit an exposed root, throbbed, and she clenched her jaw to keep from screaming out. Hugging the dirt, she hid in the deep, stringy grass. She didn’t recognize it, but it was pungent and she hoped, not poisonous. The car rammed into a sprawling oak and exploded.
An impact bomb. Breathless, Amanda watched the flames in horror.
The blue pickup slowly drove away.
Amanda watched it leave through tall, spiked blades of grass, then pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Mark.
“Are you lost, Amanda?”
He’d known it was her. Caller ID? No way. Not on her cell phone. Had to be either powers of deduction or perception? Interesting. “Not exactly.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and watched the flames crawl through the car. “I had to make a pit stop.”
“What? Where?”
“You know that isolated stretch of road? Well, I’m stuck without a car somewhere in the middle of it.” And there wasn’t another car in sight to confiscate to go after the pickup. She fought frustration on that, then warned herself to accept what she couldn’t change to avoid wasting energy she didn’t have to spare.
“Did the Honda break down?”
“Not exactly.” The flames licked at the roof and the stench of burning tires made her queasy. “Someone in a blue pickup played road hog. There wasn’t a decent shoulder.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. The car’s totaled.”
“From a soft shoulder?”
“Not exactly.” She didn’t want to say too much. Cell calls were extremely easy to intercept.
“I’m on
my way. Three minutes, max.”
Relief washed through her. “Thanks.” This wasn’t an accident. Someone had taken serious exception to her conversation with Major M.C. Harding.
“Stay away from the road,” Mark said. “Put a shoe out so I can find you.”
“Finding me won’t be a problem.” She dragged a shaky hand over her sweat-dampened forehead, then brushed grit and dirt from her scraped knee. Her hose couldn’t have been in worse shape if they’d been run through a shredder. “Just look for the burning car.”
Chapter Four
The police filed the reports and put out an APB on the blue pickup. Firemen from two different stations responded and extinguished the flames on the Honda.
When the tow truck pulled away with the charred remains, Mark seated Amanda in his black Hummer and then drove to the base. “You okay?”
“Actually, I’m ticked off,” she confessed. “But the only casualty is my hose.” Antiquated torture anyway. No one wore hose anymore.
He glanced down at the shredded strings dangling on her legs. “Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Tinted windows.” That sent another wave of frustration rushing through her stomach and chest.
Mark frowned and a creased pit formed between his eyebrows. He parked in front of the VOQ, which looked like the temporary living quarters “hotel” that it was. Cool beige, square brick building, three stories high, unadorned by anything so softening as shutters, and tiny grounds meticulously landscaped.
Mark left the engine running and the air-conditioning blowing on high. She reached for the chrome door handle, but he stopped her. “Stay put and catch your breath. I’ll check you in, then you can grab a shower and we’ll go get something to eat.”
Her growling stomach appreciated the courtesy as much as her weary body. The roll out of the Honda ordinarily shouldn’t have been a problem. But she hadn’t yet recouped from her hiatus in the tomb and the flesh wound, and her body ached, letting her know it.
A few minutes later, Mark came out, and got in behind the wheel. “Well, our luck’s holding at lousy. They screwed up the reservations and they’re booked up. No room at the inn.”
“That’s okay.” Screwed-up reservations were a minor inconvenience that didn’t rank worth being riled about when compared with everything else that had happened lately. “We passed half a dozen hotels on Highway 98, just take me to one of them.”
“Not okay,” Mark contradicted her. “It’s tourist season here. No vacancies for forty miles in any direction.”
“Figures.” Amanda resisted the urge to scream. “If you have any suggestions, I’m wide open.”
“If you want privacy, you could stay on my boat, but I think it’d be wiser to stay with me. There’s plenty of room at my house and the security is better. Considering there have been two attempts on your life since your arrival, I think the house would be the wiser choice, but it’s up to you.”
“That’s gracious of you, Mark. Thank you.” He was right about the extra security, too. “The house would be great.”
He backed out of the parking slot, and then drove away. “While the desk clerk was searching for a hotel, I checked in with the base police. The black Lexus was stolen from a condo parking lot at the beach. The sheriff’s office found it about thirty minutes ago, abandoned at the harbor docks.” The men had followed Amanda and Mark to the boat. “How did they get the Lexus on the base?” Armed guards were posted at the gates. Unauthorized people weren’t permitted to enter. She rummaged through her purse for a stick of gum, offered a slice to Mark.
He refused. “Stolen access sticker on the car.” Looping his hand over the steering wheel, he shrugged. “It belonged on a Blazer that had been parked at WalMart—a woman shopping for school supplies with her three kids.”
“I thought they’d stopped using stickers for just that reason.”
“They did,” he said. “Residuals.”
Disappointment mixed with disbelief. “Not very reassuring—as far as us keeping terrorists off the base, is it?”
“The guards are pulling a hundred percent cross-check on ID cards.”
“Now.” She tapped her sunglasses at the bridge of her nose and cracked her gum, totally annoyed.
“Now,” he agreed, giving her that one.
Mark’s home was in an upscale, gated community on the bay. He paused at the guard shack, a pretty, white clapboard surrounded by a riot of zinnias, marigolds, petunias and lavender—the blend of which drifted in through the window he opened to address the guard.
“Sam, this is my guest. Give her unfettered ingress and egress, okay?”
Surprise lighted in Sam’s eyes, but he quickly masked it. “Yes, sir, Captain.”
“Thanks.” Mark started to pull away. “Oh, and expect a rental-car delivery in an hour or so, too. It won’t be a Honda.”
“Yes, sir.” Clearly not getting the significance of that comment, he nodded. “I’ll need a name, sir—to post so there’s no problem with the other guards in giving your guest access.”
“No, you won’t. I don’t want anyone to know she’s here.”
Sam frowned, clearly not sure what to do with that. Amanda interceded. “My husband is trying to kill me, Sam. Mark is hiding me from him.”
His entire expression changed. The hesitation and uncertainty faded to a fierce protection that Amanda found endearing. He glanced at Mark and then back to Amanda. “Don’t you worry. No one will know you’re here and we’ll be watching for possible intruders, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Amanda tried not to bristle from the lie, and from needing a man to protect her. It was a little tough on the ego for someone with her skills and training, but Sam’s intentions were honorable, and it would be good to have extra eyes monitoring for intruders.
Mark drove on, and when they’d cleared the gate, he gave her a sidelong look. “Your husband?”
She shrugged. “Sam was thinking our relationship was personal. You were letting him.”
“Yeah, I was,” Mark said, apparently not too happy that she’d undermined his plan. “Anonymity and a personal connection rather than a professional one gives you a little protection.”
She’d like to argue with that, but she couldn’t, so she silently seethed about it and expanded on her rationale for upsetting his applecart. “You give people a reason to cover your back, Cross. That satisfies their curiosity and bonds them to you. Curious people gossip, speculating on their curiosity.”
“Okay. Different approach, same results.” Mark drove down to Bayshore Drive, took the last right turn before the street dead-ended onto Bayside Circle.
“Different approach, different results,” she countered, noting his was the only house on the street: a sprawling, two-story Mediterranean with a terra-cotta tile roof.
“Do you always have to be right?” He drove down the softly sloped driveway into the four-car garage. “Or is it just a personal goal to always be right when dealing with me?”
“I do my best across the board,” she said. “My survival often depends on it.”
The look in his eyes softened. “I’ll try not to take it personally then.”
She smiled. “Take it personally, Cross. You’re keeping dangerous company these days. Mine. And it could get you killed.”
He smiled back. “I’ll take my chances.”
Defusing the sparks between them, Amanda turned the topic. “This house isn’t large, it’s obscenely huge.” She glanced back at him. “Don’t you get lost in it?”
“It’s a house.” He hiked a shoulder. “Would you be more comfortable at the boat?”
“No.” She had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that as an insult. I just meant that if I lived alone, I’d feel lost in a house this big.”
“Not if you lived in just part of it and ignored the rest.” He cut the engine and removed the key.
Cross’s white elephant. “If that’s what you do, then why did you buy it?”
“Because I love the view of the bay from the back deck.”
“So you bought the deck. The house just came with it.”
“Of course not. That would be foolish.”
She didn’t believe him for a second. “Would it?”
“No. Not if that’s what you wanted,” he admitted. “The truth is, I bought the view. The house and the deck came with it.” He smiled. “Come on inside and let’s get you settled. Then you can see what I mean.”
Amanda had no problem believing Mark, but he was different than most men she had known. He wasn’t into image or money. He was into simple joys, compassion and breathtaking views. She liked that. And his killer smile.
Mark snagged her case and paused to punch in the five-digit code to disarm the security system. “Did you get that?”
“Got it,” Amanda admitted, hoping she was supposed to have gotten it.
They stepped inside through the garage. Cool, crisp air washed over her. Beyond a tall tile entry, a den ran the length of the house decorated “beachy” in soothing sea colors, overstuffed leather sofas that looked like sun-warmed butter, and cushy pillows and plush rugs scattered everywhere. It was clear that this was Mark’s favorite part of the house. She understood why. It was calming and it had a serene feel to it. The back wall was glass, and beyond it, his deck, a patio, a stretch of lawn, and then the bay, which had whitecaps and was just rough enough to sparkle like diamonds winking under a puffy pink-tinged sky. “You’re right.” His beloved view was breathtaking. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Wait until sunset.” He smiled, pure pleasure in his tone. “Your room is this way.” Carrying her case, he led her down a hallway to a large room that faced the bay.
Sheer white drapes hung from the ceiling, fell in soft folds down the long windows and puddled on the floor. The furniture was hand-carved teak, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many women had had been guests in his home.
Not that it was any of her business.
Still, she was curious.
“There’s a bath and sitting room around the corner there.” He motioned left. “If you need anything that isn’t here, yell.”