Midnight Rain

by Dee Davis

“So where do we start?”

  Eric sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. The guy worked for a company called Guardian. Ever hear of it?”

  Tony frowned, staring down at the file, sorting through the data in his brain. On the outside Tony resembled a rumpled teddy bear, but inside he was solid steel, and sharper than a tack. He carried more information around in his brain than most computers. “Yeah. Something to do with security. Computers, I think.” He looked up. “Remember the corporate type who got mugged in Mexico? I think he was with Guardian.”

  “You’re talking about the guy they thought was dead?” Eric perked up, his senses buzzing.

  Tony nodded. “Jonathan Brighton. They found him in some backwater Mexican hospital.”

  “That’s right. He’d been carjacked. Shot in the head. I remember.”

  “Don’t see a connection to Miller, other than the fact they worked at the same place.”

  “Well, for starters, Jonathan Brighton owns Guardian. And if nothing else it’s an interesting coincidence.”

  Tony smiled, his eyes knowing. “Yeah, but you don’t believe in coincidence.”

  It was Eric’s turn to smile. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”

  John stood in the doorway of his apartment, wondering if he’d ever considered it home. Everything was perfect. Like a magazine ad. If home was really where the heart resided, then this wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of his personal life. But he’d take what he could get. The fact that he had a life at all was pretty damn amazing, all things considered.

  He closed his eyes, fighting for composure.

  “I thought I might find you here.”

  He jerked up, startled out of his thoughts. “Jesus, Flo, you want to put me back in the hospital?”

  The older woman shook her head, her smile tolerant. “No sense standing here regretting what’s done, John.”

  She’d always been able to read his mind. His father’s right-hand man for many years, Flo Tedesky was a special part of the family. She’d stepped in to help raise him and Danny when their mother had died, and she’d been there when their father passed away as well. He honestly couldn’t imagine not having her as a part of his life.

  Suddenly the apartment didn’t seem so empty.

  “Come on.” She moved to his side. “Let’s get you inside.” Together they moved over to the sofa and he sank gratefully down onto the cushions.

  “I don’t remember living here.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t.” She sat beside him, still holding his hand. “We’d only just moved in.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, confused. “We?”

  She laughed. “This place is huge. It covers the whole top floor of the building. I have my own suite of rooms. Believe me, we won’t get in each other’s way. Besides, it just seemed easier, with Guardian downstairs.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” He smiled slowly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Me, too.”

  He let his gaze wander around the room, trying to force some kind of memory. “ Does Danny . . .”

  “Live here?” she finished for him. “No. I think he’d have felt a little too confined.”

  “Living under my thumb.” Danny’s need for independence was something he hadn’t forgotten. His brother liked doing things in his own way—and in his own time.

  “Something like that. I also think all this was a bit too austere for him.” She swept her arm around the room.

  “Frankly, I’m not sure that I don’t agree. Did I pick all this out?” He let his gaze encompass the room, taking in the sleek lines and dark upholstery. A funeral home was peppier.

  Flo shook her head, and relief flooded through him. “You’ve never cared about where you lived. A decorator did this. The same one who did your last apartment.”

  He frowned. “So why the move?”

  “As I said, the office is downstairs.” Her eyebrows rose, underscoring her words.

  “I see.” He should have guessed. Hell, he should have known.

  “What do you say we do something to lighten things up?” Flo’s tone brooked no argument as she walked over to the heavy drapes and pulled them aside.

  Sunlight flooded into the room, the golden light a perfect backdrop to the skyline of Austin. The sparkling buildings provided a panoramic view anyone would envy. A view he’d bought and then chosen to hide away behind yards of horrendous gray fabric.

  The contradiction was confusing, to say the least, and definitely more than he wanted to deal with just now. So, pushing his morbid musings aside, he turned his thoughts to more pleasant prospects.

  “Where’s Nurse Ratched?” He worked to keep his voice casual, purposefully avoiding the use of her name.

  Kathleen.

  He liked it. He liked her. Which was odd considering he hadn’t met her until a couple of hours ago. Still, there was something about her that seemed real. Something that stood out among all the doubt and confusion shrouding his life.

  Truth was, it was more than that. She made him feel powerful—masculine. Without any conscious effort on her part, she enhanced the very part of him he thought he’d lost. A notion that was at once equally ridiculous and intoxicating.

  “I’m expecting her any time now. I readied the guest room. I assumed you’d want her close by.” Flo nodded toward the doorway, her eyes knowing.

  He felt heat on the back of his neck, and ducked his head, feeling all of about thirteen. “I’m not certain I want her at all. I’m doing pretty well on my own. I mean, they let me out of the hospital. That has to count for something, right?”

  “It counts, certainly. But that doesn’t mean you don’t still need some help.”

  He ran his good hand through his hair. “I just like standing on my own two feet.”

  “Of course you do, but sometimes the best way to do that is to lean a little on someone else. You’ve come a long way, John, and Kathleen Cavanaugh is here to help you go the rest of the way. You want your life back, right?”

  He nodded, already knowing what she was going to say.

  “Then you have to let her help you.”

  The thought was more than enticing; it was downright pleasurable. And it had been a hell of a long time since he’d felt anything close to pleasurable. Still, he prided himself on the fact that he’d never really needed anyone.

  Loved people certainly, but never needed them. His attraction to Kathleen Cavanaugh was undeniable, but the idea that he might actually have to lean on her was another matter altogether. He released his breath, fighting against his conflicting emotions.

  “John?” Flo’s gaze met his, her eyes dark with worry. “Honey, you just can’t do this on your own.”

  He nodded, the pain in his chest more emotional than physical. “I know.”

  “So you’ll give Kathleen a chance?”

  He desperately wanted to, but it wasn’t easy to step out on the limb. Still, there was something exciting about the prospect of letting her in. Of testing the potency of the chemistry between them.

  Maybe he did need Kathleen Cavanaugh. The thought was fascinating and frightening all at the same time, the contradiction making him feel more alive than he’d felt in years. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at Flo, surprised to find himself smiling. “I’ll give her a chance.”

  And for the first time in six long months, he felt a stirring of hope.

  It was too damn hot to be outside. Which mimicked the turmoil inside her completely. She’d been totally unprepared for her meeting with John Brighton. On the surface, it had gone perfectly. But underneath—underneath it had been a disaster.

  She jogged along the wooded path, the soft pounding of her feet a counterpoint to the steady beat of her heart. Just because she was drawn to the man didn’t mean she couldn’t do her job. She was a professional.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if she really knew him. He was a stranger. Anything she felt for him was strictly chemical. She ducked to avoid
a low-hanging branch. He wasn’t even her type. Dark and brooding was taxing. And there was seldom a happy ending. Look at Heathcliffe and Cathy. She blew out an angry breath, wondering what in hell she was thinking, comparing her life to a gothic romance.

  Wuthering Heights be damned.

  This wasn’t about some romantic meeting on the moors. It was a professionally orchestrated operation, and she had obligations to far bigger things than her hormones. She’d just let her imagination get carried away, that’s all. The next time she saw him, she’d realize she’d been mistaken.

  He was a means to an end. Nothing more. And she’d do well to remember it. There was a lot riding on her doing her job properly.

  She sprinted around a corner, and recognizing the spot, slowed to a stop. The trees were thick here, their leaves blotting out the daylight. She leaned over, hands braced against her thighs, sucking tepid air into her lungs. Despite the fact that the running trail was in the heart of the city, the vegetation gave it a hushed feeling of isolation.

  Over the cadence of her heart, she listened to the silence, automatically checking for anything out of the ordinary, constant vigilance fitting her like a second skin. A twig snapped behind her and on instinct she spun, adrenaline pumping, muscles tightening.

  Branches moved as something pushed through the bushes. Without thinking, she struck out, the force of her foot eliciting a sharp groan from the big black man entering the clearing. She stepped back, crouching slightly, arms raised, ready for a rematch.

  The man straightened, stepping into the dappled light. Her stomach dropped three stories. Jerome Wilcox. Her contact. Great, she’d just attacked the home team.

  “Shit, Cavanaugh, you trying to kill me?” His dark eyes narrowed in an odd combination of anger and mirth, and she felt her cheeks flame.

  “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have.” Chagrin made her words sound sharper than she’d intended. “I don’t like it when people sneak up on me.”

  “I can tell.” He frowned, rubbing his rib cage.

  “Sorry.” She wasn’t, and he probably knew it, but the words still seemed necessary. He was a decent-enough-looking guy. Tall and clean-cut, his features chiseled and strong. The perfect FBI agent. Everything she wasn’t. But then, UC agents weren’t meant to be poster children for the agency. That was the point. “Why didn’t you use the track?”

  “I took a shortcut.” He nodded toward the undergrowth, and dropped down on a park bench, eyeing her expectantly. “You been waiting long?”

  She sat at the far end of the bench, shifting against the splintery surface so that she was facing him. “Long enough to get jumpy.”

  “Comes with the territory, I guess.” He leaned back against the bench, studying her. It was almost as if he expected to see an alien. But then, Katie, was used to the look. No one really understood why someone would willingly go undercover. Not even another agent. “How you dealing with the heat?”

  She forced a smile, trying to lighten the moment. “I honestly don’t see how you guys stand it. And I sure as hell don’t understand why you’d choose it for a meet.”

  “I didn’t.” He smiled, dark eyes full of laughter. “Roswell did.”

  She reached out to twirl a strand of ivy. “That explains a lot. He probably hoped I’d drop dead. The old buzzard doesn’t like me very much.”

  Jerome’s smile widened. “He doesn’t like anyone very much. Especially UC.”

  “Female undercover in particular, if I had to call it.”

  “You got it. He’s been around a long time. Seen almost everything. But he’s definitely an old-school kind of guy.”

  “And you?” She kept her tone bland, but she was baiting him, curious to see whether he and Roswell were cut from the same cloth.

  “I give respect when it’s warranted. And despite his faults, Roswell has more than earned it.” He leaned back, stretching an arm out along the bench. “You have any trouble this morning?”

  There’d been trouble, but not the kind he was thinking of, and she could see absolutely no reason to discuss hormones with Jerome Wilcox. “Everything went fine. He bought into it completely. The brother, too. I’m set to move into his apartment later today.”

  “So what are your first impressions?”

  “Of Brighton?” Intriguing, magnetic, discombobulating. Again not impressions for public consumption. She frowned, as much at herself as at the question. “He wasn’t what I expected. From the background information, I assumed he’d be a pasty-faced computer geek.” Which was about as far away from Jonathan Brighton as one could possibly get.

  “You saw his picture.”

  “Yeah. But I guess I rearranged my mental image to fit the facts.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. The important point is that you’re safely in place. Now all we have to do is connect the dots.”

  “Which may not be as easy as we’d thought. I’ve read his charts. The memory loss is the real deal.” It was heartbreaking actually. He seemed so alive, so vibrant. She just couldn’t imagine what it would be like to wake up with black holes inside your head.

  “Then you’ll just have to find another way. Use what we know to elicit what we don’t.”

  “Yeah, but what do we really know? Miller had information. Brighton knew Miller. Miller disappears. Seems like a real stretch.”

  Or maybe she just wanted it to be a stretch. She’d never been in a situation like this before. Never, in six years with the bureau, had she been attracted to a target. She tipped back her head, centering her thoughts on the here and now.

  “Not when you consider that the ME places Miller’s death right around the time he disappeared. That means Brighton was probably the last person to see him alive.” Jerome’s smile was patient, and she had the sense that he was seeing far more than she wanted him to, but the notion was ridiculous. Masking her feelings was one of the things she did best. “Couple that with the fact that Brighton left the country at an opportune moment with a hell of a lot of money . . .” He broke off with a shrug.

  “And you’re left with a lot of supposition and no motive. Or is there something else?” She studied the other agent, trying to assess whether he was holding something back.

  “You know what I know. Miller called us. Conceivably with information about Brighton’s company. Next thing we know Miller is dead, and Brighton’s left the building. Seems a logical leap. Bottom line—the big brass thinks Brighton popped Miller.”

  All of which meant that she and John were playing opposite sides of the street, and no matter what she may have felt upon meeting him, her job was to establish a link between Miller’s death and Jonathan Brighton. Period.

  She frowned, shoving her weaknesses deep inside. There was no room for emotion in undercover work. She’d learned that only too well. “Don’t worry, Wilcox. If Brighton’s behind Miller’s death, I’ll find a way to prove it.”

  Brave words. The only problem was that to live up to them, she had to get close to John Brighton. And in doing so, she had the feeling that, like the moth to the flame, she was the one who was going to get burned.

  Chapter 3

  “So what’s the bottom line here?” Valerie Alejo looked over the top of her glasses at the group assembled around the boardroom table.

  “Christ, Valerie, a man died. Couldn’t you at least drum up a little sympathy?” Danny tipped back his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “The guy was a drug addict.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You were expecting me to do the eulogy?”

  “Come on, now. The least we can do is try to show a little respect.” John’s tone was stronger than he’d intended, his frustration evident. But an employee was dead and the ramifications of the fact had yet to be ascertained. Just when he thought things were looking up, he had to face reality again.

  “Wonderful, we have a dead employee, and the dictator’s back.” Valerie walked to the window, her anger reflected in the set of her shoulders.

&nbs
p; “She didn’t mean that.” Frank Jacoby fidgeted with the pile of papers in front of him. “It’s just that it’s been rough around here. First Derek disappearing, and then you hurt, and now this.”

  “It’s not like I got hurt on purpose, Frank. Sorry if it inconvenienced you.”

  The other man’s head shot up, his eyes reflecting confusion and regret. Mild-mannered at best, Frank would never knowingly hurt someone. John had been out of line to snap at him.

  “I’m sorry, Frank. This is all just a little more than I bargained for.”

  “Now you know how we feel.” Frank sighed, his expression grim.

  “Hang on, everybody.” Danny held up a hand, ever the peacemaker. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I know we’re all sorry that Miller died.”

  Valerie’s hands tightened on the windowsill.

  “All right.” Danny shrugged. “Maybe we’re not sorry. But I don’t think anyone here wished the man dead.”

  “Someone did.” Frank’s voice was soft, his face inscrutable.

  “A drug dealer.” Valerie spun around, eyes glittering behind her glasses.

  “Possibly.” John reached for a pencil with his good hand, twirling it absently between his fingers, watching his partners.

  “Look, as callous as it sounds, who killed him isn’t relevant to our discussion.” Frank’s gaze encompassed them all. “What matters now is how it’s going to affect Guardian.”

  “Hopefully not at all.” Danny leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m with Val. The guy had a definite problem. So it’s totally possible he pissed off a dealer, got whacked, and wound up in Lake Travis. It’s a sad story, but other than the fact he worked for us, I don’t see how it affects us one way or the other.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t, but even so, I think we need to think about damage control.” Jason Pollock was a man of few words. The head of public relations, he was a latecomer to the Guardian team. He’d been with the company only a couple of years, but in that time he’d more than earned his way into the inner sanctum.

  “But there isn’t any damage.” Frank’s look was almost comical.