“Your job is dangerous. Like your uncle’s was. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t reach out to you. But I can’t expect your forgiveness.”
“No, you can’t,” Nick said firmly.
Walter nodded in his direction and moved toward the front door. He stopped before he exited. “I’ve followed your career. I know you’re a hero.”
Nick didn’t bother to ask him why, didn’t want to know any more than he already did. His mind couldn’t process this information—not now with Walter standing in front of him. “I do my job.”
“Better than most. One of your most recent missions to stop an assasination saved an African country from potential economic ruin.”
“Details of that mission are classified.”
“Not to a senator.” With those words, Walter was gone, shutting the door softly behind him.
How much of Nick’s life Walter Winfield knew about or cared to know was something Nick had never really stopped to consider. The man had written him off as dead, discarded him—Nick never thought further contact would be an issue. But Kenny Waldron wasn’t a hard man to find and Nick still lived at the house that Kenny had signed over to his boys, the one Nick and Jake and Chris spent the better part of their teenage years in. The one he and Jake had continued to live in while their teams were stationed in Virginia. The one Chris recently moved back into when he’d been transferred back East from a West Coast team.
Nick had never felt so exposed in his life. He’d let a piece of paper his father signed put him at ease, when he’d always known to be far more suspicious than that.
He also knew it was impossible to live on high alert all the time.
For a few seconds, he sat still and let the old house comfort him—if he closed his eyes and listened, really listened, he swore he could hear Maggie calling forher boys through the maze of hallways he and Jake and Chris used to get lost in.
He waited for a few moments after he heard Walter’s car pull out of the gravel driveway and then he grabbed his jacket and his phone and his keys—the SITREP too.
Tonight, there was no comfort to be found alone.
There could be so many reasons why a senator was visiting a SEAL at eleven o’clock at night.
While Kaylee sat outside of Nick’s house trying to catch her breath as she watched Walter Winfield’s retreating car, another set of headlights came up from the long driveway. She was blinded momentarily as the car jerked out of the driveway and turned the opposite way Walter’s car had gone.
A sleek, black Porsche. Virginia plates.
Nick’s car.
Nick’s car. Nick’s house.
At that moment, her ambition crashed headlong into desire and she knew she’d crossed a major threshold. Nothing would ever be the same.
There was no way this was really happening.
The entire ride down, she’d practiced what she’d say to him—that she really, really needed him to go to Africa with her to possibly find Aaron. To figure out what was going on.
He’d refused her once before, but maybe now…
If you need anything…
She needed, and she wasn’t giving up until she got more from him. He’d been right when he’d told her that his visit wasn’t about Aaron—in so many ways, hers now wasn’t either.
But when she’d arrived, Nick’s front door had been open and someone was there, his silhouette illuminated by the porch lights.
She’d spotted Nick easily, he’d been standing there as well… next to a man she swore was Senator Walter Winfield.
There was a car in the driveway—black. Expensive. The way it was angled in the circular drive didn’t allow her to see the plates and she’d hurriedly pulled her mini-binoculars out of the glove compartment. When the man had opened the door of his car, the interior light illuminated his face quite clearly.
It had most definitely been Walter Winfield.
As he pulled out of the driveway, she caught a quick glimpse of New York plates, but no numbers. When she looked back at the door, it was closed and Nick was nowhere to be seen, until now, when his car raced past hers.
Could Nick be Cutter Winfield?
What did she really know about Nick Devane? He was in the right age range. Military. And Walter Winfield was making a secret, late-night visit to him.
There were so few pictures of Cutter, none had a clear view of his face save for a black-and-white baby photo. Sketch artists had compiled their takes over the years, but none of them had ever seemed to fit, in Kaylee’s estimation, although she wasn’t quite sure why. Those generated images told her nothing—the face was too cold, too fake.
Pieces from an article she’d written on Cutter years earlier came into sudden, sharp focus.
She shoved the binoculars aside, looking over her shoulder in complete paranoid fashion until she had the key in the ignition and was safely on the road back to Maryland.
The drive home was a blur. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly and even though driving always soothed her, tonight the low, hard thrum of the sleek engine was merely a reminder of Nick.
He’d sat in this seat. The leather held his scent the way her skin had that morning. She didn’t turn on the radio, just let the scene replay itself in her mind and tried to forget that he’d programmed his phone number into her cell.
She could still feel Nick’s palms on her, his body warm in the cool night air, the rumble of his car beneath her.
Once she pulled into the safety of her own parking garage, she became aware that her breathing had turned harsh. It had been months since her last asthma attack, and she took a hit from her inhaler, forcing the air into her lungs, and waited in the dark car in the dimly lit garage.
So many secrets. In some ways, Nick was just like Aaron, holding back from her—although that was hardly a fair assessment after knowing him all of forty-eight hours.
God, if this was true, if he was Cutter, he’d probably never been able to get close to anyone because of it. A part of his life blocked off from any woman he chose to get close to.
He’d already told her he didn’t let women in. And now she knew why. She could possibly have his secret life in her hands.
What was she supposed to do now?
CHAPTER 8
The elevator moved too slowly. Kaylee paced the small area, not exactly sure why she was in such a rush—it was as if she was the one in hiding now.
Shit. Justshit .
She rounded the corner out of the elevator and stopped dead when she saw Nick standing in front of her apartment door. Clad in his black leather jacket, he leaned casually with his back to the wall as his eyes caught hers.
For a second, she couldn’t breathe again, had to remember to draw air and not stand stupidly, staring at him.
“Are you all right?” he asked and in that instant she knew that he hadn’t seen her at his house, that he was here for an entirely different reason.
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not.
You have to tell him what you know.
She hadn’t even told him what she did for a living. In all fairness, he’d never asked, but she’d learned that most people who wanted to stay out of the public eye didn’t much appreciate her profession. She hadn’t wanted to see that kind of suspicion from Nick, not when she’d approached him as Aaron’s widow and nothing more.
“I’m okay—just surprised to see you,” she answered honestly. She stared at him, the possible missing Winfield heir, and tried to see any similarity between the proud, handsome man in front of her and the pictures of the Winfields she’d studied over the years.
“It was a last minute decision on my part. Rough night,” he admitted and then looked as if he wished he could take that last statement back.
She took a deep breath. “Why don’t you come inside? There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s important.”
“You’re not okay.” His warm hands covered hers, his body behind her as he took the keys from her shaking finger
s and opened the door for her.
“Asthma attack. It’s the medicine—I’m always shaky after I take it,” she explained, and yes, that was a partial truth. He closed the door behind them, unarming her alarm at the same time she dropped her bag to the floor. “Did you let yourself in here before I got home?”
“I waited outside this time. Why?”
“Someone’s been here.” Her coat closet was slightly open. If that had been the only thing out of place, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but she also noticed that a few things on her table had been shifted around. The papers were still neatly piled but the laptop was slightly farther to the right than she’d left it. Her Internet Explorer browser had been closed as well and the machine hadn’t rebooted.
Nothing obvious, but someone had been in her apartment, in her things.
“I’ve been outside your door for about half an hour. I didn’t see anyone—or hear anything.” He was checking the windows. “They’re all still locked.”
A knock at the door made them both go still. He put a finger to his lips and walked quietly toward the door to look through the peephole. In seconds, he was urging her to do the same.
She saw two men dressed in dark suits, waiting patiently. They looked to be federal agents and she thought back over her last few stories and wondered if she’d gotten into anyplace she really wasn’t supposed to.
“Do you know them?” he mouthed when she pulled away. She shook her head and he pulled his gun and urged her to open the door halfway—he was right there, close enough to touch. In fact, he did brush his fingers against hers, which were wrapped around the door frame tightly.
She ordered herself to hold it together and she did, calmly facing the men with an inquisitive frown.
They’d already pulled out identification, badges and FBI ID cards with their pictures—Agents Simms and Ferone.
“Kaylee Smith?” the taller of the two men asked, and continued before she could respond, “I’m Agent Simms, FBI. We need to talk about your ex-husband, Aaron Smith.”
She swallowed hard and was half-grateful that he at least confirmed that something was going on with Aaron.
“Ms. Smith, can we please come inside to talk?” Agent Simms was asking.
“I’m more comfortable with talking right here.” She didn’t want these men in her apartment—her safe zone. Anything they had to tell her about Aaron, they could say right here. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Agent Simms nodded. “We have reason to suspect that Aaron Smith is alive.”
She didn’t say anything, just let her eyes go slightly wider, as though this was actually news to her. She’d learned a long time ago that talking got you in trouble, but listening helped you learn exactly what your battle was.
Agent Ferone cleared his throat and Simms continued, his voice low and soothing. “We know this is hard for you to hear, but we received some information last week that leads us to believe he faked his death. Our intelligence has placed him close to the DRC—Democratic Republic of the Congo.”
“Why isn’t the military here?”
“They’ve turned the case over to us—we’ll hand it over to the CIA once we receive more information on Aaron,” Agent Simms said, although that didn’t ring true to her ears. From what she knew of the military, they didn’t hand over their AWOL soldiers, if that’s what Aaron truly was, so easily.
“You’re coming to me because Aaron has no other family.”
“We’d like to speak to Aaron.”
“I don’t know how to get in touch with him. I didn’t even know he was alive,” she lied, the old protective instincts coming out despite her anger toward Aaron. Another lesson learned early—protect your own. You never knew when you would need the favor returned.
“You’ll want to cooperate with us.” Agent Simms’s tone had lost the kind edge it had earlier.
“I’ve told you everything I know. If I hear from him, I’ll get in touch with you. Please leave me your card and go.”
Agent Ferone smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s not the way this works, Kaylee. You’re going to have to come with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you—not right now. I’ll be happy to meet you at the FBI offices in the morning,” she said.
“That’s not going to work for us.” Agent Simms kept his tone reasonable. “This is time-sensitive information. I’m sure you don’t want any more harm to come to your ex-husband than necessary.”
Something was very, very wrong. Nick squeezed her hand, as if he agreed.
She pretended to look at the floor for a second so she could catch Nick’s face from her periphery. He was motioning for her to invite them inside.
“Okay, fine. I just need to grab my bag.” She opened the door wider and walked away, feeling the two men following her inside the apartment.
She turned around again only when she heard the door slam shut, feeling the sick plunge of her stomach as she saw the gun Agent Ferone had pulled on her. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to need whatever Aaron Smith left you in that safe-deposit box,” he said.
How did they know about the safety deposit box? She fought panic, asked, “And then what?”
He ignored her question, which told her more than if he’d threatened her outright. “Hand over your bag.”
She held it out to him, feet rooted to the floor, right before Nick took him down from behind with a pinch of his fingers on the man’s neck.
“Leave, Kaylee—go now,” he instructed even as Agent Simms lunged for him.
But she didn’t leave—instead, she watched Nick wrestle the taller man, waiting to see if there was anything she could do to help. Every instinct she had fought running away from any situation—this was no different.
The men appeared well matched for a fight, but without any apparent effort on Nick’s part, he had the dark-haired agent headlocked and unconscious within seconds.
When the knife clattered from the agent’s limp hand, it was then she noticed it was covered in blood. As was Nick’s arm.
He appeared unconcerned, was rifling first through one agent’s pockets and then the other’s while telling her to collect her things fast.
She did so: computer, passport, Aaron’s envelope and some clothing were stuffed into an oversize bag, which Nick took from her.
“Where did the men go?” she asked. Her apartment door was slightly ajar.
“Janitor’s closet. We don’t have much time before they wake up. Lock the door behind you,” he told her as he slipped her bag onto his shoulder and grabbed her hand.
In what seemed like an eternity, they were on the street and in Nick’s car, careening away from the curb and her apartment and the life she’d known since Aaron died.
Nick was yanking his jacket off as he drove and she saw the wound he’d received during the fight. She looked around, found a towel in the backseat and pressed it to his arm without thinking.
“Stop, Kaylee. Just let me drive.” He pushed her hand away.
“You’re bleeding everywhere,” she pointed out, her calm demeanor returning before she glanced behind them.
“They didn’t follow us.”
Momentarily placated, she returned to putting pressure on his arm. “Where are we going?”
“My house. We’ll make a plan from there.”
“Your house?” she asked with just enough of a catch in her voice to make him glance her way.
“Problem?”
“No, no problem. Those men weren’t FBI agents.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the FBI doesn’t typically try to kill people like that and I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”
She was glad he hadn’t. “What would they have done if you hadn’t been there?” she asked quietly.
“Iwas there. That’s all that matters.”
They drove in silence for a while. Kaylee felt her body relax with every mile they p
ut between them and her apartment, but it jolted when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it, praying that it wouldn’t be her Winfield source.Not now, not now .
“Do you recognize the number?” he asked.
No. “No.” She held out the phone to him and he stared at the small screen.
“Out of the country area code,” he said slowly. “Africa exchange.”
Her mouth dried.
“Answer it—put it on speaker. Tell whoever it is that you’re alone if they ask,” he told her.
“Hello?” No answer, just the familiar crackle, the faint hum and pause of an overseas line.
“KK.”
Aaron. “What’s going on? The FBI were here asking me questions about you.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. I told them nothing. But they know you’re alive—said you faked your death.”
There was a long break, and she thought for sure she’d lost the call. And then she heard his voice crackle across the line. “Don’t tell them anything. Don’t trust them.”
She didn’t say anything, stared up at Nick while he listened intently.
“KK, are you there?”
“I’m here. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I need you to pull the money from my account and bring it to me, to Africa, or else I’m a dead man for sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“The less you know for now, the better.”
“Where am I going with the money? I can’t just show up in the middle of Africa.”
But he wasn’t listening, was giving her a string of numbers, repeating them over and over. They sounded like latitude and longitude.
“Please, just meet me, bring me the money—I’ll need it within forty-eight hours.”
“Aaron, I can’t—”
“Please. It has to be you who brings it. I would never hurt you, KK. You know that. Please just come to Africa now.” A long pause and then, “If it wasn’t so important, I’d never ask you to do something like this.”
Too Hot to Hold Page 8