"Really!" Gary sat back with a look of astonishment.
Tristan sent Juliet a startled look. "That explains why his emblem is painted on the mural there."
At Tristan's comment, Juliet explained that Goebel had also been an artist, and that he'd marked his original pieces with the Stasi emblem. "We found the exact same emblem painted on a wall in the Mission District."
"Oh, we've been there," Holly exclaimed. "The murals are fascinating."
Gary sat forward again, his brow creased with thought. "I take it you think Goebel and Coenen remained in contact all these years."
Juliet nodded. "Yes. If I could prove that, I could establish the motive for my parents' murder."
Gary considered her for a moment. "You know, my neighbor is on loan to the Naval Post Graduate School from the FBI."
Juliet saw Tristan's expression brighten.
"Right now, he teaches criminal justice at the academy," Gary added, "but I bet he could get the ball rolling on a federal investigation. Shall I invite him over?"
Juliet hesitated to impose. "Oh, I don't know. This is a special time for you and Tristan—"
"Call him," Tristan demanded, brushing aside her protest.
Juliet looked at him, surprised by his insistence.
"Juliet spoke to Coenen face-to-face," Tristan told the Sigmunds. "They met at the point at Rockaway Beach. She pretty much told the guy she was onto him."
Self-conscious heat seared Juliet's cheeks. "I was hoping to startle a confession out of him. I was taping the confrontation, but he didn't crack."
"I think we should talk to your neighbor," Tristan said.
* * *
"What do you think you're doing?" Juliet whispered two hours later.
Even in the dark and unfamiliar bedroom belonging to Gary Sigmund's eldest college-aged daughter, Tristan's silhouette as he slipped out of the Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting the girls' two rooms could not be mistaken for anyone else's.
Hushing her, he pulled back the covers and joined Juliet in the double bed.
She protested a second time. "If the colonel wanted us to sleep together, he'd have put us in the same room."
"He probably would have, if you hadn't insisted we aren't a couple," Tristan reminded her. "He's just going along with your story."
"It's not a story," Juliet mumbled. "It's reality."
"This is reality," Tristan countered, snuggling up to her and pressing the warm pillar of his sex against her hip.
Ignoring a secret surge of excitement, Juliet whispered fiercely. "We are not going to have sex with your father and his wife right across the hall!"
"Who said anything about sex?" Looping an arm around her waist, he flipped her onto her side, facing away from him, then molded himself against her backside. With his member nudging her derriere, it was hard to fix her thoughts on other matters. She tried her best, though.
"It's a good thing we came here," she admitted.
It had seemed like fate, as a matter of fact, when Gary's neighbor, Kevin McNulty, listened raptly to Juliet's story. An hour later he took with him a digital copy of her conversation with Coenen, and promised to talk to the appropriate agent at the Bureau the very next day.
"I agree." Tristan's hand, gentle but determined, skimmed the plane of Juliet's stomach toward her thighs. "Takes a load off my mind, anyway. Puts it somewhere else," he added under his breath.
She snorted at the pun. "You have a one-track mind," Juliet stated, even as she waited on tenterhooks for Tristan to seduce her.
"Is it on the right track?" He'd begun tracing the stitching along the front panel of her panties in a feather-light touch that affected her lung capacity.
"Maybe," she admitted breathlessly.
"Why don't you kiss me and we'll find out?"
Craning her head back toward him, Juliet parted her lips. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking Tristan's smile. He'd won again. She hadn't wanted to admit they were a couple, yet here she was, capitulating once more because she desired him. To justify her weakness, she told herself she needed to forget her encounter with Coenen. Tristan's lovemaking would be an antidote to the memory of that man's expressionless stare. Besides, she was still on vacation, which meant she could behave any way she damn well pleased. What happens in California stays in California. That mantra had worked for her down in Mexico, so why not here?
Cutting off her internal monologue, Juliet surrendered to the feel of Tristan nibbling his way down her neck as he rolled up and over her. At the same time, he nudged the fabric of her sleeveless sleepshirt up and over her puckering nipples, exposing them.
"No moaning," he cautioned before tonguing them into stiffness. "No whimpers of delight," he added, blowing cool air across the tight peaks.
Anticipation rippled over her in the form of goosebumps. "I don't whimper," Juliet insisted, even as the hidden muscles in her body thrilled and flexed.
"And definitely no screaming out my name," he said, ignoring her assertion and tossing back the covers to squirm lower. "Otherwise, they'll know we're together."
Digging her nails into Tristan's shoulders, Juliet punished him for his impudence. His open mouth descended over the apex of her thighs forcing her to stifle her approving cry. Pleasure radiated from her core. Her skin heated, giving rise to a sudden cooling sweat. By the time Tristan flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her to her knees beneath him, Juliet's heart was pounding, her body quaking.
"Please!" she whispered, curling her fingers into the sheets.
Tristan drove himself into her, sending a cry of raw pleasure up her throat, which she barely caught back. Rocking against him, she met his thrusts with abandonment, arching toward his touch as he reached around her hips to impel her toward release. In seconds, a shattering climax crashed over her, pulling her into a vortex of bliss that spun on for what felt like forever.
Tristan! His name rang out in her mind, imbued with all the passion she felt for him but refused to acknowledge. With their breaths still gusting, they collapsed onto their sides, their bodies still joined, their limbs damp with exertion.
"Hooyah! And holy hell," Tristan breathed.
The emotion overflowing her at that moment caused her breath to hitch. Juliet searched her heart for assurance that this intense connection she felt wasn't love. It couldn't be! It had to be hormones making her want to turn and face Tristan, to press a tender kiss against his neck.
But hormones didn't explain why, in less than a week, she'd come to think of Tristan as an indispensable part of her team. It was he who'd stumbled onto Goebel's emblem, giving them a lead pointing them toward San Francisco. Since then, even with his depression following the discovery of his birth mother's death, he'd proven a dependable counterpart. Ever cheerful, ever considerate, Tristan kept Juliet from drifting into dark thoughts. He'd humored her when she was down. He had even risked a speeding ticket to get her out of that phobia-inducing tunnel. No wonder she felt so attached to him.
Infatuation! Juliet seized the explanation with relief. Of course, it wasn't love. She had simply fallen for Tristan's charm, like every other person who had ever met him. It wasn't permanent. Infatuation was temporary, born of the heightened emotions from what they'd been through together, first in Mexico, and now, here.
All the same, Juliet needed a moment to come to terms with her sudden sense of vulnerability. Lifting Tristan's arms from around her waist, she separated their bodies and stepped out of bed.
"I'm going to go clean up," she whispered. "I'll bring you a washcloth."
Stepping over her panties, she slipped into the adjoining bathroom and locked the door. Dimming the light first so as not to blind herself, she sent an admonishing glare at her tousled reflection. Flushed and bright-eyed, Juliet looked like a woman in love. Except she wasn't.
"Infatuation," she insisted, reaching for a washcloth. She wasn't the type to fall in love. She didn't do relationships.
All the same, she dared a peek into her future,
should she decide to stay with Tristan. The Teams would keep him busy. When he got time off, which was usually for several weeks at a stretch the way it was for her sister's husband, Tristan could drive up to Northern Virginia and help with her investigative work. As he'd once said, he had related skills.
Her thoughts went to Tristan's missions, and her imaginings skidded to a stop. How could she have forgotten, even for a minute, the kind of work he did? The dangers of his job made her occupation look like teaching preschool.
Merely thinking about it made Juliet's intestines cramp and her skin grow cold. Could she handle the stress of dating a SEAL, knowing he could die in the line of duty? Hell, no. She wasn't equipped for dating any man, let alone a Navy SEAL.
And yet, her sister, Emma, seemed to handle it. Emma claimed to have faith in her husband's training. She also trusted in the power of positive thinking, stating if she believed Jeremiah would return safely from his missions, he would.
No offense to Emma, but for Juliet, faith like that went by a different word—naiveté.
So, no. Juliet wouldn't entertain the option of continuing to see Tristan after they got back home. Which meant she had to pull away, starting immediately.
God, I love you.
Juliet really wished Tristan hadn't said those words the other day. Knowing he had feelings for her made it even harder to break away and hurt him. Then again, he'd gotten over his girlfriend, Mariah, the instant he'd met Juliet on the cruise ship the previous April. With all the women in the world waiting for a man like Tristan, chances were good Juliet would be replaced in his affections about as quickly as the unfortunate Mariah.
Jealousy sank its fangs into her at that thought. Damn it. She had suspected this would happen, which was why she'd gone out of her way to avoid him.
Now, to save them both any more heartache than necessary, Juliet would have to sabotage the bond they had forged. There was no other way—not for her, at least.
With regret filling her heart, she ran a washcloth under the water and proceeded to tidy up.
* * *
Sipping from the mug of hot coffee in his hand, Stu looked down at the angel sprawled across the sofa. Mitzie lay curled up in the gap between her legs. Sunlight slanted through the blinds at the window turning Hilary's hair to vermillion. She had tried staying up late with him, fighting back yawns in their mutual quest to discover every bit of information they could on Peter Goyle, looking for one thread connecting him to Hans Coenen.
Too bad they hadn't found it. Around midnight, Hilary had rested her cheek on Stu's shoulder to watch him work through half-shut eyes. Minutes later, he glanced down and found her fast asleep. He'd let her stay like that. She was less distracting when she was asleep, for the looks she'd been giving him all night let him know she was his for the plucking.
But he hadn't plucked. Or even tried anything that rhymed with that word.
Instead, Stu had reminded himself that what Hilary really wanted was the same thing his sister had been looking for—a man to fill the void of her missing father. He wasn't going to be like most men and take advantage of her desperation.
He must have made some kind of sound for Hilary came abruptly awake, sending Mitzie leaping away from her as she sat up to blink at him.
Remembering the glasses he'd taken from her nose the night before, Stu retrieved them off the coffee table, handing them wordlessly to Hilary. She slid them up her nose, took note of the blanket he'd draped over her, and beamed up at him with such a look of adoration that he was tempted to renege on his avowal to cherish her before he bedded her.
"I guess I fell asleep on you," she observed in a sweet, sleepy voice. Swinging her feet to the floor, Hilary stretched languidly, drawing his gaze to the straining fabric of a plaid pajama top that had still had a tag on it when she put it on. "I haven't been much help. Did you find anything?"
Stu had hoped to surprise her with a breakthrough, yet in spite of his persistent efforts, he'd found nothing whatsoever linking Hans Coenen to Peter Goyle. "No, I didn't. Sorry."
Her smooth forehead furrowed. "Don't apologize. You thought of everything," she soothed.
As it turned out, Peter Goyle had never established an online presence with social media accounts, making their quest to find his network of friends exponentially harder. The most Stu had managed was to hack Goyle's credit history, locate his credit card statements from right before his death, and see what kinds of purchases he'd made.
The man's address placed his apartment mere blocks from the Mission District and seven miles from Coenen's townhome, which suggested the two men might never have crossed paths. Tellingly, though, Goyle had eaten out a lot, spending sufficient sums to indicate he'd been buying someone else's meal, as well as his own. Not surprisingly, he'd bought art supplies at a craft store in San Francisco. He'd paid off his credit card monthly with the CIA's generous stipend.
"How'd you sleep?" Stu asked as Hilary worked a kink out of her neck.
"Good. But I had the strangest dream," she replied, visibly recalling it.
"About what?" Stu asked.
"I was at my father's funeral, standing next to his coffin, except my mother wasn't there. And the body didn't look like Daddy's. I think my mind substituted in Peter Goyle for my father."
Her words had Stu easing onto the couch next to her and putting down his coffee mug. The gears in his head began to turn. "That was a weird dream."
"All of my father's friends were there to pay their respects, just like they'd been at Daddy's funeral, only it wasn't him in the casket. I kept expecting someone to point it out, but no one did."
The confusion and loneliness in Hilary's voice broke him down. Stu put an arm around her, and she immediately snuggled closer, soaking up his comfort with dizzying abandon. He could press her back against the couch and demand virtually anything of her, and she would do it, all in the hope of filling the hole in her heart caused by her father's death.
Stu forced himself to picture Hilary, young and devastated, standing by her father's coffin. Deep down, she was still that lonely girl.
Suddenly, he envisioned Peter Goyle lying in a coffin, and a thought pierced his consciousness. "Oh," he exclaimed, thinking it through. Releasing Hilary, he reached for his laptop. "That's it."
She searched his face in bafflement. "What's it?"
His pulse quickened. "Someone would have had to make the arrangements for Goebel's funeral, right? Maybe it was Coenen. At the very least, if they were friends, Coenen would have come to pay his respects. Funeral homes keep electronic guestbook ledgers. If we can access the one for Goebel, we'll know at least some of the people who considered him a friend."
"That's brilliant!" She gripped the muscles of his upper arm. "Let's find his obituary. The name of the funeral home should be in it."
As Stu logged onto his laptop, Hilary hugged him in anticipation. In his excitement, he caved in to the urge to kiss her though, targeting her cheek instead of her lips. "You are brilliant, Cat Lady," he praised.
"Right," Hilary scoffed. "Like this wasn't your idea." All the same, she blushed prettily at his compliment.
The wave of lust that crashed over Stu made his heart race and his blood simmer. They couldn't afford to get sidetracked now, though, not with Coenen fully aware that he was being scrutinized.
Surely those who'd spent their lives devoted to Dieter Goebel's vision had come forward at his death to pay their respects. Hopefully, they could find proof that Hans Coenen was one of them.
Chapter 16
Watching the giant Pacific octopus make its way toward them across the rock wall at the back of the display, Juliet caught herself about to lean into Tristan, who stood next to her. She shouldn't do that anymore, she realized, squelching her remorse.
The rosy-hued cephalopod held their attention as it drifted closer. Roughly the size of a house dog, its eight long tentacles extended and retracted, each with an agenda of its own. Flaps on its bulbous head pumped rhythmically, propel
ling it toward the transparent pane of acrylic glass separating its home from the human visitors.
"Look, she's coming to see you," Tristan murmured. His sidelong glance told Juliet he knew something had changed and had decided to give her space.
Juliet's thoughts went to the moment she'd awakened, tangled for the last time in his embrace. She'd allowed herself to watch Tristan sleep, marveling as she had down in Mexico at the fact that he didn't snore; admiring the way tawny stubble glinted on his jaw, how he seemed to smile in his sleep when his face relaxed. A pang of loss had pierced her heart, but it was nothing compared to the pain she'd feel if he died in the line of duty after she'd inextricably linked herself to him. Determined to save herself from future torment, she'd slid from his embrace and scarcely touched him since.
She had yet to tell him their affair was over, though. Tristan wasn't stupid. He would figure it out by the time they flew home. She almost hoped he would act desperate and clingy, arousing her annoyance and giving her incentive to shake him off. He hadn't. Not yet anyway. He'd been the perfect companion, cheery, stable, and concerned.
Caught up in her circuitous thoughts, Juliet watched with half an eye as hundreds of suction cups rippled delicately over the rocky aquarium floor. The eyes on either side of the octopus's head appeared to study them intently as it glided closer.
"How do you know it's a she?" she demanded just to be contrary.
"By the sexy way she moves," Tristan whispered in her ear.
The rippling motion of the tentacles did strike Juliet as rather sensuous. And the gruff tenor of Tristan's voice sent a pleasant shiver down her body.
"Actually, the guard just told us," he amended with a chuckle. "That one over there is male." He gestured to the tank adjacent to where they stood. "This one's female. She's got more suckers," he added, imbuing the word with a sexual connotation.
Elbowing him for his lewdness, Juliet glanced toward the male counterpart in a tank twenty feet away. Seeing her and Tristan's full-length reflection on the tank's acrylic wall, she was struck by how right they looked standing next to each other. Anyone glancing in their direction would see a couple who belonged together.
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