Dangerous Waters

by Janice Kay Johnson

  "I've noticed," he said, lazy humor in those gray eyes that were so often as chilly as the rain outside the car. "So, what do you say?"

  "Pizza it is," she agreed, and started the car.

  Half an hour later, they sat at her table sharing a hot pizza loaded with everything but the kitchen sink. She had toweled her hair, combed it out, and left it loose to dry. When she had changed clothes, Megan ignored the sweats that would have been cozy and instead chose a pair of black leggings and an oversize cotton sweater.

  Mac's first comment was, "You look about sixteen years old."

  "Sweet sixteen," she said flippantly, reaching into the refrigerator for a can of beer.

  "But I know you've been kissed."

  Did he have any idea how his voice gave away his thoughts? Megan wondered. It had just become a little grittier, the texture as tempting as the hard line of his mouth.

  "Can't I pretend?" she said lightly, and opened the pizza box. "Help yourself."

  Abruptly he asked, "Why do you take a summer job? You don't need the money, do you?"

  Megan gave her standard answer. "I get bored. What would I do all summer? Sit around with my feet up?"

  "Travel. Do some more endorsements." He smiled. "Read some good books and go to bed early every night."

  She looked away from that too perceptive gaze. "I traveled when I was a swimmer. It was fun then, but I saw every place. China, Australia, Mexico City, you name it, I've been there. Now I just want to be home again."

  "Trying to recapture your childhood?"

  She concentrated on separating another piece of pizza from its mates, winding a string of cheese around her finger. "Maybe," she admitted, then startled herself by sharing a realization she had only recently made. "When I'm doing something useful, I feel like I belong here. When I'm not, I don't."

  Mac set his beer can down and studied her. What did she know about not belonging? he thought with bitterness he seldom acknowledged.

  She looked so young in some ways, until you saw her eyes. Vivid blue, they should have been smiling, but they weren't. Her expression was too often guarded. Like his own.

  "That's not how people around here think of you," he said carefully. "You're theirs. They're proud of you."

  She shrugged with resignation. "That's just it. I'm different."

  "You must have wanted to make people proud of you. You didn't swim only for yourself, did you?"

  Again those extraordinarily blue eyes met his and he saw layers of complex emotions.

  "No. How could I? Do you have any idea how many people you owe, by the time you make the Olympic team? My family sacrificed for me, the town sacrificed so I could afford to train in California, the country was counting on me... I'd get these piles of letters from people who were trying to be supportive, telling me how proud they were that I was an American, and do you know how you end up feeling?" When he silently shook his head, she finished in a burst. "Burdened. Carrying everybody else's expectations, not just your own. How could I lose? I'd have disappointed so many people. And, do you know, even though I won, I still feel guilty. Especially with my brothers and sister. Too much of my parents' time and energy was spent driving me to practice, getting me to meets, eventually paying for me to live away so I could train with other swimmers at my own level."

  He didn't dare move. If he had tried to comfort her, take her hand in his, argue, she would close up, he knew. So he said dispassionately, "Why do you feel guilty? Do your brothers or your sister resent you?"

  Megan let out a long breath. "No. Of course not." She smiled ruefully, shattering the mood. "That doesn't mean I can't torture myself, does it?"

  "Nah," he said. "It's one of life's little pleasures."

  She chuckled, a delicious ripple that sounded so carefree, he congratulated himself. But then she gestured with the can of beer she'd been working on for twenty minutes. So much for getting her drunk. "You know everything about me. Now it's your turn. C'mon, give."

  He automatically evaded the question. "Hey, you already know me. We're opposites. I don't care about places."

  "Or things," she said. "I remember. What I don't know is, why."

  Mac took a swallow of beer and said, "I grew up in foster homes. That doesn't exactly give you roots."

  She bit her lip. "And here I've been whining about not belonging," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

  "It's hard being different, no matter why you are.”

  Her blue eyes searched his face. "You said foster homes. Did you move a lot?"

  A familiar feeling of shame made him look away from her. "Ten or twelve times. I wasn't exactly...cooperative." The truth was, he'd wanted somebody to love him no matter how he rebelled, but it hadn't worked that way. Maybe parents loved their kids no matter what they did, but no stranger had cared that much about the defiant, lonely, scared boy he'd been.

  Her voice was gentle. "What about your parents? Did you know them?"

  "Not my father." He tried to sound no more than wry. "It was a case of hit and run, I suspect. My mother..." Mac shrugged. "She was too young, too poor, too weak. Didn't know how to cope, I guess. It was supposed to be just for a little while, until she could get a better job, a decent place to live. I was maybe five or six. She visited at first, but visits got further and further apart." He took a gulp of the beer, which didn't have the comforting heat of good whiskey. "I've thought about looking her up, but it never seems worth the bother."

  He wasn't surprised by the shock he saw on her face. "Aren't you...curious?"

  "Why should I be?" he said coldly.

  "Maybe something happened to her. Maybe she couldn't help it. Wouldn't it make you feel better to know why she quit coming?"

  He'd debated enough with himself to be sure of his answer. "No. You can't change the past. She left my life too long ago for me to care one way or another anymore."

  He saw her teeth close again on her lower lip as though she restrained herself. "Maybe you're right," she said finally. "I'd want to know, but maybe that's just because I like to torture myself."

  The small attempt at humor worked, and he gave a twisted smile. "I have my moments." He pushed away his plate with a half-eaten piece of pizza that had lost its appeal. What he craved now had nothing to do with food. It was the woman who sat on the other side of the table who made him hungry for more. He wanted to feel her soft lower lip between his teeth. He wanted to run his fingers through those thick, shiny strands of hair that tumbled over her shoulders. He wanted to feel the sleek strength of her body against his. He wanted...

  Mac pulled himself up short. He wanted her. Was that supposed to be news?

  To evade the bite of desire that would never be satisfied, he said in a different tone of voice, "I called Norm again today."

  Her eyes flashed to his. "Your partner?"

  "Um." Mac took another long swallow of beer and made himself say it. "Somebody must have betrayed me. There's no other answer."

  Megan's forehead crinkled. "Somebody? You mean, someone you work with?"

  "Have any better ideas?"

  "Well, there are lots of other possibilities, aren't there? Like... oh, could the phone be tapped? You call all the time."

  "I didn't, until this started. Anyway, we made damn sure that doesn't happen."

  Her troubled gaze searched his. "Could some conversation just have been overheard? You know how you drop a remark..."

  "Yeah." His mouth twisted. "Gee, Hal, want a drink? By the way, did you know MacClain went to ground in Devil's Lake, Oregon? Works for a guy named Jim Kellerman."

  She wrinkled her nose. "Okay. But you know it wouldn't have to be that expansive. Anyway, the alternative isn't very pleasant. To think that somebody you know..."

  "Believe me, I've thought about it." He tasted acid in his throat and regretted the pizza. He'd damn near had an ulcer a few years before. Wouldn't surprise him if he were working on one again.

  "How many people...?"

  "Five." He rubbed the knots on t
he back of his neck. "Unless somebody's slipped badly, only five people know where I am. They're not all friends, but close enough."

  Softly she said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Did he want to? No. But he'd held too many silent arguments with himself. Could it be Gary? But why? What was the motive? Frank? His kid needed plastic surgery for a cleft palate. Was the insurance going to pay for it? If not, what would he do for his own son?

  Hell, it was getting to the point where Mac even wondered about Norm. He'd caught himself weighing every nuance in Norm's voice when they talked, listening for that edge, that hesitation, that might be revealing.

  Weary, he said, "I've been trying to figure out what it would take to make each one of them turn on me. You know the scary part?"

  She shook her head.

  "I can think of a good reason for each of 'em. I could probably come up with a couple. We all have weaknesses."

  Megan was frowning again. "Like?"

  As much to himself as her, Mac said, "Bill Marshall likes money. Drives a Porsche, divorced his first wife and found himself a real looker. They live the high life, he dresses sharp. You know the kind. Inherited some money, the new wife is a model who doesn't do too badly, but they bought a house that must have cost millions. Makes you wonder."

  "Do you...do you like him?"

  Mac shrugged. "Yeah, he's okay. We go fishing together once in a while. I'd have said he's honest— But now, who the hell knows?"

  "What about the other four?" Megan asked, that small crease still between her brows.

  He told her about Frank, then Gary. "I know him the least well. He's the youngest, new to our office about a year ago. Good reputation. He's married, though, and has two little girls."

  "That's a weakness?" Megan said incredulously.

  "If it makes you subject to pressure?" Mac shook his head. "Damn right."

  Those vivid blue eyes didn't leave his as she tilted her head back for the longest swallow of beer she'd had yet. "Is that everyone?"

  "Miguel Ramosa. Married but no kids. Miguel's trouble is, he can't keep a grip on his temper. Hasn't gone anywhere in the Bureau because sooner or later he makes every supervisor mad."

  "You're saying he might hold some kind of grudge?"

  Mac slouched lower in his chair and yanked the pull tab off his can of beer. He thought better when he had something to fiddle with. "God knows. He and I have always gotten along pretty well. But maybe he just wants to foul up an investigation. Maybe he figures he deserves some bucks for putting up with the Bureau's crap all these years. Your guess is as good as mine."

  "And the fifth one is Norm."

  Mac grimaced, feeling a headache squeeze. The recurring headaches of the first few days had gradually diminished. This one probably had more to do with the burning in his belly than it did with the lump on his head.

  He grunted. "Yeah. Norm. You know, I'd have said he was the unlikeliest, but by God, he knows the most about my movements. And he wants to retire early, figures he can't afford it. One little coup like this would do it."

  Megan burst out, "It's horrible having to...to pick people apart like this! These are your friends! Like Norm. I've heard you talk to him. I know you trust him! There's no way he'd hand you over just so he could take early retirement. What if he knew you were thinking things like that?"

  "Goddamn it!" Mac slapped the tabletop. "If Norm were the one sitting here, he'd be wondering about me!"

  She shook her head hard. "I'm not so sure. There have got to be other ways you could have been found. Maybe your job has made it too easy for you to think the worst of people. Are you even considering how else it could have happened?"

  Through gritted teeth, he said, "What do you think I've been doing all week?"

  "Checking out local people. Which I guess made sense." The dubious way she said that grated. "But the FBI is a big government bureaucracy! Everything must be computerized. Somebody who knows what he's doing can break into any data base. And what about other people who work there, like secretaries and clerks and bookkeepers? Surely one of them would be a more likely leak."

  Mac growled, "Do you think I'm stupid?"

  She waved that off. "Of course not. But how do you get your paycheck, for example?"

  "Automatic deposit." With exaggerated patience, he said, "No, I did not let the Social Security administration know my new name and address. I don't call my next-door neighbor twice a week to see how my house looks. I haven't called a single old friend. When I said only five people know where I am, I meant it."

  "You mean, your friends don't know what happened to you?"

  "Friends and family are the easiest way to find somebody on the run."

  She threw up her hands. "But it just doesn't make sense!"

  "It makes perfect sense." Willing his emotions to be icy, Mac met her eyes. "The truth just happens to be ugly."

  "Having to sit around analyzing your friends for 'weaknesses' is ugly, you're right about that!"

  He shoved his chair back. "You think it's my idea of a good time?"

  Her chin came up. "Maybe not, but you're good at it!"

  "It's my job!"

  "To notice your friends' weaknesses?"

  Anger was hot in his throat. "I'd be a fool to trust people indiscriminately. When the hell has anybody come through for me?"

  The minute the words were out, he wished them unsaid. They had come from the buried child who had painfully learned not to trust others.

  But her expression had already changed. He saw compassion, tenderness that twisted his gut, and pity. It was the pity that stung.

  "I've trusted all five men before with my life," he said roughly. "But things have changed, in case you hadn't noticed. My life depends on my not making a mistake. I'd be a damned fool to assume decent people can't be bought."

  "You're wrong," she said, shaking her head. "It's not true! People don't all have that kind of weakness. I would never betray a good friend. Never. And I don't believe you would."

  "You don't know me well enough to say that." He went to the refrigerator for another beer. Alcohol was one form of escape he usually avoided, but tonight it was the only one he could afford. What he wanted was to sweep Megan into his arms and carry her up those narrow stairs to the pristine bed at the top. He wanted to kiss her until she couldn't talk back, see the blue of her eyes deepen with desire. He wanted to bury himself in her, forget for at least a few minutes that he'd endangered her and that when this was all over he'd be walking away again.

  "That's not true!" Her answer held the kind of passion that made him sure she'd respond as generously with her body. She did nothing halfheartedly— except maybe fight her attraction to him. Fight it she did, but he knew she felt it. Her face was too expressive to hide powerful emotions.

  "Okay." Beer can in hand, unopened, he bumped the refrigerator door shut with his hip. "What's my greatest weakness?"

  "That's easy," Megan said without hesitating. "You can't totally trust anybody."

  "In my world, that's a strength."

  She changed direction, startling him. "Have you ever been married?"

  Mac cracked open the can and took a cold swallow. "No."

  "Why?"

  "Because . . ." He stopped. He'd never considered marriage, even when he was seriously involved with a woman. Why? Hell, maybe Megan was right. It didn't take a psychologist to guess that he was afraid of a replay of his mother's desertion. "Maybe being smart enough not to get married is a strength, too."

  Megan smiled, her mouth curving so softly he felt a hungry kick of desire. "You're a cynic. Someday, somebody will cure you of it."

  "If you're not careful," he said, deadly serious, "someday, somebody will cure you of being so trusting. The lesson will be a bitter one."

  "Do you trust me?" she asked suddenly. "Or do you think I'd sell you out if this, this Saldivar called?"

  Yeah, if he'd ever trusted anybody in his life, it was Megan Lovell. America's sweetheart. What a
n irony. The funny part was, he'd trusted her even out in the lake, the scene of his worst nightmare. Her eyes had mesmerized him, her voice had been eerily calm. He had lain there like a child, giving up the iron control that had kept him whole inside all these years.

  The answer to her question shocked him cold. Maybe it shocked him most because it had come without hesitation.

  "No." He had to clear his throat. "I don't think you'd sell me out."

  "A miracle." Her voice was light, but in her eyes he saw a greater truth, a shift of emotion that affected him as profoundly as it had her.

  "Don't look at me like that," he half growled.

  "Like...like what?"

  "You're asking for something you don't want."

  Megan didn't pretend not to understand. "This..." her gesture took in the cramped kitchen, the dinner leavings on the table, the intimacy, "this isn't easy."

  Her veiled admission made it damned hard not to take that one step to her side. It was all he could do to remember that his job was to get them out of this mess, not deeper in it.

  Deliberately crude, he said, "So you've got the hots for me just because I'm here, huh?"

  Her eyes flared. "Hey, you're the one who kissed me, not the other way around!"

  "Fine!" he snapped. "I'll do it again, and then we can agree on how much fun it is to live together." Logical that was not, but he was past caring. He'd never pressured a woman sexually before, but there was a first for everything. His gut told him that if Megan didn't disappear soon, a hit would be made on her. And what were the odds he could prevent it?

  So he took that step nearer to her, although she had shrunk back against the table.

  "Don't..."

  He wrapped one big hand around the back of her slender neck and with the other tilted her chin up. "Then stop me," he said huskily.

  They stared at each other for a long, charged instant. Reflected on her face was her inner war—one she lost. He saw the defeat in her eyes a second before she made a small sound of longing in the back of her throat.

  She couldn't have done anything more calculated to make him lose sight of his purpose here. With an answering groan, Mac covered her mouth with his.