Ian couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Samantha. He’d never seen Josh stirred to full anger, and he could tell by her expression that neither had she. This was not the charming, easygoing boss they all knew, this was the hard-nosed, steel-spined man who had built Redstone into a worldwide powerhouse.
“I need a direct connection, not just suspicions. If JetCal is behind this, I want irrefutable proof. And then I’m going to destroy them. Nobody hurts one of my people and walks away.”
“Now what?” Ian asked, more than a little warily.
Josh looked at him consideringly. “We could put it out that they were successful. Announce your death. That would protect you, at least.”
“And risk my parents hearing somehow? And I do what, go into hiding until you track them down, hoping they don’t find me?”
“There are risks,” Josh acknowledged.
Ian’s mouth tightened. “No, thanks. I’d just as soon help you nail them, thank you.”
“Good. Because I’ll need your help and cooperation.”
Ian didn’t like the sound of that last part, but he didn’t say it. “What are you going to do?”
“First,” Josh said, “I’m going to call Draven.”
Chapter 12
This wasn’t the first time Sam had been in someone’s home without their knowledge. It wasn’t even the first time she’d been digging through someone’s belongings.
It was, however, the first time it had ever troubled her overmuch.
Her reason for being here was utterly innocent—to pick up some clean clothing for Ian to wear home, since his shirt had been ripped and his pants muddied yesterday—but still she felt guilty, knowing how angry he was at her. As she went past the cluttered office, and the near-spotless kitchen, a memory of that evening spent with his parents shot through her mind. She’d enjoyed that so much. They’d been so different from anything she’d expected or experienced. She’d found the bemused acceptance they had for Ian, and he for them, the very definition of family at its best.
With a smothered sigh she turned to go down the hall, remembering from the floor plan that the master bedroom was to the left. She passed a spare bedroom that was full of exercise equipment; his fitness clearly wasn’t just a lucky gift from Mother Nature. A second bedroom was set up as a guest room. She thought she sensed Juliet’s fine touch there, and wondered if that was where they stayed when they were in town for longer than a few hours.
If they ever were, she thought with a smile.
She continued to the end of the hall. The door was half-closed, and she nudged it open. She expected much the same kind of room as the den, a mixture of function and more work, most likely with papers and books piled up as they were elsewhere.
For a moment she just stood and stared. And then she smiled. The smile became a grin as she stepped into another world. She wouldn’t have thought Ian’s touch would be recognizable, not the way Juliet’s had been in the guest room, but it was. From the huge four-poster bed to the bright, cheerful colors in the quilt that covered it, to the equally bright colors in the large painting on the wall, it was a surprise.
Yet it fit him, somehow. Not only was there no trace of the clutter he lived with elsewhere—only a single hardback book on the nightstand, one of the historical books he’d mentioned—but the room was in its own way as charming as his parents. Whimsical, almost, and that was something she never would have guessed at.
Instinctively she was drawn to the painting, which was apparently of a young, rather dashing-looking wizard, decidedly un-Merlin-like. Done in oils or acrylic, she didn’t know enough to be sure. But even she couldn’t miss the energy and enthusiasm of the style; the brush strokes were powerful and quick, giving the subtle impression that so was the wizard of the painting. The background was in a softer focus, a laboratory of some sort. The figure wore a cloak, of course, but it lacked the traditional stars and moons, and looked more modern somehow. As did the setting, and the man himself, she thought, stepping closer. There was something in those green eyes that—
She cut off her own thoughts abruptly. Took a step back. And realized, belatedly, that the wizard was Ian. It was the glasses, she thought, that had thrown her off. She’d never seen him without them.
For a long, very still time she stood there, just looking. Gradually, something on the edge of her vision drew her gaze downward, to the scrawled signature of the artist in the lower right corner of the painting. Gamble.
She knew instantly it wasn’t Ian himself; he didn’t have the ego necessary to paint himself like this. Hugh? Juliet? Could be either one, she thought, the style fit their energetic personalities. But if he had this from them, why would he ever doubt their understanding of what he was?
She backed up a couple of steps, to change her view of the painting, to better get the effect of the whole. She sensed she’d reached the bed and leaned back against it. After a moment her attention shifted as something else crept into her awareness. She turned around to look at the bed she was leaning against.
She hadn’t realized it was so high. Even at her height she’d have to use the step to get in it comfortably.
The moment the thought formed in her mind she groaned aloud.
“Where is your head, Beckett?”
She stopped short of answering her own question aloud, but she thought it. She didn’t think about climbing into any man’s bed, but least of all a man who despised her. At least for the moment, she added silently, refusing to acknowledge how much she hoped that feeling was only temporary.
“Get to the job you came for,” she ordered herself.
She found the large and only partially full walk-in closet and grabbed the first pair of jeans she saw, refusing to take the opportunity to snoop any further. She took a green shirt she’d seen him wear before—and remembered because of how it brought out the color of his eyes—off a hanger and put it with the jeans. His shoes were still at the hospital and wearable, but he’d need new socks. There was a small dresser against one wall, and she pulled open the top drawer, figuring it to be the most logical. Not that she expected logic to apply with Ian, but—
Silk boxers.
She stood staring into a drawer full of boxer shorts with the undeniable sheen of pure silk. And color. Blue, green, even, back in one corner, red. She reached out with a tentative finger and touched the luscious fabric. It was like touching soft air, like what she’d thought of as a child when she’d read about magical beings with gossamer wings. It was delicate yet incredibly strong, and was warming even under her slight touch.
A barrage of erotic images hit her in a rush. Silk, soft and delicate, warmed by hot, solid male flesh. The idea that all this time, the quiet, studious Ian had been indulging himself in something so sensuous, the feel of silk on naked skin. That hidden beneath his often staid clothes was this…
The seeming contradiction stunned her. And suddenly she understood the male fascination with women’s lingerie, because the thought of Ian in nothing more than a pair of these was heating her up in a big hurry. Her silly thought about the bed had embarrassed her; these thoughts took her breath away.
In a swift, short grab that was almost desperate she yanked out a pair of the boxers and stuffed them in the pocket of the jeans. She dug out a pair of socks, then shoved the drawer shut, wishing she could shut off the stream of images as easily.
She headed for the door as fast as she could walk, refusing to admit that what she really wanted to do was run. At the door she paused, unable to resist a last look at the painting. But somehow even it looked different now, as if discovering this one secret about Ian had changed her perception of him completely.
She made it out to her car but didn’t move to start the engine. With the discipline Draven’s long, hard training had instilled, she forced the vivid images out of her mind. If she betrayed herself to Ian, she’d be embarrassed beyond belief.
It was several minutes before she finally turned the key.
Sam had e
xpected the reaction she got when she walked in and announced to Ian she was his ride home. As anxious as he was to leave the hospital, she thought he’d probably rather stay than go with her. He made clear the accuracy of her guess with his first words, spoken as he sat upright in the hospital bed.
“I’ll take a cab. Or walk.”
“Right. It’s only four or five miles.”
“I’ll go back to Redstone, then,” he said. “It’s practically around the corner.”
“Josh wouldn’t let you in the building. Besides, did you forget you need to check your computer at home?”
“No,” he said sharply.
Sam took in a breath and turned to face him head-on, her hands on her hips. “Look, I know you don’t like this, but neither of us has a choice. It’s Josh’s orders. And if you don’t like this, you’re going to like the rest even less.”
He drew back slightly. “The rest?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re in the car. And moving.”
Sarcasm tinged his voice. “Afraid I’ll jump out and run?”
“Exactly,” she said, dead serious.
His wariness increased, but she didn’t give him a chance to dwell on what could be that bad. She grabbed up the small bag of items she guessed the hospital was letting him take home, since they’d already added the exorbitant price to the bill.
“Here,” she said, handing him the clothes she’d brought, proud that only for a fleeting moment did the image of silk on skin gain a hold in her imagination. “If you want out of here, get dressed.”
He looked down at the clothes, then back at her. “You raided my closet.”
It was more an observation than an accusation. “I figured you’d want to get out of here more than you would mind my intruding on your space.”
If he had differing thoughts on the matter, he didn’t voice them.
“Do you need a nurse to help?” No way she was going to help him, not with her suddenly overactive imagination.
“I can do it.”
No way was she going to stay here while he got out of the bed in one of those hospital gowns, either.
“I’ll wait outside the door,” she said.
Still, she stayed close, and kept the door open so she could hear if he had a problem or fell or worse. But a few minutes later he was at the door, looking much as he always did.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Don’t I have to ride out in a wheelchair or something?”
“I asked. They said no, they don’t do that anymore. That if you couldn’t make it under your own steam, you probably shouldn’t be released in the first place.”
“I’ll make it,” he said, sounding rather fierce.
“I’ve got the instruction sheet. And your discharge papers,” she said, gesturing with the paper that included a list of symptoms to watch out for, like headaches that refused to go away or blurred vision, and instructions not to drive until cleared by the doctor. A moot point, Ian observed aloud sourly, since his car was still being held hostage.
Sam chose not to answer that one. “Let’s go.”
He did make it, although Sam thought he was concentrating so intensely he could have scaled Everest if he’d set that prodigious mind to the task. He insisted on getting into the car by himself and truly didn’t appear to need any help.
He belted himself in without reminder. She thought about asking if he’d remembered the password, but decided since they were going there first, she’d know soon enough.
And then, she thought, would come the big explosion.
He couldn’t, she told herself philosophically, be any madder at her than he already was. And Rand would be there. That should help. He wouldn’t blow up completely in front of somebody else. At least, she didn’t think he would. But after this morning, she was no longer sure just how well she could predict the behavior of Ian Gamble.
Deciding he couldn’t get any quieter, she said, “I saw the painting of you. It’s wonderful.”
To her surprise he smiled, an inward-turned smile that looked almost wistful. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I saw the artist’s name.”
“Yes.” His voice had that same wistful note.
“Was it one of your parents?”
He looked at her then. “My wife.”
Sam barely managed to keep from gaping at him. She had quite literally forgotten the woman existed. Ian never mentioned her, and the file had indicated the marriage was both hasty and short. For an instant she dug through her memory, because he’d not said “my ex-wife” or “former wife.” But no, she was sure, there had been a divorce.
“I’m sure you must have known about her.” His tone had turned sour now. “Redstone wouldn’t send you on a job unprepared.”
She recovered herself. “According to the file, you were divorced some time ago.”
If he’d been trying to snipe at her, he gave up then. “Yes. What had seemed to her…like that painting at first, soon became dull and boring.”
“So she left?”
“We agreed it was a mistake,” he corrected. “She was a free spirit, and I was…who I was. I wasn’t any better at it than she was, after the novelty wore off. Having somebody around all the time made me crazy.”
“You were young,” Sam said neutrally.
“Very. We were crazy about each other, but it just wasn’t working.”
“And now?”
He shrugged. “She’s in Europe. Painting. Living with another artist. And happy. I’m glad for her.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not carrying a torch, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you still hang that painting.”
He smiled again, that same smile. “Yes. The fact that once, somebody actually saw me like that is not something I want to forget, no matter how inaccurate the perception.”
“It’s not inaccurate.”
She said it before she thought, and when his smile vanished with the tightening of his mouth, she wished she could take it back.
“Infatuated eyes don’t always see reality,” he said.
Was that aimed at her, personally? Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. She didn’t dare look at him. Not when she wasn’t sure if she wanted the answer to that question to be no…or yes.
“Are you going to tell me what’s hanging over my head now?”
She gave him a sideways look as she made the last turn. He didn’t look particularly tense, so she said, “We’re almost there. It will keep.”
He didn’t react when she pulled into his driveway, but then that’s what she usually did when she brought him home. But when she got out when he did, he looked at her across the roof of the car.
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” he said.
“Let’s go see if that notification is on your computer. Josh will want to know ASAP whether it worked or not.”
“Oh. Sure.”
He went straight to the computer next to the window the burglar had broken into—Josh had had it fixed already, she noticed—as soon as they were inside. It came to life the moment he touched the keyboard. She’d noticed before that he left it on all the time. She guessed it was because when an idea struck, he didn’t want to waste time booting up.
With a few quick mouse clicks an e-mail program opened, and then he glanced over his shoulder at her.
Great. He doesn’t even trust you to watch him do this, in case you try to snag his password.
With a smothered sigh she turned away. The moment she did, she heard him type something so quickly she couldn’t even be sure how many letters it was.
A knock came from the front door. Ian looked startled, but Sam knew who it was; Rand must have seen them arrive from next door.
“I’ll get it,” she told him, and Ian turned back to the screen. He seemed immediately engrossed, because when Rand came in he didn’t even look up.
“It’s here,” he said a moment later.
She walked to look over his shoulder
then, and he let her, as if he hadn’t cared in the first place. Not that it mattered. What she saw made no sense to her, anyway.
“Does it tell you anything?”
“Other than that they got this far? No, nothing that I understand,” he said, making her feel a bit better. “But Mike encoded it, so he should be able to get something out of it. May take a couple of days, but at least we know someone is running the data and the program from my disks.”
Only then did he seem to realize they had company. His face went expressionless as he saw Rand, his only reaction to look from her face to Rand’s, as if comparing them now that they were here together.
“Let me reintroduce myself, for real this time,” Rand said, holding out a hand. “Rand Singleton. The other half of the team that tried to pull a fast one on you. Although you should have known Josh wouldn’t just let it go,” he added, in an almost teasing tone.
His easy acknowledgment of the situation seemed to defuse the tension. At least Ian shook his hand.
“I won’t introduce myself, since you probably know more about me than I do,” Ian said.
Well, maybe not, Sam thought.
“What I do know about you tells me you’re not one to blame somebody for something they had no choice about,” Rand said.
For a moment Ian looked chagrinned, and then he said in a wry tone, “What makes you think I’m blaming somebody else?”
Rand considered that for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then slowly he smiled. “Ah.”
Ah, what? Sam wondered. What was that supposed to mean? Men! Half the time you can’t get them to talk, but then when they do, they don’t make much sense.
“So, is that what we needed?” Rand asked, gesturing at the computer screen.
“It’s what we were waiting for,” Ian said. “Whether it’s what we need I don’t know. Mike will have to tell you that.”
“I’ll take it in to him, if you like, while you guys get settled in,” Rand said.
“Settled in?” Ian’s gaze flicked from Rand to Sam, then back.
“Nice job.” Sam nearly snarled it at her loose-lipped partner.
One of These Nights Page 14