by Misty Evans
He grabbed one of his numerous burn phones from the bottom of his desk drawer. “Give me your cell number.”
“Why?”
“What part of D.C. are you in right now?”
“I’m at The Corner Tap near my office.”
He knew the place. Knew the young crowd that hung out there and often offered up information on their bosses in a state of inebriation. Not that he would ever go fishing there. Some of his sources might, though, one of them being his hacker buddy, Teeg, who just happened to work for Grey...
Sending Teeg would have been an option if the kid wasn’t holed up with the Justice Team on some case.
So why did Brice’s intuition tell him to tackle this one on his own?
Not intuition. His goddamn cock was doing the thinking on this one. He wanted to meet Hope Denby face-to-face to see if her body matched her hot-as-hell voice.
The Corner Tap. Fifteen minutes and he could be there.
But if she actually had information that would point to the Chief Justice being intentionally murdered, the bar was not a safe place for this kind of exchange. Too many surveillance cameras in the area. Too many eyes who would know who she was and who she worked for. “Give me your number and I’ll text you in ten minutes with the address of a place to meet.”
“What’s wrong with the bar? It’s public.”
She was smart, he’d give her that. “If you want me to meet you to discuss this, Ms. Denby, you’ll have to play by my rules. We’ll still meet someplace public if that puts your fears to rest.”
“There’s a Starbucks up the street. Would that be better?”
Lots of college kids coming and going. Hackers stealing personal information from the customers using the Wi-Fi. “How will I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing a red scarf.”
Red. His favorite color. His mind flashed with all sorts of images of Hope Denby wearing nothing but a red scarf.
He shook his head, clearing the Technicolor porn. “Give me your number just in case.”
“In case what?”
So much for thinking she was smart. God, she was either an airhead or too fucking naive for her own good. Since you didn’t get to the Supreme Court being an airhead, he assumed the later. “Do you want me to show up or not?”
She rattled off her number, all huffy, her voice sexy even when doing a perfunctory task.
He typed the number into the burn phone’s contact app. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up before she could argue, which seemed to be her normal mode of operation. Arguing. Great source you got there, Bri.
For half a second, he sat frozen watching the clock on his screen. Denby’s info could be nothing. Controversial cases came up every day for the Supreme Court and it was up the Chief Justice to decide which ones got heard. Didn’t mean a man should die to postpone the decision.
Turner could have simply been a good Samaritan in the wrong place at the wrong time like all the papers said.
Or there could be a very real connection between what was on his docket and his sudden, premature death.
Conspiracy theories were just that until they were proven. Brice saw a dozen or so every day, but the ones that niggled his gut, he knew were the real deal.
Right now, his gut was going crazy. Not from Sydney’s cookies or from Hope’s sexy, yet compelling voice.
Well, maybe from her voice. It wasn’t often he had a female caller.
Trusting a complete stranger, even if he was dying to see what she looked like and find out just how much of the Supreme Court’s Kool-Aid she’d drunk, was out of the question.
He’d given himself an extra five minutes on top of the travel time. Logging into his background checker, he typed in Hope Denby’s name.
What came up thirty seconds later was all kinds of interesting.
Photos filled his screen. Her high school graduation, college, her ID badge for the PIO. In all of them, she looked young and fresh and...full of life. Blond hair, blue eyes, a heart shaped face. Reece Witherspoon’s cousin. The all-American girl.
Cheerleader in high school? Check.
Homecoming queen? Check.
Graduation speaker? Check.
Even in college, she’d kept a 4.0 and was in a bevy of clubs, a sorority, and was president of a journalism organization.
She’s a journalist at heart. A purist. Most journalists considered bloggers like him to be the scum of the earth. No wonder she hates me.
Her Facebook page gave him more insight. She’d traveled extensively in Europe with friends during her freshman break, interned for two different international companies, and each and every day, she posted an inspirational quote on her Facebook page that her one thousand and sixteen friends Liked ad infinitum.
Brice wanted to barf.
Except for the part of him that didn’t. She was a young, barely twenty-five, overachieving brat and a part of him admired that fact. He’d once been an overachiever too.
He’d once believed all the bullshit he’d fed himself about making a difference in the world.
Hope Denby screamed idealist. Deep down, he admired her naiveté. Or maybe it was simply that, unlike him, she still took pride in her belief that she could make a difference.
What he really admired was her blue eyes and the way her purple turtleneck hugged her upper body in her employment picture.
Totally fuckable.
What was wrong with him? He didn’t have time for relationships, and a relationship required trust. Since he didn’t do trust after being blindsided by the ATF, there was no way he could pursue a young, brilliant woman like Hope Denby.
Young being the operative word. She was a damned baby.
Totally not fuckable for an old man like him. Yeah, these days, thirty-five felt damn old.
Putting his computer to sleep, Brice found his keys and snagged a cookie for the road.
Chapter Four
In the coffee shop, two couples sat in booths and a single guy at a table along the wall typing on his cell phone. Otherwise the place was quiet. The smell of fresh brewed coffee hit Brice’s nose as the bell overhead dinged.
“Evening,” one of the baristas called.
Brice gave the gal a noncommittal wave. He’d sat in the parking lot long enough to see Hope, with her red scarf wrapped around her neck, enter the Starbucks and meander around. First, she’d sat at a table near the front window, then moved to a leather chair across from a display. Finally, she’d gone to the restroom in the back and had yet to come out.
The perfect place to highjack her.
Not that he would normally corner an unsuspecting woman in a restroom, but a source was a source. He made it a rule never to meet one in public, but if he did, he made sure the exchange of info didn’t go down in front of witnesses.
“Can I get you something?” the barista asked as he walked toward the back.
She was twenty at the most, and had a multitude of earrings in her ears and a tiny diamond stud in her nose. Her smile and the message in her eyes said she was bored and hoping he might give her a reason to like her job.
He didn’t want coffee, but he also didn’t want to stand out from the normal customers who only came in if they did. “Coffee. Black.”
“Size?” Her gaze inventoried his dark sweatshirt, ball cap, and worn jeans. “No, wait. Let me guess. Grande.”
The little wink she gave him suggested she was no longer talking about the size of the coffee cup.
He gave her his good ol’ boy smile and nodded. “You’re good.”
“It’s a little game I like to play when things are slow.”
Her gaze said there were other games she’d like to play with him if he were interested. He tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter and kept going. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He ducked behind a half-wall that hid the entrances to the restrooms. At the women’s wooden door, he heard the sink water running. Good, Miss Denby wouldn’t be in a compromisin
g position.
Slipping inside, he had the door shut and locked before she even registered he was there.
Damn, her pictures didn’t begin to do her justice. Her eyes were a startling blue. Her nose even perkier than her high school picture revealed. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, leaning against the door. Tight skirt, high heels, flawless skin. The shapeliest calves he’d ever seen, probably thanks to her cheerleading days. Yep, everything about her was perfect. Why was she getting involved in this potential dirt?
She eyed him warily, turning off the faucet and holding up her hands. “Look, whoever you are, I have to warn you. I know Krav Maga.”
Her gaze was fierce but her body stance said she didn’t know jackshit about fighting skills or self-defense.
All bluster. Brice gave her his good ol’ boy smile just to see what she would do. “Did they teach you that at the Public Information Office as well? You probably have to defend yourself from all sorts of weirdoes there, don’t you? Crazy bloggers and the like. And you know, you really should lock bathroom doors.”
She dropped her hands, gave him a puzzled expression. “Mr. Hawkeye? Is that you?”
“You were expecting Santa Claus?” Why did she insist on calling him mister? “What do you have for me, Miss Denby?”
“I, uh,…” She grabbed paper towels and dried her hands hurriedly. A faint smile crossed her lips, whether from relief that he wasn’t a rapist or murderer, or the fact he’d shown up at all to talk to her, he wasn’t sure.
Her coat was unbuttoned, her knit sweater showing off her generous chest and flat stomach. Her heels clicked as she walked toward him and the door, working those sexy calves.
Totally fuckable.
When he didn’t move out of her way, her smile faltered. “Shouldn’t we go sit down?”
“I’d rather stay here.” For more reasons than one.
“In the restroom? Don’t you want a coffee, or a cappuccino or something? You can get decaf, you know, and they have really tasty scones. My favorite is the blueberry, but the pumpkin ones are good too. I’ve been thinking about them ever since you agreed to meet me here. Considering the deadline you gave me and the fact that I skipped dinner.”
Another wide smile, all teeth. Perfect white teeth.
Brice saw no subterfuge in her blue eyes, yet, something was off. What is she up to?
Virgin sources. Always a bucket of nerves. They often stalled in order to make up their minds about spilling what they knew.
His fingers itched to touch her legs. Baby or not, if she hadn’t been a potential source, he would have fallen all over himself to buy her a coffee. To joke and flirt and peel back those perfect outer layers and see what lay underneath. To drag his fingers over her calves and up under that tight little skirt.
Except, truth be told, she wasn’t his type. He liked them smart but less…bubbly. More serious.
Then again, it had been so long since he’d let himself get interested in a woman, he wasn’t sure he had a type anymore.
No woman in her right mind would look at a washed-up ATF agent like him, now a conspiracy theorist, as potential boyfriend material. “I don’t have time for blueberry scones and mocha cappuccinos, Miss Denby. I’m on the clock. Do you have information for me or not?”
“Oh, it’s Hope.” The overhead lights reflected on her pale pink, highly-glossed nails as she held out a hand. “We haven’t properly introduced ourselves.”
God help him, her perkiness would drive him to drink.
He almost took her hand, then remembered that, after this meeting, he would no doubt never see her again. Which kind of sucked, but his world gave no quarter for young, naive, idealists, and he had enough complications in his life without adding another.
“Is this about money?” he asked her. “If so, I should have been upfront with you. I don’t pay sources. Ever. No matter how big the scoop is. I know other, more dubious bloggers will, but I won’t. The exchange of money dilutes the validity and legitimacy of the information.”
“I don’t want money. And I completely agree with you regarding the validity of information.” Her cheeks flushed a shade somewhere between the red scarf and the pink nails. “But you could at least buy me a drink.”
“This is not a date.” A shame, really. The flush in her cheeks only served to heighten her innate beauty. “We are not friends, or even acquaintances. Once we leave this restroom, we never have to see each other again, and even if we do run into each other on the street, we will act like we don’t know each other. Got it?”
“For Heaven’s sakes! What’s with all the covert stuff? We’re having a conversation, not exchanging codes.”
This was why he preferred his tried and true, experienced sources. “I ruffle people’s feathers, and even though I keep the lowest of low public profiles, a determined person could figure out who I am, where I live, who my friends are.” All four of them. “There are a lot of nut cases in D.C, and quite a few of them are politicians with deep pockets and plenty of minions to do their dirty work. I’d rather not end up in the Potomac, and I certainly don’t want you to end up there because you met me face-to-face.”
“You make this sound like some CIA undercover operation.” Her face was now white. “And your life sounds like a lonely one.”
Fuck. The pity clouding her eyes was more than he could stand. “I do what has to be done. A long time ago, I thought the bad guys were fighting against our government and the laws in place to keep our citizens safe. Now, I know many of the worst bad guys are inside the government breaking those same laws.”
“Ah, a cynic. Of course. Well, I hate to burst your bubble Mr. Cynical Hawkeye, but I don’t even know if what I found out has anything to do with Chief Justice Turner’s death.”
“You called me down here at eight o’clock at night so you could get me to buy you a coffee?”
He shook his head, flipped the lock, and opened the door. “Priceless, Miss Denby. Thanks for wasting my time and making me miss my deadline.”
He’d only gone two steps when she yelled, “Wait!” and grabbed him by the back of his sweatshirt.
Now she had problems. As in the text she’d received from Rob two minutes before old Hawkeye scared the you-know-what out of her by ambushing her in the bathroom. According to Rob, their beleaguered boss was still behind closed doors.
Which meant stalling the blogger and not giving him the Kenton Labs case until she got Amy to sign off. How she would manage that with Mr. Persistent here, she hadn’t a clue. He was a scrappy one for sure.
And there was only so much flirting she could do with such a crab. But, the challenge he presented, the challenge of him, sent every nerve ending on alert. God, she loved it. All that juicy energy and excitement and, well, nervousness over an unusual case? Total rush.
Always.
“Mister...sorry...Hawkeye. Whatever.”
“It’s not that hard Ms. Denby.”
“Well, yes, actually it is. I’ve been raised to address people formally until they give me permission to use their first name.”
And where did that come from? Total flyer.
He grinned. “You can call me Hawkeye.”
She grinned back. “Ooh, a sense of humor. Careful now, I may actually start to like you. How about Hawk for short?”
“Black, grande coffee!” the barista hollered, her tone screaming impatience.
“Is that yours?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to call attention to myself so I ordered something.”
“Excellent!” she chirped. “I’ll grab a cup too and one of the scones.” She paddled her hands. “Go. Let’s chat.”
Let’s chat? Sounding like a flake hadn’t been on her to-do list today, but hey, anything for the job.
Her phone buzzed from her coat pocket and she fished it out. Text from Rob telling her she was still S.O.L. on the boss.
Terrific. Minute by minute updates.
She glanced up at Hawkeye
and—ooh, she would totally call him Hawk to rattle him—and smiled at the barista checking him out. If Hope didn’t hate him, she’d completely understand the girl’s need to do so. After all, he had that whole relaxed, scruffy look going and she imagined, had he not been wearing a baseball cap over his short, honey colored hair that it too would have that messy, but groomed look to it.
Had to love a man who could pull that look off.
“So you like hats,” she said. “You don’t happen to have a cowboy hat, do you?”
If he had a cowboy hat, she’d be dead meat. From head to toe, blogger and all, this guy might be her worst nightmare.
Or her greatest fantasy.
He scooped his coffee from the counter and headed right out the door.
Rob’s dramatics over a blogger bringing down the stock market replayed in her mind. And if Kenton Labs was the case in question, billions could be at risk. Billions that would most definitely impact the economy.
Oh, no sir. Nuh-uh. If she let Hawk walk out, who knew what his next blog post would be. If she gave him something, maybe she could leverage it. Keep him in control.
String him along.
At least until she received direction from Amy.
“Stall, sister,” she muttered.
Passing the bakery case and the nice little sugar buzz she craved, she hauled butt after Hawk. On the sidewalk, she glanced left, spotted him nearing the corner and started running. Well, as much as the stupid heels would let her. Sometimes it truly sucked to be of diminutive stature.
“Hawk!” she yelled.
That’ll get him.
Yep. He spun back, flapped his free arm and stormed back to her. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Ooh. Rather a harsh reaction. What was that about? “I’m sorry?”
“You just yelled my name on the goddamned street. What do you not get about me wanting to protect my privacy? And it’s Hawkeye, and no, I don’t own a fucking cowboy hat.”
What a shame. Although, probably a good thing for her and her little twisted blogger-slash-cowboy fantasy. “I’m sorry for yelling your name. I was trying to get your attention before you left.”