Athena Force 7-12

by Carla Cassidy, Evelyn Vaughn, Harper Allen, Ruth Wind, Cindy Dees

  “Shepherd,” she said. “Mama’s tonight? My treat since you covered my ass so well.”

  His lips turned down happily. “Yeah. I’ll go for that. Come here and take a look at this. I think we’ve got a variation of the e-mail virus happening here. See what you think.”

  Kim took the sheaf of papers. It was e-mails in Arabic, once again, but Scott had highlighted some imbedded code. “I think you’re right,” she said. “Let’s get on it.”

  “Cool.”

  She gave him back the papers and said, “You know, the blonde at the end over there has been sighing over you for six weeks. Maybe you ought to put her out of her misery and ask her out.”

  His mouth quirked up at the corners. “Implying what, Valenti?”

  She spread her hands. “Come to your own conclusions, babe,” she said.

  He went to the door. “The blonde on the end?”

  “The very one.”

  “She’s gorgeous, but maybe a little too young for me.”

  Kim winked. “She’s twenty-five. Just looks young.” She slapped his arm with the papers. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Mama Rosa’s was a storefront trattoria in suburban Washington, D.C., not far from the job. Kim had discovered it shortly after coming to the NSA and loved it for the traditional Italian foods she missed—she could feast here without having to deal with the hassle of family. It was agreeably low lit, with snowy tablecloths and plenty of bread and the smell of roasting garlic mixed with basil thick in the air.

  Kim breathed in the scent deeply. It smelled of home. Of raviolis and fresh affection and hearty food. Even Mama—aka Rosalie—who hurried forward when she spied them at the door, could have been an auntie with her lush bosom and pretty shoes. God forbid comfort should come before sex appeal when it came to shoes. Kim eyed the black, high heeled sandals with something akin to awe. Rosalie had to spend ten hours a day on her feet.

  The woman swept them both into an affectionate wave of perfume and oregano, giving them a beneficent smile before she realized Kim was a little battered. “Baby! What happened to you?”

  Kim waved a hand. “Oh, you know. Work.”

  “You shouldn’t be working at such job,” she said, and tsked. “Oh, well!” She kissed Kim’s cheek and patted Scott’s face. “I’m so happy to see you! Such a nice couple!”

  Scott winked. Kim shrugged. Rosalie would believe what she wanted. It was impossible to get it through the woman’s head that Kim and Scott, two young, attractive, single people, could be anything but wildly in love.

  “Your table is open tonight. Settle in and I’ll get you some wine!” She bustled off without waiting for a reply.

  Scott grinned, a dimple flashing in his left cheek. “She doesn’t believe in platonic relationships between men and women, does she?”

  “Maybe. Probably not.” Kim shrugged again, spread her napkin in her lap. “It’s more that she can’t believe a nice girl like me isn’t married yet. She’s afraid I’ll end up on the shelf.”

  He chuckled.

  Mama brought back red wine and poured generous measures into both glasses, in spite of the fact that Scott had protested on various occasions that he didn’t drink. She would also not allow them to order, but said she’d bring the best of the evening.

  “I love this place,” he said, pushing his wineglass toward Kim. “But you’ve really gotta take me home with you someday.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m sorry, but you think the marriage pressure is strong here? You haven’t seen anything.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I can handle it.”

  Kim shuddered. “You have no idea.”

  When he lowered his gaze, she realized—once again—that she’d been thoughtless. His mother had died a year or two before, which left him essentially orphaned.

  Truth was, she knew he’d love her family—the whole, complicated lot of them—and they’d love him back. Her brothers, two older, one younger, would love his size and strength and manly good looks. Her sisters, both younger by quite a lot, would swoon in girlish crushes. Her father would grill him for financial stability, and her mother would feed him and be delighted at his enormous appetite.

  “Maybe,” Kim said. “You could bring a girl along.”

  He grinned. “I bet that could be arranged.”

  “No doubt.”

  When the salads came, Kim buttered hunks of bread and gave him one. “All right, partner mine,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “do we want to talk about the caveman stuff while I was in Chicago, or are we going to forget it happened?”

  Scott winced. “Sorry. Let’s forget it.”

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t want this to come up again at some future point and bite me in the butt. If you have an issue, let’s get it out.”

  He was quiet for a minute, and watching him, Kim wondered why she never had been attracted to him romantically. He was drop-dead gorgeous, healthy, smart, sexy…everything. But she’d never thought of him like that at all.

  As he seemed to mull over his answer, her heart sank. She’d never wanted him as a lover, but she hated to lose him as a partner. They worked extremely well together.

  Finally, he lifted his head. “I did want you, at least sometimes I’ve wanted you. But I’ve always known you didn’t think of me that way, and maybe it’s just male ego wanting it to go the other way.” His sideways grin was very, very cute. “I mean, jeez, Valenti, you’re the only girl who doesn’t like me.”

  She laughed. “Thank God I’m here for balance.” She took a very, very tiny sip of wine. “All right, then, let’s figure out what we’ve got with Mansour. Any more ideas about the next targets?”

  “I’m thinking bridges. There were a couple of exchanges that made me just think we might need to look at trucks, transport, something like that.”

  Kim remembered the e-mail from Oracle before she left for Chicago. “Right. I had some intelligence that made me think the same thing. So where? What bridge or bridges?”

  “Where are our candidates going to be over the next week?”

  “We should check that. Also see about events, travel plans, maps, that kind of thing. There are huge crowds showing up in both camps, but the Secret Service is there ahead of us in the venues, so that’s less worrisome than it could be.” She paused in the act of nearly biting into her bread. “I did collect a lot of information on the Columbus Day parades. It would be easier if people celebrated on either Sunday or Monday, but that’s not the case.”

  “There are a couple of places that might be worth looking into more closely. Denver, for one,” he said. “There’s always a protest, which might lead to some chaos.”

  “Have we notified the Secret Service about all the possibilities?”

  “I sent it all over this afternoon. Haven’t heard back yet. Maybe you’ll get something from your mysterious source.”

  “I don’t have a mysterious source!”

  “Yes, you do. How long do you think I can work with you without knowing that?”

  “It’s your imagination, Shepherd.”

  He gave a disbelieving roll of his shoulders. “Whatever.”

  Mama brought out two heavy ceramic plates with sogliola alla mugnaia, steaming hot and fragrant, served with Mama’s trademark, hot fresh fettucini tossed with butter and herbs. The scent of basil arrowed through Kim’s middle, making her stomach growl. “It’s been a long time since lunch,” she said, digging in.

  For a minute, they focused respectfully on the food. “You still need to bring me home, Valenti. I’d like to hang out with your family.”

  “Get a date, and we’ll go on Sunday, how’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Let’s sleep on the bridges and things. Maybe something will bubble up.”

  They ate in companionable silence for a while, then Scott said, “I hear you got a promotion.”

  “Yeah. Go figure.” She looked at him warily. “Are you mad?”

  “When did I turn
into some petty loser who takes offense at your accomplishments, Kim?” He scowled at her over his water glass. “Seriously. You’ve been very weird.”

  “Sorry. You’re right.” She poked her fork into the pasta. “I’m not sure what I’m thinking.” But as had happened this morning, as she bent her head, she was assaulted with a vision of Lex, lean and long and dark, bending in to kiss her. She thought of him naked, standing in the kitchen aroused and hot. Her body flushed.

  “You gotta stop thinking of that guy around me,” Scott said. “You should see your face right now.”

  “Really?” She straightened, brushed hair away from her cheeks. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Don’t be. It’s good to see you fall.”

  Kim frowned. “I’m not falling.”

  “Whatever you say, Valenti.”

  Chapter 14

  By the time she made it to the enclave of her condo that night, Kim was tired. Definitely not in the mood for the reporters she found, clustered like beetles around her apartment. With grim determination, she simply powered through them with one hand up, refusing to talk or answer the usual volley of questions.

  She was also not in the mood for the message she had waiting from Marc. “You could have let me know,” he said petulantly. “I didn’t need to see you on the news with some guy. I mean, I know we don’t have any claim, but, jeez, Kim, you were obviously hot for the guy.”

  Aloud, to the voice mail, she said, “You dope,” and pressed the button to go on to the next message. It was from her mother. “Call me, Kim. You know me. I just need to know you’re okay and home safely.”

  The last message was from Lex. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawled, “we didn’t officially exchange phone numbers, but I used my considerable influence to find your unlisted number. Give me a call.” He left his number. Kim scrambled to find a piece of paper fast enough, then played the message again to be sure.

  Hard to believe, looking around, that it had only been two nights away from home. That three nights ago, Marc had been here and she’d never met Lex Tanner.

  At least in the flesh.

  And what flesh it had turned out to be.

  Frowning, she kicked off her shoes and took the bag upstairs to unpack. He was pretty dangerous to her peace of mind—and her goals—if everyone she met kept saying how smitten she obviously was. How to rein it in?

  “Good question,” she said to the mirror, leaning forward to examine the damage more closely. Her eye was going to have its worst day tomorrow, she figured, when the bruises turned green and yellow streaked with red. Of her facial injuries, it was by far the most gory looking—and it hurt the least. Her lip, now, which had been cut on the inside and only looked a little swollen—it hurt.

  Her ear was hot, ugly and painful. Tenderly touching the edges, she vowed to make Ugly Face pay if she ever ran into him again. She’d had a lot of injuries in her time, but this ear thing was one of the worst. It seemed that everything jarred it.

  She unpacked her bag, threw the dirty clothes in the laundry and headed down to the kitchen for some tea when the phone rang. Checking her caller ID to make sure it wasn’t Marc, calling to check on her, Kim saw another name she recognized. Victoria Patton was a reporter for UBC and a fellow Athena student who had been a little bit ahead of Kim in school. Kim had admired the dark-haired, vivacious Tory from afar, but hadn’t run in her circle.

  She picked up the phone, intrigued. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Kim. I’m sure you’ve had a million phone calls, but this is Tory Patton. We were at the Athena Academy together, though you might not remember me.”

  “Tory! Of course I remember you.” Kim chuckled. “I had a terrible case of hero worship on you.”

  “Congratulations on your coup in Chicago. That was excellent work, and you made us all look terrific.”

  “Thanks. I had a lot of help.”

  “Right.” Tory paused. “Kim, I’d really like to do a story on you. Is that possible?”

  Kim had seen Tory’s work—a reporter based in New York, she’d covered a number of huge stories over the years, not the least of which had been coverage last year of the only man to survive a hostage situation in the Central American country of Puerto Isla. The man had been a Navy SEAL, and his return to the U.S. had led to Tory breaking the truth to the country about President James Whitlow’s campaign contributions from drug runners. “I’m honored, of course,” Kim said, “but I hardly think I can give you the kind of story you’re used to.”

  “You’re modest, Kim. That’s not a bad quality. But you’re not seeing how dramatic and interesting this is.”

  “I don’t want to talk about my brother, okay?”

  “No problem. You have a right to your privacy.”

  “All right, then. How do you want to set this up?”

  “I can fly in first thing tomorrow, if you like.”

  Kim frowned. “How long will it take?”

  “An hour, maybe. I’ll bring a cameraman, and we’ll tape the whole interview and then cut and paste.”

  For a minute, Kim hesitated. “All right.”

  “You’ve done a lot of good, Kim. We’re very proud of you.”

  Kim’s ear suddenly ached, and she put two gentle fingers to it. “Thanks.”

  “All right. What time is good? Noon?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then.”

  The phone had not been on the hook more than three seconds when it rang again. Checking caller ID, Kim saw it was a Chicago number and her heart jumped. She grabbed the phone, took a breath and said, “Hello?” in her best voice.

  “Ms. Valenti?” said a woman’s voice.

  Damn. She was tempted to say, “Wrong number,” but felt so idiotic about jumping for a phone call from a man that she just sighed with irritation. “Yes.”

  “My name is Lucinda Orange. I’m from the Chicago Tribune. I’d like to interview you for my column.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “All right. When would be good?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe never. I don’t know why I’m this big celebrity today.”

  “You don’t know.” It wasn’t a question, exactly, more like the droll recitation of an older sister. “Can I tell you?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “You’re young, beautiful, tough, smart, and you looked like Angelina Jolie coming out of that ceiling. Every man in the audience had a hard-on—but that’s not what I want to write about. I want to write about you for all the young women who are going to think you’re fantastic.”

  Kim couldn’t help it—she snorted in appreciation for the frank language. “All right, Ms.—what was your name?”

  “Lucinda Orange.”

  “Ms. Orange, what kind of column do you write?”

  “Commentary on women’s lives and issues.”

  “And what’s your angle?”

  “You mean are you going to look good or bad in print?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, Ms. Valenti.” The woman laughed in a throaty, pleasant way. “I admire you. That I can promise you.”

  “All right. I’ll give an interview, but I need to do it when I’m fresh. Call me tomorrow at ten, at this number.” She gave her the office number.

  When she hung up from the call, she picked it up immediately and called her mother. “Hey, Ma,” she said.

  “Kim! How are you, honey? You looked terrible on TV.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You know what I mean. You were obviously injured, and you know that worries me. What happened?”

  A thudding headache began at the base of Kim’s neck. “You know, Mom, I’m really tired. I can’t face another long catalog of the whole thing tonight, but I promise I’ll let you look me over head to toe on Sunday, okay?”

  “Fair enough. Are you going to bring that gorgeous creature you were with last night? Lex, is it?”

  “Mom, he lives in Chicago.”

  “But he’s Italian, isn�
��t he? That would make your father so happy, and you have to admit, he’s a very nice-looking man.”

  “Yeah, and he works for the bomb squad! Not great life odds there.”

  “Oh, please,” her mother said dismissively. “No worse than a firefighter or a policeman or a sol—” She halted.

  “Or a soldier,” Kim said. “Exactly.”

  “Bomb squad is definitely better than combat soldiers.”

  Kim silently rolled her eyes. “Ma, enough. I’m tired. I am not bringing him to dinner on Sunday. I am, however, bringing my partner, Scott, because he’s missing his family and he needs some love and attention. He is not husband material. Tell my father.”

  Eileen chuckled. “All right, baby. You go get some sleep and I’ll see you on Sunday. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Kiss my dad.”

  She hung up and rubbed her eyes. What day was it, anyway? When could she sleep in? It was Thursday. Not so bad. One more day.

  The phone rang again. Kim groaned. Looking at caller ID, she saw it was—again—a Chicago number, but this time she picked up the number she’d written down for Lex and checked it. Bingo.

  Her heart leaped, flipped, squeezed. Something. It hurt. “Don’t do this, Kim,” she said to herself. “Don’t make him into something he’s not, some beautiful perfect guy.”

  On the fourth ring, she picked it up. “Hello?”

  “How you doin’, darlin’?” said a rich, deep, Southern voice.

  As if she were Pavlov’s dog, Kim’s tailbone went soft. “I’m all right, Lex. How are you?”

  “Had better days. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  She fell on the couch, covered her forehead with an arm. And she did something she almost never did with a man—she let down her guard. A little bit. “I know what you mean.”

  “You thought about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think about?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not going to sit here and feed your ego, Mr. Tanner.”

  “If I feed yours first?”

  She laughed, suddenly transported to last night, when his long fingers had been entwined with hers. “Well, if you like.”