Hot Target

by Marliss Melton

He gave a self-conscious shrug.

  "You're a modern-day Robin Hood," Hilary added, warming to her rose-colored vision of him.

  Stu snorted at her assertion. "Hardly."

  "Wow," she said, resting her head against the back of the couch and gazing at him with a fresh perspective. "I've never met anyone like you."

  He avoided her gaze, staring at the digital clock on her DVD player. "It's past midnight," he pointed out. "You should probably get some sleep."

  Was he packing her off to bed or suggesting they go there together?

  "You go ahead," he said, providing an answer to her unspoken question. "I'll be fine out here." Reaching for the Mac he'd stowed beneath her couch, Stu startled Mitzie into abandoning his lap.

  Hilary blinked at Stu as he roused his Mac with a tap. "You're seriously going to work at this time of night?"

  "Just for a bit. I'll crash here when I get tired."

  How could he not be tired now? Her eyelids were as heavy as sandbags. "I'll fetch you a blanket and a pillow," she offered, hurrying to her bedroom to retrieve the proffered items.

  Returning to the living room, Hilary hesitated. "Here you go." She placed the bedding on the cushions next to Stu.

  The glow from his laptop illuminated his intent expression as he pursued his mission. "Thanks," he said, not bothering to look up.

  Vexed that he was ignoring her, Hilary pursed her lips and turned away. Shutting herself inside her bathroom, she studied her reflection while she scrubbed her face and brushed her teeth.

  Very seldom had any man rebuffed her sexual advances. There were only two reasons she could think of why Stu persisted in doing so. One, he wasn't attracted to her flamboyance—though he had called her pretty when they'd Skyped. Some men preferred their women mousy and spineless. In short, they were fools. Reason number two was a stretch, something she could scarcely comprehend. Maybe he put women on a pedestal. Considering how he'd witnessed his mother's struggles to raise a family, then watched his sister throw away her innocence in her quest to find the right man, that was a distinct possibility.

  Don't ever give yourself away. You're worth way more than that.

  Stripped of her makeup and jewelry, she looked young and innocent. The truth was, though, Hilary had given herself to just about any man who'd shown her the slightest bit of attention. Not because she was a nymphomaniac. Not because she was a slut. Hilary simply wanted male attention, and she could never get enough.

  Having Stu in her living room, taunting her with his powerful male body, so near yet so unattainable, was driving her nuts. Did he want her or not? She had to know if she was wasting her breath on him.

  After putting away her toothbrush, she returned to the living room. Totally engrossed in whatever he was looking at, he didn't even glance at her.

  Undeterred, Hilary walked up to him, furrowed her fingers into the soft waves of his short hair, and waited. He looked up—startled but not repulsed. Watching him for the slightest sign that he objected, she leaned over him, unmindful of her gaping robe.

  He glanced down at her breasts, hanging like ripe fruit, then jerked his gaze back to her face. Nothing in his expression begged her to stop.

  Touching her lips to Stu's, Hilary found them warm and smooth. He responded sensually and gently. The slightest suggestion of bristly six o'clock shadow on his chin rasped her cheek as she lingered, savoring the sweet promise of desire as it flowered between them.

  When Hilary severed the kiss and straightened, there was no mistaking his hooded stare for anything but appreciation.

  Triumph beat back Hilary's uncertainty. Stu wanted her—hah! Maybe she hadn't managed to seduce him, but it was certainly going to happen one day. All in good time. Oh, yes, she was going to witness Clark Kent turning into Superman, and she couldn't wait for that unveiling, yet wait she would, if he preferred.

  "Good night, Stu," she purred, biting her lip to keep from smiling like the Mona Lisa. He didn't need to know how much his interest pleased her.

  Profound silence accompanied her as she padded to her bedroom. At her door, Hilary glanced back to catch Stu staring. He jerked his attention back to his laptop.

  He wouldn't take her up on her invitation tonight. She'd already guessed he wasn't the type to have sex on the first date. And that was OK. Hilary was exhausted anyway. Stepping out of her robe, she hung it up, snapped off her light, and slipped naked between her silk sheets. In less than a minute, she was asleep.

  * * *

  At six in the morning, Stu roused from a light slumber on Hilary's couch, helped himself to her bathroom, showered and shaved. He kept his movements stealthy so as not to wake Hilary. He figured she deserved to sleep in after he'd kept her up so late.

  Entering her tiny kitchen, he poked around to get his bearings. Mitzie appeared from some hiding place to weave circles around his ankles. Locating the cat food, he fed her first, then brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Finding eggs, bacon, and bread in the refrigerator, Stu set about making breakfast.

  Hilary's kitchen, with its kitty cat canisters and matching dish towels, struck him as cozy. Stu hummed tunelessly beneath his breath. When he was a kid, he'd wanted to fix his mother breakfast in bed, but she'd always been up and out of the house before he and his siblings even woke for school. The opportunity to pamper a woman rarely came Stu's way. Sure, occasionally, he'd left a bar with a woman, mostly just to appease his teammates who'd set him up with dates. But he'd never stayed the night with any of them. And Hilary was nothing like those other women.

  For one thing, he could talk to her almost as comfortably in person as over the phone, and when he did, she understood him! She even challenged Stu's assertions by suggesting possibilities he'd never considered. Best of all, Hilary looked at Stu like he was more than a freakishly intelligent person diagnosed with a mild case of Asperger's.

  Stu hoped, if he played his cards right, Cat Lady would let him visit her again—even if they never caught and held Anya Audfeld's murderer accountable.

  Over the sizzle of the bacon, he heard Hilary's bedroom door click open. As he glanced up, she emerged, tousled and impossibly sexy in the same satin kimono she'd worn while she kissed him last night. The memory of her sizeable, creamy breasts swaying before him made Stu's mouth water.

  "Morning," she called, as she stretched her arms up overhead a moment, reminding him at once of Mitzie. Placing her glasses on her nose, she smiled up at him, her eyes enormous, turquoise pools.

  "Hey." Stu dragged his attention to the stove before he burned the bacon.

  She glided closer, wearing that hero-worshipping look that made him feel bigger and stronger than any other man. "Did you even sleep?" she asked.

  "Oh, sure." He transferred the bacon onto a paper towel-covered plate. "Caught a few hours on the couch."

  She blinked at the pan he held. "You're making breakfast."

  She made it sound like he'd hacked into North Korea's nuclear weapons program.

  "Do you mind?" Maybe she was territorial when it came to her kitchen.

  "Are you kidding?" she beamed at him.

  Phew. "Hope you like your eggs over easy." He cracked two open on the side of the pan.

  "My favorite," Hilary declared, padding across the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee.

  Stu tried to remember what he wanted to tell her. "Oh, I found something interesting last night."

  She whirled wide-eyed to look at him. "What?"

  "The painting at the auction house in Santiago—it was bought by a woman."

  Hilary gasped with excitement. "Bergit Coenen?" she guessed.

  "Yes. How'd you know?"

  "Logic," she replied. "According to Anya's letter, Bergit fancied herself in love with Goebel. Bergit, more than anyone, would have an interest in reassembling his collection. Now, if that's not confirmation of the Coenens' association with Goebel, I don't know what is!" Hilary paused to add cream and sugar to her coffee.

  Stu gingerly turned the eggs, careful not to break
the yolks. "I found something else interesting."

  "What?" Hilary's spoon chimed against the lip of her mug.

  "Irena Kapova might have defected from the USSR, but she's a registered Socialist."

  Hilary carried her coffee closer. "Oh, that is interesting," she crooned. "What, exactly is the difference between socialism and communism?"

  He paused to think. "Well, according to Marxist theory, first there's feudalism, like what existed in the Dark Ages. The bourgeoisie gain power and feudalism gives way to capitalism. That works for a while, until the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. That's when the working class revolts. They advocate socialist ideals that spread wealth around to everyone because everyone is supposed to own everything jointly with no private property. After those ideals become legislated and enforced, a communist state arises." Stu cracked open two more eggs. "So communism is just an advanced form of socialism where some group, usually a political party, becomes the government, owns everything and controls the wealth."

  "God, you're smart." Resting her mug on the counter next to him, Hilary watched Stu. Her assertion, paired with her intense scrutiny, made him fumble the fork. He nearly dropped it in the hot oil.

  "We need to tell Juliet what you discovered," she declared, producing her cellphone from the pocket of her kimono. Thumbing a swift message, she put her phone away, and lifted her big, beautiful eyes. "You make me look good," she declared, giving him a cheeky grin. Her gaze fell to his puce-colored sweater and lower, to his brown corduroy pants. "But you have absolutely no fashion taste," she asserted.

  One moment Stu felt invincible. The next, he wanted to hide under the table.

  "That's OK." She patted his arm consolingly. "Because I'm taking you to Tyson's Corner today to do a little shopping."

  Hilary's announcement made Stu's heart sink. He would rather be waterboarded or repeatedly tased than forced to mill around with strangers in a public location or to try on clothes. But with Hilary at his side, he supposed he could suffer through it.

  "I think we've earned a little shopping therapy," she added, blithely unaware of his dismay.

  Chapter 13

  "You gotta admit, the view is gorgeous," Tristan said, following Juliet's gaze out the passenger-side window.

  California's Coastal Highway offered an unparalleled view of the Pacific Ocean, stretching as far as the eye could see. Bright sunshine had replaced the previous day's clouds. A stiff breeze ruffled the water's steel-blue surface and kept the birds above gliding on a perpetual current. Juliet's sweet profile as she took in the scenery completed Tristan's contentment.

  "It looks a little inhospitable," she replied in the dry tones of a realist.

  "For people," Tristan agreed, even as a breeze buffeted their vehicle. "But the marine life loves it. Hooyah," he added, expressing his happiness.

  Their plan to visit Monterey's famous aquarium while they were in the area further bolstered his spirits. They had left Hans Coenen and his murky ties to Cold War espionage far behind. He and Juliet would enjoy this adventure together as they had down in Mexico—at least until all hell broke loose. By the time their impromptu vacation drew to an end, Juliet would realize heaven meant for them to be together.

  First Tristan had to take her thoughts off Coenen, which wouldn't be easy, considering Hilary had just texted with news that Irena Kapova was a registered Socialist and that Coenen's sister, Bergit, had bought Goebel's painting in Chile the week before. It looked more than ever as though Hans and Bergit were the brother and sister pair mentioned in Anya's letter. What's more, Bergit was still obviously allegiant to the spymaster if she was buying pieces of his art collection. Whether that gave any of them a motive for seeking vengeance after twenty-two years was still debatable.

  Intent on drawing Juliet into the present moment, Tristan turned up the volume on the country music station they were enjoying. He promptly joined the artist in belting out a line about no shirt, no shoes, no problem. Juliet tossed him a tolerant smile and he thought he had her, but then her cell phone rang. She pounced on it, gasping as she read the number.

  "It's my messaging service!"

  As tension tightened her face, Tristan's hopes for a carefree getaway went straight out the window.

  Coenen had taken the bait. Disappointed, Tristan watched Juliet's reaction as she listened intently to the message. Her gaze went to the road ahead of them. She began to peer around as if expecting to see something.

  "He wants to meet," she relayed when the message was over. "At a town called Rockaway Beach, just south of San Francisco. And it's obvious he knows I'm not an insurance agent because he didn't even bring that up. Do you know where Rockaway Beach is?"

  Tristan's mood abruptly darkened. "Yeah," he affirmed. "We're almost there." He had glimpsed the quaint, seaside village on his way to the airport to pick up Juliet. In fact, he'd planned to stop there for a quick meal this very day. Coenen had just ruined his and Juliet's lunch date.

  "He wants me to meet him there at noon," Juliet added, her expression tightening, "on the path that goes out to the point."

  The update had him spearing a suspicious look in his rearview mirror.

  "He's following us, isn't he?" Juliet said in a voice taut with strain.

  "Yep." For Coenen to expect a rendezvous outside of San Francisco in ten minutes, he had to know exactly where they were, just like he might have known yesterday that they were at Fisherman's Wharf. Obviously it was time to find another set of wheels.

  Tristan scrutinized the cars behind them, looking for one that a retired cop might drive. "You're not going to talk to him without me," he insisted. He'd be damned if he'd sit in the car again, like he had the day before, and let Juliet face a possible murderer on her own.

  She considered his ultimatum a moment before casting him a look of apology. "I have to be alone. He's not going to admit to anything with you standing there."

  "What are you planning to say to him?"

  She had already thought this through. "I'm going to tell him I saw him at the scene of the accident."

  "What?" A black Charger trailing three cars back caught his eye. "Are you crazy?"

  "Listen." Juliet tried to reason with him. "Sometimes to incriminate a perp, you have to catch them off guard. When I tell him I know who he is and what he's done, Coenen will either deny my accusation or walk away. Chances are good that he'll do or say something incriminating."

  "And you'll be filming with your button again," he guessed.

  "Of course." Juliet withdrew the device from her purse and attached it to the lightweight jacket she wore. It looked just like the other buttons on her outerwear. No doubt she had bought the jacket with that fact in mind. Coenen would never know the difference. Still, he could only have some nefarious purpose for wanting to talk to Juliet so privately.

  Tristan didn't want to scare her, but..."Look, the path to the point where he's asked to meet you is probably right next to a cliff. Doesn't that make you nervous?" It made his skin crawl.

  Juliet considered the question. "Not really. He's not going to try to kill me knowing you're watching us."

  Her words relieved some of the tension building in him. "Then I'm coming with you."

  "Not exactly. You'll be close enough to shoot him if you have to, but far enough away to give us privacy."

  Juliet's comment pulled a reluctant laugh out of him. "Honey—" Leery of trampling her pride, he weighed his next words carefully. "This isn't the kind of investigative work you usually do. There's a political history here that neither one of us can fully appreciate. I think the FBI needs to question Coenen. Not you."

  "Agreed," Juliet said, proving herself reasonable. "But no agency will believe my story without more evidence. Trust me. I have the advantage here. Coenen never saw me at the scene of the accident. When he finds out that I saw him there, that should shake him, and I'll be filming his response. If he tries to hurt me, by all means shoot him but don't kill him. That's a totally defendable ac
tion, especially if we're standing on a cliff."

  Tristan groaned and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

  "It'll be all right," she said in a calm voice meant to reassure him. A glance at her lap, however, revealed she was gripping her purse with white-knuckled hands.

  This insanely dangerous meeting wasn't the adventure Tristan had in mind when they'd set out that morning.

  As Rockaway Beach came into view on a straightaway, a cold feeling dropped into the pit of his belly. Two hotels, a couple of restaurants, and a quaint village of touristy shops comprised the village by the sea. Signaling his intent to exit the highway, Tristan watched in the rearview mirror as the black Charger slowed and moved into the right lane to follow. A hundred bucks said Coenen was driving that car.

  Parking proved scarce, even on such a blustery day. Tristan zipped into a spot as someone vacated it, putting them directly by the bulkhead of boulders. Waves battered the rocks, and a fine sea spray immediately filmed their windshield. He looked in his mirrors for the Charger, but the driver must have pulled into a different parking area.

  Adjacent to the parking lot, a worn path followed the rocky bluff, enticing tourists to a grassy overlook that jutted into the ocean two hundred yards distant.

  "There's the path." Tristan pointed it out to Juliet. "You sure you're up to this?"

  Her expression as she took in the cliff's edge betrayed no fear. "I'll be fine," she repeated. "Here, take this." She reached into her purse and produced her Ruger, placing it in his palm.

  Tristan checked the magazine and found it loaded. Smaller than the weapons he was accustomed to, the 9-millimeter felt like a water pistol. Without practice firing it first, he doubted he could hit a target past fifty feet.

  Taking one last look at Juliet's set features, he felt the words I love you rush to the tip of his tongue. But since she hadn't responded the last time he made that confession, he kept the words in check and, instead, brushed a quick kiss across her lips.

  "Okay, let's do this." Hiding the pistol in the front pocket of his hoodie, he rounded the back of the car to get Juliet's door.