Tracy nodded. “It freaks me out. Thinking that he came back into my apartment to do that. I mean, I remember looking at his picture in February.” On Valentine's Day—she was such a loser. “So sometime between then and now…” It had to be either while she was sleeping or in the shower. “That gives me the creeps.”
“Okay, January, huh … ?” Lindsey frowned at her computer screen and started flipping through picture files. “Lemme see. …”
And then, like magic, there it was. The photo of Michael that Tracy had taken while he was talking on his cell phone, leaning against the front hood of his car. “Yes!” Tracy leaned closer to look, and Lindsey hit print.
“Would you look at that?” her friend, a former LAPD detective, said. “We've got his face —and his license plate numbers.”
“Those won't be his plate numbers,” Tracy said.
“You never know,” Lindsey told her. “If he thought you were easy—” She winced. “Not you—the job. You've got no military or law enforcement training. You're a receptionist, not an operative. That kind of easy. This may actually be his car.”
Her computer had printed the photo on regular paper, so it wasn't very high quality, but it was still good enough.
Tracy followed Lindsey as she took the picture down the hall to the lobby, where Jo Heissman was being babysat by Lopez. Lindsey handed the older woman the printout.
Jo laughed grimly, and looked up at Lindsey and then Tracy. “That's him,” she confirmed. “Peter Olivetti.”
It was stupid, but part of Tracy had hoped both she and Jo were wrong. Of course, it was only relatively recently that her twenty-year-long hope that someday her prince would come had been fully dashed.
“AKA Michael Peterson.” Tracy turned to Lindsey. “Is there a secure way—completely secure—to send this photo to Alyssa?”
“I'll call her,” Lindsey said.
“Tess is with her,” Tracy said. “Tess would know.”
“I'm on it.” Lindsey disappeared down the hall.
Jo stood up. “When do we get to find out what's going on—what this is all about?”
“I'm not at liberty to say,” Tracy told her, told Lopez, who'd also gotten to his feet.
“Is Jim Nash still alive?” Jo asked. She had a way of looking at people as if she could read their minds.
So Tracy thought about Decker, about how badly she wanted him to walk through that door. Please, God, she wanted to know that he was safe. And then, she wanted him to take her by the hand, and lead her back with him to his office, where he'd close the door. Only, as soon as the door shut, it wouldn't be his office anymore, it would be a hotel room. In Paris. With roses—hundreds of them—in vases around the room, surrounding a pillow-covered bed. And on any surface where there weren't vases of roses, there would be lit candles, smelling faintly of vanilla.
Outside of the window would be cobblestone streets and the most beautiful sunset, with an accordion playing a haunting, romantic tune— way in the distance.
Decker would look at her, and she'd smile and say Game on, and he would smile, too, and then with heat in his beautiful eyes, he'd kiss her and …
“God, I wish,” Tracy told Jo, through a throat that ached with longing. She didn't wait to see if Jo believed her as she followed Lindsey down the hall.
Decker's intention was to stop in at the Troubleshooters office and pick up the secure satellite phone that Lindsey had left there earlier.
His intention was to call Jimmy Nash while he drove over to the hotel where Tom and one of his SEAL friends were standing guard outside of Dave's —and Sophia's—suite. Because it was time—and he hoped Nash would agree—to tell Dave—and Sophia—the truth.
But when he walked in, Jo Heissman, who was hanging in the lobby with Lopez, sat up and called, “Tracy! Decker's back!”
Jo had been curled up and dozing on one of the couches, near where Lopez was using a laptop computer to monitor all of the security cameras that were positioned outside of the building. The SEAL was both guarding Jo and standing sentry—with no risk of mosquito bites.
“Okay,” Lopez said, “I didn't see your truck enter the parking lot, and that's a problem.”
Decker leaned over the screen. Pointed. “My truck's there now.”
Lindsey appeared in the hallway, and she, too, shouted for Tracy. “Tracy, Deck's here.”
“So it is.” Lopez looked up at him, embarrassment and chagrin in his brown eyes. “Sorry, Chief. I don't know how I missed that.”
“Have some coffee,” Deck told him. “Stay alert.”
It was then that Tracy came flying down the hall, past Lindsey, and he braced himself because it seemed inevitable that she would launch herself into his arms. But she didn't. She stopped short, and just stood there, looking at him. And there it was again. Her heart, in her beautiful, intelligent eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked, as behind her Lindsey faded into her office.
“They didn't come after me,” Deck said as he gazed back at her, admittedly a little disappointed. It had been a long time since a woman had been so happy to see him that she'd flung herself at him. Emily had never been the flinging type. In fact, toward the end, she'd gotten so passive-aggressive about the time he spent away, she'd made a point never to be home to greet him when he returned.
Ranger was always home, though. And Ranger always damn near knocked him over in delight, whether Deck was gone for two hours or two months.
Decker hadn't realized how much he'd missed that.
“You say that like it's a bad thing,” Tracy said. “Like you're unhappy that you weren't attacked.”
“I am,” he admitted. “I want this over and done.”
Tracy nodded. “I think it's safe to say that we all do.”
Damn, but she was beautiful, even with no makeup on. Especially with no makeup on. She'd washed it off in the shower. Her hair was wavier than it usually was—probably because she'd done nothing to it or with it. She'd gotten into his truck, several hours ago, with it still damp.
From the shower.
And yeah, guess what he couldn't stop thinking about.
She was wearing those jeans that he liked, with a campaign T-shirt saying “Got hope?” and those cute pink and white sneakers on her feet. She looked unbelievably good, although admittedly not as good as she'd looked when she was naked and holding out her hand to him.
In the shower.
She held out her hand to him now, but it wasn't to pull him down the hall and into his office, where she'd kick the door shut and unfasten his pants. No such luck. She was holding out her hand because she was giving him a sat phone.
“I programmed it with your number,” she told him. “I think it's secure, but you should double-check that with Alyssa or Tess before you use it.”
“Thank you,” he said. Their fingers touched only briefly before she pulled her hand away. “That's, um …” He looked at it, flipped it on, flipped it shut. “What I came back for. That's great that you, uh, thought to have this ready for me. I appreciate that.”
Jesus Christ, he sounded like a moron. I appreciate that? What the fuck was his problem? If he wanted to drag her into his office and kiss the hell out of her, he should just goddamn do it.
“I'm in charge of equipment,” Tracy was saying. “I figured you'd want to have it. I mean, okay, I wanted you to have it. It was driving me crazy that you were out there without a phone. But you should definitely check with Tess—on a line that we know is secure—to make sure that I set it up right. It's too important not to, and … I won't be insulted. Not at all.”
Decker looked at her standing there. She was nervous as hell, and so clearly trying hard to be a professional. She turned, her body language indicating that she wanted to walk with him back down the hall—probably to his office where he could access that secure landline.
And kiss the hell out of her.
He glanced back at Jo Heissman and Jay Lopez, both of whom were watching them. It was
clear, from where they were sitting, that no one was willing to let the doctor roam free. Which was a good thing. Just because he didn't think she'd maintained her Agency ties didn't mean he wasn't wrong. And if the doctor really wasn't on the side of the bad guys, she wouldn't mind their precaution.
Of course, she was a cougar, so maybe she was just enjoying Jay Lopez's low-key but enormously attractive undivided attention.
And okay, that was harsh. And Deck had to confess that one of the reasons he didn't like his former therapist was because she knew too much about him. Including the fact that he would never, never kiss Tracy here in the lobby of the company office.
Never.
And Jo Heissman also knew that odds were he wouldn't do it, even in the privacy of his office, with his door shut.
She was shaking her head at him—just slightly—the smallest of smiles curving her lips. Yeah, she'd noted all the body language and whispered conversations between him and Tracy, back at her house, and she knew damn well what was up. And as Decker met her eyes, she actually flashed him an L—for loser.
“You're allowed to be happy,” she said, adding, “Shortest therapy session ever.”
That made him laugh and shake his own head as he turned—and lengthened his stride to catch up with Tracy, who was nearly halfway down the hall.
“You need to call Tess and Alyssa anyway,” Tracy was saying, “because I found a picture of Michael or Peter or whoever he really is.”
“Really?” he said, instantly back in step. “A picture of his face?”
“No, of his elbow.” Tracy shot him a look of disdain as she stopped at his office door. “Yes, of his face. And of his license plate, too. Go, me.”
And really, that was all it took. Ballsy Tracy was back, kicking nervous Tracy to the curb. Nervous Tracy made Decker think too much about fraternization, and how, for years, he'd had a self-imposed zero tolerance rule when it came to sexual relationships with fellow employees. Nervous Tracy made him nervous, too, but he knew exactly what to do with ballsy Tracy. He grabbed her by the arm—the one that he hadn't scraped the shit out of with Jo Heissman's back door—and yanked her into his office.
She slammed against him, but the full-body contact didn't faze her. On the contrary, she had her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair, and her lips locked on his before the door that he'd kicked shut hit and locked into its frame.
Her mouth was soft and sweet, and Jesus, so eager.
It was a replay of that kiss they'd shared in Sam and Alyssa's garage, except he was neither dizzy nor nauseous nor without his pants—which, this time around, was a crying shame. He was none of those things, and he was also no longer aghast at the idea of where this might go.
In fact, Deck knew exactly where it was going, and he couldn't fucking wait to get there. But it couldn't happen now. Not here. Okay, maybe here, but definitely not right now.
He pulled free. From her mouth only. The rest of her he held on to— tightly. She was soft and warm and pliant—as if she'd melted against him. She was breathing as hard as he was, and looking at him as if she could not believe he'd stopped kissing her. He understood her amazement. He could barely believe it himself.
“This was what I came back for,” he told her, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Not the phone. I just wanted to make that clear.”
She pulled his head down and kissed him again. And yeah, it was even harder to stop kissing her this time, because his hands were on her incredible ass and God save him, he'd wanted his hands there for what felt like a lifetime, and he didn't want to move them to a place more suitable for a serious conversation. So instead, he kept kissing her as he pulled her even closer, and merciful Jesus, she sat up on his desk and opened herself to him, and yeah, there he was, a real hero —dry-humping her, because he could … not… stop. …
It was Tracy, then, who pulled away. “You have to make that phone call,” she breathed. “We both have work to do.”
Decker nodded. And kissed her again.
She was laughing as she pulled away again. “I am not going to risk getting you mad at me for distracting you when you should be saving the world.”
Deck nodded again. And kissed her again.
And this time, instead of pulling away, she pulled him closer. “Unless,” she whispered. “You're okay with our first time being a quickie … ?”
Decker had to laugh. “I'm stopping,” he said.
But he kissed her throat, her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair, and she clung to him more tightly. “Sixty seconds,” she breathed into his ear. “I'll set the alarm on my phone. When it goes off? We're done.”
Decker caught her mouth with his own. Mmm. “I'm pretty sure at this point we've been talking about it for more than sixty seconds.”
“My point exactly,” she said. “I take longer bathroom breaks in the middle of a workday. Even in the middle of a crisis.”
He stopped what he was doing and looked into her eyes. “You're serious.”
Tracy laughed and shook her head as she pushed him away from her—well out of kissing range. She straightened her clothes and slid down off the desk. “I would hate it if someone was hurt or killed while we were getting busy. Even for sixty seconds. And I know you'd be thinking about it the entire time, which wouldn't be fun for you. I mean, I know you're already freaking out because we're in your office, not to mention the fact that I'm me—that I work for you”—she made quote marks in the air— “which is not true, but I know you don't think so, and knowing you it'd probably be a problem if it was only that I worked with you. So no, I'm not serious.”
As she continued speaking she crossed over to the couch that he usually kept cluttered with files and boxes and papers and books. She'd cleared it off—it was obvious that while he was gone, she'd been camping out here, in his office. She'd brought in a fleece blanket—one of those little ones that people took to evening football games—a pile of new legal pads, and some kind of computer printout.
“Okay, I'm probably a little serious,” she said as she picked up the printout and held it out to him. “Because I really love the way you kiss me and I want very much to do that again. At a time when we both feel as if we can take a break. Maybe even …” She paused dramatically, a sparkle of humor in her eyes. “For five or yes, even ten minutes.”
Decker laughed.
“I know,” she said. “It's almost too exciting to imagine. And considering the way you kiss me … ? I'm going big in terms of imagination. FYI, I'm using The Secret, too,” she teased. “The best ten-minute break I've ever taken in my entire life is in my very near future. But right now, Sparky, we need to get to work.”
Deck saw that the list she was holding contained personnel information for everyone who worked both out of this office and out of the Troubleshoot-ers’ Florida office. And he knew that she'd anticipated— exactly—his next move, and was preparing to contact everyone who was on their employee roster.
He nodded, and picked up his desk phone, punching in access to the company's secure landline.
Tracy gathered up all of her things. “I'll get you a cup of coffee,” she told him. “And that picture of Michael Peterson–Peter Olivetti—who, by the way, has the same middle name, which is Asshole, agreed upon mutually by his conned ex-girlfriends everywhere.”
And with that she left the room, closing his door tightly behind her.
Jimmy was awake when his phone rang. He tried to answer it quickly, because Tess had fallen asleep, curled up next to her computer and a variety of photos and papers that she'd spread across the plush carpeting of the bedroom floor.
He saw from the incoming number that it was Decker—about fucking time. “What's going on?”
“It's time,” Deck said.
“I figured as much,” Jimmy agreed as he watched Tess push herself up so that she was sitting. She swept her hair back from her face and looked at him questioningly, so he repeated Deck's words and embellished. “It's time to bring the entir
e Troubleshooters team on board—let 'em know I'm alive, tell 'em what's going on.” It was extremely likely that their enemy would also realize that he was alive, but so be it. It was time to protect their friends—as well as ask for their help.
She nodded, and Jimmy told Decker, “Tess agrees.”
“Where is he?” Tess asked.
“Where are you?” Jimmy repeated into his phone. “I'm putting you on speaker.”
“TS HQ,” Deck told them both. “I'm with Lindsey and Lopez. And Tracy. We're babysitting Dr. Heissman—you got my message about her, right?”
“That you no longer think she's Satan?” Jimmy said. “Please bear in mind that I'm not yet convinced.”
“No worries—we're not letting her run free.”
“But you're undermanned over there,” Jimmy pointed out. “Lopez is adorable, don't get me wrong, but he's no Lindsey—”
“We're in lockdown,” Decker said. “The building's secure. Don't even think about coming out here. Tracy's already started calling people in— we'll have backup ASAP.”
Jimmy glanced at Tess, who looked pointedly back at him. “I'm not going anywhere,” he promised them both.
“Besides,” Decker continued, “I need you working the what the fuck angle. Everything these motherfuckers are doing now? It's drenched in panic. We need to figure out what it is that they know that we know. Jesus, I'm tired. Did I just make any sense at all?”
“They, as in the motherfuckers,” Tess translated, “appear to know, absolutely, that we, as in the collective we currently participating in this phone call, have information that will, again absolutely, serve to identify them, thus resulting in their going to jail for a long, long time.”
“They're not afraid of jail,” Jimmy interjected. They were afraid of him—and they were right to be.
But Tess wasn't done. “However, we haven't yet figured out what it is that we, collectively, know. So really, the best thing we can do right now isn't to hunt for them in order to shoot it out, but instead to hunker down, do research, and crunch facts and information. I think when we put it together, we will know who they are.”
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