“I’m sure. It’s hard to mistake gondolas and canals. I remember Antibes because of the little gold emblem in the corner of the card that advertised the Côte d’Azur. And Barbados...”
Sheryl gazed at the wall, seeing in its wavy plaster a sea so polished it glittered like clear, blue topaz, and white beaches lined with banyan trees whose roots hung downward like long, scraggly beards.
“If the picture on the card came anywhere close to reality,” she murmured, “Barbados must have the most beautiful beaches in the world.”
Harry’s pen stilled. Against his will, against his better judgment, he let his glance linger on Sheryl’s face. Damn, didn’t the woman have any idea what that soft, dreamy expression did to a man’s concentration? Or how much of herself she revealed in these unguarded moments? Despite her assertions to the contrary, Harry suspected that the daughter had inherited more than a touch of her father’s wanderlust. She tried hard to suppress it, but it slipped out in moments like this, when she mentally transported herself to a white sweep of beach.
Despite his intentions to the contrary, Harry mentally transported himself there with her.
The sound of a low, rumbling growl wrenched him back to Albuquerque. A quick look revealed that Button had shifted his attention from Harry to the front door. The dog’s entire body quivered as he pushed up on all four paws and stared at the entryway. His gums pulled back. Another low growl rattled in his throat.
Carefully, Harry laid down his pen. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Sheryl’s eyes widened at his soft query. Gulping, she shifted her gaze to the door. “No,” she whispered.
“Stay here!”
Harry moved toward the door, his mind spinning with possibilities. The dog might have alerted on a neighbor arriving home. Maybe the security team was outside. Whoever it was, Harry had been a cop too long to take a chance on mights and maybes. He waited in the entryway, his every sense straining.
He heard no murmur of voices, no passing footsteps, no doorbell. Only Button’s quivering growls... and a small, almost inaudible scrape.
Pulse pounding, back to the wall, Harry edged toward the door. With no side windows to peer out, he had to resort to the peephole. He made out a bent head, a pale blur of a shirt, a glint of moonlight on steel.
With a kick to his gut, he saw the dead bolt slowly twist.
His hand whipped across his chest. The Smith & Wesson came out of its leather nest with a smooth, familiar slide. He reached for the doorknob and waited until the dead bolt clicked open.
The knob moved under his palm. He exploded into action at the exact instant Button flew off the sofa, snarling, and Sheryl shouted at him.
“Harry! Wait!”
Her cry was still echoing in his ears when he yanked the door open with his free hand. A second later, the stranger standing on the other side of the door slammed up against the hallway wall. The Smith & Wesson dug into his ribs.
His cheek squashed into the plaster, the tall, slender man couldn’t do much more than gape over his shoulder at his attacker.
“Wh—What’s going on here?” he stuttered. “Who are you?”
In response, Harry torqued the stranger’s arm up his spine another few inches. His adrenaline pumped like high-octane jet fuel. Button’s high-pitched yaps scratched on his strung-tight nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“You first,” he countered roughly. “Who the hell are you?”
Before he got an answer, Sheryl locked both hands on his arm. “It’s Brian,” she shouted, yanking at his bruising hold. “Let go, Harry. It’s Brian. Brian Mitchell.”
Slowly, he released his grip and stepped back. Button didn’t give up as readily. It took Sheryl’s direct intervention before the still-snarling dog retired from the field. A good-sized strip of gray twill pants dangled from his locked jaws.
The two men faced each other, blood still up and faces flushed. Sheryl dumped the dog on the sofa and hurried back to calm the roiled waters.
“Brian, I’m so sorry! I didn’t expect you, and it’s been such a crazy day. Are you okay? Button didn’t break the skin on your leg, did he?”
“No.” Jaw clamped, the younger man watched his attacker holster his gun. “Who’s this?”
“This is, er...” She turned, her face a study in frustration. “I can tell him, can’t I?”
Harry took his time replying. Now that he knew the man didn’t pose an immediate threat, his sharp-edged tension should have eased. Instead, Sheryl’s fluttering and fussing raised his hackles all over again. It didn’t take any great deductive skills to identify the man as Brian, her almost-fiancé.
Eyes glinting, he assessed the newcomer. An inch or two shorter than Harry’s own six-one, he carried a good deal less weight on his trim frame. He also, the marshal noted, didn’t take kindly to having his face shoved up against the wall.
“Elise said someone came into the station this morning and pulled you for a special detail. I take it this is the guy.”
“Yes.”
His gaze sliced from Sheryl to Harry. “Working kind of late, aren’t you?”
She answered for them, a tinge of pink in her cheeks. “Yes, we are. Why don’t you come in? I want to check your leg to make sure Button didn’t do any serious damage.”
Unmoving, Brian looked the marshal up and down. His lip curled. “I wouldn’t have picked you for a shih tzu owner.”
“You got that much right, anyway,” Harry replied with a careless shrug. “I would have dumped the mutt in the pound. Sher insisted on bringing it home.”
He used the nickname deliberately, not exactly sure why he wanted to get a rise out of the younger man. Whatever the reason, Brian’s scowl sent a spear of satisfaction through his belly.
Sheryl listened to their terse exchange with increasing consternation flavored with a pinch of irritation. They sounded like two boys baiting each other. She could understand why Brian might feel antagonistic, given Harry’s rough handling and his presence in her apartment so late at night, but she could do without the marshal’s deliberate provocation.
“Let’s go into the living room,” she said firmly. “Harry will explain what we’re doing while I check your leg.”
The remains of the meal still sitting on the table didn’t help matters, of course. Nor did the empty wine bottle on the kitchen counter. Frowning, Brian took in the littered table, the half-empty wineglasses and the dog once more stretched along the back of the sofa, his duty done. Slowly, he turned to face Sheryl.
“My leg’s fine,” he said quietly, all trace of antagonism gone now. “But I can certainly use a little explaining.”
Before she could reply, Harry stepped forward. The gold star gleamed from the leather credentials case lying in his palm.
“I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Harry MacMillan. Since Sheryl vouches for you, I’ll tell you that I’m tracking a fugitive who escaped while being transported for trial a year ago. His trail led to Albuquerque and, obliquely, to the Monzano branch of the post office.”
Brian’s face registered blank astonishment, followed by swift concern. “Is this fugitive dangerous?”
“He’s suspected of killing the marshal escorting him to trial.”
“And you pulled Sheryl into a hunt for a cop killer?”
“I requested that she be assigned to my team, yes.”
“Well, you can just unrequest her,” Brian declared. “I don’t want her taking part in any manhunt for a cop killer.”
Sheryl gave a little huff of exasperation. “Ex-cuse me. I’m getting a little tired of this two-sided conversation. In case you’ve forgotten, this is my apartment and my living room, and it’s my decision whether or not I’m going to work on this detail.”
Brian conceded her point stiffly. “Of course it’s your decision, but I don’t like it. Aside from the possible danger, this detail of yours has already disrupted our schedule. I waited almost an hour for you yesterday afternoon, and we missed our Tuesday night toget
her.”
As she looked up into his gray eyes, Sheryl’s momentary irritation disappeared, swept away by a fresh wave of guilt. She loved Brian. She’d loved him for almost a year now. Yet she’d gotten so caught up in Harry’s investigation that she hadn’t spared much thought to this kind, considerate man—until the marshal kissed her.
She felt a sudden, urgent need to fold herself into Brian’s arms and feel his mouth on hers. She turned, offering Harry a forced smile. “Would you keep Button entertained for a few minutes? I’m going to walk Brian to his car.”
“You stay here and talk,” he countered. “Much as I hate to be seen in public with this sorry excuse for a dog, he can keep me company while I reconnoiter the outside layout for the security folks.”
Sheryl grabbed the leash she’d purchased when she bought the dog food and shoved it in his hand gratefully. Frowning, Brian watched the oversized marshal depart with the undersized mop of fur at the end of a bright-red lead.
“Security folks?” he echoed as the door closed. “What security folks?”
Sighing, Sheryl abandoned her need to be held in favor of Brian’s need to know. Taking a seat beside him on the sofa, she tucked a foot under her and recapped the events of the past few days. When she got to the part about the slashed tires, Brian voiced his growing consternation.
“At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say I don’t like this. I wish you’d take yourself off this detail.”
“We don’t know that my slashed tires had anything to do with my participation on the task force. Anyone could have done it, but Harry insists it’s better not to take chances. He’s got a team coming out to install new locks and an alarm system.”
“I still don’t like it,” Brian repeated stubbornly.
Sheryl bit back the retort that she’d didn’t particularly like that part, either. She probably should feel flattered by Brian’s protective streak. Instead, she resented it just a little bit. No, more than a little bit.
Suddenly, Sheryl remembered that she’d curled into Harry’s side for protection only this afternoon, without feeling the least hint of resentment.
Guilt, confusion and a desperate need to reestablish her usual sense of comfortable ease with Brian brought her forward. Sliding her arms around his neck, she smiled up at him.
“I’m sorry you don’t like it, and I appreciate your concern. I want to be part of this team, though. If I have any knowledge that could lead to the capture of a murderer, I have to share it. After this detail, we’ll get back to our regular routine. I promise.”
Conceding with his usual good-natured grace, he bent his head and met her halfway. Their mouths fit together with practiced sureness...and none of the explosive excitement that Sheryl had experienced only a half hour ago.
Dismayed, she rose up on her knees. Her body melted against Brian’s. Her fingers tunneled through his hair. Brian was more than willing to deepen the embrace. His arms went around her waist, drawing her closer.
Afterward, she could never sort out whether he pulled back first or she did. Nor would she ever forget the look in his eyes. Puzzled. Surprised. Not hurt, but close. Too close.
“I guess I’d better leave,” he said slowly. “So you and—what’s his name?—Harry can get back to work.”
When his arms dropped away, her ache spread into a slow, lancing pain. Deep within her, she knew that she would never find her usual comfortable satisfaction in his embrace again. She’d changed. Somehow, she’d become a different person.
She loved Brian. She would always love him. But she knew now that she’d mistaken the nature of that love. Comfort didn’t form the basis for a marriage. Security couldn’t ensure happiness. For either of them.
If nothing else, Harry’s searing kiss had demonstrated that. Sheryl didn’t fool herself that she’d fallen in love with Harry MacMillan, or even in lust. She’d barely known the man for thirty-six hours. Yet in that brief period, he’d knocked the foundations right out from under Sheryl’s nice, placid existence.
Aching, she wet her lips and tried to articulate some of her confused thoughts.
“Brian...”
He shook his head. “I need to do some thinking. I guess you do, too. We’ll talk about it when you finish this detail, Sher.”
He pushed himself off the sofa. Miserable, Sheryl followed him to the door. He paused, one hand on the knob, as reluctant to walk out as she was to let him.
“Elise said you rescheduled your shopping expedition for a bassinet for tomorrow night. You need to call her if you’re going to be working late again.”
“I will.” She grabbed at the excuse to delay his departure for another few moments. “Or maybe you could take her?”
He nodded. “Sure, if you can’t make it. And don’t forget to call your mother. You know she expects to hear from you every Thursday.”
“I won’t.”
He opened the door, and a small silence fell between them. Sheryl felt her heart splinter into tiny shards of pain when he curled a hand under her chin.
“Bye, Sher,” he said softly.
“Goodbye, Brian.”
He tilted her head up for a final kiss.
Harry watched from the shadows across the courtyard. He needed to see this, he thought, his jaw tight. He needed the physical evidence of Brian’s claim. Of Sheryl’s affection.
It made Harry’s own relationship with her easier, clearer, sharper. She was part of his team.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Which didn’t explain why he had to battle the irrational temptation to unclip Button’s leash and turn the man-eating fur ball loose on Brian Mitchell again.
Chapter 7
Sheryl walked into the task force operations center twenty minutes late on Thursday morning. A taut, unsmiling Harry greeted her.
“Where the hell have you been? I was about to send a squad car up to your place to check on you.”
“Button set the dam alarm off twice before I figured out how to bypass the motion detectors.”
The marshal bit back what Sheryl suspected was another biting comment about hairy little rodents. Instead, he raked her with a glance that left small scorch marks everywhere it touched her skin.
“Call in the next time you have a problem.”
The curt order raised her brows and her hackles. “Yes, sir!”
Harry narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.
Tossing her purse onto a chair, Sheryl headed for the coffeepot in the corner of the conference room. She didn’t know what had gotten into Harry this morning, but his uncertain mood more than matched her own. She felt grouchy and irritable and unaccountably off-kilter in the marshal’s presence.
Much of her edginess she could ascribe to the fact that she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. She’d spent countless hours tossing and turning and thinking about Brian. She’d spent almost as many hours trying not to think about Harry’s shattering kiss. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow herself to dwell on the sensations the marshal had roused in her, not when she owed Brian her loyalty.
To make matters even worse, Button had added his bit to her restless night. The mutt insisted on burrowing under the covers and curling up in the bend of her knees. Every time Sheryl had tried to straighten her legs, she’d disturbed his slumber...a move that Button didn’t particularly appreciate. He’d voiced his displeasure in no uncertain terms. Between the dog’s growls and her own troubled thoughts, Sheryl was sure she’d barely closed her eyes for an hour or so before the alarm went off.
Grumbling, she’d dragged out of bed, pulled on a pair of white slacks and a cool, sleeveless silk blouse in a bright ruby red, then grabbed a glass of juice and a slice of toast. She still might have made it down to the federal building by eight if she’d hadn’t had to struggle with the unfamiliar alarm system. Twenty minutes and three calls to the alarm company later, she’d slammed the door behind her and headed for her car.
Her day hadn’t gotten off to a good st
art, even before Harry’s curt greeting. As she greeted the assembled team members, she guessed that it wouldn’t get much better.
Crisp and professional in her New Mexico state trooper’s uniform, Fay Chandler shook her head in response to Sheryl’s query about her son’s T-ball game.
“They got creamed,” she said glumly. “I had to take the whole team for pizza to cheer them up. They perked up at the first whiff of pepperoni, but my husband was still moping when I left the house this morning. He’s worse than my seven-year-old.”
Folding her hands around the hot, steaming coffee, Sheryl took cautious injections of the liquid caffeine. She carried the cup with her to the conference table and greeted Everett Sloan. The poor man was almost buried behind a stack of computer printouts.
“Hi, Ev. Looks like you’re hard at it already.”
The short, barrel-chested deputy marshal waved a half-eaten chocolate donut. “‘Hard’ is the operative word. The computers crunched the numbers and words you gave us from the first set of postcards. Take a look at what they kicked out.”
Sheryl’s eyes widened at the row of cardboard boxes stacked along one wall, each filled with neatly folded printouts.
“Good grief! Do you have to go through all those?”
“Every one of them.”
“What in the world are they?”
“We bounced the numbers and letters of the words you gave us against the known codes maintained by the FBI and Defense Intelligence Agency to see if there’s a pattern. So far, no luck.” Grimacing, he surveyed the boxes still awaiting his attention. “It’ll take until Christmas to find a needle in that haystack... if there is one.”
“We don’t have until Christmas,” Harry put in from the other end of the table. “We’ve got to break that code fast. We caught Inga Gunderson with her bags packed, remember? We have to assume the drop is scheduled for sometime soon...if it hasn’t already gone down,” he added grimly.
Fay hitched a hip on the edge of the conference table. “My bet is that Inga sent a message through her lawyer. She probably alerted either the sender or the receivers to the fact she’s been tagged. If they didn’t call off the shipment, they’ve no doubt diverted it to an alternate location.”
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