Explosive

by BETH KERY

  “I’m not trying to get away from you, Sophie. I’m just . . . something . . . something’s happened.”

  Her expressive, dark eyes made him want to relent, to stay there with her, to forget all the horror and chaos that was his life.

  “But I need to go and have a look at those books at Mannero, Inc. I need to know what I’m dealing with as far as this FBI investigation,” he finished regretfully.

  For a split second, he saw panic flicker across her flushed face. “Thomas, don’t go there. Please. You . . . you need to rest. You’re not well.”

  He brushed his thumb across her cheek and attempted a smile. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “Yes. I don’t think you should go. Come with me now. I’ll make you dinner at my condominium. We’ll talk . . . or . . . or not, if you don’t want to.”

  He leaned down and kissed her opened lips, lingering when he caught her taste on his searching tongue. He felt guilty. She sounded so worried . . .

  After a moment, he lifted his head reluctantly. He’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t fantasizing about having her yet again . . . taking her in another fevered frenzy. He’d heard death could heighten the sexual instinct. People needed to feel alive in the midst of their anguish . . . to celebrate the fullness of existence when death hovered and beckoned into the void.

  Thomas now knew firsthand how true it was.

  “Tell me your address,” he muttered as he nudged her middle with his once again stiff cock before he backed away, depriving himself. At least for a while. His body was far from being done celebrating Sophie Gable’s vibrant existence. Next time, he’d take it slow. Now that he’d consumed her, next time he’d savor her.

  If he could get a handle on himself, anyway.

  He nodded when she said her Gold Coast address. He’d remember, even if his concentration hadn’t been that great for the past several days . . . even if the past few days had been a strange collage of too-bright, vivid images and darkness. Thomas didn’t forget numbers.

  “I’ll meet you at your place in a few hours. I promise. No one and nothing is going to keep me away from a second time, Sophie.”

  A shadow flickered across her beautiful face, but Thomas determinedly levered his body away from hers.

  He hadn’t remembered.

  The thought kept replaying like a skipped record over and over again in her brain as she locked up her office after Thomas left. He hadn’t remembered last night . . . hadn’t remembered making love to her.

  He thought he’d just made love to her for the first time.

  Her brain couldn’t quite seem to wrap around the reality of it. She’d known he’d been traumatized . . . unwell, but she hadn’t guessed he wouldn’t remember, that he’d become amnesic to those hours in her bed, to their raw, volatile lovemaking. Another thought made her freeze while her key was in the door.

  What else didn’t he remember?

  The thought sent her brain into another riot of uncertainty. She’d been stunned when he’d mentioned that he’d just made love to her for the first time in her office just now. At first, she’d thought it must be a joke, but then she’d taken in Thomas’s rigid muscles and tortured glance and known in a rush of dread that it wasn’t.

  She’d stopped herself from spilling the truth. He was like a walking time bomb. Who knew what would happen if she suddenly forced him to recall what he’d forgotten?

  She shouldn’t have let him leave, she thought as she pulled her key out of the door and swiftly turned. She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed toward the elevator, but came up short when a man called her name.

  She recognized the young, sharp-eyed FBI agent who had been on the elevator earlier with Thomas. He leaned casually against the hallway wall.

  “Dr. Sophie Gable?” the man repeated. She nodded. He reached into his pocket. Sophie’s gaze lowered over the official-looking badge he held up. “My name is Fisk. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was wondering if I might have a word?”

  “About what?” Sophie asked.

  “Thomas Nicasio.”

  Sophie just stared at the agent while her pulse began to throb in her neck. It struck her that Agent Fisk wasn’t that much older than she was, but his clean-cut, dark good looks, serious expression, and sharp eyes gave the impression of talking to an older man. Despite her wariness of him, Sophie had to admit that Fisk had the type of face you trusted. And maybe she would have trusted him . . . under different circumstances anyway.

  “Where’s your partner?” Sophie queried briskly after she’d glanced around his shoulder and ascertained that she was indeed alone in the deserted hallway with Fisk.

  “Working on something else.”

  “So you work alone at times?”

  “Yeah. I do, Dr. Gable,” the agent replied after a pause. “I saw Nicasio leave your office.” His perceptive eyes flickered over her body. Sophie glanced down, following the trail of his brief assessment of her appearance. She held the agent’s stare, her chin tilted upward as she rapidly shoved the side of her shirt into her skirt. It’d remained partially untucked, a telltale sign of her heated lovemaking with Thomas.

  “Have you known Nicasio long?”

  “No,” Sophie admitted brusquely. “What is it that I can help you with, Mr. Fisk?”

  He smiled at her small show of defiance. “I’m not your enemy, Dr. Gable. I’m not Thomas Nicasio’s enemy either.”

  “Thomas seems to feel differently.”

  “Does he?” Fisk asked, his air of slight puzzlement ratcheting up her own confusion. “You were just with him. As a physician, I’m wondering if you noticed anything . . . unusual about him?”

  “What do you mean?” Sophie asked slowly.

  “He seems extremely upset . . . overwhelmed.”

  “Is it a wonder?” she snapped, hoping the observant agent didn’t notice her pulse throbbing at her throat. “Thomas has been through hell in the past week, Mr. Fisk.”

  “And by all the evidence, hasn’t made the return trip yet,” Fisk muttered.

  He knew, Sophie thought. He knew Thomas wasn’t right. But when she noticed Fisk’s searching expression, Sophie wondered. He seemed to be looking for answers as much as Sophie was.

  “Why do you keep staring at me like that?” she demanded suddenly.

  Fisk shrugged, unaffected by her outburst. “I was trying to figure you out, that’s all, Doctor, wondering if you’re really what you seem. Your professional history is pristine; a complaint has never been made to the American Medical Association in regard to your practice. You pay your taxes on time. As far as I can tell, you’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket.”

  Her eyes widened. “You did a background check? On me?”

  “It seemed prudent, given the circumstances.”

  Sophie shook her head and smiled sarcastically. “If you were interested in speaking with me, you’re not choosing a very wise way to get my cooperation, Mr. Fisk. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.”

  She turned and started down the hallway.

  “Thomas Nicasio is in grave danger,” Fisk called out behind her.

  Sophie’s feet came to an abrupt halt. She slowly turned around and faced him.

  “You care about him. Even if you two did just recently become . . . acquainted.” His eyes flickered once again over her waist where she’d just tucked in her blouse. It hadn’t been a question, but a statement, Sophie realized. When she didn’t respond, Fisk just nodded as though she had. Sophie had to admit she’d never been very good at hiding the truth.

  “And you’re worried about him, aren’t you, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” Sophie replied hoarsely. She swayed slightly in her heels, unable to decide if she should go or stay. “What . . . what made you think that Thomas isn’t well?” she asked warily.

  “He’s either not well or he’s a hell of an actor,” Fisk mumbled. He grimaced slightly when he saw her concerned expression. “Look . . . I’m not at lib
erty to give you any details of the investigation.”

  “I’m not interested in details of your investigation,” she bit out. “I’m interested in Thomas’s well-being.”

  “I’m interested in that, too.”

  “You certainly weren’t acting like a concerned friend when you came here with your partner to badger him today.”

  She straightened when he didn’t respond. “If you’re so worried about Thomas Nicasio, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be looking out for Thomas’s safety?”

  “I have someone looking out for him,” Fisk replied levelly.

  She raised her eyebrows in query, but once again, he didn’t respond.

  “Is there anything specific you can tell me about why you’re hovering around in my hallway? Because I haven’t got time for your warnings about Thomas’s safety if that’s all you’ve got to say. Your dire predictions aren’t helpful to me.”

  “Let’s just hope my predictions aren’t accurate as well, Dr. Gable.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thomas turned his head, squinting when a car’s headlights shone directly in his face as he pulled into the Mannero, Inc., parking lot. Darkness shrouded him as he stepped out of his car. The factory was located on Laflin Street on the West Side, far enough away from the Loop that the city lights didn’t have much more effect than a string of Christmas tree lights would in illuminating a football stadium.

  Whoever had just left had been working late. The parking lot was completely empty with the exception of his vehicle. He was glad he wasn’t going to run into any question-asking employees. He glanced at the illuminated dial on his watch as he walked toward the entrance, grimacing when he saw that it was a little after nine.

  He’d kept telling himself to call his mother, to check in on her, but he’d never gotten around to it. He recalled something she’d said to him at Rick and Abel’s funeral as they both stared across the room at Joseph Carlisle.

  “Make sure you try to talk to him, would you, Thomas? You always seem to cheer him up when no one else can,” his mother had said.

  Her statement had made a familiar, paradoxical feeling of pride and guilt stab through Thomas. Any evidence of Joseph Carlisle’s affection had always filled him with a sense of self-worth. It bolstered his confidence to know that Joseph considered him a true son, that his father didn’t regret taking in a vulnerable, confused and angry ten-year-old orphan.

  But his pride twined with guilt, because Thomas knew the special relationship he shared with his father should have been reserved for Rick.

  For his real son.

  He’d hated the fact that two of the most important people in his life had been on the outs. He’d done whatever he could over the years to improve Joseph and Rick’s relationship.

  Now it was too late . . . too late for so much.

  Another car pulled into the dark, vacant lot. He stopped dead in his tracks when the vehicle headed straight toward him, holding his hand up to shield the bright headlights from his eyes.

  “Shit,” he muttered disbelievingly through stiff lips. Every muscle in his body tensed in preparation to dive when the car showed no sign of stopping.

  The wheels skidded in the gravel as the car came to an abrupt halt just feet away from where he stood. Someone—a woman—clambered out of the still-running vehicle. He blinked in amazement when he recognized Sophie Gable’s face.

  “What the hell—”

  “I’m sorry, Thomas. I . . . I had to come,” she said breathlessly. Her upswept hair had become partially unfastened. Had he done that during their heated lovemaking earlier? Her face looked entirely washed of color in the bright headlights.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” he asked slowly, still recovering from the unexpected sight of her. What the hell was she doing here? Had she followed him? he wondered with rising suspicion.

  “Thomas . . . I . . . I was thinking that ...”

  “Yes?” he prompted when she licked her lips nervously and glanced around the empty parking lot. Her white throat convulsed.

  “I think it’d be a good idea for you to come with me. To Haven Lake?”

  “What? Now?”

  He just stared at her in rising disbelief when she nodded her head soberly, as though his question had been entirely serious.

  An incredulous bark of laughter popped out of his throat. Before it’d cleared his lips entirely a flash of light caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Both he and Sophie turned toward the warehouse. He saw a flickering, swelling, enormous gold and orange ball of fire through one of the windows. He cursed and reached for Sophie.

  A boom tore through the still summer night as he fell to the gravel, Sophie beneath him. He ducked his head, covering her and clenching his eyes as fragments of shattered glass fell around them. Sophie cried out. She wiggled beneath him, but he held her immobile. Thomas knew explosions like most people knew what to expect when their alarms went off in the morning.

  He knew explosions . . . and bombs.

  Sure enough, a second boom vibrated the air around them. A smoking, sizzling piece of metal girding clanked heavily just feet away from their heads.

  Thomas hissed and rose on his hands and knees. They needed to find cover. Flames surged out of the warehouse’s broken windows, licking hungrily at the rich oxygen source the outdoor air provided. A wave of heat struck his face like a slap.

  “Tuck your head into my chest,” he ordered as he lifted Sophie. Thankfully, she didn’t argue with him or choose that moment to ask questions. He crouched down over her, giving her the meager protection of his back, as he raced toward his car. The roar of leaping flames entered his ears. He whipped open the passenger door and set Sophie on her feet, placing his spread hand over her head in a protective gesture. It took him a moment to realize she was resisting him as he tried to push her into the seat.

  “No, Thomas. Let me go to my car. You have to follow me!”

  He yanked his gaze from the flaming building.

  “Forget about your damn car—” His sharp rebuke was cut short when he looked down the empty, darkened street. A block and a half away he saw movement. With the help of the dim street-lights he made out the outline of a man rushing toward them. The light was sufficient for him to catch a brief image of Agent Fisk’s face. Several car lengths away, another man was running toward them.

  “Hey!” Fisk called out, his voice cutting through the distance that separated them and the roar of the flames.

  “Thomas! Get in your car and follow me. Now.”

  He blinked and stared down at her. The moment couldn’t have lasted much longer than a second, but it stretched surreally long. The authority in Sophie’s voice had amazed him. She’d sounded a little bit like Colonel Harvost at that moment—his former commanding officer. Her face was cast in flickering shadow and bloodred light from the fire. Fisk’s feet tapping on the pavement sounded abnormally loud despite the agent’s distance.

  He didn’t think Fisk could have made out their identities. They were still far enough from the fire to be shrouded almost completely in darkness.

  Had Fisk just arrived or had the FBI been staking out the Mannero warehouse?

  He’d be nuts to flee the scene of a crime, but the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was confront Fisk or Larue . . . or face what the exploding warehouse really meant to him and his family.

  And . . . Jesus. He was an expert on bombs, given his military experience. He could assemble one just as easily as disarm it. What if the feds tried to pin the torching of the warehouse on him?

  Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to try to escape without detection.

  He glanced from Sophie’s rigid features to the burning building. The explosions seemed to have ceased, but the warehouse had become a flaming torch.

  “Yeah. Okay. Cover your head on the way to your car and take the rear exit,” he commanded tersely as she moved fleetly away from him.

  He got in his car and gunned the engine, watching as Sophi
e slid into the driver’s seat of her own vehicle. She put the car into drive, her wheels scattering gravel in a three-foot arc as she whipped around and shot toward the back entry of the parking lot like she thought her life depended on it.

  Maybe it did?

  He followed just as rapidly, leaving his headlights off, not wanting to illuminate Sophie’s license plates or the make and color of her car for the eyes of the rushing Agent Fisk. He heard Fisk’s distant shout as he turned into the narrow alley that ran the length of the block. The sound of his squealing tires prevented him from making out what it was that he actually yelled.

  Thomas’s concern that Fisk had made out their faces or their license plates in the darkness faded the farther he and Sophie traveled down I-57 South. They’d passed two state troopers on the three-hour trip, but no flashing lights and wailing sirens had followed them.

  They reached Haven Lake at around 12:30 A.M. after stopping only once at a gas station an hour outside of Chicago. Their conversation there had been brief and charged. Thomas had immediately recognized the signs of shock on Sophie’s face when she’d exited her car. He’d become far too familiar with the signs—the rigid facial features, the glassy appearance of the eyes, the flattened mouth. He’d seen it in combat. He’d witnessed it on his mother’s, father’s, and sister-in-law’s faces far too often lately not to recognize it in an instant.

  He’d seen it a time or two when he looked in his own reflection, as well. Maybe that’s why he’d been avoiding mirrors ever since he’d learned of Rick’s death.

  When he’d seen Sophie’s shock he’d suggested they stop somewhere for longer—a restaurant or even a hotel—not liking the idea of her driving in that condition. But she’d just shaken her head, her solemn expression and big eyes causing a squeezing sensation in his chest cavity.