Licensed to Marry

by Charlotte Douglas

Kyle ran his fingers over the scar in his eyebrow. It always itched worst when he was tired. “How much do you know?”

  Her expression was somber. “Almost nothing, except that Lawrence is dead. I’ll pour us some wine, and you can fill me in while supper finishes cooking.”

  “Where’s Bonnie?”

  “She ate with Molly, then went to her room to watch television.”

  More exhausted than he’d realized, Kyle accepted a glass of Chardonnay and sank into the cushions of the sofa in front of the fireplace. Laura added another log to the fire, then settled beside him.

  “Lawrence was murdered,” he said.

  “You’re sure it wasn’t an accident? He didn’t wander from the lab and fall or something?” Her eyes swam with pain, begging him to agree with her.

  “According to the coroner, someone broke his neck, then dumped his body in the culvert.”

  At his graphic description, she flinched so hard she sloshed wine from her glass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s no easy way to tell this. If not for the cadaver dogs, we wouldn’t have found Dr. Tyson’s body for days, maybe weeks.”

  “And the anthrax?”

  “Not a trace.”

  She dabbed at the spilled wine with a napkin, then twirled the stem of her glass between slender fingers. Even when upset, she was beautiful, her eyes dark with despair, her translucent skin pale with grief, her usually smooth forehead creased with worry. He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently in an effort to console her.

  “At least we know Lawrence wasn’t our traitor,” she said with a deep sigh. “That’s some comfort.”

  Kyle thought of the incriminating papers found in Tyson’s desk, but held his tongue. Laura was upset enough over the scientist’s death. She shouldn’t have to deal with the probability that he had been the Black Order informant, or the suspicion that the terrorists had killed him once he’d outlived his usefulness.

  “We’ll know more once the investigation’s finished,” he said.

  “How much longer?”

  Kyle sighed. Despite knowing that terrorists were elusive and difficult to track, he was impatient to end their reign of terror. “We have yet to find a connection that leads us to the Black Order. With the D-5 and anthrax in their possession, it’s more important than ever that we track them down.” Turning her hand palm upward, he traced its delicate lines with his finger and attempted to lighten the conversation. “Anxious to get rid of me?”

  She withdrew her hand, tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa and shifted to face him with an enigmatic smile. “I like having you and Molly here. Makes it seem more like a home. But I admit to an ulterior motive to my question.”

  She reached behind her on the sofa table and picked up an envelope of heavy linen paper, addressed in impressive calligraphy to Dr. and Mrs. Kyle Foster. A gold seal on the flap had been broken. She handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Read it.”

  He lifted the flap then tugged out an engraved invitation and scanned it. “An invitation to a party? In Washington, D.C.?”

  “Senator Weston’s been one of the Institute’s biggest supporters. He keeps close tabs on everything that happens here. He’s pushed the majority of our funding through Congress, and this is his last big fling before the election next month. We’ll have to go.”

  Kyle returned the invitation to her. “You can go. I have an investigation to complete.”

  A shadow of disappointment darkened her lovely features. “You’re right, of course. Your investigation should come first. But won’t it look strange for us as newlyweds if you stay here while I go to Washington?”

  “To be honest, even if I didn’t have an investigation, I wouldn’t go.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re antisocial.”

  “Antisocial? No, but I’d rather be smeared with honey and staked to an anthill than attend a Washington party.”

  Right now, Kyle didn’t want to go anywhere. He laid his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. He was so tired his bones ached, and even more grueling than his physical activities had been his state of constant alertness maintaining his cover as a working scientist and Laura’s new husband.

  All he wanted now was sleep.

  He drifted into unconsciousness, and he couldn’t tell if Laura’s brief kiss that fluttered across his lips when she rose from the sofa was real or just a very pleasant dream.

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Laura turned her attention from the billowing clouds outside the plane window to Kyle, sitting beside her. Ever since they’d boarded the plane for Washington, he’d been studying the files and notes he’d brought with him. Although he’d been adamant about remaining at the Institute for the weekend instead of attending the Senator’s party, a phone call from Daniel had changed his mind.

  The head of Montana Confidential had forcefully reminded Kyle that not only was Senator Weston the Quinlan Institute’s greatest supporter in Congress, he was also leading the vanguard for federal funding to fight terrorism. In effect, Weston was the man most responsible for the salaries and expense accounts that kept Montana Confidential functioning. For Kyle to ignore the senator’s invitation would be not only politically incorrect, it could be economic suicide for the agency.

  She smiled, remembering their subsequent hasty jaunt into Livingston to buy a tuxedo. Molly had gone with them and had giggled when Kyle stepped out of the dressing room.

  Laughing had been the farthest thing from Laura’s mind. The well-fitted evening wear had transformed Kyle’s rugged good looks into a sexy smoothness and elegance that would have made an Academy Award–winning actor proud. The resulting flutter of her heart distressed her. She was becoming entirely too fond of Kyle and his daughter, and unless she brought her emotions under control, she was certain to suffer the devastation of loneliness once the terrorists were caught and the Fosters moved out of her life.

  “Daddy, you look like a pinkwin.”

  “And I feel like an idiot. Why do men wear these things?”

  He caught sight of Laura’s grin and held up his hands. “You don’t have to answer that. I know why. Women insist on it.”

  Laura had tried to remain serious, but her lips kept curving in a smile. “Now, Kyle, you know even a died-in-the-wool Montanan like Weston will take offense if you show up at his formal party in boots and blue jeans.”

  Kyle ran a finger under the collar of the white shirt and grimaced. “I could go buck naked and an important man like Weston wouldn’t even notice me.”

  Laura’s smile expanded. “Now there’s an enticing idea.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “You’re going to the party with no clothes?”

  “No, doodlebug. I’ll wear this, even if I do look like a penguin.”

  Molly clapped her chubby hands. “But you’re a nice pinkwin, Daddy.”

  Laura’s eyes had twinkled. “The nicest. Although I do admit I liked you better in the bath towel.”

  “Ah.” Kyle’s eyes met hers with a heat that made her look away. “A woman of taste.”

  She smiled again now, remembering their earlier shopping trip, but Kyle’s expression was grim, a stark contrast to his tuxedo bantering, as he flipped through the papers from his briefcase.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “Notes from my interviews with Gary Bowen, Dr. Potter, Dr. Kwan and Wayne Pritchard, plus copies of the background checks Court had the Bureau fax to me.”

  “Anything significant?”

  He shook his head and dropped the papers to his lap with a frustrated sigh. “Kwan and Pritchard appear squeaky clean. Dr. Potter had some dubious college activities, but those are ancient history, and he’s been free of any un-American associations ever since.”

  “And Gary’s gambling problem?”

  “I had a long talk with Gary and his wife yesterday. Gary’s joined Gamblers Anonymous and, with the help of a financial counselor, he’s consolidated his d
ebts with a loan from a Livingston bank. He’s struggling hard to get back on his feet moneywise. Court’s investigation behind the scenes supports what Gary told me. I don’t think Bowen’s our man.”

  Laura frowned. “That leaves just Lawrence Tyson.”

  “The evidence points to him.”

  “What evidence?”

  Kyle took a deep breath as if gathering his thoughts. For a split second, he looked almost guilty, but that made no sense. His strange expression must have been a trick of the dim lighting inside the plane’s cabin.

  “When the sheriff was investigating Tyson’s disappearance,” Kyle explained, “he found some papers in Tyson’s desk that indicated he’d been in contact with the Black Order.”

  First disbelief, then revulsion at Lawrence’s complicity washed through her. Both were quickly replaced by a sudden sadness. The loneliness she’d feared might be coming sooner than she’d expected. “If Tyson was the informant, then your work at the Institute’s done.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too neat. On the surface, it looks like Tyson’s our man, but I have to dig deeper.”

  “But you’ve just said the rest of the staff are clean.”

  “They appear clean.”

  “You suspect there’s more than one traitor at the Institute? That’s preposterous.”

  “Think about it,” Kyle said. “How could an unknown killer break into the compound and the laboratory, kill Tyson and hide his body without being seen?”

  “The same way the terrorists stole the D-5 the first time.”

  “Did they?” His green eyes darkened to almost black, and he rubbed his fingers across the scar that bisected his eyebrow. “Or did someone on the inside, the same person who killed Tyson, take the D-5 from the lab, hide it, then pass it to the Black Order the next time he or she left the compound?”

  Her head ached from the possibilities. “How will you ever find out?”

  “By watching and waiting. If the killer thinks he’s in the clear, that Tyson’s taken the blame, he may get careless—or cocky. He’ll make a mistake. And when he does, I’ll be waiting for him.”

  Laura shivered at the strength of purpose and ferocity in his face. “So it’s not over.”

  He grasped her hand, and the gentleness returned to his expression. “Sorry, Mrs. Foster, but it looks like you’re stuck with me for a while longer.”

  Relishing the warmth of his fingers curled around hers, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, fighting back the horror at the suspicion of another traitor—more than a traitor, a murderer—among the staff at the Institute. The only glimpse of a silver lining in that suffocating cloud was that Kyle and Molly would continue to be a part of her life until the killer was caught.

  And then what? an inner voice taunted.

  And then she was alone again. Completely alone.

  THE NEXT EVENING, Kyle snagged a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and surveyed the spacious gallery of Senator Weston’s Georgetown home, filled now with what Molly would dub a flock of tuxedo-clad “pinkwins” and elegant ladies in stunning gowns. Spotting an NBA All-Star, one of Hollywood’s leading men and a CNN anchorman, all in the same ridiculous evening wear that Laura had coaxed him into, gave him solace. Misery loved company.

  Among the women were nubile young starlets, fashion models and the current hottest country-western singer, but none, however, came close to matching Laura’s beauty and style.

  Kyle had dressed early in the intimacy of their D.C. hotel suite, then fled to the hotel bar to allow Laura privacy to prepare for the party. After calling Molly, who was delighted to stay with Jewel, Dale and Ribbons at the ranch while he and Laura were in Washington, he ordered a drink. He was nursing his second scotch-on-the-rocks and watching the baseball playoffs when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He’d turned and almost had his socks knocked off.

  “Ready?” Laura asked.

  For a second, winded by her beauty, he couldn’t find his voice. Her floor-length dress of a clinging midnight-blue fabric revealed every luscious curve, and its tiny straps left the creamy skin of her shoulders deliciously bare. She’d piled her hair in curls atop her head, but a few errant ones spilled below her ears and brushed the nape of her neck. Desire stirred deep inside him, a reaction he’d feared had died with his unhappy marriage. Overcome with a sudden and savage urge to kiss each spot those curls touched, he downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp to keep from acting on his impulses.

  “Ready.” He slid off the bar stool and held out his arm for her. “Since, according to Daniel’s orders, I have to attend this high-powered shindig, at least I’ll have the enjoyment of escorting the prettiest woman there.”

  “Why, Dr. Foster.” She blushed with pleasure and looped her arm through his. “You do say the nicest things.”

  “Remember that,” he said with a wry grin. “Maybe it will compensate for all the times I’ll put my foot in my mouth later tonight. I hate these things. If God had intended me to attend social functions, I’d have been born with a silver tongue in my mouth.”

  “I’ve never found you lacking in the conversation department,” she said.

  “How can you tell?” he asked with a grin. “I’m a man of few words.”

  “Actions speak louder than words, and I like what you do.”

  Her blue eyes matched the fabric of her gown, and he was mesmerized by the sparkle of dangling earrings and the tantalizing sight of her bare earlobes. His second drink had gone straight to his head, and if he didn’t get himself under control, he might ravish her in the cab on the way to the party. His curiosity piqued.

  She’d said she liked what he did. How would she like that action?

  Calling on the rigid discipline that had guided him in life and work, he inhaled a deep steadying breath that took in the stimulating scent of her orange-blossom perfume. Aware of the admiring glances she drew from the other patrons in the bar, he guided her toward the door. “We don’t want to be late.”

  The cab deposited them before a deceptively small house on a quiet, tree-lined street. With the cobbled walk and Federalist architecture, they could have gone back two centuries in time—except for the security guards carefully checking invitations and the ugly high-tech metal detector they had to pass through at the door.

  Kyle also spotted members of the Secret Service contingent who were guarding the presidential candidate. In spite of their immaculately tailored tuxedos, they were hard to miss with their broad shoulders, gazes constantly in motion, earpieces with cords that disappeared into their collars and the barely visible bulk of sidearms beneath their coats.

  Kyle and Laura entered the street-level foyer, then climbed a broad, curving staircase to an immense gallery on the second floor. The wide hall, lined with artwork, opened at one end onto a terrace, and the entire area was crowded with people. Among the celebrities and dignitaries, Kyle had easily picked out the other Secret Service members, several of them female.

  While Laura had disappeared into the powder room to check her evening wrap, Kyle sipped his champagne. If he had to be here, he might as well relax and enjoy himself. For one night, he could forget about hunting down the Black Order. If there were terrorists around, Weston had enough Secret Service agents on duty to subdue a small army.

  “Having fun?” Laura reappeared at his elbow.

  “Like a pig at a barbecue.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” she cajoled him. “How often can you rub elbows with the rich and famous?”

  He smiled. “There are some interesting folks here. Usually the interesting people I meet end up behind bars.”

  “But this crowd is different.”

  “Yeah, this crowd can afford bail.”

  She swatted him playfully on the arm. “Behave.”

  “Or what?” he whispered in her ear, and resisted the urge to nibble her lobe. “You’ll make me leave? That would be a treat.”

  He caught her swift intake of breath
and straightened to face the man who’d approached them. Kyle didn’t need an introduction to know who he was. The senator’s face had been plastered on every billboard, newspaper and television screen for the past year.

  “Senator Weston,” Laura said. “How nice to see you again. This is my husband, Kyle Foster.”

  “Dr. Foster, Laura. So glad you could come.”

  Kyle studied the man with curiosity. According to the latest polls, Weston would probably become the next president of the United States. Several inches taller than Kyle, the senator sported the physique of a man who’d once been in spectacular shape but had obviously sat too long at a desk the past few years. His brown hair, striped with distinguished touches of gray, set off his George Hamilton tan, and his broad grin displayed teeth too perfect not to be the work of a cosmetic dentist.

  But it was Weston’s eyes that struck Kyle hardest and created a shiver of distaste in his gut. Weston’s sparkling blues seemed friendly enough, but only on the surface. Kyle had the feeling the man could change moods as easily and as quickly as a philanderer switched women. The man was a chameleon, but that was consistent with his career. How could he be an effective politician without being all things to all people?

  Experiencing an immediate dislike for the man, Kyle worked to hide it. If he offended the senator, Daniel would have his hide.

  “Thanks for inviting us, Senator,” he said. “We appreciate the support you’ve given the Institute.”

  “And I appreciate the work the Institute is doing for our country,” Weston said with more heartiness than sincerity. Both men avoided mentioning the top-secret operation at Montana Confidential, even though Weston sat on the senate committee that over-saw the project. “I’m sure, Laura, that you and Dr. Foster will be able to keep up the good work your father started.”

  Someone touched the senator’s elbow, and he excused himself and turned and moved away.

  “How can a man like that be ahead in the polls?” Kyle muttered. “He’s a first-class fake.”

  “People are afraid,” Laura said, “especially since the Montana capitol bombing. They want someone who promises it won’t happen again.”