Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) (4 page)

She stopped and frowned. “Has Uncle Andrew been charged with obstruction?”

“It was added to the charges against him weeks ago.” He couldn’t nail Andrew Stevens or the CEO for selling arms to a Sudanese war criminal, but he could damn well convict the corrupt former vice president for covering it up.

She dropped into a chair and pulled her knees to her chest. She looked small, delicate, and exhausted. Remembering the hell she’d been through today, he felt like a shit.

She met his gaze with a faint smile. “Why couldn’t the North Koreans have demanded George Clooney as envoy?”

He laughed. “Maybe Clooney was too busy arranging a human rights march, whereas I had a lull in my schedule between kicking kittens and destroying the lives of honorable men for personal gain.”

Her smile deepened, flashing that warm dimple, and he felt a jolt of heat that made him want to curse. “Get back to Raptor, Mara.”

She cleared her throat. “My interrogators asked about my uncle’s work for Raptor, repeatedly.”

“What did the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea want to know about your uncle’s job as chief of operations for Raptor?”

“Like you, they were suspicious about Raptor’s role with JPAC. They wanted to know if Uncle Andrew was paid to use his influence as vice president to get Raptor mercenaries placed on JPAC recovery teams.”

He leaned forward. If his numbers were correct, that was the million-dollar question—and that figure didn’t include the company shares Stevens had received, worth quite a bit more. “What did you tell them?”

She met his gaze with a defiant glare. “The truth. He didn’t have anything to do with JPAC’s decision to hire Raptor. JPAC contracted crew positions to Raptor before my uncle’s term in office was even over. He had
nothing
to do with the private security company at the time.”

As much as he wanted to pursue this line of questioning, they were supposed to be talking about her arrest in North Korea. Her version bore little resemblance to what he’d been told, yet it sounded strangely plausible. How else could she have gotten to the DMZ? She didn’t speak Korean, and as she’d pointed out, her blond hair and blue eyes were tantamount to waving an American flag.

He took a sip of his drink. “According to JPAC, you left the site alone. None of your coworkers knew where to find you when the Korean People’s Army showed up with weapons drawn and demanded JPAC leave the country.”

Mara jolted to her feet. “No way! Call Roddy.” Her voice shook with anger. “I want to talk to him.”

“You can’t. Not until you’ve been debriefed by the State Department.”

She struggled to regain her composure. “Then let me call Jeannie.”

“Jeannie?” he asked, even though he knew perfectly well who she meant. He wanted to hear her take on the JPAC assistant forensic archaeologist.

Mara shot him a skeptical look. “Jeannie Fuller—my coworker. She’s my best friend, and she
saw
me leave with Roddy. She’ll set things straight. I want to call her.”

“You can’t.”

“Dammit! Why not?” She leaned over him, her face so close that her hair tickled his cheek. Her blue eyes locked on his while she patted his breast pocket. “You’ve got a phone right here.” She touched his cell through his jacket, “And I want to use it.”

Christ, he was jealous of his phone. He never reacted to women this way. The glimpse he’d had of Mara Garrett’s inner strength had gotten to him, but that didn’t change who she was…or who he was. Gripping her invasive hand, he stood, forcing her up and back. “No,” he said.

He stopped, her hand caught beneath his. She touched his chest, not the cell phone, and his heart kicked up a notch. With only inches separating them, he’d have to be made of stone not to be affected by her. Her chest rose with each angry breath as her eyes pierced him with a sharp glare.

“You may not speak with your team. You may not speak with your uncle.” The State Department had set the rules, but he had no problem enforcing them. “You will not get your story straight with anyone in JPAC or Raptor before the State Department debriefing.”

G
ET MY STORY
straight?

Her team—including her best friend—had said she’d left the site alone. They knew she’d left with Roddy, and they’d lied. And Curt Dominick thought she wanted to get her story straight? She just wanted to get the story, period.

Curt stood before her, his face no longer merely impassive or remote. He was downright glacial. She knew his nickname, The Shark, and now she understood he wasn’t just ruthless in the courtroom.

When
People
magazine placed him in their Sexiest Men of the Year issue, NPR’s Nina Totenberg had done a story on Curt Dominick, explaining that legal-news junkies had a new, swoon-worthy star. Nina really should have done a better job describing his chin or mentioned the dark mole on his right cheekbone, but more important, Nina had failed to prepare Mara for the man’s megawatt looks, commanding presence, and utter lack of heart.

Now, face-to-face with The Shark, she stumbled backward until her knees hit the arm of one of the recliners. “Do you have to be such a prick?”

His eyes glinted with amusement. “Sweetheart, you think I’m a prick now, but you haven’t seen anything yet.”

The man before her wasn’t a rescuing superhero. He was the powerful US attorney who prosecuted mobsters and politicians. He was formidable, harsh, exuding distrust, and she was stuck on a plane with him for at least fifteen hours. “Is there a shower on this flying yacht?” Her words lacked the punch she’d been aiming for and were clouded by weariness. “I haven’t had a hot shower in months.”

“There’s a suitcase full of clothes for you in the bedroom.” He waved toward the rear of the jet, but his voice was less harsh. “After you shower, try to get some sleep.” He pulled out his cell phone. She’d been dismissed.

She walked toward the bedroom on legs that ached from constant tension. Pre-North Korea Mara would have seen Curt Dominick as an interesting challenge. Post-North Korea Mara didn’t have the emotional wherewithal for challenges.

“Palea? It’s Dominick. Bring Roddy Brogan in for questioning. Now.”

She halted midstep and whirled to face him. He met her gaze and offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Heat started in her belly and spread outward.

He held her gaze even as he continued to speak into the phone. “I don’t care that it’s one in the morning in Honolulu. Roddy Brogan needs to answer some questions.” His rich, deep voice, uttered words she’d never expected him to say, while his intense stare held her rooted to the spot. He
had
listened to her. He was following up on her allegations.

In one area, at least, her uncle had been wrong about Curt Dominick, making her wonder what else her uncle was wrong about.

C
URT WATCHED HER
escape into the cabin as he told his friend, Honolulu FBI agent Kaha’i Palea, what he needed. Conversation complete, he returned the phone to his breast pocket.

He had a job to do. He’d hoped she’d give him something on Raptor, but he had no idea what to make of her claim Roddy Brogan had essentially abducted her. But he wasn’t operating at top capacity. Everyone had a breaking point, and after being awake for most of the last thirty hours, he’d passed his—probably right about the time he was a complete ass to a woman who’d just survived a firing squad.

He grabbed a blanket and stretched out on the wide sofa. The moment he closed his eyes, images of the petite archaeologist bombarded him: her proud posture as she marched blindfolded down the cobblestone path; the anger in her eyes as she called him on his dickish behavior.

More images followed, but these weren’t based on memories. A carnal fantasy of slipping into the shower with her and washing the grime of imprisonment from her skin; her blue eyes darkening as he thrust into her for the first time.

He jolted awake.

Shit.

He sank back into the couch. It wasn’t like him to have sexual dreams about women he’d just met, but he could cut his subconscious some slack. After all, he’d been researching the woman for months, and she was as impressive on paper as she was in person. Smart, savvy, and hardworking, she’d graduated with honors from Stanford University and held a masters degree in archaeology from the same institution.

Her uncle had visited her deployments several times when he was vice president, and an Associated Press reporter had interviewed her during one such photo op in Vietnam. She’d explained how her career choice stemmed from personal family history. Her maternal grandfather—the former vice president’s father—had been shot down over North Korea in 1951 and never returned. Then she’d described the loss of her own father when she was in her teens, and how the only place she’d been able to grieve was at his graveside.

When asked what working for the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command meant to her, her dimple had appeared and her face lit up as she responded,
“I’m providing closure for families like mine. I’m bringing them home.”

That clip had been played thousands of times in the last months. In the US, Mara Garrett was a hero. But inside this jet, she was a puzzle he needed to solve.

She idolized her uncle. Understandable, given the fact that he had taken over as father figure when her dad died. But a problem for Curt because her uncle was a corrupt son of a bitch who’d sold out the country he’d sworn an oath to defend and bear allegiance to.

Curt had hoped she’d prove to be a pretty twit who’d created an international incident, but she might be the victim after all. He rolled to his side and tried to get comfortable. He needed to sleep so he could hit the ground running when they reached DC. Once there, the State Department would take Mara Garrett off his hands, and he would lead the prosecution of her uncle.

Whether she was a pretty twit or an alluring victim didn’t matter. She was somebody else’s problem, and after tomorrow, he’d only see her in his dreams.

A
FTER TWO MONTHS
of cold sponge baths, hot spray sluiced down Mara’s back. She rolled the lavender soap between her hands, building a thick lather. Like the ice cubes earlier, the luxury of scented soap and running water undid her, and tears slid down her cheeks.

She should be overjoyed. She was on her way to the mainland. But nothing felt right. Her best friend had lied. Roddy had flown home to Honolulu with the rest of the team. And US Attorney Curt Dominick had rescued her from a firing squad. There was no universe in which those three statements made sense.

Released after two months of isolation and interrogation, she should also be free from the gut-wrenching fear, but painful knots still twisted in her belly. What was she returning to? The mound of lather grew, hiding her hands beneath a thick layer of bubbles. She needed to talk to her uncle. Maybe he knew something.

The water turned cold, startling her out of her emotional spiral. She shut off the spray and washed while bracing for the cold rinse. Her first hot shower in months and she’d ruined it. Once again, she’d failed to think things through and see the pitfalls of her impulsive actions.

Rinsed and clean, she shut off the frigid water. She leaned against the fiberglass stall, powerless against a noisy sob that engulfed her. The battle she’d waged to control her emotions for two months was over. She was alone and safe. She could let down her guard and really cry.