Criminal Promises (18 page)

He shifted a little to ease the pressure
building at the base of his spine. His cell phone rang and he
pulled it from his pocket. When he saw Craig’s number, he flipped
it open. He smiled at Maggie and waited for her to be well out of
earshot.

“Give me good news.” He
ignored the edge of desperation in his voice. He didn’t honestly
expect Craig to have solved the case over night on his
own.

“Sorry, man. I’m not
finding anything. I played with the parameters of the Google
searches, but still haven’t found anything to make sense.” Craig
rambled about the different things he’d found and negated. “You
have any luck?”

“Maybe.” BD moved into the
hall and told Craig about Mike’s notes. He wanted to minimize any
chance of Maggie hearing him, but he also needed to stay watchful
over her.

“Old scrolls written by
Hyperboreans that have been hidden. So helpful.” Craig blew out a
frustrated breath. “This is going to take longer to solve than we
have. Adalia won’t stay hidden long.”

BD checked his watch. Two more minutes and he
was going in.

“I know a way.” The door
opened and Maggie sailed out of her room in a pair of jeans and an
outrageous pink T-shirt, barely sparing a glance for him as she
went toward the kitchen. BD followed Maggie’s path, enjoying the
curve of her hips and ass showcased in the snug, low-riding jeans.
“But I don’t like it.”

“You going to ask her
about Mike?”

It could help.
“Apparently.” In a moment of perversity, BD
rearranged the pillows on the couch again. “Maybe he mentioned the
Hyperboreans to her. Maybe she’s at least seen these ancient
scrolls—”

“Shit.” Craig interrupted.
“I’ve got it.” His typically modulated tone grew
excited.

“What?”

“You remember the trip to
the Arctic we took with my parents?”

“We were kids. What about
it?” They’d been thirteen and had sworn they would freeze before
they saw fourteen.

“They found proof of an
ancient people who dated back three-thousand years. Later they said
they thought they might have been the Hyperboreans. Maybe they were
a real civilization.”

A finger snap in BD’s brain
brought the memory and Craig’s parents’ suppositions back. “Ancient
scrolls proving the existence of ancient people believed to
socialize with Greek gods would be worth a ton of
money.”

“Yeah.” Craig cleared his
throat. “Go easy on her, BD.”

“I have been.”

“You haven’t.”

“Piss off.”

“You have the hots for her
and it scares the shit out of you,” Craig continued with a hint of
know-it-all attitude. “You’re trying not to see her as a woman
because you don’t want to risk getting hurt again, but you could be
the one doing the hurting.”

“I said piss off,
Oprah.”
He isn’t so wrong though.
The backdoor slammed. Adrenaline sped through
BD’s veins as he clutched the phone tight and sprinted into the
kitchen in time to see Maggie cross the lawn.

Did he really have to spell it out for her
that she was in danger? Did she have to make herself an easy
target? Tapping the hedge clippers against her leg, Maggie faced
the bushes she’d attacked the other day. At least she was
armed.

She cocked her head to the left and then the
right as if judging where to pick up what she’d barely started. Her
hair, again in a braid, swayed with her movements. His fingers
itched to loosen it and feel the thick silk tangled in his
fingers.

“BD.” Craig’s voice
snapped him back. “Get it through your skull. She isn’t Samantha.
Talk to Maggie and let me know what she tells you.”

Craig hung up, leaving BD to dwell on his
parting. Maggie really was nothing like Sam had been, and he’d do a
better job protecting her.

He couldn’t wish his feelings away or lie to
himself. He cared for Maggie and hated the idea of questioning her
husband’s associations. Worse, he hated thinking about what Adalia
would do to her.

Harte’s secrets were growing bigger. He’d had
her take the sleeping pill so he could search her house. What did
he think he’d find? What did he suspect her of?

The secrets, lies and omissions were closing
in on her like walls on a claustrophobe. The suffocating air in her
own home was tainted with betrayal. She’d had enough of having her
opinions minimized in her marriage.

Fueled by building anger, Maggie faced the
detestable bushes and shivered at the sensation of teeny little
critters crawling across her skin. Lifting the clippers, putting
every ounce of frustration flooding her veins into the effort, she
chopped off the closest branch. Hacking away at the eyesores,
feeling stronger and more in control of her own destiny, she
grinned.

No more doing what other people
wanted—including Harte. No more smothering, protective,
I-know-what’s-best attitudes. Who did he think he was?

Tossing branches blindly behind her, she
attacked the next section. No matter how sexy the man was, his
caveman behavior wasn’t appealing—except for the perverse pleasure
of being pinned beneath him and that was acceptable.

Her heart raced. The branches snapped easily
beneath the pressure of the cutter blades. Each snapping branch
echoed another snapping restraint she’d put on herself for
years.

She grabbed more branches and tossed them in
the general direction of the pile she had going. Then she went
after a fatter bough, cutting close to the ground. Her clippers
barely scored its thickness. Frustrating, but not surprising
considering the age and health of the monstrosity.

After making another score, she lowered the
clippers to her side, angled her body so she stood parallel to the
bush, and put every ounce of frustration behind the kick she aimed
at the branch. Like a rubber band on a slingshot, the thing wobbled
and sprang back into place. Jumping back to keep from getting hit,
she glared at the offending limb.

It had to go, and Harte’s chauvinism could go
with it. The man had nerve. Telling her she couldn’t go anywhere,
saying he’d sleep in her room, and then blowing her off to take a
phone call.

She would inform him that no matter what the
circumstances may be, he would not be sleeping in her room
uninvited. And no way was she inviting him. Even the sleeping pill
failed to sufficiently blur the night before and her responses to
him. Her body heated again just thinking about his blatant arousal
pressed against her.

Maggie arched her back to dislodge the pool
of sweat forming. He tempted her, whether he was near her or not.
Last night, he’d been very near. So near she’d been close to taking
advantage of his body.

She stepped on the un-breaking branch,
managing to bend it just a little, and took the choppers to it
again. Several cuts and screaming muscles later, the thing snapped
loose with a loud pop. The cracking release of the branch
reverberated through her.

Her foot slipped off the branch. Off balance,
she stumbled backwards a few steps before regaining her balance.
The mass of anger and pent up arousal swirling through her gut
gushed out leaving her unusually exhausted.

“You keep working like
that and you’re going to do more than scrape a knee.”

She spun around and faced
Harte. “I can take care of myself.”

“Good.” He leaned against
the picnic table with his arms and legs crossed. “I’m not sure my
first aid would be as gentle or memorable as yours.”

The reminder of her tending
to his hand slammed into her brain. More prevalent, though, was the
image of him completely nude and aroused when he’d dropped the
towel.
Don’t go there.

Blinking the thoughts away,
she studied him. He appeared calm and relaxed.
It’s an act.

The muscle in his jaw ticked. His eyes,
generally cobalt, had darkened to the point that if she wanted to
see where his iris met his pupil they would have to be standing
toe-to-toe.

The nuances of his movements, like the
twitching of his thumb, said he was angry, though nothing broadcast
the message as blatantly as the heat of restrained rage radiating
off him. Any closer and it would singe her.

“We need to
talk.”

“Yes. We do.” She jabbed
the blades into the ground and walked around the giant pile of bush
clippings to the picnic table. If he wanted to play this cool then
she would try to accommodate. But his eyes, now midnight blue and
tracking every move she made, had her nerves humming with fear and
doubt.

She worked her wedding ring in circles as she
sat on the top of the table. He turned and sat beside her with his
feet on the bench seat. She felt the low level hum of arousal only
he seemed to cause, but for once it didn’t overshadow everything
else.

His anxiety made her fidgety. She slid her
ring on and off, almost dropping it once. Her feet tapped the
table.

“Maggie.”

Maggie. Not Mags.
He always shortened her name unless they were
arguing or he had bad news. “What’s wrong now?”

“We need to
talk.”

“So you said.” He had to
be desperate to be coming to her. “Is this where you tell me what
you’ve been holding back?”

“If I could keep this from
hurting I would.”

She stiffened her posture
and narrowed her eyes. What could be worse than him telling her
Mike was dead and she’d been targeted by a killer? “Spit it
out.”

“Mike’s death was… He was
killed so he wouldn't talk. And I think because Adalia felt he had
betrayed her.”

Every synapse in her brain
fired. Her head tingled with awareness, but she would not fall
apart. She had control. “What?”

“Mags.”

“No.”
Now he wants to personalize this?
“Tell me.”

“You know about Adalia’s
past actiins.”

“I was at some of her
trial.”

“Michelle Dane was a
warning.”

What he might say next
weighed in her gut like a ton of lead. What did this have to do
with Mike? Her? “How?”

“As well as being Mike’s
replacement at work, she was the daughter of another victim.” Harte
held her gaze. “A victim Mike consulted with on some scrolls before
his death.”

“You are saying Mike was
involved with Adalia. That they were close enough for her to trust
him and be angered by him.”

BD sighed. His shoulders
fell. Shaking his head, he maneuvered around to sit beside her. He
braced his elbows on his knees and tapped his fingertips together.
“I need you to tell me about Mike.”

She stopped fiddling with
her ring long enough to rub her throat. She wasn’t wearing a
necklace, but she had the strange sensation something was choking
her. “Like what? He was a linguistics professor. That’s not
exciting stuff.”

“Did he act any
differently the weeks before his death? Did he mention a project or
academic find he was excited about? Did you suspect him of cheating
or having secrets?”

“No.”

“Maggie.”

Maggie again.
Suddenly last night, his insistence on sleeping
arrangements, and his now subdued attitude made more sense. It
hadn’t all been about Adalia’s threats. They had information that
pointed to Mike.

“No. No more evasions or
omissions.”

He dropped his head into
his hands. “I don’t like this.”

“Join the club.” She
didn’t want to hear it, but ignorance was more of a hindrance than
bliss.

He looked up, watching her
in a silent battle of wills before he reluctantly nodded. “You have
to trust me to do what’s right.”

The message couldn’t be any clearer that he
didn’t want her involved, but he was agreeing to open up—a
privilege he doubtfully afforded to many people. She had nothing to
hide, and would tell him whatever she could to clear Mike’s
name.

“What do you need to
know?”

“Had he said anything
about an ancient people or their language? Specifically
Hyperboreans?”

“The picture in Jared’s
room is supposed to be of Hyperborea.” She rubbed her temples.
“They did it together. Mike made the place sound like
fiction.”

Harte told her about the notes Adalia had
left and how he was coming to believe she was on the hunt for
information. Anyone who knew too much got killed. Then he told her
about Mike’s note he’d found on her computer.

“Wait.” She grabbed his
arm. “He hid the scrolls where security is as commonplace as peace?
Is that how he worded it?”

“Yeah.” He straightened.
“You know where he means?”

“Yes.” She kissed him and
jumped off the table. “We need to go for a ride. We’re going to see
my dad.”
And my kids.

Without waiting to make sure he kept up, she
headed to the car.

Rounding a curve, the green pipe fence that
stretched nearly a mile came into view. Directly in the middle of
the fence line was a set of ornate iron gates with upside down
horseshoes for catching good luck along the top. The superstition
came from Mike’s mom, Betty, but their families had both been
lucky. No matter what threat had faced them over the years, they
stood strong and prevailed.