Hard Landing (18 page)

As he savored his first sips of wine, she set the fish in a shallow baking dish and drizzled it with olive oil. The wine—buttery with a perfect balance of sweet and tart—ran in a cool river down his throat, hit his empty stomach, and flooded him with warmth. He felt himself relaxing, enjoying her graceful competence.

"I'm making this too easy on you," she observed. "Here." She handed him a knife, handle end first. "Cut the ends off the green beans for me, please?"

"Sure." He'd never done that before, but he could wield a knife with lethal precision.

She made room at the sink for him. "Drop them into the disposal and put the good pieces in the steamer," she instructed helpfully.

He followed her directions carefully, pleased with himself when she praised his work.

"Do you always eat this healthy?" He already figured she did, but he had to say something.

"Well, I'm not a fanatic about it, but I prefer whole foods over processed ones and, of course, organic, if I can get it."

Hence her trim little figure, he thought, his sidelong gaze skimming over her curves to her bare feet. At the sight of her hot pink-painted toenails, his heart skipped a beat.

His elbow brushed hers unintentionally, and awareness licked over him, shortening his breath. As he continued his paring, she garnished the fish with salt and other spices.

It wasn't until she slipped the fish under the oven's broiler and placed the green beans on the stove to steam that she brought up the reason for her invitation.

"So," she said, putting her back against the counter and picking up her glass. A sudden frown muted her inner glow. "Something happened last weekend while the task unit was away."

He braced himself for what she might tell him. It couldn't be any worse than what he had to tell her.

"Remember that New Yorker I told you about, the one Max had thrown out of the house?"

A bad feeling rolled through him. "The guy named Tony who said you'd meet again someday," he recalled.

"Oh, we met again, all right."

His tension edged suddenly higher. Considering whom Max associated with online, what were the odds that Tony was exactly what he seemed—a mobster?

"He abducted me by hiding in the back of my car. With a gun to my head, he ordered me to drive to his BMW, which was parked at a dead end in my old neighborhood."

Brant slammed his glass down nearly breaking the stem. Alarm scorched his nervous system. "Are you okay? What the hell happened?"

She wrung her hands and kept quiet, causing him to fear the worst.

"Becca!" he exclaimed.

"They didn't hurt me. All they did was bind my wrists and ankles and take a picture of me. I had to tell them Max's cell phone number. Then they sent him my picture along with their demands."

"What were their demands?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But he must have agreed to them because they cut me free, put me back in my car, and drove off."

Oh, honey
. He barely caught himself from blurting the endearment. "Did you call the cops?"

"No." Her head swung back and forth. "No, they said I wouldn't be so lucky next time, and I'd rather not find out what that means."

"Christ, Becca." He didn't plan on hugging her, but what else could he do? She looked so small and vulnerable that he closed the distance between them and pulled her to his chest. Her soft, scented warmth sank against him; her head fitted so neatly under his chin that he was struck by the thought that she was made for him. But then he felt her trembling.

Damn Max for mixing her up in his shady business! "You must have been scared to death."

"I was." She drew away reluctantly. "Here, I'll show you what Tony looks like." Crossing to a kitchen drawer, she withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to Brant.

He found himself regarding a detailed portrait of a swarthy, broad-faced male in his thirties. "Wow, this is amazing. You can really draw," he marveled.

"Thanks."

"Is this a good likeness of him?"

"Pretty close," she said with a nod. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "So, what do you think? Max has money in a foreign account, and he knows people who used me to blackmail him for something. Do we have enough evidence to report him to NCIS?"

Brant drew a tight breath. She'd banished the comfortable, uncomplicated atmosphere with her news. Now it was his turn to share what he'd learned. "Yeah, we have enough."

He dreaded even bringing it up. From here on out, everything was going to change. He and Rebecca could never go back to simply being friends. For one thing, Max probably already assumed that they were more. For another, it wasn't going to be pleasant trying to pull him off his high-and-mighty pedestal.

"Hack did find something on Max's laptop," he announced.

Her face reflected dread. "What was it?"

He took another fortifying gulp of wine and put the glass down more gently this time. "Max frequented a black market website that goes by the name Silk Road. You can get to it only by going through a dot onion, which is a kind of pseudo domain used by criminals to hide their traffic. Hack tried to explain it to me, but most of it was over my head. Basically, Max was looking for a way to make money."

Her lips parted in astonishment, but she didn't say a word.

"Hack says he came across a cached application form that Max had filled out. Someone was looking to hire a bodyguard to perform security detail." He put air quotes around the last two words, giving them emphasis.

"Oh my God. Then the sniper described in that newspaper clipping—that was Max! He's killed two people for the mob already?"

"We don't know that," Brant countered, tempering her conclusion. "But we can't discount the possibility."

"Well, if he did, then the FBI is looking for him. We could take our suspicions to them."

"We could. Or to NCIS."

Her eyes glazed over as she lapsed into thought. "That's where all the money came from," she considered out loud. "It wasn't an inheritance. He was paid by the mob, who deposited his payment in an offshore account so the government would never find out."

"According to Hack, Emile Victor DuPonte isn't considered a legitimate investment firm. The Swiss government doesn't recognize it."

Her expression hardened. "Because it's used by thugs," she guessed.

He scratched his healing stitches while thoughts rolled around in his mind. "But why did the mob have to grab
you
if Max willingly works for them?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe they're asking too much from him. Maybe he's afraid the law is on to him and he wanted to quit. Whatever the reason, he must have agreed to their terms, or they wouldn't have let me go."

The urge to hug her again nearly overpowered Brant. Obviously the wine was going to his head already. And that kiss that had been tingling on his lips for days now demanded an imminent delivery. "Are you sure you want to pursue this?" he asked her.

The fish sizzled under the broiler as she fell thoughtfully quiet. Brant filled his empty wine glass, half regretting that the topic of Max had come up so quickly. Up to this point, he'd really been enjoying himself. At the rate things were unraveling, they might never get to share an evening together like this, ever again.

"Tell you what," he proposed, topping off her glass, as well. "Don't answer that yet. For the next thirty minutes, let's pretend Max doesn't exist." He met her startled, searching gaze. "Tomorrow, with your permission, I'll tell Master Chief Kuzinsky what we know. If we're going to take this information to the FBI or to NCIS, then we need his help."

She swallowed visibly at getting Max's right-hand man involved.

"Is that what you want?" he pressed. "Or do you want me to forget what Hack found on Max's laptop or what that creep, Tony, did to you?"

For a moment she appeared torn, but then resolve firmed her lips and she shook her head. "No, I don't want you to forget it. Max is breaking the law. If I want what's due to me, then I have to prove it. Besides, if he's getting paid to assassinate people, that makes him a murderer. I can't let him get away with that!"

He hoped he got the chance one day to deck Max for causing Rebecca the distress that tightened her sweet face. "Okay," he agreed, though not without a pang of concern. "I'll let you know what Master Chief has to say after Hack and I talk to him, hopefully tomorrow. In the meantime, let's finish every conversation we've ever started but had to cut short for obvious reasons. What do you say?"

He could see her putting aside the implications of their discovery and concentrating on the present. Summoning a smile that made her eyes sparkle, she said, "We can actually enjoy a full-length conversation. Imagine that!"

And talking is all you've got in mind, remember, Adams?
"I'll set the table," he offered.

Under her guidance, he found placemats, silverware, and napkins and laid them on a small table that used to be in Max's gazebo, out by his pool. Rebecca, meantime, sliced up a loaf of wheat bread and placed it in a basket. Then she poked the fish with a fork and pulled it out from under the hot broiler. Taking the steaming green beans off the burner, she proceeded to transfer their dinner onto a platter, placing it in the center of the table.

They sat across from each other, and Rebecca bowed her head, saying a quick prayer. As Brant studied her, he could feel his contentment returning. "What's new at the hospital?" he began as they filled their plates with the fare before them.

A tired but contented smile teased her dimples into view. "Let's see. Today we had a record number of cardiac arrests—three in one afternoon. Two of them were splitting wood for the fall." She cut into her broiled fish with the side of her fork.

"That's hard work," he commiserated, having split plenty of wood in his youth. "So, I take it that even though the ER is stressful, you still like your job."

"I love it. Helping people when they need you most is truly rewarding."

Her words made him think about the unclaimed body. "Did anyone come for that dead guy who looks like me?"

She looked down at her plate and shook her head. "No, not yet."

"That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

She glanced up with wide eyes. "Am I that transparent?"

"To me, you are."
Watch it, Adams
. His tongue seemed to have a mind of its own tonight.

"His circumstances remind me of my father," she admitted, ignoring his remark.

"What was he like, your father?"

She rolled her eyes, but a fond smile came to her face. "Oh, he was something else—a dreamer, a visionary, an idealist. He was always searching for himself, never content with what he found." She forked up another morsel of her fillet. "Do you think your father was like that, too?" she asked, popping it into her mouth.

He considered his famous father with a frown. "Not at all. He seems perfectly content with himself."

She blinked at the bitterness that he couldn't conceal. "How well do you know him?"

He looked down at his half-empty plate. "I mother first introduced us when I was a kid. He didn't pay much attention to me at first. But I was so starstruck that I decided to follow in his footsteps, and we eventually became friends. My mom always said we were two peas in a pod."

"You did the rodeo thing to be like him," she guessed. "Except you rode broncos instead of bulls."

"Broncs," he corrected her.

"Sorry—broncs. Why did you ride them and not bulls?"

He shrugged. "Wanted to carve my own path, I guess. Plus, horses are less intimidating than bulls." He sent her a wry smile.

"But you still had your fair share of injuries as I recall," she pointed out. He had regaled her with stories of his bronc-riding days the first time they'd met, at the Team Twelve Christmas party. "Good thing, too, or you would never have become a SEAL."

He had told her at a different party how he'd broken his arm in three places and wound up sharing a hospital room with a former frogman. The retired SEAL had convinced him to quit the rodeo circuit and take on a beast called terrorism. Not long after, he had joined the Navy and gone straight from basic training in the Great Lakes to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training in Coronado.

"You have an excellent memory," he pointed out, impressed by her recall.

"Not really." She smiled at him. "Your stories are memorable, that's all. Tell me more about your father," she pleaded.

He looked away, picturing his handsome but haggard father. "Fun to be with, great sense of humor. You can listen to him commentate on the Professional Bull-Riding Network any day of the week."

She searched his expression. "And yet, I get the feeling that he disappointed you," she guessed.

"No, he's a great human being," he protested, but since she'd glimpsed his true feelings, he told her something he didn't normally tell anyone, not even his teammates. "He just wasn't around for me when I was growing up. Other kids had dads, but all I had were my mom and my grandparents. I felt like I was missing out on something. Plus, my mom seemed lonely. I wanted her to fall in love again, but she said Quinn Farley had broken her heart, and she couldn't ever love like that again."