Now You See It (14 page)

Brady watched her, saying nothing.

“Then he started hiding things. I’d think I’d
filed
something, because I couldn’t find it, and he’d
let me stew and search for a while, and then pull it out from wherever he’d
stashed it and laugh. Sneer, is more like it.”

“So you started doubting yourself.”

She took a deep breath through her nose, let it out. “Dumb,
huh?”

“It happens.”

* * *

He swirled the wine in his glass. He needed to explain.
“I have really good hunches.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“And I’m mildly psychometric,” he added, lifting his glass
toward her.

When she looked blank, he explained. “Sometimes I get
impressions from things people have touched.”

“Like the wineglasses.”

“Yeah. Your traces are stronger than most people’s. I can even
feel the shapes of some things you’ve touched right through the boxes.”

“Wait a minute! Wait, wait.” She made pushing motions. “Is that
why Mike sent you, that first day? So you could ESP whoever messed with the
computer?”

Brady nodded. “Mike’s one of maybe twenty people who know. It’s
not something I talk about, as a rule. So we’re just really careful when people
are around.”

Brady looked away and set his wineglass down.

“But you didn’t get any sense of who was fooling with the
computer the other day,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. Maybe the guy wore gloves—it has to be
a direct contact. All I felt up there was you,” he said and looked straight at
her.

She set her glass down. “I don’t want to talk any more. I want
to find out how you really do taste.”

He smiled, “That works for me.”

She cleared her throat. “I think it’s always a good idea to
follow your first instincts.”

He made a solemn face as he moved closer and clasped her arms
lightly, swaying a bit from side to side. “I couldn’t agree more.” He stroked
her cheek, trailed fingers down her jaw and across her shoulder, just
threatening to brush her breast.

Her breath got thick. “Think we can make it upstairs?”

He gave the slightest smile and swallowed hard. “Next time,
maybe.”

* * *

His hand brushed across her budded nipple, tightened to
caress her before moving up to cup her head. His fingers tangled in her hair as
he drew her mouth to his, slowly, slowly. His breath blew across her skin, and
she saw his lips part as their mouths met full on, tongues seeking, stroking,
teasing, in a dance of arousal. He slipped his hands under her T-shirt, across
lace and smooth satin, trailing his fingertips across her skin. He released the
snap on her bra with a deft one-handed move she barely noticed as his tongue
trailed lightly over the sensitive rim of her lips, turning their heat to
tingling that she had to quench. When he pulled her shirt over her head, the bra
came with it. His shirt followed, and then they pressed together, strained
together, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, astonished by the overwhelming
sense of homecoming. Of belonging, of rightness Gemma had never hoped to find
again outside of fantasies.

The doorbell broke her concentration.

“Let it go,” he said against the curve of her neck.

“Ms. Cavanagh? Pierce County Sheriff. Open the door,
please.”

“Shit,” Gemma and Brady said simultaneously, and began huddling
into their discarded clothing

Brady smoothed down his shirt. “Straight?” he asked Gemma, who
was still in her bra because she’d pulled her shirt on wrong-side-out the first
try.

She gave him a once-over, nodded, and ducked behind some boxes
as he headed for the door.

“Afternoon, McGrath,” Olsen said.

“Detective Sergeant Olsen,” Brady answered. He opened the door
and Olsen spotted Gemma. “Ms. Cavanagh?”

“Come on in,” she said. “I’d ask you to sit down, but as you
can see, there’s no place
to
sit.”

“That’s okay,” Abernathy said, looking around.

“We had some trouble finding you,” Olsen said. “One of your
neighbors gave us your new address. We weren’t aware you were planning to move
this quickly.”

“I wasn’t, but my house was broken into twice in two days—the
last time whoever it was seriously trashed it. I’m sure my neighbors told you
that, too. I spent over an hour with the Kirkland P.D. that night answering
questions. Don’t you people ever talk to each other?” She knew that wasn’t
fair—there was no reason Kirkland Police would report a vandalized house to the
Pierce County Sheriff’s Office, but her body was still raging, and she didn’t
feel like being fair. “Maybe you should all compare notes, or something.”

“McGrath. Checking the computer security in the new place?”

“Matter of fact,” Brady answered.

Gemma bit her tongue to hold back a giggle.
She was definitely too tense
, she thought, but Olsen’s
next words sobered her like cold water.

“The first break-in was computer tampering.”

So, he had checked, Gemma realized, and suddenly felt fed up.
And she was angry with herself that even that niggling filament of suspicion had
made her stomach flip.

“Which is why Mr. McGrath was at my house the first day you
came,” she interposed. “I assume this is a social visit, detective sergeant,
since you can see my attorney isn’t here.”

“We just wanted to tie up a couple of loose ends before we head
back to Pierce County.” Olsen’s benign smile didn’t convince her. “And to let
you know we’ll be coordinating with Seattle P.D. on the Dawkins homicide, now
that we’ve established a link with their case.”

She didn’t respond. She needed all her resources to keep her
face and body under control.

The moment of silence stretched until Abernathy shifted on his
feet, and Olsen said, “Well, thank you. I’m sure Seattle P.D. will be getting in
touch with your attorney.”

Gemma stared at the door for a full minute after the detectives
had gone. Abruptly she turned away. “I’m starving,” she said. “I haven’t eaten
all day. Can I fix you something?”

“Sure you don’t want to send out for pizza?”

“When I’m stressed, I need to cook,” she said. “Think you can
clear off some place for us to sit?”

“I can probably manage that. I’ve just got a little more to do
on the wiring first.”

“Great. Dinner in forty-five minutes.”
Damn, damn, damn!

Following the pattern her mother had established in their
countless changes-of-station, Gemma had opened the kitchen boxes she could
recognize first thing this morning, putting away the salvaged staples and
spices, and making sure the perishables—milk, eggs, butter and veggies she‘d
picked up on the way from Mike‘s—made it into the fridge right away. The
kitchen, at least, was ready for action. Or near enough.

Cooking calmed her. She loved the balance of creativity and
order, the scents and textures of baking, loved the way eggs changed color as
she whipped them to a froth, then again as she added cornmeal, sugar, corn
niblets, cheese and a can of green chili peppers. A quick spray of oil in the
pan, and pop it all into the oven while she built a monster salad and put some
eggs on to boil. By the time she was whisking the vinaigrette, she was feeling
much better, and even ready to enjoy the meal.

Gemma headed into the living room to see how Brady was faring,
and to let him know dinner was nearly ready. As she stepped into the living area
she saw him stretched out on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles, one arm
tucked behind his head. He‘d cleaned out a corner of the room and moved the
couch under a front window where it looked as if it belonged. The TV was playing
softly on a digital music station, and Brady was sound asleep. A tender
softening filled her chest, followed immediately by heavy dampness as her body
swelled in readiness for him.

She took a step closer, wanting only to look at him like this
for a little while longer, and so swamped by warmth and affection that her knees
felt wobbly and her breath came short.

“Hey,” she called softly.

He didn’t respond, didn’t move. He lay as if dead, only the
rise and fall of his chest reassuring her that he was, indeed, just
sleeping.

“Hey,” she said, more loudly.

Still no response.

“Brady?”

His eyes opened, clear, cold and focused on hers with the
menacing directness of targeting lasers, chilling her with a jolt of disquiet
that raised goose flesh on her arms. Mike had told her once about SEALs’ instant
sleeping, instant waking, but she’d never actually seen it before.

An instant later, the frightening stare gave way to a warm
smile. “Hey,” he said.

Gemma swallowed and looked away from him. “Dinner in five.”

He swung up into a sitting position. “Guess I dropped off.
Sorry about that.”

“The couch looks great there.” That sounded lame, even to
her.

He was instantly serious. “What did I do?”

She told him. “It’s intimidating. Most people have to look
around, all sleepy or groggy. How did you know exactly where I was?”

“Training,” he said. “Gemma, I’m sorry about that. I really am.
I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t. Much. I’m impressed, though.
You‘ll have to teach me how to do that.”

Brady blinked.

Gemma grinned at him. “Ready to eat?”

His smile was feline and lazy. “Oh, yeah.”

* * *

He knew the rental car was as good
as invisible, parked like this with its lights out in the pool of darkness
between streetlights. That was good. No one needed to see him, needed to
know. It was too hot for the black turtleneck he was wearing, but the
invisibility was worth the discomfort. Same went for the camouflage paint
that smeared his face. Hideous stuff. How did women stand it? Oily, greasy,
heavy. This was never supposed to be so difficult.

He checked his watch as the light went on
upstairs. So, how long would they take for sex? Say, half an hour? He
sneered. Probably nothing like that long, but give them the benefit of the
doubt.

He balled his hands into fists with such
pressure he felt his nails break the skin of his palms. Stupid. Stupid to
get so worked up over her. He would never have believed she would lower
herself so much—but she had, and she would have to pay for wasting his time.
And other things.

Well, nothing as cleansing as
fire.

Not that he had a choice, really. Ned had
been too clever. That paper in the stupid percolator had nearly slipped by
him. He couldn’t take a chance that he’d missed something else. It wasn’t
his fault she’d picked a house that was perfect for his plans. All that old
wood would go up like tinder, especially after so many months with no rain.
Poor Gemma, trapped by her own stupidity. Served her right. And SEAL Boy was
a delicious bonus. They’d both get what they deserved. Would she still think
her lover was so attractive when they were both on fire?

He checked his reflection in the rearview
mirror. He could almost be a Navy SEAL, himself, he thought, turning his
face this way and that, watching the kaleidoscope shapes of paint and skin
in the very faint light. He laughed silently. Yes, he knew all about the man
inside. Inside the house, inside the woman. He shut off those thoughts
ruthlessly. He needed to stay in control. Sun Tzu said, “Know your enemy.”
Well, he knew his enemy. Lots of sealed files on Brady McGrath, classified,
secret—but even that told him something about the man he was about to
destroy.

The light went out. That hadn’t taken
long. Maybe he was giving them too much credit.

A few more minutes. Patience, now. Let
them sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Brady sat in Gemma’s darkened living room, scratching Nikki’s ear as he let his mind wander. He’d scared Gemma earlier. She’d handled it well, but he’d seen that flash of fear. He supposed she didn’t have any particular reason to trust him, but he wanted her to. Wished she would. What he really wanted was to be upstairs with her, but after tonight, he wasn’t sure whether she was ready for the kind of intimacy he wanted to share with her. Physical, psychic. And every other kind they could think of together. He wanted it all, with Gemma. The whole chimichanga. Complete with all the trimmings, guacamole, sour cream, pico de gallo—must be the dinner she’d conjured out of the shambles that had him thinking in terms of Mexican food, but the principle was the same.

Hell, maybe he wasn’t ready for it, either. Leaving the Navy hadn’t turned him into a civilian. Nightmares still plagued him now and then. When they came, they were horrific, and left him shivering and weirded out after he wrenched himself loose from them. Night sweats left his sheets soaking wet and reeking. As many nights as not, he moved from bed to floor, changing his location three, four, even five times or more. It wasn’t something he could control, yet. His body moved while he was still mostly asleep. The post-traumatic-stress counseling he’d received when he left the Team had helped some, but as far as he’d ever been able to learn, nothing but time would damp it down.

And none of it was particularly easy to explain to a partner.
“Oh, yeah, Hon. Not only do I know when you’re faking it, but I thrash and sweat and, oh, yeah, I like to sleep on the floor, now and then, so don’t trip over me if you have to get up in the night.”
And then there was the bit about, “Don’t touch me when I’m asleep or I might break your neck...” Just great. Yeah, he was a real prize.

Outside, the wind was increasing. He watched the trees blow against the ambient lights of the sleeping city. A single car drove by, the sandy hiss of its tires dopplering as it passed.

Nikki rose and stretched, and padded up the stairs where he was pretty sure she’d make herself comfortable on Gemma’s bed.
Smart dog
, he thought with frank envy.

Well, one good thing about Gemma’s couch, it was at least long enough to stretch out on. He focused on the trees, willing himself to relax into sleep.

He was nodding off when something woke him. His eyes opened, but the rest of his body remained immobile as he listened for whatever had alerted him.

Nikki made a series of
wuffs
and started down the stairs. A window shattered at the rear of the house, and Brady heard the soft
whump!
of igniting gasoline. He jumped off the couch. Running footsteps circled to the front of the house and a bottle flew through the front window and broke against the TV stand, spreading flames as the accelerant caught from the burning rag in its neck.

Brady leapt for the stairs, shooing the dog ahead of him.

“Gemma! Gemma! Wake up! Gemma, Fire!”

By the time he reached the top of the staircase, the old wood of the walls and floor was ablaze, and the avid flames had already reached the bottom of the stairs.

* * *

Gemma sat up in bed. Her eyes, foggy from sleep, cleared the instant she saw the lurid flickering behind Brady’s head, and realized the fire was blocking their only way out. Her heart started to pound so hard she could barely get a breath.

“Nikki?”

The dog whined beside the bed.

“Brady, how can we get out? She weighs a hundred pounds.”

“We’ll have to go over the porch roof.” He jerked the sheets off the bed and knotted them together.

“She can’t climb down that.”

“I’m going to lower her in it,” he said. Unless they hurried, the porch would be on fire, too, roof and all, and the sling would be useless. It might not work, in any case.

Gemma slid the window open and reached for Nikki, but the dog had retreated under the bed. Gemma bent down and tried to reach her collar, but the terrified malamute pulled further back into the darkness she thought meant safety.

“Come on, Nikk,” Gemma urged. She tried to keep her voice calm, but Nikki wasn’t cooperating. Faced by a primal threat, the dog reverted to instinctive behavior. She wouldn’t budge.

Brady sent one desperate look at the flames snarling at the head of the stairs, another at Gemma. He knew she’d never leave without her dog.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s it.” He grabbed the foot of the worked iron bed frame and lifted straight up. “Get her. Hurry.”

Gemma pushed forward on her hands and knees. As soon as she could get a grip on Nikki’s collar, she stood and dragged the reluctant dog toward the window. “Thank God there’s no carpet,” she said under her breath as Nikki scrabbled in vain for traction on the polished wood floor. Gemma had a crazy flash of guilt that Nikki’s claws would ruin the finish, and realized how close she was to the edge.

Together they forced the dog through the window and out onto the porch roof, and climbed out after her. Gemma had time for one breath of cooler air. Brady pulled the knotted sheets out onto the roof just as flames broke over the rain gutter.

The asphalt shingles were getting hot and soft under Gemma’s bare feet, but it was fifteen feet down, through fire, onto summer-dry ground nearly as hard as concrete. Brady’s sling wasn’t going to work. The sheets would catch fire the minute it went over the edge.

Nikki began to woo a few endless seconds before their ears picked up the approaching sirens. The roof was getting too hot to touch. Gemma looked at Brady.

“Up,” he said. “This roof won’t last until they get here.”

He lifted Nikki to the next roof face, then boosted Gemma and hauled himself up after her. They were safe for the moment, but the fire was keeping pace.

A ladder truck screamed into the yard, and the gathering neighbors scattered as firefighters poured out from both sides. In seconds, a ladder was rising in what seemed to Gemma a painfully slow arc as it rotated toward them. The sirens died, but Nikki sang on until Brady lifted her like a calf and handed her across to the waiting fireman. She struggled in the strange arms, and the firefighter teetered backward, nearly losing his balance.

As soon as the dog was nearly down, Brady started Gemma onto the ladder. He didn’t need to urge her to move faster. Flames shot from the ventilator not five feet from where she stood, and she knew Brady wouldn’t go until she was safe. She shut her eyes as she descended past a wall of flame. The ladder was nearly too hot to grip, and she jumped the last few feet when she felt Brady start down. He was moving fast, but as he passed a second-floor window, a jet of searing blue shattered the glass and licked at his legs.

“Son of a bitch!” she heard him swear, and the edge of a stream of very cold water caught them both.

Then he was on the ground beside her. They were wrapped in blankets and turned over to the EMTs, while a firefighter attached a strong cord to Nikki’s collar.

“I’m okay,” Gemma said. “I’m not hurt. But Brady is. Brady got burned.”

“Did you breathe in smoke?” the EMT asked. “Heat?”

Gemma shook her head. “How’s my dog?”

The woman grinned. “Pissed off, pretty seriously freaked out, but okay. Damn, lady, that was some escape.”

She turned to look at Brady, and saw him talking rapidly to an older man in turnout gear while an EMT cut away melted tatters of his warm-up pants. Brady felt her gaze, and their eyes met.

Suddenly it all hit her—the fire roaring behind them, the water streaming in, the threat. She began to shake. One of the firefighters put a steadying arm around her when she swayed, and began to steer her toward the ambulance.

Brady limped his way over to her. A pristine burn wrap covering his lower calf crackled as he moved. “Gemma. Gemma.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “We need to go. We need to go, right now. These guys will keep Nikki until Mike can pick her up. Can you walk?”

She rubbed her face and gasped for breath. Nodded. She started following him without really thinking. Her breathing wasn’t quite right, somehow, but she couldn’t focus on it.

He took a key from under the tire well and opened the door for her. “Now I’m pissed off.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” he said. “Get in.” Gemma got into the passenger seat and buckled in as he slammed the car door.

Brady sat with one hand resting on the steering wheel, his face toward the darkness outside. After a second or two, he seemed to come to a conclusion, and turned the key in the ignition.

“Brady—” Gemma began.

He turned toward her, and she felt the fine hairs lift on the back of her neck. The stranger was back. His eyes had had gone flat and cold, mouth firmed into a grim line. His suddenly paled skin had tightened until his cheekbones stood out sharply from the planes of his face.

“Brady?”

He didn’t look at her. He looked through her. Past her, to the night outside. “Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He didn’t sound anything. Remote. Detached. Going through the motions of minimal courtesy. He gave his head a sharp shake and took a hard breath through his nose. Suddenly the intimidating stranger was gone, and he just looked worried and tired.

“Did it again, didn’t I? I really am sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, Gemma.” He grinned and glanced over at her. “I’ll bet if I grew fangs and bat wings right now, you wouldn’t even be surprised.”

“Probably not. But who are you, Brady? Really.”

“Right now, I’m the very pissed off guy who’s getting us the fuck out of here until I figure out what’s going on.” As he drove, he watched the mirrors. “Oh, yeah?” he muttered, and turned south on I-405.

“Yeah, what?”

“We’re about to see, but I think someone’s following us.” He pulled into the middle lane and began working the car to the front of a cluster of cars. Just before the Woodinville exit, he cut the lights and stomped the accelerator into passing gear. The car shot forward with a low growl, and Brady veered at the last minute into the off-ramp. Still running dark, the car took the cloverleaf much faster than the engineers had ever intended and broke out onto 522, heading east at ninety-five miles an hour.

Gemma splayed one hand against the passenger-side window and braced the other against the dash. “I am so going to throw up!” she yelled, chagrined that her voice broke into a squeak.

Taut, totally focused, Brady sped the half mile to the next exit, skidded through the stoplight at the top of the ramp and into one sharp left turn, and then another one against the second light, and zoomed back onto the highway, turning his lights back on as they headed west. “Get down.”

Gemma obeyed immediately, fighting queasiness as the car banked onto I-405 southbound and slowed to an unremarkable sixty-four mph in the center lane.

Brady’s hand dropped to her shoulder. “Just a couple of minutes more, until I’m sure it worked. You did great,” he added, with a quick glance and smile.

“I think I left my stomach in Woodinville.”

His smile broke into a grin. “Uh-huh. Nothing like a little adrenaline to clear the mind. Now I know where we’re going.”

“Where’s that?”

“International District. You can sit up now.”

Gemma chewed her lower lip in silence.

* * *

“Wait! This isn’t the International District,” Gemma protested as Brady zipped up Bel-Red Road.

“I have to admit, you look really cute all smudged and tousled, but we’re bound to attract attention looking like this.” He wrinkled his nose. “And smelling like used turnout gear.”

She looked down at the tatters of melted running pants that flapped over Brady’s burn wrapping, and realized she was wearing only an old UW “Go Dawgs!” sleep shirt and—thank God!—panties. And he was right—they did smell like burning house. “Not exactly eau de campfire,” she said, and hated that her voice still shook.

“We’ll fix it all in just a minute.”

He was as good as his word. Almost immediately Brady turned into a down-ramp under an apartment complex and pulled into a parking space near the elevator. He put on the parking brake and turned to her. “Welcome to my escape hatch. Come on.”

She followed him slowly. It was an effort to put one foot ahead of the other, and her mind felt like mush. Like smoke. A shudder wracked her and her teeth started to chatter. The concrete of the parking garage was cold, but not that cold. She tried to stop shaking, but couldn’t remember how.

Brady put an arm around her waist and steered her into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, he pulled her full-length against the warmth of his body and cupped her head gently against his chest. “We’re almost there, Gemma. Just hang on another minute. Okay?”

She nodded. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t remember. Warmth and comfort seeped into her, and she pressed tighter, closer, until the beating of his heart filled all the raw spaces where thought and fear had been.

The elevator doors opened on an empty hall—thank God it was two in the morning—and in a few steps they were inside a tiny one-bedroom apartment. Brady called it his “escape hatch,” and it was about that basic—a couple of chairs, a television, a generic coffee table of synthetic wood. He urged her through the living area and the bedroom into a cramped bathroom. But the shower worked, and soon steam began to fog the mirror.

He took a towel from an over-the-tank shelf unit and set it on the corner of the sink. “Will you be okay?”

She nodded again, and tried a smile as he closed the door on his way out.

Heaven. As she let the hot water drive out the adrenaline shakes and shower away the smell of smoke and fear, her mind started to clear. Brady. He was almost too good to be true. Almost? Let’s see, he’d kissed her silly, and man! Could the guy kiss. He’d saved her life, and Nikki’s, had driven like a stuntman, and held her with more tenderness than she’d known since her dad died. As she turned off the shower, she felt her legs trembling again, but not from fear this time, or from adrenaline rush. Nope. Different set of hormones entirely.

The bathroom door opened, and her heart began to pound as her mouth went dry and then suddenly wet. A long brown arm and hand stacked a fresh T-shirt and a pair of boxers where the towel had sat. “Thanks,” she managed. Maybe if she was lucky, he’d think her voice was so husky from the smoke.
Yeah. Right.