One Wrong Step (16 page)

R
owe found Cecelia in the Bluebonnet House kitchen Tuesday afternoon, surrounded by peanut-butter sandwiches.

“Looks like I’m just in time,” he said, entering the room.

She looked up, startled. “Hi.”

“I thought you wrote grants around here.”

She picked up a slice of wheat bread and slathered it with Skippy. “I do. But I also help fulfill them when the money comes in.”

He nodded at the paper plates lined up on the counter. “Free lunch program?”

“After-school nutrition.” She placed the sandwich beside some apple slices. “We just got funding from a private foundation.”

Rowe leaned his hip against the stainless steel counter and looked around.

“Watch your suit,” she said, reaching behind him to move a sticky peanut-butter lid.

“I just stopped by to tell you you’re cleared.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Cleared?”

“To participate Thursday. If you still want to.”

“I do.”

That’s what he’d thought she’d say. Rowe didn’t think it was a good idea, but she was the contact person, so they needed her nearby.

“The decoy agent wants to meet you Thursday morning to go over everything,” he said. “The basic plan is for you to leave your apartment in your own vehicle and drive to the site, but by the time you arrive there, our agent will be at the wheel pretending to be you. The sharpshooters and I will be stationed on and around the bridge. At the designated time, our agent will get out of the vehicle and carry out the exchange.”

“But these guys have seen me. They’ll know—”

“We have no intention of letting them get that close, trust me.”

But Rowe doubted she trusted much of anybody.

“And you have to wear a Kevlar vest. Even though you’re not to leave the car.”

She nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Any chance I can talk you out of this?”

She wiped her hands on her jeans and screwed the top back on the peanut butter. “Nope.”

“Your bodyguard and your boyfriend are not invited.”

“My boyfriend?”

Rowe just looked at her. She had to realize they’d been watching her. It was a documented fact that she’d spent the better part of the weekend behind closed doors with the reporter.

They hadn’t been seen together in two days, though, a fact that had been the subject of speculation among some of the younger members of Rowe’s team. Evidently, Cecelia Wells and John McAllister were the unwitting stars of a reality show whose viewing audience consisted of bored federal employees.

“Okay, so I’ll come alone,” she said. “Any other requirements?”

“That’s it.” Rowe watched her for a moment, wondering what made this woman tick. She’d put her life at risk to give a small fortune to charity. But what was in it for her? In his experience, people weren’t that altruistic.

Whatever her reasons, he supported what she was doing. He’d seen far too many abused kids during the course of his career to want to discourage one of the few people trying to help. He’d told her as much during their last meeting, although she’d never actually acknowledged what she’d done with Saledo’s money.

She stood before him now, searching his face. “What are the chances this thing will go off without a hitch?”

He thought about lying to her. But she’d been through a lot, and he figured she could handle it. “I’d say, slim to none.”

Her eyes widened.

“But who knows?” he said, backpedaling now. “Maybe it’ll go perfectly. I’ve just always been a pessimist.”

Celie squirmed in the hard plastic chair and glanced at the clock. It had been ten minutes since she’d given her name to the receptionist. Either McAllister wasn’t here at his office, or he was avoiding her.

This wasn’t a good idea. She’d give it two more minutes—three, tops—and then she’d leave. She gnawed on her cuticle and watched the clock, waiting with waning hopes for McAllister’s tall frame. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since Monday morning when he’d left her apartment in a rush. At the time, he’d claimed he was late for work, but now that it was Wednesday, she couldn’t ignore the needling certainty that there was more to his abrupt departure.

The glass door marked newsroom pushed open. But, instead of McAllister, a slender brunette wearing black jeans and a DKNY T-shirt emerged. She walked straight up to Celie.

“Cecelia Wells? I’m Kate Kepler.”

Kate Kepler…The name rang a bell, but Celie couldn’t place it. She shook the woman’s outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m waiting for John McAllister. Are you his…” Assistant? Coworker? Fling of the week?

“We work together. I heard you were looking for John, and I just thought I’d tell you he’s out on assignment right now, so—” Her gaze shifted over Celie’s shoulder. “Oh, wait. Here he is.”

Celie turned to see McAllister breeze through the front doors. He wore a press pass around his neck and a tie, of all things. He spotted Celie, froze, and then crossed the foyer to frown down at her.

“What are you doing here?”

Celie stared up at him, confused by the blatant hostility.

“Good to meet you, Cecelia.” The young reporter smiled at Celie before heading back into the newsroom.

Celie looked at McAllister again, hoping she’d misread the situation. If anything, he looked even angrier than he had at first.

“I just—” She cleared her throat. “You didn’t answer your phone, so I thought I’d just—”

“I didn’t want to talk to you.”

The pain shocked her. She looked up into those intense blue eyes and realized he was furious.

A man brushed past them, and Celie stepped out of his way. They were standing in the middle of the lobby, and Celie noticed the receptionist seemed to be just a little too intent on her Office Depot catalogue. She was listening to every word.

“Is there somewhere else we can talk?” Celie asked.

“
Now
you want to talk? A little late, don’t you think?”

“What is your problem?”

He looked away from her and shook his head.

“Fine. You want to talk? Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the glass doors into the newsroom.

Celie let him tow her behind him, too stunned to speak. What was he
doing
? He pulled her past cubicles, desks, and ringing phones. Several interested gazes followed them through the noisy room. After passing a series of windowed offices, McAllister turned down a row of cubicles and stopped at one in the middle. He pulled the press pass off his neck, tossed it on the desk, and leaned over the short, padded wall to the next cube.

“Hey, can I borrow your chair? Thanks.”

He grabbed an empty plastic chair from a startled coworker and dragged it into his cube. He plunked himself into the desk chair and nodded at Celie.

“Sit down. Talk.”

Her cheeks burned. She couldn’t believe he was treating her this way. And in front of his entire office. She was sure everyone within thirty feet was eavesdropping.

Celie hated being the center of attention. She sank into the chair and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

“I’d like to know what’s wrong,” she said quietly.

McAllister’s phone rang, and he stared at her for a long moment. Then he reached over and snatched it up. “McAllister…. Yeah.” He turned his back on her and punched some buttons on his computer, bringing the screen to life. “Yeah, lemme check.”

Celie took a deep breath and looked down at her lap. She was wearing a thin cotton sundress in pale blue. She’d put it on this morning thinking it looked pretty and feminine, and wondering if McAllister would see it this evening. Now she felt really, really stupid. Forget a dinner date. He was so upset with her, he probably wouldn’t even see her again after this.

Whatever this was.

She looked up and caught him staring at her as he talked on the phone. He broke eye contact and turned back to his computer. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s running tomorrow. The follow-up runs Friday.” He shuffled through a stack of folders, then turned toward her. “Here. Some light reading.” He tossed a file in her lap.

Celie looked down at the manila folder. She opened it up and found a stack of printouts.

“World-Renowned Baby Doc Opens Clinic in Austin.”

Celie’s stomach clenched. She sifted through the papers and counted one, two, three stories about her specialist, all from the
Herald
archives. The light dawned. Her bathroom cabinet was crammed with fertility drugs prescribed by this man.

The last article was entitled “Miracle Babies!” and showed a young couple surrounded by smiling triplets.

She glanced up at McAllister. He was still on the phone, but his attention was fixed on her. She tried to read his face. Mostly she read fury, with some defiance mixed in.

He’d caught her in a lie, and he looked proud of himself. The clever investigative reporter who figured everything out.

Celie closed the folder and stood up. She placed the file on his desk, beside the computer.

“Hey, let me get back to you.” He finally hung up the phone and turned to face her, arms crossed. “You still want to talk?”

“Not here.”

“Shit, well, that’s a problem. See, I’ve got work to do, and I can’t exactly take the afternoon off to go hang out at your place and contribute to the cause. I might be able to get you a sample for the road, though. If you’ll give me a minute—”

“I’m leaving,” she said, shouldering her purse. “Call me when you’re ready to have a real conversation.”

He scowled. “Don’t wait by the phone.”

She wove back through the maze of cubicles, trying to hold her head up and pretend she didn’t notice all the curious glances.

John stared through his rain-streaked windshield, thinking he’d sell his goddamn soul for a cigarette. Smoking went with drinking, and he’d had way too much of one without the other tonight.

He’d spent most of the evening at The Ale House looking for some kind of solace. But women he could stand the sight of were in short supply tonight, and Jose Cuervo had left him twisting in the wind. John had just enough alcohol in his system to make him moody, but not nearly enough to put his problems out of his mind.

“Fuck,” he muttered, thunking his forehead on the steering wheel. Water drummed against the top of the Jeep, reminding him what a shitty day this had been. He was going to have a monster headache tomorrow, and his life would be in the same sorry shape it was now.

What a weird fucking night. He’d had no trouble at all resisting the amazingly stacked blonde who’d rubbed up against him at the bar, but walking out of 7 Eleven without a pack of Camels had damn near killed him. And driving all the way home without taking a fifteen-minute detour past Celie’s apartment? Shit, he couldn’t do it. He didn’t have the willpower.

He leaned his head back against the seat and stared up at her window. With the steady drizzle, he could make out little more than a blurry rectangle of glass. But the lights were on, had been since John’s arrival twenty minutes ago.

John swigged his drink. He’d switched to Gatorade, which was helping his body. It wasn’t helping his state of mind, though. His brain was torturing him, feeding him images of Celie up there getting it on with T-Bone. Girls on the rebound were vindictive. John knew because he’d caught a few himself.

But Celie wouldn’t do that. At least, he didn’t think she would. He watched the flickering light in the window and tried to convince himself she was simply up there watching TV, or maybe she’d fallen asleep in front of it. Or maybe she was pacing her apartment, trying to think of a way to apologize.

There was no apology in the world that would ever be good enough. What she’d done was unforgivable.

But maybe she wasn’t planning to apologize at all. John stared at her apartment and felt his anger seeping back. Maybe she was up there congratulating herself for duping him. Maybe she thought he’d gotten what he deserved—the playboy had finally been played.

John knew all about his reputation, the one he’d admittedly earned after fifteen years of partying. Hell, at one time, he’d even been proud of it.

Not anymore. Now he was sick of it—fed up with the bars and the clubs and the meaningless sex. The repetition of it all disgusted him. Pamela Price’s murder had slapped him with the reality that life is short. And his, in particular, amounted to shit. He wanted more out of life than a string of interchangeable women and his name on the front of some newspaper that ended up lining a kid’s hamster cage.

Celie’s living room window went dark. She’d switched off the television and was probably on her way to bed now, probably slipping into one of those nightshirts she liked and sliding between crisp, cool sheets.

Alone.

At least he hoped she was alone. Just the thought of her up there with someone else made him crazy.

Suddenly he didn’t give a shit about the lies. He just wanted to take her to bed again and forget everything else.

As if that were possible.

Hey, babe, mind if I use a condom this time? Since you fucking lied to me about being on the Pill?

Might just spoil the mood. Especially if she told him it didn’t matter anyway—she was already pregnant with his kid. Or someone else’s kid; that was possible, too. She’d been seeing a world-famous baby doctor, taking a whole mess of fertility drugs. Who knew what was going on inside that body of hers?

A sudden movement caught his eye, and John’s focus veered to the side of the building, where a vehicle was leaving the garage. It was a silver SUV, looked like a BMW or a Volvo.

With a woman behind the wheel. A short, blond woman who bore a striking resemblance to Celie.

“Fuckin’ A,” he grumbled, starting his engine and gunning the Jeep out of the parking space. He punched the gas until he was right behind the SUV, close enough to see Celie’s refection illuminated by his headlights in her rearview mirror. Where was she going this time of night? And whose car was that?

He laid on the horn, and she turned to look over her shoulder. She hesitated a moment and then pulled over.

McAllister was here.

It was the worst possible moment for him to show up, and yet there was his Jeep, right in her rearview mirror. She watched in her side mirror as he climbed from the Wrangler. In a few strides, he was beside her car and rapping on the window.