Rebecca York (9 page)

She laughed. "That gives me kind of a strange image."

"Yeah. A badly mixed metaphor."

They laughed together, and for the first time she wondered if she could actually like the man.

She'd barely noticed when the busboy took their unfinished appetizers away. Now they paused in the conversation as the waitress set down their dinner plates.

She was glad she'd only ordered a small portion of the ravioli. She supposed it was excellent, but she could barely taste the filling or the sauce. And Walker didn't seem to be doing much better with his mixed grill.

When he put down his knife and fork, she looked at him inquiringly.

"I don't think either one of us is too hungry. Why don't we leave?"

"All right." She hauled her purse off the floor and got out her wallet.

"My treat. I invited you."

She might have argued. Instead she got his address. When he'd signed the credit card slip, they walked to the front together.

"It's silly to take a cab," he said.

"But I'll feel like I have more control. There's a front desk in your building?"

"Right."

"And they can call me another cab when I'm ready to leave."

"Yeah."

She should be reassured. But as she rode toward Massachusetts Avenue, she felt like she couldn't fill her lungs with air—because she understood that if she went to Jordan Walker's apartment, her life would never be the same.

* * *

He had been in the control center, and someone had come in holding a blaster from .a fifties science fiction movie—and hit him with a death ray.

That was a dream. Right? Or was that reality?

"What's wrong with me?" he croaked.

"You had a drug overdose. It's affected your brain," the man with the surgical mask answered. The same voice that had spoken to him before.

Fear twisted like knives in his chest. Was the guy telling the truth? It didn't feel right. He didn't take drugs. Ever.

Something had happened at Maple Creek—and they wanted him to tell them about it. But he was pretty sure that if he did, he was a dead man.

"How are you feeling now?" the doctor inquired.

"Did you ask me that before?"

"Yes. Does your head hurt?"

"Yeah. Why do you need a mask?"

"Just a precaution."

"Am I contagious or something?"

"What can you tell me about your delusion—about the break-in at Maple Creek?

"It didn't happen? It wasn't real?" he asked stupidly.

"That was all a drug-induced fantasy. We're going to get you straightened out."

"Who are you?"

"I told you my name before. But you're having memory problems. I'm Dr. Colefax. I'm here to take care of you. Everything is going to be fine."

He should be grateful for the steady voice and the reassuring words. But this whole setup just didn't feel right. Starting with the sharp, watchful look in the doctor's brown eyes.

"How long have I been here?"

"Don't worry about that."

Oh, he was worried all right.

"What about Rota and Cordova? Are they okay?"

"They're fine."

Sure. Because I'm the only one having the drug problem? The only one affected? No, I saw Rota standing like a department store mannequin. Or is that true? Is it a fantasy, like he says?

He tried to sit up. "Let me out of here."

"You need to rest."

"No. I want a lawyer."

"You don't need a lawyer. You need to let me help you."

A needle pricked his arm. And he floated away again— into a drug-induced safety net.

Some time later he woke again. It was dark, and he could hear voices. In his head? No, he could hear people talking in the hall.

"He's sleeping."

"Is the new treatment working?"

"We won't know for several days."

"I want to know what happened to him."

"He's tough. He doesn't trust us."

"We need to get his story. He's the only one who came in contact with the intruders who's still alive."

God, no!

"Get him to talk. Then get rid of him."

The voices moved away. He strained to hear more, but they were out of range.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Was it true? If Cordova and Rota were dead, why was he still alive? He didn't know. But he understood one thing, all right. He had to get the hell out of here.

Cautiously he opened his lids a fraction, peering through his lashes. Once again he studied his surroundings.

Once again? He'd been here the whole time, since Maple Creek? Right? Or had they moved him from somewhere else? He still couldn't think clearly. And nobody in this funny farm was helping along the process.

He was in a small room with bars on the windows. The only furniture was a metal chair. Ahead of him was a door with a rectangular window filled with chicken-wire-reinforced glass. There was another door—this one solid. Did it lead to the bathroom?

He had to get out of this cage. But if he did, would it make any difference? Would he only find himself in a locked hallway?

Deliberately he tested his memory, casting his mind back—to a time when he'd been happy. With the Becker family. With Aunt Jen and Uncle Eddie and Sid. The Beckers had taken him in when his mother had died, and his real father been too paralyzed by grief to take care of him.

The Beckers had welcomed him like a son. They'd given him a warm, secure childhood. Sid had taught him how to use in-line skates and how to keep his eye on the ball when he was up at bat. Aunt Jen had helped him with his math homework. And they'd all sat around the TV in the living room watching Orioles games, because even Jen was a fan.

She and Eddie were dead now. But Sid ... Sid would help him. Help him get out of this place? Maybe—if he knew. But how the hell would Sid find out where he was?

* * *

Like the time in seventh grade when he'd been the only kid who'd gotten one hundred percent on a surprise history test, and Mrs. Garland had assumed he had cheated. She'd made him stay after school, and she'd quizzed him orally on a bunch of questions—some of which hadn't even been on the test. He'd stood in front of her, spouting answers that came from his terrible determination not to have the school call his dad.

She hadn't been able to give him an F on the test. But after that, he'd caught her looking at him, and he knew he had given her the creeps because they both understood where those answers had come from—her head. She had thought of the answer, and he had pulled it right out of her soggy brain. During the test—and later when she'd quizzed him.

He wasn't sure how he'd done it. And he'd chalked it up to the strange things that sometimes happened inside his mind.

The experience with Lindsay had been similar—yet different. More tentative and at the same time more intimate.

The thoughts he'd picked up from Lindsay had been random and disorganized. And there was another big difference, too. He hadn't had any sexual feelings for Mrs. Garland.

He wanted ... to make love with Lindsay. Not just the physical act. More. He wanted to fulfill the promise of intimacy that had bloomed between them.

He was afraid to find out what that meant. Terrified not to find out. And in agony that she was going to change her mind before she got to his apartment.

As soon as he stepped into his own living room, he started pacing back and forth across the carpet, clenching and unclenching his fists.

When she called from the lobby, he breathed out a sigh of relief—just before his heart started pounding so hard inside his chest that he was surprised he couldn't see his shirtfront moving.

Opening the apartment door, he stepped into the hall, then watched her get off the elevator and smooth her skirt. The gesture told him she was as nervous as he.

As she leaned down, her dark hair swung in a curtain m front of her face. He wanted to brush it back.

Hell, he just wanted some excuse to touch her, stroke her, kiss her. His stomach knotted painfully, but he stayed where he was, then saw her glance up and spy him watching her.

She covered her look of surprise, then walked toward him, and he didn't need to read her mind to know she was pretending that her nerves weren't jumping.

When she reached the door, he cleared his throat and said, "So you didn't stand me up."

"It was a close call."

The way she said it made his stomach clench.

"Come on in," he managed.

They were careful not to touch each other as he moved aside to usher her into the small foyer.

As she stepped into the living room, she looked around at his furniture, and he suddenly saw the room as sterile— soulless. When she laughed, he cringed. "You think this place looks like an upscale hotel room?"

She turned to face him. "No. I think we just discovered another trait in common—neatnik."

He expelled a breath. "So why do you feel the need to keep your environment orderly?"

"It gives me the illusion of control."

"The illusion?"

She answered with a little shrug. "You can phrase it differently if you want."

He didn't want to stand here arguing with her, not when her proximity had his body tingling.

He had never wanted a woman with such urgency— such violence, if he was honest. But the need wasn't simply physical. There was so much more below the surface of his sexual desire that he could barely breathe. Yet he forced himself to keep his arms at his sides.

"Do you want a drink?"

"No, thanks. You were going to tell me about... Granite Wall," she answered. "That's the weapons program you think has gone back online?"

"Shit."

"And you have some papers to show me."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was almost impossible to keep from reaching for her and wrapping her in his arms. But he had also been wondering what he would say when she asked him about the secret project. This was the moment when he had to decide how much to trust her.

He knew he had made a decision when he said, "I'll be right back."

He walked rapidly into his office and opened the locked lower right-hand drawer, where he'd stowed the folder of material that Herb had sent him. When he returned to the living room and saw the eager look in her eyes, he knew that giving her the folder would be as irrevocable as touching her again.

"'Maybe you shouldn't get involved in this."

"It seems I already am."

His mouth hardened. "I didn't know you were going to pick up so much from my mind. I told you two men died because of this information, but the number is really three. Two in March. And the man I tried to call this morning— Dr. Charles Lucas."

He saw her swallow hard. While he had her off balance, he added, "If I show you this stuff, you have to agree not to tell anyone—that includes your boss, Bridgewater."

"No agreements in advance. I have to be free to judge what I do. Maybe it's something the senator needs to know."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want either of us to join the other three—because this information got into the wrong hands."'

She blanched.

"I'm counting on your native intelligence," he added, handing over the folder.

She took it to the sofa and sat down.

He moved to the window, propping his hips against the ledge as he watched her open the clasp and sift through the contents before settling down to read Herb's letter.

When she lifted her gaze, her features were frozen in shock.

"Is this a medical report on one of the people who died?"

"Yes."

He watched her process the information. "So the chemical agent... called Granite Wall... killed this guy—and his friend?"

"Yeah."

"A chemical accident?"

"Or a deliberate attack."

"And a cover-up," she added.

"It looks like someone wants the threads clipped off."

She leaned toward him. "But you got away from that drugstore without being followed."

"I'm satisfied nobody picked up my trail," he answered, gratified that she'd been concerned for him.

Her next words and her tone of voice helped dissipate the warm fuzzy feeling. "And now you're hoping to use my connections." Closing the folder, she set it down on the coffee table.

"I wouldn't do it, if I had a choice."

"That's a lie, isn't it?"

He kept his features bland.-"Why do you think so?"

"Because you get a bonus out of this. You like having an excuse to get together with me again."

He gave a little nod. "Yeah, I want to get to know you better. But I'm also worried about sucking you into something dangerous."

"Working on the Hill has taught me a lot about being discreet"

"Good." As he answered, he knew that he had postponed the other element of this meeting for as long as humanly possible—at least for him. While she'd read the report, the tension had been building inside him, and he felt like he was teetering on the edge of a sheer cliff. If he took a leap off into space, would he find out that he could fly?

Slowly he crossed the room and sat down on the couch. Not next to Lindsay but a foot and a half away.

Deliberately he pressed his hand against the cushion between them, his fingers spread.

LINDSAY HAD TOLD herself she was coming to Jordan's apartment for a business discussion. And she was still trying to decide whether to tell him about her talk with Sid.

As she stared at his hand, she figured he was finished with the business part of the meeting.

Something had happened when they'd touched. Something she couldn't explain. And he couldn't either—another masterpiece of deductive reasoning.

She'd assured herself she had a choice about what happened next.

Now she knew she'd been deceiving herself. Moving slowly, as though she were swimming underwater, she slid her hand across the sofa cushion, feeling the nubby fibers abrade her fingertips.