Redeem My Heart (9 page)

“Don’t use falsehoods with me, Fallon.” Ryland reached for his drink, but he only rested his fingers around the glass. A wry smile lifted up one side of his mouth. “It doesn’t become you.”

“We did have critical items to cover today, so in that vane I’m telling the truth.” Fallon left off that he’d been fundamentally accurate in his assessment, but there was no need to feed his ego for being correct. “I had a feeling that you wanted to tell me you were cutting ties and walking.”

“I was.” Ryland lifted the tumbler and took a drink, his graceful movements like that of performers up on stage—just a touch of flair. He was charismatic in a way Fallon had never known a man could be. “I changed my mind when I discovered that Crest had hired Demri Calvert’s brother to be my babysitter for the duration of this…shall we say, retreat.”

The name resonated in Fallon’s mind and she came close to snagging the drink out of Ryland’s hand. At first, she thought she’d heard him wrong and she stopped moving the chair. When he didn’t continue, she understood more than she wanted to. Crest usually wasn’t one to play mind games. She’d bring this up to him first thing in the morning to uncover what his true motivations were.

“I didn’t put two and two together,” Fallon said, slowly starting to push her boot against the deck so she could rock back and forth. The movement usually relaxed her, although it wasn’t truly helping at the moment. “As a matter of fact, Crest never mentioned Townes’ last name. Does…”

“Yes, Townes is well aware of the fact of what I have done.” Ryland turned his gaze to the ocean, where the moonlight highlighted the white crests of the waves crashing on the shore. Fallon followed his gaze. She never got tired of coming here, having always used this as a sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of everyday city life. The calming effect had clearly lost its influence with recent company. “I don’t feel remorse for what took place, Fallon. How would you profile that bit of honey?”

“You’re mocking me and minimizing my intellect,” Fallon pointed out unappreciatively. His facial profile didn’t change, but she’d have wagered his brown eyes had darkened at her response. “You’re not a man to believe in mere coincidence. Things always happen for a reason, people’s actions are their own, and you agree with me that there is a correlation between Dane Moza and Gene Cyril. You stayed because you have started to believe. There’s a part of you that thinks I might be right.”

“You’re stretching if you think that the three of us were part of some covert CIA program that started back during the Kennedy administration.” Ryland finally focused on her and she was vindicated by the doubt shadowing his features. “I said I would look at the files you gave me and I am a man of my word. Right now, I want to know the real reason you became a profiler. If you’d like, we could enjoy a fine glass of wine while you share your story with me. Your father has an excellent cellar.”

“I’ll take that glass of wine, but only if you answer a few questions for me regarding your service in the military and the contact that led you to the CIA,” Fallon countered as he drained the contents of his rocks glass. He motioned for her to stay while he stood, indicating that she should remain where she was while he acquired their selection. “Red, please.”

It didn’t take Ryland long and Fallon wondered what tantalizing tidbit he thought she would reveal about her childhood. She had nothing to hide and there wasn’t some life-affirming psychological event that led her into the line of work she’d chosen. She took the Venetian Murano wineglass from his hand, their fingers touching lightly. His warmth spread into her and when she met his gaze, she realized that he’d purposefully touched her to watch her reaction. It took every ounce of strength she had, but she lifted the rim to her lips and sipped without a tremble to be detected.

“What is it you’d like to know, Travis?” Fallon had deliberately used his birth name in hopes of gaining the upper hand. She was rarely the interrogator and usually on the other side of the bulletproof one-way mirror, reading the subject’s body language and deciphering any mannerisms that could aid the lead agent. That didn’t mean she was a novice when it came to interviewing and she intended to use whatever means necessary to acquire the advantage. If she didn’t, she’d end up in his bed tonight and she wasn’t quite ready for that Olympic level event. “I’m an open book.”

“You switched your college major from social sciences to psychiatry in your sophomore year.” Ryland sat in the same chair he’d previously vacated, carefully placing his refilled tumbler onto the table while watching her every move. He crossed his legs and became rather too comfortable for her liking. “Did it have anything to do with the economics professor who was arrested for blundering the murder of his wife?”

“No,” Fallon said honestly while understanding where Ryland might have come to that conclusion. She sipped her wine, appreciating the delicate bouquet and smooth palate of the wine. “I’d decided that psychiatry was better suited for my strengths and I enjoyed the classes that were geared toward understanding the common traits people share and the ones that set us apart from one another. Most people aren’t forced to make career decisions based on tragic events in their lives. Sometimes it’s done for the pure enjoyment of doing something that makes us feel a sense of accomplishment.”

“And understanding the behaviors of others causes you delight?” Ryland asked dryly, tapping his finger on the hand sculpted crystal glass. “That particular motivation is in itself quite twisted, if you’d allow me that observation.”

Fallon wasn’t going to get into a debate about warped psyches with someone as complex as Ryland. He viewed killing as nothing more than an occupation, which brought her back around to the topic they should be discussing in the first place.

“On your first in country assignment, you managed to get into bed with some black market operators. You also stated that the CIA made an appearance in your life shortly after that, to bring you into their operating plan for that province. Do you remember your first meeting with the agent who contacted you?”

“Absolutely,” Ryland replied, pausing to take a drink and savor the whiskey he was drinking rather than the wine he’d selected for her. His gaze never left hers the way a person’s would upon recalling memories from their past. The average individual would look up and to the left. “Agent Grahn contacted me when he realized I was in over my head. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse in reference to the potential drug charges that would have eventually been filed, and of course the inevitable dishonorable discharge with its associated jail time. I took what he had to offer, but it wasn’t long before I learned I didn’t work well with others.”

“Tell me what it was like when you first left home, knowing you were leaving Yvette behind to fend for herself in that house,” Fallon asked, ensuring her voice was soft and low. This was an experiment of sorts and her heart rate accelerated when his gaze shifted away from hers…up and to the left. He described a young girl to whom he’d made a promise to return and take her away. He’d eventually kept his promise, however late he’d been. It wasn’t his summarizing of his past that caused Fallon to understand what she and many other interrogators had missed, but his subsequent actions. It was now apparent at what point his real memories left off and the exact moment planted recall was engaged. There was now a way for her to discover which job became his last under the direction of the E.D.A. “Would you go over with me the contracts you executed over the years since?”

“Tomorrow,” Ryland drained what was left of his drink and stood, holding his hand out. Fallon had barely touched her wine, but it was for the best. Her heartbeat was still a bit erratic and this time it had everything to do with the warmth of his hand. She’d struggled for a very long time—and was still wrestling—with these overpowering desires for a man who many considered a psychotic murderer. Having Townes here at the house suddenly became her lifeline. “Come for an evening walk with me along the shoreline.”

Chapter Seven

R
yland took Fallon’s wineglass out of her hand and set it down next to his empty tumbler in a swift but graceful move that appeared to catch her slightly off guard. It was too early to call it a night and he wasn’t ready for the conversation to end…at least the part of it pertaining to her past. He’d spent many, many months studying her from afar, much as he would any elusive quarry. She intrigued him, mostly because she was aware of who he really was and she didn’t shy away like so many others from what could turn out to be inspiring. The one sticky wicket was the fact that she was trying to excuse his behavior, but he could easily get her to accept that this attraction wouldn’t go away without physical consummation. She needn’t dismiss his behavior to have sex, but she might have some trouble reconciling her inner conflict subsequent to the act. He assumed she would have rationalized her capitulation in her own time.

“What will you do when Special Agent Quaid discovers that you aren’t in Minneapolis doing contract work for Crest?” Ryland asked, curious as to how far she was willing to take this charade of making him into someone he wasn’t just to appease her own sense of morality. “I find it interesting that you thought the FBI would let you take a leave of absence without following up for verification.”

“Crest has that covered,” Fallon reassured him as her hand slipped from his. She crossed her arms in a classic defensive posture, so he assumed it wasn’t to contain her body heat against the chilly air. She continued with her line of questioning, causing him to smile at her tenacity. “Your
professional
contracts weren’t more than one or two a year, yet you took three in 1997. Why was that?”

Ryland wasn’t sure where Fallon’s questioning fell in line with her mission to prove E.D.A. existed. According to her, the project went defunct in the mid-nineties. His admission to any contract afterward would only give her confirmation of his kills. He had immunity for his crimes covered by this period, however he was shrewd enough to remain silent when dealing with these types of interviews. This was far from the intimate conversation he was hoping to have with her.

“You are a determined young lady,” Ryland said in appreciation as he looked toward the house that contained a couple of lights, two of them currently on in the upstairs bedrooms. “Is Taryn here about or did she remain in Minneapolis?”

Fallon followed his line of sight, a slight frown tugging on her naturally pink lips. Her lipstick had faded hours ago, but the lack of make-up didn’t detract from her beauty. Did she really think he wouldn’t be aware that the closest outbuildings housed agents employed by CSA or at least contracted by them? Or that he wouldn’t recognize that the two local fishing charters currently out at sea only appeared to stray a mile or two in either direction?

“I don’t know,” Fallon said with a slight shrug of her shoulder. She pushed away the strands of hair that kept drifting into her face, not appearing to be fazed by his probing question. In fact, she turned the tables and Ryland gave her credit for catching him by surprise. He always had enjoyed their repartees and this was no different. “Did it possibly occur to you that if E.D.A. did in fact influence your decisions to take this particular line of work that you have the ability to forge a viable relationship with Taryn?”

“You’re assuming I would want one.” Ryland was finally satisfied that he’d adequately surveyed the area for his predatory needs. There would come a time when it was necessary for him to leave this extravagantly gilded cage that Fallon had set up here. It was in his best interest to categorize what he would be up against once that time came. “Taryn wants nothing to do with me and I have no use of her services presently.”

“She’s the only remaining connection that you have left to Yvette,” Fallon pointed out, turning to look at him as they continued to walk on the beach. “I see the tenderness in your eyes when you hear her name. You’re not as detached as you would let on. Is it possible that it would make a difference to you whether Taryn were in that house?”

“No, but I would be surprised that Crest would have placed her in such a precarious position. I imagine I’m not her favorite individual.”