Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) (14 page)

“And we’d both be sorry the rest of our lives.”

That brought up his head. Did he hear her right? “What?”

“You told me you have to return the jewels so you can hold up your head. You’ve given me hope of clearing my father. Giving this bum and his gorillas what they want isn’t an option. They’re betraying their country. In the end, they would kill you anyway. And me.”

“You’re not pissed I didn’t tell you?”

“You better believe I’m pissed.” She smiled, a gentle curve of lips that loosened the knot in his chest. “But I understand. And the whole thing will end soon.”

Her unfailing optimism was one of the things about her he liked. And agonized over. “Soon, yeah. Time is tight. Eleven days. But who’s counting?”

“Gives
deadline
a whole new meaning, doesn’t it?”

Her words conveyed cockiness but he wasn’t buying it. The quiver in her voice said different. He deserved to die a slow, agonizing death if anything happened to her. But only after he delivered the same to Yerik and company.

Her eyes met his and the look in them blanked his mind. Not fear but heat. Arousal flared between them, molten, stunning.

When she leaned closer and brushed back a lock of his hair from his forehead, he bent his head to hers. “Mara?”

Her dark eyes flashed. “I fought this, but no more. I want you, Cort. Now.”

He grasped the back of her neck and rocked his mouth over hers. Her scent made his nostrils flare in demand to absorb the rest of her. The kiss devoured, igniting from sweet to fiery heat and pent-up longing, drugging kisses and dueling tongues. Her sweet taste drove out his anger, his pride, filling him with unabashed need and an inchoate connection he couldn’t name.

Her hands made short work of his shirt buttons and glided over his chest, the soft sensation making his body tighten like the bass drum thudding in his chest. She was flame licking over his flesh. Barely suppressing a groan, he captured her close against him, found her breast, the nipple hard against his palm through the thin blouse and bra. With the pad of his thumb, he rubbed slowly back and forth, feeling her hunger matching his as she moved against him and uttered sexy little breathy sighs.

“Too many clothes,” she murmured, tugging at his sleeves. Color suffused her cheeks beneath her lowered lashes.

He peeled off the shirt, then lay back on the big bed and let her divest him of his pants and boxers. “Now who has on too many clothes?”

When her short skirt hit the floor, he let his gaze crawl up her tennis-honed legs to the flare of her hips in red bikini panties. He ran his hand along her thigh, satin and firm muscle.

“Beautiful. Perfect,” he murmured as he tugged off her tank top and bra. “And this you’ve been hiding from me.” His index finger outlined the tiny tattoo on her left breast and her nipples hardened in reaction. “Now I need you against me. Full body contact sport.”

Her response, a deep chuckle, stoked the flames. The rest of her clothes melted away.

He scooped her up and on top of him, her delicate curves soft against the rough angles of his body. He caressed and suckled and tasted as she writhed against him with fluid grace and greedy heat. When she cupped him and sketched her nails over him, she damn near burned him alive. Gritting his teeth to hang on, he stroked her liquid heat until she moaned. Without warning her arms left him and she squirmed away.

Not again.
“What the hell?” He heard a drawer open and a shuffling sound.

“Protection.” She tossed a foil packet on his chest. “Hurry.”

She didn’t have to say it twice. He sank into her, slowly at first, struggling not to hurt her, but the warmth of her, the joy of her shuddered through him and his heart took off like a dragster and the room lost all oxygen. Heat exploded between them and she responded, moving beneath him, clutching at him, kissing him, racing with him as his climax tickled at his spine, until she arched and her body clutched him with her spasms, and he joined her in a convulsive rush.

“In thirty feet, turn right... onto Crosslyn Avenue,”
the female voice directed in a crisp British accent.

The Washington area street map on Cort’s lap rattled as he consulted it for verification of the Kensington, Maryland, street. Their first interview, now that Falco was dead, was the widow of retired security guard George Hauptman, who had died five years ago of cancer. Mara, ever hopeful, suggested the widow might still have his effects and had made an appointment with Twyla Hauptman. No mention of Cort being involved seemed an easier door opener.

This morning, they’d slipped out the back alley and taken one of the cabs parked outside the nearby Starbuck’s to the closest car rental place. As far as Yerik’s clones knew—he hoped—he and Mara were hanging out in the apartment after the morning grocery shopping. Or maybe the jerkoffs imagined they were doing the horizontal bump and grind. If they only knew.

In keeping with her bent for Crayola colors, she wore a slim denim skirt and layered tops in bright orange and yellow. Riding beside her gave him occasional whiffs of her sweet scent. An added bonus.

“Not impressed with Rosie?” Mara asked, with humor in her tone. Rays of the late afternoon sun gleamed on her dark hair.

Cort kept his hands on the map. “Impressed is the wrong word. Hell, even with Internet directions I want real map back-up. A voice from a plastic box is too far from reality to suit me. I use a computer and cell phone only out of necessity.”

“You work with power tools.”

“All the technology I need. Plug ’em in and push a button.”

She sniffed. “I don’t believe it’s quite that simple, big guy.”

He shot a sideways glance at her in the driver’s seat. They had sure pushed each other’s buttons last night. One button in particular. After they’d come down, he’d circled his index finger around her tattoo. “What’s with the green apple?”

She tugged the sheet higher over her breasts. “Not an apple. That’s the computer power button.”

He bent nearer for a better view. “Green for
On
? Oh, baby. Just press here?” She hadn’t responded, only eyed him warily until he’d quipped, “You still gonna make me go out there and sleep on Old Lumpy?” Then she’d laughed and relaxed against him for the night.

Still, he could tell she’d held back, kept a barrier up even though she came. Hell, no surprise she didn’t trust him in bed any more than she trusted him otherwise, so he meant to keep things casual. He’d refrained from pressing her for another round, although it had pained him.

“You sure no one followed us?” She glanced in the side mirror as they made the turn into Mrs. Hauptman’s development.

“I’m no expert but I haven’t seen the same vehicle twice. Checked license plates too.” What worried him more than another Molotov cocktail was not being able to keep one step ahead of the bastards. Losing Mara’s files was too much of a setback.

They continued past bungalow-style and ranch houses. Bicycles and pop-up campers vied for space in driveways and carports.

“Not too different from Dundalk,” he said over the Brit’s next instructions. “No conspicuous consumption here. Vinyl siding. Bastardization of American building.”

“Spoken like a wood man.”

“Brick and stone are fine. Natural materials.” He checked to see if she was teasing him but her expression was serious as she searched for their target address. Maybe she didn’t trust technology all the way. “Neighborhood in transition. Trending up or down?”

“Kensington’s always in transition. You’re thinking the widow’s not spending ill-gotten gains.”

“If old George was a crook, he was either a bad one or the Gramornia heist was his only job. One that paid zip.”

“Arriving at destination, on right.”
The tiny screen displayed a checkered flag.

Mara pulled into the paved driveway of a vinyl-sided ranch and parked behind a two-year-old Mazda wagon. “Lawn’s mowed. Trimmed bushes and geraniums in pots. Door painted. No sign of neglect here.”

“What conclusion do you draw from that, Detective Marton?”

She wrinkled her nose and grinned. “No conclusion yet. It’s early. Only data to input.”

“Spoken like a techie.” When she popped her iPod into her bag with smart phone, he tested the weight. “You know, I read in that tech mag you get they have devices now that’d do all the work of these two toys you lug around.”

“I know. Luddite that I am, I hang on to old technology.” When he raised an eyebrow, she added, “More secure having the functions separated.”

“A wary geek.” Good plan, given their situation. As he opened his door, he tapped a finger on the GPS box. “Does Rosie wait here for us or do you need her inside?”

Sliding out of the car, she unplugged the device and slid it beneath the seat. “Sit. Stay.”

Charmed, Cort smiled. He waited for her to lock the car. A faint aroma of barbecue hung on the breeze. In the next yard a dog barked and another neighbor started up a lawnmower. “The comedy routine part of your effort to relax me?”

“And myself.”

Yesterday’s shared scare and last night’s lovemaking had made them easier with each other. In spite of her meltdown afterward, she was tough and determined. “Doesn’t seem the bad guys have gotten to Mrs. Hauptman ahead of us.”

“Now who’s drawing a conclusion?”

“You got me there.” He touched a hand to the small of her back, intending support for her, but the connection eased his own tension. “I know we agreed you’d take the lead. I want you to know I—” He didn’t know how to express his thanks for her understanding.

Lame, but she smiled anyway, one of her golden smiles that warmed him inside and out. “I know.”

As they approached the entrance, the door opened. Twyla Hauptman greeted them with a spare, prim smile. “Ms. Marton?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hauptman,” Mara said. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

The widow Hauptman was short and compact, somewhere between forty and fifty-five. Hard to see the real woman through the hard mask of makeup. Or past the frozen smile and wary eyes. With her curly blonde do, she reminded Cort of a poodle past its prime trying to hang onto cute and cuddly. On the other hand, she looked exactly like what she was, bartender at a rockabilly and blues bar on Georgia Avenue. She wore her work uniform of tight black skirt, white blouse, and a plastic name badge.

He knew the moment she recognized him. Her mascara-caked eyelashes blinked and her eyes widened before they narrowed.

“The Jeweler’s son.” Her glare shifted to Mara. “I didn’t know you were bringing
him
.”

“We’re working on this together,” Mara replied evenly. “As I said on the phone, I have some questions related to the Gramornia crown jewels robbery. May we come in?”

Hauptman glared at him a long minute, then stepped aside and gestured for them to enter.

In the living room, Mara sat on a loveseat opposite the widow’s armchair. Not ready to sit on the clear plastic covers shielding every piece of upholstery, Cort leaned an elbow on the white-painted mantel above a gas fireplace. The room reeked of air freshener. Cheap reproduction antiques in a mash-up of styles, family photos, and a mirror in a gilded frame crammed the small space, and revealed zip about the dear departed George.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Hauptman,” Mara said. A casual dip into a pocket on the outside of her purse started a tiny digital recorder.

“Thanks. I do try. Hard on a limited budget.” The widow simpered. “Make it Twyla.”

The two women discussed upkeep on a house for what seemed to Cort endless minutes. Mara had gotten interrogation hints from her boss. The best way to elicit information was by leading them to like you, to
want
to help you. So far a bang-up job for someone without interrogation experience. Great. Okay. But he itched to move this along.

Suppressing his impatience, he turned to the family photos on the mantel. George and Twyla in a formal department-store-special portrait. He looked hunched and haggard. Maybe a last portrait before he died.

Various photos showed a younger Twyla with her parents and three siblings, two slim girls, and a teenage blimp in a football uniform. Other frames held more family snapshots and portraits.

“We’re a large family,” the widow said, apparently taking his curiosity for interest. “George and I had no children, but my sisters made up for it with four kids each.” Her mouth tightened.

Mara tsked in sympathy and asked about the brother.

“That’s Hugo. My baby brother’s still single. I couldn’t manage without him. He’s such a big help.”

Come on, let’s get to the real reason for the visit.
If he sat beside Mara, maybe he could hurry her process along. When he planted his butt on the loveseat, he suppressed a shudder at the creaking plastic. The ring piece in his pants pocket burned against his leg. He worked his jaw. Flexed his fingers on his knees. Cleared his throat.

Mara exchanged a glance with him before turning back to their hostess. “Twyla, we don’t want to take up too much of your time. I apologize if asking about your dear husband brings up sad memories. Did he ever describe any of the talks he had with the insurance investigator?”

She huffed her disdain. “Talks? Interrogations was more like it. Just like the police questions.” She picked at a piece of lint on her skirt. “That was your father, right?”

When Mara nodded, she relented. “George didn’t say much. Mostly they asked what he knew about the robbery. He told them he didn’t know anything. He had nothing to do with the electrical glitches that shut down the security cameras and other stuff.”

“Nothing else?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Did George leave anything in his effects that seemed... well, odd or unusual?”

The older woman straightened, cocked her head to one side. “What sort of odd thing?”

They’d agreed to reveal as little as possible, but Cort figured it was time to ask the hot question. “A ring. Gold. But too large for a finger. Yay big.” He formed an
O
with his right thumb and forefinger.

A tiny frown crimped the flesh between Twyla’s thin eyebrows. Her lips pruned. A flush stole up her neck. “This is about the robbery. You think my George was involved.”

Cort held up his hands. “I don’t know. Ma’am, this kind of ring might give me a clue to finding the jewels. The FBI—”

“FBI, my ass.” Her face a red mask of indignation, Twyla shot to her feet. Gone was the gracious hostess. “You want everything for yourself. I got no ring. George had no ring. He wasn’t part of no robbery. He lost his job on account of those accusations. Your old man caused that. My George never got over it.”

“We don’t know who was or wasn’t involved, Mrs. Hauptman.” Forget the first-name basis now. “And we’re not the only ones searching. You need to be careful—”

“Who I let in my house. For damn sure. Get out. Now.” She stood rigid, arms folded.

Mara took his hand. “We’re going,” she said, urging him toward the door. She deposited her business card on a table by the coat rack. “But if you should find that ring in your husband’s things, we’d appreciate a phone call.”

***

“Any luck on Inglish?” Cort growled, barely raising his head.

Mara’s internal sigh of frustration must’ve leaked out. She looked up from the screen. “No joy yet. Give me a few minutes.”

Her gaze blurred as she stared at yet another database, this one for drivers’ licenses in the state of Illinois. No Danita Inglish. The museum guard had moved to Chicago eight years ago, but pinpointing an address sent Mara chasing shadows. Inglish was a prime suspect because she, along with George Hauptman, had access to the security diagrams.

They needed to move ahead, and fast, after hitting dead ends with Falco and now the widow Hauptman. As the weekend wore on, Cort had sunk further and further into the cushions of her sofa, seeming to close in on himself. He was fretting about how long he could put off the scary colonel. The man phoned several times to pressure him about what was going on.

A hot affair, Cort said. Hot was right. The hot charge of chemistry kept them both steaming in and out of bed. Yielding to her desire for him had filed the jagged edge off their relationship but tangled up her mind. Her previous sexual relationships stayed casual, even recreational, without strong emotions. Not like the wild possession in Cort’s arms. They didn’t wring from her such intense reactions, such frenzied carnality that might lure her to mistake lust for love. And she liked him. His protectiveness, his inner strength, and in spite of his intensity, the comfortable silences they shared gave her a sense of safety.

But his present mood, as cloudy as this Sunday, was bringing her down. She wanted to see the dimple a smile carved into his cheek. While she worked on her laptop, he sucked down green tea and pored over printouts in hopes of finding something everyone else had missed.

Missed. What had she missed in her search for Danita Inglish? Struck by the obvious, she tapped more keys. A few moments later, she smiled. “Got her.”

“Yeah, where? Timbuktu?”