Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) (17 page)

Fingers trembling, she keyed Sandi a message asking for the daughter’s address and the Durango’s owner.
DI shot. Nd dtr Ellen Plante addy. Nd owner dk gn Durango lic nmbr bgng 3AAL. ASAP.

Finished, she looked up, expecting to see Cort leave the bedroom.
Hoping
to see him was more like it. He was her rock in the middle of all the chaos Leon Jones’s demise had unleashed. He was becoming more important to her than she wanted to admit. A hard man, he was gentle with her, treating her more like a partner than she’d expected.

She wanted true love with the right man, not just passion. Passion fooled a woman into thinking she’d found true love only to discover he was the wrong man. And yet she couldn’t deny her passion for him. Or his for her, yet when this was over, he would return to the wilds of Maine and solve her problem.

Sandi’s reply jarred her from her thoughts.
OMG. UOK?

OK,
Mara typed.
TY.
Thank you. She slipped the phone into her bag. Okay? Sort of. Every nerve in her body vibrated but she was holding it together. Tears, but no nausea. No panic attack.

She and Cort had taken turns trying to staunch the blood until the EMTs arrived. She couldn’t do CPR because of the wound’s placement. Before anyone arrived, she and Cort agreed to reveal only why they were there—to investigate whether her father was involved with the Jeweler after the robbery—but nothing about the puzzle ring.

First uniforms, then a detective questioned them. The detective, with his shaved head and laconic manner, reminded her of the Asian detective in
The Closer
. Deadpan, he scribbled in a small notebook as she related what had happened.

She tried to describe the man who assaulted Cort but all she could really be sure of was his mammoth size. It all happened so fast, she told him. The detective showed more animation, a lift of his sparse eyebrows, when she recited the beginning sequence of the SUV’s license plate.

That had been more than half an hour ago. He sent the vehicle information somewhere to be checked and told her to wait here while he questioned Cort.

The bedroom door opened. The detective emerged talking on his cell phone.

Cort walked out behind him. His gaze searched for her, the set of his shoulders and his mouth easing when he found her. The softening of his gray eyes wound heat through her in spite of her resolve and the circumstances. He joined her on the sofa.

“You look like you’re making it,” he said, perusing her face.

She nodded. “Guess I’m toughening up.”

“That, and the attack wasn’t personal this time. You jumped into action to help that woman. Impressive as hell.” His eyes flickered over her, the admiration in their depths a virtual caress that tickled awareness across the surface of her skin.

A flush heated her cheeks. “Mr. Devlin makes sure all his employees can perform basic emergency techniques. This is the first time I’ve ever had to use the training for anything but a drill. Do you think she’ll live?”

As reply, he curved an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead. She wanted his warmth, needed it. And the strength of his arm around her. His familiar scent comforted her, but the tension in his body said he was seething with frustration and fury. He might need her support just as much.

“Maybe we can talk to her in the hospital,” she said.

The detective strode into the room, a grim look on his face.

“Any luck finding the Durango?” Cort let his arm drop away from her as he stood. But he reached for her hand, and she grasped the lifeline as she rose to her feet.

“That’s the least of my worries at the moment.” The detective rubbed his nape. “Might as well tell you. All the local news channels will broadcast it soon. The ambulance crashed at the interstate exit to the hospital.”

She shot to her feet. “Danita! Is she—”

His head shake cut off her question. “Looks like they were forced off the road. Inglish, the driver, and the two EMTs, all dead. Bullet to the head.”

No.
She slumped against Cort’s side. That poor woman had fought for her life against those monsters. She took a shuddering breath, dug for control.

“Was it the Durango? Any witnesses?” Barely seeming to breathe, Cort waited, rigid.

“There were pile-ups. The crash happened too fast.” The detective’s jaw was tight. “The killer fled the scene in a light-colored Ford sedan, only thing we know for sure. No descriptions of the shooter yet. He must’ve figured Inglish could ID them.”

“They switched cars. They must have,” Mara said. “Stolen?”

“Good guess. Officer answered a car-jacking call at a Safeway not far from here. Two men dragged a shopper at gunpoint from her silver Ford Taurus.” Tight-lipped, he shook his head at the casual violence. “Officer spotted the Durango in the lot. Stolen plates.”

He turned to Cort. “This professional-style hit goes a long way toward clearing you two of any suspicion. But don’t leave town. And I’ll need the number of that FBI agent.”

“You have the address where we’re staying across the bay,” Cort said, pulling out his wallet. “Here’s Special Agent Al Kaplan’s card.”

While the two men finished talking, Mara reached for her phone for something to do with her shaking hands. A message from Sandi gave Ellen Plante’s address but indicated the license number of the Durango would take longer.

Mara keyed,
TY addy. Lic NM.
License, never mind.

Cort left a voice-mail message for Kaplan. Toss-up who’d get to the agent first—him or the detective. He needed Kaplan to clear them with the Oakland PD so they could leave town.

The two-story penthouse owned by Devlin Security Force was in an exclusive area south of Market Street and only blocks from the bay. Mara’d supposed if not for the fog creeping in they could see the Bay Bridge from the bank of living room windows.

Devlin had good taste, for damn sure. Or his people did. Leather-upholstered furniture and paintings with objects or scenes a man could recognize, not just smears of color. Although the dining room boasted computer connections and desks along the wall, the table and chairs were of real cherry. Table had a classy touch—lengthwise strips of walnut and American holly down the center.

On the way from Oakland, Mara had phoned her mother to postpone their dinner until tomorrow. After they looked around the condo, she disappeared with her overnight bag into the en suite master bedroom. Said she needed some time alone. He couldn’t blame her.

What he needed was some hot, sweaty sex with her to get the frustration out of his system. Physically he craved her with a need that made his blood rush. Mentally, he liked her, admired her grit, her chisel-sharp mind. She didn’t deserve... no, not going there. He couldn’t afford to feel more than heat.

For now he’d opt for a different kind of exercise. He had plenty of time for a good work-out in the mini-gym that took up the third bedroom. On his way to the bedroom, he heard feet pounding on the treadmill. He was pulling on shorts when his cell rang.
Kaplan
.

“You’ve been a busy boy,” the FBI agent said.

Damn, the detective got to him first. And double damn, Cort hadn’t informed Kaplan he was headed west. “I suppose the cop told you all about it.”

“I got the official version. I’d like yours.” The rapid clicking of his nails on his desk was a measure of his irritation.

Cort gave him the CliffsNotes version before adding, “We’re going to try to talk to Danita Inglish’s daughter. Maybe she knows about the ring piece. It’s a long shot but it’s all we have.”

“Now you see what the FBI has faced.”

At least nobody’d died while the Feds investigated. But Danita Inglish would’ve been targeted regardless of what
he
did. “Now it’s worse. Leon’s death has invited a free-for-all.”

“I do have something for you. Three days after the Jeweler’s death, a man named Rolf Rousso took a Lufthansa flight from Munich to Boston. My contact at Interpol said they believe he’s an agent of Centaur. Rousso’s only one of several aliases. Traveled on a Polish passport. They’re sending me a description and photo.”

“He could be the big-nosed guy who followed me in the Metro.” Maybe Cort would recognize the man. “You have any news about the break-in at Hauptman’s house?”

“Hauptman? First I’ve heard of it.”

Cort sat on the king bed and jammed his feet into sneakers. “Mara phoned Twyla Hauptman on Sunday. The woman complained about a break-in Saturday night. Didn’t say what they took, only that they trashed the place. Said she told the cops about us, that we hassled her. Accused us of the burglary. But the local cops there haven’t contacted either one of us.”

“I’ll check with Montgomery County PD,” Kaplan said. “Anything from her on a ring piece?”

“Claims she went through her husband’s stuff and came up empty.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t believe anybody. Not until this plays out. Will you clear it with the detective here so we can head back east?”

“Not up to me. I verified your story. That’s all. How do I know you’re not involved?”

Kaplan had another call and disconnected. What the hell? Now
he
was pulling back? Afraid he’d get burned if Cort and Mara had something to do with killing Inglish? Cort was right in the first place not to trust the FBI. Bunch of suspicious paranoids.

Shit, how long would he be stuck in a holding pattern? Picturing Inglish shot and bleeding out in the wreckage of the ambulance, he grimaced.

They needed to return to D.C. Mara had to get back to work and he had other possible accomplices to chase while they continued to play house for the Clone Brothers. The week remaining wasn’t much time to interview two more security guards and the museum director. He grabbed a gray T-shirt as he headed for the “gym.”

He froze in the doorway, mesmerized. In lime green nylon shorts and a tank top, Mara jogged on the treadmill. The flexing of her toned body and strong legs made his mouth water. But she wasn’t in the mood for sex, he reminded himself. Biting back expletives, he sketched a wave as he headed for the free weights. She dipped her head in greeting. Maybe she was so in the zone she wouldn’t notice his body’s condition, all too obvious in thin cotton shorts.

Warm-up had a whole new meaning. Eyeing the banana seat on the stationary bike, he scowled. Symbolism and more torture. And a ride meant staring either at the floor or at Mara on the treadmill. He swallowed and eased onto the torture seat before pumping his legs. The exertion would distract him.

Yeah, right.

Then his gaze zeroed in on the damp spot on the cotton between her breasts.

His leg rhythm faltered and the bike’s sprocket protested loudly. Shit. Enough. He’d grab the treadmill when she was done. He mopped his face with a towel from a stack, then tossed off his already soaked T-shirt. He selected a weight. His biceps routine would be something he could get into. He’d forget all about the delectable female across the room.

Right arm and then left, he strained with each set of curls until his arms screamed and sweat poured from his chin and ears. Satisfied he’d given his muscles enough stress, he deposited the weights in the rack. He mopped his head and chest with the towel, and then glanced at her.

His gaze tangled with hers. The naked hunger on her face made him gasp for breath. She was walking her cool-down but there was nothing cool in her gaze.

“Like what you see?” He spread his arms and grinned.

“Not anything I haven’t seen before.” The cheeky toss of her head flipped her ponytail.

“But something you want. Your eyes don’t lie, sweetheart.” His speeding pulse had nothing to do with his workout. He crossed to the treadmill. “Enough of a workout.”

“Time for stress reliever sex?” Another flip of hair and she kept walking. But she was chewing one corner of her lips.

For the first time he noticed her eyes were red. “You’ve been crying. I damn near broke down myself. Inglish didn’t deserve that, no matter what she did.”

“I started changing clothes and it all came crashing down on me. Guess I needed a good cry. I’m okay now.” Her chin quivered but she shook off the emotion. “I heard your phone ring. Kaplan?” Her gaze flicked from his face to skim his body.

She hadn’t cooled off. Neither had he. “Yeah. I don’t want to talk about that.”

And then he did the damnedest thing. He hauled her off the treadmill and into his arms. Before she could resist, he lowered his head and captured her mouth. Damn, he loved her taste. Her mouth felt soft as silk under his, and she smelled of spring beneath the sweat. Gradually she swayed into him with a little sigh, becoming soft and pliable, fitting just right against his body.

“You don’t want
me
,” she murmured against his lips even as she pressed her breast into his palm. “It’s just the stress. We don’t—”

“Have anything in common but our mutual goal. I know. But this chemistry between us says that doesn’t matter. We’re combustible in bed. And we need a break from reality.”

She clutched at him, her cheek against his shoulder, her short nails scraping his skin.

Heat burned through his skin, and his body clenched so hard he ached. Heat poured through him. She had to feel his straining arousal pressing against her belly.

She lowered her lashes and swayed in his arms. And then she kissed him back.

Their tongues met and danced together as she gave herself up to the moment. He pulled her tank top loose and found the soft skin of her belly. As if on auto-pilot, his hand glided upward to push her sports bra aside and cup the fullness of her breast.

After a moment, she leaned back, gasping. “We’re both all sweaty.”

“There’s a remedy for that.” Grinning like a fool, he scooped her up in his arms.

Mara would’ve protested but he kept her mouth too busy as he carried her down the hall. And the man could kiss. A hot mouth that grazed and nipped and melted, urgent sweeps of tongue that sent shock waves of need along her spine and made her lips cling to his. She reveled in the heat and rough texture of his skin, inhaled his scent. Something about him was different, something addictive, and her inability to hold back a measure of herself scared her.

The warm shades of the tan and umber bathroom tiles seemed to wrap around them. He let her slide down the length of his big body until she stood, still wrapped in his arms, still captured by his mouth. If he released her, she wasn’t sure her legs would support her.

He caressed her skin from her throat, to her breasts, and across her stomach. The calluses on his hands heightened the sensation, heating her skin every place he touched. His index finger teased back and forth beneath the waistband of her nylon jogging shorts. She closed her eyes, hunger tingling, throbbing, licking through her belly and up her spine.

When he removed his hand, she opened her eyes to see him staring at her with an intensity that stopped her breath. Somehow without her realizing, he’d divested himself of his shorts and sneakers. She’d seen all that hot, smooth skin, the roughness and power, bared for her before, but not glistening like wet marble. The urge sparked and flared to touch every line and angle—the contours of his shoulders, the bulges and sinews of his muscles.

More scars marred his skin, slashing white ones across his torso, knife scars from defending himself in prison. She wanted to kiss each one, soothe him with her mouth. How had he come out of that hellish place as whole as he was?

Her heart gave a solid kick against her sternum before taking off like Serena Williams chasing a corner power serve. She held his hard-hewn face between her hands, studying the raw, primitive need in his eyes. She reached into the double-size, tiled shower stall to flip on the hot water. She yanked off her sneakers and scooped off her shorts and panties. “What I said before still goes. We’re all wrong for each other.”

He swallowed, seemed to force himself to meet her gaze. “Still warning the ex-con?”

“Ditch the ex-con crap. You say you don’t trust others but it’s really yourself you don’t trust. This is casual, a temporary affair, nothing more.” She crossed mental fingers she could keep that promise to herself.

A shadow flickered in his eyes before he shuttered his expression. Most men would do handstands of gratitude for a woman who wanted no strings. Most of the time he was stoic and remote. Wasn’t he the one who insisted on casual? She didn’t get it. But the pain she’d glimpsed in his eyes was real and raw.

“Sweet,” he finally said, his voice rough. “We’re clear on that.” He grabbed protection from the stash someone had left in the medicine cabinet and reached for her. His dark pewter gaze promised sensual, slow pleasure.

And then they were mouth to mouth, skin to skin, the water sluicing over them, washing away second thoughts, rinsing away
all
thought. She licked his skin, tasted his salty passion. Giving herself up to the deep longing within, she reached for him, felt him jerk in her hand, hot with the same need that stirred her.

He delved into her with his fingers, driving her higher until she went boneless. “I have to have you
now.
”

And then nothing was slow. Not his need, not hers. He lifted her against him so her legs gripped him, and pleasure exploded as he entered her. The three shower nozzles wrapped them together in a curtain of water and steam. He continued to caress her and kiss her, his skillful touch stoking heat, unfurling pleasure, unraveling control. He knew what she wanted, what she needed without her speaking, not that she could utter anything but a strangled cry.

Pressure lapped higher and higher as he moved within her, and her senses reeled. It was too much. He wanted more than she wanted to give of herself. She flung her head back, breathless, gasping, panic sharpening to an unbearable pitch. His possession shot shock waves through her—too intense, too primitive, too powerful.
No, I can’t.

“Mara, let yourself go.” His whisper was rough, his breath hot against her skin. “Fly for me. Don’t fight it.”

Water beat on her head, coursed through her hair as she searched for balance and sanity. She found only him, around her, inside her, body and soul. A hot flash of sensation flooded her legs, her belly, her entire being in a huge, pulsating wave and she clutched at him and cried out, unable to fight him or herself anymore.

And then he surged against her and gasped his release in a guttural roar.

Moments later, rubber-legged and blissed-out, she realized she was again standing—with his support. He soaped them both and turned her to let the water rinse her. Dazed, she barely noticed when he turned off the now cold water and tossed her a towel.