White Heat (8 page)

Get a grip.

After a nice hot shower, she dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved, shocking-pink sweater with matching pink socks. Not bothering with makeup, she combed back her wet hair and went downstairs in her stockinged feet in search of coffee.

The sun-bright kitchen was empty. But the coffeepot was full. After pouring a large mug and adding sugar, she went in search of Max, sipping as she walked through the large rooms of the villa. The black coffee was strong and bitter, and with just a little milk added would have been perfect. Still, the caffeine did its job and finished the waking-up process. Daniel’s son was probably counting the silver and calling an appraiser in to tell him how much money he could get when he sold everything.

It had taken Daniel most of his life to amass an enviable art collection. From what she knew of Max, he’d probably sell the lot to the highest bidder. Emily tried not to resent him for his greed. Hell, she didn’t know him, just of him from the stories Daniel had shared. Time would tell.

She wasn’t ready to see Daniel’s studio without Daniel in it. She also wasn’t ready to see
Max.
She was still annoyed at him for not arriving in time to attend his own father’s funeral. And for leaving her without a backward glance. And for being a player with the moral fiber of a fruit fly.

Worst of all, she admitted to herself as she headed to the tower and Daniel’s studio,
worst of all
was the way her traitorous body responded to him whenever he was within sight. Her brain and her hormones were in violent conflict.

“My new mantra,” she muttered, climbing the stairs to the tower’s second-floor studio.
“Mind over matter.” My mind, and Max Aries doesn’t matter. I can do this. It’s only for a few more hours at most.
She smiled as she reached the landing.

She was woman. Hear her ignore.

EARPIECE IN PLACE, MAX LEANED HIS SHOULDER AGAINST THE CASEMENT of the open French door. He stared unseeing at the vast stretch of lawn and the leafless trees as he filled in his Control, Darius, about the events of the early hours of that morning. The rain had finally stopped about half an hour ago, and the landscape had been washed clean. Water sparkled like diamonds as it dripped off bare branches.

The subject switched to operative Catherine Seymour’s, code name “Savage,” recent activities. “We fucking know Savage is a rogue operative,” he snapped. “Why the hell would you—Yeah, I hear you.” Keep your enemy close. He got it. But it pissed him off that the powers-that-be at T-FLAC headquarters were still sending Savage out on ops. Minor ones, true. But they had confirmation that she’d almost killed Taylor Kincaid in the op in South Africa three months ago. Hunt St. John was gunning for Savage’s blood, and Max didn’t blame him.

The more they’d dug, the more crap they’d unearthed about one of their best sharpshooters. Savage had been with T-FLAC for almost ten years. While they’d been fucking chasing their tails trying to track down the head of the Black Rose terrorist organization one of that slithery tango group had been working right alongside them.

They knew Savage was a Black Rose asset. Catching her was easy. But keeping her close and still active would lead them to the head of the tango group. And that’s what they wanted. Savage couldn’t sneeze without them knowing the velocity.

“Where’s she now?” Max listened, then gave a short bark of laughter. “Not a shitload of tangos in Portland. Anything else of interest?” He’d called in to see if their medical team had discovered anything interesting about the old man’s body after exhumation. So far they hadn’t. Still, Max knew how thorough they were. If there was anything hinky, other than being tossed off a three-story balcony, they’d find it.

He listened absently as his Control, Darius gave him a thumbnail sketch of what had happened—tango related—in the world at large in the last twenty-four hours. The U.S. embassy in Mauritius had had several bomb threats. A church had been blown up in Brazil, thirty dead. A bunch of lilies had been left near the site. A synagogue in Rio had a minor explosion, more lilies.
That
was a pattern they were following, and keeping a tight watch on. A train had been derailed in Hong Kong—three hundred dead or injured. T-FLAC had dispatched teams to the various locations.

Business as usual.

He stepped out onto the narrow balcony. Gripping the smooth stone balustrade, he looked down. There was still a stain on the driveway below. He felt nothing for the man who’d died there. Nothing but curiosity as to
why
he’d been killed. And even that would’ve been mild if Emily hadn’t somehow been dragged into whatever it was.

Max had been offered the help of T-FLAC resources, and he’d taken them up on their offer. T-FLAC had the best—of everything. While this was a personal matter, he needed T-FLAC’s vast resources to bring the investigation to a close quickly. He had better things to do than look into the dark corners of the life of a man he didn’t know or like.

Daniel must’ve had hundreds of enemies. Max decided he’d make a list, cross-check that with anyone connected to Emily, then check out the most likely suspects. Then leave the rest to the local police.

This time when he left, he’d tell Emily good-bye.

He’d be back at work by Monday.

EMILY WALKED INTO DANIEL’S STUDIO AND INHALED THE FAMILIAR, pungent smells. Even though he’d been gone for weeks the stinky French cigarettes he’d chain-smoked, against doctor’s orders, warred with the overlying odor of paint thinner and brush cleaners.
The scent, and the organized chaos, made Emily’s chest ache with suppressed emotion. It looked as if Daniel had paused for a cigarette break and would be right back. Her throat constricted. It was hard to comprehend that a man as vital as Daniel Aries was dead.

The double French doors leading out to the balcony were wide open. She imagined it was Max’s attempt at getting rid of the strong smells in the room. It wasn’t working, but no way was she going to shut the doors, despite the chill. In fact, she had no intention of getting anywhere near that balcony. Whether her friend had been pushed or jumped, she didn’t want to see where he’d spent the last few moments of his life.

Max sat at his father’s battered antique oak desk in the far corner of the studio, his back to her. She’d heard his deep voice as she’d come up the stairs and she presumed he’d been on the phone. He wasn’t now, but he didn’t turn around. She’d bet her last American dollar that he knew exactly where she was as she crossed behind him, her socks silent on the paint-splattered wood floor.

She’d love to paint him. Just as he was, limned by a stray shimmer of sunlight. His shaggy hair was damp, and, despite the lingering reek of stale tobacco, she could smell the soap on his skin. A shiver that had nothing to do with the damp air traveled across her skin.
God, it should be a crime for a man to be that sexy and appealing. And really, she thought, getting just a glimpse of his profile as he bent over whatever he was reading, he shouldn’t be appealing at all. Especially not to her. Once bitten, twice stupid.

The problem was her brain and body weren’t in sync.

Her brain, considerably more intelligent than her body, told her to hop that flight with Franco. To check into the hotel in Seattle and immediately jump his bones. They’d been dating for four months. He’d unknowingly paid for the mistake she’d made with Max, whom she’d fallen into bed with in
four
seconds flat.

So far, Franco had been very patient.

It had been so good with Max that she hadn’t been interested in okay. She’d
wanted
the bells and whistles. Unfortunately, her body—even though the guy had ditched her and she had no idea that she would ever see him again—had waited eleven months and so many weeks to see
Max’s
again. While her brain told her Franco was a good guy who genuinely cared about her, her body just wasn’t that interested.

Her traitorous body felt urgent, aroused, and downright anticipatory just looking at Max. Who wasn’t a good guy at all. He was a womanizer, a liar, and a socially irresponsible player.

Said womanizer, liar, and socially irresponsible player was currently putting out enough pheromones to render her incapable of rational speech.
She didn’t need speech. She needed one word—no.

N.O.

Her body
needed
a long walk in the rain to cool off as she repeated the word over and over. And over. Until it sank in.

N.O.

Not to Max. But to herself.

It wasn’t a smart move to look at him, she decided, and she looked down at her hands gripping the table. Her hands were, to her, her most attractive feature. Her nails were short, usually grubby, and the closest they got to polish was oil paint. Her fingers seemed to have a creativity all their own, and even she was
frequently
astounded at what and how she painted. But that was her secret. Her vanity.

She wanted to put her hands creatively all over Max.

Crazy. Dangerous. Tempting.

But really, really,
really
stupid.

Draining the last of her now tepid coffee, she placed the mug on the table holding Daniel’s state-of-the-art Di Longhi coffee- maker, a microwave, and a small refrigerator. When Daniel had been working he’d frequently camped out up here. Her heart felt heavy. That hadn’t been for a long time. Yet she knew he’d come up here every day anyway. Not to work, although knowing Daniel, he was sure to have tried.

How sad to be unable to do the thing one loved the most.

Which was worse? Daniel killing himself because he couldn’t bear to no longer paint? Or some stranger taking his life? Both were unthinkable.

Emily leaned her hip on the table. Since Max was low on social graces she figured she might as well cut right to the chase. There was still plenty of time to go home, get her stuff, then hit the airport to make her six P.M. flight. “Did you talk to whoever you’re supposed to talk to about us getting out of here this morning?”

Her pulse jumped as he turned, one elbow over the back of the chair. Unshaven but bright-eyed, he leveled her with a dark look that melted her insides into a pool of liquid without an ounce of effort.

No.

“They haven’t figured out what was in the vial. Yet. We stay put for another twelve hours.”

Emily pressed her palm hard against the table on either side of her hips to dispel the ridiculous, uncalled for, unwanted attraction. He was
just
a man.

Been there, done that, she thought crossly. On the other hand, as scared as she was by her visceral response to Max, she’d rather deal with that than the pee-in-your-pants thought of being eaten alive by some god-awful bacteria that could make her eyeballs bleed and turn her inside out. She’d seen one too many horror movies.

“If they don’t know what was in it, how can they know we need to stay quarantined for another twelve hours? Why not
five
hours? Why not a
week?”

A slight crinkle appeared beside his left eye. The start of a smile? An impending scowl? Who knew?

“They know things.”

She waited for the punch line. Of course there wasn’t one. Sighing, she said, “That is totally ridiculous, Max.” She wasn’t happy that they had to remain in quarantine for another twelve minutes, let alone twelve more freaking hours. The intensity of his eyes, very green this morning, made her edgy. She reminded herself to breathe. That was good. Do it again.

“If we’re not dead by now, if we haven’t already broken out in oozing green pustules, chances are we’re fine and dandy. I want to make my flight tonight.”

“Let’s say the incubation period is under twelve hours, and not, say, twenty-four. Let’s say neither of us shows any sign of infection. The odds of two unrelated people having immunity and carrying a disease/virus while staying asymptomatic doesn’t follow the biological reality of disease transmission.”

Emily rubbed the bone deep chill from her arms. “Let’s say not.” Her mouth was dry. She picked up her mug and brought it to her lips. It was empty. She clutched the mug in a white-knuckled grip.

“They’re more concerned that we could be dealing with an agent that takes twenty-four hours to show symptoms,” Max said matter-of-factly.

Nobody
could be this calm about something this potentially horrific, she thought, scared stupid by the possibilities. Still, she wouldn’t want to be with anyone else if her life was hanging in the balance. Max
exuded
calm and rational.

“We have to wait it out. Do you really want to board a transatlantic flight and take that kind of risk? You could pass along a virus as if it were the common cold.” His eyes held hers. They were very green, and as still and . . . safe as the massive pine trees in her home state of Washington.

“Of course not.” The thought that she had some nasty little
something.
. . inside her, something that she could breathe on some innocent person, possibly even kill them, gave her the willies. This was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. And waiting. And waiting. With Max.
“Okay. So we wait,” Which didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. “Let’s at least make this time productive. What are
we
looking for?” she asked, frowning as he started to read a letter addressed to his father.

“Proof that he was murdered.”

“I’m sure the police did a thorough search when they were here.”

“And I’ll search again. I have nothing but time.”

“Well I don’t,” she told him, annoyed. “What do you think you’re going to find?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

Irritation, fear, and frustration rose to beat wings of panic against her breastbone. Emily glanced around. “How will
I
know it when I see it?” Canvases, painting supplies, half-filled coffee cups, and overflowing ashtrays littered every surface. Daniel, bless his heart, was a complete slob. They had untidiness in common. He had an enormous staff, yet refused to allow anyone inside his studio to clean.

It had started raining again. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, trying to figure out where to start looking for something she didn’t know she was looking for.