Broken Honor (30 page)

“You don't need to worry about anything here,” Sam said. “I'll be keeping an eye out for you. Lots of wives stay here alone when their husbands ship out. We look after our own.”

“It's not myself I worry about,” Irish said. “It's the missus.”

The manager nodded. “The trailer is four hundred a month. Includes utilities. Usually ask for a deposit, but seeing as to what happened, I'll waive it.”

Irish hesitated. “She has a small dog. Found it on the highway.”

Sam shrugged. “As long as it doesn't bite. We have children here.”

“He's afraid of his shadow.”

“You pay for any damages.”

“There won't be any. Never saw a better-behaved animal. That's why I let my wife keep it.”

Sam nodded.

“I owe you, Chief.” Irish took out his billfold and counted out two hundred carefully, as if each bill was dear. “I'll give you the rest at the end of the week. Those damn muggers …”

The manager nodded. “You don't want to see it before you pay?”

“It looks great from the outside. I can tell you take real pride in the place. It'll be fine, won't it, sweetie?”

“Just dandy, lollipop,” she gushed.

He had to swallow a chuckle. Certainly no one had called him lollipop before. But Sam Beard looked amused. And approving.

They would be safe here.

He just wasn't sure how long.

twenty

M
ARYLAND
C
OAST

It was an interesting crowd. A real mix. Young swinging singles. Several older couples who were obviously tourists. Some locals. They were easily identified by both their clothes and their comradeship with the bartender.

Sally had selected the bar carefully. A munchies bar. A place where people went on their way home from work or a place tourists went to get free hors d'oeuvres and often stayed longer than they intended. It even had ferns. She'd thought ferns had gone out ten years ago.

Most of all, it seemed reputable with plenty of reputable people. Safe. She needed people.

Dusty didn't understand that. He was so self-contained that he didn't need anyone. But she'd spent six days alone. She'd started painting again, working feverishly during the last two days. A sketch of Dusty, then an acrylic. She'd even attempted a seascape from the vantage point of her balcony. It might not be technically good, but she knew the colors were right. Vivid. The spurt had, at first, exhilarated her. Then depressed her. She would never be more than mediocre.

The loneliness deepened. So did the desperation. She feared she would lose her job, and she didn't want to lose another job. She knew her life resembled a locomotive headed downgrade without any brakes. She was in her mid-thirties and had a hundred friends, but none—except Dustin—with whom she could really be herself. For everyone else, she was a facade. A sparkling facade that had nothing behind it.

A bar was perfect for that. You could be with people—have human contact—without needing to make a commitment of any kind. You could walk away. She was very good at walking away.

She sat at the bar. The bartender was a good-looking young man with a tan and sun-bleached hair. Although he was probably ten years her junior, he was demonstrably attentive to her. A woman sat to the right of her. She was with another woman. Several minutes after Sally sat down, a couple of guys took the stools to her left.

As usual, she was careful. Ordering a glass of wine and listening to conversation. The man next to her was arguing about baseball scores. She just enjoyed the conversation around her, the noise.

The man on her left turned to her. “Here on vacation?”

He had a pleasant face. Hazel eyes and a nice smile. Unlike most of the other customers, he was dressed in a suit. That probably meant a salesman of some type.

“Yes.”

“Where are you from?”

Sally remembered Dustin's warnings. He hadn't told her not to go anyplace, but he had asked her to be careful. She could do that.

She shrugged. “A lot of places.” That, at least, was the truth.

“Where are you staying?”

“With a friend. She'll be here a little later.”

He looked a little disappointed. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She had a policy about that. “Thank you, but no. I'm not ready.” She smiled to soften the refusal. “What do you do?”

“I'm a lawyer.”

That was interesting. “What kind of law?”

“Criminal.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Murderers.”

“Innocent people,” he said with a chuckle.

“All of them?”

“Of course. Now tell me what you do.”

Something made her hesitate. She could not tell him she worked for the State Department. She was using another name. She hesitated, then said the first thing that came to her mind. “I'm an artist.”

“I'm impressed.”

“Don't be. I'm not very good.”

“How does a not very good artist support herself?”

“She has a gallery.” Somewhere in her mind, she was conscious that she was using her mother. She wondered what a psychiatrist would say about that.

He eyed her speculatively.

She took a sip of wine. And while she did, her eyes wandered to his ring finger. Habit more than anything. Nothing on the ring finger. Of course, that didn't mean anything.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

“About three miles down the coast road.”

“Any good restaurants?”

“Any number of them. Can I take you to one tonight?”

She remembered her excuse. “Sorry. I'm meeting a friend for dinner.”

“Then tomorrow night?”

“I have plans, but thank you.”

“How do you like our city?” He wasn't going to press, and she was grateful. She was also aware that the bartender, as busy as he was, was keeping an eye on her. She felt better. She took another sip, then another. She was aware that her companion gestured to her glass, and this time she didn't complain. He was obviously not going to be a problem.

And he was interesting. Attractive in a cool, assured way. A lot like Dustin.

Despite his easy bar talk, he was reserved. There was something dangerous in his eyes that appealed to her more than it should.

“I need to powder my nose,” she said.

“I'll hold your seat.”

She left and went into the restroom. She splashed water on her face, then looked at herself.
Why was she even here
? She didn't like one-night stands, and here she was mouthing all those bar clichés and even considering … hell, she didn't like what she was considering. She shouldn't have come. She'd just been so damned lonely.

Lonely enough to make a really bad mistake.

She ran a brush through her hair, then left, starting to wind her way back to the bar.

“Miss?” She turned around. The bartender was there.

“Yes?”

“The gentleman—the man—next to you put something in your drink.”

Her heart seemed to stop. “What?”

“A pill of some kind. He didn't think I'd see it, but there was something … about him. He's never been in here before, and yet he seemed to want you to think he had. I could have just spilled your drink, but I thought you should know.…”

Her heart started again. In fact, it pounded. She started to dig in her purse for money to pay her bill.

“Never mind that, Miss. I'll keep him busy if you want to leave.”

“The … police.”

“I could lose my job over this,” he said. “It would be better if you just leave.”

She gave him a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks again.”

She waited until he went back to the bar and leaned over, talking to the stranger. She slipped out the door.

An attempt at date rape? Or something else? And it would have worked if not for the bartender. She hadn't taken Dusty seriously about the threat.

What to do now? If it wasn't just a chance encounter, she must have been followed. They knew where she lived.

Panic seized her.

She had difficulty unlocking the car door. Her gaze was moving back and forth, to the bar's door and around the parking lot. Finally she opened it and got inside.

She wouldn't go back. Washington was six hours away. She would go straight to Dusty. He would know what to do.

N
ORFOLK

The trailer was old, but remarkably well-kept. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living area. The bath was surprisingly spacious.

Amy had certainly lived in a lot worse when growing up. For a young just-married couple, it was even kind of cute. One previous resident had decorated the kitchen area with dancing teapot wallpaper; another—or perhaps the same one—had painted a window on the back wall of the bedroom, which had none.

They took their belongings inside, inventoried the kitchen appliances, then he went to a nearby store. He returned with a large bag of groceries, a pizza, and sodas for two.

“Lollipop,” he said in disgust as he took a slice of pizza.

She smiled sweetly. “I think the chief liked it.”

“He liked
you
.”

“You really are a very good liar.”

“It wasn't much of a stretch. I've been around army towns all my life. Navy towns, too, when we had joint investigations.” He paused. “But I'll need your computer to research ship deployments. I have the feeling Sam Beard might well want to share experiences.”

“You can always say you were in the SEALs,” she offered with just a hint of sarcasm. Or was it really a query? She was beginning to wonder what he'd really done in South America.

“I think that might be pushing my luck.” She held his gaze. “Do you really think we can get lost in here?”

“It's by far our best bet at the time. There's no record.” “But if you call this Eachan?”

“I'll call in the morning from Newport News, and tell him that we're traveling up that way. I can't use the cell phone anymore.”

“You think he's a part of what's happening?”

“I don't know. But I'm not taking any more chances.”

“I think riding in that purple car is a chance.”

“You're right about that. But we're just using it to and from the apartment complex.”

“Isn't someone going to question strange cars?”

“It's too damn big. It could be anyone visiting one of several hundred units. It's safe enough.”

Part of her admired his ingenuity and guile, but another deplored his ease with lying, particularly to good people. Bo whined, as if sensing her discomfort, and offered a paw. Instead, Amy patted her lap and he crawled up, one tentative paw after another.

Flaherty studied her. She felt the intensity behind his gaze. Warmth moved up her spine. She didn't want it there. She feared every tingly sensation that spread throughout her. Neither of them was dead tired. Neither had immediate fear. Neither had anything pressing to do. It was just the two of them.

The two of them
.

He would go away when this was over. He would return to a life filled with excitement and danger. And she still didn't know exactly who he was. He'd been a good old boy just a few moments ago. It seemed to come as naturally to him as being a hard-eyed soldier who killed automatically, who handled a gun as easily as most people handled a pen. He could be warm and tender, and yet her heart had chilled when he'd spoken so dispassionately about his family.

But as the air around them grew even more explosive, she knew she could no more resist what was happening than a moth could resist a flame.
It was too bright, too promising, too full of splendor
.

Bo whined as if he sensed the growing whirlwind.

“It's okay, Bo,” she said, even as she heard the tremor in her voice. He didn't believe it either. He whined again.

“Down,” Flaherty said.

Bo regarded him for a moment, then jumped down with obvious reluctance. He folded one front paw over the other and put his head on them, looking up with a disgruntled expression. But his tail wagged.

She leaned down and scratched his ears, and he looked less offended.

Flaherty moved over to her and held out his hand. She took it.

Fire roared between them. Flash point. She'd heard the expression but never really understood it until now. Her heart beat more rapidly. Blood pulsed in all the places it shouldn't. A trembling excitement reverberated inside, like the first rumblings of an earthquake. They stood still, caught for a moment of endless time in which she knew she was making a momentous decision, that her life would never be the same. If she surrendered to him now, she would be surrendering her heart.

A conscious decision. Not like the night on Jekyll Island when fear and relief and gratitude and bewilderment combined to throw them together.

Then his hand touched her cheek in a gesture so gentle her last reservation faded. She felt his breath against her hair as his fingers traced the curves of her face. They did so lovingly, as if she were beautiful. And she knew then that she
was
beautiful in his eyes. She found herself leaning her cheek against his hand in a gesture that said more than words could.

His face bent down, his lips met hers, and their bodies came together, his arms around her neck, hers around his. The heat that seared her also branded him. She could feel it in the tension of his body, and the hardening of it against hers.

Her own body changed, too. Her breasts grew taut and tender, the center of her body expectant and wanting.

She shivered, and his hands left her neck and ran up and down her body, stroking reassuringly as his lips gentled, then moved to her earlobe, nibbling it. Every touch, every brush of his lips was a caress, fine and arousing and intoxicating. His breath sent waves of pleasure through her.

She turned her head so her lips met his again, and the heat became an explosion. The gentleness was lost in hunger. Their lips turned frantic. Her mouth opened, and his tongue entered. Exploring. Seducing. Awakening every erotic nerve in her. Her body was composing a song, and she was swaying to the rhythm of it.