Читать книгу Hart's Last Stand - Cheryl Biggs - Страница 9

“May I help you, miss?” The aide looked up from the file cabinet he’d been rifling through.

“Yes, I…” Suzanne glanced at the door to Hart’s office. She knew he was in there. Listening. Nerves, fear and desperation skittered through her veins. “I…I’d like to see Captain Branson, please.”

“Let me see if he’s available,” the private said. “Your name, miss?”

“Suzanne Cassidy.” Why didn’t he just come to the door? He surely could hear her.

The aide closed the file drawer, turned and disappeared into Hart’s office, closing the door behind him.

A moment later he returned, but instead of saying anything to her, he merely nodded and walked directly to the exit and left.

She looked back toward Hart’s office and felt a start of surprise. He was standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb. Sunlight, streaming in through his office windows, shone at his back, turning his hair to a golden halo and creating myriad shadows about his face.

Suzanne tried to stop staring, ordered herself to look elsewhere and couldn’t.

“Suzanne,” he said, breaking the silence between them and the spell that seemed to have dropped over her.

“I…” Her throat was suddenly as dry as the desert, and her fingers were wrapped around the strap of her bag so tightly she realized her nails were pushing painfully into her palms. “I have no one else to turn to, Hart,” she said finally, retrieving at least a small part of her senses.

He straightened.

She felt an involuntary start of alarm, but forced herself to remain still. He was an old friend and he was a stranger. She needed him and she feared him.

Strength exuded from every line of his body, hardness shone in his eyes. Fine lines radiated from the outer corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth, but Suzanne knew Hart was not a man who laughed easily or frequently.

She also knew that, in spite of needing his help, there was no way she could afford to trust anything he said.

“There’s nothing I can do for you, Suzanne,” Hart said, stiffening. He couldn’t let her back into his life, he thought coldly. He wouldn’t.

She watched him walk across the room, jerk the exit door open, and for just a moment look back at her, his eyes cold, wary and full of anger. Seconds later, as she ran after Hart, she heard someone call out to her.

“Suzanne?” the corps crew chief said. “Suzanne Cassidy?”

She stopped and looked at him. Everything about him was thick—his neck, chest, waist, arms, even his hands—while his eyes were a dull gray, nearly the same color as his hair, and his face was marred by a mass of craggy lines that reminded her of a metropolitan street map. “Chief Carger,” Suzanne said.

For a while, just after she and Rick had moved to Three Hills, Rick had thrown Monday-night-football parties, and some of the other pilots, the crew chief and a few mechanics had come to the Cassidy bungalow to eat Rick’s barbecued burgers and watch the game on television.

She remembered Rick telling her once that the chief had lost his family years ago in a house fire. The army had become his home since then, and the corps members his family.

At first she’d liked the chief, thought of him as a father figure, as the men did, and she and Rick had him over for dinner several times. But after a while something about him began to make her feel uneasy.

“Yes, ma’am. Nice of you to remember.” He nodded. “Good to see you again.” His gaze skipped over her quickly, and Suzanne suddenly remembered exactly what it had been that used to make her feel uneasy around him. “Hope everything’s been going okay for you.” He glanced at Hart. “Sorry, sir. If I’m intruding, I can—”

Hart hadn’t missed the quick, but thoroughly assessing once-over the chief had given Suzanne. Before Rick’s death Hart had suspected the chief had been more than a little interested in Suzanne, but he’d put it down to his own paranoid jealousy. Now he felt his hunch had probably been right. They’d both been attracted to their friend’s wife.

“No, what is it, Chief?” Hart snapped, damning himself as much as the chief.

“Just wanted to let you know, sir, that we’ve got a problem with one of the birds. Cowboy’s. Fuel line. May not be able to fix it for a couple of days, unless I can get the parts sooner.”

Hart nodded. “Fine. Reb is on leave. Have Cowboy use his chopper if need be.”

The chief nodded. “Yes, sir, that was my thought.” He glanced at Suzanne again. “Suzanne—Mrs. Cassidy. Nice to see you, ma’am.”

Suzanne waited until he’d left, then turned back to Hart. “Please, just consider—”

He averted his gaze. “No.”

She fought back the feeling of fear and desperation that threatened to send her to her knees sobbing and pleading with him. Instead, she found a very thin, very fragile thread of composure and walked past him and down the path to the street.

A phone booth stood beside another building a few yards away. She stepped into it and began flipping the worn pages of the dilapidated directory that hung on a chain, searching the pages through a blur of tears. “He can’t say no,” she muttered softly. “He can’t.” She finally found a number for a cab company and dialed it on her cell phone.

Hart would think over what she’d said and help her, she told herself. He had to. There was no other way, nowhere else for her to turn.

Hart hung up the phone and threw down his pen.

All his commanding officer would say was that no one was investigating him because of his pending promotion. But someone was investigating him.

Instinct, and the fact that he’d never believed in coincidences, told him that whatever was going on was connected to Suzanne.

He reached for the phone and dialed a number he’d never thought he would need.

“Senator Trowtin, please,” Hart said to the secretary who answered.

Three years ago terrorists had kidnapped Senator Keith Trowtin while he was on a goodwill mission in the Middle East. The CIA had tracked their movements and tried to rescue him three times. Four good men had died in the effort. Then they’d asked for the corps’s help. The senator was being held in a desert camp, less than ten miles from U.S.-friendly territory. Hart’s plan had been risky and dangerous, but no one had come up with anything better.

“Tell him it’s Captain Hart Branson,” he added.

The senator came on the line a moment later. “Captain, good to hear from you. I was just telling Julie—”

“Senator,” Hart interrupted, deciding to spare no words, “I need a favor.”

“I owe you my life, Captain.”

“I was just doing my job, Senator.”

“It was a suicide mission, Captain, and we both know it, but somehow you pulled it off and we’re both still alive. So whatever you need, you got it. What is it?”

“Someone’s investigating me, sir. I need to know who and why.”

“I’ll call you back.”

Hart replaced the phone receiver and began to pace the length of the room, uncertain whether he felt better or not. He hated asking for favors. Before he could decide which way his mood was swinging, the phone rang.

“Evidently the feds suspect you of treason,” the senator said.

Hart felt the breath stall in his lungs.

“And the word murder is also being bandied about.”

“Murder?” Hart gasped, incredulous.

“Top-secret plans for an experimental weapons-detection device that was being tested during a covert operation you led a year ago were stolen during the mission, Captain, or right after it.”

“Senator, you know I wouldn’t—”

“You don’t have to convince me, Captain, but you need to know—the feds have two theories. One is that either the pilot who went down in that chopper over there wasn’t killed, his death was faked and the two of you are accomplices, along with his wife. Or, you and the man’s wife conspired to steal the plans, killed him and she’s now selling the plans through a Los Angeles gallery she’s a partner in.”

“This is unbelievable,” Hart said. “I—”

“Listen, Captain,” the senator said, “this could get ugly. If you need me again, call. I’ll do what I can.”

Hart heard a click and the line went dead.

It was worse than he’d thought.

He remembered everything Suzanne had said, the fear in her eyes, the near panic in her voice. But was it real?

“Dammit to hell.” He pounded a fist on his desk. His only chance to save his career now, possibly his life, was to prove both of them innocent—or the woman whose image had haunted his dreams for months guilty.

He stared out the window on the opposite wall and contemplated the situation. Rick was dead, which meant he was innocent. But what if Suzanne was not? What if she was a spy? What if she’d used Rick? Hart swore viciously. The whole damned thing sounded too farfetched, but in the world he lived in, it wasn’t. She could be trying to set him up, could have come back not for his help, as she claimed, but to shift the blame.

He yanked the door open and stalked through his aide’s office toward the exit. Turning to Private Roubechard, he ordered, “I want you to do a background check on Second Lieutenant Rick Cassidy. He served under me in the corps a year ago.”

Hart paused, one hand on the exit’s doorknob. “Do one on his wife, too. Suzanne Cassidy. And I want them on my desk in an hour.”

The anger and resentment he’d lived with for the past year burned hot in him as he slammed out of the office and strode to his car. He slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

He didn’t trust Suzanne, but he had to talk to her again.

It had seemed to take forever for the taxi to arrive. Suzanne was now halfway to Tucson when the sensation that she was being watched grew too strong to ignore. She turned and looked out the cab’s rear window. The road behind was long, winding, narrow and very empty. Nevertheless, she was unable to shake the feeling or its intensity. She’d felt it on and off over the past several days, but now it seemed stronger than ever.

Her gaze swept the vast, open desert, and apprehension pulled on the knot in her stomach. She’d left Three Hills a little more than a year ago, and after settling in Los Angeles she had completely revamped her life.

But it hadn’t stopped her from thinking about him.

She trembled as a wave of hot yearning swept through her. It raced up her spine, through her arms, legs and fingers as she remembered the moment she’d turned from the plane and faced him—the instant they’d recognized each other. She could still feel the piercing stare of his eyes, the potent essence of Hart Branson as it had reached out and enveloped her.

For the briefest of moments it had been as if his consciousness dove inside hers to probe her thoughts, uncover her secrets and search, then gently touch, her very soul.

He had never looked at her like that before. No man had.

Her cell phone rang, startling her and bringing her a glare in the rearview mirror from the cab driver. He hadn’t relished driving to the base to pick her up, and it was obvious even the promise of a good tip hadn’t improved his mood any.

Suzanne pulled the phone from her purse, hoping it was Hart telling her to come back, that he believed her. He’d help her. Then she realized it couldn’t be him—he didn’t know her cell number. Her spirits instantly plunged. Please, she prayed fervently, please don’t let it be my mother. Not now. She wasn’t in the mood to defend her reasons for moving to L.A. or hear why she should start looking for another husband, which seemed to be her mother’s two favorite topics lately.

“Hello?” she said hesitantly.

“Suzanne, darling, what in heaven’s name is going on? Are you all right? Where are you?”

She jerked the phone from her ear and nearly groaned aloud at hearing her partner’s high-pitched, squeaky voice.

“I thought…” Clyde sucked in a breath. “Well, darling, when you didn’t show up at the gallery this morning, I had the most awful visions, I mean…”

She shuddered, remembering her close call last night in L.A. She’d worked late at the gallery. The street had been deserted, but when she’d started to cross it, a car had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Only the fact that she’d realized she’d left her briefcase in the office and had started to turn around and go back had saved her.

Afterward she’d felt such panic that she’d driven straight to the airport. And the terror had prompted her to take their new plane at first light and fly to Three Hills.

“…you’re never even late, let alone a no-show…”

“I’m sorry, Clyde.”

“…and then Mr. Collins came in for your nine-o’clock appointment, and you weren’t here, so naturally he was upset and…”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, hoping she hadn’t lost the gallery one of their most valued customers. “I should have called you, but…” But what? She searched for an excuse, knowing she couldn’t tell him the truth—for both their sakes.

“Yes, you’ve said that, thank you. So where are you?”

“Arizona,” she said before she could stop herself.

“How did you…?” He gasped. “You took the plane?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but there wasn’t time to—”

“I know—you heard of a terribly wonderful find and just couldn’t wait to get to it, right?” he said, offering her the best excuse she could ask for, even though his tone was somewhat sarcastic.

“I’m sorry, I should have called first, but—”

“Oh, never mind,” he said, sounding placated at the thought of a handsome sale on whatever she’d gone to pick up that couldn’t wait. “I handled Mr. Collins just fine, but I’ll expect to see something deliciously valuable when you get back, so don’t be gone long. And for heaven’s sake, don’t put a scratch on our new baby.”

Her heart sank as she remembered their “new baby” sitting cock-eyed back at the military base, one wing wedged into the gully next to the runway. Rick had taught her how to fly during their first year of marriage, and she’d loved it, but she hadn’t been behind the controls since his death. Guilt nibbled at her conscience. She was rusty and should never have taken the plane up. But she’d panicked.

The army had reluctantly agreed to rescue and stow the plane until she could make arrangements to leave. Of course they thought that meant tomorrow, but she had no intention of going anywhere until she felt safe again and knew the truth—and that all depended on Hart. He could save her. He was probably the only one who could.

Or he could be a cold-blooded killer, the dark side of her thoughts reminded her. He could have stolen the plans and killed Rick. He could be the one behind the FBI’s suspicions, the one trying to frame her.

It made sense, and she didn’t want it to.

The hair on the back of her neck suddenly seemed to stand on end. She jerked around, looked out the rear window again and nearly screamed.

A black Corvette was right on the taxi’s tail, but the sun reflecting off the windshield made it impossible for Suzanne to make out the driver’s face.

The car remained behind the taxi all the way into Tucson, and pulled in behind them at the entrance to the hotel where she’d made a reservation. Fear had settled in Suzanne’s stomach like a boulder, heavy and immovable. She decided to wait until whoever it was in the other car stepped out, then she’d order the taxi driver to speed off and take her to another hotel.

The driver’s door swung open.

Suzanne froze.

Hart pushed himself out of the Corvette and stood, his light-brown uniform molding to his body, accentuating length, complementing muscle.

Relief and something else, something she didn’t want to feel for him, or even acknowledge, rushed through Suzanne’s body like a flash flood. Compared to what her imagination had been raking up, he was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

She quickly paid the cab driver and climbed out, her legs shaking so badly she had to momentarily lean on the car door for support. “Hart,” she said as he approached, “I didn’t know that was you behind me. I thought—”

“We have to talk, Suzanne.” He took her suitcase from the driver, grasped her upper arm firmly and steered her into the hotel and across the spaciously elegant lobby. “Get your room,” he said curtly, “drop off your luggage and meet me in the coffee shop.”

She nodded and approached the front desk, even though everything in her urged her to hang on to Hart for dear life. She was reluctant to leave his side because of the sense of safety she felt when with him, in spite of his obvious disbelief of her claims. But he’d come after her, and that was all that mattered now.

Once in her room she hurriedly slipped into a clean white blouse and a pair of sandals. Just before leaving to meet Hart, she drew back the curtain to the balcony to let sunshine pour in and warm the room. The view of the Arizona desert, sprawling out beyond the hotel for as far as the eye could see, was magnificent, and for a brief second she savored it, suddenly realizing how much she’d missed it. Then she saw a man standing on what appeared to be a path meandering through the foliage near the pool.

He was looking up at her.

Suzanne gave a start, her heart skipped a beat and she stepped quickly away from the window. Was he watching her? Or was she being paranoid?

A knock on her door sent her heart into her throat.

“Suzanne.”

She whirled around, her fear instantly abating as she recognized Hart’s voice. Just as instantly she admonished herself. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t put all her hope and trust in Hart Branson, no matter how much she wanted to. She had to remember to be wary of him, to suspect him of the worst. He could be the traitor. He could be a killer. He could even be the one who’d tried to run her down last night.

L.A. was only a short plane ride from Tucson. He could have been there. It was possible. She didn’t want to believe that, but she knew men found it all too easy to betray a woman. It had been a lesson she’d learned the hard way, first from her father, then from a stepfather, a fiancé and finally from her husband.

She would never trust a man again, not with her heart, and especially not with her life.

Suzanne walked to the door and opened it.

Her gaze met his directly. In spite of the cold, ugly suspicions she was determined not to ignore or forget, a river of warmth swept through her as Hart’s gaze met and held hers. “I thought we were meeting in the coffee shop,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded.

“I thought you might have changed your mind.” He strode past her and into the room. “Maybe figured out that your lies weren’t going to work.”

Lies? Shock, then anger sped through her veins, burning away every molecule of caution and rationale, and dousing the desire that had been smoldering within her ever since the moment she’d stepped from her plane and saw him walking toward her.

She closed the door and turned, struggling to remain calm and resist the urge to stalk across the room and slap his face.

Anger gave her strength, and that allowed her to ignore her fears, at least for the moment. “I know what I’ve said sounds incredible, Hart, but I thought if anyone would or could believe me, it would you. You were Rick’s best friend. But—” she shrugged and glared at him “—if you don’t believe me, if you really think I lied, then I’ve obviously wasted your time and mine by coming here, and there’s nothing left for us to talk about.”

“Yes, there is.” His eyes held hers, refusing to let her look away, forcing her to face the disdain and resentment he’d lived with for the past year.

Suzanne felt her breath nearly desert her, along with her anger. After a moment that seemed an eternity, she tore her gaze from his and moved toward a chair, twisting her hands together, then thought better of sitting down and paused beside the faux fireplace. It was only because she still found him physically attractive that her emotions were in such a tangle. She should have expected that.

“I made a few phone calls after you left my office earlier,” he said, still standing in the center of the room.

She looked at him, wary again. Uncertain what to expect. “And?”

“Let’s just say that I know there is something going on.”

“Something,” she repeated slowly. “But you don’t believe what I told you?”

She saw the anger that flashed back into his eyes. “Rick is dead, Suzanne. He was the one flying his Cobra that day, not some doppelganger or science-lab clone. It was Rick, and there’s no way he survived that crash.” Hart shook his head. “No way. Which means there is absolutely no way he could have stolen those plans and be selling them now. And I’m pretty sure the feds aren’t so stupid they’d believe that, anyway.”

“Then who?” Suzanne asked, and added silently, Other than you?

He stared at her, and she suddenly realized that he suspected her. She felt her jaw drop, her hope shrivel and die. “You can’t… No, I don’t believe…” She shook her head. “You can’t really think I did it! How could I have stolen plans that were on that mission? I wasn’t there.”

Hart’s face remained a cold mask of scorn. “I don’t know. But I know Rick didn’t do it.”

She sagged against the fireplace. He wasn’t going to help her prove her innocence. He was going to damn her. The prospect of actually being charged with treason, followed by a life in prison, loomed before her, bringing a chill to her veins and a terror into her heart like none she’d ever felt before.

“But what I think or even know at this point doesn’t matter,” Hart added, his tone as hard as the glint in his eyes.

Suzanne looked up in surprise, not understanding what he meant, but feeling an unreasonable spark of hope.

“They think I’m in on it with you.”

Shock rendered her nearly speechless. “What?”

He watched her closely, saw the disbelief and surprise that pulled at her features, but knew he couldn’t believe everything he saw or heard. At least not yet, and especially not from her.

Suzanne sank onto a chair, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. The thought that the FBI would suspect him of being her accomplice had never crossed her mind. “Oh, Hart, I’m sorry. I never should have come to you. I never meant…”

To kill Rick? To get caught? To make me want you? The words screamed in Hart’s mind, but not from his lips. “I ordered my aide to do a background investigation on Rick. I should have it by morning.” He didn’t mention that he’d ordered one on her, too.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “Why? You know Rick was a good soldier, and you said you saw his chopper go down. You said it exploded. You said no one—”

“I know what I said,” Hart snapped, struggling to control his temper and hang on to at least a thread of patience. “But the feds don’t believe he’s dead, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to start.”

Suzanne nodded.

“I’ll go over the report in the morning, then decide what to do from there.”

“I’d like to see it, too.”

He frowned, instantly suspicious. “Why?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, really. I just know I have to be involved with whatever you’re going to do about this mess. It’s my fault you’ve been drawn into it. I shouldn’t have come here.”

He sat down in the chair across from her. Play their game. It was one of the first things he’d been taught in POW training. Play your enemy’s game and get inside their head. It was a soldier’s best chance of survival.

But he’d never lusted after any of his enemies.

He purposely softened his tone. “It wouldn’t have mattered whether you came here or not,” he said. “I was already being investigated.”

“You were?” She frowned. Could she believe him or was it a lie to throw her off guard? “But why? By whom?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He sat on the edge of his chair, arms resting on his thighs, and leaned slightly toward her. “Did Rick mention anything unusual to you the day before we left on that last mission?” He started to reach for her hand, then caught himself. “Think, Suzanne. It could be important. Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

He demanded a divorce. She shook her head again. “No. Why?”

She was lying. He’d sensed it in her hesitation before answering, saw it in her eyes.

“I think something was bothering him that last day,” Hart said.

She looked at him. How much did he really know?