Читать книгу The Cradle Will Fall - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 9

Her face had been an open book, Mark mused the following morning as he steered his rental car through Oklahoma City’s snowy streets. Grace had been shocked to find him standing in her boss’s office. Stunned was more like it. Understandable, considering it had been nearly six years since they’d laid eyes on each other.

Since they’d been lovers.

He tightened his jaw as the wipers slapped a steady cadence back and forth, clearing two fans on the snow-covered windshield. What bothered him—what had eaten at him most of the night—was knowing that when they faced each other, she should have been the only one caught off guard. The only one wrestling with emotion. That hadn’t been the case. Hadn’t at all been what he had expected.

Dammit, he had known she would walk through the door of her lieutenant’s office at any minute. Had anticipated her arrival.

Yet the instant she stepped into view, he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. He had spent a lifetime moderating his emotions, had built up a level of control so rigid that nothing or no one ever caught him off guard.

Grace McCall-Fox had. Big-time.

Knowing that just the sight of her had made his mouth go dry and his gut clench into knots did not sit well. Granted, she was the one woman—the only woman—for whom he had felt a pull of something far beyond physical attraction. While they were lovers he had chosen not to analyze the intense, mindless emotion that had drawn him to her. It had been a huge enough step for him to acknowledge that his relationship with Grace had been the first from which he couldn’t seem to make a clean break and walk away. So, when the transfer he’d coveted to the Bureau’s Crimes Against Children Unit came through, he’d asked her to move back east with him.

She’d said no. Understandable, seeing as how her world revolved around her large, rowdy family. Then there had been tradition to consider—almost every McCall had served on the Oklahoma City PD. Doing so had been Grace’s lifelong dream, one she found impossible to give up.

He had coolly accepted her decision. Made no effort to change her mind. Logically he knew his promotion to the CACU meant he would spend most of his time traveling, leaving Grace behind in an unfamiliar city. She’d have gotten the raw end of the deal, and he hadn’t blamed her for turning him down.

So, he had walled off the regret that had washed over him, just as he had taught himself to block out all other emotion. He had put the memory of Grace McCall into the far reaches of his mind and immersed himself in his work.

It was only natural she’d crept into his thoughts now and again over the years, but he and Grace had parted on good terms and what was done was done. He wasn’t the only one who had moved on, either. Grace had married a cop—then buried him three years later.

For himself, Mark had spent the past years building his reputation in the law enforcement community, along with unused leave time. He had no roots, no family, no woman waiting for him to return. It was the lifestyle he wanted. He traveled wherever the job took him, primarily from one crime scene to another. He worked case after case, dealing with an endless cycle of abused, kidnapped and murdered children. Child after child, body after body, one malicious crime after another.

The horror he encountered in his work never surprised him. He’d grown up knowing firsthand that the devil walked the face of the earth. Knew too well the terror suffered by a child at the mercy of a monster. Years later he had learned that most of the people in the small town where he’d grown up had known about the beatings he’d endured, but had chosen to look the other way. He’d joined the FBI, vowing to hunt down as many child-preying deviants as possible.

Without warning, the fatigue that now held him constantly in its grip shuddered through him. He tightened his gloved hands on the steering wheel and attempted to twitch the weariness out of his shoulders. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, but he’d long ago given up hope for that.

Over the past year—or was it two now?—he’d had a recurring dream that replayed the images of the bruised and battered victims in every case he’d worked while in the CACU. An unending parade of child after child. Monster after monster. The dream was like acid, slowly eating away the hours he slept each night.

Now, if he got any rest at all, it was fitful. He had forgotten the last time he’d slept through an entire night. Forgotten what is was like to eat a meal and not have the lining of his stomach ignite like a blowtorch. He had dropped weight. When he ate now, it was because he had to. He moved from crime scene to crime scene, hotel room to hotel room, lying awake and alone in strange beds, sweating from the dream that plagued him.

Exhaling a curse, he reached down deep inside for the strength to fight off the draining fatigue. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t back off. He had monsters to catch.

He checked the notepad on which he’d jotted the address Grace had given him, drove two more blocks and made a right turn. Dammit, he should be in California, working the kidnap case that he’d correctly guessed had turned into a homicide last night when the little girl’s body had been found. Or maybe he was needed worse in New Orleans where three preteen boys had disappeared in the past month. Then there was the small town in Alaska where a killer currently preyed on young female victims.

Mark felt another tremor of fatigue. Each one of those cases had first priority; in each, time was critical. Just wanting—needing—to be somewhere else aggravated his frustration and exhaustion.

And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t totally sure he felt up to dealing with Sergeant Grace McCall-Fox. Not after the way he’d reacted to her yesterday. He was pointedly aware that her elderly lady look had done nothing to quell the jolt he’d felt when she walked into the office. No one had to remind him about the truly fascinating body concealed beneath that baggy gray dress. Or point out it had been years since he’d felt that kind of warmth surge in his blood. He’d reacted to Grace’s presence yesterday the same way he had the day he met her. Instant attraction. A burning, immediate desire to get his hands on her. Searing lust.

Now, though, he didn’t feel either physically or emotionally up to dealing with that kind of response. Chances were, he’d made a huge mistake by requesting to use Grace as his contact with the OCPD. What was done was done, however, and there was no changing that.

He spotted the address, then pulled the car up to the curb in front of a two-story house painted a cool blue with gleaming white trim. Through the veil of snow, the small porch with slender ivy-wrapped columns looked inviting, with a white wicker table and chair snugged into one corner. A garland of evergreen framed the front door; a wreath adorned with a gigantic plaid bow and loaded with shiny red balls hung in its center. Four cars crowded the driveway, including an OCPD black-and-white. With so many cops in the McCall family, Mark didn’t even hazard a guess on who had driven the cruiser there.

Instead of climbing out of the rental car, he left its engine idling while he gazed at the house and conjured up a picture of Grace.

He had always found a certain fascination with her face—those carved cheekbones that rose high and taut against skin the color of gold dust, her thinly bridged nose and angular chin. Then there was her mouth—full and rich and moist. A mouth that had taken him over the edge to heaven countless times.

That was it, he reasoned, and closed his eyes against a remembered kick of lust. His response to her yesterday had been totally physical. She was, after all, a beautiful woman with whom he’d engaged in uncountable bouts of hot, steamy sex. He hadn’t been with a woman at all for some time, so it was only natural he would respond to one who had once had the power to stir his blood with just a look. A touch. A moan that slid, raw and ragged, up her throat.

“Christ,” he muttered when a quiet ache of longing for that part of his past rose inside him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but whatever it was, he damn well didn’t need it.

He snapped off the ignition, jerked off one glove and scrubbed a hand over his face. Judging from what he knew right now about the case he and Grace would be working, he probably wouldn’t be in town long enough to do anything about this unexpected stirring in his blood. They would deal with what needed to be done, then, as always, he would move on. Which he figured was best for everyone involved.

Mark snagged a file folder off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car into the swirling snow. The frigid air stung his cheeks, scraped his throat like little bits of ice. The cold wind blew back the flaps of his black wool coat; frozen crystals crunched beneath his shoes as he made his way up the walk and ascended the small flight of stairs.

Stamping his feet on the welcome mat, he rang the bell. When the door swung open, it took him a second to realize the sandy-haired uniformed cop whose broad shoulders nearly blocked the entire doorway was Brandon McCall.

“Well, well, the Great Santini. I hate like hell to admit it, but it’s damn good to see you.”

Mark grinned. Of Grace’s three brothers, he had taken a special liking to Bran. “Damn good to see you, too, McCall. As much as I hate to admit it.”

Chuckling, Bran swung the door open wider and Mark stepped inside. He was instantly hit with the warm aroma of cinnamon and baking bread.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Bran asked.

“Like heaven.” Mark tucked the file folder under one arm and pulled off his gloves. He realized with a start that his mouth had begun to water, a sensation he barely remembered. Too bad his stomach could no longer deal with anything but the blandest food.

“I about fell over when Grace mentioned you were in town.” Bran took a sip of coffee from the thick-handled mug he carried. “Didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on your ugly face again.”

“I had to come back to Oklahoma City to see if you still lose every game of touch football you play,” Mark countered as he shrugged out of his coat.

“Typical Fed. Got nothing stored in your head but useless information.” A smirk tipped up the right corner of Bran’s mouth as he examined Mark’s gray silk suit. “I see you’re still wearing those pretty-boy suits and ties.”

Mark sent a pointed look at Bran’s sharply pressed gray uniform shirt and navy pants. His leather gun belt had a polished gleam, and the silver lieutenant bars on his collar points shone like beacons beneath the light. “At least one of us looks good while fighting crime.”

Bran barked a laugh at the insult. “I would never try to compete with you in the clothing department, pal. Grace has coffee ready. We’ll drop off your coat in the living room on our way to the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

Mark trailed Bran down the wood-planked hallway, noting the rooms they passed were typical of an older house—small, with high ceilings and plenty of tall, narrow windows that let in the hazy winter light.

Bran paused at an arched doorway. “Just toss your coat over the couch.”

Mark stepped into the room filled with furniture upholstered in calming neutral tones. The wood was dark and polished, the accent pieces in shades of deep rose and smoky gray. Lush green plants speared out of colorful pots that sat on tables and the floor. Across the room a towering Christmas tree wrapped with twinkling white lights and tinsel filled one corner. Packages tied with red and gold satin ribbons pooled beneath its branches.

Mark stared at the tree. His mother had never bothered with Christmas decorations. Or presents. Not when buying them would cut into the money she spent on her precious booze. Even after he bought his condo in Virginia, he’d never once considered putting up a tree. No reason to, since he spent most Christmases at locations where crimes had occurred.

Mark laid his coat over the couch’s back. Nearly a year ago, Bran had e-mailed him with news that he had eloped with a private investigator. Mark was about to ask Bran how married life was treating him when he noted the folded quilt and bed pillow sitting on one of the cushions. A paperback by an author whose books he remembered Bran liked lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. Mark narrowed his eyes, thinking back to the cars he’d seen parked in the driveway. The OCPD black-and-white had the same amount of snow covering it as the other three cars. Which meant it had been parked there all night. Since it looked as though Bran had sacked out on the couch, asking about his wife probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

“Nice house,” Mark commented instead.

“Yeah,” Bran agreed. “Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe it was a dump when Carrie and Morgan bought it.”

“I thought this was Grace’s place, too.”

“Not originally. Carrie and Morgan bought it the day before Ry got killed.” Bran angled his chin. “You ever meet Ryan Fox while you worked here?”

“No. I understand he was a good cop.”

“One of the best.” Bran’s expression darkened, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Grace found him just seconds after that drugged-up car thief shot him. It about killed her when she lost Ry and…” He closed his eyes. “Anyway, Grace sold the house they owned, and bought into this one. Renovating the place turned into a project for the entire family. Did us all good to spend that time together.”

Family. Mark had never fully understood the depths of that kind of bond, but he’d witnessed the strength of the link that existed between the McCalls.

Bran checked his watch. “Wish I wasn’t in a rush, but I have to make lineup at eight. I want to grab one of Morgan’s cinnamon rolls to take with me.”

He led Mark past a small dining room, turned left when they reached a steep wooden staircase at the end of the hall, then stepped into the kitchen where copper pots and pans hung on a rack over a small butcher-block island. Gray slate topped the counters; small pots of what Mark guessed were herbs lined the windowsill. Beyond the wide pane of glass, powdery flakes swirled in the gray morning light.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just as Grace stepped through a doorway on the opposite wall. She wore a snug cherry-red sweater, pegged black trousers and practical low-heeled boots. A gold badge and holstered Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic were clipped to her waistband. Her sleek, shoulder-length hair, now devoid of yesterday’s gray streaks, looked as black and shiny as the satin lapel of a tuxedo.

“Morning, Mark.” Her voice sounded the way he knew her flesh felt—warm and comforting, like water over a smooth stone.

“Morning.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the long-legged stools on one side of the island where an oversize poinsettia bloomed in a brightly painted pot. He noted that her stunned look of yesterday was gone; now she gazed at him with dark eyes as calm as a convent.

“Thanks.” He settled onto a stool while Bran drained his coffee mug, then reached into a wicker basket and pulled out a cinnamon roll the size of a manhole cover.

“Want one?” he asked Mark. “They’re fresh out of the oven.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.” Bran dropped a kiss on the top of Grace’s head. “Thanks, sis. Tell Carrie and Morgan I’ll see them later.”

“Sure.” When Grace looked up at her brother, Mark saw the quick shadow that passed across her face. “You’ll take care of yourself?”

Bran tweaked her chin. “I promise to eat my vegetables, Mom.”

“You’re a good son,” she said sweetly even as she jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

Grinning, Bran turned and gripped Mark’s hand. “How long you planning to be here?”

“That depends on what Grace and I find out today. I’m just not sure.”

“Let’s try to squeeze in time to grab a beer while you’re here.”

“You’re on,” Mark said, then watched Bran head out of the kitchen. He looked back at Grace. The shadow that had crossed her face had settled in her eyes. “I get the distinct impression you’re worried about your brother.”

“I am. He and Tory split up before Thanksgiving. Bran puts up a good front, but inside he isn’t handling things too well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Bran sent me an e-mail to let me know he’d remarried.” Mark paused, thinking about Bran’s shy, unassuming first wife who’d died suddenly from a brain aneurysm. “Is Tory anything like Patience?”

“The exact opposite. Which I suspect is one of the problems with the marriage.” Grace picked up a dish towel, laid it back down. “Bran rented this god-awful apartment. Has electric-blue paint on the walls, green wall-to-wall shag and day-glo orange countertops. He wakes up in that place with a hangover, the glare will kill him. The only furniture he has is a bed, a ratty recliner and a TV.”

“Maybe he’s hoping it’s all temporary. That he and Tory will get back together soon.”

“That’s what we’re all hoping.” Grace raised a shoulder. “I keep an eye on him, try to make sure he eats right, but it’s a losing battle.”

Mark rested his forearms on the counter. “I see you’re still looking out for everyone.”

Her mouth tightened as she stared at the door through which Bran had disappeared. “Not the easiest thing to do when you’re dealing with a man who’s a blockhead.” She pulled a mug out of one of the cabinets, then looked back at Mark. “Coffee?”

“Actually, I’m more into tea these days,” he said as he reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

“Tea?” Grace stared at the teabag now dangling from a string clenched between his fingers as if it were an alien life form. “This coming from the man I’ve seen consume a gallon of task-force coffee without a wince.”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf. If you could nuke some water, I’d appreciate it.”

“No problem.” In minutes his tea sat steeping in front of him.

Grace refilled her coffee mug. “In addition to the cinnamon rolls, we’ve got croissants and poppy-seed muffins.”

“All baked by Morgan, I suppose.”

“Correct.” Grace carried her mug around the island and slid onto the stool beside his. “I’m going to miss her when she gets married and moves out.”

“When’s the big event?”

“Valentine’s Day. She’s marrying Alex Blade. Do you know him?”

“Blade.” Mark sipped his tea while reaching into his memory. “When I worked here, he teamed up on a couple of undercover assignments with Sara Rackowitz, one of our female agents.” Mark paused, his mouth curving. “Are you sure Morgan’s old enough to get married? Last time I saw her, she had just gotten her driver’s license. She had a mouthful of braces.”

Grace’s eyes met his over the rim of her mug. “You’ve been gone a long time, Mark.”

“True.” So long that he couldn’t remember anymore what it felt like to go into the same office each day. Sleep in the same bed every night. He took another sip of the tea that was touted to be mild on the stomach, all the time wishing it were coffee.

Leaning in, Grace pinched an anemic-looking leaf off the otherwise thriving poinsettia.

Watching her, Mark felt memories flood over him. At the beginning of their affair, Grace had visited his apartment and been appalled at its bare-bones look. Since he spent most of his time at the office, he’d rented only the basic amount of furniture needed for one person who was rarely home. It sure as hell had never occurred to him to add accessories. Before long, Grace had brought over scented candles, woven throws and colorful pillows. Several potted plants from the landscape business her mother owned had soon followed. He could picture her in that apartment now, clipping leaves off those plants. For the first time, he understood that Grace had created a nest of contentment for him. The only one he’d ever had.

When she shifted back on her stool, the movement sent her light, subtle scent drifting over Mark like a gentle stroke of hands. Soothing. Inviting. He closed his eyes for an instant, wishing he could lose himself in that scent. In that soft voice. In the woman.

“So, Agent Santini, ready to tell me about the case we’ll be working?”

“Ready.” He could wish for a hell of a lot of things, he thought as he opened the cover on the file folder he’d brought with him. Problem was, he’d learned a long time ago that wishes were futile. “Does the name Landon Grayson ring a bell?”

Grace’s brows shot up. “Slightly. He’s only about the most powerful man in the U.S. Senate.”

“The most powerful. Which is why I’m here. The Bureau’s annual budget is at Grayson’s mercy.”

“What would law enforcement be without politics?” Grace asked dryly. She paused. “How is he involved in this case?”

Mark flipped up a page in the file. “Grayson’s daughter died here not long after she’d given birth at a state-run medical clinic. She apparently died of complications associated with the birth.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “If she wasn’t a victim of a violent crime, why are you here? Why not use an agent from the local office if Grayson wants the death looked into by the FBI?”

“The Bureau did that to begin with.” Mark took a minute to decide the best way to explain things. “I need to back up and walk you through this from the beginning.”

“All right.”

“From all accounts, Grayson’s daughter, Andrea, was a headstrong and stubborn kid. One who apparently gave new meaning to the word rebel. She and the senator never got along.”

“What about her mother?”

“Died when Andrea was an infant. Over the years Andrea ran off a couple of times. The cops always found her and brought her home. By the time she was fifteen she’d figured out how not to get caught. She had a fake ID made in the name of A’lynn Jackson, her mother’s maiden name. The next time Andrea and the senator fought, she walked out of the house and vanished.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About three years.”

“And now she’s dead.”

Nodding, Mark pulled a photo from the file of a smiling girl, full of eager youth. Andrea had a pretty face framed by long auburn hair, and a tall well-shaped build. “This is the most recent picture the senator had of Andrea, taken just before she left home the last time.”

Grace studied the photo. “She looks a lot older than fifteen.”

“She drifted around the country, using her mature looks and the above-average singing voice she inherited from her mother to score gigs with bands in country-western bars. If anyone questioned her age, she had the fake ID that upped her age to legal. She also worked as a waitress in those bars, and gave dance lessons.”

“Did she have any contact with her father during that time?”

“Twice. Right after Andrea left home, Grayson hired a private investigator to find her. Somehow the P.I. figured out she was using her mother’s maiden name, and he picked up her trail in Kansas City. The report in the file doesn’t say how, but Andrea got wind the guy worked for the senator. She called Daddy, told him if he didn’t call off his P.I. she’d disappear from his life forever and never have anything to do with him.”

“I take it the senator is the one who backed down?”

“Yes. Andrea was his only child, and he blamed himself for her rebellious streak.”

“Why?”

“When his wife died, the senator dealt with his grief by burying himself in his work. He hired a series of nannies to raise Andrea.”

“So she basically lost both her mother and father at the same time.”

“That’s the size of it,” Mark agreed. “Fast forward to a month ago. The senator returned from an overseas trip to find a message from Andrea on his private answering machine. She acknowledged they’d had their differences and a lot of what she called ‘bad stuff’ had happened between them. Said she wanted to call a truce, then added she was pregnant and due any day. After asking if she could bring her baby home, she assured her father she would call back in two days to find out his answer.” Mark took a sip of tea. “Apparently being pregnant changed the way she looked at things.”

“Knowing a baby is on the way can do that.”

Mark glanced up. Grace’s voice had gone soft, taking on an almost elusive sadness. As had her dark eyes. “Something wrong?”

Her eyes cleared as she handed the photo back to him. “Nothing more than the fact that a young girl is dead. In the message, did Andrea say where she was?”

“No, but Grayson got the number off his phone’s caller ID. She didn’t call back when she said she would, so he contacted the Bureau’s assistant director and asked for help in finding out where she’d called from. The number checked to a place called Usher House in Oklahoma City.”

“I know it well.” Grace sat her coffee mug aside. “A woman named Millie Usher established the shelter about five years ago for homeless, pregnant girls. I’ve dealt with several runaway juvies who’ve stayed there.”

“The home is church funded, right?”

“Right, but Millie opens the door to girls from all faiths. Her rules are simple—no drugs, no alcohol, no men allowed.” Grace propped an elbow on the counter. “I take it that’s where the agent from the Bureau’s local office comes in? He went to Usher House to see if Andrea was still there?”

“Yes. The agent didn’t find a record of Andrea Grayson. But when he showed her picture around, several people identified her as A’lynn Jackson and said she’d lived there a short time. When our agent asked about the baby’s father, two girls staying at Usher House told him Andrea didn’t know the guy’s name. Just that he was some trucker passing through the city.” Mark flipped through a few pages in the file. “Millie Usher claimed that when Andrea showed up, she told Millie she had decided to give up her baby for adoption. Andrea’s decision on that was so firm, she’d already had someone at the clinic help her fill out the paperwork to legalize things.”

“She had an ID under a fake name showing she was of legal age,” Grace said. “She probably claimed she had no next of kin and signed an affidavit swearing she didn’t know the identity of the baby’s father.”

“All correct,” Mark said. “Which, according to Oklahoma’s parental consent laws, cleared the way for the state to handle the child’s adoption.”

Grace frowned. “But between the time Andrea arrived at Usher House and when she called her father, she’d changed her mind about giving up her baby.”

“That’s the logical assumption.”

“Did your agent find out what changed her mind?”

“No. Not long after Andrea phoned her father, she showed up at the clinic in labor. According to our agent, she didn’t tell anyone she’d decided to keep the child. Andrea gave birth a couple hours later to a healthy girl, then began hemorrhaging and died of the sudden blood loss.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“Per the papers Andrea had previously signed, the infant was turned over to Loving Arms Adoptions, one of the agencies that has a contract with the state. Since A’lynn Jackson had failed to give the clinic the name and contact information for a next of kin, her body was donated to the state medical school’s cadaver program.”

Grace winced. “How did the senator take that news?”

“Reportedly with a lot of anger fueled by his grief.”

“I can imagine.” Grace pursed her mouth. “So how did Agent Santini wind up with this case in his lap?”

“Through no doing of my own,” Mark returned dryly. “Grayson knew my name because I testified before a committee he chairs. He demanded the assistant director assign me to secure the release of his daughter’s body and investigate the legalities of the adoption.”

“He wants to raise his granddaughter?”

“Yes.” Mark sent Grace a sardonic look. “Probably hoping to make up to Andrea for the crummy job he did with her.”

“You don’t think he’s sincere?”

“Maybe he never laid a hand on Andrea, but he kept his distance for years. Abused her emotionally. That can do as much harm as repeated beatings. The damage just doesn’t show on the outside. Who’s to say he won’t treat his granddaughter the same way?”

Without warning, Mark felt an old hurt and vicious bitterness close in on him. He tightened his grip on the mug. He made a point to keep what happened to him as a child where it belonged—in the past. Always the past. That those old emotions had just risen to the surface left him feeling exposed, a sensation totally foreign to him.

“Mark, did you know Andrea Grayson?”

He looked up to find Grace’s eyes probing his face. She was the only person with whom he’d ever been tempted to share the details of his past. It was just as well that he’d held back. They were colleagues now, with only their jobs in common.

“No, I never met her,” he said evenly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you sound like there’s something personal about this case.”

His jaw tightened. “I always take it personal when a young person dies. Andrea is dead, and try as he might, the senator can’t take a step back and make things right.” Mark rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tension that had settled there. “What Grayson can do is get strings pulled and red tape cut on his behalf. Which is where I come in. And why I spent most of yesterday getting a court order for the release of his daughter’s body from the medical school’s cadaver program.”

“I hope for everyone’s sake you managed to do that.”

“Yes. The med students are out for the holidays, so the body is in the same shape now as it was when the school received it. Grayson had a private plane pick up Andrea’s body last night and fly it to D.C. Since she died with one of the clinic’s doctors in attendance, no autopsy was required. The senator wants to make sure he’s being told the truth about her death, so he hired a private company to perform an autopsy.”

“If there is something suspicious about the death, the fact the body’s already embalmed won’t help.”

Mark nodded. “I understand they’ll have to compare samples of clean embalming fluids with that in the body. Check to see if any foreign elements or compounds are present.” He glanced at the clock over the stove. “The autopsy should just now be getting underway.”

“I take it you and I will be serving the subpoena you mentioned yesterday to Loving Arms Adoptions so we can try to find Andrea’s baby?”

“That’s first on our list.”

“Suppose the autopsy doesn’t turn up anything nefarious? If the adoption records are sealed by the court, they won’t be available to us, despite your subpoena.”

“True, and it’s possible we’ll run into that kind of road block. But it’s also possible the adoption isn’t finalized and Loving Arms isn’t yet under any order by the court. If that’s the case, our subpoena requires them to let us see the records they have on Andrea Grayson’s daughter. If the infant is still under the agency’s care, the senator can send a pack of lawyers to get his granddaughter turned over to him.”

Grace stood, walked around the island and dumped the remainder of her coffee in the sink. Turning, she shook back her hair.

The gesture was so familiar that Mark felt his throat close. A picture rose inside his head of her lying in his bed, her body slick with sweat from their lovemaking, her warm, silky legs tangled with his. They had shared some light comment that had prompted her to prop herself up on one elbow and smile down at him with a smugness that mirrored the same sated contentment he’d felt. Then she’d laughed and shaken back all that glorious hair. He’d slid his fingers into the dark fall, tumbled her onto her back and lost himself in her again.

“So,” Grace began, “if everything goes smooth, your work here might not take long.”

He kept his eyes steady on hers, fighting back both the vision and the erotic sweep of memories that accompanied it. He had been with other women since her, but the relationships had been scattershot with no emotional bonds forged. No other woman had brought him the same sense of completeness as Grace. Had never even gotten close.

“Right,” he agreed, shifting gears smoothly even as remnants of an age-old need clawed in his stomach. “With luck, we could have everything tied up fast.”

He noted her fingers fisting against her thighs, then flexing. “And then you’ll be gone.”

“That’s my plan.”

“Well, Santini, you always did have a plan. And the willpower to stick to it.”

“Things work better that way, McCall.”

“Don’t I know it,” she agreed as she turned and flipped off the light over the sink.

He rose off the stool. “Ready to serve that subpoena?”

“I’ll get my purse and coat, then meet you at the front door.”

“Fine.” Standing there with warm, homey scents hanging in the air, Mark watched her go. As he listened to her footsteps tap against the hallway’s wooden floor, he realized he still wanted her. Mindlessly.

Which was his tough luck.