Читать книгу Friction - Samantha Hunter - Страница 7

SARAH JESSUP stretched languorously under the warm rays of the sun. It was late June and the Virginia Beach hotels were already packed. The beach was swarming with vacationers: children scooping sand into red buckets under the watchful eyes of their moms sitting in low chairs planted in the gentle surf and, of course, the see-and-be-seen bikini crowd. And Sarah definitely wanted to be seen.

She’d cut her long, curly, brown hair boy-short for the summer, which just served to accentuate the strong features of her face. Her huge blue eyes, hidden by her Jackie-O sunglasses, narrowed as she perused the scene. Leaning back in her chair, her pale skin coated with the highest-SPF sunblock she could buy, she bent one knee up, letting the flimsy material of the cover-up skirt—which really didn’t cover up much at all—float around her.

Sarah reached for more sunblock, spreading it along the tender skin of her thigh, and smiled coyly at some male passersby who clearly appreciated her efforts. She didn’t want a tan, but the bathing suit she wore exposed most of her skin to the sun—barring the few scraps and strings that held the thing together—so she was being careful.

Having grown up around New York City and used to northern climates, she’d just relocated to southern Virginia last August when she’d taken a new job as a computer crime investigator for the Norfolk police department. She never in her life imagined having such a perfect gig.

Up until she joined the unit, she’d been a computer hacker, making her living at various part-time jobs, though she did find occasional, profitable, under-the-table computer stints in Manhattan. It all paid the bills and allowed her to buy the gadgets she’d needed for her trade. There’d been plenty of full-time jobs available in the city, and with her skills she could have earned a decent wage on Wall Street, but that kind of work didn’t satisfy her. Money wasn’t her motivator; getting the bad guys was.

To that end, the larger percentage of her time had been spent in her tiny Brooklyn apartment, sitting in front of her computer tracking down Internet porn sites and clueing in the feds to what she’d found. She’d always loved the irony of breaking the law—which she’d done pretty much on a daily basis in her pursuits—to uphold it.

She had no regrets about any of the lines she had crossed in those days. The fact that she was a free agent had made her information valuable to the feds. She could go where the law couldn’t—not unless they wanted Congress on their doorstep.

Hackers were a tight community, and she’d been part of it. While she’d known people who broke the rules, most of them had been quick to help take down the real bad guys. They’d been her friends. They’d known what she was doing, though not why—and they’d never asked. But they’d helped her. And she’d helped the FBI, in turn.

That was how she’d met Ian Chandler, the FBI hotshot who’d fielded most of her information. When he quit being a fed to run his own team in Norfolk, he’d hired her as part of the unit.

Now here she was, gainfully employed doing what she was best at, earning more than enough to pay the rent and buy plenty more electronic gadgets.

Sarah gazed out over the hazy ocean horizon. She had been working constantly for six months; along with her work for the unit, she’d been attending an accelerated program at the Norfolk police academy, a requirement since she’d had no formal law enforcement training. She hadn’t had a day off in a long time, and she couldn’t have been happier about it. She loved her work. It was where she functioned best.

She smiled when a virile twentysomething paraded by, treating her to a view of his perfect backside adorned in skintight red neoprene surf shorts. Hey, so he was nearly a decade younger than her—she could still enjoy the view. His strong, tanned legs veed slightly as he stood in front of her talking on a cell phone. She reached down and unlaced the knot at her waist, releasing the material of her skirt altogether and bending forward to fold it neatly before leaning back.

He shifted, taking a slightly different angle—the phone not quite where he needed it to have a conversation—and her attention perked. Stretching again and letting one foot fall teasingly over the side of her chair, her toes playing in the sand. She wanted to make sure she had his attention.

She had it, all right. And him.

She waved flirtatiously, though he appeared to be looking elsewhere. He froze.

Bingo.

In the next second, he was off like a shot and Sarah was after him. He was fast, but he wasn’t any match for her. At nearly six feet tall, she was all legs and she could move. She was also very, very motivated.

The hottie ran out of steam quickly and turned, panting, smiling at her engagingly.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

She smiled, inclining her head in his direction. “Same backatcha.”

He looked nervous. Good. He should be. She stepped a little closer, her tone friendly. “Beautiful day out here, isn’t it?”

He looked around and stepped back. “Yeah. It’s great.”

“And yet I can’t figure out why people who come to this beautiful, relaxing place would want to spend time talking on cell phones.”

“Some people have business.”

“And what kind of business do you have?”

She saw the flicker of panic and knew she had him. Any playfulness left her tone.

“Why don’t you hand over the phone and we’ll talk about the pictures you were taking of me back there?”

He grinned, though it wasn’t a charming smile. “You’re nuts, lady. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? C’mon. My guess is you got some pretty good close-ups of my boobs and crotch, but you know, it was easy—I really didn’t even make you work for it.”

He looked from side to side and flipped the phone nervously in his hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to call a lifeguard in a minute.”

“Go ahead. You’ve been working this beach for a few weeks. I’ve seen the pictures that are ending up on the Web—pictures of women you’ve turned into your unsuspecting models—and you know, they really aren’t very flattering pictures.”

He stared at her for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. Then, he threw the phone toward the surf and took off.

“Damn!”

Sarah lunged for the phone and managed to catch it midair just before it was washed over by the foamy surf splashing up on the sand. The impact knocked the wind out of her, but she was back up in a second and racing down the beach. Her body flew through the air a second time and she managed to catch him by the ankle, pulling him down hard. She winced as she felt something sharp dig into her thigh, but she ignored it.

All of her attention was on maneuvering herself around to sit on the creep’s lower back, dropping down on him hard and smiling when she heard the air whoosh out of him like a deflating balloon. She planted her heel firmly at the base of his skull and pressed, ever so slightly. She looked over to see the phone lying safely in the sand, and a lifeguard running in their direction.

“What’s going on here?” He looked at her bleeding leg. “You’re hurt.”

Her quarry started to speak, and she applied just a little more pressure with her foot, pushing his face into the sand. It was gratifying to hear him spitting in between curses. She felt the jab in her thigh again and nodded, “I think there must be some glass in the sand there—it’s just a cut.”

“Let me get my first aid kit, but, uh, maybe you should let that guy up?”

“Nope. He’s under arrest.” She smiled. “Sarah Jessup, Norfolk PD—sorry, I don’t have any ID on me at the moment.” She gestured to her scantily clad form. “This man is wanted for criminal activity in Norfolk and the surrounding area. I’d appreciate if you could call your local precinct for me and report this.”

She rattled off the number and her badge number. “They’ll confirm who I am and send someone to help me out. You can use that.” She smiled, pointing to the phone lying in the sand. She enjoyed the poetic justice of using the creep’s own phone to call the bust in.

The lifeguard looked a little confused, but complied, handing the phone back to her when he hung up. There was definite interest in his eyes as he took in her long limbs and flushed cheeks. He let his fingers brush hers when she took the phone, but the look she sent him told him clearly she was all business. He shrugged his tanned shoulders, heading back to his chair. Sarah poked some buttons on the phone and groaned, addressing the perp.

“Aw, man, you suck. Don’t give up your day job to be a photographer. I’m nearly naked, posing for you and that’s the best you could do? I mean, jeez, you’re blocking the light standing there. And that is by no means my best side.”

She smiled with satisfaction, clicking the phone shut and sitting back to wait for her backup. She bounced a happy little bounce on her captive’s kidneys, happy to have both perp and evidence in hand.

Listening to the spits and sputters of the man she was holding immobile, she looked out at the gently rolling waves of the Atlantic as people walked by, gawking. She shrugged.

“Just doing my part for the environment, folks. Getting garbage off the beach.”

A FEW HOURS later Sarah sat typing up the last of a report, reaching down every now and then to rub her thigh, which was aching like crazy now that the local anesthetic had worn off. She hated being made to go to the hospital, but she couldn’t get out of it. Officer wounded on scene; it was procedure.

The six stitches she’d had to get hurt more than the initial wound, but, as she’d learned at the academy, procedure was everything. It took some getting used to, all the rules and regulations and paperwork—but it was all worth it. She loved her job.

“Hey, what happened to you?” The concerned voice that had her looking up came from one of her partners, E. J. Beaumont, known in some circles as Ethan Jared Beaumont the fourth, which she called him when she wanted to get his shorts in a knot. E.J. was the other member of their three-agent team. He wasn’t alone, she noted, eyeing the beach babe standing in the doorway behind him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Forgot my cell phone last night. Came back to pick it up.”

Sarah arched an eyebrow, making sure her voice was low enough for just the two of them to hear, “Looks like that’s not the only thing you’re picking up.”

E.J. grinned, wicked mischief in his eyes. “You know, they say life is a like a box of chocolates, and I’d like to sample all I can.”

Sarah laughed in spite of herself—contrary to the evidence at hand, E.J. was a real southern gentleman. Refined, intelligent and wealthy as sin, his family owned a local ship-building company. She would have expected him to be a total snob and a real bore, but he was neither.

He was a great cook, a handsome devil and a decent man. He’d given up control of his family’s company to follow his heart, returning to a career in law enforcement. In the process he’d broken off his engagement with his high school sweetheart and had thrown himself headfirst into a very happy bachelorhood. Sarah wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him with the same girl twice.

They’d hung out, at work and socially, keeping each other company, talking shop. At one point, he’d actually tried his charms out on her, and while she might have been the teensiest bit tempted—he was good-looking, after all—she’d shut him down. They were colleagues, and, to an extent, buddies. In a completely platonic way, she loved E.J. to death.

Then her boss, Ian, showed up in the doorway, passing a curious glance over E.J.’s “date,” who fluttered her eyelashes in appreciation of Ian’s dark good looks, before turning his attention to Sarah.

“Full house today. They called me about the bust, said that you got hurt. What happened? Are you okay?”

His arms were crossed over his chest, one dark eyebrow raised as he leveled a look at her that she’d gotten used to. Still, there was approval in his eyes, something she yearned for on a very basic level—the recognition of doing a good job, being believed in, making a difference.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Then, in a more smartass tone, “Nice shirt, boss.”

Ian looked down at the wildly patterned Hawaiian shirt that was open at the chest, and shrugged.

“Thanks. Sage bought it. She said it was “me.” We’re headed for the beach today. You know, to hang out, maybe cook some hot dogs. E.J., why are you here?”

“Just stopped by to get my cell phone and saw our girl working as usual.”

Sarah glared at E.J., who, smiling, just popped on his Ray-Bans, then slid his arm around his date and, with a wave, headed for the door.

Ian turned to Sarah. “I think today was a day off for you, too, right? Time to relax and leave work at the office?”

There was a not-so-subtle tone of accusation in his voice.

“Hey, I was very mellow until that idiot started taking pictures of me for his Web site. I’m sorry they called you, though. It’s just a cut. I’m fine.”

“No problem. I want to know when anyone is hurt. But the point is you shouldn’t have been working, so I guess it was all incidental—it’s not like you’ve been tracking him or anything like that, right? You had no idea he would be there? It just…happened?”

She knew he knew better, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

“All work and no play, Sarah…” Ian shook his head.

“Would you rather I’d let him go? Have you seen that Web site? He’s been at it for months, taking pictures up unsuspecting women’s skirts in the park, in the mall, but the beach photos were the worst. Virginia is one of the few states that actually have active laws on up-skirting, and I intend to put them to good use.”

To make sure she was getting her point across, she added, “Think about it, Ian. How would you feel if it were Sage’s parts put up on the screen for the enjoyment of the general public?”

Sarah knew she’d hit a nerve when something dangerous flickered in her boss’s eyes. Sage, Ian’s fiancée for several months now, was the center of his life. Sage had been a convicted felon serving out a five-year prison sentence, with Ian monitoring every detail of her life for the duration. They’d gotten together when Ian had been forming the team on the request of the department. E.J. and Sarah had been Ian’s backup when they’d gone after one badass computer hacker, a former lover of Sage’s who’d set her up to take the fall for a computer virus he’d created and unleashed.

It had made for an odd courtship, to say the least. Sage had almost lost her life helping them catch the hacker who had victimized her. When all was said and done, though, her record had been cleared, and for the last year she’d been busy establishing her own computer security agency. In the meantime, Ian was becoming impatient waiting to make Sage his wife.

But then he smiled. “You’re right, of course, but you do need to take a break. You’re going to burn out.”

“I feel fine.”

“I’ve been where you are, Sarah, and I had to learn the hard way that it isn’t worth it. All you do is work. You need more balance in your life.”

“I like to work.”

Ian glanced at the clock. “I’ve gotta get moving, but I’m serious. You’re working way too hard—” He held his hand up to stem the objection about to pop from her lips. “You’ve done a great job, I’m not complaining, but I want you to take a break. I’m granting you an immediate vacation—starting Monday.” He appeared to think about it for a second and spoke again, “No, starting as soon as you leave today. No work. Play only. Two weeks. It’s an order.”

Sarah had a hard time believing what she was hearing—he was forcing her to take a vacation? Wasn’t that against the constitution or something?

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t want or need a vacation. You can’t dictate my free time. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself anyway, and I—”

“Exactly. That’s the problem. You don’t do anything but work. Sage and I went to a nice resort over in Cape Charles—it’s small, more like an inn, and it’s close. You can get there easily. I’ll make the arrangements and all you have to do is show up on Monday. And no laptop. In fact, you can leave it here. With me.” He shot her an evil grin. “And they don’t allow cell phones at the resort. Or PDAs. Just so you know. If they find them, they’ll ask you to store them in their office until you leave, so as not to disrupt the other guests.”

Sarah felt the color drain from her face.

“No, Ian, please, I—”

“You’re going. Either that or you’re enrolling in the stress relief program that they’re starting up this week. Make your choice.”

Sarah felt her breath come up short—how could he? The stress relief program was a nightmare—everyone was doing whatever they could to avoid it—six weeks of deep breathing and sharing your feelings. God. It was a numbers game, she told herself. Two weeks of torture was better than six.

“Fine. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll go.”

Her voice was tight and unhappy, and Ian chuckled, shaking his head and turning away. “Sarah, I want you to enjoy life a little. I want you to relax, have fun. Maybe you’ll even like it.”

Sarah fell back in her chair, the ache in her leg throbbing more insistently as she grumbled to herself about her predicament. Vacation? No computer? No cell phone? No work?

And here she’d thought Ian liked her.

LOGAN SULLIVAN paused for a moment on the steps leading up to the broad wraparound porch that hugged the sides of the Chesapeake Inn. He felt as though he was walking into one of those old plantation-style mansions he’d seen in the movies. Colorful flowers and ivies grew everywhere, and large fig trees sprawled in the side yard. Wicker furniture was placed strategically around the large porch, some chairs grouped together if guests wanted to socialize, others tucked away in corners if they wanted to relax solo.

Not fifty yards away the Chesapeake Bay stretched out before him. The water was calm today. The Eastern Shore was a stretch of sand only a bit more than a mile wide, the Bay on one side and the ocean on the other. The little town of Cape Charles was at the southern base of the shore, its tip at the mouth of the Bay. The city of Norfolk, part of the area known as Hampton Roads, formed the other side.

Logan was familiar with the area, having lived in Maryland his entire life. It was a marvelous place for a vacation, and in his loose khaki shorts, white T-shirt and worn leather sandals, he looked every bit the vacationer—which was how he wanted it. However, vacationing was the last thing on his mind.

Hefting his bags up the stairs, he opened the door and walked in, the air-conditioning hitting him like a wave. Though the hot weather didn’t bother him at all, he still found the coolness refreshing. And the heat here was different, nothing like the suffocating heat he’d gotten used to in Baltimore. Here the air was clear and a soft breeze came in off the water, stirring the leaves on the trees. It was pleasant.

A cheerful woman—a slim blonde who was, he guessed, in her late fifties—rounded the corner, her face the very definition of welcome. She reminded him a bit of his mother, or his childhood memories of her.

“Hello! I’m Karen Sanders. You must be Mr. Sullivan. Welcome to the Chesapeake Inn. Are these all your bags?”

Logan smiled. It was impossible not to, her friendliness made him feel at home. “No, I have more in the car, but I’ll get them. This is a gorgeous place you have. Is this all work from local artists?” He stepped forward, looking at some of the pencil sketches, metal sculptures, and several watercolors capturing sunsets over the Bay and other coastal scenes.

“Yes, we only feature local art, and most of these are for sale, so let me know if there is anything you are particularly interested in. The Shore has a very interesting and varied history, you know. There are several tours you can take, but much of the art tells the story as well.”

“I’m looking forward to learning about it.”

“Let me get you registered and show you to your room. We have a number of brochures that outline some tours and destinations that might interest you. We also provide equipment, kayaks and canoes, crabbing supplies and other things to keep you busy. Or you can just be quiet and relax, if that’s your pleasure.”

Logan nodded, knowing he would have to partake in at least some of the activities she discussed—he had to keep up appearances. Picking up his bags, he started to follow the woman past the large spiral staircase into the main room, where he could see the antique cherry registration desk, behind which was located a small office, discreetly hidden from view.

No one else was around; the other guests were probably out enjoying themselves. But before they could take more than a few steps the door opened again, and they both turned around to look.

Logan’s mind went blank when he saw the woman who stepped inside. Tall, almost as tall as he was at six foot two, she was breathtaking—and strong, carrying two huge suitcases as though they were nothing. He observed the smooth, supple muscles in her upper arms and raised an eyebrow. Her short hair was a little spiky at the top, an interesting contrast that accentuated her fine, classic features.

She wore large, dark sunglasses perched on a perfectly shaped nose, so he couldn’t see her eyes, but it was her mouth that fascinated him. Lipstick-free, not too full, her lips looked sweet and soft enough to eat, coming together in a natural pout that had him wetting his own lips as if in anticipation of a taste.

When their hostess moved past him to launch into her welcome routine, the woman pulled her sunglasses off and Logan was mesmerized by the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. A small smile warmed the woman’s cool features as she held out her hand to the hostess.

“Hi, I’m Sarah Jessup. I’m sorry I’m here a little early, but I didn’t know how long the drive would take. I hope it isn’t any trouble.” She looked at Logan, and then back to the hostess. “If you’re busy, I can walk down to the beach or catch some lunch.”

“Oh, no, no, dear, you’re fine. Come on in, and we can get you and Mr. Sullivan all situated. It’s nice for guests to meet each other, as you all will bump into each other during your stay. I do believe you and Mr. Sullivan are both scheduled for extended visits—two weeks, is that right?”

She looked questioningly at him, and he confirmed her claim with a short nod. The new arrival also looked back at him, then stepped forward and held out her hand.

“Well, then, hello, Mr. Sullivan. I’m Sarah.”

Her voice was clear and pleasant, and he detected a strong northern accent—pure New York City. It sounded good on her. She was a tough cookie, he’d bet. And a delicious one, too. He smiled.

“Logan, please. Nice to meet you.”

As he closed his hand around hers, electricity sparked between them, and Logan felt a heat invade his body that had nothing to do with the summer weather. He watched her azure eyes darken—she’d felt it, too. She dropped his hand a little abruptly and, breaking eye contact, turned back to Karen and her bags.

Intrigued, he watched the tall beauty pick up her luggage. His eyes followed the sway of her hips as she moved past him, the confident stride of her long, long legs. Logan thought he might have to make some time for fun after all.

SARAH LOOKED out the window of the quaint yellow room that she’d been shown to and admired the gardens below. A large fig tree stood beneath her window, shadowing the grass below. She licked her lips—she loved the sensual, sweet taste of figs.

Though it wasn’t something she talked about much, she loved gardens. She used to spend hours walking the gorgeous pathways of the Brooklyn botanical gardens, and she’d always especially enjoyed the pockets of green among the city concrete where people grew tomatoes on stoops and had window and rooftop gardens, some of them very elaborate. Pops had had a rose garden on his patio that professionals would have envied. He used to give her roses to take home every summer; her grandfather was the only man who’d ever given her flowers.

Her bags were not unpacked yet, and she turned to open them where they lay on the large, high bed. The room was small, but light and cheerful. Ian was right, the resort was more like a bed-and-breakfast than a resort—she had expected flashy, impersonal accommodations and crowds, bars and beaches, but this was very personal and…quiet. Maybe a little too quiet for her taste.

She wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, especially not to Ian or anyone she worked with, but she missed the city and the beautiful borough of Brooklyn where she’d spent the past ten years. Living in Norfolk wasn’t bad, but being here, where it was so slow and un-crowded, well, it made her nervous. Antsy.

The teeny apartment she’d had in the city wasn’t much, a small flat on the third floor of a converted brownstone on St. Mark’s Avenue, one of those built for the burgeoning working class. It was homey, though she was never much for interior decorating. But then again, she didn’t need much.

She’d spent most of her time alone, and when she didn’t want to be alone, she could open her window and listen to the noise on the street below. When she’d wanted company, she could sit on her stoop and chat with her neighbors, or go for a walk along Flatbush Avenue, listening to the people around her chatter in an array of languages. She’d picked up some Spanish living there, but didn’t know enough to really communicate fluently.

Sometimes she’d treat herself to a Junior’s cheesecake—reputed to be the best in the world—and stop by to see how old Mr. Sanchez was doing. He’d managed to hold his ground and not be pushed out of his lifelong home as building owners started renovating in order to raise rents and attract wealthier, younger Manhattanites. Just a month after she’d moved, he’d passed away from pneumonia.

She wondered who’d moved into the place now that he was gone, and a strange sense of hollowness overwhelmed her. She thought of his smile as she stared down at the fig tree, and spun away from the window, needing to get out and away from her dark thoughts.

Brochures littered the desk by one of the tall windows, things to see and do, but she walked past them. She just needed to escape for the moment. If she was going to be stuck here, she had to find something to do, but touristy activities weren’t usually her thing.

True to Ian’s promise, she had seen a sign when she arrived instructing guests to shut off their cell phones, and there wasn’t a phone or a TV in the room—one phone and one TV were in a central room downstairs. The only computer in the place seemed to be the one the hostess had used to process reservations; otherwise it was really a low-tech operation.

She was going to get the jitters if she didn’t keep herself busy. Curiously, an image of Logan popped into her mind as she walked out of her room.