Читать книгу A Breath Away - Wendy Etherington - Страница 7

REMY EYED JADE “The Arrow” Broussard over the rim of his coffee mug and again marveled that the hard, determined woman now pacing in front of him had been melting in his arms only moments earlier, her fiery hair tangled around his fingers, her voice husky with sleep.

He wondered if she knew as much about him as he did about her. He wondered if her nickname was well-earned. Because of her deadly sharp shooting skills and her tendency to be a rule-follower—at least by the slippery NSA standards—he’d been as surprised as anybody when she’d suddenly resigned two years ago to follow her partner, Frank Williams, into the private sector. Remy reflected on the way she’d leaned into his touch. She’d relaxed quite a bit since leaving government work.

A handy convenience for him.

“I don’t appreciate you dragging my cousin into this,” she said when she finally stopped pacing, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

“I needed protection. I asked a trusted advisor for guidance.”

“One who just happens to be my cousin. You had to know.”

He’d known. His friendship with Lucas had just been a happy by-product of his deep-seated need to find out more about the lady currently scowling at him.

In fact, he could admit—at least to himself—that he had a miniobsession when it came to Jade Broussard. Ever since he’d seen the first NSA case file involving her, he’d researched her, wondered about her and even sought out her cousin in the hopes of someday meeting her.

After last night’s shooting, she seemed the obvious choice to help him solve a lifelong mystery. She’d single-mindedly gotten revenge for her family. Maybe she could do the same for him.

“I certainly check out all my advisors before taking them on,” he said finally.

“Do you ever give anybody a straight answer?”

He smiled faintly. “Not if I can help it.” Just for the thrill, he let his gaze slide down her body, which was surprisingly curvy for such a fierce and serious woman. “Surely, it’s the same for you.”

“Very few people ask me questions,” she said.

“Too intimidated?”

“I imagine.”

“You’ll have a hard time affecting me the same way, Jade.”

Her shoulders jerked at his use of her first name. She clearly didn’t like the intimacy. She liked their attraction even less.

Ironically, he relished her presence.

After talking himself out of contacting her for so long—deciding she wouldn’t want anything to do with a former thief—having her close was an interesting kind of torture.

She would never understand what had driven him to his former life. Yet, despite the philosophical distance between them, his blood sizzled hotter every minute they were together. He had to curl his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.

He’d snuck into her bed to rattle her, to see if the effect she had on him from a distance would strengthen when they touched. But even he hadn’t anticipated being knocked so far off balance. He hadn’t expected the temptation to be so strong.

“I want some answers from you, Tremaine,” she said as she resumed pacing. “I want them now and I want them straight, or I’m dumping you and going back home.”

“No compassion for an old colleague?”

“No.”

“I was shot, you know.”

“Whoopee. Been there myself a few times.”

Though he’d known this, he raised his eyebrows. “Who got the jump on you?”

“An electronics thief who wanted to turn Miami Beach into his own personal illegal superstore for assorted bad guys. Still have the scar on my upper thigh.”

That would have been Romildo Ramirez. “And how did he make out?”

Her gaze raked him. “Not as well as you obviously did.”

“Just a scratch for me, I’ll admit. But still a rather rude end to a lovely dinner.”

“Who’d want to shoot you over dinner?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

“Dinner with whom? About what?”

All business, this one. Something else he’d known—a quality that was good for his case, though maybe not for his libido. “Is there any chance of you calling me Remy?”

Her vivid green eyes flashed. “No.”

“We’re going to be pretty…intimate over the next couple of weeks.”

“We’re going to be close professionally. Close and intimate are two different things. Dinner—who and what?”

She didn’t trust him at all. Smart woman. “I was having dinner with a female friend. A personal female friend,” he clarified, though he was sure she’d figured that already. “She enjoys my taste in wine and new restaurants. My interest in art, frankly, baffles her, but then we don’t often go into deep discussions about light and symmetry.”

Jade smirked. “I’m sure.”

“She’s a charming companion when I’m between buying trips. Or, for our purposes, between cases.”

“Which you are now?”

“For the most part. I’d just started on some research for a new project.”

“So this shooting is personal?”

“I think so.”

She stopped, glancing at him. “Related to your past.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I have several people in mind.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Thieves?”

She would never understand his past. He resisted the urge to sigh. He knew this, after all. “They all have illegal connections.”

“Have any of them threatened you? Do any of them know what you do now?”

“My cover is secure, and getting shot is pretty threatening.” Holding up the videotape he’d procured a few hours ago, he crossed the room to the VCR and popped the cassette in. “Maybe this will help.”

“The tape of the shooting? Lucas said you—” She stopped as he walked back toward her.

She glared up at him, and he could tell she didn’t like his proximity or their size difference. He was a solid six-two, whereas she was only five-seven.

“How did you get the tape?” she asked.

He returned to his seat on the sofa, leaning against the cushions and laying one arm along the back. His effort at casualness was deliberate, since he felt anything but. Both the shooting and the woman who stood so close had knocked him dangerously askew. “From the police.”

“They just handed over a copy?”

“Not exactly.”

She looked disgusted. “If we’re going to do this, you can’t just swipe anything you want.”

“Why not?” he asked reasonably, though when she opened her mouth to no doubt tell him why, he continued, “I made a copy and returned the original.”

“Is that where you’ve been the last twelve hours?”

“How do you know I’ve been gone twelve hours?”

“’Cause I’ve been here nearly that long.” She dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa and propped her feet—encased in dark green alligator boots—on the coffee table.

“I only spent a small part of that time at the police station. Their security is shockingly lax.”

“I bet you say that about everyone.”

“True.”

Anxious to view the tape himself, Remy pressed the play button on the remote. The digital timer in the upper right-hand corner allowed him to fast-forward to the moment he was interested in, though later he’d watch the hour before the shooting to look for any details that might be relevant.

At 7:52 p.m., a white male with dark-brown hair, about five-ten in height and dressed in a waiter’s uniform, walked out of the French doors to Remy’s right. Holding a bread basket to conceal his gun, he headed straight to Remy’s table, but at about five feet from his target, another waiter crossed his path, bumping into him and knocking the basket to the floor. The other waiter knelt to clean up the mess as the shooter directed his attention to Remy. Then, in either a panic or a rage, he fired off two shots.

Remy yanked his date under the table as the shooter leaped over the low brick wall surrounding the patio and disappeared from view.

He remembered well his heart hammering, his arm burning and his thoughts racing. He’d tried to block out the panicked shouts and cries as he palmed the .22 pistol he carried concealed in an ankle holster, quickly returning the weapon to its hiding place when he realized no more shots were coming. The waiter who’d knocked into the shooter had crawled beneath the table to check on them, and Remy had the presence of mind and training to morph into a shocked and outraged art executive as the police were called and he and his date were sent to the hospital.

Jade asked for the remote, and he handed it to her without comment. She ran the tape back three times before asking, “Do you make a habit of eating at this restaurant?”

“I’ve never been there, though I did make a reservation two days before.”

“Do you often sit outside at restaurants?”

“Hardly ever in February. But there was a live band, a number of heaters, and my companion pleaded.”

“You don’t know the shooter I take it.”

“Never seen him before, and the tape is pretty grainy. We can try running his image through the usual channels, though.”

“Let the police chase that. He doesn’t seem like a professional.”

Remy agreed—and all the more reason the shooting didn’t make sense. “Rather lousy aim.”

“And the whole plan was bad. Too risky, too public.” She angled her head. “Unless the intent was simply a warning.”

He nodded. He’d considered that, as well. In fact, given his suspect short list, it was likely.

“Who would hire such an incompetent idiot?”

“Somebody desperate, equally stupid or very, very clever.”

She glanced at him for the first time since the tape started.

“I’d feel better if it had been a good hit.”

He was nearly sure she didn’t mean a successful attempt on his life. Still, he agreed. The clumsiness of the whole business was somehow more chilling. It was out of place and unfamiliar in their world.

The intrigue and danger they lived with day-to-day made them suspicious of everyone, unable to trust, and forced them to distance themselves from most people. As a result, they were paranoid. And very careful.

But he’d made mistakes in his past. He’d already paid for some and there was one whose bill seemed to finally be due.

“I need everything you have on your date and the people you believe are behind the shooting.”

“Got it.” He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a minidisk, then handed it to her. He was interested in what she’d come up with. More than him? Or at least something different? He was nearly positive who was responsible, but he needed to be sure before he risked revealing details about his past to Jade and her team. “My date’s clean, though.”

She glanced at the disk before setting it on the table in front of them. “Part of your mercy mission?”

“I had to stash her somewhere until I can figure out what’s going on.”

“Where?”

“Puerto Rico—a lovely resort and spa.”

“How’d you get her there?”

“My LearJet.”

“You have a private plane?”

He liked the way her eyes turned hot when she was annoyed. He wondered what they looked like when she was aroused. “Mmm. It’s handy.”

“Bought on your government salary?”

“Certainly not.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

Though his heart pounded, he watched her with the appearance of calm. The Arrow probably never stepped outside the lines. “Perhaps I bought it with my ill-gotten gains. Maybe everything I have is tainted with greed and deception.”

Her gaze slid back to his. “Maybe it is.”

“I’m a legitimate art dealer.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I need your help, not your judgment. I can’t share my past with the police, and I’m not telling the NSA any more than they already know.” He rose to pour more coffee. “Are you taking my case or not?” He thought he’d assured himself of her participation by going through Lucas, but maybe he’d been wrong about their bond.

“I’m going to have to dig deeply into your past.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to give me names, dates, places.”

“The disk contains plenty.”

“I also want your impressions of people. Not just a scroll of data.”

He nodded.

“I’m taking your case.”

“Thank you.”

He was going to have to share things he’d rather not. He was going to have to relive times better left buried. He might even have to trust Jade Broussard.

She didn’t respect him, and obviously abhorred his illegal past. He especially didn’t want to face her judgment, because then he might have to admit that in the black-and-white of the world, he’d spent most of his life in the dark.

JADE KNEW the idea of sharing didn’t sit well with her client. Well, at least they had that in common.

Very little else, but they had that.

“Let’s start with the present. You’re sure the shooting isn’t job-related?”

“That’s the most logical conclusion.”

Again, she noted the careful choice of words. He didn’t exactly agree, didn’t answer her question, but he didn’t disagree, either. He kept the flow of conversation going without revealing his thoughts. She’d bet it served him well—in both legal and illegal situations.

“Have you talked to Hillman?” she asked, expecting him to say he hadn’t.

When Tremaine nodded, she suppressed her surprise and asked, “What did he say?”

“What you’d expect—come in from the field, we’ll protect you.”

“And you said no?” She was trying to picture anybody—even the man next to her—disobeying a direct order from Jordan Hillman, a high-level director at the NSA, who oversaw every active undercover operation and was one of the most secretly powerful men in the country.

“I said nothing.”

“Naturally. You’re good at that.”

“It comes in handy at times.” He slid his hand along the back of the leather sofa they shared. The move was a sinuous caress, one that made her blood hum even as part of her remained professional, observing how well he fit into the contemporary decor of the room, though she was sure he’d look equally at home among oxblood club chairs and gas lanterns.

He was a dichotomy.

A mystery she longed to unfold. Much to her frustration.

“So, he thinks you’re coming in?” she asked in an effort to force her brain to concentrate fully on her job.

“I imagine he’s figured out by now that I’m not.”

Great. Talk about a war on multiple fronts. “So we have them after you, too?”

“No. I’ll call him and tell him I think I have a handle on who’s responsible.”

“He’ll expect a full report—names, motives, etcetera.”

“Not from me.”

What was he holding back? She had little doubt he was only pretending to cooperate. He had an agenda here that went beyond the botched shooting.

As she was mulling over the possibilities—maybe the shooting was NSA related, and he and Hillman were trying to draw her back into the agency—he reached out and stroked her jaw.

She jerked back.

“I wondered if you’d be hard and rough,” he said, seeming unaffected by her retreat. “You’re not. Somehow, you still have compassion and tenderness. I wonder how twelve years at the NSA didn’t stamp it out of you.”

She was surprised to realize her throat was dry, and her face was warm where he’d touched her. “How do you know I put in twelve years?”

“I know a lot about you, Jade Katherine Broussard.”

His silver eyes turned to the color of smoke, and the heat emanating from his body slid around her like a cashmere wrap. There had been times in her life when her spirit had been so cold and lonely she’d have given anything for that sensation.

But she’d found strength and purpose in her work. She had loyal friends and colleagues and didn’t need anyone to hold her hand when she ran into trouble.

There were times, though, when she longed for something more. For a relationship like the one her parents had shared. For someone who both understood and challenged her. For white-hot passion that overwhelmed her, burning down the walls she’d so carefully built.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, leaning toward her.

She blinked. What had she been thinking? Had she actually been daydreaming in the middle of an interrogation? The man was a client, an admitted thief and probably a master manipulator.

She ignored his compliment—which was no doubt empty, anyway. “When did you last talk to Hillman?”

“I called him last night.”

The chief guy took his call? Another oddity in an already strange case. “You didn’t detour to Washington on your way to Puerto Rico?”

“No.”

She planted her boots on the floor and sat forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. “You talked to him? Not his assistant?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you said you were pretty much between cases. Just doing a little research. If you’re consulting with the top man, you’re doing a great deal more than that.”

He said nothing for several moments, then he smiled. “Perhaps I am.”

“That’s it?” She stayed in her seat and held her temper by the barest margin. “Look, I’ve had about enough of your evasive answers. And your mysterious past doesn’t intrigue me, it annoys me. If we’re going to make this…”

“Relationship?”

“…unconventional partnership work, you’ve got to trust me.”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Isn’t gonna happen.”

He trusted no one. She understood, since she felt exactly the same way.

“But—just so you know—there isn’t a big case or mystery,” he added. “I always work directly with Hillman. That was part of my agreement when I signed on with the NSA.”

She got over her irritation long enough to be impressed. “Convenient.”

He shrugged. “Mostly it was a power thing.” Grinning, he added, “I like having it all on my side.”

The guy wasn’t just slippery good, he was amazing good. He charmed and disarmed, even as he stole your wallet. He worked for the government and still made a profit. “I imagine you do.”

She stood to pace, as she often did when she was thinking. But tonight she did so because she couldn’t think. He was distracting. His smile, his sleek good looks, his craftiness, even his evasiveness. She’d lied when she’d said his mysterious past didn’t intrigue her.

In truth, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know all. And more than the professional details. Her body wanted intimate details.

But her job required her to set aside her curiosity and pretend her senses weren’t completely overwhelmed by the temptation he presented. “Why don’t you want Hillman to know the shooting is part of your past?”

“I don’t trust him to keep his word and leave my past in the grave where I buried it.”

She didn’t trust Hillman, either, so her opinion of her client rose a bit. She also respected his intentions to move ahead, away from the criminal life he’d led.

But she knew she had to hold her sympathy in check. She was intrigued by him, her body wanted him, but she wasn’t sure she really liked him.

She’d solve his case, take his money and protect her cousin. As long as she kept those distinct objectives in mind, they’d all come out just fine.

“But I’d think you and Hillman would be buddies,” she said, not trying to hide her sarcasm. “Of the same mind and all. You’re the poster boy for trying any means necessary to get the bigger, badder criminal of the moment, after all.”

“Yes, I imagine that’s his philosophy. I guess you don’t agree.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. “You guess correctly.”

“You don’t think the government should make deals with the other side?”

Well aware he was asking her if she agreed with Hillman’s decision to offer a deal to him in particular, she refused to soften her stance. “No, I don’t.”

“Leopards don’t change their spots.”

“Not in my experience.”

He simply nodded.

During her NSA career, she’d been appalled by some of the arrangements made with midlevel criminals in order to bring down their bosses. The idea that justice was negotiated in a boardroom, and that any wrongdoing could be wiped out by ratting out somebody else, was abhorrent to her.

Tremaine had benefited from such an agreement, which she’d always resented. What had precipitated his change of sides? And why had he taken the government’s deal in the first place?

To save his own hide, most likely, though he did nothing now to defend himself. What was up with him? And why did she have to be so damn interested in digging beneath the surface?

“So, that’s the present—at least professionally. But we haven’t talked about the personal present. Friends and lovers.” She watched his expression, hoping he’d squirm. “Anybody there have it in for you?”

“Like if I slept with my best friend’s wife?”

Given his lothario reputation, she certainly wouldn’t be surprised, but somehow she didn’t see the man before her putting himself in that position. He’d be selective about his bed partners, and he’d consider all the options and consequences before taking that step.

What else about him had been exaggerated?

“Yeah, like that,” she said finally.

“I don’t have a best friend, so no.”

Her pulse jumped. How did he manage to get to her that way? She cleared her throat. “So now that we’ve covered the present, it’s time for the past.”

She could have sworn she saw him flinch, but he recovered quickly.

“Of course,” he said, smiling with the easy charm that seemed as natural to him as breathing. “But before we do, I think it’s important that we explore our unexpected connection.”

“What unexpected connection?”

“The fact that I’d much rather get you in bed than investigate my own shooting.” As she ground to a halt, he raised his eyebrows, looking inviting as sin. “I assume the sentiment is returned?”