Although it wasn’t yet dusk, tall white candles lit the elegantly set table in the formal dining room. Huck didn’t want to be there. He had already refused Oliver Crawford’s offer for him to sit at the long, antique table, with its high-backed upholstered chairs.
Everything was cream, crystal and silver. Tasteful. Crawford seemed to match his surroundings in his light-colored suit and tie, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. “Come, Boone,” he said, “tell me about your work. I want to hear how we’re doing from someone getting put through his paces. Are we ready for new trainees?”
“We will be,” Huck said, telling the truth. As far as he could see, Breakwater Security was up and running, moving ahead fast with its plans to enter the high-stakes, competitive world of protective services and training.
Sharon Riccardi, who’d spotted Huck when he’d arrived back at the compound and all but ordered him inside, stood back, as if to give him space, room to show off before the boss. She’d dressed for dinner, wearing an ankle-length black skirt with a white wrap-top that plunged low. Huck was still in the clothes he wore to Washington. She raised her wineglass at him. “Mr. Boone seems to relish the physical challenges of our work here.”
“I like to stay in shape.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Crawford seemed interested. “Joe Riccardi says you helped him design the training course here.”
“The design was in place,” Huck said. “I just worked with him to fine-tune it.”
“I understand it’s similar to what the feds put their special operatives through-the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, the U.S. Marshals Service’s Special Operations Group.” He paused, adding, as if it was some kind of secret he was letting Huck in on, “Others.”
What Breakwater was setting up was good, and if it was a legit outfit, the training program would produce competent personnel. But Breakwater wasn’t a legitimate outfit. Huck kept his tone even as he said, “So long as it’s effective training, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Joe Riccardi came in from the adjoining living room, dressed down in khakis and a Breakwater Security polo shirt. There didn’t seem to be a place set for him at the table. “We’re not trying to compete with HRT, SOG, Delta,” Riccardi said. “They’re who we call when we get into trouble. Our mission as private contractors is quite different from that of law enforcement. We just want capable people.”
His wife concurred, her demeanor professional, low-key, almost as if she was trying to persuade Huck of the righteousness of their work. “Law enforcement doesn’t have the same latitude we do. You’d think it was the other way around, but it’s not.”
“We can’t break laws, of course,” Crawford broke in. His tone was sincere, no hint of sarcasm, no wink and nod.
Huck, banking a surge of frustration at all the doublespeak in the room, picked up a glass of ice water. “Pay’s better, too.”
“That helps us recruit good people like yourself.” Crawford sat back with his wine, his eyes on Huck. “Do you believe a private security firm like Breakwater should play by the rules? Or should we put our talents to use in a variety of ways, push the envelope-be creative?”
“You said yourself we can’t break the law.”
“But whose laws? So much happens these days transnationally. Look at my situation. I’m an American citizen who was kidnapped in the territorial waters of a small Caribbean island protectorate. My kidnappers were a variety of nationalities. They took me to another island nation.”
“I see what you mean,” Huck said.
Sharon Riccardi sipped her wine. “We’re witnessing globalization on every level.”
While her husband’s expression remained neutral, Crawford immediately seemed more animated than he had earlier. “Politicians argue about legal infrastructure and nuances of interrogation techniques, and people like me-honest businessmen-are going about our business and trying to protect ourselves.” His eyes shone. “I see nothing wrong with it.”
Huck shrugged. “Me neither. I heard what happened to a couple of your kidnappers in Colombia. In my mind, they had it coming.”
A distance came into Crawford’s expression. When he didn’t answer right away, Sharon Riccardi snatched a plate of cookies off the table and stepped forward, offering them to Huck. “They’re linzer cookies. The raspberry filling’s to die for.”
“I guess I could die for worse,” Huck said with a fake grin, taking a cookie.
She changed the subject. “I understand you found your own way back from Washington today.”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
Ethan Brooker drove him. Even in a suit and tie, Brooker exuded competence. He would have taken Huck to Breakwater’s front gate, but Huck had him drop him off in the village and walked out to the compound.
None of which he was telling Crawford and the Riccardis.
“I had Scotty beam me back down here,” he said.
Joe took a sharp breath, not hiding his irritation, but Sharon smiled. “Did Quinn Harlowe give you a ride?”
“A friend,” he said. “Most people have friends in Washington, don’t they?”
“Where did you go after you left Travis?”
Huck bit into the cookie. “I got a pedicure.”
Now she got frosty. “You’re not used to answering to anyone, are you, Boone?”
He didn’t respond. Crawford, who seemed more amused by the exchange than annoyed, collected himself. “But you did see Quinn Harlowe today?”
“We had coffee.”
“That was Lubec’s idea,” Joe Riccardi said.
Crawford nodded. “Was it? I’m sure he had his reasons. Quinn’s inquisitive-Gerry Lattimore thinks the world of her. I’ve invited them both to the open house here tomorrow.”
Huck forced himself not to react. “You spoke to her?”
“No, I invited her through Gerry. He’ll be here.”
And so will Quinn. Huck had no illusions. If invited, she’d come. Hell, if she wasn’t invited, she’d come-she’d paddle over in her kayak and jump over the barbed-wire fence, probably in her party dress.
“Quinn seems to have taken a liking to you,” Crawford said.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I was there right after she found her friend.”
“A terrible tragedy. Gerry’s very broken up about her death. Unfortunately-” Crawford set his wineglass down, pausing as he took a cookie from the plate Sharon had returned to the table. “Unfortunately, a rumor’s come to my attention that the federal government might be interested in what we’re doing here.”
Huck bit into his cookie. “Interested as in suspicious?”
Sharon answered, her voice quiet, no edge to her tone. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“We have nothing to hide,” her husband said stiffly.
Sharon stood next to him. “That’s right. If the FBI or anyone else wants to investigate us, fine. We’re a legitimate operation. You’ve had a look at us from top to bottom, Huck. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He shrugged. “Absolutely.”
“However,” she went on, “an open investigation is one thing. Spying is another. We don’t want the federal government or anyone else infiltrating us, spying on us. No one would. If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot-”
“Then we need to know,” Huck finished for her.
Crawford tilted his head back, his eyes half-closed as he studied Huck. “I’d like you to keep an eye on her, Boone. She seems to get along with you. Check in with her from time to time.”
“That’s not exactly the kind of mission I had in mind when I signed on-”
“Nor did I,” Joe said quietly. He clearly didn’t like the idea.
“It’s not a mission,” Crawford said. “It’s an informal request. Quinn’s absorbing a difficult blow with the loss of her friend, and given Alicia Miller’s behavior in the hours, perhaps days, before she drowned, there are bound to be questions. I don’t want them backfiring on us here. We’re at a delicate stage.”
Joe nodded, reluctant. “That’s true. Bad publicity now could kill a start-up operation. We don’t have a reputation years in the making to fall back on.”
“That’s right,” his wife said. “If the first time people hear of Breakwater Security it involves the death of a Justice Department lawyer-well, that can’t be good. We don’t need Quinn Harlowe out there asking questions, spinning conspiracies, and turning what is clearly a tragic accidental drowning into something more sinister.”
“If you’re worried about Quinn Harlowe,” Huck asked, “why invite her to the party tomorrow?”
Sharon Riccardi’s eyes seemed to glow with intensity. Her husband was harder to read. Crawford ate his cookie, then answered. “It’s a way to reassure her about us, at least indirectly.”
“Okay,” Huck said. “Your call.”
“We’ll enjoy ourselves tomorrow,” Crawford added quietly. “I haven’t hosted a social event since I was kidnapped. Many of my guests will be seeing me for the first time since my rescue. What do you think, Boone? Do I look normal to you?”
This struck him as a strange question, but Crawford seemed intent on getting an answer. “You look fine,” Huck said.
Joe Riccardi excused himself and retreated through the living room. Huck couldn’t tell if Breakwater’s chief of operations approved or disapproved of the torture and execution of his boss’s kidnappers. Was he a part of the vigilante network-or not? Whose side was he on?
After a few more seconds, Huck decided his presence was no longer required, and said something innocuous about seeing everyone in the morning, and left, heading through the living room, back to the kitchen and out a side door.
As he walked down a brick path, he had to bank his frustration. If Oliver Crawford and the Riccardis were building their own private vigilante army, they sure were doing a damn good job of keeping him on the fringes.
He needed more than glowing eyes, tight lips, cryptic questions and locked doors.
He reminded himself that his job-his real job-required patience as well as a willingness to act.
“If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot…”
She was more than stirring, Huck thought. Knowingly or unknowingly, she’d turned up the heat on all of them.
She could trust him. But could he trust her?
The air was warm, pleasant, laced with the salty, fishy tang of bay and marsh at low tide.
Huck wondered if Quinn was back in Yorkville, ready for her party tomorrow. Then he remembered he’d just been tasked to keep an eye on her.
No time like the present.
When Quinn parked in the driveway next to her cottage, for a split second everything seemed quiet and peaceful, as if she were arriving for a normal getaway weekend of work and relaxation.
But as she stepped out of her car, she saw an osprey soar above the bay and felt a pang of loss-and a surge of frustration. There were so many unanswered questions about why and how Alicia had died. Now one of her colleagues had maneuvered his way into Quinn’s office, perhaps had searched it, and wasn’t returning her calls. Quinn had left messages on every phone number she had for him-office, cell, apartment. She took his non-response as a confirmation of his culpability. He had looked through her stuff.
Quinn felt a gust of chilly air, the temperature on the bay much cooler than in the city. The lilacs, she noticed, had come into bloom, the breeze tinged with their soft, soothing fragrance.
Normally, she would tell herself she didn’t mind being on the sidelines. By staying out of the center of the action, she could maintain a clear mind and a level of objectivity. She didn’t have to plunge herself into the fray.
This is different.
Alicia had come to her for help, and Quinn still didn’t know why, what she was supposed to have done to keep her friend from drowning in the bay.
Now there was Huck McCabe, the undercover federal agent. Quinn pictured his dark green eyes, not at all unreadable-he didn’t like her knowing his status.
One of your brighter moves, Harlowe. Telling him.
He didn’t like having her on the periphery, never mind in the middle, of his investigation, whatever it was. If she meddled, he wouldn’t hesitate to put her under surveillance or arrest her or something.
Unless…
She didn’t want to finish the thought, but it had hung around in the back of her mind for hours.
What if the feds were investigating her?
She knew Oliver Crawford. She’d let Alicia stay at her cottage. Alicia had come to her for help. Quinn had found her friend dead. Now, Steve Eisenhardt had searched her office. On his own? Or had someone put him up to it?
Did he believe she was involved in Alicia’s death somehow-or was he acting on behalf of someone else? Someone at Breakwater? Lattimore? The FBI?
As unsettling as any of those prospects were, Quinn knew exactly what she’d done and hadn’t done.
Maybe, she thought, worrying about staying on the sidelines was a moot point.
She grabbed her backpack of work and tote bag of clothes out of the car and carted them into the cottage, dumping them onto her bed, then headed back to the kitchen. Evening was coming fast. Hungry, distracted, edgy, she put on a kettle for tea, hoping to clear her head. She dug out a mismatched teacup and saucer and a white linen napkin, all at least fifty years old, and set her small table.
As she waited for the water to come to a boil, she fought back an unwelcome sense of loneliness. She’d never meant for the cottage to be an isolated retreat. She’d always pictured friends, family, joining her, if not all the time-a lot of the time. But who would want to visit now?
She looked out at her cove, gray-blue with the fading sunlight, and thought she saw baby ospreys in the sprawling nest.
“The osprey will kill me.”
Her throat tightened. “Oh, Alicia. What were you up to here in Yorkville?”
But no answer came, just the wash of the tide and the cry of seagulls out on the open bay.
After her tea, Quinn resisted taking an evening walk. She didn’t want to run into Diego Clemente. If she said something she shouldn’t, who knew what he’d do. She had no desire to end up in the bottom of his boat, out of circulation. As much as she tried to tell herself she was being dramatic, she didn’t know how Clemente had reacted to the news she’d made him and Huck. Surely Huck would have told him by now. Clemente was Huck’s backup-his eyes and ears in the village. It was his job to protect Huck and their investigation.
Drama, Quinn thought, heading for the shower.
An hour later, her skin was still pink from her shower. She’d turned the water up as hot as she could stand it. She shook out her dress for Oliver Crawford’s open house and tried to remember when she’d last worn it. She’d attended social functions at least once a week when she was at Justice, but, more often than not, would end up wearing whatever she’d had on at work, running from office to cocktail party.
Since leaving Justice, she’d felt more pressure, not less, to join the Beltway cocktail circuit. There’d been no shortage of invitations. Although she liked parties and recognized the importance of networking, lately she’d find herself digging around in the Society’s musty, cluttered attic, glancing at her watch as party time approached, and ending up just not going-or hitting the road to Yorkville, a list of local weekend yard sales in hand.
Quinn slipped into the silky champagne dress. At least it still fit, although she didn’t remember the neckline having such a deep V.
The silk brocade of her 1930s shawl reminded her of the blues of the bay, with a thread of champagne that matched her dress. She wrapped it over her bare shoulders, its long fringe tickling her arms, and spun out into the living room, pretending she had nothing more serious on her mind than an upper-crust open house in a beautiful bayside location.
She didn’t think about armed bodyguards and undercover federal agents and kidnapping survivors and a troubled friend who was dead.
Opening her porch door, she welcomed the fresh breeze coming in through the screen, the smell of the water-and more than a hint of lilac. She put aside her questions and her ghosts, her fears, and danced barefoot out to the kitchen.
When she danced back into the living room, she stopped abruptly, noticing a figure in the doorway, and recognized Huck Boone/McCabe just in time to stifle a startled yell.
He wore a work shirt and jeans, and he shook his head at her. “You must have nerves of steel, Harlowe, dancing by yourself out here in a skimpy cocktail dress, your front door wide open.”
“My dress is not skimpy, and my door-I was letting in the evening air.” The shawl fell off her shoulders, landing in the crook of her arms. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long enough.” He smiled. “I was hoping you’d do a couple dips before you saw me.”
“No dips. I’m not that good a dancer.”
He made no move to come inside. “You’re not that bad, either.”
She took a breath, her heart pounding from exertion and the start he’d given her, showing up on her front porch. “What are you doing here?”
“I was driving past and saw your door open. Thought I’d stop and say hi.”
“You didn’t walk-”
“I’m in my Rover.”
“It’s a dead-end road.”
He shrugged. “I needed to turn around.”
Quinn stood on the other side of the screen door, giving him a skeptical look, but she noticed that nothing about him was relaxed. The humor-the irreverence-was just a facade. But she tried not to react, and said, “I think you’re checking up on me.”
“Do you?”
“Did you follow me here?”
“If I did, you’d never know it.”
She managed a smile. “Cocky, aren’t you?”
“You’re in your own little world here. You’re not even playing music, but you didn’t hear me walk up onto your porch.” He tapped the screen, in front of her nose. “A screen door’s not much protection.”
“It’s locked.”
He just raised his eyebrows.
“I keep the doors and windows open as much as possible.” She slipped the near-useless lock on the screen door and pushed it open, stepping out onto the porch. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet. “Otherwise, I might as well stay in Washington. I like the bay breeze.”
Some of the guardedness in his eyes receded, although he didn’t relax. “Kind of cool tonight, isn’t it?”
With a rush of heat, Quinn remembered she’d tried on her dress straight from the shower and hadn’t bothered with undergarments. The filmy fabric and cold air left little to the imagination. And Huck had noticed-he couldn’t not have noticed, even if he hadn’t been trained to take in everything around him.
“Maybe it’s cool by California standards,” she said. “I think it’s gorgeous. I was just trying on my dress for the open house tomorrow-”
“You’re not going to the open house,” he said.
“No? Did Oliver Crawford rescind his invitation?”
“Quinn-”
“Because I can call him and ask.” Without giving Huck a chance to respond, she took a step back, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. “I think my outfit works okay. If it didn’t-well, then I might not go.”
His gaze drifted from her head to toes and back as he smiled. “I don’t know about the bare feet.”
“I’ve got strappy heels.”
“Ah. Thank God.”
She lifted her shawl back over her shoulders, subtly covering her breasts. “Gerard Lattimore’s going to be at the party tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”
“Your buddy Special Agent Kowalski says you like to play with fire.”
“So, you two have talked. I see.” She tried to keep her tone neutral. “And Clemente?”
“Quinn, we’ve had one body wash up onto shore-”
“I’m aware of that.” She tried to ignore the rush of images of the gulls at Alicia’s body, the sudden jolt of mixed emotions. “I think it’s best for me to do what I would normally do. If I don’t-that would just draw more attention to me.”
“You have plenty of attention on you as it is.”
“Then all the more reason for you not to interfere.”
He shook his head. “Don’t even think you can help me. You’re a historian. You might like playing with fire, but it’s not real to you-”
“Did I say I could help you? If I do something wrong, you guys in the field can get hurt. I’m aware of my responsibilities, as well as my limitations.”
“I’m not belittling you.” His tone didn’t soften. “I’m saying-”
“Anyone in my position would jump at the chance to go to a Crawford social function.” Quinn tightened her shawl around her. “It’d look more suspicious if I didn’t go tomorrow.”
Huck sighed suddenly. “You must be hell in a meeting. Do you ever let yourself get sidetracked?”
“Not when I know I’m right. I listen, of course.”
“Ha.”
“I’m not arrogant, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s not.” He smiled, and, with one finger, touched her shawl, just below her collarbone. “You’ve got a moth hole.”
“Only a tiny one. It adds character.” She felt a little breathless, and self-conscious, as if she’d just exposed too much of herself to this man-too many of her weaknesses. “Our grandmothers might have worn a shawl like this one to a pre-World War Two dinner dance. Have you ever been to a dinner dance?”
“Several.”
“Not in your present line of work-”
“As a kid. My parents like that sort of thing.”
“It sounds fun-I think. I’d wear a shiny, elegant dress-long, with a wide skirt so I wouldn’t trip when I danced.” She couldn’t believe she was talking about dinner dances, but it was better than arguing about tomorrow’s open house, having him probe her motives. “But then, I’d have to learn to dance.”
“You’ve never taken lessons?”
“Not in my family. If I wasn’t wandering through Civil War battlefields and hiding in musty corners of the Society headquarters with a book, I was supposed to be learning to dive, climb mountains, whitewater kayak, navigate, fly planes-not dance.” She tilted her head back at him. “What about you? Did you ever learn to dance?”
“You bet.” Without warning, he draped a muscular arm around her middle and swept her across the porch. “Follow my lead.” He spoke softly into her ear. “A simple waltz step. One, two, three, one, two, three-”
“Should I ignore your holster and gun?”
“Sure. I’m not in a shooting mood.”
Huck seemed to hold her closer, or she’d leaned into him without realizing it. He picked up his pace just enough that she tightened her hold on him, her shawl trailing down her arms and back. “I’m not all that coordinated…”
“You can do it.” Settling his arm low on her back, he moved more smoothly than she’d have imagined for a man of his build and profession. “There you go. Easy, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to step on your toes-”
“So long as I don’t step on yours. I’d break a few.”
Somehow, he managed to get the screen door open and waltz her into the living room, gracefully, nothing about him self-conscious or awkward or stiff. Her head seemed to spin, and yet she didn’t falter, didn’t trip over her shawl-and she only stepped on his toes twice.
In a low, sexy voice, he hummed a waltz tune into her ear, almost as if he were in another world.
“Huck…”
“It’s okay. I’m not wired. Your cottage isn’t bugged. No one will catch me singing and waltzing.”
With a final swoop, he lifted her off her feet and dropped her effortlessly onto the couch.
Quinn gulped in air. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”
“My mother tried to make a gentleman out of me. She said I can never go wrong being a gentleman. I know how to tie a bow tie, do six different ballroom dances, eat with the right utensils, make small talk. And I learned not to drink the finger bowl.” He sat beside her. “I don’t look that civilized, do I?”
“Well, let’s just say the small talk’s a surprise. I don’t imagine you suffer fools gladly-” She stopped, not knowing what to call him.
He looked at her. “Huck.”
“That is your real name, yes? And these stories about your family-”
“All real. Think I’d make up learning how to waltz?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure I know what you’d do.”
“Probably just as well. My parents are open-minded by conviction and nature. Not a mean bone in their bodies. I, on the other hand-” He lifted Quinn’s shawl back onto her shoulders. “Mean as hell.”
“I don’t know about that.” She sat up straight, feeling a little light-headed now, and more than a little self-conscious. “I haven’t had dinner, and I don’t have anything here except tea. Lots of tea. I was thinking about crab cakes at the local marina. There’s not much time before they close. Would you care to join me?”
“Only if you put on shoes.”
“And take off the dress-I mean-” Oh, hell. “I’ll change into jeans.”