Cause For Alarm (37 page)

Luke helped Julianna unfold the couch, while Kate made certain the door was locked and chained. She propped the desk chair under the knob for extra security.

“Good night, Julianna,” Luke said. “If you need anything, we're right here.”

“Thanks.” She looked hesitantly at Kate, opened her mouth as if to wish her good-night, then shut it without speaking.

Luke closed the door between the two rooms, leaving it open a crack so they could hear Julianna if there was trouble, then turned to Kate. “I'll make a bed up on the floor,” he murmured, crossing to the closet and taking the spare blanket from the top shelf.

“Don't be silly,” she said, holding out her arms for the blanket. “I'll sleep on the floor.”

He frowned. “I'm not being silly. You're not sleeping on the floor. Period.”

Kate placed her fists on her hips. “Look, you're doing most of the driving, you need your rest.”

“You do, too.”

“You're not going to budge on this, are you?”

“Nope.”

She made a soft sound of frustration and threw up her hands. “This is stupid. The bed's a king. We'll share it.” When he started to protest, she stopped him. “Don't you trust me not to make a pass?”

He gazed at her a moment. “It's not
you
who I don't trust. Can you live with that?”

“Of course,” she said airily. “We're old friends.”

“Of course we are.”

She ignored his sarcasm and climbed in. Ten minutes later, Kate lay stiffly beside Luke, listening to his breathing, knowing sleep was as far out of his reach as it was hers. Knowing why.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a giggle rose up in her throat. She tried to hold it back, but couldn't.

He turned his head. “What's so funny?”

“Us.” She met his eyes. “A professional killer is after us and we're here worrying about who's going to sleep on the floor or if someone's going to make a pass.”

He smiled. “Are you? Worrying if I'm going to make a pass?”

Emma stirred in her crib, and Kate lowered her voice even more. “Worrying wasn't quite the right word. Wondering, maybe.”

He turned more fully toward her. “And if I made the pass, would you receive it?”

She held his gaze. “I don't know. Maybe.” She looked away, then back at him. “Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that night back at Tulane, the one when we…made love?”

“I remember.”

“I didn't use you. I didn't plan it.” She reached out and laid her fingers against his lips. “I promise you I didn't.”

He caught her fingers and curved his own around them. “I know. I was hurt. Disappointed.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's in the past.”

“Is it?” She searched his gaze. “I know how some hurts are. They never quite heal.”

“For a long time it was like that. It's healing now, Kate.”

He released her hand, and she drew it away. “I made a lot of mistakes back then. Did some stupid things.” She sighed, remembering. “You were right, what you said that day, after your book signing. Not just what you said about Richard, but about me as well. About why I married him.”

“Why did you marry him, Kate?”

“Because I loved him.” At Luke's expression, she shook her head. “I did, but not for the right reasons. I didn't see it then, but I loved Richard because he made me feel safe. And secure and cared for.”

“And I didn't?”

“Not hardly.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “You made me feel out of control. Uncertain. Of the future, what it would hold.” She turned her gaze to the ceiling, remembering. “You made me feel like I could do anything, if only I'd try. If I would just go for it.”

“I always believed in you, Kate. I still do.”

Tears flooded her eyes. In all their years together, Richard had never said that to her. “That's just it. It wasn't you, Luke. I believed in you. In your strength and character. In your talent. It was me who I didn't believe in.”

He opened his mouth to comment, and she laid her fingers gently against it to stop him. “I wanted to be an artist, but I was afraid. That I'd end up like my parents, scrambling to pay the rent, sacrificing my children's comfort for my art. I went to school wearing other people's castoffs and shoes with cardboard stuffed into the soles to cover the holes. I promised myself I wouldn't do that to my children. Or myself.”

“Oh, Kate…” He threaded his fingers through her hair, fanned across the pillow.

She caught his hand and brought it to her mouth. “I was scared,” she whispered. “Too scared to go after what I wanted. And too scared to give my feelings for you a chance. I'm sorry for that. And I'm sorry I hurt you.”

Luke lifted himself up on an elbow and for one long, electric moment simply gazed at her. Then he brought his mouth to hers and kissed her, once, then again.

With a sigh, Kate returned the pressure of his mouth, the exploration of his tongue. He tasted like a fine wine; the taste went to her head until she grew drunk on it. She felt alive and whole and like a woman, not a mother or business owner, not like a rejected wife or widow. But like a woman, and the feeling was heady, indeed.

She slipped her arms around his neck and drew him closer. He murmured her name, and she heard the arousal in his voice, felt it in the hard length of him, pressing against her.

Suddenly, she thought of her husband. Of the last time they had made love. Of the way his mouth had felt against hers, the way her name had sounded on his lips.

And just as suddenly, what had felt so wonderful only moments before, felt wrong. As if she were being unfaithful.

Guilt replaced longing, and Kate stiffened in Luke's arms. She took her hands from behind his neck and pressed them against his chest. “I'm sorry, Luke. I just, it's—”

“Too soon.”

“Yes.” Beneath her fingers she felt the wild beat of his heart. She searched his gaze, pleading for understanding with hers. “Richard and I…we were together for so long. I want you, but it feels wrong. I feel like I'm cheating.”

“I see.”

But he didn't, she saw. Not really. “I don't want our being together to feel wrong. I don't want any regrets this time, for either of us.”

He met her eyes. “You and me, Kate, that was the one thing that always felt right to me.” He made a small sound of frustration. “It feels too soon to you, and I've been waiting more than ten years.”

Emotion choked her. She didn't know what to say. A part of her wanted to ignore her real feelings, submerge them under the flush of passion. She wanted to be with him. To grab the sexual oblivion he offered. To forget the nightmare of her life, even if only for a short while. But most of all, she didn't want to lose him.

“Don't look at me that way.” He cupped her face in his palms, kissed her hard, then rolled onto his back. He let out a long breath. “I've waited ten years, I suppose I can wait some more.”

L
uke didn't waste any time. As soon as they had arrived in D.C. and checked into a hotel, he called Tom Morris. Luckily, the man was in town and available; they arranged to meet at a neighborhood park in the Virginia suburbs at four o'clock that afternoon.

Luke deliberately made Morris wait, not so long he angered him, but long enough to get his point across. He wanted to begin their meeting with the upper hand. He wanted the man to understand, even before Luke said a word, that Luke was the one calling the shots. That he would not negotiate for anything less than what he wanted.

There could be no question as to whether he would pull this off, Luke knew. He had to.

Luke smiled grimly as he made his way across the park's thick green carpet of grass to the small duck pond where the other man waited. Morris sat on a bench, tossing crackers into the water and watching as the ducks dove and fought each other for them.

“Hello, Tom.”

The man looked up. “Luke. Nice to see you again.”

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me. Why don't we walk?”

The man's eyebrows lifted slightly, as with surprise, but he nodded and stood, pocketing the remainder of the crackers.

They strolled in silence for a moment. “Pretty day,” Morris said after a moment. “I like this time of year, the nip in the air, the approaching holidays. Beats the hell out of the heat and humidity of summer.” He met Luke's eyes. “But I don't suppose you're here to discuss the weather.”

“No, I'm not.” He cut directly to the reason he had come. “One of your men killed the husband of a dear friend of mine. And now he wants to kill her and her infant daughter.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Tom Morris didn't miss a beat, and Luke sensed the man already knew why he was here and everything he was about to tell him. “Do you? Ever heard the name John Powers?”

“John Powers,” he repeated thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I can't say that I have.”

“Let's cut the crap, Tom. I don't have time for it. Code name's Ice. Wet work specialist for the Agency. A renegade.”

A flicker of something passed over the other man's face. Surprise, maybe. A grudging respect. “I might have heard of him, though not in connection with the CIA.”

“Before you decide to stick with that version of the truth, let me tell you a little story.” As he had with Condor, Luke laid the chain of events out for Morris, beginning with Richard's murder and ending with Kate and Julianna at his front door.

Tom Morris slipped his hands into his pockets. “Assuming what you're telling me is true—I say assuming because I find this whole story highly unlikely—what do you want from me?”

No culpability. Pass the buck.

Asshole.

“I want your assurance that if I get you proof that your man is not only out of control but a threat to the Agency, that you'll take him out.”

“Take him out?” Morris's eyebrows shot up. “My God, Dallas, you're starting to sound like one of your characters.”

“Look, Tom, I don't have the time to play a game of who's-on-first with you. If I get the proof, will you take him out?”

“How do you propose to get this…proof?”

“I have, in my possession, a journal. Powers' journal. It contains all the juicy stuff. Names, dates, locations.”

“I presume it's in code.”

“Or we wouldn't be having this conversation. You presume correctly.”

“And you and your friends plan to break this code?”

“Correct again.”

The man's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Save yourself the trouble, Luke. Give the book to us, we have people who specialize in this type of thing.”

“I'm sure you do, but fat chance. You'll get the book when Powers is out of the picture.”

“But how do you even know if you have anything of value?” Morris asked, his tone mild. “If you handed it over, I could evaluate its worth. My people could—”

“Now you're starting to piss me off.” Luke stopped walking and swung to face the other man, head-on. “I may be new to this game, but I'm not stupid. Without that book, we have nothing. You know it and I know it. And that's not a position I or my friends care to be in.”

He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Tom Morris paused, then took Luke's hand. “Not that I'm admitting any knowledge of this man or his activities, but yes, if you bring me something solid on this Powers, something that proves he's a threat to the Unites States or to the Agency, we'll get him off the street. That's a promise.”

“C
omplimentary champagne, Mr. Winters? Mimosa?”

John smiled at the flight attendant. “Just the orange juice, please.”

“Of course.” She retrieved a glass from the galley and brought it to him. She set the glass on the center console table, then straightened. He was one of only three passengers in the first-class section of the 747, and she didn't appear in a rush to move on. “Going to D.C. for business or pleasure?” she asked.

“A bit of both.” He smiled again and took a sip of the juice. “What time are we due to touch down? There are some people I need to catch up with, and I don't want to miss them.”

“Ten-forty. If you need anything else, just call.”

“I will. Thank you, Allison.”

She smiled at his use of her name and walked off. John watched her go, then leaned his head against the rest. The timing was perfect. Though, in truth, he wasn't in a hurry. Tracking a target was not about speed, but about accuracy. About precision and timing. He would find them and at the right moment, he would kill them. Cleanly and quickly.

It was better than they deserved. Better than
she
deserved.

John brought a hand to the back of his head and the ridge of fifteen stitches there, ones received courtesy of Julianna's betrayal. He drew in a long, deep breath, working to calm himself. Since that incident, he'd had to call upon all his self-control, all his training and self-discipline to remain focused. To push back the rage, the betrayal and even hatred, pulsing through him and concentrate on the job he had to do.

He had Julianna and her band of compatriots in his sights already. He smiled to himself, amused. It had been easy to locate them. Pathetically so. They had run to Kate's friend in Houston, the writer Luke Dallas. He had learned that by listening in on Blake and Marilyn's hushed conversations at The Bean. From Kate's Rolodex he had found Luke's address and phone number. The trip from New Orleans to Houston's Hobby airport had taken less than an hour, the trip from the airport to Luke's address in Kingwood another forty-five minutes, including the time it had taken to rent a car.

Unfortunately, he had missed them. John brought the juice to his lips. No problem there, Luke's editor had been only too happy to help him out when she had learned he was from
People
magazine and interested in doing a feature on the author. She had directed him to Luke's agent.

The
People
magazine gambit had worked again, like a charm. The man had fallen all over himself in his eagerness to get the interview. At first he had claimed not to be able to contact his client, then to prevent losing the interview, had confided that Luke was on vacation in D.C. but would be checking in.

Then it had only been the nuisance of discovering where they were staying. A couple dozen calls later he'd had a name—the Holiday Inn—Capitol Hill. Luke Dallas had made room reservations in his own name.

So easy.
John shook his head slightly, almost feeling sorry for them. The choice of D.C. had been the only surprise of the chase so far, and he found a sort of perverse rightness that Julianna's end should come there, where she first betrayed him.

John turned his gaze to the window and the blue sky and billowy white clouds beyond. Luke Dallas should not have become involved in his business. Now John had no choice but to kill him. Kate's involvement he could understand—she would protect her child, no matter the cost to herself—though he regretted deeply having to end her life. He admired her courage and loyalty, her honesty and commitment.

Perhaps, if they had met under other circumstances, he might even have fallen in love with her.

For that, he would not make her watch her child die.

John took a last drink of the juice, holding the cool, sweet liquid on his tongue a moment before swallowing. Savoring it. The way he would savor killing Julianna and her little group of misguided supporters.

He could hardly wait to see the look of shock on their faces when he showed up. Could hardly wait to see
her
shock. John closed his eyes and imagined a bullet blowing the back of Julianna's head off.