Looking as if he was weighing his chances if he threw a punch, André snarled, “You’re a lunatic, O’Neill. I don’t know how you insinuated yourself into Raine’s life, but I will see that your tenure there is short-lived. It certainly wouldn’t do her image any good to be linked to a man who’s delusional.”
“Just a warning, Klassen.” Mac’s voice was soft and deadly. “You better not have had anything to do with those threats. Because if you did, I’ll be coming after you. Understood?”
“Well, André, it was an undisputed success tonight, didn’t you think?” Raine’s voice was overly bright. While she hadn’t been close enough to hear the words the two men exchanged, the tone had been unmistakable. “You’re a genius when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“He’s got the publicity down pat, that’s a fact,” Mac said.
“Raine.” André brushed a kiss on the side of her face. “I hope you’re ready for your big night.”
“Just about. My last work is almost done.”
“Good, I’d like to drop by and look at what you’ve accomplished. Then we’ll have to make arrangements for the paintings to be picked up and delivered to the gallery . . . .”
“Great. You call me, all right?”
Mac’s hand came to the small of her back, and he guided her away. Raine ignored the shiver of electricity that skated down her spine at his touch. She waited until they got to the front door and Mac had given his keys to the valet. When she spoke her tone was weary. “Please don’t tell me that you had words with André tonight.”
Mac’s eyes were searching the street in front of them. “We spoke, yeah.”
She waited, but he left it at that. “Now why do I feel like that’s the understatement of the century?”
“I let him know that I was less than pleased with his publicity stunt tonight, if that’s what you’re getting at.” The black truck pulled up in front, and the valet hopped out.
As they headed to the freeway Raine said, “I don’t understand why you made so much of my answering a few questions. I warned you, after all.”
“Because, Raine—” his voice was sardonic “—the less media exposure on this whole mess, the better. I can’t think of any good that could possibly come out of having those letters splashed across the papers. If anything, that kind of attention could encourage the person responsible for them. It could even trigger some sort of copycat threats.”
“That sounds a little farfetched,” she said skeptically.
“Publicity won’t make the detective’s work, or that of the postal investigators, any easier. And the fact that Klassen used it to gain media attention seems a little sick to me. I’d think it would to you, too.”
Raine was silent. She’d been dismayed that André had chosen to go public like that, but she accepted it. It was, after all, in keeping with his character. She’d never been comfortable with that side of the business, the glitz and tinsel that sold newspapers—and promoted her paintings. But she’d entrusted those kinds of decisions to her agent. Macauley didn’t seem to approve of André, and the feeling, she’d noted, was mutual.
“I don’t know what on earth ever happened between the two of you to generate such dislike. I’ve never seen André angrier than he was at the end of the evening.”
“He thinks he owns you. You’d better open your eyes. The man feels his control goes far beyond selling your pictures. He tried to get rid of me once before. He threatened to have me taken off the job, claimed that my crew was too distracting.”
She made a disgusted sound. “That’s just the way he is, Macauley, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s very singular and focused. That’s probably what makes him such a good agent. I managed my life very nicely before you came into it. I can manage my friends, thank you very much.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re going to have to ask yourself if Klassen would have had anything to gain by sending those letters himself,” Mac said in a hard voice. “The publicity stunt he pulled tonight might give clues about his motive.”
She stared at him as if he was crazy. “That has got to be the most half-baked, ridiculous . . .” She closed her eyes as a thought hit her. “Tell me you didn’t voice that suspicion to André.”
His set jaw was all the answer she needed. She groaned feelingly. “I don’t believe you! You don’t give up, do you? No wonder he looked like he was going to explode! I’ve told you before, André is more than my agent, he’s my friend! At least he was before you went after him tonight.”
“It’s a possibility,” he maintained.
“Oh, and then he decided to run me off the road because a picture of my folded up car would make such a good headline? A dead artist is worth more to him than a live one, is that it?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
She stared at him, speechless for a moment. “You have never stopped suspecting my friends, have you? You didn’t ban André, Greg and Sarah from the house, but it wasn’t because I’d convinced you that they could be trusted, was it? It was so you could watch them closer.”
He didn’t deny her allegation, and that seemed to infuriate her even more. “Admit it. For once in your life drop that damn smug silent act of yours and just admit it! Say out loud, ‘Yes, Raine, I suspect one of your closest friends of terrorizing you for weeks and of then trying to kill you!’ Maybe saying it out loud will help you hear how ludicrous it sounds!”
“You can’t be unemotional about this. I understand that,” he said evenly.
Tears smarted in her eyes, and she blinked them away furiously. “No, I can’t. I happen to take friendship a little more seriously than that. But I don’t doubt
your
ability to remain unemotional, Macauley. You’ve had plenty of practice at that, haven’t you?”
Her words hung in the air, and he tightened his jaw against the truth of them. Yeah, right, he was a master at remaining unemotional. He’d perfected the technique and he’d never lost his objectivity. Unless you counted that time in Maghreb. He’d learned a lesson then he’d never forgotten. A man like him wasn’t allowed the same reactions and feelings as others. He had to think with his head and his gut and disregard anything else. Disaster had struck the only time he’d ignored that stricture. He couldn’t take that chance again, not with Raine. She didn’t seem to realize that by concentrating on her, rather than her safety, he could jeopardize rather than protect her. He wouldn’t take that chance.
“Not accepting people at face value is what makes me good at my job. That’s exactly what’s going to keep you safe.”
It was no use arguing with him, she thought. He was a man to whom the job was everything, and he didn’t spare a lot of time worrying about the niceties while he went about doing it. She should be happy to have that single-minded intensity directed toward her safety and her protection. But it was impossible to still the desire to have it focused on
her
, for her own sake. And she continued to be troubled by the fact that it was unfair for her friends to be under suspicion, simply because they were her friends.
“Don’t ask me to help you,” she said bitterly. “And don’t ask me to believe, even for a minute, that one of my friends has anything to do with this.”
The ride back to her home was silent after that. Darkness had long since fallen, and the security lights were shining brightly as they approached her house. It looked, Raine thought sourly, as though they had lit the place up to land small aircraft in the yard. She hated this—all of it. These lights called attention to the fact that she had more to fear these days than mere night. Much more.
The partially finished fence looked like a black skeleton stretching across the front of her property. Macauley made a short terse call on his cell to warn the men they were coming before entering her drive. She snuck a look at him. She might hate the security measures they had been forced to take, but she could never hate him. She was still staunchly loyal to her friends, and he made her angry with his suspicions of them. But even arguing with him, faced with his implacable will, she couldn’t help trusting him. Believing in him.
Loving him.
She sighed and got out of the truck without waiting for him to come around to help her. They walked to the house, still without words. She felt as tightly drawn as a wire, despite the lateness of the hour. This wasn’t going to be a night where sleep came easily, despite the exhaustion that weighted her limbs. Turning on lights in her path, she headed to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. She flicked a light switch near the back door, unlocked the door and let herself out onto the patio.
She sat down and looked into the distance broodingly, sipping occasionally from her glass. When she’d seen Macauley pace this area at night, he hadn’t had the lights on, she remembered. He’d blended into the darkness in a way that said he was comfortable there, a familiar visitor to total blackness. Or maybe he thought he didn’t deserve to live in the light, the way he felt he didn’t deserve so many other things.
Mac stood in the doorway for a time and watched her. She was in a melancholy mood, he could sense it. Not really angry with him anymore, but almost . . . resigned. He found he preferred her anger. He could deal with her sparks, the way she could flare up at him and, more often than he was comfortable remembering, goad him into flaring back. No woman had ever had that kind of effect on him, because nobody else had gotten that close.
He’d been told that his temper was a fearsome thing. But Raine Michaels wasn’t afraid to go toe to toe with him and give him hell right back. The trait shouldn’t have been seductive. But it was.
“Plotting my demise?” he finally questioned, and stepped out on the small patio with her. She didn’t move a muscle, and he knew she’d been aware of his presence.
“I’ll never agree with the way your mind works,” she responded. Then her head moved slowly to face him. “But I’m too darn lazy to dig a six-foot trench. You’re safe with me.”
“I’m not so sure,” he murmured cryptically. A woman who could infiltrate his sterile world and kick more into life than his libido could hardly qualify as safe. Although all signs pointed to the fact that his libido was also alive and well. His hormones were on red alert all the time when he was around her, and often when he wasn’t.
“Where were you last stationed before you left the Army? Iraq? Afghanistan?” she asked suddenly.
He knew then, in that instant, that she’d been out here brooding about him. She’d been holding back a lot of questions since the night he’d let her know, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t much like answering them. He’d spent a career being close lipped and watchful. It had saved his ass on many an occasion. But she’d put things together about him as easily as if she’d written his biography. He no longer questioned that ability of hers. And tonight he wasn’t going to fight it. He’d refused to give anything of himself to her. A few answers seemed little enough.
“Africa, mostly.”
She turned her eyes to him, silently waiting for him to go on.
“It doesn’t particularly matter where. There are lots of countries there with shaky governments, breeding grounds for militant groups anxious to overthrow them. Our country has interests in who controls those governments so we can limit the reach of the terrorists. The people our politicians want to see remain in power there aren’t necessarily good men or wise men. But they allow us access to their countries, and to the groups we’re seeking to stop. My team’s mission was to make sure the right people stayed in power.” Constantly moving, he’d assessed the political climate of the country and, when he had to, arranged events that would help the local government stay in control. The goals hadn’t been his own, but he’d carried them out faithfully.
And in the process lost his soul.
Raine’s eyes were wide as they met his. “What happened to you there?” she whispered. Every instinct she had told her that whatever it was had shaped his view of the world ever since. Was continuing to shape it.
“I miscalculated the danger in one locale. A bomb went off in the hotel where I was staying. Trey dragged me out of the rubble, got me to a hospital.” After a pause, he went on in a flat tone, “I may have blown my cover. The bomb may have been placed there for me, or it could have been one more senseless act of random violence that had been going on in that country. I’ll never know. Forty-seven people died that night.”
“You blame yourself?” She didn’t need his answer, she read it in his silence. This, then, was the cause for the demons that still tormented his conscience.
“Yeah,” he said finally, staring past her, past the lights, into the darkness. “I blame myself.”
She wished suddenly that she’d never brought up the past, hated herself for putting that look on his face. She, better than anyone, should know the pain that resulted from revisiting the past. It was like pulling the scab off a wound that wouldn’t quite heal. The anguish didn’t fade with time, nor did the memories. She almost hoped he’d tell her to go to hell, then clam up again. At least she wouldn’t have to face the bitter regrets on his face or be a witness to his suffering.
But she stopped herself in the midst of her self-castigation. She knew from experience that the past had to be faced before the future could be dealt with. Macauley had to forgive himself before he’d ever feel he deserved anything good life could offer him. That was a truth he’d have to learn to accept. She was more than a little surprised when, after a long silence, he continued.