In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (10 page)

Too bad they hadn't met under more normal circumstances.

Except it wouldn't have mattered. A man like Nick would
never be interested in her. Four-eyes, the kids used to tease.
They'd made fun of her limp too, which had been far more
pronounced when she was a child. Mousy hair, unremarkable
brown eyes, and average looks didn't help, either. It was no
wonder she was spending Valentine's Day alone.

The doorbell chimed again, and Rachel jumped. Good grief!
How long had she been ogling the tall agent outside her door?
Too long, she concluded, watching as parallel grooves appeared
on his brow.

Pasting on a fake smile, she stepped back from the peephole and pulled open the door. "Thanks for dropping by, Agent
Bradley."

The genuine smile he gave her in return dented his left cheek
with a dimple-and turned her insides to mush.

"No problem. I'm just sorry this happened:" Large, downy
flakes of snow continued to fall, their icy facets sparkling in the
porch light as they dusted the shoulders of his dark wool coat
and settled on his sandy hair. One snagged an eyelash, and she
watched, mesmerized, as he smiled and brushed it away with
long, lean fingers. "Looks like we're in for another round of
dismal weather"

Weather. He was talking about the weather. Somehow she
managed to shift gears. "That's what the meteorologists are saying. I'm glad it's the weekend and I don't have to go anywhere
until Sunday. Come in, please" She moved aside.

He stepped over the threshold, his tall frame and broad shoulders immediately dwarfing her small living room. As she shut
the door behind him, he gave the room a quick sweep. She did the
same, certain his astute gaze missed none of the untidiness-the
teal blue and violet throw carelessly tossed over the off-white
couch; the books of music piled in one of the matching pair of blue upholstered chairs that flanked the fireplace; the art book
that lay open on top of the old brass-trimmed trunk that served
as a coffee table.

Nor would he fail to notice the fuzzy, hot-pink slippers she'd
discarded by the fireplace a couple of nights ago. They were
blinking up at him like a neon light from the polished hardwood
floor. And two days' worth of mail was piled on one end of the
mantel, beside a small framed photo.

"Have a seat while I get rid of these:" She snatched up a bud
vase of wilting daisies from the end table next to the couch. If
she couldn't clean up the rest of the room, at least she could
dispense with the pathetic flowers. "I usually replace these on
Friday, but the floral counter at the grocery store would be a
zoo tonight. I'll be back in a sec"

Leaving him in the living room, she fled to the kitchen. After
disposing of the limp daisies, she took a moment to draw a
deep, calming breath. If Nick Bradley had struck her as powerful
and imposing at the FBI office, his commanding presence in
her tiny house was overwhelming. He seemed to fill the room
with strength. And muscle. And masculinity. It was a heady
combination.

But letting it go to her head was foolish. She knew that. She
was a sensible person who recognized romantic fantasies for
what they were-fantasy. Her reaction tonight was an aberration. Attributable to Valentine's Day, she was sure. And that
reminded her of her plan to send Nick on his way with dispatch
so he could get started on his own celebration.

He was still standing when she returned. Good. No use getting comfortable. He wouldn't be here long.

She moved behind the couch, keeping it between them as she
rested her hands on the damask fabric. "I tried to call you back,
but you'd already left. We can talk about the leak another time,
Agent Bradley. I'm sure you have plans for this evening."

Silence greeted her comment. As it lengthened, the slight
narrowing of his eyes, the tiny twitch of his lips, the merest tilt
of his head told her he was debating his response.

"Unless working on my house rehab project counts as plans,
no, I don't:" The words came out slow and measured as he fixed
her with a steady, candid gaze.

Rachel tried not to look too astonished at his disarming honesty. "Oh. Well ... in any case, I hate to infringe on your free
time."

One corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'm used to unusual
hours. The bad guys never take a day off."

Her own lips twitched in response. "I guess that's true. Okay
... if you're positive you don't mind, why don't I take your
coat?"

He shrugged it off and handed it to her, waiting until she took
a seat on one end of the couch before claiming the other end.

"I thought about the situation on the drive over." He shifted
toward her and draped one arm across the upholstered back.
"I had dinner with two couples last Friday night after you and
I talked. They're the ones I told about your situation. Both of
the men are agents. One of the couples lives in Virginia and
was only here for the weekend. There was no opportunity for
him or his wife to tell anyone in St. Louis. The other agent and
his wife live here. I called him from my car. They haven't said
anything to anyone, either. I'm thinking the leak had to be from
your end. You mentioned you'd told a friend about the incident
and asked her to check with her husband. Could anyone have
overheard the two of you talking?"

"No. We were alone in the teachers' lounge:'

"What about your friend or her husband? Could they have
told someone else?"

"I asked Marta not to, and she promised me neither of them
would say a word. I trust her."

Nick raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head.
"This doesn't make sense:"

"Kind of like the story I told you last week:" Rachel flashed
him a quick smile devoid of humor.

"Actually, that story seems more plausible to me now"

Rachel leaned forward intently. "What do you mean? Did you
discover some information about the doll?"

"No. But the wife of one of the agents I had dinner with last
week is a psychologist. She suggested the doll may be a trigger
for some memory buried deep in your subconscious. And since
the reaction only happens when you touch it, she thought the
tactile sensation could be tapping into that memory"

Rachel's brow puckered. "I suppose that's possible. Looking at
the doll doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, it gives me kind
of a warm feeling. Only touching it is bad. I don't remember
having a Raggedy Ann doll, but I spent my childhood in foster
care and very little went with me from house to house. So I may
have had one at some point"

His eyebrows arched. "You were a foster child?"

"Yes. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was
nine months old. From what little I've been able to glean about
her, she was a single mom with no family except a father who
disowned her after she became pregnant. That's her, on the
mantel. It's the only picture I have"

Nick examined the photo of the young auburn-haired mother.
The highlights in Rachel's hair bore the same hue, but beyond
that, he saw little resemblance. Yet she did remind him of someone, though he couldn't put his finger on who. And this wasn't
the time to try and solve that riddle. At the moment, he was
more interested in the woman beside him-and her surprising
revelation.

Shifting his attention back to Rachel, Nick tipped his head.
"No one adopted you?"

She gave him a rueful smile. "No one wanted me. I was in
the accident too, and sustained serious injuries. You might have
noticed my limp. This ankle has lots of bolts and screws" She
wiggled her right foot. "I can't blame potential adoptive parents
for backing off. Who would want to take on a kid with lots of
injuries requiring multiple surgeries? So when I wasn't in the
hospital or rehab, I was in foster care. A Raggedy Ann may
have been part of my life, but if it was, the memory is buried
very deep" She pulled her left leg under her. "Getting back to
the reason for your visit-how do you think my story leaked
to the press?"

Nick didn't want to talk about the leak. He wanted to find
out more about the intriguing woman an arm's length away. Although she'd spoken about her background in a conversational,
straightforward manner, the kind of trauma she'd endured must
have taken a toll. Yet it didn't show. Rachel Sutton radiated a
quiet, steady strength, suggesting she'd weathered the storms
in her life admirably. Far better, he suspected, than he had. A
dozen questions clamored to be asked. But a personal discussion
wasn't the purpose of his visit tonight.

Leaning forward, he clasped his hands between his knees and
concentrated on the matter at hand. "If you didn't tell anyone
else, I think your friend is the key."

Rachel shook her head. "I don't buy that. The only time she and
Joe talked about it was when they went to dinner last Thursday,
and she said he agreed to keep it confidential:"

"They were in a restaurant?"

"Yes"

"It's not difficult to eavesdrop in a public place:"

I suppose that's true, but the odds of someone in the media
just happening to sit close enough to hear their conversation
seem very low'

"Stranger things have happened. A lot of the tips we get are the result of people being in the right place at the right time.
What restaurant did they go to?"

"I'm not sure. I could find out from her on Monday."

"How about tonight? I can ask the restaurant to check the
credit card receipts from last Thursday and see if any of them
belonged to Claudia Barnes. That could tell us how the leak
happened. I'd rather nail this sooner than later"

"Sure. I can give her a call. With two kids under six, they're
spending Valentine's Day watching an animated video:" Flashing
him a quick grin, Rachel rose. "Give me a couple of minutes"

True to her word, she was back in less than ninety seconds and
relayed the information. "If there is a match, is there anything
I can do to stop the story?"

Nick wished there was. From the little she'd told him about
her past, it sounded like Rachel had endured far more than her
share of difficulties. "I'd like to say yes, but the answer is not
much. Freedom of the press and all that. Unfortunately, St. Louis
Scene leans toward the more sensational stuff. They've called our
media relations office in the past, trying to dig up information for
crime-related stories, and despite our `no comment' response,
they tend to do the pieces anyway. A lot of what they write is
speculation and conjecture, but they're careful to couch their
coverage in those terms rather than present it as fact. Or they
get quotes from pseudo experts or friends of victims. That buys
them a lot of wiggle room:'

Distress tightened Rachel's features. "In other words, I'm out
of luck"

"Unless they decide not to run the story based on your unwillingness to cooperate"

"The reporter seemed very determined. I got the feeling she's
not going to back down" Her shoulders slumped.

Nick tried to think of some way to console her. "Look at it
this way, Ms. Sutton. Most people who know about or read St. Louis Scene are aware of its reputation. I think readers take
the coverage with a grain of salt. And the publication doesn't
have a huge circulation. It's pretty much under the radar screen
for the average St. Louisan. I suspect most of the people you
associate with aren't the type who waste their time on that sort
of tabloid. The coverage is also very fleeting. A week after it
comes out, it will be old news:'

Rachel's tense posture eased slightly, and the hint of a smile
touched those soft lips. "Thanks for trying to put a better spin
on this"

"Everything I said is true. But just to satisfy our curiosity,
I'll check with the restaurant tomorrow morning and let you
know what I find"

"I appreciate that"

His business was finished. It was time to leave. But Nick didn't
move. Nor did Rachel.

In the sudden stillness, she ran the tip of her tongue over
her lips in a gesture he'd come to recognize as nothing more
than a nervous habit. Yet it managed to launch his pulse into
overdrive. Her appeal was compounded by the flickering flames
in the fireplace, which burnished the auburn highlights in her
hair and brought a slight flush to her cheeks. He couldn't recall
when he'd last met such a lovely, intelligent woman.

All at once, an idea began to percolate in his mind. Or perhaps
inspiration was a better word. Both he and Rachel had unexciting plans for the evening. How would she react if he suggested
they spend a couple of hours together? Not talking about dolls
and vibes and media, but getting to know each other?

He tried to gauge her mood, but all he could pick up was nervousness. Not unlike what he'd sensed at the office a week ago.
Except that day her eyes hadn't grown soft or held the yearning
he thought he detected tonight in their depths. Unless he was
seeing things he wanted to see rather than reality.

The only way to find out was to test the water.

"I guess that wraps things up for now." He remained seated,
hoping for some signal that would suggest she might be open
to an offer to extend the evening.

"I guess it does" She fumbled for one of the cushions in the
corner of the couch and hugged it against her midsection. "I'm
sorry I delayed your dinner. You must be hungry."

Yeah. He was. But food wasn't going to satisfy the sudden
hunger inside him.

He cleared his throat. "It won't take me long to throw an
omelet together"

She blinked. "You're making an omelet for dinner?"

One side of his mouth hitched up. "Believe it or not, I'm a
decent cook"

"I didn't mean to imply you weren't. But an omelet doesn't
seem like enough for .." The rosy hue of her cheeks deepened,
and she lifted one shoulder in apology. "I mean, I'd sort of pegged
you as the inch-thick-steak kind of guy."

"See how deceiving looks can be? I rarely eat beef-and have
even been known to experiment with tofu, much to the disgust
of my friends. But I must admit I made the same mistake about
you. When we met, I sort of pegged you as ..." He let the sentence trail off and gave her a half smile.