In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (29 page)

She swallowed and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I'll get
the pizza:"

As she started to rise, he caught her cold fingers in his hand
again. "It's going to be okay, Rachel. Don't worry."

The whisper of a smile tugged at her lips. "Am I that transparent?"

"No. But you told me yourself you're not into cloak-anddagger stuff. I know this is stressful for you"

"More so for Rebecca and Colin. We need to find Megan, Nick.
If sitting through one press conference and watching my back for
a few days will help make that happen, I can deal with it:"

"You sit through the press conference. I'll take care of watching your back. And other things:" He grinned and winked. "As
a matter of fact, I was hoping you'd let me hang around a lot
over the weekend."

She gave him an uncertain smile. "I thought you wanted to
keep your distance until the case was over, except for official
business"

"I think this qualifies. Though I wouldn't call it hardship duty."

A soft flush suffused her cheeks. "I'd welcome the company.
Now let's have that pizza"

As Rachel disappeared through the swinging doors to her
kitchen, Nick contemplated the appealing Mediterranean scene
on her dining room wall. He wished he could transport her to
a place like that for the duration, somewhere safe and far away,
where no one would need to watch her back.

Since that wasn't possible, he would do his best, as he'd promised. And in reality, there was very little chance Rachel faced
imminent danger.

Yet Nick was uneasy at some deep, intuitive level.

He tried to attribute his edginess to his growing feelings for
the woman who'd walked into his office-and his life-three
weeks ago, clutching a tattered Raggedy Ann doll. Given how
he felt about her, it was logical that any whiff of danger would
put him on red alert.

But he sensed the source of his apprehension was more sinister in nature. That it had less to do with his feelings for Rachel
and more to do with some peril lurking close by.

It wasn't a new feeling for Nick. He'd had hunches before. And
he'd learned to trust his instincts. Though this one was vague,
it was strong. And he didn't intend to ignore it.

Meaning Rachel was about to acquire a shadow.

"Hey, Allen. What are you doing at work on Saturday?"

Allen Harris looked up from the academic journal he was
reading. Warren Peterson stood in his office door, bulging satchel
in hand. "I should ask you that question. You never come in on
the weekend'

The man shrugged and stuck his free hand in his pocket. "I got
behind while I was out of town. I needed to grade some papers,
and it's quieter here than at home. Caitlin had a sleepover last
night for her tenth birthday, and the house is chaos. Picture this:
a dozen pre-pubescent girls, the yapping puppy Joan agreed to
watch for her sister, and that high-volume noise the girls call
music. Joan took pity on me and shooed me out the door"

One corner of Allen's mouth quirked up, but a touch of melancholy tinged his voice. "She's one in a million, Warren"

"Don't I know it. I'll never understand what she saw in me.
And talk about patience. She doesn't even get mad when I forget
our anniversary, the way most wives would. Oh, that reminds
me:" He set the briefcase down with a thump. "I ran into your
ex in St. Louis"

That was a surprise. Allen had assumed Debra was still in
Chicago. But he didn't really care where she was. Unlike Warren,
he hadn't been lucky in love. His marriage had been a disaster
from the beginning. He'd give ten years of his life if he could
erase the three he'd been Debra's husband.

"She lives there now," Warren offered when Allen didn't respond. "Had a cute little baby in the backseat of her car. Said
she was watching her for a friend"

"We don't stay in touch, Warren. How was the conference?"

"Sorry." The man flushed and bent to pick up the briefcase.
"Sensitive subject, I guess. Never was good on picking up nuances. The conference was okay. A couple of interesting papers
were presented. Want me to pass along the material I picked
up?"

"Yes. Thanks:"

With a nod, the other man ambled off.

Swiveling toward the window, Allen stared at the lifeless winter scene. The trees were bare, the sky gray, the grass dead. It
was pretty much how he'd felt after Debra entered his life and
sent it spiraling out of control.

He'd called himself every kind of fool over the past few years.
Told himself he should have seen through her from the beginning. But she'd been good. Very good. And very focused. She'd
gone after what she'd wanted with single-minded determination,
and despite his PhD, his academic honors, and his high IQ, he'd
fallen for her subterfuge hook, line, and sinker.

Yet he'd had no reason to suspect her feelings for him were
less than genuine. She'd flattered him with her attention from
the day they'd vied for the single table remaining at a popular
lunch spot and ended up agreeing to share it. He hadn't called
her afterward; she'd called him. And for a thirty-eight-year-old
introverted chemistry professor, that kind of attention from
a lovely woman was heady. While he'd always wanted a wife
and family, shyness had hindered his pursuit of that dream.
Debra had made it easy. She'd charmed and teased him into
marriage.

But her focus had shifted once they'd wed. In her relentless
pursuit of pregnancy, he'd begun to feel more like a means to an
end than a husband and partner. Their relationship went from
romantic to utilitarian with a swiftness that left him reeling.

He'd tried to talk to Debra about it. Words, however, had
never been his strong suit. As time passed, as she miscarried
once, then twice, she'd grown frantic. He'd done his best to convince her to seek help for her emotional issues. He'd believed in
the for-better/for-worse vows they'd taken. Believed he should
stick by his wife despite her problems.

Except her problems hadn't exactly been run-of-the-mill. And they'd overwhelmed him, especially after the third failed
pregnancy had left her barren. He'd found himself sinking with
her, unable to cope, stressed to the point that his doctor prescribed Valium. His professional life had begun to suffer. He
hadn't been able to sleep at night. He'd even begun to worry
about his physical safety.

That was when he'd known he had to get out.

It had been a matter of survival.

In the end, much as he'd dreaded the added turmoil a breakup
would cause, he'd felt as if a great burden had been lifted from
his shoulders the day the divorce decree arrived in the mail.
He'd walked out of Debra's life and never looked back. Nor did
he think about her, unless prompted.

Like a few minutes ago.

And even that brief discussion had elevated his pulse.

Leaning his head against the back of his leather chair, Allen
did some of the breathing exercises he'd learned in the meditation class he'd taken last fall. They were better at restoring calm
than any of the tranquilizing medication he'd weaned himself
off of. As was the reminder that Debra was gone. Her problems,
whatever they might be these days, were no longer his.

Thank God.

With a flourish, Rachel finished the rendition of her final
signature piece, "Our Love Is Here to Stay," acknowledged the
smattering of applause from the patrons who'd lingered over
their tea and pastries, and closed her music. She was eager to
get home and call Nick, as she'd promised. That conversation
would be a lovely end to a lovely weekend.

True to his word, he'd stuck close for the past two days. They'd
had lunch together on Saturday, lingering in the cafe well into the afternoon as they discussed the dining room mural sketches
she'd prepared for his consideration. From there they'd taken in
a movie, followed by a late dinner of Chinese takeout, shared
at her house.

This morning she'd gone to services with him. Again, she'd
found the experience uplifting, and the minister's sermon on
the sixty-first psalm had offered unexpected comfort.

Nick had planned to drop her off at tea, run a few errands,
and come by for her afterward, but at the last minute Mark
had paged him. The SWAT team was being called out to assist
with the arrest of a high-risk suspect-and he was on it, as she'd
discovered this morning. Apparently it was an ancillary duty for
a select group of agents on the reactive squad. That news hadn't
left her feeling warm and fuzzy. Nor had the term "high risk"
Risk to whom-the suspect or the SWAT team?

He'd been evasive when she'd asked that question, his concern
more for the risk to her than to himself. But she'd assured him
she'd be extra careful. She'd promised to park close to the hotel
entrance, go straight home, and call him on his BlackBerry as
soon as she arrived.

In truth, she wasn't very worried as she retrieved her coat
from the employee lounge and slipped it on. The newest Scene
article hadn't incited any more contact from crazies. They must
all have called after the first story. The media had been pretty
quiet too. A couple of calls from local outlets, including a radio
talk show, but she'd let them roll to her answering machine and
hadn't returned them. Nick's concern was touching, but she was
beginning to think it was the proverbial tempest in a teapot.

Tucking her music in the crook of her arm, she pulled on her
gloves and headed toward the lobby.

"Bundle up, Rachel:" The tall, portly doorman smiled and
pulled the door open for her. "Last check, the temperature was
fifteen. You don't want to know the wind chill:"

"Thanks for the warning, Henry" She turned up the collar of
her coat. "What's the forecast?"

"Temperature is supposed to drop into the single digits after
midnight:"

"Then I think I'll head home and snuggle up by the fire with
a good book:"

"Sounds like a plan. See you next week:"

A gust of icy wind whipped past as Rachel stepped outside,
and she burrowed deeper into the collar of her coat. As far as
she was concerned, spring couldn't come too soon. She picked
up her pace, anxious to crank up the heater and get home.

She was mere steps away from her car when a voice stopped
her.

"Rachel Sutton?"

Turning, Rachel glanced at the person who had addressed her.
From the vocal quality and build, she was sure it was a woman.
But it was impossible to confirm that visually. The figure was
dressed in a long, shapeless gray coat. A wool hat, pulled low,
hid the hair. Oversized sunglasses obscured the upper half of the
face, and a purple tweed muffler concealed the bottom half.

It was the sunglasses that set off alarm bells in Rachel's brain.
The day was overcast, and what little light remained was waning.
No protection from the sun's glare was needed.

She edged toward her car. "Can I help you with something?"

"I recognized you from the picture in St. Louis Scene:"

Oh, great. Another psychic groupie. The woman was probably harmless, but Rachel gave the parking lot a surreptitious
sweep. Just in case. Unfortunately, the cold seemed to have
driven everyone indoors. Where she wanted to be. The sooner
the better.

"I'm sorry, I need to go:"

As she started to back away, the woman moved close.

Too close.

In-your-face close.

Before Rachel could jerk back, the woman grabbed her arm.
Rachel gasped and lost her grip on her folder. It fell to the pavement, spewing music in all directions.

The woman cursed in her ear, and Rachel felt a jab in her
side. Even through the layers of wool, she could tell the object
was hard. And blunt.

"This is a gun. I'll use it unless you do exactly what I say. Pick
up the music. And trust me ... one false move and you'll die
on this parking lot"

This can't be happening.

As that thought ripped through Rachel's mind, a prod in her
side refuted it.

"Pick up the music" A sharper jab.