Chapter Twenty-One
Harper’s phone chimed from somewhere in the living room, but she couldn’t be bothered to move. She’d dozed off in Galen’s arms and it was the first time since this whole ordeal had begun that she felt completely at peace. Another chime came on the heels of the first and reality rained all over Harper’s parade as she remembered two very important things she’d chosen to ignore. One: meet Jason Meader at the museum. And two: call Sophie to let her know she hadn’t met Jason Meader.
Crapballs
.
Galen slept beside her, his breathing deep and even. A year’s worth of pent-up longing and sexual frustration had just been released with the force of a hurricane. Anyone would need a nap after that. Her limbs were deliciously heavy and her body still hummed with the aftermath of her orgasms. It took an actual effort to roll onto her side and check the time on the alarm clock on her bedside table.
Two thirty. She really wasn’t that late. She could still meet Meader and maybe even get back to the apartment for round two before Peggy showed up to relieve Galen for the night. Meader was pretty insistent on the whole “no marshals” thing and she didn’t want to spook him by bringing Galen along. Still, she wasn’t going to disrespect him by running off without a word, or ditch him at his sister’s bakery like she’d originally planned. Not after everything that had just happened. And she’d much rather be reckless with Galen at her side than go it alone.
Harper slid out of the bed and padded to the living room, careful not to wake Galen. Midday love affairs weren’t exactly common occurrences in Harper’s life, but she planned on having many more in the future. And all of them with Galen. She released a contented sigh as a smile curved her lips. The possible days, weeks, and months ahead didn’t seem quite as endless and depressing now. Especially if she was going to be holed up with Galen for all of them.
She grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter and swiped a finger across the screen. Nothing from Sophie, but Meader had fired off a couple of angry texts. Apparently the former aide didn’t like being stood up. Well, he was self-important enough for a career in politics, that was for sure. Fingers flying, she tapped the screen with her thumbs, firing off a quick message that she was running late and for him to wait for her. The museum didn’t close until five and if they left in a few minutes, she’d get there in less than twenty minutes. Meader’s response wasn’t exactly cordial: Fine. But at least she’d gotten him to wait.
Next she sent the same message to Sophie, letting her know that plans had changed and she wasn’t going alone to meet Meader. Sophie responded with a simple: Thank God. I was worried I was going to have to smack some sense into you!
Heh
. Leave it to Sophie to know exactly what to say.
Two people squared away, one overprotective deputy marshal to go. “Galen, get up.” Harper grabbed his slacks and underwear as she hurried into the room, tossing them on top of him while she searched for his shirt. “Get up! We have to leave.” His shirt landed on top of his pants, followed by one sock and then another. “Now!”
Harper’s resounding “now” had Galen shooting out of bed, eyes wide and reaching for his left side as though about to pull a gun. It was almost comical, but she had to appreciate his ability to spring into action. Especially now, when she needed him to get the show on the road. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
He was so cute, bleary-eyed and a little confused. She paused, a dreamy smile curving her lips.
No. Snap out of it, Harp! You can ogle the sexy marshal later
. “Yes, everything’s fine, but we have to leave. We’re going to the art museum and if you don’t hurry up, you’re going to make me late. Again.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” He scrubbed a hand over his face and disentangled himself from his clothes. “What museum?”
“The Portland Art Museum. Haven’t you lived here for a while? You should get out more, which is why a field trip is exactly what you need. Get dressed. I’ll explain everything in the car.” His brow furrowed with confusion. “Galen, now!”
As he gathered up his clothes and pushed himself off the bed, Harper stopped to admire the view. Each individual muscle of his body rippled and flexed with his movement, like a living, breathing work of art. “Harper, the way you’re looking at me isn’t doing much to motivate me to leave.”
Harper snapped to attention, her eyes meeting Galen’s amused expression before venturing lower to see the evidence of his awakening arousal. She should have been embarrassed that he’d caught her staring, but she couldn’t muster up an ounce of shame. He was the embodiment of masculine beauty. “Sorry.” For the record, she totally wasn’t sorry. “Just enjoying the view. But seriously, Galen, get your pants on and let’s go.”
By the time he finished dressing, Harper was ready to burst with impatience. Waiting for him to retrieve his shoulder holster, badge, and jacket was enough to give her heart palpitations. As it was, she was going to be late to meet Meader,
again
, and she still had to convince Galen to go along with her plan. This was definitely not how she’d planned the afternoon to go. But given the chance to do it all over again, she wouldn’t have changed a thing.
“
No
. No way. It’s not going to happen, Harper. Are you insane?”
The fact that she looked at him like she couldn’t understand why he’d object was proof enough to Galen that Harper was, indeed, out of her mind.
“It’s just an interview, Galen. In a public place. What could possibly happen to me in a crowded museum filled with people and priceless, irreplaceable artwork?”
Did she really want him to answer that? A million scenarios flashed in his mind, all of which resulted in him being shit-canned. “Give me one good reason why I should let you conduct an interview with someone who is involved in a federal investigation when—last time I checked—you have no reason to interview him? You’re on leave from work and I’m pretty sure the FBI and Marshals Service haven’t added you to their payrolls.”
“I need to get to the bottom of Ellis’s murder, Galen.” You’d think she was talking about going to the grocery store as casual as she made solving a murder sound. “You know the FBI isn’t going to let up on me as a suspect until they have someone else to look at.”
True. Even with the latest threat, Davis still had his eye on Harper as a suspect. Which was completely asinine. Davis was reaching if he thought Harper was sending herself the sound clips from her interview with Ellis in order to throw them off her scent. Apparently her innocent, freckled face had diabolical criminal mind written all over it.
“It isn’t your job to find Ellis’s murderer, Harper. You’re the witness.
Wit-ness
. Your job is to lay low and let me keep you safe while the trained investigators do their job. You are
not
Nancy Drew.”
And yet, here he was, headed down NW Twenty-third toward the museum as though he had no choice but to chauffer Harper to her destination. The day had shifted gears so quickly Galen was experiencing a bit of whiplash. Harper tempting him with her near naked body, their fight, the intense, mind-blowing sex that had followed, and now, racing to the damned art museum so Harper could get a few minutes with the dead senator’s aide before the museum closed for the day. The past twenty-four hours had his entire year in Paris beat. One thing was certain—life with Harper Allen wasn’t boring.
“I could totally be Nancy Drew, but that’s not the point.” How could she be so calm about all of this? Galen was starting to think that he wouldn’t level out until he had Harper locked up in protective custody somewhere. With him doing the protecting, of course. “I just want to talk to him, that’s all. And it was tough enough getting him to agree to meet me. If I stand him up now, he might not agree to another interview.”
Which was perfectly okay with Galen. “You should have told me sooner, Harper. I could have run this by Curt and we could have set something up at our offices. You know, where it’s nice and secure.”
Harper gave him a look from the corner of her eye. A sort of half grimace that made him nervous. “Well, that’s sort of the thing. He requested that I come alone. No marshals.”
What?
“Harper, you don’t think that’s a little suspicious?” Requesting that she come alone without an escort threw up a red flag the size of Texas as far as Galen was concerned.
“It would be if he wasn’t a politician,” Harper remarked. “Meader is going to run for Ellis’s seat and I think he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and the investigation as possible. Meeting with the key witness and her protective detail is only going to invite attention. He chose the museum, not me. I would have been worried if he’d asked to meet somewhere secluded. You can wait for me outside.”
“No.”
She turned to face him, her expression full of that fierce determination that he admired so much. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Right
. Then why was his instinct telling him to handcuff her to the steering wheel? “Sorry, Harper, but I can’t agree to that. I will, though, let you go in ahead of me.” The museum had decent security, and once inside the doors, Harper would be marginally safe. “I’ll give you a five-minute head start while I check the outside of the building for anything unusual.” Maybe, together, they’d manage to dig something up that would get Davis off her back. “Five minutes, Harper. Got it?”
A smile lit her face and she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Deal.”
Harper got out of the car and hoofed it across SW Park. As she walked up the steps of the Portland Art Museum, she regretted bringing her overstuffed hobo bag. At the security checkpoint, she bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet, until a security guard motioned her forward. He gave her a look and said, “I’m sorry, but no large bags allowed inside the museum. You’re going to have to check this.”
Argh
. She didn’t have the time or the patience for this, but she handed her purse over with a tight smile, anyway. It was for the best, she supposed. This meeting was off the record. Jason would fly out of there like his high-priced loafers were on fire if he thought for a second Harper was recording him or taking notes.
The art museum wasn’t too busy for a weekday, and Harper wandered through the galleries toward the Impressionists exhibit. She really didn’t get out enough. Portland was truly a well-cultured city, and it had been a couple of years since she’d enjoyed what it had to offer. Her senior year of college had been all about work. And last year had been devoted to getting her career off the ground. As she took a seat on a bench in the center of the gallery, Harper had to wonder: would being a witness to Ellis’s murder help or hurt her career? Would anyone take her seriously after this or would she simply be the girl who made a name for herself by being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Harper tilted her head as she studied one of Monet’s “Water Lilies” paintings on the far wall. The distinct thin brushstrokes, vibrant colors, illusion of light, and the texture and depth of the painting made Harper want to reach out and touch it. From a distance, the painting formed a complete picture, a pond filled with beautiful floating green pads and vibrant flowers. But up close, the image blurred and became nothing more than a chaotic splash of color. Harper’s life was beginning to remind her of an impressionist painting: complete and smooth from a distance, but more riotous the closer you got.
Sam had been fielding calls from news outlets for the past couple of weeks. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News,
The Washington Post
,
The New York Times
. All of them wanting an exclusive interview with the witness to Senator Mark Ellis’s murderer. Even TMZ had tried to horn in on the action. They probably studied at the Special Agent Sean Davis School of Assumptions and Wild Theories. They’d love a juicy exposé revealing Harper as Ellis’s lover. When his killer was finally caught, then what? The Marshals Service—and Sam—had pulled considerable strings to keep her out of the spotlight, but when she no longer needed protection, who would she lean on when the media camped outside her condo and the tidal waves of requests became too much? Really, she was kidding herself. Harper had plenty of people in her life who loved and supported her. What had her bent out of shape was the thought that the one person she
wanted
to lean on wouldn’t be there anymore.
“Did you know the term Impressionism came from a slur an art critic made about one of Monet’s early works?”
Jason Meader stood beside Harper to the left of the narrow bench, looking as well-groomed and put together as he had for every one of his recent TV appearances. Whereas Harper had been shunning media attention, Jason had gobbled it up, using Ellis’s death to kick his own political career into high gear.
He probably thought he was hot shit spewing little art factoids at her. Probably how he impressed the nineteen-year-old interns at the office. “He also drew caricatures when he was young.”
Jason turned to face Harper. From the smug look on his face, he enjoyed making people feel small. She was pretty sure he was in his midforties, though he gave off a much younger vibe. He was the perfect cookie-cutter politician. Just the right amount of good-looking for television, with a smile that was both charming and self-assured. Straight nose, strong chin, and groomed eyebrows—even his nondescript brown hair was perfectly cut, not a hair out of place. Harper didn’t have to look at his hands to know they’d been recently manicured. With his metrosexual style and Ken doll proportions, he was strong and masculine without looking too threatening. His gray wool suit probably cost more than a month of Harper’s rent, and his light gray and blue striped silk tie accented his sky-blue eyes, which, in her opinion, were the only memorable thing about Senator Ellis’s former aide.