Weakest Lynx (24 page)

I gave a noisy yawn and pushed to sitting. “I thought Blaze would be lonely all by himself, so I decided to keep him company.” Yeah, really I had come running down the stairs just after midnight, freaked out from a nightmare I couldn’t remember once my eyes popped opened.

“I see,” Striker said.

“So? Did you catch the bad guy?” I gripped Striker’s forearm with anticipation. Trepidation. I hoped I was right. Why though? Because I wanted this case off their shelf, so they could go full force after Stalker? Or did I want to impress Striker as much as he had always impressed me?
Hell in a handbasket
, my inner self sent the warning, and I sat contritely. Chastened. I pulled my brows together in a scowl. I hadn’t done anything, said anything, thought anything wrong. Why should I feel guilty?

“We found our man in bed with a bottle of scotch, a fat cigar, and the
Washington Post
. He’s being fingerprinted as we speak.” Striker pushed to standing and reached for my hand to help me up.

“Where’s everyone else?” I glanced toward the garage door.

“They went home to catch some shut-eye before we meet later. Which’s what I’m going to do, too. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Jack’s coming in to relieve Blaze.”

I followed along behind him as he walked to the stairs, hoping he’d share some details from the capture. I still wanted to know what the guy had done wrong. Striker stopped with his foot resting on the first tread, and turned to me, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

“You’re a curious woman, Lexi Sobado. I believe you have a lot of secrets. And I think those secrets might be the key to how you ended up in the middle of this mess.” He stared down at me. “I want you to consider your situation, and if you’re willing to work openly with us or not. That means
full
disclosure. You’ll share everything that might help us get this guy.” His clipped tone held none of his earlier warmth—commander mode. “I don’t see us being much help to you if you decide to keep things to yourself, and we’re left chasing down the wrong intelligence.” He crossed his arms authoritatively over his broad chest as he scrutinized me.

I curled my lips in to hold back the words wanting to spring forth. The move felt defiant to me. I didn’t like Striker’s tone or stance. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

“Lexi, I can’t force you to trust us. I’m just hoping you will.” He paused. “I don’t think you want to work through this on your own. What do you think?”

I didn’t know what to think beyond desperately wanting to talk to Spyder. “I think you owe me a prize.” I worked up an innocent fluffy-bunny smile.

Striker wrapped an arm around my neck, gave me a kiss on the top of my forehead, and walked me over to the garage. He cracked the door, reached inside, and pulled out a guitar case.

“Oh!” I did a little happy dance. “How did you know?” I asked as I scooped it into my hands.

“I have some sources.” Striker chuckled, obviously pleased with my reaction.

“Thank you so much.” I offered up a genuine smile.

“I’m gonna hit the rack. I’ll be down for lunch. What grandma is Tuesday?” he asked, heading for the stairs.

“Biji—she’s from Punjab, India.”

I went to the kitchen. “Is it you, me, and Jack for breakfast, this morning?” I asked Blaze.

“Gater has to run by Headquarters and pick up a file before he heads back to the field. He’ll be here to eat at seven.” Blaze shifted the papers around in front of him.

I put a pot of water on to boil while I peeled some potatoes and chopped up onion, ginger, and green chili, making the filling for the
aloo paratha
.

At seven on the dot, the phone rang, announcing the arrival of a team member. Though two cars motored up the drive, Jack and Gater came in together. “Goodness gracious, ma’am. I could smell that all the way outside—sure do smell good.”

“I made a traditional breakfast bread from India.”

“I was pretty sure it weren’t grits.” He pulled out a seat for me. Blaze had already cleared his stuff away and put the food on the table with butter and vegetables pickled with mustard seeds. I spooned plain yogurt into our bowls.

“Okay, guys. I made what I usually eat on Tuesdays for breakfast. It’s going to be different from what you’re used to, so I won’t be offended if it’s not to your liking.” I demonstrated how to dollop some butter into the center for dipping, and how to take the smallest amount of the intensely flavored pickled vegetables and fold them into the bread.

“Have you got any more puzzles to work on today?” I asked as we ate. I crossed my fingers under the table; I liked the diversion of a good puzzle.

“Not right now,” Jack said.

I took a sip of tea to cover my disappointed frown. “Usually, I cook Indian foods all day on Tuesdays. If you don’t think you’ll like that, I could make up some sandwiches.”

“Not necessary, ma’am. Breakfast tasted delicious.” Jack wiped the butter from his lips with his napkin and stood up.

“Yes, ma’am, unusual, but I liked it. What do you do for dinner on Indian day?” Gater went to the kitchen to clean up.

“I thought I’d make Tandoori chicken. I already have the chicken defrosting, but Randy says we can’t use an outdoor grill.”

“No, ma’am.” Blaze set his coffee mug down. “You might attract attention. Could you put it under the broiler? I love Tandoori chicken.”

“I can try. I have no idea how that’ll turn out. Are you planning to be back for dinner?”

“Yes, ma’am, we’ll all be here.” Blaze stood up to help the other men in the kitchen.

That was the highlight of my day. Jack put his nose into his work files until Striker woke up. I fixed lunch. We ate it. I strummed my guitar. I made samosas and Darjeeling tea for three o’clock teatime. I spent some time staring out the window, some time flipping through the TV channels, and some time figuring out how to handle what Striker had said to me about my secrets. But I had to do that in small snippets. When I felt anxiety entwining with my thoughts, I pushed those ideas aside, and reached for the safety of anything that would numb my emotions. Day three in my safe house, and I still aimed for an adrenaline-free day.

Dinner turned out “okay.” Biji would never have served it. Biji had a Tandoor oven; her chicken was always falling-off-the-bone tender—every bite rich with spice. The lentil soup and vegetables tasted good, though. Randy had brought tangerines, and that made a sweet ending to the meal. While we were eating, Deep asked how I learned to cook. I told them about the Kitchen Grandmas.

“Which day belongs to your Italian grandmother?” Deep asked.

“Thursday. Why?”

“Tomorrow’s my birthday, and I always miss my Nona’s manicotti when my birthday comes around.”

“Normally, Wednesday is Nana Kate, and you’d get all-American fare, but I don’t think it’s breaking a rule to switch the two. Anything else you’d like me to make other than the manicotti?”

Deep grinned. “Surprise me.”

Jack swallowed his food, then said, “Sounds like a lot of work to learn five different cultures. How did you get through your homework?”

I laughed. “Everything I did was homework. I was unschooled.”

“Is that like homeschooling?” Deep asked.

“Yeah, just less organized.” I stood up and started to clear the table.

The men pushed their chairs back. Blaze took the dishes from my hands. “We’ll handle the KP, ma’am.”

I wandered into the living area. The house was built, I’d guessed, around 1930. Someone had obviously updated the inside. The downstairs was now a great room. Coming in from the garage, you’d find a laundry room to the left and a bathroom to the right. The modest-sized kitchen, with all the surfaces in easy reach, made cooking easy. A raised breakfast bar with stools separated the kitchen from the living room and dining room areas. By taking out the downstairs walls and allowing it all to be one room, it made the small space seem both intimate and spacious. Even with seven large men, I didn’t feel like we got under each other’s feet.

Good-quality, sturdy furnishings filled the space. Not fancy. Livable. The furniture fabrics were earth toned with a lot of auburns and chocolates accented by robin’s egg blue. A decidedly Crate and Barrel feel defined this room. Underfoot, beige carpet stretched from wall to wall in the living room and hall; in the dining room and kitchen, the designer chose wood.

I shuffled my bunny slippers over to the couch and started picking at my guitar. It surprised me when the men gathered around to join in. I took a few requests. Deep had a beautiful voice, and our voices blended well when we tried a few songs.

Randy knew a lot of the songs I had learned at the Sobados’ apartment. Randy came from El Salvador. He had Latino dark coloration. I’d think he would have a name reflecting his culture and not something that sounded like a naughty English schoolboy. I bet his call name proved particularly effective. No one would put the two together.

As we sang and I played, Striker stood aloof off to the side, leaning against the wall, watching. He looked at ease to the casual eye, but he didn’t fool me. This man was taking my measure. I wondered what he thought of me. Striker hadn’t confronted me again about my secrets. He let me marinate in my anxiety.

After a while, I yawned, stretched, and told the guys I was beat. Taking a book off the shelf—
Pride and Prejudice,
an old friend—I went to clean myself up for bed.

I fell into a deep sleep just as Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett made each other’s acquaintance at the ball. My book smooshed into the pillow under my head as my eyes closed. Barely awake, I heard soft footsteps come into my room. Striker pulled the novel from under my head, tucked my covers up to my chin, and turned off my light.

Sounds outside my door brought me awake again around two in the morning, dragging me out of my crazy dream. In my dream, a giant blew magical bubbles, trapping me inside. I’d float toward the sun, but then my bubble would pop, and I’d fall back to the ground. Just before I hit down, another bubble caught me up. This had been going on for some time. I was relieved to have woken up. Besides, I had to use the bathroom.

I stumbled out of bed and down the hall, pushing hair out of my half-closed eyes. I opened the door to the bathroom, and there stood Striker, looking like a model for Bowflex. Toothbrush in hand. Wet hair. Freshly showered. Naked. My eyes traveled down his muscular body and stopped at his family jewels. I felt a little frown line form between my eyes as I focused.

“Lexi, I’ll be done in a minute.” Striker seemed unabashed.

“Okay.”

“Lexi?”

“Oh! I’m sorry to barge in on you …” My voice trailed off as I did some more looking, the door wide open, my hand resting on the knob.

“Lexi, you’re staring.”

“Yes, it’s rude to stare.” I stuttered, feeling moronic. Flushing painfully. “It’s just, I’ve never actually seen a real penis before. You know, a man’s penis. I’ve seen lots of little boy penises from changing diapers and babysitting.”
Shut up! Stop talking!

“You’re married.” Striker’s voice sounded strangled—probably choking back laughter. This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t I move?

“Yes, yes. Married.” I continued, my words catching in my throat because as I watched, it started to grow! My mouth gaped.

“Lexi?” Striker put his toothbrush away in the holder, and reached for a towel.

“Wow!” Who knew they got so big? It was a little frightening. I feverishly wished I had seen Angel’s penis. Then this would be a nonevent. I wouldn’t be so shocked. I’d just say, “Excuse me,” and shut the damned door. Instead, I stood like an idiot with my eyes wide open, and my brows up in my hairline. “You could make a balloon animal with that!” my mouth said, before I could stop it.

Striker was out-and-out laughing at me now as he wrapped a towel around his waist.

I looked at him, startled. I shook my head. “Chablis didn’t prepare me. She said white men were smaller.” It sounded accusatory as if it was his fault he was well endowed.

Striker took me by the elbow and propelled me out of the bathroom to the hall. He went into his room, removed the towel, pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, arranged himself, and dressed in gray sweats. He came back out and guided me down the stairs to the kitchen. That felt better. Safe, and nonsexual. Thank God. I was still a little in shock.

Striker poured milk into a large glass measuring cup. He put it into the microwave and punched the buttons. While the milk heated, he took two green mugs out of the cabinet, and emptied hot chocolate packets into each. I perched on a stool, elbows on the counter, head balanced against my clasped hands, looking down at the surface. I was reviewing
the bathroom scene. Good God, this felt awkward, especially sitting here in silence under the bright lights.

Striker poured the hot milk into the mugs, pushed mine over to me, and handed me a spoon. All of my attention went to stirring in the powder. When I dared to sneak a peek at Striker’s expression, I found bemused assessment. I could almost read the “this is going to be good,” thoughts in his head.

Finally, he said, “Okay. Let me try to understand what happened.” His tone invited confidence.

My focus went to blowing on the hot cocoa.

“You are married, right?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“To a man?”

I quickly looked up. I saw mirth dancing in his eyes though the rest of his face remained impassive. I dropped my gaze, again. “You know I married Angel Sobado. He’s an Army Ranger.”

“Reviewing the facts from the beginning. Have you and Angel had sex?”

Ugh. Way, way too personal! But I had compared the man’s erection to a balloon animal, so I guessed I did owe him some sort of an explanation. “No, we haven’t.” My memory flickered back to my conversation with Miriam Laugherty. Angel would correct that as soon as he got home. My face turned what I assumed to be a bright tomato-red.

“Do you want to explain?”

I sighed heavily. “Okay. Here it is in a nutshell. Angel and I only knew each other for three weeks when we got married. We met when my apartment building burned down. We fell in love, pretty much at first sight, and we spent a lot of time holding hands and kissing and stuff. But, his great aunt, my Abuela Rosa, had her eye on us. His family is from Puerto Rico—devout Catholics, or at least the women are. Angel’s family wanted him to marry a good Catholic virgin.”