Broken Honor (21 page)

“Amy …”

Hands again. Grabbing at her.

Then she felt arms go around her. Not rough or hostile.

“Amy.” The voice came again. Gentle. Comforting. The fear stared to fade.

Her eyes flickered open. Her head felt heavy, her throat thick, her mouth dry.

“It's all right, Amy. You're safe.” Hands were on her. This time, warm, comforting hands. Even possessive hands. Bo whined plaintively beside the bed.

The memories came flooding back. The men bursting into her room. The gunshot. So loud in the confines of the small room. A shiver of fear remained.

She looked up at him. Pale light was creeping through the drawn curtains behind him. His hair was mussed, and his cheeks had a golden stubble again. He wore jeans but no shirt, and he looked obscenely attractive. The proximity of his body, and the heat radiating from it, comforted her, warming the chill that pushed her under the covers.

He held her for a moment, then she inched away, embarrassed. She'd been embarrassed when they had gotten ready for bed last night. Fortunately they had both been too tired to do much more than fall into their respective beds.

Amy was only too aware they'd slept together the night earlier, but that, she'd told herself, had been reaction to near death. Nothing more.

That's all this is, too
.

But despite the warmth of his hand that still held hers, the panic didn't subside, and she knew part of it came from being so close to him.

Her entire world had been turned upside down. All the sanity she worked so hard to construct was gone. And now she was in a motel room with a man she barely knew. It didn't help that he had twice saved her life. He had appeared at the same time as the violence. She had slept with him after only a few conversations.

She didn't know him, or what he wanted. The fact that she had fallen so easily under his protection panicked her even more than the nightmare that had returned after many years.
Don't trust
.

Yet she had. She wanted to. She needed to.

Could there be anything as awkward as waking up with a lover who was a stranger? Even a stranger with whom she'd shared several more than traumatic events? She didn't think so. The silence grew heavy between them, and she knew her eyes were probably something less than friendly.

She saw him straighten. His hand slipped away from her, and he stood.

Bo crawled up on the bed, and she hugged him, a distraction—a needed distraction—from the tall man beside her. She was very aware that she wore only the long T-shirt she usually slept in, that her hair was probably sticking out at every impossible angle.

The last few days had been a blur of pain, fear, and confusion. And now desire accompanied those feelings. It only increased the sense of bewilderment, loss of control, loss of reality, loss of who she was—or thought she was.

Irish combed his hair with his fingers. “You look comfortable. Why don't I take a shower first, then you? We'll get some breakfast and look for somewhere a little better to stay.”

Again those conflicting feelings. She didn't want him to leave. He looked so solid and safe … and appealing as he was. But the sexual tension that was always between them was rising, too. She didn't need that distraction.

In fact, she needed time alone to think. To assess.

She nodded, and watched as he disappeared into the bathroom.

She'd thought she wanted time alone to think. But that wasn't possible when she heard the water run, and her mind went to the image of Irish Flaherty standing in the shower with steam rising around him.

It made steam rise around her.

She used the remote to click on the television. She wondered whether there would be anything on the news about the death on Jekyll Island. She also wondered whether the world was continuing as always for millions of people while her own had turned lopsided.

It was. A celebrity interview occupied one station, a cooking segment another. She turned to CNN, only to hear market news. The stock market was up.

Good for it.

But the noise was, in an odd way, comforting.

She finally rose and went to her purse, digging out a brush and running it through her hair. She looked in the mirror over a low dresser. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale without makeup. Her gray eyes were uncertain, deepened by dark shadows ringing them. Her hair looked lank. Not even the brush helped.

Did all men look better than women when they got out of bed? Or was
she
just plagued?

She went over to the boxes that Irish had brought in. She wondered whether he would discover anything she hadn't. He was a trained investigator, but she was a trained historian, schooled to find the oddity.

And if he did find something? What would he do with it?

Such speculation ran nowhere. The shower had stopped, and she heard the sink faucet turn on. He would probably be shaving now.

Damn it. She'd never been so unable to concentrate on one thing before. Her mind was spinning like a whirling dervish.

Because you don't want to concentrate. You don't want to remember blood exploding on you. You don't want to remember feeling so close to death. You don't want to remember someone holding a gun on you. You don't want to think about Irish Flaherty or what he wants or what will happen when he finds it
.

She went to the window, opened the draperies, and looked outside. Rain clouds had darkened the sky and the parking lot despite the fact that it was morning. Rain splashed in the parking lot, and puddles were evidence that it had been falling for some time.

The door to the bathroom opened. Steam drifted into the room, as did a light clean scent.

“See anything?” he asked. His voice, deep and rumbling, rolled across the room.

“Just rain,” she said as she turned to face him. His light brown hair was damp, his face was clean-shaven. He wore faded, snug-fitting blue jeans and a T-shirt. She watched as he pulled on a long-sleeve shirt and rolled up the sleeves, leaving the front unbuttoned, then saw him attach his gun holster to the back of his belt. A chill ran through her. He did it as casually as someone might pull on a pair of shoes.

She tried to keep the distaste from her eyes, but when his gaze met hers, his eyes were quizzical and one side of his mouth was turned up in question.

“I'll take Bo out while you use the shower,” he offered after a moment's silence, his eyes growing neutral.

“Thank you,” she said formally, feeling like a fool but not sure what else to say. Bo, however, broke the awkwardness. He had perked up at the word
out
, and was standing next to the door.

Flaherty, too, seemed unsure of what to say, and that was certainly uncharacteristic.

“You won't need a leash. He trusts you now. He will stay right on your heels.”

“He's well trained.”

“Not really. He just doesn't want to get lost.”

Banalities
. They were talking like the strangers they were, not the lovers they had been. Distant. Matter-of-fact. Not as if killers were after them or they had shared death as well as a bed.

But he didn't say anything else. Instead, he opened the door. “Come on, Bo,” he said, and the dog followed. She felt a moment's betrayal, even though she was pleased that her dog had accepted him, and he apparently liked Bo. He was, in fact, a natural with him, which meant he was a natural with other animals as well. One could not fake that.

If nothing else, that one thing had added to her trust. She trusted him with her physical safety if little else.

She pulled a pair of slacks and knit shirt from her suitcase, along with her small personal kit with its toothbrush, toothpaste, and minimum makeup. She found a little bottle of shampoo on the counter, which surprised her, then stepped into the shower. She'd always heard that cold showers cooled the heated beast. Hopefully, it might do that now.

She turned the water on and shivered as she was struck by what seemed to be little pieces of ice. Despite the shock, she let it run. After several minutes she turned on hot water and washed her hair.

She would cope. She would use this day to return to normal, as normal as one could be under the circumstances. There was still her tenure hearing. Still responsibilities that called her back to a world she knew and understood and wanted. She let the water run until it started to grow cold, and then she stepped out.

The scent of his aftershave still filled the room. A wet towel had been neatly folded and placed on the sink counter. All his toiletries had been returned to a small leather case.

Stop it
, she told herself. Her thoughts were drifting dangerously again.

She looked for a hair dryer, but there was none. She supposed she should be grateful for the shampoo. Using a towel to blot up water, she settled for combing her hair, then adding a touch of lipstick.

Breakfast. Another motel. And always the specter of masked men and guns. She took a deep breath. She would survive this. She would solve the mystery. She would get tenure.

She would remember this as an … adventure. Flaherty would remain a … partner. She would not become involved with a man she knew so little about. She didn't even know whether he already had a relationship with a woman. Maybe even a wife, though she deeply doubted that. But even the thought of him with another woman hurt. And that was humiliatingly excruciating.

And then there was the fact that she had given herself into his care so easily. She couldn't remember when she hadn't taken care of herself. She'd been the caretaker in her family far more than her mother had been. She'd taken pride in that, and in taking care of herself.

It was time to start taking care of herself again, to stop allowing events to twist her in the wind.

She gathered everything together and went into the other room.

It was still empty. Amy packed everything in her suitcase, then looked out the window.

No Flaherty. No Bo.

Panic started eating at her again.

She grabbed the key and went outside. The car, parked ten spaces down, was still there. Then she saw them. Flaherty was talking to someone. A tall man whose face was turned away from her.

Bo was almost standing on Flaherty's feet.

She waited, willing the stranger to turn around. He didn't, but he gestured toward the road. Directions. She tried to relax. Flaherty was just asking for directions.

Still, as she turned around and went back into the room, an odd disquiet accompanied her.

fifteen

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Dustin had asked to be informed about Colonel Flaherty. He hadn't expected to be informed quite so quickly.

“He just killed a man down on the Georgia coast,” his informant said. “It was obviously self-defense. A woman was being attacked.”

“A Dr. Mallory?” Dustin asked, a sinking feeling in his gut. Things were getting worse and worse.

“Yes.”

“Is he being held?”

“No.”

Dustin swore under his breath.

“No charges, then?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“He disappeared. So did the woman. The police are not happy. They had a few more questions to ask, even though he wasn't a suspect in anything. They considered him one of them—a law officer—and they thought he would stick around.”

“The FBI wouldn't make that assumption,” Dustin said.

“No. But we haven't been called in. Our interest is totally unofficial, just as you asked.”

“I understand he received new orders.”

Silence. Then, “You know more than we do. The police down there said Flaherty's group commander says he's on well-deserved leave and doesn't check in with him.”

“The police didn't check while Flaherty was in their offices.”

“Only to confirm his identity. It wasn't until he disappeared that they started asking more questions.”

“And of course he doesn't have a cell phone?” Dustin knew it was a foolish question.

“Out of order. Someone like him wants to disappear, he can disappear, and he's not due back for another week.”

“And Flaherty made damn sure he couldn't be found so he couldn't be ordered back.”

“Something like that.”

Now it was important that Dustin find him, too, or at least know where he was poking around. “Can you look for him? Unofficially?”

“Not without a lot of people knowing about it. Do you want that?”

No, he did not. He'd wanted this whole matter to die of old age and disinterest. Someone else obviously didn't. He remembered Jordan's vague threat. What did he know? And how did he know it?

“Can you check someone else's background?”

“Depends,” came the cautious answer.

“Brian Jordan.”

“The defense contractor?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know.”

“Try. And keep me posted on Flaherty.” Dustin paused, then added, “Thanks. If you ever need my help.…”

“Don't worry. I'll call you.”

Dustin put the receiver back in its cradle. Damn, but he wished he knew what had happened. Flaherty was staying with the woman. After what happened in the hospital, he would have been careful. Then how did someone find them?

It had to be someone with resources better than his own.

He felt a chill. Why were they after Amy Mallory? What did the woman know? And why had Flaherty joined forces with her? Did she have information that Dustin had not been able to find?

Three deaths. He would call Sally this afternoon, but not from the office. He was getting spooked if he didn't trust his own telephone. Everything was coming apart.

He tried to turn his attention to the briefing papers, but his mind kept going back to the news he'd just heard. Where was Flaherty going? What did the Mallory woman know? What did Jordan know when he'd thrown out his boast?

His carefully arranged world was falling apart. The strange thing was that for the first time he could remember, it didn't matter as much as it once did. He was too worried about Sally. He stood, walked to the closed door, and opened it. “Judy?”