Dead Ringer (21 page)

He was so focused on the task, Angelina could relax without fear of being caught. She leaned back and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. She hadn't been able to shake her headache all day, and now it was killing her. But she wasn't going to tell him that and ruin the perfect moment when he'd said she'd done a great job.

Because she had. She was proud of herself.

And wasn't that a kick in the teeth?

Now if she could only find the damn plutonium.

As if he read her mind, Finn asked if she' d scouted out the north wing yet.

"I'll try to do that tomorrow. I didn't find a safe in the office, though, so we can probably eliminate that room. I still think hiding it in the house doesn't make sense. That leaves the stables, the outbuildings, staff quarters, about nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine acres."

"Easy as pie."

"Oh, absolutely."

At the teasing tone, Angelina opened her eyes. His dark head was bent over the journal. For a moment the only sounds were the click of the camera and the flip of a page. Click, flip. Click, flip.

The sight of him in hiking boots and jeans still shook her. The casual clothes made him seem all too real, the jeans worn and faded through dozens of washes representing dozens of days of living. It was almost as though behind the wall of suit and tie hid another Finn Carver. A man she didn't know, whom she hadn't suspected existed. The Finn Carver she knew lived in places with initials ... HQ, CR The other Finn ...

"What's your favorite color, Sharkman?" She settled on the ledge, ignoring the undertow of pain in her head, and hugged her knees to her chest while he continued taking pictures.

Click, flip. "My what?'

"Your favorite color. Come on, everyone has a favorite color."

"I don't."

Big surprise. "Read any good books lately?"

He thought a moment.
"Law Enforcement Response to Weapons of Mass Destruction Incidents"

"Hmm. Sounds like a bestseller."

He turned another page and took its picture.

"How about movies? You like movies?"

"Sure."

"What's the last movie you saw?"

He put down the camera and scowled at her. "How the hell am I supposed to concentrate with you blabbing in my ear?"

"You don't remember, do you?"

"I remember fine."

So? The last movie you saw was ...?"

He frowned. "What are you getting at?"

"The real you. There is a real you somewhere deep inside that stiff-necked shell, isn't there? A guy, not a cop. With a life, not just a job."

Or maybe there wasn't because he only rolled his eyes and went back to photographing the journal.

"Do you have a mother, Sharkman?" She hadn't planned to ask that, but once she did, she knew it was exactly what she wanted to know. Who was he? Where did he come from?

The click of the camera stopped momentarily, then started again. "Doesn't everyone?"

She thought of her own situation. "Some people have two."

"Well, poor unfortunate me, I only had one."

"How about a dad? Brothers, sisters?"

"A dad. No brothers or sisters."

Somehow that fit. Always the lone ranger. "Where'd you grow up?"

Again, the click, flip rhythm stopped. This time he looked over at her. "The sooner I finish, the sooner you can get back."

But she knew a dodge when she heard one. "What's up, Sharkrnan? Don't like talking about yourself? You know so much about me, why can't I know a little about you?"

"What difference does it make?"

All the difference in the world. You got to know someone, you got to understand them. How they thought. How they felt. That gave you power over them, and power was dangerous.

Unless you could be trusted.

You can trust me, Sharbnan.
"No difference," she said softly. "I just... I'd just like to know."

His sharp eyes examined her a moment longer, then he turned his head and went back to snapping pictures. "St. Louis." Click, flip. "My dad was a cop. Killed in the line of duty when I was sixteen. My mother never had a job, never learned how to drive, was entirely dependent on him. Which was how he liked it, believe me. But when he died..." Click, flip. Click, flip.

"What happened when he died?"

"Oh, I guess you could say she fell apart."

"And you picked up the pieces?" The answer was loud as his silence.

Click, flip. Click, flip.

"You see her much?"

He sighed and closed the book, snapped a last shot and turned to her. "She died five years ago. End of story."

Not by a long shot. "Smitty told me you were married once."

He tossed the journal to her, his face expressionless. "Smitty has a big mouth."

"She said your wife did drugs. You pick up the pieces for her, too?"

He rose and crossed his arms, eyes a narrow strip of blue steel. "What's it like fucking an eighty-year-old?"

She drew in a sharp breath and jumped down from the ledge, meeting his gaze head-on. His face was hard as the rock wall, but hooded, too, as though he didn't want her peering past it. In an instant she understood what he was doing. Not insulting her. Okay, he was insulting her, but only as a way of telling her to back off. "I stay out of your life, you stay out of mine?"

"Something like that."

"Fine." She shrugged. Let him keep his damn privacy. He was right. What the hell did it matter to her?

"Ready to go back?"

Right. Go ahead. Change the subject.

She repositioned the journal under her sweater. "Sure."

"Good." He held up Victor's PalmPilot. "Let's head out and see what we can do with this sucker. You can leave from there and take it with you."

As he'd done the night before, he slipped his gun into his waistband, then picked up what looked like a laptop. Switching off the lantern and reverting to the flashlight again, he led her the way they'd come.

This time, though, he didn't take her hand, forcing her to latch on to the back of his shirt to keep herself steady in the gloom.

Below the material, his muscles worked hard and strong. She licked her lips. Her head felt like a jackham-mer run wild, but she still wanted to stroke those muscles, feel his heat beneath her skin.

Talk about fools.

Outside, a light breeze cooled her flushed face before he could notice. Not that he'd notice anyway. He was too busy picking up a signal for his phone.

Ignoring her.

Finally, the call went through.

"Jack, it's me, and you won't believe what I've got here. Borian's PalmPilot... I don't know how she did it, I didn't ask." He looked over at her, his expression shrouded. "Yeah, magic fingers are right. Look, patch me into one of the techies. If they can get me through the password, I'll upload the whole shebang and you can sift through it... Yeah, every name cross-referenced, every phone number checked. Whatever's on there."

Still on the phone, he knelt and put the gun on the ground within easy reach. Then he opened the laptop. It took twenty minutes for whoever was on the other end to talk him through the upload process. He spent the entire time concentrating on that as though she weren't there.

You'd like that, Sharkman, wouldn't you ? You'd like it if I just disappeared. Too bad you need me so much

Yeah. Too bad.

When the keyboard tapping had ended and the onscreen data had stopped flashing, he handed the Palm-Pilot back to her.

"Make sure Borian doesn't know it was missing."

She pushed it back into her pocket. "No problem. He's not going to be doing a whole lot of work in the next few days anyway."

She'd meant that she'd keep Victor busy with exploring the ranch, that she'd demand to be entertained and refuse to let him near his office-just as she'd done all day. But that's not how the words came out, and not how Finn interpreted them.

He picked up the laptop, throwing her a cool glance. "I'll bet," he said dryly.

She opened her mouth to reply, to deny the implication in his tone and in his face. But she'd be damned if she'd defend herself against his obvious prejudice. Let him think whatever the hell he wanted. Besides, "entertaining" Victor was exactly what he'd asked her to do. He should be thrilled.

But he didn't sound thrilled. Or look it. Like the night before, he looked angry. He snapped the laptop closed as though he were snapping someone in two, then hefted it. "Wait for me behind that boulder," he ordered, nodding toward a massive rock near the mine entrance. "I'll stow this and walk you back."

"I'll be fine," she said stiffly.

"I didn't ask for a medical report. Just do what I say." He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the rock. "Get down." And when she didn't move fast enough, "I said..." He put a hand on her head and pushed until she was crouched behind the rock. "The patrol shouldn't be by for another couple of hours, but it's stupid to take chances. Stay there. I'll be right back."

Finn escaped into the mine, letting darkness cover his churning emotions. Christ, he needed to keep a clear head, but all he could think about was how much he didn't want to send her back to the ranch. To Borian.

The thought of the sick son of a bitch putting his hands on her...

But that's what he was paying for. For Victor to put his hands on her and more.

A twist of disgust shifted deep in his gut, but he ground his teeth, flicked on the flashlight, and headed toward his makeshift camp, where he stashed the computer. Before heading back, he ran a hand through his hair. His fingers were shaking.

Calm down. Just calm the fuck down.

She was here to do a job. That was all. A job. An assignment. He'd done a million of them. Each one was different in its own way, but every one was the same in one way. Catching the bad guy.

That was the point. The only point. He couldn't stop Borian without her, and he damn well should understand that by now. She had to go back, and he had to send her. Had to.

Right.

But the least he could do was apologize for being such a jerk.

He proceeded outside, stopping to make sure the scrub in front of the mine still hid the opening from any but the closest examination. Satisfied the mine and all his equipment would be safe while he was gone, he crept over to the boulder where he'd concealed Angelina.

"Angel," he called in a low voice. "Let's go." He braced himself for the sight of her, for the face mat challenged him even as it pulled him in. "Come on. Look, I'm sorry I was so... so rough back there. I just don't want you to get"-he strode behind the rock to extract her- "hurt."

But the hiding place was empty. The damn woman was gone.

In her place something white fluttered at his feet. He bent to pick it up. A blank sheet of paper from Victor's journal held in place by a stone. Scrawled on it with what looked like-he rubbed a finger over the letters, which instantly smudged-like lipstick was a message.

Hasta manana, baby.

Tomorrow. Until tomorrow.

Shit.

CHAPTER
12

However long it had taken Angelina to trek to the mine, her trip back was shorter. Despite THe headache and the leftover blisters, she was so angry at Finn, she practically raced back. Damn the man. What more did she have to do to prove herself?

Plenty more. She had to find where Victor was hiding the stolen plutonium, and to do it she might have to look under the bed.

Or in it.

And wasn't that the hell of it? Damned if she did, damned if she didn't.

Just plain damned.

Nothing new there.

Not true, an opposing voice cried. Not true. Not true. The words stamped out in time to her footfalls.

If only it were as easy to believe the good as the bad.

She slipped into the house undetected, and on soft, silent steps wove her way to Victor's office where she replaced the PalmPilot and the journal.

Relieved of that secret burden, she slid into the eerie silence of the hallway and crept up the stairs and oh-so-quietly crawled past first Marian's and then Victor's room.

Once inside her own room, Angelina closed the door, leaned against it, and breathed again.

Safe.

Perspiration chilling on her skin, she stood propped against the door a moment longer, the aftershock of adrenaline quaking through her body.