Deep Breath (17 page)

1:15
P.M.

The drive from the café to the auction house took longer than Harry would’ve liked. He wanted to be in position early, to make contact with whichever operative had come down to get him out of this identity bind. He could bid on the lockbox himself if he had to, but didn’t want to go that route.

Especially since he’d be bidding on the car. That was his cover, a collector of military memorabilia that ran to the motorized sort, not documents or photographs or stolen government files.

It had been a tough day, and his gut was telling him it was only going to get tougher. The hardest part so far had been the silence that had sprung up between him and Georgia. Last night…he couldn’t even think about what had happened between them without getting hard.

Sitting through lunch with Valoren had been a true test of Harry’s mettle. He’d listened to the conversation, participating as needed, primarily honing in on the subtext. To do that, he’d had to ignore the woman whose hidden vulnerabilities he’d taken to heart.

But something had happened during the meal. A shift in her mood that he could not overlook. It hadn’t been about him. And he didn’t think it had been in response to the conversation about her father.

No. It was connected to Valoren somehow. Something he’d said, a slip, a nuance. And then there was Cameron Gates. Another name to have the SG-5 ops desk look into.

They could do that while he worked his mind around Georgia’s response to Valoren’s question about their relationship. Yeah, he would’ve denied they were a couple, too. But damn if she’d been fast on the draw.

His situation as an operative for an organization working under the radar of law enforcement, going, as Hank Smithson was known to say, where law-abiding pussies wouldn’t to do what needed to be done didn’t leave Harry a lot of personal time and space.

He was still relatively new to the team and feared fucking himself over by missing obvious clues, overlooking crucial intel, not keeping his head in the game. Getting involved with Georgia physically was one thing. But he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—bring his emotions into the mix when they were all tied up in the job.

Right. And that was why hearing her chop their relationship down to size—even though he would’ve done the same if he’d been the one to answer—had caused a sharp blip in his pulse.

They were involved. There was no case either of them could argue to make him believe otherwise. And as soon as her brother was safe and the Castro crew was out of commission, he and Georgia would be getting to the bottom of this thing they shared.

He pushed all of that away for now as they arrived at the auction, parking in the lot across the street from the Grace Emerald Gallery rather than giving up Morganna to a valet.

He didn’t want to wait for the car to be brought around when they were ready to leave. He wanted the immediate access, the keys in his pocket, the advantage.

He turned off the ignition, hesitating before climbing from the car, glancing over at a very stoic Georgia, grinding his jaw as he asked, “Are you okay?”

A sad grin lifted both corners of her mouth. “I’m not even sure anymore. I had no idea forty-eight hours could be so exhausting.”

They were bucking up against fifty-two, but he got the point, and figured correcting her would only make her feel worse. He stretched out his arm along the back of the seat. “Think you can make it through the next twenty-four?”

She shook her head, dropped it back onto the seat. “Do I have a choice?”

Smart woman to recognize that she didn’t. He toyed with the strands of her hair that fell over his fingers. “I’m here, Georgia. I’m not going to make you go through this alone.”

“I don’t get it.” She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide, dark, damp. “Why are you here? I mean, forget last night. Why are you here?”

He would never forget last night. “Because Charlie sent me?”

Her expression said she didn’t believe him. “That might be what got you here. But you didn’t have to stay. I told you that.”

“Yeah. You did. A whole lot of times.”

“So why? I have to know.” She closed her eyes, rubbed her cheek against his wrist. “It has to be about more than last night.”

He looked at her face, at the stress lines bracketing her mouth, at the tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She smelled like fields of flowers, her hair, her skin, and it was as soft as petals.

They were going to have to deal with last night. And soon. He swallowed hard before he answered. “It’s what I do. That’s all.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Pulling rabbits out of hats?”

He shrugged. “Steak knives out of sleeves.”

“Neither one seem like they have anything to do with engineering.”

“They don’t. They have to do with me.” And that was the best he could give her right now.

Her smile softened. “A renaissance man?”

“Anything it takes.”

She waited a minute before responding, smoothing down the suit skirt that cupped her ass like he wanted to do with his hands, toying with the buttons on the jacket that did God-fearing things to her cleavage.

He could hardly get his mind off her gorgeous body to listen to her question when she asked, “What is this going to take, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, because he was still working it out. He shook his head, went on to stroke her cheek. “Strange days, these last three. Strange people barging into your life.”

“And one long strange trip,” she said, a hitch in her voice. “Finn’s always singing that song.”

“He sounds like a good guy.”

“He’s great. The best. I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to him.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to him. I promise.”

“How can you make a promise like that?”

“It’s what I do.”

“You say that a lot, you know. Makes me wonder exactly what kind of engineer you are.”

“What?” Dimples appeared in the dark shadow of his beard. “I need to pull a set of blueprints out of my ass?”

She smiled, chuckled softly. “That’s a start.”

It was getting late. They needed to get inside. “Hey, three or four hours from now, we’ll be done, out of here, and on our way. You can hang in that long.”

“We could go now.”

He reached for his door handle. “I was just thinking the same thing. I need to see if my buddy made it down.”

“No.” She straightened, turned toward him, came alive. “We can leave. Just forget the whole thing.”

Uh, okay. Where was this coming from? “Does the name Charlie Castro ring a bell?”

“You got in and out of the general’s ranch without being seen,” she said, gesturing animatedly. “I know for a fact there are guards, alarms, motion sensors, cameras”—she waved an encompassing hand—“all sorts of security measures in place to keep people out.”

“That doesn’t mean I can get into a one-room aluminum echo chamber with goons carrying live ammo holed up inside,” he said more sharply than intended, but he couldn’t afford for her to fall off the deep end now.

He reached across her, ignoring the feel of her body against his arm, the mingled scents that aroused him, and pushed open her door.

Then he sat back and opened his own. “We’ve got business to do. Let’s get to it.”

1:50
P.M.

Georgia stood in the lobby of the Grace Emerald Gallery, people hovering all around while she waited for Harry. During her last visit here, she’d been a basket case, nervous, inept, drunk. This afternoon, she felt herself drifting in a strangely calm haze.

Conversation buzzed around her, neither words nor content sinking in. People moved to the left or to the right, dodging her where she stood in the middle of the wide walkway. She had only two things on her mind.

The fact that Harry and his friend were about to spend a whole lot of unnecessary cash, and the fact that she was going to let them.

There were words for women like her; in the past, she would have stepped up to anyone who called her such names. Now she was the one applying the labels and daring herself to deny she deserved every one.

But no amount of bitch-slapping would change the reality of the situation. She was doing what she had to do.

While still in the car, she’d tried—albeit weakly—to get Harry to forget the whole thing. To head back to Waco and find a way to get Finn and the others out of the diner without meeting Charlie’s demands.

She should have known magic-hat Harry would have already realized they had no alternative but to finish what they’d set out to do. So here they were, doing just that. The calm was Georgia’s only way to deal.

She glanced toward Harry where he stood talking privately with the man who’d arrived to help. She already felt like the lowest sort of scum, but learning the man was Harry’s boss was enough to plunge her—and deservedly so—into a swill of bad behavior, an anchor of guilt keeping her down.

Her enjoyment at meeting Hank Smithson only compounded the fact that she felt like a shit. He was a true gentleman, boisterous and old school. A man of a different time. A man of her father’s time, with the same sense of humor and love of life, and she’d taken to him immediately.

She moved out of the path of traffic and waited near the door, still watching Harry, the gestures of his hands as he talked, the way he bowed his head as he listened, hands moving to his hips, coattails flying behind him like batwings.

She took note of the way he nodded in response to whatever it was Hank said, not too much of a know-it-all to consider and appreciate the older man’s input.

She hated that she and Harry had met under these circumstances because her lies and deceit meant this was it. One weekend. That was all they would ever—could ever—have. Tonight or tomorrow he would learn the truth.

She didn’t see a way around the discovery. All she saw was loss. Her self-respect. His total respect, not to mention affection and companionship. She might even lose his help, though she knew he wasn’t the type of man to leave a job half-done.

Her throat tightened, and she barely managed to keep tears from welling in her eyes. She was ready for the auction to get under way.

The sooner tonight and tomorrow were history, the sooner she could begin to repay the monetary debt she owed him. She would also be able to get her life back on track—a goal that three days ago held tremendous appeal but today seemed an afterthought.

But more than either of those, once the auction was over, the truth revealed, the weekend said and done, and her brother safe, she could start to work on a way to repay the rest of what she owed him. To give him the apology that was going to cut like a knife into her heart to deliver.

And then she would have to find a way to tell him good-bye.

She blinked hard and pasted on a smile as he and Hank walked toward her. And when Harry held out his arm, she stepped into the curve of his shoulder knowing it was where she was meant to be. “Are we ready?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the crusty old horseman. “Ready to kick ass and take names.”

2:00
P.M.

The auction’s three hours ticked by with an excruciating lack of anything resembling speed. The three hours that followed while buyers settled their accounts and picked up their goodies ticked by even more slowly.

For the actual event, Harry had chosen to stand at the rear of the crowded room rather than sit in the middle of an audience much more rabid than he was and risk falling asleep and drawing unwanted stares.

He made a lousy collector because a true Duggin fan would have reason to be all eyes and all ears and all interest. Harry was only here for a car, and even that was a sham.

Hank was the one who’d bring down the lockbox since he was the one who had Harry’s back. Such was the way of the Smithson Group, one operative responding to another at the first call for help.

Harry’s virgin assignment, and he drew the boss. When he’d walked into the lobby and found Hank waiting, he’d wondered whether to think of himself as a suck-up or a screw-off.

Hank had told him not to think of himself as either, that he didn’t get out into the field as often as he liked, that the chance to do so now was saving him from a lot of down and dirty work at the farm that his bum hip just wasn’t up to.

Harry knew from his partners that the Smithson Group principal would have traded in his horse farm for a full-fledged operative badge if he’d been physically able. Because he wasn’t, he jumped at any chance that came his way to get involved in his “boys’” missions.

For the auction, Hank had sat close to the front of the room set up with rows of meeting hall chairs that faced the auctioneer and the tables of items for sale. Georgia had stuck close to Harry, looking like she’d stepped out of a fashion spread in a women’s magazine.

She’d turned more than a few heads throughout the afternoon, and she didn’t even seem to notice. When he’d been going over the game plan before the auction with Hank, she’d stood in the middle of the bustling crowd like a mannequin in a store display, aloof, unaware, alone.

He’d wanted to knock the teeth out of all the men who’d ogled, and tell the women who’d stared that they would look like puke wearing green. Mostly, he’d wanted to tuck her close to his body and show the world she was his.

He’d done the first at the earliest opportunity, feeling all puffy and emotionally bloated when she’d let him. He hadn’t done the second because, well, he was still hung up between what was real and what was work and the responsibilities he had to the man sitting at the front of the room.

But now that the auction was over, now that he was the proud new owner of a car he had no use for, now that Hank was in possession of documents explaining Ezra Moore’s identity to SG-5, Harry was ready to wrap up with Dallas and get back to Waco Phil’s.

He’d settled his purchase with the cashiers, signed the legal documents the auction house and the estate required, promised his firstborn somewhere in the fine print, and walked away with the car’s keys and title.

He found Georgia waiting for him beside the front door. “You look beat.”

She pushed her hair out of her face with both hands. “I was trying to sleep standing up. You’ll have to teach me that trick.”

He swore he had never seen another woman’s eyes that sizzled like this one’s; even exhausted she looked like she still had another eight lives to live. “It takes time and a whole lot of practice. Think weeks at sea, days on horseback, a month of unrelieved guard duty. You learn to adapt.”

She took the hand he offered and accompanied him outside. “How can you guard anything or anyone effectively if you don’t get relief?”

“Good question,” he hedged. “Here’s another. Have you seen Hank?”

They stopped on the walkway beneath the portico, and she shook her head. “I’ve been watching for both of you. You made it out first.”

“Not so fast with the conclusions, Miss McLain.” At the sound of Hank’s gravelly voice, they turned.

He walked up behind them, an unlit cigar held between two fingers, the lockbox tucked beneath his arm. “I can’t abide pushing and shoving and greedy, grabbin’ hands. This lot appeared to be a higher class of folk at first glance. Though bein’ as old as I am, I certainly know not to judge a book by its cover.”

“For some reason, whoever is managing the general’s estate is in a huge hurry to settle everything this weekend,” Georgia said.

She hadn’t even asked about the box. As far as Harry knew, she hadn’t even looked at it. Shock or exhaustion or post-traumatic stress. He didn’t know which.

All he knew was that her lack of interest—after all they’d been through this weekend, after all she’d been through the last three years—raised one hell of a red flag.

He dangled the car keys in Hank’s line of vision. “Trade you a 1948 Jaguar XK120 Roadster for that box you’re holding.”

Hank chuckled. “If not for the circumstances, I’d have a dad-blamed good time calling you sucker.”

“If not for the circumstances, I wouldn’t be making this fool’s trade.” Harry laughed, taking the lockbox from Hank’s hands and passing him the keys. “We’re parked across the street. I’d like to get this”—he patted the top of the metal box—“into Morganna’s trunk.”

Hank snickered. “You named the car Morganna?”

“Why not? She’s got me under her spell.”

At that, Georgia snorted and started walking toward the street. Harry watched her go, studied the set of her shoulders, the swing of her hips, wondered what he was missing because he was pretty damn sure he wasn’t imagining things.

“Rabbit, my boy. I gotta say I expected a little more spark from that girl.” Hank gestured with his cigar toward Georgia. “Especially if what’s in this box”—he knocked his Naval Academy ring against the metal—“is as all fired important as you say. Which I’m beginning to think it ain’t. And that your girl there knows it.”

Hank was right. Something with Georgia’s reaction just wasn’t sitting right. Or maybe it was that she hadn’t reacted at all. She hadn’t looked at the box, hadn’t mentioned it. All she’d done was walk away.

With a slap to Harry’s back, Hank turned and did the same, leaving Harry standing alone on the walkway. Hefting up the lockbox, he jogged to the curb and caught up with Georgia in the middle of the street. Branches drooping low from trees on both sides met in the middle.

“Something wrong with your hands?” he asked as they made it across, stepped up onto the curb and into the parking lot on the other side.

She frowned, held out both palms, turned them down, wiggled her fingers. “No, why?”

“Because I figured they’d be all over me by now,” he said, walking to the back of the car.

Georgia followed, crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve had sex a couple of times, so now you think I can’t keep my hands to myself?”

A couple of times. Or three or four. He dug into his pocket for his keys. “Uh, I’m talking about the lockbox, Georgia.”

She didn’t respond except to uncross her arms and lean a hip against the car, watching as he opened the trunk and set the box inside. He shrugged out of his suit coat, tugged his tie from his shirt collar, zipped both into his bag, lying flat on the floor of the trunk. And she still didn’t speak.

He left the trunk open as he cuffed up his shirtsleeves. “What’s going on, Georgia? We haven’t come this far for you to flake out on me now.”

Her shoulders drooped, she shook her head. “Honestly? I think I’m numb. I don’t feel…anything. I don’t understand. I do know it doesn’t make sense, because I should be jumping for joy. But there’s nothing there.”

He waited for a minute, then offered her the lockbox key. “Do you want to do the honors?”

She looked from his hand to the box in the trunk and hesitated. “You know what? It’s going to sound stupid to you, but I want to get out of these clothes before I do anything.”

He lifted a brow. “I thought you said you weren’t having trouble keeping your hands to yourself.”

“I don’t mean get out of my clothes for sex.” She reached for her duffel bag, jerked it forward. “I mean get out of these clothes and back into my jeans and boots so I’ll feel more like me.”

“Then I’ll wait. After three years, you deserve to be the one to let Pandora out of her box.”

“I don’t think that’s the mythology,” she said, opening her bag just enough to pull out a change of clothes. “Let me do this, I’ll use the ladies’ room in the gallery, and then can we get out of here? Go some place quiet?”

“Sure,” he said, nodding. “I know the perfect country road. It leads from here to Waco.”

“Thanks,” she said, shoving her duffel deeper into the trunk. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her walk back across the street, though the way she moved was more of a sexy high-heeled run, her hips swinging as she bounced from the toes of one foot to the other.

He remembered the feel of those legs wrapped around him, realized what he was about to do meant he would never have that pleasure again. Betrayal tended to do a number on passion. He reached for the duffel bag she’d shoved deep into the back of the trunk.

He loosened the cords, tossed back the flap, and pushed aside jeans and T-shirts, her camouflage pajamas, that amazing little black dress, more jeans, socks, a toiletries bag, moving to the opposite end where he found the satchel, and inside of that, the portfolio she’d used for cover during yesterday’s visit to the general’s estate.

He glanced toward the gallery, knowing she’d barely had time to make it into the rest room, but still feeling the need to cover his ass. He lifted the portfolio free and flipped it open. There was nothing on the first page of the legal pad but a lot of notes.

This is the ugliest excuse for a couch I’ve ever seen. Chair cushions with scenes from fairy tales woven into the tapestry coverings? Maybe for a six-year-old girl, but a three-star general? These lamps might bring five bucks in a garage sale.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The woman was incorrigible, and loving that about her made what he was doing even harder to do. But he moved on, flipping through the rest of the pages, finding nothing, and only noticing the folder tucked behind the legal pad when it slipped to the side.

He pulled it out, felt a surge of adrenaline when he saw the red classified stamp on the cover. One quick glance inside, at the word TotalSky, and that was it.

He dropped the folder into the trunk, carefully returned the portfolio to the satchel inside the duffel bag, closed it up, and shoved it into the depths of the trunk.

He’d just lifted up the first layer of carpet and begun pulling back the second, which covered the third, which hid the fireproof safe built into the wheel well, when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel behind him and the unmistakable sound of an engine built over fifty years earlier.

He turned, watched Hank drive up behind the Buick, his cigar stub in the corner of his mouth, one hand on the roadster’s wheel. His other hand was busy stroking the paint of the convertible’s door.

“Never thought I’d be leaving Texas with something this sweet.”

Harry glanced toward the gallery before picking up the TotalSky folder, walking over, and dropping it into the passenger seat. “And it only gets sweeter.”