Deep Breath (8 page)

“Of course, of course. And I see a colleague trying to get my attention.” He looked beyond Harry’s shoulder and raised a hand in acknowledgement. “Please do call. I’d love to tell you anything I can about the years I worked with Stanley. That is, if you want to know.”

“I would love to know, oh yes, please.” Georgia glanced up at Harry, her gaze imploring and just a little bit buzzed.

He wanted to tell her no, they didn’t have time for side trips or distractions. That whether or not they found the dossier, there was the bigger consideration of her brother and the other innocent lives.

But he thought about her father knowing Duggin, about Valoren knowing her father, and realized his gut was telling him to listen.

“Sure,” he finally said. “We’ll talk tomorrow after you get some sleep.”

9:30
P.M.

Finn McLain couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d been as bored as he was now. He knew there was nothing he could do about the situation, not with Georgia out who knew where in the company of some macho hothead liable to get her killed.

Having his hands tied like this when he should be there for his sister really, really pissed him off.

He knew the guy had been acting on instinct, diving across the counter for the waitress the minute he’d seen the shotgun-toting thug taking aim in the kitchen at the cook. But Finn had always been of the mind to look at the big picture before leaping.

Then again, who but a six-eyed psychic could’ve seen this big picture coming?

Sure, Georgia got her fanny in a hell of a lot of silly—even unnecessary—scrapes, but he’d never seen her crawl across a table to claw out a man’s eyes with two hired guns aimed her way. If that wasn’t the closest his heart had ever come to seizing up…

Even now the remembering caused a massive blip in his pulse. And as much as he would’ve preferred to shitcan the memory as a whole, it did chase the boredom away. For about ten seconds. Then he got back to being a crabby, worried, bored-to-the-bone bastard.

There was no way he was going to be able to sit here like this until Monday noon. They were in a freakin’ diner. He was going to get some damn food.

The place was dark. Castro had kept off the lights all day. Except for trips to the rest room, there hadn’t been much movement. There’d been even less talking.

Finn had stayed in one booth, Phil in the next, while Tracy sat on a stool and napped, leaning into the elbow she’d propped on the bar and snoring softly.

Now, the big sodium arc lamp in the parking lot tossed light through the slats of the window blinds to sprawl like a zebra across the floor. It was enough for Finn to see where he was going, but not enough for the thugs to worry about anyone outside seeing in.

Sitting sideways in the cramped little cage of his booth, he reared back and heaved himself forward, hooking his knees over the seat and pushing to his feet before his captors figured out that he wasn’t just squirreling around to get more comfortable.

The light-haired goon was the closest. “If you gotta piss again, do it in your pants. I’m not taking you for another potty break.”

Finn ignored the thug and kept walking, ducking behind the counter and nudging Tracy. “Sorry to wake you, but do you have a box of cereal somewhere? I’ll eat it dry. I don’t need a bowl or a spoon.”

“Hey.” The thug prodded Finn’s shoulder with the gun barrel. “Get over there and sit down.”

“Or what?” Finn asked, turning around slowly. “You’ll shoot me?”

“I’ll make you wish I had.”

“Fine. Do what you will. But let me eat first. Hell, you’ve got to be hungry.” The thug made no comment, so Finn pressed on. “No need to fire up the grill or anything. It’s just a freakin’ box of cereal, man.”

The thug glanced over to where Castro still sat in the booth nearest the door. He hadn’t moved since Georgia had left with the hothead. Even in the dark, Finn could make out the boss man’s nod.

“Groovy. Thanks.” He turned to Tracy. “Cheerios? Wheaties? Froot Loops? I’m not proud.”

“Let them have milk.”

Finn couldn’t have been happier had Castro called out, “Let them eat cake.” And considering that any moment the guillotine could fall…

“Just no lights in the kitchen.” The thug added his two cents. “Including the fridge.”

“No problem.” Finn held up one hand in a three-fingered oath. “I’ll unplug it, plug it back in.”

“The bulb’s burned out anyway,” Tracy offered hesitantly.

“Even better,” he said, rubbing his hands together as he salivated over fruit-flavored, sugar-crusted rings of corn or wheat or rice or who even the hell cared? He waited for Tracy to climb down from her stool, then gestured for her to take the lead. “After you, ma’am.”

She gave a small laugh. “I’m not a ma’am. I’m only twenty-nine.”

He followed her down the short hallway past the rest rooms into the kitchen. It was darker back here, with only a small shaft of light streaming through the half-moon gap where one of the holes in the ceiling cut for the exhaust vents gaped on one side. Tracy, bless her, knew the place like the back of her hand and pointed out the cereal boxes while gathering milk, bowls, and spoons.

Finn imagined for the first time in his life what it felt like to be a kid in a candy store. No little miniature boxes here at Waco Phil’s. Uh-uh. These were big, man-sized, hunger-whacking boxes, bushels of whole grain he could dig into and pretend were baked potatoes and steaks.

He grabbed three, headed back to where Tracy was juggling a half gallon of milk with the dishes and utensils. He took the carton, nodded at her and whispered, “Thanks,” and followed her back to the counter.

She climbed onto the same stool where she’d been sitting. He took the one on her left. Fuck the thugs if they thought he was going to spend the next sixty hours crammed in that skinny-ass booth. He needed room to move, a change of scenery, new air to breathe.

He rubbed his hands together. “Lessee. Do I start with flakes or rings or pellets.”

She giggled softly. “I’ve never seen anyone so excited over a bowl of cereal.”

“And how many starving men have you met in your time?” He reached for the Raisin Bran, filled his bowl, frowning as he realized he’d left little room for milk.

“None, I guess.” She poured her own bowl of Cheerios. “But I think you’ve got a long way to go before you’re truly starving.”

“Tell that to my empty tank,” he said, pouring what milk he could before passing it to her, and turning when he sensed movement on his other side. “Hey, Phil. Belly up to the bar. We’re pouring everyone’s favorites.”

“Shut up over there,” called Finn’s personal guard dog. “Or the only thing you’ll be pouring is your concrete boots.”

He rolled his eyes at the thug’s threat. “That one needs to lighten up. He’s taking his job way too seriously.”

Tracy bobbled the milk carton. “How can you joke about all of this? You act like you’re not even scared.”

“Good. That means I’m a damn fine actor,” he mumbled, digging his spoon into his cereal and filling his mouth so he didn’t have to say anything more right then.

“You mean you
are
scared?” she whispered, her face so close to her bowl when she leaned down that he almost didn’t hear her.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m scared. Boss man over there did leave the impression that he wouldn’t mind killing me.”

“Or killing all of us,” Phil reminded him, pouring milk into a third bowl and dumping Corn Flakes on top. “Damn mobster jack-offs.”

Finn found himself smiling at the older man’s wrath. “You know, Phil, I think that’s the first thing I’ve heard you say all day.”

“Phil’s not much of a talker,” Tracy put in, reaching for a napkin to catch the milk dribbling from her chin.

“Nothing wrong with a thinking man.” Finn scooped up another big bite.

Phil snorted. “You might not say that if you could read my mind.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure we’re all thinking the same thing about now,” Finn assured him.

Phil stabbed his spoon through the pile of flakes in his bowl, stirring them into the milk. “I was remembering a couple buddies I had in ’Nam. Both could teach this bunch a thing or two about manners.”

Tracy leaned closer. “When Phil does talk, lots of the time he talks about Vietnam.”

“Times like these, the past does spring to mind.” Finn’s own memories had been popping in his head like the Black Cats he and Georgia used to set off in neighborhood mailboxes as kids. Talk about getting in trouble. His sister had gotten a way early start.

“What have you been thinking about?” Tracy asked.

“My dad. The nanny who raised us when my mom died.” He shrugged. He didn’t want to think about what he was most thinking about. Georgia putting herself at risk to save him. “My sister.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry to bring all that up.” She reached over, patted his arm.

“Don’t mind Tracy.” Phil added more milk to his bowl of mush. “She’s our local Mother Teresa, caring for everyone’s problems.”

Finn sensed Tracy’s embarrassment in the way she pulled back her hand and hid it in her lap, in the way she seemed to curl into a tight little shell. “So, Tracy. Who cares for your problems?”

She chopped her spoon up and down, crunching her cereal. “My daddy, when he could. My mom died when I was young, too. Then Freddy did for a while. Now it’s just me.”

Phil leaned toward Finn. “Her old man took down with the Alzheimer’s. And her no-account husband up and left.”

“Freddy is not no-account,” Tracy shot back before bursting into sobs.

The light-haired thug stepped up to the counter and slid his gun along the surface toward her. Finn reached over, slapped his hand down on the barrel. “Hey, dude. Knock it off with the arsenal. The lady’s going through a rough time.”

“Yeah, ain’t we all,” he scoffed, turning to Tracy. “One more peep and you’ll be waiting out the rest of the weekend in the cooler.”

“We don’t have a cooler,” she said, staring down at her bowl and causing Finn to smile. “Just a fridge.”

“In the toilet then, smart mouth.” The thug dropped the gun’s grip against the counter with a bang. “Now shut it.”

Tracy shrugged and got back to eating. Phil did the same. Finn had to force himself not to yank the shotgun out of the thug’s hand and turn the barrel around on the son of a bitch. He wouldn’t hesitate to fire. And that was the problem with being a crabby, worried, bored-to-the-bone bastard.

He couldn’t put Tracy and Phil in jeopardy because he wanted payback for what this bunch was putting his sister through. And doing something that stupid would only bring Georgia more grief.

So he tucked away his temper and dug into his cereal, deciding he wasn’t so much of a kid after all, because this candy store business sucked.

10:00
P.M.

Dazed, Georgia leaned into the curve of Harry’s body for the ride back to the hotel. She didn’t care whether or not the body contact was appropriate. And really, after that kiss? Was there anything that wouldn’t be? Could she have possibly tried any harder to crawl into his skin?

She pushed the thought aside. She didn’t have time to think about kissing Harry. They had to regroup.
She
had to regroup.
Could one person regroup?

The dossier had to be at the general’s estate. The ranch had been closed up, all items of value sent to Dallas for the auction…unless the dossier had been mislabeled and included in the documents awaiting shipment to the university libraries.

No. It was in the document lockbox listed in the brochure, the one that hadn’t reached the gallery prior to the reception. It had to be. She didn’t know how the slipup had occurred, but if the dossier
had
made it out of Waco but not to the auction, logic told her that’s where it was.

If that wasn’t the case, then after the auction she’d have to find out who had purchased the general’s desk and where it had been shipped. Because if the file had been misrouted, lost in transit, or, God help her, for some reason destroyed, she didn’t want to consider how screwed she was—and how screwed that left Finn.

But the biggest question niggling at her now was who in the world was Paul Valoren and why had her father never mentioned him to her? Valoren had acted like he and her father were the best and closest of old friends.

She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. Her father would have mentioned the other man. He wouldn’t have kept their relationship secret. He wouldn’t have had any need if there was nothing suspect in their relationship, nothing fishy, nothing odd…She groaned.

“You okay?” Harry leaned close to ask.

“Right now? I’d have to say no. You can ask me again in the morning.”

“Is this about finding the dossier? Or about meeting Valoren?”

She shook her head. She had no answer. She wasn’t even sure she could separate the two. The night had been a blur of disappointment and confusion, with an unexpected wrench thrown into the middle of things.

And, horrible, horrible sister that she was, she’d hardly thought of Finn all evening, ugh. She’d been so self-involved, so outwardly focused. Except for the intimate tryst with Harry. And hadn’t
that
just been the epitome of narcissism?

Yet here she was leaning into him again, looking for the sort of strength and support she never looked for outside of herself. She wanted to pull away, to prove that her spine was ramrod straight and titanium tough.

But he felt so good, his body curving to take the weight and shape of hers like a pillow, like he didn’t mind being molded and punched and used…

She groaned, watching the play of light through the cab’s windows. “I hit you, didn’t I? Earlier.”

He shrugged it off. “It was nothing.”

“It was frustration. It was wrong.”

“If you want to say you’re sorry,” he began, his voice deep and soothing, “I won’t give you a hard time about it.”

She didn’t say anything. She sighed and settled more comfortably into his side. “Yes. To both of your questions. The dossier and Valoren.”

He stiffened slightly. “Oh?”

“My father knew about the dossier,” she said, lacing her fingers in her lap. “He knew where Duggin kept it. Ergo, my unsuccessful attempt at theft.”

Harry took a minute to react. “You were looking for the lockbox at Duggin’s ranch.”

“No.” What was the harm in telling him bits and pieces of the story? She obviously needed his help. “The dossier was hidden in the desk in the general’s study. The bottom file drawer had a false back. My father told me the last time I talked to him, right before he died, that it was there.”

“So you didn’t know about it before then?”

She shook her head. “I had no clue. And I’m not one hundred percent certain what the documents will reveal. I just know that my father wanted the truth to be made known.”

“The truth?”

She hated talking about this to people who knew the TotalSky satellite story, discussing the fact that her father was innocent, had been wrongly accused and convicted.

But she hated even more talking about it to a stranger. She didn’t know how he would react, if he would believe her, or accuse her of grasping at straws.

She blurted it out. “My father is Stanley McLain.”

“Okay.”

“Stanley McLain? The TotalSky scandal?” she added, and came this close to holding her breath while she waited for Harry’s response.

“Okay.”

“That’s all? Okay? No shocked gasp?” TotalSky was as much a part of the cultural lexicon as Watergate.

He chuckled softly. She felt the vibration slide down her spine. “I guessed at the connection when Valoren mentioned his name. I’d heard the rumors of Duggin’s involvement, and that there wasn’t enough evidence to make a case against him.”

“Right. And it’s awfully convenient that the dossier went missing at the same time.”

“Hmm.” He shifted beside her. “That was quite a while ago. You think Duggin has had it all this time?”

“I believe that’s what my father was trying to tell me. But he waited too long. He pointed me in the right direction so I’d know where to start, but he wasn’t lucid enough to tell me the whole story.” She swallowed the lump of emotion swelling up in her throat. “And then he was gone.”

“What about Valoren?”

“What about him?”

“He knew both Duggin and your father.”

Yeah, this was what was really bugging her. “I don’t know. I’m trying to decide if this is all just some big weird coincidence.”

“Or if it’s a conspiracy,” Harry said, inclining his head toward her.

“I can’t imagine that it would be. What would anyone have to gain?” she asked, gesturing with one hand, grabbing for her wrap when it slipped.

“The same thing you’re after.”

She blinked, breathed, frowned. “You mean Valoren might have lied when I asked him about the lockbox?”

“He could have been telling the truth.” Harry paused, gathered his thoughts. “Or he could be the one responsible for making it disappear.”

The idea now that Valoren might be involved…Were there more “friends” in his past her father had failed to mention? Ugh, what a headache of a nightmare this was turning out to be.

The twists and turns were nauseating. “You know, all this speculation might be a total waste of time.”

“How so?”

“If no one else knew about the false back on the desk drawer,” she said, rubbing at her temples, “the dossier might still be there.”

“Wait a minute.” He scooted up to the edge of the seat, turned toward her. “Shouldn’t you be trying to get your hands on the desk instead of the lockbox?”

“Before getting arrested, I saw the General’s assistant and a member of the cataloging team putting paperwork into the lockbox. It was on top of the desk, and all the desk drawers were open. The box itself didn’t mean anything until I saw it mentioned in the brochure.”

And wouldn’t all of this be so much easier had she not been caught to begin with? Had she been able to walk into the study, crack open the desk drawer, and find the dossier waiting.

Again, she pulled her wrap tight. “Right now, I’ve got to keep the lockbox from falling into anyone else’s hands. I can go back for the desk after the auction.”

The cab pulled up to the hotel entrance then. Harry paid the driver and, when the doorman opened the door, climbed out, reaching back to assist her.

She let him take care of everything, let him lead the way to the elevator, punch the call button, usher her inside the car when it arrived.

He stood behind her, rubbing his hands up and down her bare arms. “You’re an ice cube again.”

“I know.” And this time her gooseflesh wasn’t about nerves. This time she
was
cold.

“If I wasn’t so beat, I’d spend an hour in a hot bath.” Oh, but his hands felt good, so big and so warm. So comforting. It was impossible not to squirm. She wanted so badly to lean against him. “I’ll settle for a bunch of blankets so I don’t have to worry about falling asleep and drowning.”

“I can help with the warmth thing, you know,” he said, pulling his wallet from his pocket and fishing for the room’s key card as they walked down the hall.

She sighed, uncertain if she was ready to go where she thought he was suggesting they go. And yes, she told the devil on her shoulder. It was a little late in the game to be saddling up her moral high horse after what had gone on at the gallery. She knew that.

But forgiving herself for a heat of the moment indiscretion made at a time she’d been a bundle of nerves was a lot easier on her conscience than a premeditated slaking of lust—even if she
had
offered to make up to him the one-sided affair.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” she finally said once they’d reached the room.

He opened the door, gestured for her to enter, waited for the latch to click before he spoke. “I’ve been thinking about sleeping with you since, well, you know.”

“I know.”

He reached up, brushed her bangs to the side. “You do make it hard on a man. But all I’m offering right now is heat. Body heat. Of the external variety.”

She loved the idea. She didn’t trust either of them. Not after, well, he knew, she mused and shivered. “I still don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

He moved in close behind her, placed his arms along hers, matching up their elbows, wrists and hands. He was much bigger, of course, and they didn’t match up at all. But she’d been so right about his comforting warmth.

“You trust me to help save your brother’s life, but you don’t trust me to keep my hands to myself?”

She didn’t know what she felt for him or about him. If he was someone she wanted to let even deeper into her life was a question still hanging in the air.

What she did know was that she didn’t trust herself. Not now. Not with so much going on with her emotions. “You’re not keeping them to yourself now, are you?”

He laughed, left her standing there, and stepped around her, loosening his tie, pulling it from his shirt collar, tossing it and his suit coat to the nearest of the two double beds. “Simply making a point.”

“Point taken.”

“Tell you what,” he said, reaching for the top button of his shirt and drawing her attention to the way his fingers worked so deftly, a reminder of how he’d worked her. “You go to bed over there. I’ll go to bed over here. If you have trouble sleeping because you’re cold, let me know. I’ll come over. I’ll stay between the sheet and the blanket. No tempting skin-to-skin contact.”

She shivered again because, no matter the lies she told herself, that was the very thing she wanted. Harry close, warm, holding her. “That might work. If I stay beneath the sheet and you stay on top.”

“And I keep my hands to myself.”

“Exactly,” she said, wondering if he believed those were her wishes or if he saw through the sham. And then as more and more of his chest came into view, she frowned. “Do you have pajamas?”

“I have jogging shorts. And a T-shirt.” Wearing a monumental smile, he let the shirt plackets dangle and reached for his cuffs. “Will that work?”

Why did he have to be so beautiful? Why did she have to suddenly be so weak? “Sure.”

“And you?”

She nodded. “I have pajamas.”

“Okay then.” He peeled off his shirt and sat on the end of the bed to get rid of his shoes and socks. “You take the bathroom first.”

She swore the man didn’t have a single roll of fat lapping over his belt when he sat. Unfair, unfair, unfair. “Let me get my things.”

She crossed the room to where she’d thrown her duffel bag into one of the sitting area’s overstuffed chairs. As she kicked off the expensive shoes, she wondered if she’d ever have occasion to wear them again.

Or if she’d
want
to wear them again when they would remind her forever not only of tonight’s failed venture, but of this man who was making her want him.

Shoving away the thought, she found her camo tank top and matching shorty bottoms. She wasn’t much for makeup and skin products, but she did dig out her face wash and hoped it would do the job on the salon’s studio paint job.

Taking down her hair was going to be another hassle, one she wasn’t used to messing with. She found her hairbrush, her toothbrush, and then nearly dropped everything when she began to tremble.

What in the world was she doing even thinking about sleep with Finn in so much danger? If anything happened to him because of her stupid obsession, with her need to prove their father’s innocence…

Dear God, she would never forgive herself. Both of her parents were gone. Finn was all she had, and she’d selfishly dragged him into the middle of what was beginning to feel like her own private breakdown.

“Georgia?”

She startled, turned, clutching her things to her chest. “Sorry. I was thinking about…stuff.”

Harry handed her a hanger. “For the dress. It’s recommended you don’t toss it in a corner or store it in a duffel bag.”

She grabbed the hanger and stuck out her tongue as she pushed past him on her way to the bathroom. Once there, she slipped off the dress and hooked the frame of the hotel room hanger on the back of the door.

Naked and mindful of where Harry’s hand had been earlier, she pulled on the shorty pj set. What she needed was head-to-toe wool. Her nipples stood out like twin peaks, and her arms were pale, pebbled, the hair ruffled on end.

She turned on the faucet and let the warm water run over her wrists, finally sudsing up a dollop of face wash and scrubbing away the evening’s paint. She brushed her teeth, dried her mouth and face, then tackled her hair.

She took too long doing all of it, but there was a part of her that just didn’t know how smart it was to spend the night wearing shorty pajamas while in the same room with Harry van Zandt.