Midnight Sun (Sinclair Sisters) (20 page)

“So … how ’bout The Grubstake? You like pizza, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Pizza sounds good.”

He was still holding her hand. He liked the way it felt in his, so smooth and soft. He wondered if her lips would feel the same. It was way too early to be thinking about kisses, especially with a girl like Jenny, but the thought crossed his mind just the same, along with some other, more forbidden thoughts he tried not to let creep in.

The truth was, his attraction to Jenny wasn’t just about sex. Her shyness intrigued him. He sensed that she was intelligent and he wanted to get to know her, find out why she had come to Dawson, ask if she was going to go to college and if she was, which school she was planning to attend.

He wanted to know everything about her.

Mostly, he wanted to know why she always looked so sad.

The drive to town was pleasant. The sun burning down on the canvas top of Call’s fancy black Jeep warmed the interior and Charity relaxed against the leather seat. As they bounced over potholes, stirring up dust, she pulled out a sheet of paper she had stuffed into her purse.

“What’s that?” Call asked.

“Something else I’ve been working on while I’ve been pounding away in search of my long-dead relatives.”

“What is it?”

“An article on inherited memory I printed off the Net. I read something about it before, in a couple of different magazines. That’s what got me thinking about it. I wondered what I’d find if I nosed around on the Internet.” She unfolded the sheet of paper and started to read.

“What’s it say?”

She looked over to where he sat in the driver’s seat. “Have you ever read any of those stories about people who get organ transplants?”

Call cast her a sideways glance, his big hands wrapped around the leather-covered steering wheel. “What the hell do organ transplants have to do with memories?”

“Well, say you got a heart transplant, for instance. Sometimes the person who receives the heart starts having all sorts of personality changes. Like he starts to crave peanut butter when he hated peanut butter before. The reason is the heart
donor
liked peanut butter. The recipient now has additional DNA that triggers certain changes in his behavior.”

“So you’re saying … what?”

“I’m saying if getting someone’s DNA through a heart transplant could trigger an urge to eat peanut butter, maybe the DNA you inherit could trigger an interest in certain things—like the Gold Rush—because the DNA donor—one of my ancestors—came to the Yukon to search for gold.”

“That doesn’t mean you could have real memories.”

She looked down at the paper. “Did you know calves are born refusing to cross a set of lines painted to look like a cattle guard even though they’ve never seen one? Or that a cat will groom itself even if it’s raised as an orphan?”

“Those are instincts, not memories.”

“The article proposes that genetic memory and instinct are one and the same. DNA serves as the conduit by which genetic memory is transmitted. It says we pass our descendants much more than eye and hair color, that about forty percent of our personality traits are also inherited.”

“And?”

“There are scientists who believe genetic memory can be passed from generation to generation in the form of actual memories.” She started reading from the article. “‘Those sorts of memories cause people to recall places and events from another time, many of which have been proven to have actually occurred.’”

Call looked unconvinced. “Yeah, well, even if it’s true, you still have to find someone directly related to you who came up here a hundred years ago. You do that, and I might give your theory a little more credence.”

He was right, of course, and Charity fell silent, wondering if she actually would find a connection. Outside the window, the forest kept its silent vigil. A huge hawk circled overhead, then swooped down and disappeared among the branches of a pine tree along the road. The sky was so blue it hurt her eyes to look at it.

Call’s cell phone rang and at the low speed they crept along the road, he didn’t bother to pull over, just flipped it open and pressed it against his ear.

“Hawkins.”

“Bob Wychek here. Any chance you could drop by my shop sometime today?”

“As it happens, I’m on my way to town right now. What’s up?”

“I’d rather show you, eh? See you at the shop in what? Forty-five minutes?”

“I’ll be there,” Call said, and hung up the phone.

“One of your girlfriends?” Charity asked, casting him a look.

Call’s eyebrow arched at the faint note of jealousy she hoped he wouldn’t hear. “Bob Wychek. He’s the guy who’s been working on my plane. I think he may have figured out what went wrong with the engine.”

“I know what went wrong. It coughed a couple of times and turned itself off and the propeller stopped going around.”

“Very funny,” he said dryly but both of them grinned.

A little while later, they turned onto the Klondike Highway, the main route into Dawson, crossed the river, and started up downtown Front Street.

“I’m getting hungry. I don’t suppose we have time for lunch before we see your guy about the plane?”

Call passed the street sign for Midnight Dome Road and kept on driving. “I guess we can make time. I’ll phone Wychek and tell him we’re going to be a little late.”

He made the call but Bob was out in back so he left a message.

“Let’s go to Klondike Kate’s,” Charity suggested. “They’ve got the best food in Dawson.”

“You want to go to Kate’s?” Call looked uneasy. “I was thinking maybe The Grubstake.”

“Just imagine one of those mile-high sandwiches at Kate’s.”

“I admit the food there is great, but—”

“Terrific. Let’s go.”

Call frowned but continued down the road in that direction, turning down King to Third and pulling up across from the yellow-and-white, two-story, wood-frame building on the corner. They got out of the Jeep and went inside and Call gave the hostess his name. The place was crowded. It always was, even, she had heard, in the winter.

Still, it didn’t take long to get seated at one of the small, square tables. A busboy brought over glasses of ice water, then a pretty red-haired waitress arrived to take their order. She looked at Call and there was something in the smile she gave him that put Charity on alert.

“Hi, Call. Haven’t seen you for a while.” She was younger than Charity, maybe early twenties, with a wide mouth, sparkling green eyes, and a figure to die for. She made it obvious exactly how well she knew Call.

He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

The redhead tossed Charity a look. “I can see that.” She didn’t say more and neither did Call. The waitress took their order and headed for the kitchen, and Charity pasted on a smile.

“I take it that’s the blow job.”

Call started coughing, trying to hold down the drink of water he’d just taken. He glanced around to see if anyone had overheard, then relaxed a little when he realized no one had.

“Is that any way for a lady to talk?”

“You’re the one who said it first.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a man.”

“That’s what Buck Johnson always says.”

A corner of his mouth curved up. “Point taken.”

The redhead returned a few minutes later with sandwiches made of fresh-baked bread piled high with cheese and meat. Alfalfa sprouts bulged from the sides and French fries crackled on the plate. The waitress glanced at Charity, then cast a look of invitation at Call.

“You get finished with your … business, give me a ring,” she said.

Call wisely made no reply.

They were leaving the restaurant half an hour later, walking down the boardwalk toward the Jeep, when Charity spotted Toby and Jenny walking toward them.

“Hey, you two!” Toby waved at them and grinned, but Jenny looked a little embarrassed. “What are you doing in town?”

“We had some errands to run,” Charity answered. “And Call wanted to check up on his plane.”

“How’s it coming?” Toby asked him.

“On my way over to find out right now.”

“You guys have a good time,” Charity said. “See you on Monday.”

They climbed up in the Jeep and Call fired up the powerful engine. A few minutes later, they drove through the high, chain-link gates of Superior Air West, where his plane was being repaired.

Call helped her down and they walked through the wide hangar doors leading into a big metal building. “I’m looking for Wychek,” he said to a grease-covered mechanic in dark blue coveralls.

“Over here!” Wychek called out. He was short and bald, kind of round all over, with rosy cheeks and blue eyes, sort of a younger version of Santa Claus minus the beard. “I didn’t get your message until a few minutes ago. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it.”

“Sounds like this is important.”

Wychek nodded. “It is.” Walking toward the fuselage of the Beaver, he led them to where the engine lay scattered in pieces and parts.

“I didn’t see it at first. I wasn’t looking for something like this, eh?”

“What’d you find?”

The mechanic looked over at Charity as if maybe he shouldn’t say anything in front of her.

“It’s all right. The lady was up there when it quit. I guess she’s got a right to know.”

Wychek nodded. Reaching a greasy hand into a section of the engine, he pulled out the remnants of a tiny metal box.

“What is it?”

“Container for a small amount of explosive.” He held the fragment of metal up to the light. “See how the box blew up from the inside out? Probably fixed to some kind of a timing device. When the charge went off, it severed the fuel line and the engine couldn’t get any gas.”

Call took the remnant of metal from Wychek’s hand. “Are you sure about this, Bob?”

“Damn right, I’m sure. The fire melted the rubber tubing that carried the fuel but see this here?” He pointed to a length of line. “The mesh was clearly blown apart, and this little piece of metal was still attached to the tube.” Bob’s round face looked grim. “Someone wanted that plane to crash, Mr. Hawkins. And that’s exactly what it did.”

No one said a word.

Charity’s stomach suddenly felt queasy. She didn’t need to hear any more. “I think I’ll wait for you in the Jeep, if that’s all right.”

Call nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”

He appeared a few minutes later and she thought that his face looked nearly as pale as her own.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “Someone tried to kill us.”

Call cranked the engine. “Odds are, they were after me, not you, and I’ve got a couple of ideas who it might be. Unfortunately, I don’t know for sure. As soon as we get back to the house, I’m calling Steve McDonald. He’s a private investigator and a good one. We’ll see what he can find out.”

Charity turned away from him and stared out the window. Someone had tried to kill Call. It made her sick to think about it. They finished their errands in record time and started up the road toward home. The scenery was just as pretty as it was on the way down the hill, but this time Charity didn’t notice.

As soon as they got back to the house, Call went into his office and picked up his satellite phone. First, he dialed the private investigator, Steve McDonald, in Seattle and gave him the facts, which weren’t many, and promised to send the remnants of the tiny explosive device that had been used to sabotage the plane.

Next he phoned Peter Held. Call didn’t mention the plane crash or what Wychek had discovered. He had no idea how all this was going to shake out. He needed more information, needed to know whose loyalty he could count on. Instead, he asked if Peter was certain the mugging was random and Peter assured him it was.

“Like I said, I was running in the park. It was getting pretty late. That kind of stuff happens all the time in a city.”

That was true enough. “Anything new turn up on the fire in the lab?”

“The fire department said the blaze was caused by a problem in the electrical system. The building was old. They think some of the wiring was probably faulty. With that many chemicals around it was easy for a blaze to get started.”

A week ago he would have believed it. Now he had to be sure. Ending the conversation with Peter, he dialed information and got the number for the Seattle Police Department. He asked for the head of the arson squad, a guy named Karl Miller, and asked him to take another look.

“Happy to, Mr. Hawkins.” Four years might have passed, but in Seattle, where he had so much business, the name McCall Hawkins still carried plenty of weight. “You got reason to suspect foul play?”

“It’s a possibility. I’d appreciate a second look around.” Though Peter was close to a breakthrough, Call didn’t really think MegaTech was enough of a threat to warrant a murder attempt. Which meant it was likely someone else.

Turning his thoughts in that direction, he phoned Bruce Wilcox for an update and any further details Wilcox might have on the Wild Card Internet gaming consortium.

“How long do you think they’ve known we were tapping into their records?” Call asked.

“I don’t know. But they could have known almost from the start.”
Not good news.
“Word is, these guys really play hardball. We’ve got to tread carefully with this one, Call.”

No kidding.
He thought of his plane, lying in pieces and parts on the hangar floor, and the tampering that had nearly caused their deaths. “See if you can arrange a meeting. We need to make sure these guys know Shotman and Wiggs were acting on their own. I’ll try to come up with some kind of deal that will cover our asses and get them off our backs.”
And keep them from killing one or all of us.

“You got it, Call.”

He wasn’t sure Wild Card was behind the attempts on his life, but they were the strongest possibility. There was huge money involved in gambling and from what he knew, these guys were the kind willing to do anything to get it.

He was exhausted by the time he left his office and walked into the kitchen, and surprised to see Charity standing at the sink, wearing one of his oversized tee shirts.

She flashed him a smile that eased a little of his fatigue. “It’s Saturday night and you’ve been working for hours. I figured you deserved a decent meal.” She had tied an apron around her waist, hiking the tee shirt up and exposing her long, pretty legs and bare feet. Her breasts jiggled softly and her nipples formed shadowy circles beneath the fabric. He hadn’t made love to her in nearly two weeks. Inside his jeans he went hard.

She must have seen him eyeing her clothes—or lack thereof. “The trip home was dusty,” she explained, adding olive oil to the salad dressing. “I took a shower and put this on. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

He shook his head, not minding at all. He’d been so busy he had almost forgotten she was still there.

Almost.

“You look tired. Are you hungry?”

“A little, I guess.”

She bent over to check the temperature of the oven, lifting the tee shirt even more, and his erection began to throb. He was hungry, all right, but not for food.

“Toby made spaghetti before he left for the weekend,” she said. “I made a salad to go with it. I’m toasting some garlic bread, too.”

There was an open bottle of red wine on the counter. Charity poured him a glass and handed it over.

“Thanks.”

“Do any good in there?” She tipped her head toward his office and stuck the tray of French bread under the broiler.

“I got things rolling. It took a while.”

“I’ve been thinking about what happened … to the plane, I mean. If someone wanted to kill you, they might try it again.”

“They might. I’m trying to head them off before they get the chance.”

“How will you do that?”

He told her Bruce Wilcox was trying to set up a meeting with the guys from the Wild Card consortium.

“There’s a good chance they’re the men behind the attempt. Datatron only has seven employees. I’m the head of the company. They probably figured I was the guy behind the million-dollar shakedown.”

“How will you convince them you aren’t?”

He arched a dark brown eyebrow. “Believe me—I can be very convincing.”

But the worry didn’t leave her face. “I was hoping you’d get some kind of bodyguard or something.”

He probably should, but he hated the idea. He liked his privacy too much. And the wilderness was his domain. He was sure he could protect himself if it really came down to it.

“I don’t think I’ll need to go that far. Once Wild Card knows we’re willing to come to the table, I don’t think they’ll give us any more trouble—at least not until they hear what we have to say.”

“You’re sure that’s who it was?”

“Fairly sure. I don’t have all that many enemies—at least not that I know of. And it’s been years since I’ve been involved in the business world.”

Charity pulled out his usual chair at the breakfast table. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you something to eat?”

He settled himself in the chair while she went over and filled a plate for him and one for herself. As soon as the French bread was nicely browned, she put it in a basket, brought the rest of the food to the table, and sat down next to him.

The food was good and he was hungrier than he’d thought. His mind was still spinning with events of the day and he didn’t feel much like talking. Charity seemed to sense his mood. It was one of the things he liked about her. They could be quiet together and not be uncomfortable. When they finished the meal, she blew out the candles she had lit in the center of the table and cleared the dishes, insisting that she didn’t need his help.

Instead he sat there watching her, wondering if maybe he could convince her to spend the night or if she would continue to keep her distance. She rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then came up behind where he sat and began to massage his neck and shoulders.

“How’s that feel?”

Her hands were soft, and warm from the rinse water she had used. He could feel her breasts rubbing gently against his back and his arousal returned, harder than ever.

“You’ve got good hands.” Good hands and a wonderful, tight little body. Beneath the table, he was hard as granite, the blood running like lava through his veins. Damn, he wanted her, and if she kept touching him the way she was, he would take her.

He felt her lips against the nape of his neck and a shudder rippled through him.

“I’ve missed you, Call,” she said softly.

It was all the encouragement he needed. Noisily he shoved back his chair and hauled her into his arms. “God, I’ve missed you, too.”

He kissed her fiercely. A thorough, taking kiss, measuring the softness of her lips, parting the seam with his tongue, ravaging her mouth. She smelled of soap and flowers and tasted faintly of dark red wine. His hands ran over the tee shirt and he filled his palms with her breasts. They were firm as apples, soft as peaches. Charity made a little whimpering sound and hot need surged through him. Shoving the candlesticks out of the way, he lifted her up on the table and settled himself between her legs.

The tee shirt slid up. Sweet Jesus, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Desire pulsed through him and he heard himself groan.

Kneeling in front of her, he ran his hands over her hips, testing the smoothness, the firmness, wanting to taste her. Charity leaned back, propping herself on her elbows as he eased her legs farther apart and began to kiss her knees, the inside of her thighs, making his way toward his goal.

“C-Call …?”

There was something in her voice, a thread of uncertainty.
This is new to her,
he thought with a rush of male satisfaction, and his arousal strengthened. He urged her back on the table and slid the tee shirt up above her breasts, began to suck on her nipples. She was moaning as he moved lower, kissed her navel, her hipbones, moved through the downy triangle of gold at the apex of her legs, found the tiny bud of her sex and took it into his mouth.

“Oh … oh, dear God!” He felt her hands in his hair and for an instant she tried to pull him away, but he gripped her hips and simply held her immobile.

“Easy,” he whispered. He could be a patient lover. In the past he had prided himself on it and he used that patience now, gentling her a little, kissing her breasts again, dipping his tongue into her navel, then returning to his objective.

This time she didn’t fight him. She trusted him and he used that trust to give her pleasure. Her stomach quivered. Her hands returned to his hair and fisted there, but this time they urged him to stay. He felt the muscles in her thighs contract, felt her arching upward off the table, and knew she was nearing release.

He didn’t stop until she climaxed. He watched her with awe and something more, something primitive and possessive. He took her with his mouth a second time, laving and tasting till another climax shook her.

She was limp and pliant by the time he slid her off the table onto her feet and eased her over onto her stomach. He gripped her hips and pressed himself against her, letting her feel how hard he was.

“Oh, God,” she said as he slid into her, filling her, taking her so deeply she moaned. Her bottom was round and smooth, an incredible turn-on, and he could taste her in his mouth. His loins were on fire, the muscles across his chest so taut they quivered, and he knew he wouldn’t last as long as he wanted. Each stroke took him higher, closer. Charity came again, her passage tightening sweetly around him. He drove into her until he couldn’t hold back a moment more, then exploded over the edge into release.

It was the fiercest climax he could remember.

Afterward he simply stood there, holding her against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist.

Charity turned to face him. And then she burst into tears.

The kitchen finally stopped spinning. The earth stopped shaking and Charity felt Call’s mouth pressing softly into her hair.

“It’s all right, baby,” he whispered, “everything’s fine.”

Too fine,
she thought.
Too unbelievably good.

And since the moment earlier that afternoon when Bob Wychek told Call someone wanted him dead, Charity had known how totally, how utterly, how wildly she was in love with him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping away the wetness. “I just …That was just so incredible.”

He looked down at her and actually grinned. “It was, wasn’t it?” She could see he was pleased with himself.
Typical male,
she thought. He could be murdered at any moment and all he could think was what a great lover he was.

Still, she couldn’t help smiling in return. He really was a terrific lover.

His jeans were unzipped. He buzzed them closed, then lifted her up and carried her into the living room. Call sat down on the sofa with Charity still in his arms. He was looking at her in that self-satisfied way, a corner of his mouth edging up.

“I take it Jeremy wasn’t into oral sex.”

She shook her head, a little embarrassed, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “Jeremy was far too fastidious for something like that.”

He didn’t say anything else and she eased herself off his lap and curled up next to him on the couch. The living room was beautifully furnished: leather sofas and hardwood floors, throw rugs for a hint of color. But like the rest of his house, it was a little austere.

“You don’t have any pictures,” she said, surveying walls hung with expensive landscapes but nothing personal, and the near-empty, polished-walnut tables. “I noticed that before. Not even any of yourself.”

His gaze surveyed the room as hers had done. “I never put them up. It hurt too much to look at them.”

It was the first time he had ever referred to the accident, and her heartbeat quickened. “But you brought them with you. You have them here.”

He nodded. “In a chest of drawers in the bedroom.”

He had them but he still couldn’t look at them. It made her feel so sad. “Maybe someday you’ll show me.”

He glanced away. “Yeah … maybe someday.”

But she didn’t really think he would. She took a chance then, knowing it was probably a mistake. “How old was your little girl?”

She was more than half certain he wouldn’t answer, that he would close himself off again or maybe even get angry.

“Three. Her birthday was November first.” He stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the big rock fireplace at the end of the room. “Susan had a party for her that day and we all wore those funny paper hats. She … died not long after, just a little before Christmas.”

Charity’s throat felt tight. She forced herself to continue. The only way he would ever get past the pain was to bring it out into the open. “I know there was a car accident,” she said gently. “What happened?”

Silence settled over the living room. Outside the window, the wind rustled through the branches of the trees. The sun beat through the panes, but the room no longer felt warm. Call thought about the question. For long moments, he didn’t answer, though for some strange reason he wanted to.

The seconds stretched, lengthened. He tried to think of a way to explain, a way to speak of the unspeakable, but he couldn’t find the words. He just sat there on the sofa, staring at the big, stone hearth, letting the memories slide in. The fire was long dead, the ashes grown cold, the hearth dark and empty.