Tempting the Devil (29 page)

She didn't wait for Michael to go around and open the door, but got out herself. He was instantly at her side.

One of the private guards came over. “You going to be here tonight?” he asked.

“Yes. And I promise to let you know next time I leave.”

“We'd appreciate that.”

Michael followed her to the door.

She suddenly didn't want to be alone. “Coffee?”

“I would like that.”

She opened the door to him and went inside. Daisy was there immediately, rubbing against her ankles.

He followed, and she noticed him glancing around the living room, at the overstuffed furniture and bookcases, the table loaded with books. “I like it,” he said.

She went into the kitchen, got Daisy some cat food, then prepared the coffee. Almost immediately she wished she hadn't invited him inside. He wasn't Ben.
Damn it
.

“Milk or sugar?” she asked him.

“Both.”

Ben took it black. Like she did.

“Wish I could help in some way,” he said.

“Just being here is a help.”

He sipped the coffee. Ben had gulped it.

Don't make comparisons
.

Michael leaned down and scratched Daisy's ear. To her surprise, Daisy allowed it, even purred. A plus for him.

He straightened and took another sip of coffee before setting it down. “Thanks for the coffee. I promised not to stay.” His gaze held hers steadily. “I'll be rooting for you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Maybe when this is over …” She liked that. No demands.

“Call me,” she said.

He left, the scent of a very sexy aftershave lingering in the house.

She closed the door behind him.

She'd started for her office when the phone rang. Her stomach clenched. She hurried to the nearest phone and looked at the caller ID.
Unknown
.

Reluctantly, she picked it up. Before she could say anything, the menacing metallic voice came over the line.

“Did you have a good time at Charlie's tonight?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” she said defiantly.

“I wonder if your sisters are having as good a time.”

Did he know they had left, or were leaving? No indication. She was being followed, but did they really have the resources to do the same to her family?

“I'm glad you called,” she said. “I have a message for you.”

“The name we want?”

“A warning. I know about the boat in Brunswick. I know who went. I know who owns it,” she bluffed. “I know a great deal more than that, and I think the federal government would love that information. Public corruption is very big with them.”

A silence met her declaration. Had she really taken them by surprise?

“It's stalemate now,” she continued. “I won't say anything about what I've learned to the paper or the feds if you don't hurt my family. But if anything, anything at all, goes wrong and one of them is hurt in any way, I'll have statements sent to Washington. Not the local FBI. Not the local police. I've already mailed three packages to people who will forward them to various agencies if anything happens to me or mine.”

A metallic laugh. “You're bluffing.”

“Try me.” She slammed the phone down so hard she hoped she injured an ear.

It was risky, she realized. More than risky. But it was the only card she had. The phone didn't ring again. Had she won this round? Or had she made them more persistent in tracking her and those she cared for?

She wished fervently she could call Ben, tell him what she'd done, but she dared not.

The phone rang again. Her hand inched toward it, drew back, then grabbed the receiver. The only ID information was “private number.”

That was also what showed when Ben Taylor called.

She didn't trust herself to answer. Sandy's warnings kept echoing in her head. Was Ben a mole, or was it one of his friends? Or in the office hierarchy?

The phone continued to ring.

She punched the “talk” button.

“Robin?”

Heat crept in her at the sound of his voice. “Yes.”

“I overreacted last night,” Ben said. “I want to apologize.”

“I accept.”

“Can I come over?”

“Because your superiors want you to?” she asked.

“Because I want to see you.”

“I'm really tired.”

“I'm close by.”

“Now why am I not surprised by that?” She wanted to keep him at arm's length. No, much farther than arm's length. Arm's length, and she was a goner.

“I don't know. Why aren't you?”

“Because every time anything happens you're there.” Even she heard the hard note that had crept into her voice.

“That's bad?”

“Convenient.”

A short silence, then, “Good night, Robin,” and the signal went dead.

She put the receiver down. His voice had grown cool, even cold.

Her soul turned even colder. There was no one she could trust now, except herself.

Ben turned off his cell phone from the vantage point of the attic of a house five doors down from her own. Earlier in the day, the FBI had convinced the salesman who lived here alone to move in with a friend for a few days.

He shouldn't even be here. He was not part of the surveillance team, but he'd stopped by and offered to fill in for an hour or so while one of them went for take-out. Something had happened yesterday that affected the way Robin thought of him, and he wanted to know what—or who—had caused it.

His foot crunched on an empty bag of potato chips that the previous watcher had used as he scanned the area around the house. Robin's rental car was still parked in front. He knew that the bodyguards had taken her in to work.

He also knew from an agent following her that she'd left the paper and stopped at a pub named Charlie's, then left with someone. Twenty minutes later, a tall, well-dressed man accompanied Robin Stuart to her door and went inside. Feeling like a voyeur, he watched a light go on in the kitchen. He was stunned at the jealousy that knotted in his gut.

It had seemed like hours, but the visitor left within thirty minutes, and a light went on in her office.

He scanned the two yards. He saw the private bodyguard's car in front. He knew another private detective was at the back of the house. He shifted his glance over to Mrs. Jeffers's house. Why, he didn't know. Just instinct.

He saw a flicker of a flame in back.

He didn't wait. He started running down the stairs and yelled at the other agent in the house to call the fire department. Then he raced out of the house and down the street to Mrs. Jeffers's house. Flames rose into the sky.

The men guarding Robin's house joined him. He reached the porch and rang the doorbell, even as he used his foot to try to break the door down. No luck. Then two other men were there. Between them they broke the door, and he rushed in.

The back of the house was in flames and smoke filled the interior. He heard frantic barking from upstairs and took the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Jeffers was on the bed. He tore a piece of cloth from a sheet and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, then another around his own. Then he scooped her up and told one of the men following him to take Damien, who still barked madly.

They both raced for the stairs. The house was rapidly becoming engulfed. Fire licked at the bottom of the stairs. It had been only minutes since he'd seen the first flicker of flames. Something was feeding the fire.

Heat embraced him. Heat and smoke. His feet felt as if they were burning.

Outside
. He was outside. He lay Mrs. Jeffers on the ground, then collapsed. His chest gasped for oxygen and he was aware of someone breathing air into his mouth. He tried to focus.
Robin Stuart
.

He shook her away.

“Mrs. Jeffers?” he asked.

“Someone is giving her CPR,” she said. She looked anguished against the wall of flames behind her.

The high-pitched wail of sirens came first from a distance, then neared. The street filled with flashing lights as firemen spilled out from trucks and manned their hoses. He struggled to sit up while a team of paramedics approached him. “Mrs. Jeffers first,” he rasped, pointing to the woman. One paramedic went to her, and the other approached him.

Then several more appeared. One pulled an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and Ben took deep breaths, his lungs filling with air. Robin sat next to him, her bad leg spread out on the ground. No brace. She wore a robe over a T-shirt.

The sky was blood red with flames, and he felt the moisture of steam as streams of water mixed with fire.

The air felt good. He took several deep breaths, then took the mask off and asked the EMT, “How's the lady?”

“The older lady?” the paramedic asked. “Alive. She's on her way to the hospital.”

Ben closed his eyes in relief.

The paramedic looked at his legs. “You have some burns there. Not bad, but they should be treated.”

“No hospital,” he mumbled. He breathed in the fresh air. His throat was scratchy but he didn't think real damage had been done, but Mrs. Jeffers's age went against her.

“Your lungs should be checked as well.”

“Go,” Robin ordered. She held Damien now, the dog squirming in her arms.

He realized he should. He wouldn't do anyone any good if his legs became infected. They were beginning to burn like the furies. But he would do it on his own terms, not in an ambulance.

A fire department captain came over to him. “Understand you're FBI?”

Ben nodded.

“Anything our fire inspector should know?”

“It moved fast,” he rasped. “I saw a flicker, then it seemed the entire house went up in flames.”

“He'll want to talk to you.”

“I'll be available tomorrow.” He gave the captain his card.

Something nagged at him. The fire had spread too rapidly not to be arson. So why the house next door to Robin's, unless someone thought Mrs. Jeffers had helped her? Unless, of course, they wanted another lesson.

Or a diversion.

He turned toward another man who'd received oxygen. He was the private bodyguard—Burt Stanley—who'd grabbed Damien in the house. “Is anyone still watching Ms. Stuart's house?”

“Campbell was watching the front. He's here now, watching Ms. Stuart. Berryhill was at the back.” He looked around, then got to his feet and started toward the back of Robin's house.

Ben went after him. He was aware that Robin was trailing behind. He turned. “Stay here with Campbell.”

She started to protest.

“Damn it, Robin, just listen for a change …”

She stopped, hesitated. Then nodded.

He followed Burt Stanley to the back. He saw a body lying on the ground and hurried over to it. The man still had a pulse.

Stanley disappeared and returned with two paramedics and a uniformed officer, who was already talking into his radio.

“Looks like a concussion. He was hit pretty good,” said the paramedic who was examining him.

“Maybe he saw something,” Stanley said hopefully.

“If he had he would be dead,” Ben said flatly.

He turned and Robin was standing there, still clutching the tiny poodle. “What …?” she started.

“Someone knocked one of your guards senseless.”

“He's not …”

“No.”

“Why?”

“They probably didn't want to take a chance he might see something. He's lucky he's not dead.”

A myriad of emotions crossed her face. Realization? Fear? Definitely sorrow and guilt.

Her eyes went over the burns, then to his face.

“They're not going to stop,” she stated as fact.

“No,” he agreed. His leg burned and his voice was hoarse. He looked around, signaling to the FBI agent who'd been watching the house. He was standing on the fringes of the crowd, eyes intent on Robin. “Check out the house before the lady goes back in. Look for bugs or taping devices. Then don't let her out of your sight.”

The agent nodded. “Damned if I know how someone got by us.”

“Maybe after he started the fire. You were calling 911. I was running toward the house.”

An EMT interrupted to say they were leaving. “You really need to go with us.”

“No,” he said but agreed to sign a statement waiving any liability or responsibility. He looked up from the papers and saw Robin standing straight. The robe she wore left little to the imagination.

“I think you'd better go home,” he said, his gaze running over her.

Her face blazed, realizing the robe was plastered to her body. It was the first time he'd seen her face that particular color. Or maybe it was the emergency lights that sent red blasts of color through the darkness.

“I'm going to get dressed and drive to the hospital,” she said. “Mrs. Jeffers doesn't have anyone.” She hesitated. “Do you want to go with me?”

He wanted to accept. Perhaps those few moments had dulled that suspicion he'd seen earlier. But there were still questions in her eyes, and he needed his car. He needed privacy to make necessary phone calls and he had to go by his apartment to get some clothes. His slacks were burned and his shirt was covered with soot.

Robin still lingered. “Thank you for saving Mrs. Jeffers.”

“Not necessary,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for the breaths of air.”

“Not necessary,” she echoed his words with a slight smile. Then it disappeared as her gaze moved to the gutted house. The blaze had been quenched, though embers drifted through the air. Robin's house had been hosed down as had been the house on the other side. The fire department would probably stay through the night until there was no more danger of the fire spreading.

She'd dodged another bullet.

Or maybe not.

It depended on what the perps had wanted to accomplish.

One thing he knew. The quicker she went into jail, the safer she would be. Especially if they planted an agent in a cell with her.