said at last. “I guess I’ll call him in the morning.”
David checked his watch. Technically speaking, it was morning already, but by any standard too early to call. He steadied himself with a deep breath. “All right, then. We have a plan. It’s a sucky one, but it’s a plan. So now we just have to wait for daylight.” He eyed the sofa. “So, can I sleep there?”
Becky stood, too. She approached him with a smile that stirred something deep in him. “Well, here’s the thing, David Kirk. Do you know why Charlie Baroli called here looking for you?”
His heart started to race. Whatever was coming was going to be very good or very bad.
She stepped up very close to him. “Apparently there’s a rumor in the office that I have this big crush on you.” She reached to his chest and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. “But that’s not true.”
David didn’t move. This was new territory for him. When it came to hitting on people, he’d always been the hitter.
“Does that surprise you?” Becky asked. “That I don’t have a crush on you?” She undid another button.
“I don’t know if it surprises me, but I confess it confuses me.”
A third button revealed enough of his chest for her to slip her hands under the fabric. She caressed him, and he felt heat rising in his face. And something else rising elsewhere. “It’s never been about a crush,” she said. “It’s about a strong, strong desire to see you naked.”
C HAPTER E IGHT
W hen his landline rang at 0730, Jonathan knew that it was Venice. Only a handful of people knew the number, and of those, only she had the courage to wake him at this hour. He fingered the handset from its cradle and brought it to his ear without opening his eyes.
“I hate you,” he said. Next to him on the bed, JoeDog stretched and farted. The seventy-pound black Labrador retriever had no official home—she was the town’s dog with special dispensation from leash laws—but more times than not, when Jonathan was in town, his bed was her bed.
“And good morning to you, too.” Yep, Venice. “A stern voiceless gentleman from the FBI delivered about two tons of paper. I believe they are the files you insisted on having. You know, because we’re in a hurry. Charlie and Rick were kind enough to stack them in the War Room.”
“Have you started sorting through them yet?” When he asked that, he made sure to project a smile that was louder than his words.
“And you hate me . Right. Please shower before you come up.” The line went dead.
The instant Jonathan pulled away the covers and sat up, JoeDog was on her feet and ready to play. Or eat. Or, if all else failed, to go back to sleep again. Jonathan gave her enough of an ear rub to elicit a moan of ecstasy, and then stood. “Okay, Killer. Time to go to work.”
Thirty-five minutes later, the three S ’s were taken care of, and JoeDog and Jonathan were climbing the stairs together. At the top, Rick Hare tossed off a two-fingered salute. “Morning, Boss. Looks like you’ve got some research to do.” A former military policeman, Rick carried a .40 caliber Glock on his hip with which he could write his name in a target at twenty-five yards. His job was to serve as the first line of defense—offense, really—if anyone tried to duplicate the attack that nearly killed Venice a while ago. The HK MP5 he wore slung across his chest would help in that effort as well.
“Hi, Rick. I understand that you got stuck with schlepping duty. Sorry about that.”
“Well, that FBI troll wasn’t going to do it, and I didn’t see Ms. Alexander doing it all on her own. That wouldn’t have been right. So me and Charlie pitched in.”
Typical of many former military noncoms, Rick had a hard time addressing superiors by their first names. “I appreciate it,” Jonathan said, suppressing the urge to chastise him for abandoning his post and cooperating in what could have been a trap. Given the bucolic nature of
David checked his watch. Technically speaking, it was morning already, but by any standard too early to call. He steadied himself with a deep breath. “All right, then. We have a plan. It’s a sucky one, but it’s a plan. So now we just have to wait for daylight.” He eyed the sofa. “So, can I sleep there?”
Becky stood, too. She approached him with a smile that stirred something deep in him. “Well, here’s the thing, David Kirk. Do you know why Charlie Baroli called here looking for you?”
His heart started to race. Whatever was coming was going to be very good or very bad.
She stepped up very close to him. “Apparently there’s a rumor in the office that I have this big crush on you.” She reached to his chest and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. “But that’s not true.”
David didn’t move. This was new territory for him. When it came to hitting on people, he’d always been the hitter.
“Does that surprise you?” Becky asked. “That I don’t have a crush on you?” She undid another button.
“I don’t know if it surprises me, but I confess it confuses me.”
A third button revealed enough of his chest for her to slip her hands under the fabric. She caressed him, and he felt heat rising in his face. And something else rising elsewhere. “It’s never been about a crush,” she said. “It’s about a strong, strong desire to see you naked.”
C HAPTER E IGHT
W hen his landline rang at 0730, Jonathan knew that it was Venice. Only a handful of people knew the number, and of those, only she had the courage to wake him at this hour. He fingered the handset from its cradle and brought it to his ear without opening his eyes.
“I hate you,” he said. Next to him on the bed, JoeDog stretched and farted. The seventy-pound black Labrador retriever had no official home—she was the town’s dog with special dispensation from leash laws—but more times than not, when Jonathan was in town, his bed was her bed.
“And good morning to you, too.” Yep, Venice. “A stern voiceless gentleman from the FBI delivered about two tons of paper. I believe they are the files you insisted on having. You know, because we’re in a hurry. Charlie and Rick were kind enough to stack them in the War Room.”
“Have you started sorting through them yet?” When he asked that, he made sure to project a smile that was louder than his words.
“And you hate me . Right. Please shower before you come up.” The line went dead.
The instant Jonathan pulled away the covers and sat up, JoeDog was on her feet and ready to play. Or eat. Or, if all else failed, to go back to sleep again. Jonathan gave her enough of an ear rub to elicit a moan of ecstasy, and then stood. “Okay, Killer. Time to go to work.”
Thirty-five minutes later, the three S ’s were taken care of, and JoeDog and Jonathan were climbing the stairs together. At the top, Rick Hare tossed off a two-fingered salute. “Morning, Boss. Looks like you’ve got some research to do.” A former military policeman, Rick carried a .40 caliber Glock on his hip with which he could write his name in a target at twenty-five yards. His job was to serve as the first line of defense—offense, really—if anyone tried to duplicate the attack that nearly killed Venice a while ago. The HK MP5 he wore slung across his chest would help in that effort as well.
“Hi, Rick. I understand that you got stuck with schlepping duty. Sorry about that.”
“Well, that FBI troll wasn’t going to do it, and I didn’t see Ms. Alexander doing it all on her own. That wouldn’t have been right. So me and Charlie pitched in.”
Typical of many former military noncoms, Rick had a hard time addressing superiors by their first names. “I appreciate it,” Jonathan said, suppressing the urge to chastise him for abandoning his post and cooperating in what could have been a trap. Given the bucolic nature of
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