from nearly twenty years ago. The houses were the same—prosperous, with well tended gardens. Many of the inhabitants of the beautiful homes of Exeter Street were out on the sidewalks, some already in pajamas. The average age of the householders was surely eighty by now. It had been a place of fussy elderly rich people twenty years ago, now they would be doddering.
Two blocks down was a riot of movement and noise as firefighters were doing their valiant best to beat the fire back. They moved fast and precisely, shouting out orders above the roaring of the fire, moving in practiced coordination, like ballet dancers, only braver.
As she watched the firefighters, faces lit by the reflection of the fire, a deep boom sounded that stopped everyone on the street in his and her tracks. The fire raged upward, reaching high up as if to touch the stars. The neighbors, huddled inward, stepped farther away from Hector’s home. The firefighters moved faster.
The gas mains had blown. The house would be unsalvageable.
Suddenly, Summer felt sad and old. As if Hector’s house disappearing in smoke and ruins had eaten up her past, too. A bit of her girlhood was tied up in the house, not happy memories but her memories nonetheless, and now everything was gone.
She walked back to her car and slid back behind the wheel and checked her watch again.
The door opened and closed and suddenly there he was, Jack, filling the car’s interior with the smell of smoke. Summer blinked. How did such a big man move so fast and so quietly?
“Took you long enough,” she said.
He looked at her curiously, then brought out an odd-looking cell. He punched in a number. “Yo, Nick,” he said when a deep voice came online. “You got my text? Yeah. Well, someone definitely torched the place. I, ah, got him.” He frowned heavily. “Yeah, he’s still breathing, but not conscious. Christ, what do you think I am—okay, okay. I sent you fingerprints, full frontal and side views of the face, and I have his cell, we’ll do an infodump of everything on it. Or rather, Felicity will. The firefighters will have this guy and will bring him in for questioning. So have someone from the Bureau scoop him up, okay, before the CIA gets to him. Because if they do, the guy will be in the wind and we’ll have lost a promising lead. Get me intel on this guy ASAP.” He listened carefully to something this Nick was saying. Summer couldn’t make it out, all she heard was the deep voice at the other end of the line but she couldn’t make out the words. Jack shot her a glance and she straightened, surprised. “Yeah, I’m with Summer. Summer Redding. Of
Area 8
. She’s promised to hold off on publishing until we get more facts and she’s going to help me investigate. I’ll get back to you. Go get this guy and interrogate him. Pull out all the stops. Yeah. Later.”
As he talked, he was tearing off the wig and beard.
“So.” He turned to Summer and curled up his big hand. “Give it to me.”
Oh, God. Another comment that wasn’t suggestive at all, but her body read it as pure invitation, and heat flashed over her skin, head to toe. She would love to give him what she had. Her body would, anyway. Her head? Not so much. But since Jack had reappeared in her life, her body seemed to be calling the shots.
She clutched the steering wheel hard and stared straight ahead. “Hector’s second apartment, you mean. He called it his
garconnière
.”
“Bachelor’s pad,” Jack said with a shake of his head.
She looked at him in surprise. “I’m glad all those French lessons your mom insisted on proved useful.”
“Those French lessons never penetrated my head,” Jack said. “But I picked up street French in Cote d’Ivoire. Was undercover there for two years.”
And there it was, the difference between the two Jacks, now a world of time apart. Jack’s sullenness at taking French lessons the summer she stayed with Hector and Aunt Vanessa was legendary. He hated
Two blocks down was a riot of movement and noise as firefighters were doing their valiant best to beat the fire back. They moved fast and precisely, shouting out orders above the roaring of the fire, moving in practiced coordination, like ballet dancers, only braver.
As she watched the firefighters, faces lit by the reflection of the fire, a deep boom sounded that stopped everyone on the street in his and her tracks. The fire raged upward, reaching high up as if to touch the stars. The neighbors, huddled inward, stepped farther away from Hector’s home. The firefighters moved faster.
The gas mains had blown. The house would be unsalvageable.
Suddenly, Summer felt sad and old. As if Hector’s house disappearing in smoke and ruins had eaten up her past, too. A bit of her girlhood was tied up in the house, not happy memories but her memories nonetheless, and now everything was gone.
She walked back to her car and slid back behind the wheel and checked her watch again.
The door opened and closed and suddenly there he was, Jack, filling the car’s interior with the smell of smoke. Summer blinked. How did such a big man move so fast and so quietly?
“Took you long enough,” she said.
He looked at her curiously, then brought out an odd-looking cell. He punched in a number. “Yo, Nick,” he said when a deep voice came online. “You got my text? Yeah. Well, someone definitely torched the place. I, ah, got him.” He frowned heavily. “Yeah, he’s still breathing, but not conscious. Christ, what do you think I am—okay, okay. I sent you fingerprints, full frontal and side views of the face, and I have his cell, we’ll do an infodump of everything on it. Or rather, Felicity will. The firefighters will have this guy and will bring him in for questioning. So have someone from the Bureau scoop him up, okay, before the CIA gets to him. Because if they do, the guy will be in the wind and we’ll have lost a promising lead. Get me intel on this guy ASAP.” He listened carefully to something this Nick was saying. Summer couldn’t make it out, all she heard was the deep voice at the other end of the line but she couldn’t make out the words. Jack shot her a glance and she straightened, surprised. “Yeah, I’m with Summer. Summer Redding. Of
Area 8
. She’s promised to hold off on publishing until we get more facts and she’s going to help me investigate. I’ll get back to you. Go get this guy and interrogate him. Pull out all the stops. Yeah. Later.”
As he talked, he was tearing off the wig and beard.
“So.” He turned to Summer and curled up his big hand. “Give it to me.”
Oh, God. Another comment that wasn’t suggestive at all, but her body read it as pure invitation, and heat flashed over her skin, head to toe. She would love to give him what she had. Her body would, anyway. Her head? Not so much. But since Jack had reappeared in her life, her body seemed to be calling the shots.
She clutched the steering wheel hard and stared straight ahead. “Hector’s second apartment, you mean. He called it his
garconnière
.”
“Bachelor’s pad,” Jack said with a shake of his head.
She looked at him in surprise. “I’m glad all those French lessons your mom insisted on proved useful.”
“Those French lessons never penetrated my head,” Jack said. “But I picked up street French in Cote d’Ivoire. Was undercover there for two years.”
And there it was, the difference between the two Jacks, now a world of time apart. Jack’s sullenness at taking French lessons the summer she stayed with Hector and Aunt Vanessa was legendary. He hated
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