A Kiss to Kill (10 page)

Gina laughed out loud. The unfamiliar sound startled the hell out of her. She stared in wonder at the cat. She hadn’t laughed aloud in eight months.

Stepping over to the counter, she gathered up the tabby in her arms and gave it a long hug, which in its infinite cat wisdom, it sank into, giving her cheek a tiny lick with its little sandpapery tongue.

Gina’s heart swelled. It was so nice to feel a soft, warm body against hers. One she knew intended her no harm. Since her rescue, other than hugs from her nurse and best friend, Rainie, she hadn’t let anyone else close enough to touch anything but her hand.

The kitty finally pulled away, and she opened a can of fish-flavored food and scooped it out into the bowl. She could swear the feline smiled at her before digging in.

Seeing the animal eat reminded Gina that she probably should, too. Not that she was hungry. She’d lost her appetite eight months ago and hadn’t gotten it back. She opened the fridge. Good thing. There wasn’t much in it. Mostly water and beer. A variety of condiments, including three types of salsa. Eggs. A few cartons of leftover takeout. A bag of salad. Milk. Gregg liked cereal for breakfast, she recalled. And eggs for dinner. With salsa. But only if he didn’t want to take the time to go out to eat. Mainly when they were in bed and rumbling stomachs disrupted the flow of whatever they were doing, making them laugh.

Stifling the too-potent memory of that long-ago laughter, she found a bunch of bananas on the counter, broke one off, and ate it while stroking the cat’s soft fur as it licked the bowl clean then had a long drink of water. After giving her fingers another tiny lick, it bounded off to the main room, jumped up on the fat arm of an easy chair sitting next to a small round table with a lamp on it. There was no TV in the apartment, but a book lay facedown on the table, next to a coaster. Gregg’s favorite spot to sit and relax . . . when he wasn’t in bed.

The cat looked at her expectantly.

She shook her head slowly. “What on earth do you see in him?” she whispered.

But she couldn’t resist the draw of the cozy picture. Almost against her will she went over and lowered herself gingerly into the chair.
His
chair. A lingering hint of his cologne perfumed the cushions. Surprisingly, the scent didn’t bother her. It was almost . . . comforting. She leaned back experimentally. She could see why it was his favorite spot; the chair was super comfy. With a sigh as close to relaxed as she’d felt in a long, long time, she pulled the lever to recline, brought up the footrest, and burrowed into the yielding depths of the easy chair. Immediately the cat jumped into her lap, curled up on her tummy, and started to purr. It felt warm and soft, and its purr was a soothing rumble of contentedness.

Gina smiled and closed her eyes.

Moments later, she was asleep.

Which was why she never heard the door cautiously open, nor the stealthy footsteps that treaded lightly across the carpet toward her . . .

NINE

SARAH
barely made it through the autopsy without tossing her cookies. It was depressing, really. Time was, she could observe one impartially, without her stomach heaving like a ship caught in a typhoon. But that had changed recently. When she’d gotten far too personally involved in a case. As in trying to help a mother and daughter, victims of domestic abuse, who had come to the station wanting to stop the terrible cycle of broken bones and insincere apologies by a lying SOB husband before it was too late. Sarah had told them to leave the bastard, and given them the phone number of a shelter specializing in such things.

They’d left the bastard.

But he hadn’t liked Sarah’s interference. He’d tracked the wife down through a teacher the little girl had tearfully confided in. The results had been horrific.

Sarah would never, ever forget that double autopsy. As long as she lived, the images of mother and daughter lying on those cold steel tables would haunt her.

But as these things went, the autopsy she was attending today—the woman from the alley—was fairly routine, and the woman’s face, with its pale skin and blue-tinted lips, was strangely beautiful in death. Which only made Sarah’s stomach feel worse. Asha Mahmood had been fed a high dose of the date rape drug Rohypnol, sexually assaulted, then smothered to death—most likely with a pillow.

Hell of a way to go. Still, technically it looked like your fairly standard Friday-night-date-gone-terribly-wrong. Well, other than the fact that Asha Mahmood had died on a Wednesday. And the address listed on Mahmood’s fake driver’s license didn’t exist. Sarah had wondered if the name was fake, too, but a phone call just before the autopsy from an NYPD detective had put that doubt to rest. Apparently Asha Mahmood’s cousin had been killed this morning in a bloodbath in New York City during the commission of a bizarre kidnapping.

Talk about your weird coincidence.

Not
—especially in light of SAC Dreamy Blue Eyes’s keen interest in the case. A connection? Ya think?

Wade Montana was after something other than dinner and a quick roll in the hay.

Which was just interesting enough of a distraction that Sarah didn’t hurl all over the autopsy table. Small favors.

“You know you can wait in the hall,” Dr. Stroud—she’d never get used to calling him Johnny—kindly said, glancing at her through his full-face shield with a sympathetic expression. He’d been the examiner on that awful double autopsy and knew the real reason for her newfound squeamishness. “I’ll come out and fill you in after I’m done.”

She met his eyes, grateful for the rare solidarity. “Thanks. But I’ll stay. Climbing back in the saddle again and all that.”

He nodded, and went back to work on the entrails. “Jonesy threw up once,” he said conversationally. “All over the vic.”

Sarah grinned. “Yeah?”

“The body’d been stuffed into an oil barrel and left for two months. In the middle of summer.”

She winced. “God, I remember that one.”

“It was a real challenge trying to separate the fluids.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh. Yuck.”

“I’m just saying. You’re not the only one who gets bothered. And it’s especially bad when a person is emotionally involved. Hell, even I have to leave the room sometimes.”

Something uncoiled in her stomach and she suddenly felt less queasy. “I know you’re lying, but you’re sweet for saying so. Thanks.”

“You’re a good cop, Sarah. Don’t let anyone make you feel less than, just because you care.”

She gave him an embarrassed smile, her face heating at the unexpected praise. “Damn, Doc. Your bedside manner is totally wasted on your patients.”

He winked as he dumped the liver onto a scale. “Maybe we could—”

Just then her phone rang. Thank
God
she’d never know what he was about to suggest they could—

“McPhee.”

“Detective McPhee,” drawled a smooth male voice that belonged well south of the Mason-Dixon line. “This is Commander Bobby Lee Quinn calling from Strategic Technical Operations and Rescue Missions Corporation. I wonder if you have a moment?”

She had no clue who this guy or Strategical Techinque whats-its were, but she’d take the interruption. “Um, sure,” she said, gesturing to Stroud that she had to take the call, and headed into the hall. “Who did you say you’re with, Commander Quinn?” she asked after making her escape. She pulled out her notebook and a pen.

“STORM Corps. I’m calling regarding a death you’re investigating. Asha Mahmood?”

This was getting positively intriguing. “STORM Corps?” she said, noting his name, the time, and the acronym. “What exactly is that?”

“A PMC. We do private special ops work. Detective, are you aware that your victim’s cousin was killed this morning in New York City?”

“Yes, I am.” She shut up and waited, pondering exactly what kind of special ops work private military contractors did. Wasn’t that just a nicer term for mercenaries? Or maybe whackos? She clamped the phone between her ear and her shoulder and jotted a big, fat question mark in her notebook after the organization. She’d have to Google it.

After a brief pause he said, “Have you had a chance to search her apartment yet?”

“Why do you want to know?” Sarah asked carefully.

Again there was a pause. “Would you be open to a little negotiation, Detective McPhee?”

Her brows shot up. Seemed to be the day for it. “What kind of negotiation, Commander Quinn?” she went along.

“You don’t have your vic’s real address, do you? No, don’t bother to deny it. Here’s the deal I’m offering. I’ll share her address with you if you’ll share with us what you find there.”

Okay. “Have you ever heard of a thing called obstruction of justice, Commander Quinn?” she asked pointedly. Who
was
this guy?

His laugh was smooth as molasses. “How about if I say pretty please?”

And why did they
al
ways think boyish charm could win over any female? “I’m afraid I can’t reveal information on an ongoing case to unauthorized—”

“Oh, we’re authorized,” Quinn drawled. “All the way from the top. You’re welcome to call Department of Homeland Security and check on us.” He repeated his creds and rattled off a couple of DHS names, which she scribbled down while those internal red flags of hers started waving madly again. This case was getting seriously out of hand.

“What is DHS’s interest in Asha Mahmood?” she asked. First the FBI and now the DH freaking S!

“The cousin who was killed? His name was Ouda Mahmood, and he was a suspected terrorist. Al Sayika. A woman was kidnapped during the incident. She is a client of ours.”

Sarah winced. “Sucks to be you,” she offered, not without sympathy.

Quinn’s laugh turned dour. “Oh, we know who’s got her. Trust me, it will suck
far
worse to be him.”

A rash of goose bumps sifted down her arms at the quiet deadliness in the man’s voice. “If you know who took her, why do you need my help? And what does Asha Mahmood have to do with it?”

“We know who. We don’t know where.”

Ah. “So you’re hoping something in my vic’s apartment will tell you? Seems like a long shot.”

“We’re following every possible lead. We want her back. Before he kills her.”

Sarah sobered, digesting the conversation. He sounded legit. Naturally, she’d check out his references before giving him any information. But in the meantime, why not do a little probing herself? “Tell me, Commander Quinn, do you know an FBI agent by the name of SAC Wade Montana?”

There was an eloquent silence on the other end.

Her eyes narrowed. Un-freaking-believable. The feeb was
so
damn busted.

“What’s Montana’s interest in this?” she asked.

“He’s approached you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“SAC Montana is the kidnapped woman’s ex-fiancé.”

What?
Her jaw dropped. “Are you
kid
ding me? And they’re letting him work the case?”

“Not exactly. It’s complicated.”

She just bet it was. “All right, Commander Quinn. You’ve been straight with me and I appreciate that. If you check out, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Excellent.” He gave her Asha Mahmood’s address and his own contact information. He must be pretty damn sure of himself.

“I’ll be in touch,” she told him and hung up the phone. For a long moment, she contemplated her own reflection in the covered window of the morgue’s viewing room.

Wow. Things were
definitely
getting interesting.

And she had the distinct feeling that tonight, things would get even more interesting.

Wade Montana hadn’t exactly lied to her. But he hadn’t told the truth, either. Friend or foe? Either way, the man was trying to play her. Too bad she was so damn attracted to him. Too attracted for her own good. This one could hurt her. In more ways than one.

THE
evening sun was hovering like a big red-orange ball above the glittering water of the Chesapeake Bay. Alex checked over the pile of diving gear he’d pulled from the storage benches on the
Stormy Lady
. He was trying like hell to forget about the naked woman dozing below in his bunk.

No time for spinning fantasies. There was work to do. Gear to check. Dive plans to compose.

He forced himself to look at the inspection stickers on the air tanks and note the dates. But
fuck
. All he wanted to do was go back down to the cabin and keep right on doing what they’d been doing for the past half-dozen hours.

They’d lost the entire afternoon. When Quinn called, as he no doubt would at any minute, to ask if they had located the
Allah’s Paradise
and had he found the trigger yet, what the fuck was he going to say?
Sorry, boss. Spent the whole day fucking the woman I’ve been dreaming about fucking for the last hundred years?

Quinn would understand.

Uh-huh. Sure he would.

Fuck
.

Alex pulled two octopus-shaped regulators and BCD vests from the pile and checked them over. Hell, Alex wasn’t sure he understood it himself. Okay, yeah, he understood why
he
had done it. He just wasn’t sure why
she
had.

He stood the tanks up and just stared at them.

She hadn’t wanted to. At least her mind hadn’t. She’d made that crystal clear. But he’d been able to coax her body until it silenced her mind’s objections. Made her forget any whatever-commitment to Wade Montana she had, as well as her firm conviction that if she did this, Alex would end up hurting her even more than he already had. Which he no doubt would, if he let their relationship grow to anything beyond just sex.

Which he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

All right, fine. He already had. The woman loved him and he damn well knew it. She was already far past just sex.

He was a goddamn bastard, and that was a fact.

But did he regret making love to Rebel? Not for a single second. How fucking selfish was
that
?

“Whatcha doin’?” came her soft enquiry from behind him, startling him out of his litany of self-recrimination. He swung around, knocking the heavy tank over in his haste. It started rolling toward the edge of the deck.

“Shit,” he muttered and went after it, grabbing it before it smacked into the low bulwark and did damage.

“Language,” she said with a wince. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He gave her a withering look he hoped was convincing.
Big, mean spec ops guys did not get scared
.

Yeah, and then there was him.

He dropped his gaze to her outfit. White short-shorts and a snug, light blue hoodie. The halter of a metallic-blue bathing suit peeked out from under it. His mouth watered. “Damn, woman, you can sneak up behind me anytime.” He smiled, but her return smile was slow in coming.

“I thought you were going to stop swearing.”

“What, me? What gave you that idea?” The thought was ludicrous. His salty vocabulary had been part of his personal vernacular since sitting on his sailor daddy’s knee. He wouldn’t know how to communicate without it.

“You said you’d stop swearing when I started . . . um . . .” She bit her lip.

He opened his mouth, then shut it.
Oh, hell
. He’d forgotten about that. And she had definitely fucked him. Boy, howdy, had she ever. “I never thought—Hell, baby, you know I wasn’t serious.”

“I was.”

No damn kidding. Her expression was an uneasy truce between desire and doubt.

Jeez, were they still talking about swearing, here?

She obviously had something on her mind. One guess what. His inexcusably weak and imprudent behavior in bed—not using protection.

Shit. He did
not
want to have this conversation right now. He opened his arms, hoping to deflect it. “Come here, you.”

She hesitated a beat, then came to him with a reluctance that sent him straight back to full-scale self-recrimination.

“Alex—” she started.

Damn
. What was he going to do now? Lie? Or tell the truth and lose her forever? He knew how she felt about having kids.

Despite his assurances, the fact that she’d made love to him unprotected told him louder than words how she felt about him . . . and their future. Which made this conversation completely unavoidable. Hell, maybe it was just as well to get it over with so she’d know where things stood. Temporary pleasure. No future.

“I’m sterile,” he said tightly. “Shooting blanks. Can never have kids. That’s why we don’t need protection.”

He felt her go perfectly still.

For his part, he’d long ago resigned himself to his deficiency. As a young man he’d foolishly thought if a woman really loved him, it wouldn’t matter to her. He’d been wrong, and had the breakups to prove it. It was one reason he’d ultimately gotten involved with Helena. She’d seen his defect as inconsequential.

But Rebel wouldn’t feel that way. She’d often talked about wanting children. Had gotten that soft, dreamy look in her eyes a woman gets when contemplating her ideal future. One filled with a loving husband who came home at night to his wife and a houseful of kids. The kind of future a spec operator could never give her. A future
he
could never give her, even if he quit his job. Because he could never give her children. Which was why this thing between them could go no further than a sexual liaison.