Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (17 page)

“Really?” His gaze was incredulous. “Now, you want to talk about investigating. Right now?”

What she really wanted was to erase the mistakes she’d made in the past. The best she could hope for was to make the future better. “Let’s get started.”

Chapter Fifteen

In spite of Petra’s insistence that they get down to serious investigating right away, Brady was determined to wait until after dark to follow the GPS trail left by Dr. Smith. Continuing their undercover assignment in the face of a stated threat went against his better judgment, and he’d be damned if he let himself be pushed into any disorganized action that he deemed dangerous. From now on, there would be no leaping without making sure they had a safe landing.

Pacing in the studio, he outlined his position. “We need to coordinate all our actions. Above all, exercise caution.”

“I get it,” she said. “My new mantra is No Risk.”

“Good.”

“What if Dee goes into labor?”

“When we get to that bridge…”

“…we’ll cross it,” she said brightly.

“In the meantime, we plan.”

“And I’ll carry a couple of extra crystals. Amethyst and obsidian are good for protection.”

“Oh, swell.”

He wondered if she had anything in her bag of tricks that would alleviate the intense, unreasonable desire he felt for her. He could barely glance in her direction without becoming aroused, and passion was the opposite of what was needed. His natural inclination on the job was to be cool, detached and controlled, but their kiss and the promise of making love tapped into a different part of his psyche.

Even though he wasn’t a Freudian, his current state reminded him of Sigmund’s theory of the id—a part of the human mind where instinct and libido ran rampant. Brady had a clear mental picture of his own id as a hairy-toed, slobbering, grunting beast that bounced off the walls and rolled across the floor, demanding attention. The id had a mantra of its own: me want woman. But Petra didn’t want to play.

Exerting the full force of discipline he’d developed over the years, Brady turned to the task at hand. He played back the recording of Francine’s conversation with the Durango lawyer. A couple of questions arose.

“She mentioned birth certificates,” he said. “Is that usually your responsibility?”

“Frequently, but not always. The Certificate of Live Birth needs to be signed and registered with the state.”

“What happens if it’s not registered?”

“I don’t think anything happens until the child actually needs a birth certificate for identification or enrolling in school.”

With his id firmly tied down, he regained his sense of logic. “If the birth isn’t reported, the state doesn’t know the child exists. The baby can’t be considered missing because it was never there in the first place. These babies would be untraceable.”

“What’s the advantage in that?”

“They have no identity until one is assigned to them. These children could be raised for slave labor or as mercenaries.”

“Is that efficient?” she questioned. “Raising a child is expensive.”

“If it’s done right,” he said grimly. “These children wouldn’t be properly cared for. They’d be human strays. We need to get a look at that lawyer’s paperwork.”

“Is it on computer?” she asked.

“The FBI tech team already hacked into Stan Mancuso’s system. They didn’t find anything to send up red flags. Investigating him is going to require a field trip to Durango.”

But if he and Petra showed up on Mancuso’s doorstep, their cover was blown. He wanted to maintain their access at Lost Lamb for as long as possible. Petra had been correct when she said Francine sounded like the boss in her conversation with Mancuso. That woman with the black wigs and the Cleopatra eyes was a lot more dangerous than he’d expected.

Fortunately, he wasn’t on his own. Brady had access to backup in the person of Cole McClure, a legendary undercover agent.

He paused in his pacing to face Petra. Immediately, his libidinous id started gurgling and flailing. But Brady kept his voice calm and even. “I’m going to put in a call to Cole. After that, we’re going to do a drill for what to do if we’re attacked at the house.”

She bobbed her head in a reasonable facsimile of cooperation. “I’ll go downstairs and make tea. Do you want more coffee?”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

As he watched her leave the studio, it took all his willpower not to give in to the beast id and make a grab for her. Maybe there was time for a cold shower before she came back upstairs.

* * *

W
HEN
P
ETRA RETURNED
to the studio carrying her herbal tea and Brady’s coffee, he was still on the phone with Cole. Standing in front of his easel, Brady had his back to her as he drew on a sheet of white paper tacked to a paint-stained board. He gestured emphatically with his charcoal pencil, making a point with Cole and then returning to his sketch. It was a rough portrait of her face.

Fascinated, she watched as her features became clearer. Was her mouth that big? Was her chin really that pointy? She’d never been someone who spent a lot of time looking in mirrors. Her makeup regime was minimal, and her hair required little care beyond washing and letting it air dry. Brady made her look interesting—not Barbie doll pretty but somehow striking, with high, strong cheekbones. She’d always been too distracted by her freckles to pay attention to her cheekbones.

The shadings of his pencil gave her features depth and added texture to her hair. Her closed-mouth smile was subtle with a quirk at the corners, as though she knew a secret that she wasn’t telling. With a few artistic strokes, he made her eyes light up. As with all of his portraits, she perceived an emotional undertone. The face that stared from his sketch—her face—was sensual and lively.

He finished his phone call and the sketch at the same time. Without turning around, he asked, “Do you like it?”

“I look like somebody who’s ready for a challenge.”
In the bedroom maybe.
“I like it a lot.”

When he turned and came toward her, he seemed more calm and in control. He took the steaming coffee mug from her and lifted it to his mouth. As he sipped, he gazed at her over the brim. His voice was low, just a shade above a whisper. “You’re a good subject.”

“Is that another one of your lines?”

“Do I need one?”

Not really.
When she looked into the faceted gray of his eyes, she was mesmerized—anxious to fall into his arms and not really sure why she was holding back.
Oh, yeah, because she was terrified
. She was afraid to tell him her deepest secrets. It was probably for the best. He wasn’t planning to stay in Colorado, anyway.

She asked, “What did Cole say?”

“He’ll go to Durango tomorrow. While Mancuso has his appointment with Francine, Cole will be undercover at his offices.”

“One less problem we have to deal with.”

He nodded. “Now, for the safety drill.”

“Do we really have to do this? I know what to do if somebody attacks me.”

“Fine,” he said, “you tell me. Somebody busts in the door or sneaks upstairs while you’re sleeping, what do you do?”

Her training on surprise attacks came not only from sessions at Quantico. Her brother and sister liked to play commando. They were always hiding and jumping out at each other and at her.

“The first objective is escape,” she said. “If somebody comes after us at the house, they won’t be alone and they won’t be gentle. I won’t engage in combat unless there’s no other alternative.”

“Good answer,” he said. “Suppose you’re upstairs, how do you make your exit?”

“Easy.” Mug in hand, she left the studio. As soon as she walked through his bedroom door, her gaze went to the bedspread which was still messy from where they’d been lying together. Sensuality hung in the air; she could almost smell the pheromones.

She opened a door with a glass window that led onto the balcony that stretched across the front of the house. The cedar flooring was about five-feet deep and there were a couple of lawn chairs shoved up against the wall of the house. The balcony faced west and would be a perfect place for sunning in the afternoon.

Turning to him, she said, “I’d climb over the railing and drop to the ground.”

“What if the attacker is watching the front of the house?”

“I’d have to open one of the windows in the studio and pull the same maneuver. A longer drop but still doable.” She frowned. “In this scenario, where are you?”

“Gone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Gone?”
As in dead?
She didn’t want to participate in an exercise where they were pretending the worst had happened. “No negative energy. I’m going to imagine you’ve gone out to get a cappuccino. This is my cappuccino defense.”

“Whatever.”

He moved to the railing where he stood watching the colors of sunset paint the skies above the treetops. A breeze blew his hair back from his high, intelligent forehead, and sunlight burnished his face and shoulders. He looked almost too good to be true. Sipping her tea, she kept her hands busy so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him.

“I wish,” she said, “I wish we had more time.”

“We’re cramming a lot of action into just a few hours. That’s for damn sure.”

“Your accent just got heavy. When you said ‘for damn sure,’ you really sounded like Texas.”

“It’s where I’m from.” He shrugged. “My grandpa used to say that you can change where you’re going, but you can’t change where you’ve been.”

There was a lot of truth in those homespun sayings. She could never erase her past; those scars were permanent. But a future relationship with Brady could lead in directions she hadn’t even imagined.

Leaning against the railing beside him, she asked, “Did I pass the test for escaping an attack?”

“I suppose.” He grinned at her and his dimple appeared. “Let me show you the weapons I’ve got hidden around and about.”

“More guns?”

“The only firearms are in the studio, but there are plenty of other ways to defend yourself.”

He took her on a tour, and she was surprised to discover that virtually every room held a concealed arsenal. In the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs, there were containers with innocuous labels that actually held pepper spray. Knives were tucked between the cushions of the chairs and sofa. Several blunt instruments—ranging from a hammer to a golf club—were placed strategically. No matter where she was in the house, she was only a few steps away from a potentially lethal weapon.

She looked up at him. “This is amazing.”

“Planning ahead, it’s what I do.” He took out his car keys. “It’s almost dark. Let’s go follow Smith’s GPS track.”

“I’ll be ready in a flash.”

Rifling through the clothes in her closet, she tried to plan for what the rest of the evening might bring. They might be chasing bad guys, which meant she’d need a decent pair of shoes. And they might be sneaking around in the dark, so her outfit needed to be black. Quickly, she dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt.

She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered another essential. They needed luck. She zipped back to her room and grabbed a necklace with an amethyst stone.

* * *

B
RADY HAD PROGRAMMED
the route taken by Dr. Smith into a handheld GPS device that gave precise directions. With Petra behind the wheel of the truck, he was free to visually scan as they drove through the unfamiliar territory. Not that he could see much beyond the beam of their headlights.

The ITEP task force had already pinpointed this area—known as Four Corners because it was where Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico met—as a good distribution hub. From here, the human cargo could be shipped in a variety of directions that crossed borders and law enforcement jurisdictions. In addition to the four different states, the Navajo and Hopi Indian reservations were nearby.

No wonder the task force had spent months and uncovered very little. Even a small lead, like the tracker on Smith’s car, represented forward progress. Brady hoped that he and Petra would uncover evidence that would lead to the top men. Or the top woman, he reminded himself. Francine couldn’t be discounted.

As they drove through Kirkland, he pointed out the partly burned sign for Royal Burger. It read, Roya urge. “The food is okay but not exactly fit for a king. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat. We can grab something in Durango.”

He liked that she wasn’t picky about her food. Like him, Petra seemed to eat as an afterthought in spite of her childhood experiences in the kitchen of a Greek restaurant. “Do you know how to make baklava?”

“Of course.” She shot him a questioning glance. “Where did that question come from?”

“Just getting to know you.”

“Do you have a cooking specialty?”

“I’m from Texas, lady. My three-alarm barbecue can’t be beat. Even my twin admits that mine is the best.”

“Your twin,” she said, “I’d like to meet her.”

As a general rule, Brady avoided bringing women to meet his sister. Barbara was so anxious for him to settle down that she tended to pounce. “If I brought you two ladies together, you’d conspire to drive me crazy. I’d have to go hide in the doghouse with my four-year-old nephew.”

“A good place for you,” she teased. “Needless to say, my father would love you.”

He flopped back in the passenger seat as if he’d been punched in the chest. “That’s the kiss of death.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my experience, women aren’t interested in being with men their fathers approve of.”

“You sound like this has happened to you before.” She chuckled. “Well, of course it has. Not only are you a clean, decent guy but you’re special agent. And you know how to fix cars. Dads have got to love you.”

“And that’s not what their daughters are looking for.”

“I’ve already done my rebellious phase,” she said. “I’d be happy for my dad to like you.”

He watched her as she drove. Sketching her had calmed his crazy id-driven passion, and he was attracted in a different, more purposeful way. When he’d told her that he wanted more than a fling, he hadn’t been lying. She was someone special. He hadn’t been looking for a woman like her. With her yoga and crystals and positive energy, Petra didn’t seem like she’d fit into his life. Somehow, she did. They meshed. He hadn’t been looking, but he’d found her just the same.