Night's Landing (23 page)

“Well, my life would be easier if it’d been someone else with Rob, or someone else who flew down here—”

“Someone you’re not so attracted to?”

“God, you can be direct.”

“It’s a quality we share.”

And she was attracted to him. Never mind what he wanted from her or what he cared about, she hadn’t objected to sex with him in the kitchen.

Not even a little.

She decided to change the subject. “Ethan said he checked on Conroy this morning. I wish he hadn’t, but at least Conroy wasn’t around. And I talked to Rob. Our folks are arriving in New York tonight. I told him about Ethan and Conroy. Turns out he met Conroy in Amsterdam. Conroy was there trying to get interviews with my parents. Nice business write-off.” She sat across from Nate, trying to calm herself down. “My family attracts a lot of drama on a good day. These haven’t been particularly good days.”

Nate didn’t answer. He picked up a pie semicircle and examined it as if it might have ants. “What’s in it?”

“What? Oh. Apricots and spices.”

“So, it’s like a turnover.”

“Better.”

He smiled. “Better than a turnover, maybe or maybe not better than sex.” He broke the pie in half, the warm cinnamon-apricot filling oozing out. “Another stick-to-your-ribs southern recipe.”

“They’re one of Wes Poe’s favorites. I don’t think he tells many people. And, no, it’s not something I shared with Conroy.”

Nate tried a bite. “Not bad.” He sat back in his chair, his incisive eyes on her. “I don’t trust Ethan Brooker. I don’t trust Conroy Fontaine. Hell, I don’t trust myself.” He sighed. “You do bear closer watching, Miss Sarah.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Not officially.” She had no intention of backing down with him. “I’m not letting you or anyone else force a security detail on me in my own home. I won’t have it, not unless there’s just no other choice.”

His eyes were flinty. “We’ll see what comes in the mail today.”

She ignored him. “I suppose what happened last night wouldn’t have happened if you were here ‘officially.’”

“I love the oblique way you put it. You mean indulging in prune cake or—”

She pushed back her chair and threw her dish towel at him, which he caught with one hand, laughing unexpectedly for the first time since she’d met him, at least like that. He had a great laugh. Sexy. But she was in a frame of mind and all her nerve endings were such that they had her thinking everything about him was sexy.

“About last night.” She cleared her throat and made herself go on. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you that way. You’ve experienced a recent trauma, and I should have been more sensitive to that.”

He almost choked on his apricot pie. He had to get up, go to the sink and get water before he could speak again.

Sarah frowned. “What?
I
started things rolling last night.
I’m
not the one who was shot the other day. It was up to me to stop things before they went too far.” She had a feeling she was making a mess of things. “I’m just saying, if you have any regrets this morning, I understand.”

He waved one hand and choked out, “No regrets.” He took another drink of water, then turned and leaned back against the sink. “God, you’re a trip, Dr. Dunnemore. You tell me how the hell you could possibly have taken advantage of me when I’m the one who was standing, holding you, when we—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“I’m talking about emotional advantage more than physical advantage. If I’d simply gone about making my fried pies—”

“You’d just have had more flour on you when we made love.”

She was getting nowhere. She wasn’t sure she wanted to and smiled. “And dough on my hands. Sticky dough.”

“Jesus.” He grinned at her. “You’re right. You did take advantage of me. I hope you will again soon.” But he went still and swore under his breath, drawing his weapon. “Don’t move.”

Sarah followed his gaze, stifling a yell of surprise when she saw the fat, black snake slithering up the hall toward the kitchen.

“Water snake or cottonmouth?” Nate asked in a low voice.

She noted the triangle-shaped head and stout body. “Cottonmouth.”

It was at least three feet long. Nate kept his eyes on it.

Sarah took a breath. “Slowly move toward the back door.”

“And what? Let it find its way under my bed? Not a chance.”

“Well, you’re not going to shoot it!” She took a step toward the counters, the snake moving quickly now. “Try to get behind it if you can. Rob and I used to catch cottonmouths all the time, but outside. I think they might be faster on a floor.”

“Oh, good.”

He didn’t sound scared at all. Sarah realized that getting behind the snake, which was coming toward them in the kitchen, wasn’t going to be easy. “I’m going to the pantry, okay? Granny used to catch snakes with the mop handle.” She moved deliberately, as quickly as she dared, to the pantry in the corner of the kitchen. “Distract it if it goes after me.”

“I’m going to shoot it if it goes after you.”

She grabbed the rag mop from the open pantry and detached its metal head. “We just need to get it outside. Remember, most water moccasin bites don’t end up being poisonous. They don’t release their venom willy-nilly. Anyway, I have an antivenom kit. Of course,” she added, walking slowly back toward the hall doorway, “I’ve never had to use it.”

Nate glanced at her. “Want me to do it?”

She shook her head. “I watched Granny catch snakes with the mop a dozen times, at least. Usually grass snakes, though.”

The snake slithered under the table. Nate still had his gun pointed at it. Careful not to do anything sudden, Sarah came up behind the snake, then, in a swift, one-chance-only move, she pinned it down within the hardware that usually held the mop head in place, just as her grandmother had done so many times.

She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the snake just behind its head, removed the mop handle and stood up straight, the black body wriggling in front of her. “This was a lot more fun when I was a kid.”

Nate stepped forward and took the mop from her. She ran out the back door, the snake’s thick three-foot body hanging past her knees. She kept going, all the way down to the dock.

She flung the cottonmouth as hard as she could into the river.

It disappeared in the brown water.

She was breathing hard, aware of Nate behind her on the dock.

Ethan eased in behind them. “I’d have shot it if I were you, Deputy.”

Sarah spun around at him. “Did you put that snake in my house? Because I got on your case about Conroy—”

“Not me, Miss Sarah.” Ethan was unruffled. “I grew up in West Texas. I’m not that big on snakes.”

She glanced at Nate and saw that he’d returned his gun to its holster. She turned back to Ethan, who just watched her calmly. She was still on edge. “We haven’t had a snake in the house in years, and I don’t remember
ever
having a cottonmouth in the house.”

Ethan shrugged. “If I were your granny and had to fetch a snake out of the house, I don’t know as I’d tell a little kid it was poisonous.”

Sarah expelled a breath. “I’m sorry. I have no business accusing you of anything. I’m sure it was an accident.” She tried to smile. “At least I know how to catch a snake. I wonder if that poor snake knows I saved its life.”

Nate shook his head. “I’m with Brooker. Easier just to shoot it.”

“You’d clean up the mess?”

Ethan gave an exaggerated shudder, his eyes sparking with unexpected humor. “You know, Miss Sarah, I could have gone all day without that picture in my head.”

“Sorry. But the snake didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like it wanted to be in the house—it just found itself there.”

“Next time you find a snake in the house,” Ethan said, “you call me, okay? That’s what I’m here for.”

“You won’t shoot it?”

“No, ma’am, how could I shoot it? I don’t carry a gun.”

He ambled off the dock and back toward the fence. Nate stared out at the water. The sun broke through the clouds and played on the ripples of coppery water. A bright red male cardinal flew into the low brush along the river, and Sarah could hear a mourning dove with its intermittent, almost plaintive song.

So quiet, so peaceful.

But her heart was thumping, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the snake and how it had gotten into the house.

“About last night,” Nate said. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

She nodded.

“Your brother’s trusting me to look after you—”

“I can look after myself.”

He half smiled. “You did all right with that snake.”

She glanced up at him and forced herself to smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You’re pals with the president. For all we know, a dozen Secret Service agents are camped out here.”

“And saw us last night? I don’t think so. Nobody saw anything.”

His eyes sparked. “There was plenty to see.”

She thought of diving into the river. The snake was probably halfway to Nashville by now. Nate’s words had brought back all of last night. She could feel her body quaking with him inside her, remembered how she’d resisted screaming out—how uninhibited she’d been with him. He was not an inexperienced lover. She warned herself not to expect anything more.

She ran her hands through her hair. “I think we should check the house for more snakes, don’t you?”

“Damn straight.”

But when they reached the house, he stopped in the front hall and curved an arm around her middle, kissing her softly. “Last night wasn’t just opportunistic,” he whispered. “When this thing gets settled—” But he didn’t finish, just stood back and sighed. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t trust himself right now on any level—she guessed that was what he was trying to say. Which made sense to her, because she didn’t trust herself, either.

Betsy Dunnemore looked even more drawn and stressed-out than she had the other day when Nicholas had intercepted her at the café. She stood in the elegant living room of his hotel suite as if she were his captive. In a way, she was. His orders to his men had been precise—bring her to him without fail, but voluntarily. Persuade her. Create a sense of urgency that she couldn’t ignore.

Anything could happen in New York. Anything at all.

He needed to speak with her before she got there. He wanted her on his side. He wanted her at least to understand his position.

And if he could get it, he wanted information from her. What did she know about the sniper investigation? Did anyone realize he’d contacted her? Were the feds trying to pin the Central Park attack on him? Rousseau was drawing blanks in New York. He was useless.

“Who were those men?” Betsy tossed her head in an obvious effort to look outraged, but she was too upset, too frightened, to pull it off. “Your hired thugs?”

“Bodyguards. In my position—”

“As a fugitive,” she cut in coldly.

“As a wealthy man who not only my enemies but my own government want to bring down.”

She snorted. “Spare me your self-pity. What do you want?” Her tone was slicing. “Your ‘bodyguards’ made it clear they’d drag me here if I didn’t come on my own.”

“I’m sure you’re reading into their manner. I apologize for any—”

“Just tell me what you want. My husband and I are flying to New York later this afternoon.” She had on her travel clothes, a smart black suit with her fashionable but comfortable shoes. “A car is picking us up in half an hour. I have to be back.”

Nicholas sipped a glass of a Belgian beer he was fond of. “You’ll be back in plenty of time. Won’t you sit down?”

“No.”

She was strong willed, a beautiful woman in her prime. According to Janssen’s sources, Stuart Dunnemore was still a vital, interesting man, but at almost eighty, he wasn’t the man she’d married. He was increasingly dependent on her. But Betsy would never let people think she had any regrets about having married a man so much older than she.

“Can I offer you some lunch?” Nicholas asked mildly.

She shook her head, her hands clasped firmly on her handbag. The way she was dressed, the way she carried herself, her hair, her grooming—she looked as if she belonged in the tasteful surroundings. Janssen had to work at looking the part, although his wealth far, far exceeded that of the Dunnemores. But inside, Janssen felt like a phony. A thug, a common criminal.

That, he thought, would change.

“You’re free to leave. It’s not as if you’re my prisoner.” He spoke with wry amusement, but Betsy didn’t relax even slightly. He set his beer glass down on a small, antique table. “I have contacts in New York who tell me that the FBI’s spinning its wheels in its investigation into the shooting. They haven’t made any headway since they found that drug addict dead—”

“What contacts?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your husband are walking into a very tense situation. My contacts also tell me that the FBI and the Marshals Service are bracing for another attack.”

“I want to see my son,” she said tightly. “That’s all.”

“Of course. I understand.”

She leveled her unflinching gaze on him. “I’m going to tell Rob—and the investigators—that you’ve approached me several times since last fall. As soon as I learned of your legal status I’ve asked you not to contact me.”

It was the truth, as far as it went, but she wasn’t saying how she’d learned he was a fugitive. Charlene Brooker. Either Betsy was deliberately not mentioning her meeting with the young army captain or didn’t think it was important. But the FBI would want to know how Betsy Dunnemore had found out her old college classmate was a fugitive—they’d want to know everything murdered army captain Charlene Brooker had told her. Janssen knew now he should have acted sooner,
before
Char Brooker had contacted Betsy.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Betsy said. “What you’re up to—”

“I’m not up to anything. I’m just a man in legal limbo who ran into an old friend—” He smiled, remembering her previous stinging words on that subject. “An old acquaintance.”