Read Withholding Evidence Online

Authors: Rachel Grant

Tags: #romantic suspense, #political, #Navy SEAL, #military historian, #Military, #Evidence Series, #History

Withholding Evidence (2 page)

BOOK: Withholding Evidence
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K
EITH LAUGHED AS
the woman bolted down the stairs and out of his town house. He was sort of sorry to see her go, because that exchange had been fun—certainly worth getting out of bed for.

He waited until he heard the front door slam, then followed and locked the door. What kind of fool showed up at a guy’s house at nine on a Sunday morning and expected him to be forthcoming about an op that was not only top secret but was also the single greatest and worst moment of his military career? As if he’d tell her—or anyone—about Somalia.

He’d been debriefed after the op. The people who needed to know what happened knew everything. It was enough for the powers that be, and it was enough for him.

He climbed the stairs and returned to his kitchen, where he made a pot of coffee. The woman—Trina—had been hot in a sexy, nerdy-librarian sort of way. There was probably a fancy name for the way she wore her hair in that twist at her nape, but to him it was a bun. And the little glasses with the red rims? Sexy as hell the way they slanted over her hazel eyes.

Did she dress the part of librarian on purpose, or was it some sort of weird requirement of her profession? It was too bad she hadn’t decided to stay, because he had a hard-on after watching her march up his stairs in that straight skirt that cradled her ass.

He’d always had a thing for librarians—or historians—whatever.

If she had a PhD, she was probably a lot older than she looked.
Thank goodness
. Of course, she could be some sort of Doogie Howser genius.

Mug of coffee in hand, he headed into his office, woke his computer, and clicked on the mail icon. Had she really e-mailed him? It seemed like he’d have noticed.

New e-mail notifications came pouring in. Shit. How long had it been since he loaded e-mail? He checked the date of the first ones—from his dad, of course. These were nearly two weeks old. Oh yeah, he’d been so upset after the last round of antigovernment, antimilitary e-mails from his dear old dad, he’d turned off the mail program and took it out of start-up so it wouldn’t run unless he initiated it. For some reason that had felt easier, less final, than blocking his father’s e-mail address.

Thanks to the constant barrage of ranting messages, three months ago Keith had set his phone to only load e-mails from a select number of approved addresses. In the last two weeks, since he shut off mail on the computer, he’d received e-mails from the people who mattered to him on his phone, allowing him to forget he wasn’t receiving everything on the computer.

He scanned the list, deleting the ones from his dad without opening any. Each time he tapped the button, he felt a twinge of guilt. It was time to block Dad once and for all. Yet he still refused to take that final step and wasn’t quite sure why.

Misguided hope the man would change, he supposed.

After he’d deleted several e-mails, the name Trina Sorensen popped to the top of the list—the time stamp was last night. He scrolled down further and found four e-mails from her in the last week.

He opened her most recent message, noting the return address was indeed official navy. He scanned the contents. Huh. She’d told him that since he hadn’t responded to her previous inquiries, she would be stopping by his house this morning, and if he didn’t want her to show up, he should reply.

He lifted a finger to hit the Delete button and paused. Dammit. He owed her an apology.

Then he smiled, remembering that tight ass and those sexy calves. He’d liked the way she was quick with a comeback and didn’t back down easily.

He wouldn’t apologize via e-mail. He wanted talk to her in person so he could see her again. No way was he going to tell her about Somalia, but he could explain that in person too. Sort of.

Maybe his interest in the historian was only because he was bored. But at least she’d given him a reason to get out of bed this morning. Unemployment was for shit. He needed to
do
something.

An e-mail from his buddy Alec Ravissant reminded him of the garden party this afternoon at the home of Dr. Patrick Hill, the head of The MacLeod-Hill Exploration Institute in Annapolis, Maryland. Rav was running for the open Senate seat in Maryland, and the party was intended to introduce Rav to Hill’s extensive connections in local politics and the military.

Hill’s guests would be power-hungry high-society and military personnel. People who wanted to ingratiate themselves with military leaders, like the socialite made infamous in the Petraeus scandal a while back.

Sorry, Rav. No way in hell.
Keith might be bored in his very early retirement, but he wasn’t bored enough to attend a party that would require fending off the advances of married women while their husbands stood idly by, either oblivious, uncaring, or hoping their wives’ infidelity would gain them admission into the centers of power.

Christ. He was starting to sound like his dad.

Just before he hit the Delete button, his eye caught the note at the bottom. Curt Dominick would be there, and Rav wanted to introduce them. Keith knew the US Attorney General had been the one to finally convince Rav to run for the Senate, so it was no surprise that Dominick would attend. He was both a power player and a good friend of Rav’s. What gave Keith pause was realizing the man’s wife, Mara Garrett—who happened to be sexy Trina the historian’s boss—would probably attend as well.

Something Rav had said rang a bell—didn’t the MacLeod-Hill Institute have some sort of oceanic-mapping joint venture with the navy? Specifically with the navy’s underwater archaeology branch?

A quick Google search answered that question—yes—and revealed that the navy’s underwater archaeology department was part of Naval History and Heritage Command.

Well, that changed everything. He’d lay odds everyone at NHHC with a connection to the MacLeod-Hill project had been invited to the party. This could be the perfect opportunity for Keith to apologize to the historian.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

T
RINA FROWNED AT
her reflection. Her day dress was perfect for the party in that it was conservative. Staid. Dull.

Keith Hatcher’s jab at her age and appearance still rankled four hours later. She would
not
show up at Dr. Hill’s party looking like a twenty-year-old librarian. She threw open her closet and searched through her dresses. Her hand stopped on a red, knee-length cocktail dress she’d never mustered the courage to wear. It showed cleavage, which she only had if she wore the really tight bra she’d bought just for this dress. Plus she’d have to wear a thong to avoid panty lines.

Screw it. She’d wear the miserable bra and underwear and look like an adult for a change. Dr. Hill’s assistant would be there, and Trina had harbored a crush on the guy since they started exchanging e-mails for a joint NHHC-MacLeod-Hill PR project. Perry Carlson was good-looking, successful, smart, and had the most important attribute of any potential date: he wasn’t in the military.

Because she was a military historian working on a military base, the
only
single men Trina met were in the military, and she’d dated a few of them. She was done with soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines. Hell, she was done with coast guardsmen too.

Senior Chief Petty Officer Keith Hatcher was a prime example why. Hot as hell and full of himself, he’d belittled her and assumed she was a fool.

No more. Perry Carlson was her ideal guy. Educated, charming. Plus, he respected her. He knew her work was important and could save the lives of servicemen and women in the future. And she’d be lying if she didn’t admit Perry’s looks were a bonus. He was gorgeous. Not rugged like disheveled Keith, but crisp, handsome.

The last time they’d met, at an event at the Institute, they’d chatted for thirty minutes over glasses of champagne, and she’d been certain he was about to ask her out, when Dr. Hill made some boring announcement that ruined the moment. Perry’d had to run off to assist his boss and failed to follow up on his promise to return and finish their conversation.

But it was a work event for both of them; she understood why she’d been left hanging. And sure, Perry
could
have called her at work and asked her out, but maybe she hadn’t given off enough
I’m interested
vibes and he’d been afraid she’d turn him down. A legitimate concern, since it would have made working together on the PR project awkward.

Today would be different. If he didn’t ask her out, she’d go for it and ask him. Perry was exactly what she wanted in a man, and she would wear a dress that would show him she was a woman.

She slipped on the painful red bra and cinched it tight. Her meager breasts pulled together as promised. The dress fell into place, snug on the hips and bust. She turned to the mirror, making sure the fabric was smooth. Her body was skinny—a problem many women would love to have, she knew, but her slight frame contributed to everyone thinking she was ten years younger—or more—than she was. She’d never “filled out” during puberty and fit the same cup size she’d worn at fourteen. Eighty-five percent of the time she was content with her body. The other fifteen percent was usually triggered when her shape—or lack thereof—caused men to think she was in her teens.

It was embarrassing to be not just carded when ordering a drink, but questioned—address, astrological sign, and even birthstone—when out on a date, because the server assumed she had a fake ID. It invariably made her date uncomfortable too. She could tell by the way they shifted in their seat that they realized the waiter thought they were out with jailbait.

She twirled in front of the mirror. At least she had a decent butt. With just enough curve to look good in a tight dress, it didn’t disappear like her hips.

Dress decision made, what to do about her hair? Thick but dull brown, there wasn’t much she could do with it. She was tired of the French twist and decided to try a loose braid, which would keep it off her neck in the summer heat but didn’t look too
librarian
.

The one thing she couldn’t change was her glasses. She’d tried contact lenses several times over the years, but they hurt like hell. She’d given up and accepted her fate, choosing cute glasses in fun colors. So the glasses remained, but she chose the red-rimmed ones that matched her dress, then made a face at her reflection. She’d been feeling insecure about her appearance ever since meeting Keith Hatcher this morning, and the berating internal monologue needed to stop.

I am a smart, powerful adult woman. If I don’t respect myself, no one else will.

She stuck her tongue out at her reflection, an action that was neither powerful nor adult, but it did make her smile.

Keith Hatcher’s opinion of her looks didn’t define her. She knew who she was, inside and out, and no man’s two-second assessment should override her sense of self-worth. Yet the half-naked man she’d barely spoken to had gotten into her head.

Ridiculous. He was a source for information and nothing more. Unfortunately, she
would
face him again. Hatcher was her ticket away from spending her days analyzing World War II US Naval ship movements. Her account of the navy’s action in Somalia would be beneficial to future troops and ensure the mistakes made there would never be repeated.

At least, she assumed there had been mistakes in Somalia. Why else would they give her the assignment? It also explained Hatcher’s reluctance to talk.

She’d already immersed herself in the details: the attitude of the Somali government toward al Qaeda, the rival warlords and interclan violence that gave rise to the terrorist leader and the villagers who’d protected him. There had also been a UN peacekeepers camp, charged with protecting refugees who’d fled a warlord who had clashed with the al Qaeda leader. It should have been a case of
the enemy of my enemy is my friend
, but nothing was that simple in Somalia or with al Qaeda. As far as she could tell, the warlords had no concept of friend or ally.

She’d thought her new level of security clearance made the assignment a slam dunk, but she hadn’t counted on facing down a recalcitrant SEAL. Actually, several recalcitrant SEALs—no one on his team would talk to her. She’d hoped that because she hadn’t received an outright “no” to her e-mails, Keith Hatcher would be the exception.

Ready for the party, she knocked on her guest bedroom door. She’d rented out the extra room to an NHHC summer intern, Cressida Porter, who she liked a lot, but Trina was disappointed Cressida’s boyfriend was visiting for the weekend just so he could attend the party. Not because she didn’t like Todd, but because having set her sights on Perry, Trina needed a wingwoman, and with her boyfriend in tow, Cressida wasn’t available for the job.

“Cress? You and Todd ready?”

The bedroom door opened. Cressida looked gorgeous in an orange day dress that looked fabulous against her olive complexion. Her brown eyes and broad smile always reminded Trina of the actress Natalie Portman. Cressida looked pretty even rumpled and groggy first thing in the morning, which just wasn’t fair.

BOOK: Withholding Evidence
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ads

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