Betrayed (4 page)

He was tired, but he was too wound up to relax, and he might as well get some work done.

He'd told the other Rockfort agents that he couldn't help suspecting Elena Reyes. He had no proof that she'd done anything illegal, but with her access to the whole company's operations, she was in a perfect position to steal information from S&D. Not only that, but she had the skills to cover her tracks.

Or was he digging into her background so relentlessly because he was obsessed with her—and investigating her gave him the perfect excuse to get to know her better, at least in the abstract?

For a moment, he let his mind zing back to the scene in the ladies' room when he'd held her in his arms. He'd felt protective and at the same time vulnerable. Maybe crashing through that window and getting shot at had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

With a rough sound, he stopped thinking about his reactions after the takedown and went to the file he'd compiled on Elena, skimming back through the notations he'd made. Her father was a political refugee from San Marcos. He'd come here legitimately, but did Dad still have ties to his country of origin? What if he was involved in something illegal and had dragged his daughter into it?

And what about the brother, Alesandro Reyes? Elena had a well-paying job at S&D. Her brother had had the same opportunities in his adopted country, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. He worked for a rental car company where the pay couldn't be anywhere near what his sister was making. But he did have unexpected luxuries like a top-of-the-line Buick and an apartment in a high-priced building. Did he have other sources of income? Or was he forcing his sister or his parents to subsidize his lifestyle? And if so, how?

Even as Shane made a note to dig further into Alesandro's background, his thoughts went back to Elena.

Did she have a secret life that she was keeping hidden from everyone at S&D? A relationship she was hiding? And what would be the significance if she was? Could she be seeing someone who was influencing her behavior?

Was she under stress—with signs he could pick up, like moodiness and paranoia? Was she hiding financial transactions or extreme views?

He laughed. Maybe if he'd investigated Joe Duckworth for those tendencies, today's hostage situation could have been avoided. But Duckworth hadn't even been on his radar screen. He hadn't been investigating former employees.

Once again, he went back to Elena because he'd rather investigate her than Joe Duckworth. And it was too late to do anything about that bastard, anyway, besides bury him.

Shane had several pictures of Elena. One must have been from her high school yearbook. And some were snapshots that he'd gotten off the Web, like the one that went with her S&D employee bio.

He studied one of the head shots, admiring the waves in her long, shiny dark hair and the thick lashes that framed her dark eyes. She was a beauty, even though she didn't do much to enhance her looks.

Not like Glenda, who had always spent a good deal of time at the makeup table.

He clenched his teeth, wondering why he had dragged his ex-wife into the evening again.

In a mansion in the tony acres of Potomac horse country, Jerome Weller picked up the remote and turned off the news.

The hostage situation and shoot-out at S&D had made CNN and Fox. But after hours of breathless reporting, the anchors had run out of anything new to say. The talking heads were just rehashing old details, which was good, from his point of view. Just the same old pictures of the S&D building. Then the news that the guy who'd held the hostages in the HR department was dead—taken down by the chief of security, Shane Gallagher.

Again Weller saw the interview with the hero of the day. Shane Gallagher. He could be a problem. He'd been very effective in the takedown. And he'd also been reckless. Not a good combination for an enemy. And he knew that was what Gallagher was going to be—unless he killed him first.

Jerome reached into the bowl on the table beside the couch, took out a butter mint, and unwrapped the candy. It was a green one, and he popped it into his mouth, sucking as he enjoyed the flavor. He'd liked the candy since he was a kid. Of course, he'd never gotten to eat them at home. His dad had been a health-food nut who'd kept sweets away from his kids. The only time Jerome had gotten sugary treats was when he was playing at a friend's house.

He'd done a lot of that as a kid. He'd never liked bringing friends home. Not only because Dad was weird. They'd also been the shabby family in the neighborhood, and he'd been ashamed to have the other kids see the way they lived.

He'd remedied that as an adult. Now his home was a showplace, with all the comforts he'd lacked as a child—including all the candy he wanted. Which hadn't done his teeth any good. But today you didn't have to worry too much about that. You could get implants—which were better than the real thing.

As he sucked on the candy, he thought about Shane Gallagher and decided that bumping the guy off might not be such a great idea right now. It would be suspicious if the head of S&D security bought the farm just after he'd done that heroic hostage rescue.

Heaving his considerable bulk out of the custom-made leather chair in his den, Jerome crossed to the bar at the side of the room and poured some schnapps into a glass. The peppermint liqueur was just the thing to go with the mint candy—with a bit more punch.

He took an appreciative swallow. It was imported from Germany. An indulgence he'd only enjoyed as an adult. In addition to banning candy from the house, Dad had also lectured extensively on the evils of alcohol.

After taking a few sips, Jerome set the glass down and paced the room, his expensive alligator shoes making no sound on the thick carpet. He was a short, stout man wearing top-of-the-line Gucci jeans and a five-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater over a soft white dress shirt, all in plus sizes. And the outsized heavy gold chain at his neck winked in the illumination from the overhead lights as he walked to the window, then back to the chair.

He glanced toward the door. He'd given his staff the night off because he wanted to be alone. Now he was thinking that he should have kept Mario around to give him a massage. That would have relaxed his tense muscles.

There was a new product in development that he had vowed to get from S&D. And he wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of him acquiring it.

He'd tried and failed once, and maybe he'd even thought about giving up. But now the newscast was like a sign winking on and off in the darkness—pointing him in the right direction. He'd set up a couple of options. Finally, he knew which one he was going to take.

Or was that plan too risky?

He picked up the glass of schnapps and took another swallow while he considered his options.

***

Elena lived in what was called a garden apartment. Not one of the sexy new developments north of Rockville, but an older yellow-brick complex in the less fashionable part of the city. Still, living there meant she could afford to be on her own, which was important to her.

She drove past her building and circled the parking lot, checking to see if the car she'd spotted was still behind her. Although it seemed to have disappeared, she wished she could have gotten a space closer to her door.

The lot was full of older model cars, pickup trucks, and vehicles like delivery trucks and service vans that were owned by local businesses but driven home by workers.

She parked between a van from a rug cleaning company and a pickup with a padlocked toolbox under the back window. And before she got out of her car, she took the canister of Mace out of her bag and held it in her left hand. Her keys were in her right hand as she walked rapidly up the sidewalk to the front entrance of her building. Grateful that the light wasn't out at the mailboxes as it had been the week before, she got her mail, then climbed the steps to her second-floor apartment. Once she was inside, she slid the security chain into place and breathed out a little sigh.

She stopped in the living room to straighten the brightly colored accent pillow on the discount easy chair, then turned on the kitchen light and shuffled through the mail, separating the bills from the advertisements. The bills went into a drawer in the heavy, carved sideboard she'd picked up at a garage sale. The ads went into the trash. That was the way she liked it. Everything in its place.

She listened to several messages from friends and coworkers who had heard the news and wanted to make sure she was okay.

She returned most of the calls, keeping her voice bright and cheerful even though she'd had an exhausting and frightening day.

Finally, she went into the kitchen, glad she didn't have to cook. As was her habit, on Saturday she'd gone to the grocery store and bought the ingredients for several of her favorite dishes—some from home and some popular American entrées. She'd spent a couple of hours cooking and stored the food in the refrigerator. Now she got out a casserole of chicken and vegetable stew and some of the rice and beans she'd always liked. San Marcos comfort food, she guessed you'd call it.

Scooping some onto a plate, she microwaved her dinner while she went down the hall to the bedroom to kick off her medium-heeled shoes and change into sweatpants and a T-shirt.

It was tempting to simply drape her slacks and the blue blouse over the back of the scarred straight-backed chair she'd painted a cheerful yellow, but she hung them neatly in the closet before going back to the kitchen and taking the plate out of the microwave. She brought the meal to the table, along with a glass of cold tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator.

The food was good. She'd asked Momma to teach her to make a lot of the dishes they'd enjoyed back home, and she and her mother had spent many hours together in the kitchen. Those were some of her best memories of her parents. No politics. No sibling rivalry. Just two women in the kitchen, cooking.

She should be hungry, but after making it through only half the food, she put down her fork. Knowing she wasn't going to eat anymore, she covered the plate with plastic wrap and put it back in the refrigerator.

She looked toward the living room, thinking she might turn on the television and find out if there was anything new about the hostage takedown. Then she canceled the idea. Why go through it again? And maybe if she got a good night's sleep, she'd be ready to face tomorrow at S&D.

She wouldn't kid herself. A lot more people than the friends who'd called were going to be curious about today's events, and she needed to think about what to say. And think about Lincoln Kinkead's suggestion. He'd said she could talk to a therapist. It wasn't something she would have considered on her own. But he'd made the offer, and maybe she shouldn't dismiss the idea out of hand.

For the moment, she was still feeling shaky. She turned on the shower and got undressed. After standing under the pounding water for ten minutes, she told herself she felt better, although it was only marginally true.

Wrapped in a towel, she used the blow-dryer on her hair, then got out one of the long sleep shirts that she liked to wear. This one had a picture of a cat and a fawn cuddled up together, and she smiled at the picture before pulling on the shirt.

Before getting into bed, she took one of the over-the-counter sleeping tablets that she needed occasionally.

It helped her relax, but after slipping into bed, she lay rigidly under the covers. Finally she got up again and turned on the bathroom light, then closed the door so that only a sliver of illumination came through the crack. She hated that she needed the light, but after the ordeal of the day, she didn't want to be in the dark. Truly, she didn't want to be alone, but there was no one she'd feel comfortable calling this late at night.

A face drifted into her mind, Shane Gallagher's face. She clamped her hands around the edge of the sheet, ordering herself to get him out of her mind. She barely knew him, and she certainly wasn't going to ask him to watch over her.

She felt a laugh bubbling in her throat. No, she wasn't going to call
him
.

Instead, she worked the pillow into a better position under her neck, moved her shoulders to get comfortable, and closed her eyes. Maybe the pill she'd taken had started working, because she felt herself letting go. And soon she had crossed from wakefulness to sleep.

For a few hours, that slumber was peaceful. Then a dream grabbed her. She was back at the S&D building, and it was after the hostage situation was over. Hadn't they been in the ladies' room? Instead, Shane helped her to her feet and pulled her into Mr. Perkins' office and closed the door.

Wrapping her in his arms, he gathered her close. She closed her eyes and leaned into him the way she'd wanted to but hadn't allowed herself.

“Are you all right?” he asked urgently.

“Yes.” She raised her head and opened her eyes, searching his face. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

She caught her breath as she took in their surroundings. They had come into Mr. Perkins' office. But that wasn't what she saw now. She and Shane Gallagher were in a bedroom, where they obviously shouldn't be.

She pushed at his shoulders, but he kept her in his arms.

“What are we doing here?” she asked in a shaky voice.

He tipped his head to the side, giving her a look that made her blood heat. “Don't you know?”

Of course she did, but she wasn't going to say it.

His words didn't quite match the look he'd given her. “You've just been through a terrible ordeal. You need to calm down.”

She swallowed hard. She had been scared out of her mind a few minutes ago, and she was still off balance.

Shane massaged her tense shoulders, helping her relax. He ran his hands up and down her back the way he'd done before…but this time he went farther, gliding down to the rounded curve of her bottom, sending currents of sensation through her body.

Every lesson she'd learned from her mother about how to act with men told her he shouldn't be touching her like that. She should push herself away from him, but she didn't have the strength to do it.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in a gritty voice. “And you want to kiss me.”

She wasn't going to admit that aloud. When she didn't move, he crooked one hand under her chin, tipping her face up, and she saw that he was smiling down at her.

She stared into his dark eyes, watching him as he lowered his head, so that his lips brushed back and forth against hers, then settled, pressing, moving, asking her to open for him.

She did, feeling another surge of heat as his tongue dipped into her mouth, playing with the inside of her lips, then the line of her teeth.

This was more than she should allow, but she ignored proprieties. Experimentally, she moved her own tongue, sliding it against his, each stroke of that intimate contact increasing the heat coursing through her body.

She was wearing the blue blouse that Lincoln Kinkead had given her, and her breath caught as Shane began to unbutton it.

“No,” she protested.

“You don't want me to do this?”

Emotions warred inside her. All the warnings Momma had given her clashed with her own desires. “I don't know,” she managed to say.

He laughed. “Don't fool yourself.”

Before she could come back with a retort, he moved one hand from the buttons to her breasts.

“Don't.”

He let go of the button he was holding and glided his fingers over the silky fabric of the blouse, making her nipples poke out against the silk.

What—had she forgotten to wear a bra?

Heat surged through her as he circled the tight peaks with his fingers. And this time, when he started unbuttoning the blouse, she didn't protest.

He pushed the sides of the blouse out of the way, baring her breasts.

“Don't,” she protested again, but her voice had gone weak.

“You like it.”

“I shouldn't.”

His gaze grew more intense. “Don't deny yourself what you want.”

She couldn't answer.

She might have run, but she was rooted to the spot. He took her nipples between his thumbs and fingers, tugging on them, making her body rigid with molten need. He kept one hand on her breasts, playing with them as the other hand slid down her body to the juncture of her legs.

She felt her knees buckle, but he backed her against a wall to keep her upright as his fingers separated the folds of her sex, slipping into her most intimate flesh.

He caressed her there, stroking and pressing, making her hips rock to increase the contact.

“That's it, sweetheart. Go with it,” he whispered as his teeth nibbled at her ear.

An explosion gathered and flared, sending a burst of pleasure through her body. She cried out, calling his name.

“Shane.”

Seconds later, her eyes blinked open, and she knew she was alone in her own bed. The heated encounter with him had all been a dream. And the memories of what she had dreamed made her face redden. Now she was glad that the room was almost dark and that she wasn't at her parents' house.