Flash of Death (10 page)

“In my experience,” he commented reflectively as he rolled four more crêpes and placed them on a plate for himself, “Very little in life is random. There’s a reason you chose me to let down your hair with. I wonder what it is.”

Truth was, he was the only man who’d really seen her at that wedding. Most men looked right through her like she wasn’t even there. And he’d been safe. She was never going to see him again. Ships passing in the night, and all. She snorted mentally. That sure hadn’t worked out the way she’d expected.

Trent’s plate was already nearly empty. “How do you do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?”

“You do everything so fast.”

His gaze was abruptly guarded. “I guess I’m just efficient.”

“I leave the room for a few seconds, and when I return you’ve done ten times as much as I expected.”

“Maybe you’re just lazy.”

Were it not for the glint of humor in his eyes, she might have been offended. As it was, she laughed. He smiled back and her breath hitched. He was so handsome he was hard to look at sometimes. Under other circumstances, it would be very easy to fall for a man like him. Of course, a man like him would never fall for a girl like her for real. He might have enjoyed the hot sex, but he would never really care for her. They were too different.

“What?” Trent asked suddenly.

She frowned, confused.

“You got this strange look on your face just now. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it wistful. What were you thinking?”

“How different you and I are.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you’re the original blue-blooded playboy. I come from the exact opposite,” she answered.

“Tell me about it.”

“Trust me. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

No way was she spilling all the sordid details of her dysfunctional life in front of this perfect man. She leaned over the counter to set her plate in the sink. Retreating from the dangerous topic of conversation, she collected her laptop and briefcase from the bedroom.

And he did it again. By the time she got back, the dishes were done. Efficient, her foot. That man must move at supersonic speed to get things done like he did. He glanced up at her innocently. “Ready to go?”

She nodded, frowning, and waited just inside the door when he gestured for her to let him go first.

“Hall’s clear,” he announced.

The streets were jammed with cars and bicycles. She boarded her usual streetcar and Trent angled his body between her and the other commuters, but it pressed him against her from shoulder to knee. He ended up wrapping one arm around her and hanging on to the overhead bar with his free hand. On cue, her breath shortened and her pulse accelerated.

Of course, Trent didn’t miss a thing and smirked down at her. Jerk. He knew exactly the effect he had on her. The streetcar swayed and rattled, throwing her against him. His arm tightened, steadying her and pressing her a little closer against his amazing physique.

She tried to hold herself upright, to put a millimeter or two between them, but it was a complete failure. The car lurched again and plastered her against him. The stupid streetcar was never going to get to her stop!

But finally, her office approached, and she was stunned to feel regret as Trent stepped away and ushered her down the steps and onto the street. However, he kept one arm possessively across her shoulders and her glued to his side.

They had to look strange, her in a gray pin-striped business suit with matching pumps and her hair in a perfect up-do, and him unshaven and in his sloppy sweatshirt. Still, many women, and even a few guys, threw her envious glances.

Warmth spread through her. It was nice having a hunk like Trent publicly stake a claim on her. She checked herself sharply. She knew better than to fall for him. Caring about anyone was a sure recipe for driving that person out of her life.

Trent insisted on walking her into her building and actually depositing her at her desk. The other women in the accounting department made no bones about their appreciation for her escort.

“Who’s the gorgeous hunk, Chloe?”

“Wow. Introduce me to his brother, will you?”

Some of the women just muttered things like, “Hubba, hubba.”

Trent took it all with good grace. He must be used to that sort of reaction. As he lifted her purse off her shoulder, she grumbled, “The minute you leave they’re going to interrogate me. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Stick to the truth as much as possible. Tell them we met at your sister’s wedding and hooked up. I was so blown away I followed you back to California.”

“Excuse me?” she blurted.

He grinned broadly. “They’ll think it’s unbearably romantic and eat it up. Trust me. I know women.”

Her body tingled instantly in response. He did, indeed, know women. She would never forget how well.

“I’ll be across the street watching you. If you need me, just wave and I’ll be here in a flash.”

Her prediction turned out to be true. She barely got any work done all morning as women kept poking their heads in her door to demand the scoop on the pretty man-toy. She did tell them she’d met Trent at Sunny’s wedding, but she left out the bit about him being blown away and following her back to San Francisco.

Yet another shadow darkened her office door and she glanced up, irritated. Whoops.
Miguel Herrera.
Her entire body tensed. “Can I help you?” she finally remembered to ask.

“I hear you were friendly with Barry Lind.”

Alarm bells clanged wildly in her head. “I knew him. I don’t know that I’d describe him as a friend,” she replied cautiously.

“Did you see him before he died?” Herrera asked, watching her with an intensity that missed nothing.

Trent’s reminder to stick to the truth as much as possible came to mind. “Let’s see. I saw him last Wednesday before I left for my sister’s wedding at the progress meeting for the quarterly report. He seemed fine.”

“You didn’t see him after you got back?”

What did this guy know? And how was she supposed to explain that meeting in the bar? She hedged, “Yesterday was my first day back to work. And he wasn’t here—” Her voice broke. “Do they know what happened, yet? Was it a robbery gone bad like the news said?”

“He was garroted. Murder. Head was damn near cut off,” Herrera answered bluntly.

She gaped, genuinely appalled. “That’s horrible.” Tears came to her eyes at the thought of Barry dying like that. Was it her fault in some way? Had this man discovered Barry’s copying of the files and killed him for it? Her gaze strayed to the window in distress.

Herrera stared at her hard enough that she had to stop herself from squirming. He made her feel like a guilty kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “You sure you don’t know anything that could shed some light on his murder?” he demanded.

Oh, God. He did know something. Why else would he be pushing her like this? Panic clawed at her rib cage from the inside, desperate to burst out and send her fleeing from this man who could very well be Barry’s killer. She stammered something inane and prayed Herrera would put down her reaction to shock.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

The security man whirled, his hand twitching toward his hip.

Trent.
How did he know? One second she was wishing for him to rescue her, and practically the next, here he was. She smiled at him in abject relief as he strolled past Herrera, whose hand was inching away from his hip slowly. She leaned into Trent as he reached her side and kissed her cheek. His arm slipped around her shoulders.

“And who’s this?” Trent asked.

She mumbled through the introductions, and Herrera left quickly. She started to express her relief, but Trent quickly pressed a finger against her lips.

“I know it’s a bit early for lunch, Chloe, but I want to take you somewhere special. Can you leave now?”

“Uhh, yes. I guess. My part of the quarterly report was just approved.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

They were settled in a cab before Trent turned to her, expression grim. “Who the hell was that guy, and why did he put that scared look on your face?”

“Miguel Herrera. New Chief of Security.”

“He’s a dangerous man.”

“Good eye. He may be linked to a drug cartel.”

“Hence the FBI’s interest in your employer. Do they think the firm’s laundering drug money?”

She threw an alarmed look at the back of the cabdriver’s head. Trent caught the hint and changed subjects. “I’m taking you to my favorite place in town to eat.”

“It looks like we’re headed for the docks.”

“We are.”

Chloe winced. The waterfront was fraught with memories she’d rather not face. Not to mention it was a pretty rough section of town. Not a place she belonged. She wasn’t reassured when the cab stopped at the back of a disreputable-looking fish market. Exactly the sort of place her parents would have loved. The old embarrassment poured through her as if she were nine again. Her folks had been free spirits with no regard for social convention or propriety. They’d called such notions authoritarian repression of the masses.

Trent helped her out of the cab and banged on an unmarked door. It opened to reveal what could only be termed a dive. The dark room was full of rough-looking men in rough clothes bellied up to a bar where a rough-looking guy served up cheap plastic baskets overflowing with batter-fried fish and chips.

She could hear Mom and Pop crowing in delight now...a gathering place for the Working Man. Yup, her parents would’ve smoked enough weed to lose what little common sense they had and barged right into a place like this.

Speaking of which, “Trent, should we be here?” she murmured under her breath. “We don’t exactly fit in.”

“You don’t, maybe. Stick with me, and you’ll be fine.”

Not
reassuring. Particularly when whistles and catcalls announced that everyone in the joint had noticed her.

“What is this place?” she muttered. “Some kind of biker bar?”

“Something like that,” he answered cheerfully. He elbowed them a spot at the bar and yelled a hello down the bar to the proprietor, who bellowed back, referring to Trent by name.

“You’re a regular, here?” she demanded under the din.

He shrugged. “I know a few people here and there.”

How on earth did a guy who came from his kind of money even find a place like this?

Trent yelled for two lunch specials, which were served up almost immediately. The fish was hot and flaky, the fries thin and crispy, just the way she liked them. She reluctantly had to admit the food was delicious. But she had worked her tail off to get as far away from this side of the tracks as she could. She wanted middle-class suburbia. Ozzie and Harriet Nelson. The Brady Bunch.

Trent, surprisingly, seemed entirely at ease. She had to admit his size and general roughness of dress and shave weren’t all that out of place. Gradually, she relaxed enough to finish her lunch.

Still, she breathed a sigh of relief as they stepped outside without any brawls breaking out. She hurried away from the wharf, eager to leave behind the blast from her past.

“You really are a bum, then?” she asked him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the fish bar. “I like places like that, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why?” she asked, shuddering.

“The people are real. Not trying to be something they’re not.” He looked at her in surprise. “Why don’t you like a place like that? You said yourself the food’s fantastic.”

“My parents dragged me to places like that and worse. I’ve worked my whole adult life to leave that world behind and make a better life for myself.”

“And a better life means what? More money? Fancy clothes? Shiny, clean places and shiny, happy,
fake
people?”

She stopped and turned to face him. “You don’t seriously mean to tell me you prefer that squalor to, say, the gentlemen’s club in Denver!”

“I’d absolutely rather hang out with a bunch of fishermen in some rat hole than with a bunch of snooty, blue-blooded hypocrites in some fancy club.”

He was crazy.

“Why do you have such an aversion to that sort of place?” Trent challenged. “Why do you love the trappings of wealth so much?”

“I have no interest in dredging up my past,” she replied tightly.

They hiked a little while in silence as they approached a street that a brave cabbie might venture down. Thank goodness her heels were low and her pumps fit perfectly.

He spoke casually and his steps sped up a little, “I can always have Winston Ops run a full background check on you. They’ll tell me exactly why you don’t like working-class places and where your obsession with money comes from.”

“You wouldn’t,” she exclaimed, appalled.

“Either you tell me, or I’ll find out for myself.” He was walking noticeably faster now.

“That’s an invasion of privacy!”

“We pretty well blew up any notions of privacy between us in Denver. I figure that night gives me the right to know.” He glanced around as if seeking a cab. But no yellow sedans were in sight.

“I wish that night had never happened.”

Something pained passed through his crystalline gaze. He covered it up with a crooked smile, but she didn’t buy it. “Aww, you don’t mean that, baby.”

“Yes, I do,” she declared.

He turned with that breathtaking speed of his and swept her up against him. Before she could draw a breath his mouth closed over hers. His kiss was carnal. Knowing. He invaded her mouth with his tongue, his arm a vise that smashed her against him without any pretense of polite restraint. He knew her most private desires and fantasies, knew she craved being overpowered from time to time, and he didn’t hesitate to remind her of it.

It was no use resisting him. He knew her too well. He exerted the same mastery over her body and senses that he had that fateful night, branding her his all over again. And she melted. Again. She’d asked for a man to take charge of her and take her to the moon, and he had. It was still there. All of it. The fiery attraction. The flare of mutual passion. The synergy that built between them until it incinerated her soul.