Hell on the Heart (6 page)

D’Sean cleared his throat and held out his hand palm up wiggling his fingers in expectation. Annoyed, John reached into his pocket and grabbed his money clip, then slapped a twenty into D’Sean’s waiting hand. “I suspect Czigany is who we’ve come to see, but you already knew that.”

Luca’s eyes twinkled. While Nicholae maintained a somber countenance, Luca enjoyed a good joke. More than anything John wanted to be offended, but found it difficult to suppress his smile.

Luca cast him a pitying look. “Perhaps before you meet her, you would like a little advice?”

John ran his hand through his thick hair. “I’m sure I’ll need it.”

“Don’t lie to my niece again. She has an uncanny ability to sniff out untruths. And even though she’s petite, there’s a firecracker packed inside. Unless you’re prepared for the results, don’t light the fuse.”

“Did she report a black limo to the Sheriff’s department?”

“You’ll have to ask her about that. Follow us. We’ll take you upstairs to her laboratory.” Luca’s pronunciation of the word laboratory, sounded like something out of Frankenstein movie, la-BORE-a-tory.

He was amused, but John’s anger bubbled below the surface. He’d better get some straight answers from the girl because so far this trip had been a wasted effort. They didn’t have time to lose. Entering the stairway behind Luca, he detected a slight limp the older man had been able to disguise until he mounted the stairs.

John glanced around, aware that the building held no windows. The lighting was fluorescent. Had the building been designed for security or efficiency? Even in a small town there were those who understood, the world wasn’t really a safe place. The girl remained the real mystery.

“Is Czigany a technician or does she investigate as well?”

“Oh, she investigates. We try to keep her out of harm’s way, but trouble has a way of finding her.” They reached a small landing with a closed door. Luca stepped aside to allow the men to enter.

John entered the room and an involuntary low whistle of appreciation escaped his lips. The center of the room contained a glass structure filled with stainless steel tables, cabinetry and computerized equipment. The room glowed with sunlight from a large skylight that covered most of the ceiling. Local law enforcement agents across the nation would kill for such a set up.

As though her personal ensemble had not been strange enough, she’d added a hot pink baseball cap and thin, white latex gloves. Cezi frowned when the men entered then ignored them as she transferred fingerprints from beer bottles to slides.

John stepped closer, but stopped when Nicholae narrowed his eyes and raised his hand in warning.

“Shall I have them wait in your office?” Luca appeared unperturbed by her behavior.

She never looked up from her work but responded in a torrent of the same guttural language the men had used downstairs. For the first time the quiet man took charge.

Nicholae folded his arms across his chest and argued with her. Back and forth the words volleyed with Cezi shaking her head and the silver fox not backing down one iota. Neither John nor D’Sean were language experts. His partner’s head physically followed the speakers shifting from one to the other, but John doubted D’Sean understood their words any better than he did.

After several minutes John tapped his foot in impatience. He debated opening his mouth to end the dispute by establishing his authority. He was the law here, whether or not she thought he was FBI didn’t matter. FBPA agents did not advertise their existence and even though the connection was weak, stating they were FBI was not technically incorrect. What difference did the letters make? He was a government agent. 

Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what she did or did not want to do. Before he could act, Nicholae pointed at him and said in unaccented English, “He’s Indian.”

Whether it was a groan or growl she emitted, he didn’t know, but for the first time, she looked up from the table. “What tribe?”

“Blackfoot and Flathead.”

His background wasn’t a secret. He sported the high cheekbones, straight dark hair and eyes of his ancestors. It never occurred to him heritage would be an issue with gypsies.

“We’ll wait in your office,” Luca said, and the two men ushered D’Sean out the door.

Cezi’s lips disappeared into a thin straight line. The orange safety goggles distorted her features, but her unabashed perusal was unsettling. He turned his head, hoping to let his scars intimidate her, but glancing back he realized he’d miscalculated the situation. She was neither repulsed nor fascinated, merely analytical.

Another mark against the deputies. This woman was anything but E-Z. They were right to be afraid of her. She could run circles around them. Even he’d missed the mark during their brief meeting downstairs. Petite, but tough. And smart. And she had the cojones to get a Sheriff removed from office without blinking an eye. With any luck he’d found his first real break in this case.

Her lips pursed and an exasperated sound sputtered out. “I don’t have time for this.”

She jerked the orange safety glasses off her nose, the baseball cap and dew rag followed, bouncing across the stainless steel table. A tangle of thick black hair tumbled past her shoulders to the middle of her back.

Even knowing her age, he expected the face and body of a child, not the slender, slightly exotic, angel who stood before him. Despite her diminutive size she was a one-hundred percent fully grown woman.

John couldn’t help himself. He had to touch her. Sometimes skin-to-skin contact helped him get a clearer fix on a person. Her father and uncle avoided touch, would she?

Two steps forward, he extended his hand across the stainless steel table. “Agent John Stillwater. I’m a federal agent, but you were right, I’m not FBI. How’d you know?”

Her height increased by inches. She’d been working barefoot? He looked at feet now encased in wedge-sandals. Slowly, he dragged his gaze over her body, letting her feel his presence, not just as a federal agent but as a man. Her eyes widened briefly before she thrust her chin out and reached across the table to shake his hand.

A quiver she wasn’t quite able to suppress ran down her spine. Usually that response from a woman gave him a green light for a physical encounter. Maybe, even sex, but the glimmer of fear that flickered in her eyes made him cautious in his assessment.

As her small hand gripped his large one, she pumped up and down three times, then snatched back her hand before finally answering his question.

“FBI guys look like lawyers who work out enough to pass the physical. You and your buddy look like mercenaries who’ve been slapped with a coat of fresh paint to look respectable.”

Chapter Six

Cezi watched the man. That low rumble of a voice that came from deep within him didn’t suppress the power it welded. If he yelled, glass would rattle.

Had he been related to her, she’d have given him a solid piece of her mind to keep the upper hand. And despite his status as a fed, might have anyway, had the appreciative gleam in his eyes not stopped her. He liked what she said about the agents looking like mercenaries.

“The sheriff’s office called you a gypsy.” He shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “I thought the politically correct name was Roma or Romani. Which do you prefer?”

Oh, yes. Let’s do go for political correctness, here.

“Do you like Native American, Indian or American better? Every label is just a handle so someone else can make assumptions about you. I am gypsy. I am also Roma. I am also an American.”

His face indicated his comprehension, which pleased her. “When Poppy immigrated he took the last name of Romney to honor our heritage, but most people use the word gypsy. Neither offends me.”

His roadmap of a face was lined with evidence of a life lived in the trenches. His scars screamed serious burns and she bet his body was littered with wounds from other near-fatal encounters. Pride was not his Achilles heel. A proud man would have undergone operation after operation to bring his skin back to normal. No, his face had dedication stamped on it like an indelible tattoo. Probably left the hospital early just so he could return to work.

His ancient black eyes saved him from a look of perpetual sadness by the contrasting mesh of deep smile lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks and chin were smooth at a time when most men would have shown a late afternoon shadow.

She boasted both the black eyes and hair but not the control. Her curly mess ran amuck while his stayed tightly in line as if on a military formation. But it was their skin that defined the difference in heritage. His glowed a deep rich copper while hers was pale ivory.

Tall, close to six feet, with broad shoulders. He was fluid and ferocious as a linebacker. One with six-pack abs and rope-like muscles delineated in his arms and legs.

His voice wasn’t smooth and manipulative like Cain’s. Her impression of him, despite the lie of his career, was one of a straight shooter. She’d watched his toe tap during the argument with her father. No, this was a guy on a mission with very little time to spare on the niceties.

His eyes crinkled and his lips partially curled. Did he think she was funny? Her heart fluttered. How silly. One minute she was tired, grumpy and cross. And the next she hoped to make him laugh. Squinting her eyes she inhaled trying to catch a whiff of his essence.

“You smell fine.” Better than fine actually. He smelled earthy, but fresh, like wild chanterelle mushrooms, pine needles and a crisp, tart Granny Smith apple.

He stepped closer. Any fantasies Cezi harbored disappeared like smoke in the wind. No matter how he smelled, he was an outsider or in the vernacular of the gypsies, a
gajikané.

 “Be sure,” he said in a rough whisper. “I wouldn’t want you to make a mistake.”

To look him in the eye demanded she raise her chin. To do anything less would give him a victory he hadn’t earned. When he was within inches of her body, looming over her, his amused look vanished. In its place was the face of a man used to being in charge and definitely used to getting his own way - a man who expected her to conform.

It was Cezi’s turn to frown. One, she never thought of herself as a Texan. She was a gypsy who happened to live in Texas. Granted she’d never lived anywhere else, but calling oneself a Texan gave one more allegiance to a location. One’s loyalty was to people not places. And two, what kind of investigation was this? How was he going to get any information by asking irrelevant questions?

She had the distinct feeling that Agent Stillwater was seldom at a loss for words. Delight surged through her when it took him a full minute to ask the obvious question.

“You have photos?”

In the flickering neon light of the bar, Cain McIntosh watched the young girl, noting with satisfaction the alcoholic glaze of her eyes and the slackened features of her young face. Not old enough to have mastered drinking; too innocent to be wary of an attractive man plying her with liquor. But still a female, prepared since birth to snag the biggest checkbook around.

Her girlfriends had long departed, giving her sly winks of encouragement after nudging her in his direction. Two dances later, she sat firmly ensconced at his table, telling him everything, but her social security number.

Only because he hadn’t asked.

Leaning close, he tucked a random lock of hair behind her ear, half-smiling when she shivered. She lifted her lips to his, expecting a kiss, but he drew back while gathering her body closer. Had he not been sitting so close he would have missed the faint scent of her flowery perfume.