Pursuit (27 page)

Charlotte’s heart thundered, pounding painfully hard in her chest. It was a miracle he didn’t shake with it, too, they were so tightly wound together. She could feel everything he was feeling. His heartbeat, as strong and fast as hers. The panting breaths he took between biting kisses. Every time he fit his mouth to hers, every time his tongue touched hers, she could feel the effect she had on him in the heavy shaft pulsing between her legs. His arms tightened, and he pressed himself even more tightly against her, this time moving his hips explicitly. If they hadn’t been separated by their clothes, he’d have been inside her, moving.

Charlotte had a sudden vision of them in bed, Matt moving heavily over her, thrusting, her legs entwined with his . . .

The vision filled her with heat, with an almost burning desire to feel his skin against hers, without any layers of cloth between them. Without
anything
between them—no lies and no secrets. Just the two of them naked, his body in hers, and no barriers between them at all. He tugged at her hair until her head fell back, then moved his mouth to her throat, delicately nipping at the sensitive cords of her throat, making her shiver. The hand that had been holding her tightly against him slid up under the loose cotton sweater she wore, his big rough hand making her skin come alive where he touched her. His mouth covered hers again in the same instant his palm covered her breast, sending sparks of sensation through her. When his thumb swirled gently over her nipple, she gave a wild high cry in his mouth, felt him swell even more against her at the sound, and then she exploded. Her entire body stiffened with pleasure as her vagina convulsed in sharp contractions, which he followed, pulsing against her rhythmically, in time with her climax. Charlotte was clinging to him, helpless, as her body took over, prey to its own pleasure. He lifted his mouth from hers and thrust her head into his shoulder, holding her as tightly as she was holding him. Charlotte’s entire body shook as she hid her face against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his skin, the sea, her own arousal. Her body finally settled, calmed. Her breathing slowed, and she couldn’t feel her heartbeat any more. Tears had somehow leaked out of her eyes, but they were drying, and no more came to replace them. Her hands were clenched around Matt’s neck so tightly, she didn’t know how to let go. It took an effort as she lifted her fingers from him, one by one. His skin against hers was so hot, at points it felt as if she was melting into him. It had been so
long
since she’d felt another human being’s skin, felt a heart beating next to hers. It was exactly as if she’d been in the desert without water for months, for years, and she’d been offered a pitcher of clean, clear water from a cool well. Charlotte rested with her cheek against his hard shoulder, too weak to lift her head. She sighed and breathed in his scent. He seemed content to let her lie against him. The hand under her sweater was no longer rubbing her breasts in an attempt to arouse her. Rather, he ran his hand up and down her back in a comforting gesture.

Charlotte opened her eyes, taking in the beach, the long row of stucco buildings along the waterfront, the soft little waves splashing against the sand. Everything was the same. Everything was different.

She pushed against his shoulder and eased back to look him in the face. He was aroused, there was no question. She could still feel him, hard and thick against her. He was flushed under his dark tan, his lips wet and slightly swollen from their kisses. It wasn’t enough that her life lay in tatters around her. She’d just tossed sex into the pot. She leaned forward to kiss him again.

San Diego

April 28

Barrett dressed in a cheap black polyester suit and short-sleeved white shirt, with a narrow black tie that didn’t reach past the fourth button. The pant legs were about an inch too short, showing off white socks and spit-shined black oxfords. The trendy small metalrimmed Luxottica glasses gave way to unfashionably large black horn-rims. The expensive Louis Vuitton suitcase was ditched. A very very authentic-looking FBI badge, which had cost him $5,000, was in its leather holder, completing the transition. Barrett ate, dressed, and looked at himself in the mirror, satisfied. The spitting image of a government employee, a stolid, unimaginative, government clerk.

He’d made arrangements with a car rental agency the day before and, sure enough, a Ford Fairlane with its keys was waiting for him. He got into the car, a nondescript man in a nondescript vehicle.

Frank Donaldson, NY stockbroker, had checked into the hotel the evening before. FBI Special Agent Samuel Hunt of the Oklahoma City bureau walked out.

The call Charlotte Court had placed on February 28 had originated from a pay phone near the outskirts of town, a flat, depressing, sun-baked landscape of failing businesses and used-car dealerships. After half an hour on the Internet, with a detailed city map next to the keyboard, he’d made a list of possible hotels and motels in concentric circles around the pay phone. Barrett patiently made the rounds, and by four o’clock he’d nailed her. It was one of the most forlorn motels he’d ever seen, and he winced at the thought of sleeping there. He’d slept rough thousands of times in the field, but this was worse. mo el—acancies, the broken neon sign said outside. The big plate-glass windows were smudged, and a crack like a dried riverbed in the lower-right-hand side had been repaired with duct tape.

Inside it wasn’t any more savory. The dull brown carpeting was stained and worn through in places. Barrett didn’t even want to think about the beds.

A tiny Southeast Asian was manning the front desk—Pakistani maybe. Barrett had more than a smattering of Punjabi, but Sam Hunt, FBI agent, sure wouldn’t. The FBI didn’t do foreign.

Barrett walked into the hotel lobby with that FBI Master of the Universe swagger, badge out, flap open at chest height. By the way the man’s eyes shot to the badge and widened, Barrett knew that the Pakistani would never be able to give a coherent description of him—

he was too blinded by the badge. It was altogether possible that his papers weren’t in order, judging from the sudden trembling of his small, brown hands.

“I’m not the INS, sir, don’t worry. I just have a few questions to ask about a possible client of this—” He stopped and took a long, deliberate look around the shabby lobby—“this establishment on the night of February 28.”

Barrett was good at accents, and this one was perfect. Deep Southern cracker with an overlay of college and some time in the East. Actually, Sam Hunt’s accent was wasted on this guy, but it was still good practice. Barrett believed in redundancy when it came to covers.

Barrett pulled out several glossies of Charlotte Court from his briefcase and spread them over the spotted, cracked Formica desk counter. “Do you recognize this woman? Did she stay here?”

The Pakistani’s eyes showed white all around the dark brown irises. He reached out a trembling finger to touch the photos, as if he needed to remember through his hands.

“No, no,” he said in a singsong voice, “I don’t—” Then he frowned, looking more carefully. The photos were all taken in formal settings. In two of them, Charlotte Court was wearing an evening gown. In all of them, she’d clearly just been to the hairdresser and in all of them she was wearing jewelry and her makeup was perfect.

Barrett nudged the photos closer to the guy with his forefinger. He tapped them, one by one. “These were taken under . . . different circumstances. She’s on the road and wouldn’t be dressed like this. And her hair, it wouldn’t look this perfect.”

“No,” the man said slowly. “No, it didn’t. And she looked thinner, very very pale. But she did stay here. I remember.” He looked up at Barrett, a small frown between his brows. “Is the lady a criminal? I remember her very well, and she didn’t look like a criminal.”

“I’m not at liberty to give any information. Let’s just say that she’s wanted for questioning. What name did she sign in with? Can you check your records?”

The man drew himself up to his full height of maybe five-three, visibly gathering his dignity around himself like a cloak. “In this country, I think it is necessary to have permission for something like that—what do you call it?” He snapped his fingers, face scrunched, and remembered something he’d probably heard a thousand times on Fox Crime. “Warrant?

Yes, a warrant!” He scowled, trying to look tough. “You will need a warrant, sir,” he said triumphantly.

Barrett leaned forward, leaving the open FBI badge on the dirty countertop. He knew the Pakistani—or whatever he was—would be aware of the fact that the entire weight of the most powerful government on Earth stood behind that badge. It was what made FBI agents so pissy. The badge was fake, but the power was very real.

“Okay. Let’s get a few things straight here, sir. You might have heard of a law called the Patriot Act?” The man swallowed. “Well, what the Patriot Act does is give me a perfect right to ask for your hotel registers and to arrest you for obstruction of justice if you don’t give them to me, right now. And all sorts of unfortunate things can happen to people under suspicion of providing aid and comfort to suspected terrorists while they are in custody.”

Barrett laid it on thick because he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with this guy, who was just some poor fucker in the wrong place at the wrong time and who happened to have a bit of info Barrett needed.

Poor guy was busy weighing his status in this country—which was lower than dog shit—

and loyalty to an unknown woman he’d taken a liking to. Fear trumped loyalty, just like it always did.

The man pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white and reached underneath the counter to dig out a big, tattered ledger. He flipped through the pages silently until he came to the right page. Without lifting his eyes, he turned the ledger around and tapped his finger next to a name.

Georgia O’Keeffe
Charlotte Court had written, in neat italic script. Barrett read it and added one more item to the things he’d learned about his prey. She had a sense of humor.

San Luis

April 28

Are you done yet?” Matt whined, well into his third hour of posing, wanting to rub the kink out of his shoulder muscles but not being able to.

Posing sucked. Big-time.

He winced. He hadn’t meant to whine, it just sort of came out that way. It was just that on his own personal list of things he didn’t want to do, posing for a portrait pretty much topped it.

He’d blindsided Charlotte—or whatever her name was—when he asked what her real name was. If he had any doubt about what kind of person Charlotte was, watching her fumble for an answer had wiped it out. Charlotte couldn’t lie her way out of a paper bag. Now if Matt had been under cover, he could have said his name was Engelbert Humperdinck or George W. Bush or Ella Fitzgerald and never even blink. Charlotte had turned white and floundered around until she just pressed those pretty lips together and silently took the Fifth.

When he’d lifted her up on the wall, his intention had been to get her to drop her defenses and talk to him. Tell him her secrets. That was the mission—get Charlotte to open up. Man, he’d gone down in smoking flames.

With her face so close to his, at the same level, he’d immediately started drowning in her gorgeous eyes, the color of a mountain lake at dawn, with lashes so long it was a wonder she could keep her eyes open. Even close up, she was flawless. No woman should look like that—particularly without makeup. It wasn’t good for a man’s heart. Instead of trying to pry her secrets open, all Matt could think of was touching her, kissing her, putting his arms around her, taking her to bed. She was probably the only woman in the world who would look perfect the morning after.

She’d opened her mouth, and he didn’t want to hear words come out. All he wanted was his mouth on hers, his tongue touching hers. Damn, but she’d felt like silk fire in his arms .

. .

He moved uneasily, feeling the heat in his loins, a pale echo of what he’d felt pressed up against her.
Shit, this is
not
the time to get a hard-on. Think of something else.

“Is that your dad?” Matt inclined his head slightly toward the corner containing the portrait of the old gent stood on its easel, where the afternoon light caught it. He didn’t dare point because
not moving
had been forcefully impressed on him. Charlotte had spent a good ten minutes before he starting
posing,
lecturing him on the evils of moving even a finger while she was immortalizing him.

God help him.

“What?” The sound was muffled as she stuck that pretty nose closer to the canvas. Finally, she stood back, finger on chin. She seemed to shake herself out of her reverie and took a glance at the corner. “Oh, yes.” The thought brought a smile to her face.

“Is he alive?” It seemed impossible to Matt that she could be so close to her father, love him so much, yet be on the run. The man in the portrait didn’t look tough. He looked amiable, good-natured, and cultivated, definitely not an operator, but still. His daughter was in trouble, and serious trouble at that, if someone was willing to shoot a hole through her, and she had to hide out from him here in San Luis. So where was good old Dad in all this?

If she loved her father so much, why wasn’t he doing his best to protect her? Matt tried to imagine having a daughter in trouble who couldn’t run to him for protection. There was no question in his mind what he’d do if his daughter was in danger. Defend her to the death. Charlotte froze, her eyes suddenly bright with a sheen of tears. With a visible effort she controlled herself, an impassive expression falling over her like a veil, her face becoming as smooth and as expressionless as a porcelain doll’s.