Swept Away (53 page)

Watching Spencer’s face very carefully, Brock caught the genuine shock, followed by a look of
illness. “Thugs? When Kat was there?”

“Are you saying,” Nichols asked, “that you don’t know about these guys? They weren’t on your payroll?”

Clark Spencer now officially looked flabbergasted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Then he looked back to Brock. “Kat was in danger?”

“Serious danger,” Brock informed him, not caring in the slightest how upsetting that might be.
Whether or not he was directly responsible, he needed to know what he’d almost let happen to
his daughter.

“What can you tell us about the stash of Mayan artifacts found in the home on your island?”
Nichols asked.

Again, Spencer blinked, and Brock thought the man might collapse right there on his desk. “In
the house? They were in the house? On my island?” If Brock had to judge, he’d say he believed Spencer was truly as surprised to learn about this as he himself had been upon
discovering the goods.

Nichols tilted his youthful blond head. “You’re denying knowledge of that?”
“Hell yes, I’m denying knowledge of that.”

“Do you think Ian Zeller might have arranged that particular hiding place without filling you in?” Nichols asked.

At that, Spencer went quiet, his face pale.

Brock leaned comfortably back in his chair, crossed his arms, and eyed the older man. “You
don’t want to lie to this guy. You do and you’re going to jail.”

Spencer leaned over, resting his head in his hands, looking as though he might throw up.
Brock didn’t much care.

Until he imagined if Kat were here. Seeing her dad like this.

Lifting his head, Spencer swallowed visibly. “It sounds as if I’m going to jail anyway.”

Brock studied the man, long and hard. He truly believed, in his heart, that Clark Spencer deserved to suffer for his crimes. He was a rich man who felt entitled, and he used that
entitlement to do whatever he damn well pleased.

But as had been the case ever since parting from his kitten, her face entered Brock’s mind.
He’d seen her smile, heard her pretty, trilling laughter. And he’d seen her cry. He hated to see
her cry.

And whereas he figured she’d get over him quickly enough and move on with her life, this
situation with her dad—well, if Spencer went to prison, she wouldn’t ever get over it. Even just
the stigma. Brock knew what it was to have a family member in jail. He knew that people
looked at you differently when they found out.

So even as much as he would have enjoyed seeing Clark Spencer in an orange jumpsuit, he heard himself doing the impossible—trying to get the guy off. “I’m not on this case, so I have no say in this, but could be that if you come completely clean that Keith here might try to get
a commitment from the U.S. Attorney for a light sentence, maybe just probation—hell, maybe
even immunity if you’ve got enough information to ensure we nail Zeller.” He shifted his
glance to the other agent. “What do you say to that, Keith?”

Keith hesitated only slightly, then gave a short nod. “I could see my way clear to do that.”

Then Brock looked back to the man who had taken him away from his grandfather ten years
ago. “What do you say, Spencer?”

Spencer’s voice came out small, not at all like the powerful Clark Spencer whom Brock had
always known. “Yeah. I have enough information.”

Debra didn’t know what to make of it when Clark invited her to meet him at Clam Pass, the
beach by the pier. The act was so out of character that she half wondered if he was going to ask
her for a divorce. Maybe she deserved that kind of karmic irony, given her recent near mistake,
something that continued to haunt her almost as badly as if she’d really gone through with it
and had an affair. Although she’d found closure by promptly mailing Michael’s manuscript
back to him, with a note saying she didn’t feel it appropriate to see him again. The whole ordeal
had made her realize how much she loved Clark, despite all his faults—and there were many. But the love prevailed.

After finding street parking, she followed the mangrove-shaded boardwalk until she reached the beach. She shed her sandals upon stepping down into the sand, leaving her feet girlishly
bare below beige shorts and a white sleeveless blouse. Something about easing her way
through the cool, soothing sand reminded her of when she was young. She and Clark had
come here often then, for sunset picnics and romantic walks. Once they’d made love on the
beach after dark, wrapped in a sheet. It was the wildest thing she’d ever done, and as she peered out over the horizon toward the setting sun, she felt glad that the one and only wild
moment of her existence had been shared with her husband.

She spotted Clark on a blanket near the shore. The stretch of sand was quiet and empty other than a few early-evening beach-combers and him. He wore khaki pants and a golf shirt, tucked
in as neatly as ever. The bucket of chicken perched next to him made her laugh—she couldn’t
remember the last time they’d shared a meal so simple, and she thought it sounded delicious
and perfect. But as she grew near enough to make eye contact, she tilted her head with playful
skepticism and said, “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

He smiled, but his eyes looked sad. She wasn’t surprised to find this was something more than
a romantic gesture, but the knowledge forced her to panic.

She dropped gently to her knees on the blanket and said, “Whatever it is, Clark, just tell me,
okay? Don’t break it to me gently—just give it to me straight.”

“You should sit down first,” he said evenly, confirming for her that this was indeed serious.
She sat, then looked him in the eye. “Okay. Let me have it. Do you want a divorce?”
His jaw dropped. “God, no. Where the hell did that come from?”

Relief washed through her. “I don’t know—I just had the feeling something big was coming
and that’s all I could think of.”

Her husband sighed, looked tired. “Something big is coming, Deb. And you might want a divorce after I tell you.”

She drew in her breath tightly, but didn’t let it back out. “Then tell me.”

Clark stared out over the water, sparkling bright beneath the sinking sun, then drew his gaze
back to her. “Ian has been smuggling Mayan artifacts in from Guatemala. I’ve been helping
him find clients to purchase them—contacts from the old days.” He stopped, swallowed. “I
didn’t know the details, didn’t want to. I knew it was illegal, of course—but he was offering a lot of money, and I couldn’t see the harm in it.

“The only thing is I didn’t know he was using our island as a drop point. He must have had a key made for the bungalow from Kat’s, and even installed a heavy door and big lock on that
closet by the bathroom—that’s where the goods were being dropped. And there was a pickup
scheduled for last week—when Kat was there. And” He looked weak, near tears. “Kat was in real danger, Deb. But—are you ready for this? Turns out Brock Denton is an FBI agent
now, and he was working undercover on this—that’s how he really ended up there. So at least he was with her. He asked her not to tell us any of it, claiming it might put us in danger, too.

“Now the FBI is onto Ian—and to me. They came to see me this evening, and they’re probably
arresting Ian right now. I’ve promised to testify against him in exchange for a light sentence.
They say it’s possible I’ll get immunity, but there could be jail time.” He sighed, clearly trying
to absorb it all—as she was. “Brock has been decent to me. More than he probably should
have.

“So that’s it. You’re married to a criminal. And maybe a convict. And I’m so damned ashamed,
Debra, so ashamed.” He looked down, shook his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking—
except that I just wanted to fix our money problems, keep our life the way it is.” He lifted his
gaze again, his eyes reaching out to her. “Can you understand that at all? Can you possibly forgive me?”

Debra stayed quiet for a long while. Her throat had gone dry, so she reached for one of the
soda cups next to the chicken. It took a few minutes to fully grasp all he’d told her, but she
tried very hard not to let it overwhelm her. She tried not to focus on the idea of Kat’ s being in
danger, and she tried not to want to kill Clark for somehow indirectly letting that happen.

But he hadn’t let it happen, not really. Even if he hadn’t been working with Ian on this, Ian still
would have used the island without his knowledge. So she tried to concentrate only on hating Ian, something that suddenly came very easily.

As she thought through it, she knew just one thing for certain. She would stick by her
husband. He needed her, and she would be there. Because that’s what families did, what
marriage meant. It was the same reason she’d been unable to sleep with Michael. She’d thought about Clark and their history, their long years together. And she’d realized that, all faults and
mistakes and arguments aside, they had a bond that went deeper than anything else she could
think of. She’d feared that maybe she was the only one of them feeling that bond; but even that hadn’t mattered, because it made the bond no less viable and real. Now she knew Clark was
feeling the bond, too, and just hoping it was strong enough.

She didn’t make him wait any longer to find out. “I can forgive, yes. And I’ll be here with you
for every step of this. But as for understanding...” She sighed. “Clark, you need to understand
something, once and for all. How much money we have it’s not important. Having a private
island or the biggest house in the neighborhood, that just plain doesn’t matter. And what I’ve
been trying to get through your head lately is simply that I miss you. I’d rather have a smaller home and more time with my husband than the opposite. You need to loosen up, quit running
people’s lives, and quit obsessing about money if you want us to be happy. Can you finally get
that now?”

He let out a caustic laugh. “I’d say it’s a safe bet we’re gonna have a smaller home, sweetheart.”

She reached up to stroke his face. “That’s fine with me. I just want you.”

He dropped his gaze. “Well, if I don’t go to jail, you’ll have me.” Then raised it again. “Every
night, home by six. I promise.” He covered her hand with his. “I want to be a better husband,
Deb. I want to show you I can be.”

She smiled, feeling his words in her heart. “I want that, too.”

Next to her, he let out a long, low breath. “Do you think I pushed Kat toward Ian? Do you think that’s my fault?”

She looked down at her knees, pursed her lips. “I will admit I’m a little disturbed that you
wanted her to marry a man who was breaking some serious laws.”

He nodded, looking contrite. “I don’t know how to explain that. It seems so clear to me now,
so impossible. I guess I just got caught up in it. Ian kept talking about ‘easy money that didn’t
hurt anyone.’ But knowing now that Kat almost got hurt...” He stopped, shook his head,
closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

Debra fought back her own, shutting her eyes against them. She could cry about that later. For
now, though, she didn’t want to be sad anymore. “We should eat,” she said. “The chicken’s
getting cold.”

“Is it okay, having fried chicken?”

She just looked at him. “You silly, silly man.”

“I just... always like to give you the best.”

“This beach, this sunset, this chicken, this man—I can’t imagine anything better.”
He cast a sheepish grin. “Might be better if I wasn’t going to jail.”

To her own surprise, she laughed, then reached for his hand. “After we eat, let’s walk on the
beach like we used to, holding hands. Would you like that?”

Her husband smiled. “Very much. And maybe if we stick around until dark...” he said,
playfully raising his eyebrows.

“What?” she asked, giggling.

“We have a blanket. And we haven’t made love on the beach for a very long time.”

The truth was, they hadn’t really made love for a very long time anywhere. But if Clark wanted
to do it on the beach, she’d be happy to once again share this wildest move of her existence
with her husband, her lifemate.

Brock drove north on I-75, letting the harsh expressway winds offset the even-harsher tropical
air that came on thick and strong this time of year. Summertime had arrived in Florida with a
vengeance.

He’d spent the last two weeks doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing—taking time
off. Out of professional courtesy and friendship, Nichols had kept him updated on the case, but
he hadn’t been directly involved since the night they’d gotten the truth out of Spencer. Much to
his surprise, turned out that was fine with him. All he’d really wanted in the end was the truth,
and knowing it was enough. That and seeing Ian punished.