The Tin Man (12 page)

Stealthily,
he moved into the next room. It, too, was in shambles. Furniture overturned, broken glass and china everywhere, holes in the plaster, even some of the floorboards had been pulled up. Off to the right, he could see a small bedroom, also ransacked.

He picked his way through the mess toward the front door, pistol leading the way. Holding his breath, he nudged it open with his toe. He stepped onto the porch,
turning his gun both ways. Both assassins were sprawled on their backs, motionless. He walked over and put a bullet into each of their foreheads—just to be sure. Neither flinched.

Behind him, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He spun around, finger on the trigger. Relief rushed through him when he sa
w Thea.

“I heard shots,” she said,
looking worried.

“That was me
,” he said, licking his lips. “Just making sure.”

“So, they’re dead?”

“They are.”

“Did you find my grandfather?”

He shook his head and motioned toward the front door. “Lapdog said he had some kind of proof. And judging from the state of the place, I’d say they were looking for whatever it is.”

She looked shaken and a little bewildered.
“What could it be?”

He
shrugged. “Why don’t you have a look around while I search the bodies?”

“How will I know what I’m looking for?”

He shrugged again, having no bloody idea. He waited until the screen door slammed behind her before walking over to the corpses. Squatting beside them, he sparked his lighter to get a better look. Their complexions were swarthy; their coal-black eyes stared at nothing. They definitely looked Arabic, which, although noteworthy, didn’t help much.  

He
shut their eyelids and went through their pockets, finding nothing but their cell phones and a couple of spare clips. He examined their guns—a pair of semi-automatic Rugers affixed with silencers—using the tail of his shirt to avoid leaving fingerprints.

He checked both phones for pre-programmed numbers and missed calls, hoping to find a clue, any clue,
to their identities or who might have sent them. There was nothing helpful. Shaking his head, he got to his feet and stuffed the phones in his pockets, thinking that maybe, at some point, a call might come in from whoever had hired them.

Next,
he went looking for the Mustang, finding it parked behind the barn, unlocked. He opened the driver’s door, got in, and hunted around for the registration, which told him it belonged to one of his neighbors back in New York. From the glove box, he pulled out the owner’s manual. The Mustang was a 2003, which was good, since it would be easier to jack—provided he could locate a pair of wire strippers in a house without electricity.

* * * *

“Find anything?” Thea asked as Buchanan pushed through the door. She was sitting on the sofa, looking as if she’d been chewing on something bitter.

“Afraid not,” he replied, righting an overturned chair.

He set it down across from her and sat. He studied her for several moments with a swelling feeling that might have been awe. She had lit some candles and the soft light on her face was extremely becoming. Desire sparked, surprising him again.

“I think we should stay here tonight,
” she said, lifting her gaze to his, “in case my grandfather comes back.”

“Fine,” he said,
too tired to think about going anywhere else. There was only one bed, he’d noticed when he checked the house. A double.

“You want a cup of tea or something?” she asked.

“I’d rather have something stronger,” he returned, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“My grandfather doesn’t drink
, so I doubt there’s any alcohol around.”

He wasn’t bothered, having brought his own. Getting up, he
walked stiffly to the couch, and sat beside her, reaching into the pocket of his tweed sports coat, which she still wore. As his hand brushed her hip, something deep in his abdomen fluttered. She leaned in, bringing her face close. And then, without warning, she pressed her lips against his. When he didn’t pull away, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss was close-mouthed, but intense enough to heat his blood. He thought about putting a stop to it, unsure he should do this when he didn’t know what he could give her. Or wanted for himself.

His fingers closed around the flask. He pulled it out and let it fall.
She pressed her body against his chest, pushing him back against the couch. The kiss deepened. It felt good. Unbelievably good. He had been starving for this without knowing it. It had been months since he’d felt anything like passion. His hands found her back and began moving down. As he squeezed her buttocks, yearning blazed, burning away all reason.

Breaking free of the kiss, he began unbuttoning her blouse.
He wanted to see behind the veil. He could feel her trembling, hear her breathing growing heavy and ragged, as he moved from button to button, pushing the silk away. Even in the flickering light, he could see that her bra was black lace. He slipped a hand inside and softly rubbed a nipple. As it responded, she emitted a breathless moan, making him shudder.

“Where shall I sleep?”
he rasped, brushing her cheek.

“Do you have to ask?”

Guilt gripped him, tightening like a noose. The fire in his groin flickered and began to die.

“A
re you sure we should do this?”

“Yes
,” she said, dark-chocolate eyes shimmering with passion. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to
disappoint you,” he whispered, looking away.

She set a hand on his chest
, endeavoring to meet his gaze. “Is there some danger of that?”

He
swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, even if he could keep it up, which was unlikely, she’d be shagging an empty shell.

“
Only if you want it to mean something,” he managed at last, his voice cracking.

She
pulled away, glaring at him. “How do you expect me to respond to a statement like that?”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her
. “With honesty, I suppose.”

“Fuck you,” she
hissed, shooting to her feet. “Is that honest enough?”

Without another word, she stalked off toward the bedroom. W
hen he heard the door slam, he heaved a sigh and sat back, feeling around the cushions for his flask. Finding it, he raised it to his lips, tipped it back, and took a long, deep swallow.

Tuesday

Lancaster County, Pennsylvania

Thea lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, gnawing her lower lip the same way regret gnawed her insides. Bright sunlight filtered through the lace at the window, but her thoughts were dark. From the living room, she could hear Buchanan snoring like a bear. Regret stabbed again. Why had she kissed him? He’d tried to warn her he wasn’t emotionally available, but, as usual, she hadn’t listened.

She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she
had feelings for him—feelings she’d been harboring ever since that night they went out for a drink. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that he was there with her, holding, kissing, touching.

With a sigh, she
blew away the fantasy like dandelion down. Though she’d slept with her share of men over the years, she’d had few serious relationships. Just Mark Watkins back in high school; Spencer Conway, her history professor at Georgia State; and Steve Armstrong, a guy she met while out nightclubbing with friends.

Steve was a welcome relief from the professor, who at first seemed brilliant and intense, but turned out to be a narcissistic mess. T
en years her junior, Steve worked in an envelope factory, played in a band called “Weeds,” and liked to stay out all night partying with his friends. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, but they also quarreled bitterly about his laid-back lifestyle and lack of ambition. One day, she came home from work to find a note on the table beside a single red rose.

I think we both know this isn’t working.

That was all it said. The note shook her to the core, and not just because he’d left her, which was devastating. Even more shattering was the fact that the message echoed the one left twenty years earlier by her father.

A
muffled version of
Come as You Are
started playing somewhere in the room. She sprang up and glanced around. Where the hell had she left her phone? Realizing it was in the pocket of her slacks, now draped over a nearby chair, she bounced off the bed and fished it out. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number.

Apprehensively,
she answered.

“Miss Hamilton, you probably don’t remember me
…you were, after all, just a child the last time we met…but my name is Riley Witherspoon. I’m a curator at Independence Hall in Philadelphia…and a friend of your grandfather’s.”

“
Have you seen my grandfather?” she blurted excitedly. “Do you know where he is?”

There was a
pregnant silence on the other end of the line before he said, “I have reason to suspect that he may be in peril. Better not to discuss it on the phone, though, I daresay. Would it be possible for you to come to Philadelphia?”

“Of course
,” she said without hesitation. “I can be there in a couple of hours.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again. I only wish it could be under
more pleasant circumstances. My office is in the Merchant’s Exchange.”

“What was all
that about?”

Buchanan’s
deep brogue startled her. He was standing in the doorway, wearing only his slacks. Her eyes swept across his bare chest, which was broad, defined, and carpeted with dark hair from which his nipples stood out like rosy buttons.

“W
e’re going to Philadelphia,” she told him, annoyed by the tingling in her loins. Damn him for having this effect on her. Especially after last night.

“I need a shower
,” he said, rubbing his chin, which was shaded with dark stubble. “And a shave. But I guess, since I’ve got no razor, that I’m out of luck on that score, eh?”

“
You can use one of mine,” she said, moving toward her bag to fetch him one of her disposables. “But don’t go rusting yourself.”

“Sorry?”

She felt a surge of resentment born of wounded pride. “You’re the Tin Man, remember?”

“Oh,
right,” he muttered, coloring a little.

“And
I need a shower, too,” she said, glowering as she held out the pink plastic razor, “so have the decency to leave some hot water, okay?”

* * * *

While Buchanan showered, Thea went into the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. If she was this hungry, he must be, too. She put the kettle on for tea and hunted around, finding some eggs and butter that were still fresh in an old-fashioned icebox, and half a loaf of homemade bread in a hinged wooden box on the counter.

She wondered briefly how he liked his eggs, but shrugged it off
. He didn’t seem like the type to be fussy about such things. And, even if he was, he was probably hungry enough to eat anything she put in front of him and, if he had any brains, would show the proper gratitude.

As she put the pan on the stove, s
he felt a stab of shame for having kissed him. What had come over her? She wasn’t normally so bold with her affections. Was it an adrenaline rush brought on by the gunfight? She had read that violence sometimes triggered sexual arousal. Was he feeling it, too? Was that why he kissed her back? And he definitely had. She wasn’t mistaken about that. Although, apparently, she was mistaken in her belief that he was warming to her.

Only if you want it to mean something.

The coldness of his words still chilled her. Shrugging them off, she returned to her breakfast preparations, breaking several eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a fork. When the pan was hot, she threw in some butter, pushed it around with the fork until it sizzled, and then poured in the mixture. As she scrambled, she listened to the thundering shower, trying very hard not to think about him standing there under the hot spray with water streaming down his naked body.

Trying
, but failing miserably.

The shower shut off just as the eggs were done. She divided them onto two plates, buttered the toast, and poured the tea.
She wished there was some milk—she liked a little milk in her tea and suspected that he, being a Brit, took milk in his as well. But, short of getting it from the source, which she wasn’t about to do, they’d have to do without.

“Get it while it’s hot,” she called out toward the bedroom.