The Rapids Page 18

  He handed it to her.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t wreck it with your antics today.”

  “Looks like Rob Dunnemore called you a few times on our way down here.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a hundred.”

  She checked the call history. “Six. That’s like a hundred from anyone else. I’ll call him when we get upstairs. You okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Her doorman obviously remembered him from yesterday and gave him a dirty look, but Juliet smiled, as pretty a smile as Ethan had seen her give anyone yet. “This is Major Ethan Brooker,” she said. “He’s with me. He’s had a bit of a mishap.”

  Ethan hated every second of the elevator ride up to her apartment.

  She unlocked all her locks, and he fell onto the couch in front of a fish tank. He lay on his back and realized it wasn’t just his head that was hurt. He’d done a job on his back, his shoulder, one hip.

  “Who’d take care of the fish and the plants if you went camping?” he asked.

  “Rivera said he would. Is your speech slurred?”

  “I wish. It’d mean I’m drunk.”

  Juliet snorted. “If you were drunk, you’d be barfing as well as slurring your words.”

  “You’re a hard woman, deputy.”

  “Keep talking. It’s probably good for you. What can I get you? Beside whiskey. Beside anything alcoholic. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  He raised an eyebrow and tried to give her the sexiest look he good.

  She didn’t budge. “Don’t get any ideas, Brooker. Never mind the concussion, you smell like a swamp.” She put her hands on her hips and sighed at him. “You’re sure you don’t remember what happened to you?”

  “I fell into the Ravenkill.”

  “You and your rivers.”

  “This one had rocks.”

  “If you were attacked—”

  “I can’t say that I was or I wasn’t.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push back the pain and bring forward any new details about that morning. But there was nothing. “It hurts to think.”

  “Well, then.” She hesitated, then sighed again. “Just rest.”

  “Your couch…” He wondered if his words were slurred. “I’m a mess…”

  “It’s okay, Ethan.”

  Her tone had softened, and he thought her voice might have cracked. But he knew he wasn’t in great shape.

  “I’m one of the good guys,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah. I know you are.”

  After that, he just heard the gurgle of the fish tanks, and for the first time in days—maybe months—felt himself relax.

  What Maggie knew about William Raleigh, now the marshals knew.

  At least Rob did.

  Sitting on the veranda over coffee and dessert, she saw a flicker of lightning somewhere across the Hudson. In a couple of seconds the thunder came, a long, low rumble. The green light, the still air and the unrelenting humidity were all signs of an impending storm.

  “My sister had no intention of falling for Nate when we were shot in May. For anyone.” Rob spoke quietly, aware of Maggie across the table. “She’d just finished a major project. She likes to say we Dunnemores are at our most dangerous when we’re idle.”

  “You’re not idle.”

  “I’m sitting here drinking cappuccino and eating plum tart—”

  “That’s now. A couple hours ago you were sneaking around after me. Before that, we had Ethan in the river. And before that—”

  “I get your point. Sarah also says she and Nate fell for each other in a whoosh.” Rob smiled, none of the blue in his eyes visible in the prestorm light. “A Ph.D. in archaeology, and that’s her word. Whoosh.”

  Maggie smiled, too. “I like it.”

  “All her fears and preconceptions about who she should end up with went out the window, right along with her common sense. My sister and a marshal.”

  “You’re a marshal.”

  “I’m her brother.”

  “But her twin,” Maggie said.

  “You mean if I hadn’t become a marshal, I would have become an archaeologist?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I can see you digging in ruins.”

  “Think more in terms of an old dump. That’s where Sarah’s been spending her time lately.”

  “Probably more productive than chasing me over hill and dale.”

  His gray eyes darkened, or maybe it was the light. “I don’t know about that.”

  Maggie tried to ignore the flutter in the pit of her stomach. “You got hit hard in May, didn’t you? Not just physically. Going through something like that…you must know in a way the rest of us don’t how short life is and how much we’re not in control, no matter how hard we try to be.” She lifted her water glass and winced, self-conscious. “Listen to me. All philosophical. And I’m only drinking water.”

  “Getting dunked in a river must bring out the philosopher in you.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, going up to Brooker like that—”

  “You were thinking you’d help him.”

  “I’m glad he wasn’t hurt any worse than he was. I wish we could have helped Tom—” She forced herself not to go that route and sipped some of her water, half tempted to dump it down her front. She was hot, restless, hyperaware of her surroundings. Of the man across the table from her. “It’s been a weird few days. I’ll say that.”

  Rob was spared answering when Andrew Franconia pounded up the porch steps and yanked out a chair at their table, sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “I heard on the news that some Russian with ties to Nicholas Janssen has turned up dead in London. Shot. Wasn’t that guy you found in the Netherlands on Saturday shot? What the hell’s going on?”

  “You know as much as we do,” Rob said.

  “Bullshit.”

  Maggie set down her glass. “I know this kind of news is upsetting—”

  “Don’t patronize me. I don’t care if you’re both federal agents. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Fair enough.” Maggie kept her voice steady, reassuring. “The Russian’s name is Vladimir Samkevich. I don’t know a great deal about him. He and the man Deputy Dunnemore and I found dead were both shot in a similar fashion, but it’s far too early to make any connection between the two murders.”

  Andrew’s mouth snapped shut, and he sat back in his chair, exhaling loudly. “I don’t know how you do this work. I truly don’t. The worse Star and I deal with is the occasional unpaid bill.”

  “Thomas Kopac and Philip Spencer,” Maggie said without warning. “Do you know either name?”

  Franconia frowned at her. “No. Why? Who are they?”

  “Tom Kopac is the man who was killed on Saturday—”

  “Jesus Christ! Why would I know him? Why would you even ask—”

  “Philip Spencer is also dead. He was killed eighteen months ago in Prague. He was my father.”

  “Is this personal?” Andrew asked tightly.

  “I’m not sure I know the answer to that. I’d appreciate it if you could check your records and see if either name pops up.”

  His eyes were half-closed. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Rob was the one who answered. “It’s a simple request, Mr. Franconia.”

  Star, who’d just walked onto the porch, rushed to the table, putting one hand on her husband’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  He repeated what Maggie had said in terse, unemotional words, although there was still no color in his face. “Do you recognize the names Philip Spencer or Thomas Kopac?” he asked his wife.

  “No,” Star said, shaking her head. Her sundress, at least a size too big, hung loosely on her thin frame. She turned to Maggie. “No, I don’t know either name. I can check our records. We have a mailing list, but we’re not as computerized as we probably should be. We have some records on our antiques buyers, and more on our guests.”

  “How are rese
rvations handled?” Maggie asked. “I filled out a form on your Web site.”

  “But it was just an e-mail,” Star said. “Whoever’s here takes the call or the e-mail and puts it in the book and provides a confirmation number. For instance, I received your e-mail reservation with your credit card information. I e-mailed you back with your confirmation number. It’s fairly informal. We like that. It feels more personal.”

  “Can you check what you have on all your different customers?” Maggie asked. “People who’ve stayed here, people who’ve just eaten here, people who’ve just bought antiques?”

  Star glanced at Rob, whom she seemed to think had some kind of veto power over Maggie, then nodded. “I’ll check our records tonight and let you know what I find.”

  “It’s very difficult on both Star and me having you here,” Andrew said, looking directly at Maggie. “Frankly, I’m glad it’s only for one more night.”

  Maggie managed a quick smile. “I don’t blame you.”

  But he jumped up and spun on his heels, heading off the porch without a backward glance even at his wife.

  Star smoothed the folds of her too-big dress and kept her eyes lowered. “I apologize. We’re stretched thin with this place. Our cash flow’s improving, but…” She gave an embarrassed smile. “The stress sometimes gets to Andrew. We have a lot at stake, and if your presence here…If there’s trouble—”

  “You don’t want the inn’s reputation hurt,” Maggie finished for her.

  “No one needs that kind of publicity.”

  After Star withdrew, with less drama than her husband, Maggie abandoned the last of her coffee and plum tart and asked Rob if he’d like to join her for a walk before the storm hit.

  They headed down the stone path, veering off into the sunflowers, like smiling faces in the fading daylight. Rob walked very close to her but they didn’t touch. She breathed in the musty smell of the flowers and smiled. “Do you think sunflowers smell different in the evening? I think they might.”

  “I can’t say I know what sunflowers smell like during the day.”

  “They’re not very fragrant, are they?”

  “Not very.”

  “You really are a dangerous man, Rob,” she said quietly, surprising herself with her own words. “Other people might be fooled by the charm and the good looks and the education. I’m not.” She turned to him, a giant sunflower taller than he was behind him. “Your future brother-in-law has a reputation as a hard-ass. I’ll bet you’re as big a hard-ass as he is.”

  “He’s a hard-ass in a good way. His parents were killed in a mountain-climbing accident when he was seven. I think it made him less patient with BS at an earlier age than most of us.”

  “There’s no easy age to lose a parent, but at seven? Both of them?” She shuddered. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Maggie, your father—”

  “I didn’t know my father,” she said. “Obviously.”

  “I have a feeling you’re a lot like him. Not that easy to get to know. Self-contained. Dedicated to your work to a point that might shut out even the people you care about most.”

  “It’s not an easy way to live, never mind whether or not it’s fair to anyone else.”

  “We all have something. It’s what we do with it that matters.” He winked at her. “Now I’m being the philosopher.”

  “Rob…” She sighed. “Never mind.”

  He gave her a knowing look. “You see? Self-contained. We’re attracted to each other. That’s what you wanted to say, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” She shot out of the sunflowers, onto the grassy lawn. “Doesn’t this heat get to you?”

  “Heat gets to me, but this isn’t hot. Maggie—”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Taking it as a sign—an excuse—Maggie laughed. “There you go. All we need now is to be struck by lightning.”

  “We should go inside.”

  Lightning flickered on the green, western horizon, and a breeze stirred. “Rob, I—” She spun around at him, determined to say her piece. “I can’t fall for anyone right now. I’ve been in The Hague for just three weeks. I can’t do that to myself. To you.”

  “Who’re you trying to convince?” He touched a curl by her ear. “Your hair seems lighter since you got here. Maybe there’s something in the river water.”

  “You’re having—” She made herself go on. “You’re having an effect on me.”

  “An effect?” He laughed quietly, letting his fingers slide down her throat and skim her breast as he dropped his hand. “What kind of effect?”

  “More than one kind, I’m afraid.”

  “Good?”

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  He stood up straight, his expression suddenly unreadable. “I’m spending the night here, Maggie.”

  Hell.

  “You’re not choking?”

  “It’s my training,” she said dryly.

  “That’ll teach you to sneak off to clandestine meetings with Scarlet Pimpernel types. I reserved a room while you were gone.”

  “Rob…you’re not making this any easier.”

  “I’m not, am I? I was just wondering if it was my job to make this easier for you—”

  “Your eyes are the same color as the sky right now. Did you know that?”

  He sighed. “You’re not going to make this easier on me, either, are you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  He let his lips brush across her forehead. “We should get inside before the storm hits. The way things have been going, we will get struck by lightning out here.”

  “I swear we already have and it’s affected our thinking.”

  “Not mine. I know exactly what I’m about.”

  He spoke with that mix of charm and confidence that had thrown her off balance from the beginning. Maggie pushed back a reaction to him that was physical, emotional and probably not at all appropriate.

  “So do you,” he added.

  But the wind picked up, smashing the sunflowers into each other. Lightning and thunder flashed and cracked at the same time, the air darker, the light greener. Maggie could hear the rushing sounds of the approaching rain, and she and Rob ducked into the cellar.

  Libby Smith was in her antiques room, pencil in mouth and pad of paper in hand. “Hey, there. Is the storm on us?”

  “Almost,” Maggie said.

  She seemed delighted. “I love a good thunderstorm. We used to lose power all the time when I was a kid, but the Franconias put in a lightning rod. So boring.” She grinned, shoving the pencil behind her ear. “I’m doing an inventory. It’s so dull I could scream. Anything I can do for you?”

  Maggie shook her head. “We’re fine, thanks.”

  And when they got up to the second floor, it was no surprise to her at all that Rob ended up in her room.

  He swept an arm around her waist and found her mouth with his, the wind pounding the rain against her window, as if to call attention to his urgency, make her stop pretending that it wasn’t there.

  She felt her breath catch. She tried to speak but gave up.

  “Maggie.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and held her within inches of him. “I’m not just being opportunistic. There’s something about you—”

  “About us. When we’re together.”

  All her reserve and natural caution fell away. He seemed to feel it happening and kissed her again, even as he caught her up in his arms.

  Before she could get her breath again, he was carrying her to her four-poster bed.

  She’d never been carried to bed before.

  They dispensed with guns and cuffs and holsters and clothes, coming together quietly, hungrily, as if it’d been a foregone conclusion from the moment he’d stepped off the plane in Amsterdam. His mouth found hers again and again, often before she had the presence of mind even to take a breath.

  She didn’t push back, didn’t say no, just responded to the feel of him, the taste of him. His strength and ob
vious urgency took her by surprise. It was almost as if he’d been thinking about kissing her, sweeping his hands over her, since he’d first folded himself into her Mini.

  It seemed like such a long time ago. Yet it’d only been days.

  A whoosh…

  His hands slid over her hips, coursed up her back, then cupped her breasts with a boldness that only fueled her own response.

  “Maggie…” Rob smiled at her, rolling onto his back so that she was on top of him, straddling him. “Stop thinking.”

  “How did you know—”

  “Because you think all the time.”

  She eased her palms up his abdomen, skimmed the scar from his bullet wound. In the dim light, she could see it. The round from Conroy Fontaine’s sniper rifle had torn apart Rob’s insides, cost him massive amounts of blood, his spleen, almost his life. But the scar was deceptively small, neat, no indication of the pain and suffering he’d endured. He was tanned and hard and muscular now.

  He moved against her, and Maggie fell onto his chest, stifling a moan against his neck, tasting him, feeling his hands all over her, and whether it was her driving them toward the inevitable or him, she didn’t know, didn’t care.

  The wind must have shifted, because a chilly breeze and rain blew against her overheated back, as if enticing her to respond to him. And she did, her heart racing as she reached over and placed her palm against his heart. Even as good a shape as he was in, his pulse was racing.

  “I must be out of mind,” she said.

  But there was no more waiting, no more pretending or denying. He eased on top of her, kissing her throat, taking a nipple into his mouth.

  She moaned with a deep pleasure. “You’re sure it’s okay? I don’t want to hurt you….”

  “You won’t.”

  And he didn’t wait. He thrust into her, filling her up. She cried out immediately, an aching need over-whelming her. She’d never wanted anyone as much as she did him, now.

  He made love to her with total focus, as if he might not ever get another chance at it.

  “Easy,” Maggie breathed, feeling the weight of him on her, inside her. “If this is the first time since the shooting, I don’t want you to kill yourself.”