Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 4

  Color rose in Robyn’s face. She, too, thought of where her piano playing had led. Suddenly, the danger of his presence hit her. It had become natural for her to play the role designed for her, but with the way her emotions danced out of step each time he looked at her, she had to get him out of her life. And before Jacob Winston learned what she’d done.

  "I’m not very hungry, Grant," she began in her it’s-time-for-you-to-go-tone.

  "I understand." He stood, preparing to leave. "Will you be all right?" His voice was quiet, laced with con­cern.

  "I’m fine—really," she reassured him.

  After a slight hesitation, he started for the door. In­visible hands squeezed her heart until she thought she’d scream. Robyn clutched her chest, trying to calm it. She reached into herself, searching for some of the courage and reserve that Jacob promised would be there when she needed it.

  She needed it now.

  She watched him walking toward the door. The room suddenly seemed bigger, longer. He moved in slow motion, getting smaller as he got closer to the far side of her life. Just a few seconds, she thought. Just a few more seconds and he’d be gone. Out of her life. She’d be safe.

  "Gr. . .Grant. . ." she stopped him with a stutter.

  "Don’t go."

  Chapter 3

  Jacob hung the phone up and slumped back in his chair. He grabbed his beer and drained the glass bottle. Usually, he enjoyed his beer, but Marianne’s call had his stomach churning. Something didn’t sit right.

  Suddenly, he sat up as if propelled. His fingers flew over the computer keyboard, racing against an unseen force. Seconds later, he’d passed security and was in the computer of the Center for Disease Control. The records on the screen confirmed what Marianne had told him.

  Why didn’t he believe it? It was just too coinciden­tal that all the hospitals in the area were out of stock. Jacob didn’t like coincidences. He pulled the phone toward him, setting it on his thigh. He dialed the num­ber he knew by heart but hadn’t called in years.

  "This better be good," a voice gravelly with sleep barked into his ear. Jacob would have smiled if he hadn’t been concentrating so hard.

  "Carl, this is Jacob," he said.

  "I won’t ask if you know what time it is."

  Jacob could almost see him turning the clock to­ward himself to check the digital dial.

  "It’s important, Carl. I need a favor."

  "What is it?" he asked, seriousness an irritation entering his voice.

  Carl Logan and Jacob Winston had been partners on the police force. They’d worked homicide in Chi­cago for six years, until Carl’s wife, Amy, was kid­napped and killed by a serial killer who took their investigation personally. Carl became a computer jockey. Jacob had gone to the Marshal’s Service, a different kind of law enforcement. The Cynthia Affair had been his rea­son for needing a change of location.

  "I need you to go and check the blood supply at the center."

  "What?" Jacob knew Carl was climbing out of bed. He was the closest thing to a best friend Jacob had. Over the years, the two of them had used their respec­tive skills to help each other whenever they could, and Jacob knew Carl wouldn’t let him down. "Why don’t I just dial in and check the stock? On second thought, why don’t you?"

  "I’ve already done that. It says the supply of AB negative is exhausted."

  "And you have reason to believe something differ­ent?"

  "It’s just a hunch." Jacob had no concrete evidence that anything was wrong, just a gnawing feeling in his gut.

  "Jacob, we keep extremely accurate—"

  "Carl," Jacob stopped him before he began a lecture on the methods of making sure the physical stock matched the records. "This is very important."

  "All right, Jacob. I’ll go over right now and check it out myself. What are you looking for?"

  "AB negative. How much have you got?"

  "I’ll call you back when I get there. Where are you?"

  "Home."

  Jacob hung up and waited. Suddenly, everything was quiet. He could hear the crickets outside and the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The clock in the hall, that had been his mother’s, chimed out the hour. But the phone did not ring. He stood up and went for another beer, dropping the empty bottle in the recycling container.

  There were three bottles in the yellow container be­fore the phone rang. Jacob lunged for it, snatching it off the wall before it finished the first ring.

  "Yeah," he said.

  "This is really weird, Jacob," Carl said.

  "How much have you got?" he asked, trying to con­trol his anxiousness.

  "Enough to supply a small war if every casualty was AB negative. None of it’s outdated. I’m standing in the refrigerator, and the supply is here. Yet, the ma­chines say we’re out. I don’t understand."

  "Try finding out what happened, and let me know." Jacob knew he didn’t have to ask the favor. Carl would search without direction. He couldn’t leave a puzzle until all the pieces were in place. "Thanks for your help," Jacob continued. "I owe you one."

  "Anytime, partner."

  Jacob replaced the receiver and leaned his head against the arm that he had propped on the doorjamb. He’d been tracking anything that might jeopardize Robyn and Kari for five years, but something had started with Robyn’s accident. He could feel it. To­morrow, he’d verify the blood at the other hospitals. But he already knew, before he’d placed one call, that the Crime Network was back in action.

  ***

  Robyn stood frozen. Grant’s hand was on the door­knob when she’d stopped him. She hadn’t realized the strangled cry had come from her until he turned. For a heartbeat, there was a sign of recognition, then it was gone.

  "There isn’t much food here," she said. "But the least I can do is make you an omelette and some cof­fee."

  "It sounds wonderful, I’ll help," Grant said. A smile lit his face as he came back into the room. Robyn thought she saw relief in his eyes. Maybe she just wanted to see it, she told herself.

  "That won’t be necessary." She needed time to com­pose herself and understand why she’d stopped him. She knew it was safer to let him go through the door, yet she’d called him back. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a deliberate act. She’d asked him to stay.

  "Don’t worry," he smiled. "I’m very good in the kitchen."

  "I’m sure you are." She knew how much help he could be. Many nights they’d spent, side by side, pre­paring dinner or loading the dishwasher.

  "I am, I promise." He raised his right hand in the Boy Scout salute, then took off his jacket and folded it over the back of the sofa before following Robyn to the kitchen. He stopped short at the door. It was a huge airy room, brightly lit and outfitted for a gourmet cook.

  "Maybe I should take that back," he groaned.

  Robyn laughed for the first time. Both of them no­ticed it but neither commented. Filling the coffeepot with water, she poured it into the well of the automatic machine. Her kitchen was a cook’s dream. Copper pots gleamed from a rack above the granite counter, two sinks strategically placed for functionality, and a restaurant sized side-by-side refrigerator-freezer still allowed room for free movement.

  "I’m sure you’ll be able to find the eggs," she said.

  This was where her business had begun. She had a degree in history and had thought she’d follow her father into government work, but Jacob steadfastly as­serted she could never use it.

  "Absolutely everything about Robyn Richards has to be forgotten. She won’t exist. Brooke Johnson does not have a degree in history." She could still hear the adamant tone in his voice.

  Robyn chose cooking as a career. She loved making art out of food. Since it was a relatively unassuming profession, and she wasn’t one to sit around doing nothing. Jacob had few objections to her choice.

  At first, she and Marianne catered parties and wed­dings, fashioning elaborate designs with sweetbreads. Fruits and vegetables were transformed into stat
ues. But her trademark was the spectacular one-of-a-kind wedding cake scenes. She met people who recommended her to their friends. Her reputation and fortune grew until she had saved enough money to buy a run-down Victorian mansion that she’d renovated and turned into a restaurant.

  Grant found the eggs, and Robyn handed him a bowl and a silver whisk. He began breaking them as she found cheese, onions, peppers, celery, and ham and started dicing them into small pieces. She worked quickly and efficiently.

  He watched in amazement at the lightning manner in which she used a knife. "You will tell me if you ever decide to use that on me?" he asked lightly. "Should I ask how you learned to use a knife with the skill of a Japanese master chef?"

  "There’s nothing mysterious about it. I practiced a lot." She smiled at the fun she had playing with him. "I used to own a catering business, now I have a res­taurant in town. For a while my partner and I were the only cooks. And practice does. . ." She left the cliche hanging, allowing her proficiency to finish the sentence.

  Robyn took the eggs Grant had whisked into a yel­low fluff, added the diced vegetables, and then poured them in the omelet pan. Minutes later, they were seated at the breakfast nook where she and Kari usu­ally began their day.

  Grant ate hungrily, obviously enjoying his food. Robyn, too, finished a meal she hadn’t thought she was hungry enough to eat. They talked quietly about life in Buffalo, the theater, the latest world events. Robyn knew it wasn’t important conversation. She also knew he was trying to help her take her mind off Kari. For the most part, it worked until finally all that was left were dirty dishes and memories. She wanted to cry.

  "I should call the hospital," she said tears apparent in her voice.

  "She’ll be fine." Grant put a restraining hand on her wrist. A regiment of electric shocks galloped from her wrist up to her shoulder. Her eyes found his and held. She pulled her arm away, rubbing it gently to restore normal feeling.

  "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you."

  "I’m not hurt," she said a bit too quickly, then tried to hide it by taking a drink from her coffee cup.

  "I’m sure Kari’s fine. Doctor Elliott promised to call if there was any change in her condition."

  "I know. It’s just that I feel so helpless." She stood up and began moving the dishes from the table and stacking them in the sink. "If only I’d listened to Kari. She wanted to stay at the beach longer. If only. . ."

  Grant came to stand behind her. "Don’t do this to yourself." He turned her to face him, dropping his hands quickly. "It was an accident. You can’t blame yourself for circumstances."

  "I know, but I keep feeling, if only I’d seen the other car. . ."

  "It wasn’t your fault," he said more forcefully. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent it." She looked at him, her eyes wide and tired. She wanted to step into his arms and let him hold her but she couldn’t.

  "You know, you should get some sleep. You’ll feel much better tomorrow." His voice was quiet as if he could no longer argue with her.

  "I don’t think I could." With Kari in the hospital and Grant within holding distance, she was sure sleep for the night was not an option.

  "Why don’t you try a hot bath? It will relax you."

  "Tonight, I don’t think it would work."

  He nodded, understanding. "All right, talk to me. Tell me where we know each other from."

  Grant’s instincts were excellent, yet he didn’t need them to tell him Brooke Johnson was familiar. He rec­ognized the tenseness in the way she held her shoul­ders, the nervous way she wrung her hands, and the way her eyes widened. She dropped her head for a moment. The smell of her shampoo wafted through the air. He knew it, had smelled it before, but where? A millisecond of memory flashed through his mind, but flitted before he could capture or record it.

  There was no single thing about her that leaped for­ward to force his memory, but the collection of small things, like the way she moved, tipped her head to the side, or held her fork when she ate. He wondered where they had met and if she remembered.

  "We haven’t met before," Robyn told him.

  "Doctor Elliott said you gave him my name; told him where to find me."

  "Oh," she laughed, turning back to the sink and busying herself restacking dishes that were already stacked. "It’s your blood type. I memorized the names and addresses of everyone with Kari’s blood type within a four-hundred-mile radius. When Doctor El­liott explained that all the local supplies were exhausted or outdated I gave him your name."

  Lie number one, Robyn thought. Thank goodness she’d devised a reason for knowing who he was without telling the truth. If he’d asked her to name another do­nor she’d be hard pressed to think of one. If she’d done something practical like finding the names of possible donors and committing them to memory, Grant would still be in Washington, and she would be inside the protective world Jacob had set up for her. She’d used Kari’s blood type as a reason to settle so close to her former husband, but she’d hadn’t considered the real need to contact him. When Jacob told her there would be a blood supply if needed, she believed him. It un­nerved her that his promise proved untrue.

  Robyn turned on the water and opened the dish­washer. Methodically, she began rinsing and placing the soiled dishes inside. Her thoughts went back five years to the days after the trial. She’d been blackmailed into this elite prison. She was angry, and Jacob took the brunt of her bereft feelings.

  She and Jacob argued over everything: where she would live, what she would look like, even the color of her hair. The two of them were a battle looking for a war. It erupted the night she told him she was pregnant.

  The last saucer had been placed in the rack, yet the water ran unheeded over her hands. Jacob had been angry. He’d told her it was against the law to break up families. Robyn hadn’t known she was going to have a baby when she chose to go in without Grant. His life had been uprooted too many times, and he’d have to give up flying, a sacrifice she wouldn’t want him to make. Yet, it might not have had an impact if it weren’t for Project Eagle. After she found the camouflaged mi­crochip, Grant had been forced to tell her about it.

  Robyn had regrets, but she knew she’d done the right thing. Without Clarence Christopher’s father-like influence, she’d have chosen to help her husband and the nine other men being held prisoner in Beirut.

  "Brooke, where are you?" Grant reached around her and stopped the flow of water. She snapped back to the present. It had been a long time since thoughts of how she got into the program intruded on her life.

  "I’m sorry. I’m tired." She grabbed a paper towel and dried her hands. "Since the accident, I’ve been at the hospital." She fumbled for something to say. It seemed the past and present were colliding, and she had lost control over what would happen. Why hadn’t he just given the blood and let it be flown up? Why did he have to come himself?

  "Why don’t you get some sleep?"

  "Maybe you’re right. I think I will take a shower and try to sleep."

  "Good idea. Go on. I’ll clean these dishes and see myself out."

  Robyn hesitated a moment.

  "It’s all right." He knew she was thinking they had only met. He was a stranger, and how could she leave a strange man in her kitchen and go to bed. "I promise to lock the door behind me."

  Robyn was struck by how much she still loved him. She walked to the door, then turned for one last look. "Thank you, Grant. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for Kari. Good-bye."

  ***

  Minutes later Robyn stepped into the shower, hop­ing the water cascading over her tired body would be enough to wash away the aching need she had for the man downstairs. She hadn’t thought her feelings would be this intense. It had been five years, and she had been out with several men since Grant. One of them she’d actually considered marrying. She had thought there would be a dullness to her feelings if she ever saw Grant again, but she was wrong. Her feelings had not changed. Her love was as brigh
t and new as it had been when she saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs in Las Vegas. Her heart beat just as fast now. Her throat was dry and her hands were as cold as when he’d asked her to marry him.

  She thought of him washing dishes as the two of them had done countless times. She smiled remem­bering his playful nature as he’d teased her that they’d still be washing dishes together when they reached sixty and their children were grown and gone. A lump rose in Robyn’s throat at the bittersweet irony of the situation. Grant was in her kitchen, five years after she’d walked out of his life.

  Tears mingled with the running water. This was her fault. It wasn’t that Grant was downstairs because of the accident. It had begun years ago, when she had almost begged to get the part-time job at the FBI while she was in college. A fresh batch of tears racked her body. It was impossible to know at the time, but her happiness that day paved the road to the misery she felt pouring from her body like the water spurting from the showerhead now.

  After graduation, she was offered a permanent po­sition as an analyst in the Major Crimes Bureau. She worked hard and had a good memory. It was because of her memory that she had seen a dead man, a man presumed dead. Several witnesses, who claimed they had seen the body of this international assassin, had reported him dead. Word had it that he was killed when trying to execute a contract against a drug lord. But she had seen him—alive—at a Washington restau­rant. She had instantly recognized him when he bumped into her as she made her way to the ladies room.

  Four years later, she sat across the courtroom and identified him as Alex Jordan, code name: the Devil. She’d known his life as well as she knew her own, in­cluding the assassinations credited to him, like the baf­fling case in Sicily where six American men died inside a room that was locked from the inside.

  Alex Jordan had only been the beginning. Every­thing about him made her suspicious, and every piece of information she uncovered drew her closer and closer to her own agency. It was a Pandora’s box and she had sprung the lock.

  The shower had gone from hot to tepid when Robyn’s memory returned her to the present. Reaching for the silver dials, she switched them off. The plush white towel that soaked the water from her body was thick and soft. It was not at all like the scratchy one she’d used in the dingy motel room only weeks after Alex Jordan was killed, and McKenzie Cranford was exposed as a mole in the department.