11:53 p.m.; the Flats at Dupont Circle Apartments
Before Hardy had closed the apartment door, he heard running water, coming from across the room. He eased the doorknob back to its original position, drew his pistol and laid his jacket on the floor. His apartment was small, less than one thousand square feet. From this vantage point, he could see the kitchen. No one was in it. Looking straight ahead, he confirmed the combined dining area and living room were empty, too. He leaned his head around the corner to his left. His bedroom door was open, but he could not see inside the room. The bathroom was across from the bedroom. Hardy lived alone. No one was supposed to be here. Both hands on the pistol, he crept closer to the bathroom. Steam rolled over the partially open door. The water stopped running before the shower curtain slid along the overhead bar. He sidestepped to his right, took a position at the corner of the bedroom. He saw the mirror above the bathroom sink. He raised his pistol higher, the front sight lined up with the mirror; a bare arm flashed across the foggy surface. Moments later, the intruder came into view when a hand swiped across the mirror several times. Hardy stared into the eyes of the intruder, who shrieked and jumped backwards.
Naked, FBI Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz scrambled for a bath towel. “You scared me half to death.”
Hardy holstered his pistol and leaned against the wall before folding his arms across his chest. When the woman appeared, she had the bath towel wrapped around her body. Her fingers fumbled with the towel ends above her right breast.
“I suppose you got an eyeful, didn’t you?”
Hardy grinned.
“It would’ve been nice if you’d announced your presence.” She closed the distance between them. Placing a hand on his chest, she went to her tiptoes and kissed him. Turning her head, she pressed her left cheek against his chest and hugged him. “Even though I’m mad at you right now, it’s good to see you.”
Hardy wrapped his arms around her, feeling her soft shoulders. “You know, Cruz,”—In the military, her fellow soldiers shortened her name to Cruz, joking that her full name was too difficult to say. To this day, those close to her called her Cruz—“Living alone, I don’t expect to find someone taking a shower when I come home.” He lowered his head and inhaled—strawberries. “So, why are you showering at my place?”
“The plumbers,” she mumbled, her face buried in his chest, “are doing some repair work at my house and they keep shutting off the water. It was just easier to come over here.” After a pause, she added, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he said, running his fingers down her bare arm and thinking about the first time they met.
Three months ago, Hardy was in the hospital after the explosion at the tavern in Washington, D.C. Cruz had been sent to question him about the blast. When he opened his eyes, she was leaning over his bed. The tip of her dark brown ponytail fell over her shoulder and almost touched his arm. She had the most beautiful set of dark brown eyes he had ever seen. Her long face with high cheekbones and perfect complexion was even more attractive. She had captured his heart without ever saying a word.
Cruz sighed heavily and pushed her body away from him. Tilting her head backward, she gazed into his eyes. They were red and his eyelids were half closed. He was sleep-deprived. She put both hands on his chest and gestured toward the living room. “Go lie down and relax. I’ll join you after I’m dressed.” She kissed him again before slinking toward the bathroom.
Hardy watched her. She had wrapped the bath towel tightly around her body. He marveled at the silhouette of her five-feet, eight-inch figure. The towel curved inward at her waist and gradually rolled outward, over her hips, before stopping at her well-toned calf muscles. When she had disappeared into the bathroom, he sloughed into the living room. He sat on the couch and his lungs expelled a long, heavy sigh. He dragged his hands down his face, stopping when his fingertips touched his chin. Leaning to the left, he stretched out and waited for Cruz.
She only took a few minutes to dry her hair before putting on a pair of pink satin shorts and a white tank-top shirt with lace ruffles; however, when she entered the living room, she found Hardy lying on the couch, and in a deep sleep. Her shoulders sagged. Walking past him, she picked up a blue and silver fleece blanket and unfolded it. She glanced at the blanket and crinkled her nose. Having grown up in Dalhart, Texas, she was a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan. She found it difficult to cover Hardy with the Detroit Lions blanket; however, the Lions were his favorite football team. Carefully bringing the edge of the blanket to his chin, she smiled and glanced at the Lions logo. I’ll have to do something about this someday.
She slid her body down the couch cushion, until she was sitting on her hip, her knees against the bottom of the couch and her ankles touching her smooth satin shorts. Putting her elbow on the edge of the couch cushion, she rested her head on the palm of her hand and observed Hardy’s chest slowly rise and fall. Listening to the deep breaths, she felt at peace. She had not seen him in three days and, even though she would have preferred to talk to him, she was content to be near him, in his presence. She watched him for almost an hour before her drooping eyelids forced her to retreat to the bedroom.
Standing at the side of Hardy’s bed, Cruz reflected on the long hours he worked. He was gone for days at a time and she never knew when she would see him. Normally, such a work schedule would have been a death knell for a relationship; however, she had spent many years of her adult life working hard to advance in her career. She had dated many men, but those relationships had failed when the men became intimidated by her intelligence and drive for excellence. Sometimes, she felt as if she had pushed them away. In a way, maybe she had pushed them away by spending so much time at work.
Dropping to her knees, she felt her relationship with Hardy was different. They understood each other. She knew his job, working for the President, was dangerous. She had seen danger, too, but it was not nearly as extreme as what Hardy had faced—and would continue to face—on missions. She worried every time he left. Even though she and Hardy were not married, Cruz empathized with the wives of police officers, not knowing if their husbands would return home at night. She put her elbows on the bed and folded her hands, praying as she did every night. The posture, though childish, made her feel a little closer to her mother, who had taught her to pray in this manner.
A few seconds later, she touched her forehead, chest and left and right shoulder with the fingertips of her right hand, making the ‘sign of the cross.’ Touching the fingertips of her folded hands to her lips, she recited prayers.
Five minutes later, she interlocked her fingers and put her hands to her forehead. Her voice barely above a whisper, she prayed. “Protect Aaron, Lord, and keep him safe from all harm, while he does your will, protecting your people, the people of this great nation, which you called into existence. I pray all these things through Christ, our Lord, Amen.” Cruz made the ‘sign of the cross,’ stood and threw back the covers of the bed. Sliding under the sheets and letting her head fall onto the pillow, she stared at the ceiling unable to let go of her worries. Closing her eyes, she hoped she would get to talk with Hardy before she left, but she doubted that would happen. Tomorrow was her first day back to work and she needed to get an early start.