Chapter Six

“I already told you, Agent Harris, I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve been trained just as rigorously as you.”

Cam suppressed a satisfied smile. He’d gotten her full attention, all right. Nothing like threatening to protect someone who believed they didn’t need protection. He’d been worried he wouldn’t be able to get past her defenses. The promise of sticking to her like a second skin did the trick.

He groaned inwardly. Why the hell did he have to use the word skin? Now that’s all he could think of. Hers. Pale and smooth.

Focus on the mission.

Her voice lacked its earlier conviction. Maybe he was making progress with her. He tried not to notice the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, or the paleness of her skin that had probably burned when she was stationed in the Middle East.

He shifted his weight to his back foot. “I’m sure under normal circumstances you could take on someone twice your size. But this isn’t normal. Brett has a lot to lose. That makes him desperate. And desperate people are dangerous. Besides, he’s thrown in his lot with terrorists. That’s treacherous on a whole new level.

“I’m authorized to supply you with anything you need to help us catch him. Time is of the essence.”

Her gaze sharpened, her eyes a beautiful shade of green. He’d noticed them before, among other parts, but now they commanded his attention. Darker than a Heineken bottle. Mysterious, they threatened to draw him into their brilliant depths. He shook off the fanciful comparison in time to hear her grumble, “Ugh. I wish I’d never gotten involved with him.”

Cam shared that sentiment to a degree. On the one hand, he was beholden to Brett for his life. They’d seen a lot, been through a lot, together. He’d trusted his friend with his…well…his life. And Brett had turned traitor.

Cam hadn’t thought that would ever happen to Brett. Not in a million years. He guessed that’s partly how his ex-friend had gotten the drop on him. He’d never figured Brett for a turncoat. Yet here he was, chasing down his ex-buddy and needing the help of that man’s ex-girlfriend. What a tangled web.

“You make a good point, however,” she continued. “If you’re sure he’s going to waste his freedom coming back here, two heads are better than one. I certainly don’t need him bringing his terrorist buddies around.”

He blinked, narrowed his eyes. Her sudden capitulation was unexpected. But he’d run with it, no questions asked.

When her gaze lowered to his chin, he realized he’d been stroking his scar. He dropped his hand as if it had been scalded. His face heated like it was sunburned. The scar was his scarlet letter, a visible reminder of his failure. He could sense her curiosity.

Before she could ask about it, he said, “I don’t think he’s solely coming after you to get even. You’re right about that. But what if he left something behind with you? Something he needs for his new associates. Could that be a possibility?”

Her forehead wrinkled, those perfectly arched brows beetling. “Like what? I think your investigators were pretty thorough, and I just took what was mine. I don’t have any of his computers, phone, or anything electronic. I got the hell out of there without looking back.”

She returned to the freezer, pulling out two meal prep containers like the kind he used when he was bulking up. He watched her pop one frozen meal in the microwave, close the door, and punch the buttons to turn it on. She had slim hands, delicate fingers, yet he knew from research that she could take down a man twice her size. She might be a little rusty, but he had no doubts when she said she could protect herself.

She exuded confidence in every movement. It was in the way she squared her shoulders, in the tilt of her head. She would face Brett head-on if she could, just like at the court-martial. She’d never looked down, never squirmed, while she’d testified. He’d admired her then and wished he had known her as a soldier. Brett had bragged about her ability to read people. Shouldn’t that have been a warning to him?

The beep of the microwave startled Cam, and he stepped back. She set the hot meal on the counter and put the other in before turning and leaning against the granite counter, resting the palms of her hands on it. The position emphasized her breasts beneath the cotton T-shirt she wore. He maintained her eye contact, but it was a battle.

She motioned him to a barstool before emptying the contents of the container on to a dinner plate and setting it in front of him. After handing him some utensils and a napkin, she did the same with hers, placing her plate beside him. She removed two wineglasses from the glass-front cabinet and returned to his side, after retrieving an open bottle of white wine. She held it up for his yea or nay. He nodded, though he wasn’t much of a wine drinker. Give him a beer any day.

He looked down at his plate. What rest before him wasn’t any store-bought frozen meal filled with sodium and additives. His stomach rumbled as he breathed in the aroma of roasted chicken, fingerling potatoes, and snap green beans.

“You made this?” he asked, watching her unfold her paper napkin with excruciating care and place it on her lap. He took that as the go-ahead and dug in.

“Yes. I like to cook meals ahead. With deliveries, last-minute orders, or bills to pay, I often don’t have time to cook during the week.”

He nodded, taking another bite. Shit, he’d been on the go since Brett escaped. He hadn’t had anything home cooked in forever, and nothing like this. He ate at the DFAC, aka Chow Hall, most times, or fast food if he was off post.

After a prolonged silence, he realized she wasn’t eating. He looked up to find her sitting back on her stool, wineglass in hand, watching him with a smirk on her face.

“You eat like active duty.”

In other words, a pig, he translated. With difficulty, he put down his fork and attempted some polite chit-chat.

“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in a while, Ms. Jenkins,” he admitted, belatedly wiping his mouth with his unfolded napkin.

“Obviously. And it’s Audrey. They keep you busy in CID then?”

Okay, so she wanted conversation as payment for the meal. He could do that. Possibly. Throwing one more look of longing at his almost devoured dinner, he straightened and nodded. “Always busy, always one more detail. Going over your records, you should have transferred into it.”

It was as if she slammed a door in his face. She grabbed her fork and knife and attacked her dinner, sawing at the chicken breast as if it was his face looking up at her. What the hell was she angry about? She had an exemplary record, and he’d complimented her. The suspicion that she was hiding something grew stronger. He opened his mouth to clarify, but she beat him.

“Who was the group Brett sold the troop info to?”

Chit-chat was over, and she wanted answers. Or maybe she just wanted to kick his ass out faster after his suggestion. If he was a betting man, he’d figure the latter. She hadn’t realized yet that he’d meant what he said: he wasn’t going anywhere. Brett was still out there.

Picking up his wineglass, Cam gulped its contents, barely registering the flavorful aftertaste. Replacing the empty goblet on the granite counter, he leaned against the seat back and swiveled to face her. Her expression was expectant. The fish was on the hook.

“We’re not sure,” he replied.

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, what kind of investigator are you? These groups always leave a calling card, a tell, if you will, that identifies them. I’ve been gone too long for you not to have picked the brains of my successors.”

She was right. Of course he had. But he’d been telling the truth when he said the counter-terrorism unit hadn’t replaced her. No one there was ready to commit to one perpetrator. They were still “looking into all known terror groups.” He needed answers now. She’d be the one to shed some light. He was sure of it.

He shook his head. “Your old unit won’t pinpoint a particular group. With the global climate as it is, they don’t want to make hasty accusations. Accusing the wrong group could set off a deadly chain reaction.”

“I’m sure you investigated the group Brett gave information to the last time. Was it them?”

He shook his head. “They aren’t taking credit for the attack. But then, nobody is.”

“And that’s why you think he’s hidden something with me, because you can’t find out who’s responsible. But I don’t have anything of his.” She rose and moved to the sink before completely finishing eating.

“Then I really need your help to figure out his next move.” He got up and walked toward her with his wineglass, invading her personal space and trying like hell to get through to her that she was important to recapturing Brett. The most important link. She gazed up into his face, chest rising and falling rapidly, whether from anger or something else, he wasn’t sure.

She turned back to the sink and resumed rinsing out their dishes. “What else do you know?”

It was his turn to lean his back against the counter. He studied her profile and noticed the tendrils of dark hair falling from her messy ponytail. He wanted to reach out and tuck them behind her ear, knowing they would be soft to the touch. It had been a while since he’d been in feminine company. The longer he remained with Audrey Jenkins, the more that fact was hammered home. So he concentrated on answering her instead.

“Brett said something after he nearly took my head off my shoulders. I’ve been trying to figure it out. My CWO suggested you might be able to help.”

She’d finished cleaning, had dropped their containers in the dishwasher, and now wiped the granite counter. Long seconds ticked by. Cam remained motionless by the sink. Finally, she paused and faced him, sighing hard enough to blow those wisps of hair off her face.

“Tell me more.”