Hot Target (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 4) Read online

  "In California," Juliet marveled. "That's close to where Tristan is now!" Talk about serendipity.

  "Perfect," Hilary remarked. "He should go meet this man."

  "He should," Juliet agreed, only Tristan would then have no reason to head back east right away. "Let's make sure this is the right guy, first. See if he's the right age."

  As Hilary went back into search mode, Juliet prowled their limited office space, cursing the fact that Tristan's biological father apparently lived in California, of all places. Tristan might end up spending the rest of his two-week leave on the West Coast.

  "Ho, boy," Hilary exclaimed, drawing Juliet back to her chair. "He's the one, all right. Just look."

  Through wide eyes, Juliet studied the distinguished man in the photo. If Tristan were older and swarthier, he would look exactly like the image on the screen, from the handsome brow ridge to the broad shoulders. However, where Tristan was blond-haired and blue eyed, Gary was a brunet with hazel eyes.

  Juliet's heart thumped. "We found him." She didn't know if she was elated or disappointed. Pulling out her cell phone she accessed Tristan's number.

  Her call went straight to voicemail. With a frown of annoyance, she left a terse message. "Hey, it's Juliet. I've found your father. Call me."

  "Oh, that was seductive," Hilary mocked, as Juliet put her phone away.

  Juliet glared at her assistant. "Show me that emblem on the mural in San Francisco," she requested. "After that, I want to know everything you can find about Hans Coenen."

  * * *

  Six hours later, Juliet stepped aboard a Boeing 747 bound for San Francisco, only seconds before the attendant prepared to seal the cabin door. Panting as a result of her sprint from security to the last gate in the terminal, she searched for her seat, one of the few that remained empty. Considering the cost of her last-minute fare on the red-eye, she had to ask herself if she was crazy for making the impulsive decision to fly west.

  Her instincts as a P.I. assured her she was not. The man whose features matched those of her parents' killer lived in San Francisco. A mural on a wall in that city featured Goebel's emblem. The only way to discover if the common setting of her two leads was pure coincidence was to fly out and ask some pointed questions.

  Hans Coenen and Dieter Goebel couldn't be the same person. At sixty-six, Coenen was twenty years younger than Goebel, who would be in his mid-eighties—assuming he was still alive. The CIA would have given Goebel a new identity, though maybe not a new face since no one alive today seemed to know what he looked like in the first place.

  And Coenen, if he'd killed her parents, wasn't likely to admit it over the phone. Unless and until she quizzed him in person and saw his reaction, Juliet would never know for certain.

  Her call to The People's Eyes Mural Center had sealed her decision. The woman who'd answered the phone informed Juliet that Renata Blumenthal was taking time off following a trip abroad. She would be back at the mural center for a planned community event the next day, to which Juliet had received a cordial invitation.

  She'd made up her mind then and there to jump on a plane flying nonstop to San Francisco and arriving just past midnight.

  "This has nothing to do with Tristan," she'd said in response to Hilary's arch expression.

  Of course, it totally did. Dropping into a middle seat between two heavy-set strangers, Juliet considered how distraught Tristan had been over the unexpected death of his mother. He might be trying to distract himself with zip-lining and whale watching, but the truth was he must be heartbroken. If only Hilary had confirmed Casey Edward's identity a month ago, not just last week, Tristan might have gotten to his mother before she took her life.

  With a sigh of regret, Juliet stowed her purse under the seat in front of her. She had barely fastened her seatbelt when the plane gave a lurch and backed from the jetway. Grabbing the arms of her seat, she remembered—too late—the anti-anxiety medication she was supposed to take before flying.

  Oh, crap. In desperation, Juliet lunged for her purse and grubbed through it, hoping to find a stray pill. No such luck. The plane swung around and lumbered toward the runway.

  "Ma'am, you need to stow that under your seat."

  Yeah, yeah. Following the attendant's orders, Juliet sat back with her lap empty and concentrated on breathing.

  Anxiety ambushed her. If only Tristan had assured her he'd be waiting at the other end she'd feel better. Yet the last time she'd checked her phone, there had been no message from him. She would arrive in San Francisco with no one to greet her.

  Not that she had a right to expect him to drop everything in order to pick her up at the airport. That would be presumptuous, considering she'd practically kicked him out of her life less than thirty-six hours earlier. Still, recalling what a great team they'd made down in Mexico, she had to admit she didn't relish confronting Hans Coenen without Tristan at her side.

  As she gripped the armrests and breathed deeply, she realized that she truly did desire his help, especially when she recalled his gift for winning the trust of strangers. Down in Mexico, that gift had been hugely handy. It would be handy to her now. Not to mention, Tristan also had a way of looking at the bright side whenever situations took a turn for the worse. She had to admit, she liked that about him.

  What she didn't like was not having heard from him since his message stating he was going whale watching. What if the boat he'd boarded had capsized and he was presently lost at sea? That would explain why he hadn't called or even texted.

  The plane turned sharply in order to line with the runway. Anxiety became panic, spurring Juliet's heart rate into a trot. The world without Tristan would be like Earth without the sun. OK, maybe that was taking it a bit too far. But she sure wished he'd texted her to say he knew she was coming.

  See, this was why she didn't want to get involved with anyone. It would kill her to lose someone else after she let them get close, after they'd taken up residence in her heart.

  The jet engines whined in preparation for takeoff. The plane surged forward, accelerating rapidly. As gravity pinned Juliet to her seat, the walls of the pressurized cabin seemed to shrink inward. Oh, God, came the silent cry inside her head.

  It was going to be a very, very long flight to California.

  * * *

  Tristan studied the passengers descending the escalators on their way to baggage claim and ground transportation. He checked his watch—zero one hundred hours. Just knowing Juliet could appear at any moment kept his heart revving like the engine of a racecar at the starting line.

  As with the other day at the restaurant, the element of surprise was in his favor—though not because he'd ignored her texts. Rather, his whale-watching expedition had taken him well out of range of any cell towers. By the time he'd received word that Juliet was on her way to California, she was likely flying over Colorado. Deciding he would pick her up at the airport, he'd hopped straight into his car and driven north. The urge to leave her a reassuring text had vied with the desire to witness her relief first hand. Call him callous, but seeing her face light up when she saw him would ease his lingering hurt over her cool reception of him the last time he'd surprised her.

  A blond head bobbed into view, and his heart lurched, only to subside when he realized it wasn't Juliet. Suddenly, there she was, sidestepping an older gentleman to move briskly down the moving escalator, carrying nothing but her oversized purse. Blood pumped through Tristan's veins, heading generally south as he feasted his gaze on her.

  It had been a mere thirty-six hours since he'd walked out of her office, so why did it feel like three weeks? She wore a pair of figure-hugging jeans, her hair in a ponytail, little or no make-up, and every man she passed took a second look.

  Her indifferent expression suggested she hadn't noticed. Tristan wagered he was the only person in that terminal who could tell Juliet was actually tired, tense, and a teensy bit out of her element—like a woman wanting to be rescued.

  With that private p
ep talk, he pushed off the wall and sauntered toward the point where their paths would intersect. She walked right past him, which proved how tired she really was. Tristan quickened his pace to overtake her. Reaching for her arm, he caught a sharp elbow in the ribs as she rounded on him.

  "Ow," he exclaimed, flinching from her unexpected attack.

  Her eyes widened as she recognized him. "Tristan, you're here!"

  In the next instant, she was hugging him. Joy flooded his arteries.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," she murmured sincerely. Just as suddenly, she released him, stepped back, and socked him in the shoulder.

  "Ow," he said again.

  "Why didn't you answer my texts?" she demanded.

  "I was out on the boat. Didn't get them until after you were already airborne."

  "I thought your boat went down or something," she added, revealing a deep-down fear that touched him. "I had no idea you would be here waiting for me."

  "Oh, come on, honey," he chided. "You know I'm big on the buddy system. I'd never let you wander into a strange city by yourself." To prove it, he put his arm around her.

  She stiffened predictably, even as her weary body betrayed her by leaning into him. "Well, you're here now," she said in a prim voice. "Let's go get my luggage."

  Of course she had checked her suitcase. How else would she have brought her firearm with her?

  Minutes later, they hustled toward the short-term parking garage with her luggage in tow. Satisfaction fizzed in Tristan's belly, soothing the doubts that had plagued him since he'd left Virginia. Juliet had flown out west to be with him.

  "So, we found your biological father," she stated, repeating what she'd already told him in her phone message.

  Wariness rose in him. He didn't want to endure another disappointment. "What do you know about him?"

  "You're not going to believe this. He's a colonel in the Marines, and he lives here in California. In Monterey, as a matter of fact." She had to shout to be heard over the traffic on the arrivals deck.

  Surprise slowed Tristan's step.

  "You want to meet him while I'm here?" she offered.

  The prospect of meeting his father didn't sound so bad with Juliet beside him.

  "First, we need to look at Goebel's emblem and have a chat with Hans Coenen," Juliet qualified.

  "Of course." It would be just like it was in Mexico, with him and Juliet working side-by-side. "I'm parked over here." Tristan pointed toward the Camaro and popped the trunk using the key in his pocket.

  "This is your ride?" Her approving tone raised his confidence another notch. By the time they left California and headed home, she would accept that they belonged together.

  * * *

  Showering with French milled soap in a hotel not far from the airport, Juliet marveled that she'd started her day clear across the country. Or maybe that was yesterday given that it was right around midnight, Pacific Time. The dull ache in her temples and the tightness in her lower back testified to how long she'd been awake. Her senses, however, remained alert and heightened as she anticipated the inevitable. She was sharing a hotel room with Tristan. Look what had happened the last time they'd shared a hotel room.

  Aware of the passage of time, Juliet cut off the water, snatched up a towel, and briskly dried off. Apparently, Tristan hadn't picked up on her heavy hinting that he should join her in the shower.

  Not a problem. She would rather have sex on a bed than against the cold tile anyway.

  Enveloped in one of the plush robes left for guests, she exited the bathroom with her expectations brimming. The lights in the room still burned. Tristan lay face down across the king-sized bed, wearing only his boxer briefs. His indolent sprawl pulled her up short. She sidled around the bed to look at him. His eyes were closed and the steady rise and fall of his back suggested he was sleeping.

  Wow. Talk about a disappointment.

  Hoping he might yet stir, Juliet admired his physical appearance. From his broad, sculpted shoulders to the arch of his feet, his body would have made Adonis jealous. The screaming eagle tattooed across his upper back only heightened the visual appeal. Golden curls, now a tad too long for military duty, brushed the nape of his neck. It was his face, though, that she liked the most, his mobile lips, the way his eyes shone.

  He'd managed to kiss her once at Emma's wedding. Before that, the last time they'd kissed was when she'd boarded a Navy helicopter with the rescued hostages and he'd run up at the last minute, planting one on her in front of God and everybody. The time had come for her to initiate.

  Twisting her damp hair into a knot, Juliet put a knee on the bed and lowered her face toward his. Warmth radiated from his nearly naked form. With her heart pattering, she lightly pressed her lips to his sleep-softened mouth.

  His eyes sprang open.

  One second she was crouching next to him, the next she lay flat on her back with Tristan's weight crushing her into the mattress, arms pinned, the breath squeezed out of her.

  "Oh." He blinked a wild, glazed look from his eyes. "It's you."

  Juliet sucked in a grateful breath as he eased his weight off her.

  "Sorry 'bout that, honey," he drawled, only to straddle her hips as he sat up, keeping her immobile. A slow smile usurped his contrite expression. He gazed down at her, taking note of the way her robe gaped, exposing half of one breast. "Did I hurt you?"

  "No." As she gazed up at him, memories of that night in the hotel room in Playa del Carmen flashed through her, spurring her heart into a gallop. The likelihood that he would soon transport her in a similar way made her quake with lust. He could probably hear her heart pounding.

  "You were tryin' to kiss me," he accused. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at her lips.

  "I was checking to see if you were breathing."

  "Uh-huh." Parting the gap in her robe, acting surprised to see one erect, pink nipple pointed up at him, Tristan looked back into her eyes. "If you want something, honey, you're going to have to say it," he informed her. "Wouldn't want you accusing me of forcing you."

  Infuriation heated Juliet's blood another degree. Tristan was going to make her grovel just to prove a point. Pride and desire locked horns.

  Tristan circled the nipple of her exposed breast with his thumb, and her resentment evaporated.

  "I need you," she admitted, in a quick rush of syllables.

  He cocked his head. He put his weight on one arm and bent over her. "How much?" he whispered, pinching her nipple lightly and sending a spark straight to the juncture of her thighs.

  "Stop teasing." She arched demandingly toward the heat of his hand while craving the feel of his mouth on hers.

  "And do what instead?" He brought his lips to within an inch of hers.

  Juliet closed her eyes. Was he really going to make her say it? With her face heating, she whispered what she wanted.

  She scarcely got the words out before his mouth crushed hers. She welcomed his deep plunder with gusto.

  With an efficient yank, he untied the belt on her robe. Tearing his lips from hers, he drew them in a path burning down her neck and over a collarbone to devour her breasts.

  For the next tortuous minutes, he palmed, licked, and nibbled them.

  Juliet reached for his manhood where it peeked out of the slit in his boxer briefs. She encircled it, reveling in the combination of velvet and steel. With a groan, Tristan pulled free of her hold. Drawing the heat of his mouth over her hipbones, he kissed his way toward her inner thighs.

  The memory of her bath the other night set her right on the brink of orgasm. Parting her thighs to him, she slid her hands into his hair, directing him without shame to where she needed him most.

  He chuckled at her brazenness. At last, his mouth descended with searing heat onto her core. With skill Juliet didn't care to ponder, Tristan impelled her instantly toward climax. Her cry of repletion filled the hotel room.

  Before her orgasm had fully subsided, Tristan lunged upward, found her o
pening and filled her with one stroke. His fierce possession brought her to wantonness once again. His sensual tempo vaulted her back into a state of rapture and kept her there for an immeasurable span of time. Relishing every moment, Juliet climbed the ladder of ecstasy and tumbled off a second time.

  Tristan, who'd apparently been holding himself back, immediately followed suit. Burying his face in her hair, he shuddered over her and groaned. Then, heaving a huge sigh of satisfaction, he rolled onto his side pulling Juliet with him.

  Finding her head resting on his shoulder, she regarded the upward tilt of his mouth with mixed feelings. He needn't look so pleased with himself. So she'd broken down and given him what they both wanted. That didn't mean they were in any way committed. That didn't mean she'd agreed to be his girlfriend.

  It was just sex—such amazing and fulfilling sex that she already looked forward to the next time. She wasn't letting Tristan get a grip on her heart. She hadn't flown all the way to California because she loved him. She'd come to find her parents' killer.

  Or was she fooling herself?

  Juliet gulped with sudden uncertainty. Of course not. They were working partners—with benefits—same as they'd been down in Mexico. She had walked away without a care six months ago, scarcely thinking of him afterward–except at night when he'd appeared in her dreams to ravish her. When this present investigation ended, she would walk away again. No worries—right?

  She closed her eyes, snuggled into Tristan's embrace, and released the question with a quiver of uncertainty.

  Chapter 9

  "Something disturbs me about this artwork."

  Tristan's comment compelled Juliet to study the mural-covered wall more closely as they walked alongside it.

  "Of course they're disturbing," she said, hugging herself against the chill. A blanket of mist hung over the city, so thick that the alley in which they stood seemed to lead into a mystical alternate universe. "That's the point. They're illustrations of protest."

  As it was Sunday, they had slept late before driving into the city for the one tour offered that day, starting at noon. Striking out from the mural center with their guide, they had covered eight city blocks as their guide regaled them with an explanation of the Chicano movement and pointed out ways in which the more prominent murals depicted struggles of a marginalized community.