Hard Landing Page 17

  Phone in hand, Rebecca battled the impulse to reach out once more to Bronco. She had called him the morning she'd awakened to find him gone. She had called two more times after that and left heartfelt messages. What made her think another call would make any difference? Clearly, he had no wish to communicate. But how could that be?

  Closing her eyes, she puzzled it out. If only she could be angry with him. He'd taken advantage of her vulnerability—used her to satisfy himself and then left her without so much as a thank you, the way he treated all those other women who meant nothing to him!

  Just as she succeeded in whipping herself into a rage, her conscience spoke up in his defense. She was the one who'd begged him to stay. He'd given her multiple chances to rein in their runaway passion. And he had told her point blank that he couldn't protect her. What he had meant, evidently, was that he wasn't the man for her. He was a love-'em and leave-'em kind of guy. She'd known that all along, hadn't she, so how could she possibly blame him now?

  I can't, she decided, powering her phone off and sliding it back into her pocket.

  Thank God for her job, which kept her too busy to dwell on her loneliness and confusion, at least while she was at work. And now she had an appointment the following afternoon to look forward to. That sure beat returning to her quiet and empty apartment, where the memories of her night with Bronco lingered like a haunting perfume.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Max threw open his office window to bellow across the Spec Ops parking lot.

  "Adams, where the hell are you going? We have shooting quals at sixteen hundred hours today."

  The handsome chief drew up short, tension in his spine as he slowly turned around. "Yes, sir," he called back, shading his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun. "Master Chief needs me to pick up some paperwork from supply before they close. Their fax machine's not working."

  The depot that stored most of their equipment was located at Oceana NAS, ten minutes up the road from Dam Neck.

  "He should've run that by me first," Max grumbled. Adams would miss the mandated testing, which took place every Thursday. Not that there was any need for him to prove himself when he was already the sharpest shooter in the task unit, possibly in all of Team 12, with the exception of Max himself.

  "Go ahead," he barked, slamming the window shut and watching the chief climb nimbly into his truck.

  Just wait, Max thought, anticipating the moment that he would slip enough OxyContin into the chief's veins to stop his heart. The fact that Adams hadn't ventured anywhere near Rebecca since the night he'd parked his Bronco in front of her apartment didn't change Max's mind about killing him. The way the chief looked at him these days made him suspect he knew more than he should. If Rebecca had told him about Max's offshore account and they'd decided together to dig into the memory on Max's laptop, then the situation was more severe than he'd guessed.

  Luckily, he wouldn't have to wait long before the laptop ceased to be an issue. Members of a local street gang had agreed to pillage Rebecca's apartment and retrieve the laptop in exchange for four thousand dollars. Their fee amounted to highway robbery, but getting that laptop back meant all the difference to Max's future, so he'd agreed to two thousand up front and two thousand later.

  Hopefully, the Scarpas never caught wind of his dealings. If they knew how careless he'd been in leaving information out where his wife could get a look at it, they'd probably take him out themselves before he proved a liability. As it was, they had to be less than happy with him for arousing the suspicions of the FBI special agent.

  Out in the parking lot, Adams' old truck pulled away, scattering the seagulls taking refuge in the parking lot. Max turned back to his desk, where his cell phone gave a muted chime, alerting him to the chief's movements. The transponder he had affixed to the old Bronco had sent him a signal, providing the man's exact location on a map. In a matter of minutes, he would know if Adams was lying to him about his destination or not.

  Riveted to his phone, Max counted his heartbeats as he watched the tiny dot progress toward the gate and up Dam Neck Road. If he continued straight past General Booth, then he had probably made plans to rendezvous with Rebecca, either at the hospital park where they'd met before or—worse yet—at her new place, where she might even hand off Max's laptop.

  For five full minutes Max's temples throbbed as he waited for an answer. But then the dot turned right onto General Booth and then left at Oceana, suggesting that Adams was bound for the supply depot, exactly like he'd said.

  Max still didn't trust him. Chances were the chief had already impressed Rebecca in the bedroom, giving her something with which to compare her husband's performance. He could think of no better reason to get rid of the man. But, even in concentrated form, OxyContin dissolved in water wasn't enough to stop a man's heart. Alcohol provided the other half of the equation. Luckily, Adams was known to go out drinking every Friday night with his friends. Catching him without around them would be the hardest part.

  Once Rebecca's lover lay dead from an overdose, her eyes would be opened to his true character. She would realize that her influential and well-respected husband was the better choice, and she would come back to him.

  If that didn't do the trick, then the street gang breaking into her apartment and giving her the scare of her life would make her long for the security of their well-protected home.

  * * *

  "Does this Tony look exactly like your sketch?" Special Investigator Maya Schultz's celery-green eyes conveyed skepticism as she regarded Rebecca from the other side of her large desk. Beyond the walls of the woman's third-floor office, the NCIS building thrummed with activity.

  Ms. Schultz's partner, an older gentleman introduced as Ben Metier, occupied the chair adjacent to Rebecca's. Given his benign expression and the manner in which he inclined his robust frame close to her, Rebecca guessed that he had elected to play "good cop" while Ms. Schultz asked the tough questions. To her dismay, the female inspector didn't seem to fully believe that a man calling himself Tony had abducted her in order to procure Max's phone number.

  "Yes, it's a close resemblance." She wished her tone didn't sound so prickly, but she resented the implication that she would make up such a story. "I used to earn money drawing portraits at the waterfront."

  Ms. Schultz laid the picture back down and consulted her notes. "Tell me more about the foreign account you saw in your husband's name."

  Rebecca described what she had seen—an account held by a company called Emile Victor DuPonte with a balance of fifty thousand dollars in it.

  The roar of a departing fighter jet delayed the investigator's next question. "Has he held any other jobs outside of the Navy while you've known him?"

  "Only one. A security firm paid him to be a consultant, once. But that was three years ago, and they paid him hardly anything."

  "I see." The woman put her pen down and laid her interlaced hands on the surface of her desk. "Well, the account you mentioned has been closed," she announced, articulating her words carefully. "If he has a new account, we don't know where it is, how much is in it, or where any money in it could have come from. And it's beyond our powers to find out."

  Rebecca stared at her. "You think I'm making this up." She sat up straighter. "Do you think I'd pursue this matter if I weren't absolutely convinced that Max is doing something illegal?"

  "We can see that he paid off his home equity line of credit," Ms. Schultz allowed, "with cash," she added, her eyebrows flexing, "which makes the source of the money untraceable but isn't, in itself, illegal. Nor does it constitute proof that he made any money by illegal means." She sent Rebecca a helpless shrug.

  "Why would he pay cash unless he's covering his tracks?" Rebecca challenged.

  "Listen." The investigator met her gaze with an intent expression. "In order for your husband to be charged with illegally obtaining funds in a foreign account, we would have to initiate an Article 32 hearing. Once your husband was
apprised of the hearing, he would also learn that you were planning to testify against him for actions that occurred when you lived together. His best tactic would be to discredit your testimony. It is therefore critical that you be a credible witness."

  "Of course," Rebecca agreed. Why would the investigator think her anything but a credible witness?

  "I have to ask you a very personal question, Mrs. McDougal," the woman warned her.

  Rebecca braced herself. "Go ahead."

  "Are you and Chief Adams having an affair?"

  Rebecca's blood flashed cold then hot. It took her a moment to find her tongue. "I wouldn't call it an affair, exactly," she muttered. Heat won out, rising up the column of her neck like mercury in an old thermometer. "We haven't spoken in six days."

  The older woman sat back, her fingers interlaced. "But you're lovers?"

  Ben Metier sent her an encouraging nod, as if to say that it was safe to answer.

  Rebecca drew a tight breath. "Chief Adams has been a friend of mine for years. I never cheated on my husband while I lived with him, if that's what you're asking me."

  Silence filled the spacious office. Behind her lenses, the investigator's eyes softened slightly. "You're not lovers, then," she paraphrased.

  A fresh wave of heat flooded Rebecca's cheeks. "Not currently," she said between clenched teeth.

  Ms. Schultz's finely drawn lips quirked. "I'm glad to hear it," she said, in a firm but not unfriendly voice. "If you were having an affair with Chief Adams, it might look like you were trying to discredit your husband in order to justify your infidelity—not because he was doing anything illegal."

  In other words, she and Bronco needed to keep rumors about their relationship from reaching the ears of the military judge. Good thing Bronco had been keeping his distance since their one night together. Perhaps that was the reason? she wondered hopefully.

  "I understand," she murmured, thoroughly humiliated.

  Mrs. Shultz studied her notes a moment then looked up at her again and nodded. "Well, I think that's all I need for now. Thank you for coming in on such short notice."

  "Wait." Rebecca gripped the arms of her chair and sat forward. "You are going to initiate an Article 32, aren't you?" She suffered the suspicion that, for lack of evidence, NCIS might just wash their hands of the matter.

  Ben Metier laid a reassuring hand over hers. "Under normal circumstances, it would have taken place already," he explained. "But then Commander McDougal would be well aware that he was being investigated and, due to the nature of these allegations, we think it best that he remain unapprised while we review the evidence."

  They don't believe me. Her hopes for a future resolution sank, along with her heart.

  As if sensing her dismay, Metier added, "I'm sure you're not aware of this, but the military judge doesn't make a final decision whether to dismiss the case or refer it to General Court-Martial. He writes up a recommendation and gives it to your husband's senior commanding officer—Admiral Johansen, leaving the disposition of the case up to him."

  Understanding dawned, making Rebecca suddenly queasy. "Max is good friends with the admiral," she whispered. "They play golf together every other week."

  Metier sent her a tight smile. "Indeed." He squeezed her hand and let go. "All the more reason to strengthen our case before the hearing."

  Rebecca put a hand to her forehead. How long would that take—weeks? Months? Could she survive all that time without Bronco speaking to her?

  Maya Schultz stood up, reached across her desk and offered her a brief but firm handshake. "We'll be in touch," she promised, letting her partner usher Rebecca to the door.

  Moving down the hall on leaden feet, Rebecca considered the matter from the investigators' standpoint. Max was more than just a Navy SEAL commander. He was a Bronze Star recipient with an impeachable service record, who counted untold members of the upper brass—men like Admiral Johansen—as his friends. With his off shore account gone, it was impossible to prove that she had ever seen it in the first place. Without proof of that account, Maya Schulz had no way of showing to a military judge that Max had been paid by the mob—let alone that he had killed for them. From the outside looking in, the allegations seemed ridiculous.

  The nonslip tread on her nurse's shoes squeaked noisily as she made her way to the elevator, her eyes downcast. A figure springing out of the central staircase startled her into looking up. The unexpected sight of Bronco striding toward her in his BDUs sent her heart winging toward the stratosphere, only to falter like a bird with a broken wing.

  He had already recognized her, his stride slowing. The mix of longing and regret, so apparent in his face, kept her heart from hitting the earth and breaking into pieces. With a firming of his mouth, he continued doggedly in her direction. She saw right away that the cut on his face was healing nicely, the stitches gone. As soon as they were close enough, he grabbed her with both hands and hauled her into a crushing embrace.

  "Becca," he exclaimed on a tortured whisper.

  The hurt she had carried around for days evaporated in the face of his warmth. She let it go, encircling his lean waist, dropping her head onto his shoulder, and muffling a whimper of relief against the fabric of his jacket.

  Home again, she thought—at least for as long as he allowed it.

  * * *

  Brant buried his nose in Rebecca's shiny hair. His voice had gotten stuck somewhere between his fast-beating heart and his dry mouth. He breathed in her peppermint scent until his head spun. In spite of all reason, he couldn't bring himself to loosen his grip. He kept her locked against him, grateful that she was hugging him back and not kicking him in the groin.

  "I've missed you so much," he heard himself confess, ignoring the voice that raged, No, no, no! You are not supposed to say that.

  But the pleasure that lit up her face as she tipped back her head and looked him in the eye kept him from regretting his words.

  "I've missed you, too," she said. Tears of happiness and hurt commingled, sparkling on her lower lashes.

  He sought some glib excuse for ignoring her since their blissful night together. Nothing came to mind. "I'm so sorry," he ground out.

  She blinked to keep her tears from falling. "You don't have to apologize."

  "The hell I don't." Her acceptance made him inexplicably furious. "The hell I don't," he repeated, hating himself more with every passing second. "You deserve so much better than what I can give you," he managed, hoping she could read between the lines and glean what he really meant—that he wasn't even boyfriend material, let alone the steady kind of man she deserved.

  "Why do you say that?" she asked earnestly.

  "Because it's true."

  He longed to explain that he'd spent his entire adult life trying to do the right thing by keeping his distance, only with her it didn't feel like the right thing. But giving her any reason to hope for a future for them would be heartless because from everything he'd learned about himself he was, in fact, the spitting image of his father.

  But all of that was way too complicated to explain, and kissing her was so much easier.

  Crushing his mouth to hers, he groaned out loud at the bliss that the simple connection of their lips engendered. Her kiss was like the first day of spring after an endless Montana winter, warming and thawing him.

  Pulling her soft curves closer, he expected her to resist him, but she didn't. She offered herself up like a flower opening its petals to the sun. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted a petite blonde exiting an office door at the end of the hallway. She took one look at them, turned on her heels, and disappeared back into her office.

  Brant didn't care. He drowned in Rebecca's kiss while telling himself, I'll stop soon.

  The sweet glide of her tongue sparked the memory of their lovemaking. Immediately and forcefully, the blood rushed from his head through his heart to his groin. If they'd been standing by a closet or a private room, he wouldn't have the willpower not to pull her into it and
lose himself in her sweetness.

  Luckily, she came to her senses before he lost complete control. Breaking off the kiss, she pulled back to regard him. Bright bands of color streaked across her cheeks. Her breasts rose and fell as if she'd run a race, and a light of discovery shone in her wide, chestnut eyes.

  "I love you," she declared.

  The world went utterly quiet. There were only her words and nothing else, floating into his ears and around his head like doves looking for somewhere to roost.

  "No matter what you do or don't do," she continued in a husky but earnest voice, "nothing is going to change that fact. I expect nothing in return." She shook her head. "I just love you. It's that simple, Bronco."

  "Okay." His paralyzed brain seemed incapable of firing.

  Is that all you have to say to her, shit bird?

  Not a single, coherent response leaped to his tongue. It took the roar of a fighter jet taking off in the field out back to recall him to where he was and what he was doing.

  Rebecca sent him a slow, poignant smile, went on tiptoe, and pressed a lingering kiss to the cut healing on his cheek. "I'll see you soon," she promised.

  Slipping out of his grasp, she walked away, her shoulders back, her head held high. She didn't even sneak a backward glance as she stepped into the elevator, disappearing from his view as the doors closed behind her.

  He listened to the pulleys hum as the elevator delivered her to the lower level. And still, he didn't move, could barely remember how to breathe.

  I just love you. It's that simple, Bronco.

  One summer, when he was nine, he had climbed to the top of Tweedy Mountain all by himself. The sun was shining, and a warm breeze buffeted his face. He'd felt something cold touch his cheek. Looking up, he'd realized it was snowing, in July! Of course, he'd seen it snow in the higher altitudes plenty of times after that, but the amazement he had felt then was the closest thing that came to what he was feeling right now.