She didn’t belong in the violent world she’d chosen. Jesse wasn’t at all sure that he approved.
He caught his reflection in the side mirror of the BMW. He didn’t appear hunted or out of control. It was a steamy, hazy Monday afternoon in the Washington area, and he looked good in his expensive, casual clothes. Nothing of the deranged mountain man remained.
Within the hour, he unlocked the door to the expensive condominium he’d leased in the same complex where Cal Benton had bought his post-divorce home. Cal ’s condo was one floor below. But of course, he had no idea who his upstairs neighbor was.
Using his cell phone, Jesse dialed Bernadette Peacham’s number in New Hampshire. He knew it by heart, because he was a planner. He doubted she had caller ID, but it wouldn’t have mattered – his was a private number.
“Hello.”
Mackenzie. His throat tightened. He pictured her, her big blue eyes staring out at the beautiful lake. Was she healed enough to wear her gun? It was wrong, her and guns. So wrong.
He heard her inhale.
“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong number.”
He hung up and looked out at the Potomac River, calm and still in the hot afternoon sunlight. He was no longer a knife-wielding lowlife. He was a wealthy Washington consultant home from an important meeting.
His transformation was complete.
Fifteen
Mackenzie pulled her backpack out of the small plane’s overhead compartment and slung it over her right shoulder. The tight quarters and the rough skies had jostled her just enough to make her feel every millimeter of her wound, but she’d resisted reaching for pain medication. She hadn’t taken any since Saturday. It was late Tuesday now, four days since the attack that had slit open her left side.
Four frustrating days, she thought as she disembarked, trying not to look too grouchy in front of the flight attendant, pilots and her fellow passengers.
Time to return to her ghosts, fall into her own bed and get back to work in the morning. Her attacker’s trail was stone-cold dead. The search teams hadn’t turned up any evidence of his identity or whereabouts in the mountains, and prints the police got off his knife didn’t match anyone in the system. Mackenzie had done what she could to help with the search, but she’d been too optimistic about diving right back into work.
She melted into the line exiting the Jetway. Her side ached, but as much as she wanted to go straight home, she had one stop to make first.
Bernadette Peacham had asked to see her.
A taxi was in order tonight, Mackenzie thought as she made her way into the crowded terminal. She could have called any number of people for a ride, but she’d kept her flight arrangements to herself. She was bedraggled and wobbly. If she had a good night’s sleep, she was confident she could be her usual kick-ass self by morning.
But as she stopped to figure out which way to turn to reach the terminal exit, Andrew Rook eased in next to her, catching her totally by surprise. He was in jeans and a lightweight jacket, and he was heart-stoppingly sexy, looking neither bedraggled nor wobbly.
“Allow me.” He took Mackenzie’s backpack from her shoulder. “All those pink swimsuits and dolphin towels get heavy, don’t they?”
“Rook, if you told anyone it was a pink suit -”
“I didn’t have to.”
“It’s all over Washington, isn’t it?”
“The suit. Not as many people know about the dolphin towel.”
Small comfort, she thought. “What are you doing here? How did you find out what flight I was on?” She stopped herself and sighed. “Damn FBI.”
He smiled. “We aim to please.”
Although he was dressed casually, it was a Washington crowd at Reagan National Airport. Anyone paying attention would peg him as an FBI agent. That she hadn’t the night they’d met still stuck in Mackenzie’s craw. No one would see her and think, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Certainly not tonight, with her hair yanked back in a loose ponytail and her baggy, casual attire covering up her bandages for the flight. She had dark circles under her eyes from pain and four nights of near sleeplessness as she’d tried to figure out who her attacker was, and rehashed all she’d done wrong.
Free of the backpack, she picked up her pace and said good-naturedly, “I liked you better when I thought you worked for the IRS.”
He ignored her. “My car’s in the parking garage. Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?”
“Since you have zero sense of humor, I assume you’re serious. No, I do not want you to get me a wheelchair. If you want to do something for me, flag me a cab.”
“Not a chance, Deputy.” He glanced at her, his eyes darker than usual. “If I let you take a taxi and you tripped in the dark and loosened a couple of stitches, I’d be in big trouble.”
She stopped abruptly. “Who put you up to this? Gus? Did he call and tell you I was on the way?”
“I called him.”
“Why?”