He gave a snort of pure contempt. “You said all the right words and pretended you trusted me. You used what I gave you. Then, when it mattered most, you kept me in the dark. Why?”
“It was out of my hands. I don’t even know who you are—I have no way to contact you.” Mia kept her voice low, trying not to look conspiratorial or unnerved; she wasn’t eager to draw attention to herself. “I’m not in a good place to talk right now—”
“I gave you everything. You’d never have found your genius Texan without me. I’m the one who told you Brooker could ID him. I’m the one who told you Tatro was obsessed with a blond, female marshal. Hell, half the shit Carhill gave you was because of me.”
Mia didn’t know about that last comment. The rest was true. She dipped the top of her pinkie into the foam of her latte. She didn’t have a name, a face, a recording of his voice. Background information. She had nothing. But the man on the other end of the connection had led her to Ham Carhill’s kidnappers.
He’d manipulated her. And he was doing it again.
“What you need to understand is this,” she said coldly. “I’m not on your side or any other individual’s side. I work for the people.”
“Now we’re on the same page, Dr. O’Farrell. I’ll be in touch.”
“You don’t make the rules—”
He disconnected.
Mia shakily returned her phone to her pocket.
She’d known her lofty words would ring true to him.
A righteous voice on the other end of the phone. That was all she knew about him.
But he’d given her useful information since he’d first contacted her over the summer. Mia had assumed that his extreme views of the world and human nature put him in places where he sometimes happened on interesting tidbits. Perhaps his success—his access to her—had emboldened him. It didn’t necessarily make him more competent or dangerous.
She left a tip for her latte and bought a book on her way out, a special edition of The Three Musketeers. She preferred unambiguous good guys and bad guys. Her vigilante was neither.
The shrill ring of her telephone bolted Juliet out of a deep sleep. Reaching for it, she struck a warm, hard body and damn near screamed.
Ethan.
Oh, my.
He was naked, the early morning light catching the black graphic tattoo on his upper arm. He’d thrown off his half of the blanket sometime during the night. Or had never bothered with it, seeing how the two of them had heated themselves up quite nicely.
The memory of their lovemaking—wild, uninhibited—rushed over her. There’d been a lot of sex last night. Not a lot of talking.
No thinking.
He was wide awake. “Going to shoot me or answer the phone?”
She grabbed the sheet to cover herself, although she didn’t know why. He’d touched every part of her only a few hours ago. She could still feel the sensation of his mouth and hands on her skin.
“Lord, Brooker. How much wine did I have last night?”
“You had sparkling water.”
The phone rang again, and she reached across his chest and picked up the receiver. “Longstreet,” she said, her voice raspy from sleep and what had turned into a very long day—and night.
“It’s Rivera. You up?”
It was six o’clock in the morning. “More or less.”
“Get down here. Your doorman gave you a phony ID.”
Any sleepiness left her. “What?”
“Bring Brooker.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
Rivera had hung up. Juliet clicked off the phone and dropped it at the foot of her bed, raking a hand through her hair. “I’ve got to think.” She spoke more to herself than to Ethan. “Damn.”
She still had the sheet with her when she climbed out of bed. Ethan ended up exposed, leaning back against his pillow, watching her. He was tanned and very fit and not at all awkward or self-conscious about being in her bed.
Juliet spun around at him. “Get dressed. We’re going downtown. We’ve been summoned.” She ripped open a drawer and pulled out jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, then dug in another drawer for socks. “Juan isn’t who he said he was.”
Ethan rolled out of bed without comment. He had his belt buckled and his boots on before she’d fastened her bra. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
He shrugged. “Habit.”
She remembered the life he’d led for so long. “Are you on leave?”
“I guess. Technically.”
What more hadn’t he told her, Rivera and Joe Collins?
He withdrew a folded piece of paper from a back pocket of his jeans and opened it onto her bed. Juliet saw that it was a copy of Bobby Tatro’s doctored picture of her.
She finished dressing. “You made a copy?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You knew you were giving me the original—you figured you might not see it again. Ethan—” She sighed at him. “You don’t want to annoy Rivera and Collins.”
He smiled. “Too late.”