One night, lying in bed next to him, she questioned him about it.
“You never asked me to contribute even a penny to the mortgage, baby—why’s that?”
“You’re my wife. What’s mine is yours.”
She had hoped he’d reveal a bit more, but he had remained silent. Cole didn’t share much about his past, at least not voluntarily. She didn’t mind. Everyone had secrets, right? And who knew, maybe his parents had left him a bit of money before they passed?
But even to her, it didn’t ring true. An aura of mystery hovered over Cole, but one she actually found attractive. He was a kind man with a sharp edge. She had always been attracted to bad boys anyway. And seriously, how bad could he really be?
Egan dried himself and combed his hair back. The next few days would be busy. He had clients to meet in Mexico tomorrow night and wasn’t sure when he’d be able to swing back to Florida to spend a couple days with Katherine before leaving again. Truth was, in his line of work, he never was quite sure if he’d actually be back. He had made his fair share of enemies over the years, and the very real possibility of never seeing his wife again made him feel queasy.
He pushed the negative thoughts aside and stepped out of the en suite, wearing only a white towel around his waist. His wife was standing next to their bed, waiting for him, naked. She held her belly in that proud and protective gesture only pregnant women could do. Her breasts were larger now, rounder and fuller. Her sheer beauty mesmerized him.
Even though the studies Egan had read about pregnancy implied that most women had reduced sexual desire and activity during the early weeks of a pregnancy, this didn’t hold true for Katherine. On the contrary, it was as if her pregnancy hormones had supercharged her libido.
She took tentative steps toward him and placed her hands on his bare chest, her fingers running along the raised scar tissue crisscrossing his abdomen. His pulse spiked.
“How long will you be gone?”
He honestly didn’t know. He never did. “A few days.”
“Can I come with you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not this time, baby, I’m sorry.” He cupped her head in his hands. “Mexico City isn’t the nicest place to travel to when you’re pregnant. Because of the pollution, you know? And aren’t your days filled with patients who need their teeth removed?”
She sighed but tugged on his towel nonetheless. It fell at his feet.
“I’m gonna miss this.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Federal Detention Center
Miami, Florida
While he waited for the US marshals to get Vicente Garcia, Hunt adjusted the waist straps of his soft body armor, remembering the morning before the start of Vicente Garcia’s trial when Leila had asked him how a soft piece of clothing could stop bullets. Hunt had found the question fascinating, and even though he was running late for court, he’d decided to answer her query, not knowing that the very next day, Jasmine—with his precious Leila in tow—would walk away from him after he told her what had happened in the courtroom. Kneeling next to Leila, he had taken her hand and placed it against the fabric of his body armor.
“Think of it as a soccer net,” he’d told her. “What happens to the net when you kick the ball into it?”
“It moves!”
“You’re correct, sweetie; it does. When the ball hits the net, it pushes back against the tethers at that specific point, dispersing the energy all around it, so no matter where the soccer ball hits the net, the whole net absorbs the impact.”
His daughter thought about what he had said for a second, then said, “But bullets are much faster than a soccer ball, Dad.”
“That’s very true. Bullets fly superfast, but you know what?”
“What?”
“My body armor is also much stronger than a soccer net.”
Hunt had guided his daughter’s hand over his soft body armor and continued, “This material is five times stronger than a piece of metal.”
“No way!” his daughter had cried out. “It’s so soft.”
Hunt was brought back to reality by a crackling in his earpiece: “They’re on their way. Be ready.”
Hunt drank half of the water in his water bottle. He wasn’t exactly nervous, but it would have been a lie not to admit he was anxious about seeing Garcia again. Hunt was seated next to Chief Inspector Zorita in the third row of the second Suburban; two members of the US Marshals Special Operations Group occupied the front passenger and driver seats. John Robbins, the highest-ranking deputy US marshal in the motorcade, was in the second row so he could be next to Garcia.
Earlier that morning, Robbins had shown Hunt the route they’d take to the safe house. With traffic, he didn’t expect the travel time to take more than an hour.
Eager to draw as little attention to the motorcade as he could, Robbins had ordered the three-vehicle convoy to park inside the underground garage of the federal detention building.