Hart's Last Stand

“The FBI doesn’t believe Rick’s dead.” She pulled a file folder from her bag and, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it, tossed the folder, open, onto a mechanics table near where Hart stood.

He looked down at the papers suddenly scattered atop the table’s tools, but didn’t understand what he was supposed to see.

“That’s a copy of a bank statement for an account I never knew I had,” she said, pointing to one.

He looked down at the statement. It was a new account, opened only six weeks ago. His gaze moved to the bottom of the page, and he noted the balance: $155,000.

She pointed at a photograph that lay beside the bank statement. “And that’s a picture of me talking to a man the FBI claims is a European spy.”

His gaze moved to the photo, recognizing Suzanne but not the man she was talking to. He looked back at her, still unwilling to believe, even for a moment, that anything she was saying could be true.

She could have deposited the money herself and be lying to him now, and the man in the photograph could be anyone. Her accomplice—a friend, a lover, even a stranger she stopped on the street. But why would she make up such an elaborate lie? What did she really want?

“He came into the auction house where I work…” She paused, realizing Hart didn’t know she’d revamped her career. “I don’t teach school anymore,” she said. “I’m a partner in an antiques auction house and gallery in Beverly Hills now.” She paused again, momentarily distracted by thoughts of just how much her life had changed since the last time she’d seen Hart.

She’d gone to Los Angeles with every intention of continuing her career as a high-school teacher. But two days into her new job several students in one of her classes started arguing and she couldn’t get them to stop. A moment later the sound of gunfire exploded in the room, and one of the teenagers fell to the floor.

She’d taken a leave of absence from her job, too shaken to even think of returning to her classroom. A week later she’d been browsing through a little shop that sold all sorts of bric-a-brac when she had run into Clyde, who’d been talking with the owner. Clyde Weller was Suzanne’s second cousin on her father’s side and had been her best friend through high school. They’d lost touch over the years, but seeing him again proved to be just what she’d needed.

They’d gone to dinner and talked, and talked and talked and talked. Finally, well into the wee hours, Clyde made a suggestion that seemed so natural Suzanne said yes instantly. She was widowed, had received a large settlement after Rick’s death she needed to invest, and her degree was in history, with art as her minor. Clyde had been doing freelance bidding on antiques for others for years, so he was already well connected in the business and had always planned on opening his own gallery/auction house.

It was as if fate had brought them together again. They’d pooled their resources, as well as their last names, and started Casswell’s.

Hart stared, but didn’t question her, so she decided not to explain. He obviously wasn’t interested in her personal life, which was fine. She only needed his help in clearing herself of the FBI’s ridiculous allegations.

“Anyway, about two months ago this man in the picture came into the gallery and introduced himself as Mason Brunswick,” Suzanne continued, “and said he was thinking of consigning Casswell’s—that’s the name of our business—some very old paintings for auction. The next day, on my way home, I ran into him on the street. We chatted a minute, and he asked me a question about one of the paintings. That’s obviously when the photo was taken.”

“So again, assuming this story of yours is true,” Hart said, “and somehow Rick survived that crash—and the body identified as his wasn’t, what do you think I can do?” He didn’t even know why he was asking. Her story obviously wasn’t true. It had taken six months after the Jaguar Loop mission and Rick’s memorial service before the army had been able to recover his body. But they had finally recovered it, and he was dead. So what did Suzanne really want? What could she possibly hope to gain by these ridiculous claims?

He didn’t know.

Nevertheless he knew that, instead of asking questions that had kept her from leaving, he should have just gathered up her so-called evidence, handed it back to her and sent her on her way.

“You’re the only one who saw Rick die,” Suzanne said, seeing the cynicism that still shadowed his eyes. “Hart, you saw it happen. You’re the only one who can swear that it was Rick who got in the Cobra that day, that it was Rick flying it, that Rick is dead—if he really is.”

He didn’t answer.

She continued to meet his hard stare as doubt and suspicion assailed her. What if she’d just walked into a trap? What if he’d cunningly drawn her into it and she was doing exactly as he wanted? What if he was the only person on earth who could help her, but wouldn’t believe her? A torrent of what ifs slammed her. She felt all her senses and feelings intensify: fear, attraction, suspicion, longing.

Her heart raced as he looked at her for several very long, very tense moments. His scrutiny made her breathing become ragged and forced, the blood rushing through her veins in a tumultuous, speeding, hot flow that made her light-headed. She’d known confronting him would be difficult, maybe one of the most difficult things she’d ever done, but it was proving far harder, far more complicated than she’d ever imagined.

Say something, she silently demanded, and gripped one hand with the other upon realizing they were trembling. Control, she told herself. She had to keep herself under control and not break down. She tried to pull her gaze from his, needing to escape those penetrating eyes, and found it impossible.

A chill swept up her back, then rippled through her entire body. Say something, she silently pleaded again. But it wasn’t only his silence that unnerved her, or even the cold fear that had invaded her senses. It was the urge she felt to reach across the space that separated them, to touch him and feel his warmth, his strength. The feeling was almost more than she could resist.

How many times since she’d left Three Hills had she thought of him? Dreamed of him? And told herself to forget him? To put all thoughts, all memories, all fantasies about Hart away?

She curled her fingers into fists and held them rigid at her sides, trying to force away the feelings she knew could only prove her downfall.

“The FBI is building a case against me, Hart.” Her voice sounded weak and pleading, but she couldn’t help it. “They obviously believe Rick survived that crash—or that it wasn’t him flying the plane that day.”

She inhaled deeply.

“My only chance to prove this so-called evidence they have against me and Rick wrong is you.”

“They retrieved the body,” Hart snapped. “They identified it as Rick. You want to believe they were wrong?”

She looked at him and shrugged. “The FBI does.” He saw the fear and desperation she was fighting to hide and the tears she was struggling to hold back.

Hart fought to control the emotions warring within him since the moment she’d turned from her plane and he’d recognized her. Desire and anger, resentment and need. He’d lived with them all for a long time, enduring them, but now they were hotter, stronger than ever.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to ignore everything that had happened in the past and just drag her into his arms to take what he’d always wanted, to taste, finally, the sweetness of her lips, to feel the slender length of her body pressed against him and to experience, revel in, the passion he knew slept deep within her.

How many nights since she’d left Three Hills had he lain in bed unable to sleep, his thoughts all on her, almost feeling her body next to his, wondering where she was, what she was doing, who she was with?

Some nights he’d felt as if his memories were slowly killing him. Other nights he’d wished they would.

But he hadn’t dreamed about her now for at least a month. He’d thought that was all behind him, that his feelings for her were dead. Now he knew he’d been wrong.

But what he was feeling wasn’t all memories and nostalgia, or even desire, because he also wanted to slam a fist through something and frighten her into telling him the truth. He wanted to grab her, jerk her to her feet and demand she stop lying.

“Hart, please,” Suzanne said. “You have to listen. I…”

He shook his head and strode past her to the door. “Rick’s dead, Suzanne. You know it, I know it, the army knows it, and I have no doubt the damned FBI, if they have any reason to want to—knows it, too.”

Chapter 2

“May I help you, miss?” The aide looked up from the file cabinet he’d been rifling through.

“Yes, I…” Suzanne glanced at the door to Hart’s office. She knew he was in there. Listening. Nerves, fear and desperation skittered through her veins. “I…I’d like to see Captain Branson, please.”

“Let me see if he’s available,” the private said. “Your name, miss?”

“Suzanne Cassidy.” Why didn’t he just come to the door? He surely could hear her.

The aide closed the file drawer, turned and disappeared into Hart’s office, closing the door behind him.

A moment later he returned, but instead of saying anything to her, he merely nodded and walked directly to the exit and left.

She looked back toward Hart’s office and felt a start of surprise. He was standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb. Sunlight, streaming in through his office windows, shone at his back, turning his hair to a golden halo and creating myriad shadows about his face.

Suzanne tried to stop staring, ordered herself to look elsewhere and couldn’t.

“Suzanne,” he said, breaking the silence between them and the spell that seemed to have dropped over her.

“I…” Her throat was suddenly as dry as the desert, and her fingers were wrapped around the strap of her bag so tightly she realized her nails were pushing painfully into her palms. “I have no one else to turn to, Hart,” she said finally, retrieving at least a small part of her senses.

He straightened.

She felt an involuntary start of alarm, but forced herself to remain still. He was an old friend and he was a stranger. She needed him and she feared him.

Strength exuded from every line of his body, hardness shone in his eyes. Fine lines radiated from the outer corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth, but Suzanne knew Hart was not a man who laughed easily or frequently.

She also knew that, in spite of needing his help, there was no way she could afford to trust anything he said.

“There’s nothing I can do for you, Suzanne,” Hart said, stiffening. He couldn’t let her back into his life, he thought coldly. He wouldn’t.

She watched him walk across the room, jerk the exit door open, and for just a moment look back at her, his eyes cold, wary and full of anger. Seconds later, as she ran after Hart, she heard someone call out to her.

“Suzanne?” the corps crew chief said. “Suzanne Cassidy?”

She stopped and looked at him. Everything about him was thick—his neck, chest, waist, arms, even his hands—while his eyes were a dull gray, nearly the same color as his hair, and his face was marred by a mass of craggy lines that reminded her of a metropolitan street map. “Chief Carger,” Suzanne said.

For a while, just after she and Rick had moved to Three Hills, Rick had thrown Monday-night-football parties, and some of the other pilots, the crew chief and a few mechanics had come to the Cassidy bungalow to eat Rick’s barbecued burgers and watch the game on television.

She remembered Rick telling her once that the chief had lost his family years ago in a house fire. The army had become his home since then, and the corps members his family.

At first she’d liked the chief, thought of him as a father figure, as the men did, and she and Rick had him over for dinner several times. But after a while something about him began to make her feel uneasy.

“Yes, ma’am. Nice of you to remember.” He nodded. “Good to see you again.” His gaze skipped over her quickly, and Suzanne suddenly remembered exactly what it had been that used to make her feel uneasy around him. “Hope everything’s been going okay for you.” He glanced at Hart. “Sorry, sir. If I’m intruding, I can—”

Hart hadn’t missed the quick, but thoroughly assessing once-over the chief had given Suzanne. Before Rick’s death Hart had suspected the chief had been more than a little interested in Suzanne, but he’d put it down to his own paranoid jealousy. Now he felt his hunch had probably been right. They’d both been attracted to their friend’s wife.

“No, what is it, Chief?” Hart snapped, damning himself as much as the chief.

“Just wanted to let you know, sir, that we’ve got a problem with one of the birds. Cowboy’s. Fuel line. May not be able to fix it for a couple of days, unless I can get the parts sooner.”

Hart nodded. “Fine. Reb is on leave. Have Cowboy use his chopper if need be.”

The chief nodded. “Yes, sir, that was my thought.” He glanced at Suzanne again. “Suzanne—Mrs. Cassidy. Nice to see you, ma’am.”

Suzanne waited until he’d left, then turned back to Hart. “Please, just consider—”

He averted his gaze. “No.”

She fought back the feeling of fear and desperation that threatened to send her to her knees sobbing and pleading with him. Instead, she found a very thin, very fragile thread of composure and walked past him and down the path to the street.

A phone booth stood beside another building a few yards away. She stepped into it and began flipping the worn pages of the dilapidated directory that hung on a chain, searching the pages through a blur of tears. “He can’t say no,” she muttered softly. “He can’t.” She finally found a number for a cab company and dialed it on her cell phone.

Hart would think over what she’d said and help her, she told herself. He had to. There was no other way, nowhere else for her to turn.

Hart hung up the phone and threw down his pen.

All his commanding officer would say was that no one was investigating him because of his pending promotion. But someone was investigating him.

Instinct, and the fact that he’d never believed in coincidences, told him that whatever was going on was connected to Suzanne.

He reached for the phone and dialed a number he’d never thought he would need.

“Senator Trowtin, please,” Hart said to the secretary who answered.

Three years ago terrorists had kidnapped Senator Keith Trowtin while he was on a goodwill mission in the Middle East. The CIA had tracked their movements and tried to rescue him three times. Four good men had died in the effort. Then they’d asked for the corps’s help. The senator was being held in a desert camp, less than ten miles from U.S.-friendly territory. Hart’s plan had been risky and dangerous, but no one had come up with anything better.

“Tell him it’s Captain Hart Branson,” he added.

The senator came on the line a moment later. “Captain, good to hear from you. I was just telling Julie—”

“Senator,” Hart interrupted, deciding to spare no words, “I need a favor.”

“I owe you my life, Captain.”

“I was just doing my job, Senator.”

“It was a suicide mission, Captain, and we both know it, but somehow you pulled it off and we’re both still alive. So whatever you need, you got it. What is it?”

“Someone’s investigating me, sir. I need to know who and why.”

“I’ll call you back.”

Hart replaced the phone receiver and began to pace the length of the room, uncertain whether he felt better or not. He hated asking for favors. Before he could decide which way his mood was swinging, the phone rang.

“Evidently the feds suspect you of treason,” the senator said.

Hart felt the breath stall in his lungs.

“And the word murder is also being bandied about.”

“Murder?” Hart gasped, incredulous.

“Top-secret plans for an experimental weapons-detection device that was being tested during a covert operation you led a year ago were stolen during the mission, Captain, or right after it.”

“Senator, you know I wouldn’t—”

“You don’t have to convince me, Captain, but you need to know—the feds have two theories. One is that either the pilot who went down in that chopper over there wasn’t killed, his death was faked and the two of you are accomplices, along with his wife. Or, you and the man’s wife conspired to steal the plans, killed him and she’s now selling the plans through a Los Angeles gallery she’s a partner in.”

“This is unbelievable,” Hart said. “I—”

“Listen, Captain,” the senator said, “this could get ugly. If you need me again, call. I’ll do what I can.”

Hart heard a click and the line went dead.

It was worse than he’d thought.

He remembered everything Suzanne had said, the fear in her eyes, the near panic in her voice. But was it real?

“Dammit to hell.” He pounded a fist on his desk. His only chance to save his career now, possibly his life, was to prove both of them innocent—or the woman whose image had haunted his dreams for months guilty.

He stared out the window on the opposite wall and contemplated the situation. Rick was dead, which meant he was innocent. But what if Suzanne was not? What if she was a spy? What if she’d used Rick? Hart swore viciously. The whole damned thing sounded too farfetched, but in the world he lived in, it wasn’t. She could be trying to set him up, could have come back not for his help, as she claimed, but to shift the blame.

He yanked the door open and stalked through his aide’s office toward the exit. Turning to Private Roubechard, he ordered, “I want you to do a background check on Second Lieutenant Rick Cassidy. He served under me in the corps a year ago.”

Hart paused, one hand on the exit’s doorknob. “Do one on his wife, too. Suzanne Cassidy. And I want them on my desk in an hour.”

The anger and resentment he’d lived with for the past year burned hot in him as he slammed out of the office and strode to his car. He slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

He didn’t trust Suzanne, but he had to talk to her again.

It had seemed to take forever for the taxi to arrive. Suzanne was now halfway to Tucson when the sensation that she was being watched grew too strong to ignore. She turned and looked out the cab’s rear window. The road behind was long, winding, narrow and very empty. Nevertheless, she was unable to shake the feeling or its intensity. She’d felt it on and off over the past several days, but now it seemed stronger than ever.

Her gaze swept the vast, open desert, and apprehension pulled on the knot in her stomach. She’d left Three Hills a little more than a year ago, and after settling in Los Angeles she had completely revamped her life.

But it hadn’t stopped her from thinking about him.

She trembled as a wave of hot yearning swept through her. It raced up her spine, through her arms, legs and fingers as she remembered the moment she’d turned from the plane and faced him—the instant they’d recognized each other. She could still feel the piercing stare of his eyes, the potent essence of Hart Branson as it had reached out and enveloped her.

For the briefest of moments it had been as if his consciousness dove inside hers to probe her thoughts, uncover her secrets and search, then gently touch, her very soul.

He had never looked at her like that before. No man had.

Her cell phone rang, startling her and bringing her a glare in the rearview mirror from the cab driver. He hadn’t relished driving to the base to pick her up, and it was obvious even the promise of a good tip hadn’t improved his mood any.

Suzanne pulled the phone from her purse, hoping it was Hart telling her to come back, that he believed her. He’d help her. Then she realized it couldn’t be him—he didn’t know her cell number. Her spirits instantly plunged. Please, she prayed fervently, please don’t let it be my mother. Not now. She wasn’t in the mood to defend her reasons for moving to L.A. or hear why she should start looking for another husband, which seemed to be her mother’s two favorite topics lately.

“Hello?” she said hesitantly.

“Suzanne, darling, what in heaven’s name is going on? Are you all right? Where are you?”

She jerked the phone from her ear and nearly groaned aloud at hearing her partner’s high-pitched, squeaky voice.

“I thought…” Clyde sucked in a breath. “Well, darling, when you didn’t show up at the gallery this morning, I had the most awful visions, I mean…”

She shuddered, remembering her close call last night in L.A. She’d worked late at the gallery. The street had been deserted, but when she’d started to cross it, a car had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Only the fact that she’d realized she’d left her briefcase in the office and had started to turn around and go back had saved her.

Afterward she’d felt such panic that she’d driven straight to the airport. And the terror had prompted her to take their new plane at first light and fly to Three Hills.

“…you’re never even late, let alone a no-show…”

“I’m sorry, Clyde.”

“…and then Mr. Collins came in for your nine-o’clock appointment, and you weren’t here, so naturally he was upset and…”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, hoping she hadn’t lost the gallery one of their most valued customers. “I should have called you, but…” But what? She searched for an excuse, knowing she couldn’t tell him the truth—for both their sakes.

“Yes, you’ve said that, thank you. So where are you?”

“Arizona,” she said before she could stop herself.

“How did you…?” He gasped. “You took the plane?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but there wasn’t time to—”

“I know—you heard of a terribly wonderful find and just couldn’t wait to get to it, right?” he said, offering her the best excuse she could ask for, even though his tone was somewhat sarcastic.

“I’m sorry, I should have called first, but—”

“Oh, never mind,” he said, sounding placated at the thought of a handsome sale on whatever she’d gone to pick up that couldn’t wait. “I handled Mr. Collins just fine, but I’ll expect to see something deliciously valuable when you get back, so don’t be gone long. And for heaven’s sake, don’t put a scratch on our new baby.”

Her heart sank as she remembered their “new baby” sitting cock-eyed back at the military base, one wing wedged into the gully next to the runway. Rick had taught her how to fly during their first year of marriage, and she’d loved it, but she hadn’t been behind the controls since his death. Guilt nibbled at her conscience. She was rusty and should never have taken the plane up. But she’d panicked.

The army had reluctantly agreed to rescue and stow the plane until she could make arrangements to leave. Of course they thought that meant tomorrow, but she had no intention of going anywhere until she felt safe again and knew the truth—and that all depended on Hart. He could save her. He was probably the only one who could.

Or he could be a cold-blooded killer, the dark side of her thoughts reminded her. He could have stolen the plans and killed Rick. He could be the one behind the FBI’s suspicions, the one trying to frame her.

It made sense, and she didn’t want it to.

The hair on the back of her neck suddenly seemed to stand on end. She jerked around, looked out the rear window again and nearly screamed.

A black Corvette was right on the taxi’s tail, but the sun reflecting off the windshield made it impossible for Suzanne to make out the driver’s face.

The car remained behind the taxi all the way into Tucson, and pulled in behind them at the entrance to the hotel where she’d made a reservation. Fear had settled in Suzanne’s stomach like a boulder, heavy and immovable. She decided to wait until whoever it was in the other car stepped out, then she’d order the taxi driver to speed off and take her to another hotel.