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She turned and crossed her arms over her equally enticing breasts. “I don’t have any Scotch.”
His gaze caressed her curves then locked on her killer eyes. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Beckett.”
“Awfully sure of yourself.”
“I know a come-on when I hear it and a hard-on when I see it.” Before he could respond she slipped into the kitchen. “How do you feel about vodka?”
“Same as I feel about you. I can tolerate it.”
He heard her laugh. A throaty sound that only heightened his predicament. He took off his jacket, adjusted himself then settled on the plush red couch. He rubbed a crick from his neck while noting the impeccably decorated room. So the pain in the ass had a flair for design. Classy taste. Designer taste. He wondered how she afforded it. As far as he knew, she made her living solely as an entertainer and according to Evie, times were tough.
She returned with a full bottle of Absolut Citron. Lemon-flavored vodka. Not a drink of choice, but just now he’d settle for Boone’s Farm. She sank down beside him and set two glasses on the gleaming cocktail table.
“Given your mood, figured you’d want it straight.”
“Good call.”
“I know you made a pass at Evie and that she opted for Arch,” she said straight out. “If this is some sort of rebound—”
“It’s not.”
“Because I’ve been through that more than once and—”
“This isn’t about Evie.” He poured, thinking, not for the first time, a wounded heart beat beneath Nicole’s tough facade. He wondered if she’d ever let her guard down with him. Probably not. Which was probably for the best. “I didn’t want to be around people I know—well, that is—and I didn’t want to be alone.”
Her eyes softened as she raised her glass in a toast. “What are we drinking to?” she asked.
“Me being fucked.”
She stiffened.
“Not by you, sweetheart. By my own people.”
“The AIA?”
“You know about the Agency?”
“Evie told me. Don’t worry. I know it’s…how did she put it? Big-time hush-hush.”
He smiled a little. “She does have a way with words.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, Slick.”
“I believe you, Nicole.”
“Most people call me Nic.”
“Most people call me Milo.”
“When I was a kid we had a dog named Milo.” She smiled when he grunted, then angled in and tucked her bare feet beneath that fine ass. “Just how big is this bureaucratic shaft?”
“I’ve been accused of murder.”
The smile slipped. “That’s big.”
They slammed back two fingers of vodka in tandem.
“Knew I came to the right place,” Milo said. Jury was out on who had drank who under the table the last, and only other time, they’d shared a bottle.
Nic refilled their glasses, chewing over his revelation.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I did it?”
“Did you?”
“Apparently so, though not by design.” He still couldn’t believe it, even after seeing the digital recording. He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to feel the doubt and guilt clawing at his gut. He popped two Tylenol and slammed back a second shot.
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Apparently so.”
“When I left the scene, he was still alive.”
“So he died after.”
“Soon after.”
“Because of something you did.”
Milo nodded. “Apparently so.”
Nic watched him with a calm, cool gaze and sipped. “What does your partner say about this?”
“I haven’t told Arch yet. The incident took place around 2:00 a.m. I just learned about the unfortunate outcome a few hours ago when a pair of agents met me at the airport and escorted me to HQ.”
“Since you’re free, obviously there wasn’t enough evidence to hold you.”
“I’m free, because the Agency tampered with the crime scene. Made it look like a burglary. Trust me. The victim’s death will go unsolved.”
Nic frowned. “Wait a minute. Your people discovered the body? How’s that possible? Unless…were they there as backup?”
“They were there, unbeknownst to me, to make sure I didn’t screw up. Which, it seems, I did.”
“So they covered your ass. They compromised a crime scene, on purpose, which means they broke the law. Why would they do that? They’re federal agents for chrissakes.”
“Surely you, of all people, aren’t that naive.”
She angled her head. “Protecting one of their own?”
“So Crowe, my boss, says. He’s also protecting a certain politician.”
“You don’t sound sold on your boss’s motive.”
“I’m not.”
“Who’s the politician?”
“Can’t say.” He looked away and poured more vodka.
“Privileged information, huh?”
“Sorry.”
She shrugged, sipped. “How do those agents know for sure that you caused this person’s death? Did they spy through the windows with super-spook binoculars? Slip a bug in your shoe?”
Milo’s lip twitched. “For a second there, you sounded like Evie.” He sipped vodka to drown out thoughts of the overimaginative half-pint. He focused back on his dilemma and Nic’s question. “Spying was involved, yes. But more damning…”
“What?”
“Let’s just say they have hard evidence.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It is.”
They fell into mutual silence, drank more vodka. Milo could hear Nic’s thoughts churning. “Just an observation,” she said, “but given your background and training in law enforcement, seems you’d know whether or not what you did was intense enough to cause death. Apparently so says you’re surprised. No offense, but this whole thing sounds like a grade B thriller. Maybe I’ve watched too many documentaries on conspiracy theories, but…any chance you’re being framed, Slick?”
Damn, she was cynical. A quality he normally found off-putting in a woman. But there was nothing normal about this moment and he appreciated the benefit of the doubt. “The thought crossed my mind. Although I’m not sure how—”
“Forget the how. Why would the AIA frame you?”
“To keep me under their thumb. Maybe. I’m not a company man and Crowe is a control freak. On the other hand, could be wishful thinking on my part.”
“What if it’s not? What if there’s some elaborate plan and you’re the pawn?”
“Nicole—”
“Grow some balls, Slick. Buck the system. Investigate. Fight back.”
He’d been bucking the system for years. Bucking the system is what had brought him to this point. “I need to sleep on this,” he said honestly. “Only I can’t. My mind won’t shut down. It’s not just this. It’s…a lot of things.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She pulled a remote out of a mosaic box and turned on a thirty-two-inch plasma television. Nice. “Sports, news, sitcom or a movie?” she asked as she surfed channels.
“Anything but the news.”
She messed with her TiVo and settled on The History Channel. He didn’t know Nic well, but he knew she favored documentaries over sitcoms. “Ever watch this series?” she asked. “Decoding the Past?”
“Nope.”
“This episode is of particular interest to me,” she said. “Past U.S. Presidents who consulted psychics. Abe Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt. Goes to show anyone can fall for that mystical bullshit, right?”
He cut her a glance, wondering at the hostility in her tone. Namely because it wasn’t directed at him. “Right.”
“Make yourself comfortable, Beckett. If you can’t sleep, you can at least rest.”
He didn’t argue. The vodka was already taking effect. Smoothing the edges, slowing his thoughts. He’d been awake now—he glanced at his watch—thirty-seven hours.
“Think you should call someone and let them know you’re okay?” Nic asked as she twisted her long hair into a loose braid.
He tried not to admire her stunning bone structure. Tried and failed. “Probably.” Especially since he had numerous voice messages from Arch, Pops, and Woody. Arch was probably with Evie and that was a road he didn’t want to travel just now. The less he thought about those two together, the better. He called Pops.
“Tell me you’re not in jail, son.”
Milo frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“We heard about Turner.”
“How?”
“CNN.”
“Killing the guy wasn’t part of the plan, Pops.”
“Course not.”
“Tell the team…” He rubbed his eyes, blew out a breath. “Tell them I need some time alone. Tell them to meet me tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. You know the place.”
“You comin’ home tonight?”
Milo glanced at Nic who’d drawn shut the curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Depends.”
“Take care, Jazzman.”
“Always.” He thumbed the cell to vibrate then slipped it in his jacket pocket. If it went off, he wouldn’t feel it. A few more shots of vodka, and he wouldn’t feel anything.
“Thought it might help you relax if it was darker in here,” Nic said as she settled back on the couch.
“Why are you being nice to me?”
“You’ve been accused of murder, Slick. I’m thinking you could use some consideration.”
His mind focused on the last time they’d sat like this, watching TV, drinking. He’d woken up the next morning with her head in his lap. Nothing had happened sexually, but she’d given him the cold shoulder for the rest of the day and she’d cut her trip short. He wanted to ask why, but didn’t. Instead, he commented on her eye roll when the program’s narrator mentioned Roosevelt consulted a psychic about post-WWII world relations. “I take it you don’t believe in the supernatural.”
She topped off her drink. “Do you?”
