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Was that what held her attention? That play of color?
When was the last time he’d been so engrossed by something as simple, as innocent as a sunrise?
Probably never.
He stopped a few feet from her and waited for her to notice him.
A minute passed. Then several more. The sun rose higher, breaking free from the ocean. Still the woman kept taking pictures, not stopping until she ran out of film. She never looked away from the rising sun as she quickly rewound the film, opened the camera back and removed the film cassette.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he watched her quick movements. It took her less than a minute to reload the camera and begin shooting again.
She must be nuts. All alone on a deserted beach and she was oblivious to everything but the horizon. That was a good way to get hurt. Or worse.
Unless she wasn’t alone. He performed another recon of the beach and nearby tree line. Still empty. All appeared as it should.
He stepped closer. When that failed to draw her attention, he cleared his throat. Still no response. Finally he spoke. “Excuse me, miss. This is a private beach.”
She hesitated long enough to glance in his direction. He caught a glimpse of one pale gray eye edged with thick black lashes as she gave him a thorough up and down. She turned back to her camera and the sun without a comment.
Such a dismissal might have irritated Ryan if he hadn’t noticed other details. She wasn’t as unconcerned as she tried to appear. He could see her chewing on her lower lip and her throat worked around a swallow.
Good. She should be nervous. He stepped closer.
“Thirty-eight seconds. That’s all I need.”
He stopped short as her soft voice floated to him on the morning sea breeze. He checked his watch, noted the sweep of the second hand, marked the time. The old habit, left over from days of split-second, life-and-death missions, hadn’t faded with the passage of time. He made another quick scan of their surroundings. The last thing he wanted was to be the sitting duck caught by this pretty decoy.
She finally lowered her camera, clipped the lens cap in place and returned her equipment to her camera bag. Ryan glanced at his watch. Thirty-eight seconds, exactly.
“As I was saying, this is private property. How’d you get here?”
The woman glanced around. A small frown creased her wide forehead. “I…walked.”
“That’s a fair piece of walking. It’s a few miles from the nearest road. Unless you crossed the estate grounds.” He stepped closer.
She closed the quick-release catches on her bag and stood with a fluid movement. He got his first good look at her and a tiny alarm went off.
Her T-shirt and leggings were black and snug fitting, like something worn to hide in nighttime shadows. The pale skin of her bare feet blended into the sand. Her left hand clutched the wide black nylon strap of the bag over her right shoulder, her right hugged the bag close to her hip. “Then I’d better be on my way.”
A haunted look passed over her finely molded features as she looked around the beach. She didn’t move.
Something was definitely off here. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi. Ryan didn’t need Jamie’s psychic powers to feel the waves of panic rolling through her. The need to protect, a need rooted deep in his childhood, rose up, stronger than his government training of self-preservation. He held out one hand and stepped toward her. “I’m staying with a friend. His place is just up the beach. I could give you a lift back to your car if you’d like.”
“No!” She backed up a step. Her right hand slipped into the wide front pocket of the camera bag.
“What’s wrong? I maybe could be of some assistance to you.” He kept his voice soft, calming, letting his southern-gentleman drawl come on thick. That sometimes did the trick when he needed to get around personal defenses.
“No. I…I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t see anything…. Just…let me go.”
“I’d like to oblige, miss, but my mama raised me to be a gentleman. She’d tear a strip offa me a mile wide if I left a woman on a deserted beach to fend for herself.” He smiled, hoping to reassure her.
It didn’t work.
Her right hand swung up and pointed a pistol in the general vicinity of his chest. “Please, just let me go. Forget you ever saw me.”
Ryan held both hands up, palms out. The gun was a matte black, 9mm Glock. Standard issue for the FBI and many other law enforcement groups. Not only didn’t she have the first clue how to use it, she was terrified of it. Both hands, knuckles white, clutched the grip. The gun dipped and wavered as she held it as far away from her body as she could.
He kept steady eye contact with her, not bothering to watch the gun. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Her shoulders hunched tighter and her eyes narrowed.
“Uh, miss? That gun isn’t going to do you much good, unless you’re fixin’ to throw it at me.”
A frown drew her dark eyebrows together. “You don’t think I’ll shoot?”
“Well, you can certainly try, but the ammo magazine is loose, the safety’s on and your finger’s nowhere near the trigger.” He couldn’t really tell about the mag from where he stood but the last bit, at least, was true. As long as she kept her finger off the trigger. He closed the gap between them with a single stride, wrapped one hand around her wrist and eased the gun from her trembling fingers. “Now, maybe you better tell me what this is all about.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? Who are you?” She tugged slightly at the hand still holding her, but she didn’t struggle.
Her skin felt like silk, smooth, and warm. The pulse in her slender wrist raced against his fingertips. He stood too close but couldn’t bring himself to step away and break the physical contact with her.
“You know, for a trespasser, you sure do ask a lot of questions.”
“Wouldn’t you? Alone on a beach, accosted by a stranger…”
“One you just pulled a gun on.” He sighed and the tantalizing fragrance of something soft and tropical blended with the aroma of the sea and sand around them. The delicate scent teased his senses. The wrong kind of curiosity stirred again. He released her wrist and put a little distance between them. “Look, maybe we should start over.”
He tucked the confiscated gun into the back waistband of his ragged cutoff fatigues, dusted his hands clean of sand and perspiration and held out his right hand. “My name’s Ryan Williams.”
She gave his hand a quick shake, releasing it as though she’d been shocked. He sure had been. The quick voluntary contact had sent a tingle racing straight from the palm of his hand to his belly.
“How do I know you’re really who you say you are?”
Ryan grinned and shook his head. She was an intriguing mix of wariness and innocence. His fingers tapped a drum-roll against his hips as he thought for a moment. His grin widened and he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. How’d a picture ID do?”
He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a thin leather case. Flipping it open, he handed it to her. He watched her reactions as she looked at his Bureau identity cards. Her shoulders loosened a little.
“Okay.” She handed the wallet back. “Unless of course it’s a fake.”
“No, ma’am.” He crossed his heart and held up his hand in the old Boy Scout salute. “I swear it’s genuine, certified real.”
She nibbled on her generous lower lip as she looked around. Ryan wondered what her lip tasted like. Sunshine and sea? Awareness zinged across his nerves, warming him at the thought. The silence lengthened as he waited for her to reveal her name.
When it became clear she wasn’t about to trust him with that bit of information, he pulled her gun from his waistband. She took a quick step away from him.
“Whoa, whoa. Take it easy.” He released the ammo mag, emptied the bullets into his palm and dropped them into his pocket. Reinserting the mag, he emptied the remaining round from the firing chamber before holding the gun out to her on the palm of his hand. “Here, why don’t you hang on to this. You really can’t shoot me now, but it might come in handy if you feel the need to hit me with something.”
A hint of a smile rewarded his small jest.
“Do you need a ride someplace? Or is there someone you want to call?”
She shook her head as she slipped the gun back into the camera case. He was caught for a moment, watching the sun dance off the silky ripples of her hair. Her soft sigh brought his attention back to her mouth. Dang, she was biting her lip again.
“You said you live near here?” Her words brought him back.
“My friend does. I’m staying in his guest cottage. Why don’t we go back there, have a glass of lemonade and, if you want, you can tell me what’s going on?”
Her pale gray eyes looked him over. Silence stretched between them as her study extended to their surroundings.
Ryan waited, tamping down his impatience. Some instinct told him it was important for her to make the decision without pressure.
“All right. I’ll come with you, but only long enough to call a taxi.”
“Fair enough.” Instead of pumping his fist in victory as he wanted, Ryan swept his arm in front of himself. “Right this way.”
They headed down the beach in silence. She kept up with him, walking with an easy grace in spite of the soft sand dragging at their feet. He was acutely aware of her slender form beside him, just out of reach, but near enough to keep his senses on red alert.
She was the perfect height, tall enough to tuck under his chin, but not so short he’d get a kink in his neck bending down to kiss her. Hold your horses, boyo. This is not an appropriate direction to be thinking.
The small bungalow, hidden among another bunch of palms, came into view none too soon. He held the back door open for her and she stepped past him. She stopped just inside the tidy little kitchen, inspecting her surroundings.
Ryan made a production of brushing the sand from his feet before stepping onto the clean terra-cotta tile floor, giving her as much time as he could to look around. The more comfortable she was with her surroundings, the more likely she would be to confide in him.
The door clicked shut behind him. If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed her slight flinch.
He stepped around her and moved to the other side of the room. Maybe she’d relax some if he kept his distance a bit better than he had been. “I imagine you might want to freshen up a bit.” He pointed down the hall. “Why don’t you go on through to the bathroom while I get that lemonade?”
She hesitated, her hand clenching and releasing on the camera bag’s shoulder strap.
Ryan cleared his laptop and paperwork from the small round kitchen table, turned away and began opening cupboards, setting out glasses and a plate. He waited until he heard the bathroom door close before turning around. A swift survey of the room confirmed his suspicion. She wasn’t letting that bag out of her sight.
When she returned he was sitting in one of the ladder-back chairs, leafing through a recent Smithsonian magazine. A plate of gingersnaps, a frosty pitcher of lemonade and two tall glasses filled with ice covered the bright yellow tabletop. The second chair at the table turned out, an open invitation for her to sit down.
Ryan sat up straight and tossed the magazine onto the counter behind him. He squelched the urge to stand and hold the chair for her as she joined him.
She slid onto the chair without changing its position. The camera bag settled on her lap, her hands curled into white-knuckled fists around the bag’s handle. She flexed her hands a couple of times, then lowered the case to the floor, looping the shoulder strap over her knee. Her back never touched the chair’s ladder-back. An air of quiet panic swirled around her.
The clinking of ice filled the room as Ryan poured them each a glass. He took a cookie for himself, then pushed the plate closer to her. “Not exactly the breakfast of champions, I know, but I figure it’s got the same basic ingredients—grain, eggs, sugar.”
A fleeting smile answered his attempt at humor.
She took a tiny sip of the lemonade and set the glass back on the table. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “For suggesting I come back here.”
Ryan shrugged. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”
Another smile flickered across those full lips of hers. He couldn’t help noticing how they shone with moisture from the lemonade. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, damning himself for noticing every little detail of her appearance.
“She did a fine job. Are you from…” She cleared her throat again. “I can’t quite place your accent.”
“Don’t guess I sound much like any one place. I moved around quite a bit when I was growing up, mostly in the South.”
She nodded and the silence crept back in. Ryan wanted to ask her some questions of his own, but decided to bide his time. Maybe if she asked a few more questions, got to know a bit more about him, felt a little more comfortable, she’d begin to open up herself.
“You don’t live here?” She looked around the retro-chic kitchen.
“No, just visiting. Jamie lets me stay here whenever I have the time.”
“Nice friend.”
“Yeah.” Ryan took another swallow of lemonade to keep from asking her anything.
“Where do you call home?”
“Nowhere in particular.” He shrugged. “I’m kind of a nomad. My job takes me away for extended periods of time, so I’ve never really set up a permanent base.”
“How sad,” she murmured. Her face reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
Ryan shook his head and waved away her concern. “No offense taken. I just never saw any reason to settle down. Homebody is not in my nature.”
“What do you do?”
“At the moment, nothing. I’m…between assignments.”
“But a government job?” She busied herself wiping the condensation from the sides of her glass.
Ryan nodded and waited for the next question. He had a pretty good idea what it might be.
“So, what, are you a secret agent, or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
“Oh.” She laughed, a bit nervously he thought. “I guess you probably can’t tell me much more.”
“Not much more to tell. I’m posted to the Office of Professional Responsibility. It’s my job to smoke out bad agents and see that they pay for their treason.”
She straightened in her chair, looking at him with a slight tilt to her head.
“I could give you a number to call. A couple numbers, actually. My boss and a buddy. They’ll vouch that I’m on the up-and-up.”
“I can call them directly? Any time?” The idea seemed to reassure her. She eased back into her chair.
“Any time. It’s not a problem.” He leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs. It wasn’t much of a stretch for him to reach the little message pad and pen hanging on a hook by the cordless wall phone. The chair settled back on all four legs. He wrote the numbers, explaining as he went. “The first number is for Jacquelyn Kingston. She’s my supervisor at the Bureau. John Danse is a fellow agent I just worked with. He’s not exactly a buddy, but he’ll vouch for me. The last number is for this house.”
He pushed the paper across the table. She studied it for a moment, then carefully folded it and tucked it into her T-shirt pocket.
