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Anna heard the edge of rancor in his voice and said, “Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“But you wanted to kill him.” She made it a statement, to see if he would deny it.
To her surprise he said, “Hell, yes! I watched him kill a kid I’ve spent the past five months getting to know and like. I wanted to murder the sonofabitch.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He huffed out a breath and leaned his broad shoulders across the conference table, moving aggressively into her space. “Look, Miss—whatever your name is—I was a soldier. I’ve killed men. And women. And—” He cut himself off. “I’ve killed enough people that I’ve lost count of—Haven’t wanted to count them,” he corrected. “I’ve killed often enough to know what it means to end a life. I don’t take that power lightly.
“So I didn’t kill the bastard. I caught him, and he’ll spend a few years in juvie and be out on the streets to kill again someday.”
“You sound angry.”
He lurched to his feet. “You’re damned right, I’m angry! This is bullshit. Are we done?”
“Yes, we’re done.”
He shot her the same wary look she’d seen on his face in the doorway. “What happens now?”
“I’ll make my report to your boss.”
He perched his fists on his hips. “Which is what?”
“You could benefit from further counseling.”
“In your opinion,” he said with a sneer.
“In my opinion,” she said, meeting his gaze with a steady look, even though she felt a frisson of … something … pass between them.
“Would that counseling be with you?”
“I’m available.”
“Really?” he said, the sneer becoming a leer.
Anna flushed. She should be immune to the sort of look she was getting from Agent Benedict. It was a form of attack, when the patient felt defenseless. “ICE makes my services available to anyone who needs them.”
“I don’t need them,” he said flatly. “Are we done?”
“We’re done.”
He stalked to the door, yanked it open and headed down the hall without looking back.
Anna released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. That is a dangerous man. The thought was disconcerting, considering the fact that she’d made up her mind to clear Agent Benedict for duty. However, she would recommend additional counseling.
She realized something else equally upsetting. She still desired him. Still imagined what it might be like to have him hold her in his arms. Still imagined being possessed by him.
Anna sighed. She’d been single too long. Alone too long. Human beings had a physiological need for sex that was as basic as their need for food, water and sleep. A need she realized she would have been happy to fulfill with Ben Benedict.
Unfortunately, if he became her patient, Agent Benedict would be off-limits as a potential sex partner. Anna was glad he’d shown such animosity for her. Sessions with him would have been fraught with inappropriate sexual tension.
Anna felt a fleeting moment of regret for what might have been. If his behavior today was anything to judge by, she wouldn’t be seeing Agent Benedict again.
10
“It isn’t easy being rich,” Ben said.
“Tell that to the next poor man you meet,” Waverly replied.
Ben changed gears in his bright red 1963 Jaguar E-Type Roadster and accelerated. He and Waverly had spent an exhausting afternoon filing reports on the gang killing with their respective law-enforcement agencies. Now they were racing to Waverly’s wedding rehearsal and dinner at one of the several homes owned by the bride’s family, a former plantation called Hamilton Farm southeast of Richmond.
Racing was probably the wrong word for how they’d left D.C. Crawling fit better. They’d gotten caught in the crush of traffic on I-95 South close to the city. Ben knew they’d never arrive on time unless he kept his foot on the gas now.
“You’re going to get a ticket,” Waverly warned.
“You can flash your badge and get me out of it.”
“Flash your own badge,” Waverly retorted.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Which is?”
“Being rich is a curse.”
Waverly snorted. “You’re not going to get any sympathy from me. I earn a living wage. Period. I’d give my left nut to have a car like this.” His hand brushed the black leather interior of the long-nosed, ragtop, six-figure Jag.
“After you marry my sister tomorrow afternoon,” Ben said, “you’ll be rich enough to afford any car you want.”
Waverly frowned. “I don’t want Julia’s money. If I didn’t love her so much, her family connections would have scared me off.”
“I had no idea when I introduced the two of you that you’d take one look at each other and go off the deep end. You’re not the kind of rich preppie she was used to dating. Which I suppose was the attraction,” Ben mused.
“I didn’t want to fall in love with her,” Waverly said, “for precisely that reason. There’s a lifetime of experience separating eighteen and thirty. And I’m a cop. I was afraid she would get tired of me and want to move on.”
Ben might have agreed that Waverly was right—that Julia was still a relative babe-in-the-woods—except she’d grown up with a senator for a father and a doyenne of the Washington social scene for a mother. Julia had probably experienced more socially and intellectually in her eighteen years than other women did in their entire lives.
And he knew for a fact that she’d been sexually active since she was fifteen, because she’d come to him for advice when he was home for a few days on leave from the army. He’d told her to wait, but she’d sworn she was in love forever. So he’d told her what he knew about the use of condoms and birth control pills.
Julia had been in love at least twice more, but he suspected she’d had more than two other sexual partners. So she probably had a pretty good idea what she liked in bed and what she was looking for in a man.
Ben had been as worried as Waverly at first that Julia would tire of him. But it hadn’t happened. Instead, she’d encouraged Waverly to propose. And he had.
“I guess if anything worries me, it’s that this is all happening in such a hurry,” Ben said. He eyed his friend and watched as Waverly shifted nervously. “Oh, shit. There’s a baby on the way.”
Waverly shot him a guilty glance. “We were being careful. The condom broke. But I’m glad she’s pregnant.”
“What about college? She’s already started the fall term at Georgetown.”
“She can still go.”
“Who’s going to take care of the baby?”
“We can get a babysitter.”
“You have any idea how much it costs for child care these days? For diapers and baby food? You have a one-bedroom apartment. You’re going to need a bigger place.”
“We can’t afford a bigger place right now, especially with the doctor’s bills,” Waverly said.
“You’re damned lucky Julia has money of her own.”
“Julia has agreed to live on my income,” Waverly said.
Ben shook his head. “How long do you think that’s going to last?”
“The rest of our lives.”
“Do you really think Julia can live without all the luxuries she’s grown up with? That she’ll want her child to grow up without a bedroom of his or her own? Even if Julia were willing, her parents won’t be.”
“Julia promised me she won’t ask her parents to buy her stuff once we’re married,” Waverly said.
“She won’t need to ask. All she’ll have to do is mention she needs something and Ham or my mother will get it for her. Which is a moot point, because Julia can buy anything she wants for herself in three years, when she turns twenty-one and inherits the fifty-million-dollar trust fund that’s waiting for her.”
“Fifty million?” Waverly blurted.
“I thought you knew.”
“She told me she had a little money coming when she turned twenty-one. I knew your family had money, but … She never said—Damn it all to hell!”
“I wish I’d never introduced the two of you,” Ben muttered.
“Don’t say that. I love her.” Waverly rubbed his palms dry on his tuxedo trousers. “I can’t believe this.” He stared at Ben, his eyes wide, as though they were ten thousand feet in the air and Ben had just told him both engines had flamed out.
“See what I mean?” Ben said. “Right now you’re thinking, ‘Why on earth would you take a regular job when you have that kind of money, Ben?’ Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” Waverly said. “Why did you take a regular job with that kind of money?”
“Just stupid, I guess,” Ben said.
After graduation from West Point, Ben had gone into the army. It had seemed romantic and exciting and challenging. It gave him something to do with his life.
Until the day came when he’d realized he couldn’t remain a soldier one more hour. That he had to quit.
But he’d lived as a soldier most of his life, in a family full of soldiers, and he’d felt surprisingly lost after he left the military. He’d needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He’d needed something useful to do with his life.
No one who needed to work simply to put food on the table or clothes on his back or a roof over his head could understand the utter emptiness—the unnecessariness—of a life where all those things were already provided.
Ben had thought about ridding himself of his wealth. But there were problems with that, too.
Ben grimaced when he heard a wailing siren and saw flashing red-and-blue lights in his rearview mirror. He carefully maneuvered his Jag through a slick pile of burnished leaves on the side of the road. They were less than ten miles from Hamilton Farm. “Don’t say it,” he said before Waverly could speak.
The Virginia motorcycle cop had a hand on his Glock as he approached the driver’s-side window. “License and registration,” he said.
Ben handed over his license and registration.
“Show him your badge, Ben,” Waverly said irritably. “You’ll be in trouble with your boss if you end up with a ticket for speeding.”
“What badge is that, sir?” the cop asked.
“Just write the ticket,” Ben said.
“What badge is that, sir?” the cop repeated.
Ben shot Waverly a dark look and pulled out his ICE badge. “You should ask him for his badge, too.”
The cop eyed Waverly, who said, “I’m MPD.”
“The senator’s been looking for you,” the cop said, as he handed back Ben’s license and registration. “I’ll give you an escort to The Farm.”
The cop pulled his Harley-Davidson out in front of Ben’s Jag and turned on his flashing lights and siren.
“Does this happen often?” Waverly asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Ben shot his friend a sardonic look. “Get used to it. Like I said. It isn’t easy being rich.”
He glanced at his friend and saw the dawning realization in Waverly’s eyes that when he married into Julia’s family, his life would take a drastic turn.
“Does Julia have to take the money?” Waverly said. “Can she turn it down?”
“You can’t get rid of my mother’s money. Or the senator’s money. Neither Julia—nor your child—will ever want for anything if they can help it.”
“I intend to support my family myself,” Waverly said through tight jaws.
“Good luck telling Julia’s parents to butt out of your life,” Ben said as they entered the half-mile-long, oak-tree-lined drive along the James River that led to The Farm.
“I plan to do just that,” Waverly said. “Tonight.”
Ben grinned as the elegant Southern mansion came into view. “This I have to see.”
11
“You’re late.”
“Hello, Ham,” Ben said, shaking hands with his mother’s second husband.
Randolph Cornelius Hamilton, III, met them in the wild-rose-wallpapered foyer of The Farm with a bourbon in hand. His glazed eyes and slurred voice suggested he’d already had a few.
