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“Okay, Regina. Now the million-dollar question.” Jordan’s fingers tightened, cutting off enough of her air to get her attention. “Why did my father send you his journal? And if it’s not the truth, I just might snap your beautiful little neck.”
Chapter Four (#uf6217199-d3b7-5a2e-9b1e-4af8bd88bf04)
“I have an…ability,” Regina whispered. She closed her eyes against the tears. From embarrassment more than fear. Jordan wouldn’t hurt her, otherwise, Chris would have never trusted him to help her. If she couldn’t put her faith in Jordan, she’d put her faith in the belief that Chris had known what he was doing.
“By ability, you mean a talent.” It was a statement, but when she tried to shake her head in disagreement, he tightened his grip.
“I don’t consider it a talent,” she whispered, fighting back the humiliation that came with being different. “I read something, one time—technical manuals, contracts, books, newspapers—anything with words. And it’s committed to memory.”
For a long moment he didn’t say anything, but his fingers didn’t loosen, either.
“Chris wanted you to memorize the journal,” Jordan stated. “But he must have known he would put you in danger.”
“Yes,” she said, “But he also sent you to protect me.”
“How many pages were in the journal?”
“Almost a hundred.”
“That would’ve taken someone what, a few days of hard studying, to memorize,” Jordan commented. “How long did it take you?”
“A little over two hours, but I read it twice to make sure I’d committed it to memory.”
Jordan loosened his hands and shifted sideways so he could look at her profile. “Two hours?”
“I can’t recite it to you, my head hurts too much.”
“That doesn’t tell me why I should believe you’re not involved with the people who killed him.”
Startled, she stiffened and tried to look at Jordan but he held her fast. “I thought a cocaine addict killed him?”
“That’s the official story. But we both know there was more to it.” Slowly, one of his thumbs stroked the nape of her neck.
A shiver made its way up her spine. But lord help her, it was from anticipation, rather than fear.
“Chris never told me he was the British Ambassador to the United States. I had no idea until after he died and his photograph was flashed all over the news.”
“That’s hard to believe, considering you read so much.”
“I haven’t reached the section on the modern politics of the United Kingdom, yet.”
“He told you he was British intelligence.”
“The point is, he didn’t tell me about his job, but he did tell me something once in confidence. Something about you. You were six. And it was a few weeks before Christmas. Chris said he was in Bangladesh at the time. Your mother mailed him a letter you’d written to Santa. One you had asked her to mail to the North Pole.”
Jordan’s hand dropped from her. He hadn’t thought about that letter in ages.
“He gave it to me a few weeks ago. At the same time he told me he was MI6. He’d carried the letter in his wallet all these years.”
Regina saw Jordan’s jaw working, the muscle flexing.
“Do you still have it?”
She shook her head. “It was in my jewelry box on my dresser.” She didn’t admit she took it out and read it almost every night.
“You know it word for word, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Dear Santa Claus, I went to get our tree today. Mother was busy, so I went with our chauffeur, Stephen. I saw so many kids with their parents. They all laughed together. It made my chest hurt. I’ve been good this year. Desperately good. So I’m asking just this once. Could you send my papa home for Christmas? Sincerely, Jordan Beck.”
Headache or not, she remembered every aspect of that letter. The painstakingly perfect lettering. The carefully folded creases.
“He never came.”
“He received the letter a week after Christmas,” Regina said. “And carried it in his wallet ever since.”
The silence was deafening, heavy.
“I’m sorry, Jordan. I didn’t mention it to be intrusive—”
“You didn’t intrude. It was a long time ago. I’d forgotten about the incident actually until you’d mentioned the letter.”
Suddenly, he stood in one fluid movement, putting distance between them. “If you’re well enough, we need to talk to a friend of mine. I’ll get you some aspirin on the way.”
That was it, no explanation, no apology. “Now?” She glanced at the nightstand. “It’s after ten. And we smell like we’ve been barbecued.”
“He’ll still be awake. And he’s smelled worse,” Jordan replied flatly.
“THE LIGHTS ARE OFF,” Regina whispered as they stepped out of Jordan’s car in front of a three-story Victorian house. Extinguished Christmas lights draped well-groomed hedges. The occasional bulb poked out from spots in the snow and a big plastic Santa with a bag full of toys stood smiling in the front lawn. The scent of neighboring chimneys filled the air. An ache squeezed her chest, catching her off guard.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, then waved it off. His face set in the hard line she’d learned to identify with his stubbornness.
“It’s just that this is what I always pictured Christmas to be. The lights, the fireplaces, the tree in the window. The silly, plastic North Poles littering the lawn.” Embarrassed, she climbed the porch stairs, grateful when Jordan said nothing.
“Are you sure—”
“They’re awake, Regina.”
The storm had broken, leaving the sweet scent of new snow, along with the chill of more to come. Regina hugged herself tighter in Jordan’s leather jacket.
Jordan wasn’t wearing more than his crew neck sweater and jeans, but the biting wind didn’t seem to bother him.
He pushed the doorbell, then paused only a moment before he pounded on the door a few times for good measure.
“Well, if they were sleeping, they’re up now,” Regina muttered.
“I told you—”
The porch light flipped on seconds before the door swung open.
“Jordan.” Ian MacAlister took the couple in with a quick glance. “You do realize what time it is.”
“I need your help, Ian.”
Regina noted the naked chest, the unbuttoned jeans and bare feet before Jordan grabbed her hand and tugged her with him into the house.
“You know damn well you have my help anytime you need it.” Ian shut the door behind them. No one would call Ian MacAlister ugly. Light brown hair, cropped military short, accented his broad features and laser blue eyes. “Next time, just give me a call when you’re on your way.”
“We woke you up.” Regina glared at Jordan. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacAlister, but Jordan insisted on coming over tonight.”
“You can stop glowering at me, Regina. We didn’t wake him up,” Jordan snapped. “They were probably—”
“We were just getting comfortable,” Ian cut off Jordan. The fact that he’d been roused from his bed while making love to Lara wasn’t the point. And it wasn’t like his friend to be so blunt.
“Sorry, Ian.” Jordan dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s been a long day.”
If he didn’t know his friend better, Ian would have sworn Jordan was…frazzled.
Ian covered his surprise with a dry cough. “It’s not me who’ll need the apology. You didn’t wake us, but you could have woken Clara. If that’s the case, you’ll have Lara to deal with.”
Ian took in the soiled clothes, the freshly ripped hole in Jordan’s jeans. The oversized leather jacket on Regina.
“You both smell like you’ve been cleaning chimneys.”
“We have good reason.” The tight, military stance Jordan took spoke volumes. Whatever brought his friend here was anything but good.
Jordan glanced around. “Where’s Lara?”
Always cautious, Ian walked to the wall unit and punched in the system code. “Lara is in the baby’s room, checking on her. She’ll be down in a minute. Why?” He thought about calling Lara, but knew if he woke the baby, he’d pay hell for it later. Life or death, his daughter was teething and for the first time in almost a week, Lara had gotten her down at a reasonable hour.
“I need your help. And hers. I have to locate an arms dealer in Labyrinth’s computer files.”
At one time both men worked for Labyrinth, a black ops division of the government. A year earlier, before Ian had retired after marrying Lara.
Jordan walked to the base of the circular staircase and looked up. “How long does it take to check a baby?”
“Have one yourself and you’ll find out,” Ian commented, drawing a chuckle from the woman.
Regina was mildly attractive in an unusual way. The soft cloud of brown hair, the small figure beneath the oversized coat. Light cardigan and slacks peaked out from the coat—their style shapeless on what he assumed was a petite figure.
Then suddenly, her eyes met his. Big, solemn—almost sleepy—hazel eyes. Ian froze, startled. Bedroom eyes. He let out a long, silent whistle.
Nothing mild about this woman at all, Ian corrected himself. She was beautiful.
“Why not use your own security to access the files?” Ian asked, keeping his gaze on the woman, more for the enjoyment than curiosity. He’d find out who she was soon enough.
She raised one delicate eyebrow. You think so?
Ian laughed, knowing he hadn’t spoken the words out loud.
Beautiful and clever.
“Let’s just say I retired, prematurely,” Jordan said, joining them once again.
“So your security’s been revoked,” Ian commented, breaking eye contact with the woman to question his friend. “By whom? Cain?”
“He and I disagreed about Chris’s death,” Jordan remarked. “That’s part of the reason why I need the files. As an instructor, Lara still has access to the Labyrinth databases, right?”
“Yes,” Ian replied slowly. “Everything except Cain’s personal files.”
“I’ll need her to keep this quiet.”
“From whom?”
“President Mercer.”
“You don’t want your investigation getting back to him,” Ian murmured, understanding. Lara was Jon Mercer’s daughter. “You know she won’t tell him if you ask her not to, Jordan. She loves you like a brother. But knowing what it might possibly do to her relationship with her father, are you willing to put her in that position?”
“I wouldn’t ask her if it wasn’t a life-and-death matter.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fact that you both look and smell like you’ve been to a fire?” Ian asked, rubbing the side of his nose.
“Someone torched Regina’s place today. With her tied up in it.”
“And you are Regina,” Ian stated, his mouth twitching.
“Yes,” she said, inclining her head in a short salute. “Regina Menlow.”
“So what does your attempted murder have to do with Chris Beck?”
“I was his mistress.”
“Bloody hell,” Jordan snapped, exasperated.
“You were?” Ian ignored his friend.
“Not really, but Jordan seems to think so. I figured I’d get it out there first. Doesn’t hurt so much when I say it.”
“Honest, aren’t you?” And tough, he thought.
“Painfully.”
“Painful for whom?” Ian glanced at Jordan, saw the flash of male frustration—the kind that came from fighting the inevitable.
Interesting.
Regina’s lips curved in amusement. “Believe it or not, more often for me. Jordan just happens to be the exception right now.”
