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In the mirror of her dresser, he caught her reflection. Her back was to him and she had already shucked her gown. The glimpse of her totally naked, pale light from the window bathing her in its soft glow, nearly did him in. With a major effort, he pulled the door shut and closed off the sight.
Rubbing a hand harshly over his face, Clay attempted to erase the tactile memory of her lips on his, the vision of her nude and the raspy sound of her sleepy voice when she had murmured his name. Waking dreams weren’t that easy to banish.
The real nightmare they faced ought to do it, but it didn’t.
Two hours later, Clay stood in the background and remained silent while Vanessa spoke with the Eastern Band chief, the sheriff and three deputies.
He noted how she laid out her plans for the bomb search as if they were only suggestions, then carefully listened to everyone who wanted to give input. She nodded and made changes on her notes.
“You are certain James Hightower is the man responsible?” the sheriff asked.
“No proof yet, sir,” she answered. “But he is the most viable suspect at this point. We need to find and interview him at any rate.”
He detected no patronization on either her part, due to the fact that she was FBI, or on theirs, because most were her elders and had probably known her as a child. Her quiet deference surprised him a little. Their obvious respect for her did, too. This was a matriarchal society, but guys the world over were well-known for wanting to control the ball no matter what history dictated.
“Vanessa’s blessed,” a quiet voice said in a confidential whisper. Clay turned slightly and saw the stern visage of Lance Biggins, one of the senior deputies who stood beside him at the back of the room.
“How so?” Clay asked.
“Look at her,” Biggins suggested. “We haven’t seen a woman like her since Nancy Ward.”
Clay was familiar with the tales surrounding the Cherokee heroine from the early nineteenth century who’d taken up arms for the People. “That’s some comparison,” he commented.
“Yeah, Van’s quite a girl. Even back in grade school, nobody messed with her. She’d kick your butt in a heartbeat.”
Clay smiled. Apparently, the deputy was still nurturing a schoolboy crush combined with a heavy dose of heroine worship. “I hear she still kicks.”
Biggins nodded, pursing his lips. He looked straight at Clay then with a warning in his jet-black eyes. “So don’t mess with her. Okay?”
Clay turned back to watch Vanessa and decided not to answer. He had already sort of messed with her and maybe he needed a butt-kicking for it, but it wouldn’t be by this guy.
He understood Biggins’s protective urge, though. Clay felt the same way about her and imagined most men did, especially those she was conversing with right now.
They might look on her as blessed somehow, given the number of her recent narrow escapes, but no one discounted the possibility that she might take one chance too many and the gods would cease to smile.
Vanessa continued with her proposal for the manhunt. Clay noted the sheriff’s reluctance to commit all his resources to searching for Hightower. His response to Vanessa’s suggestions was cool. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree, either.
Clay sauntered to the front where Vanessa and the sheriff were standing, going over the plans. “You have doubts, sir?” Clay asked, since Vanessa was barreling ahead with her orders as if she had full backing already.
The dark, fathomless eyes of the older man examined Clay’s curious expression, probably for any antipathy. Clay felt none of that. The sheriff seemed capable enough, just hesitant. Vanessa paused, too, when Clay asked the question. Both waited for the sheriff to speak.
He took his time, worried his upper lip with one finger for a minute, then shook it at Vanessa. “You were responsible for Hightower’s arrest before. We know he got much less time than you thought he deserved for what he did. Now you seem to have convicted him of these bombings already. Suppose he’s not the one you should be after.”
Vanessa blew out a breath of frustration, then shook her head. “Sheriff, I know he’s the one. Who else would be doing this?”
“There were a couple of guests at the casino who might have been targets that had nothing to do with Hightower. As a matter of fact, we know they are loosely tied to organized crime here in the South. I think they were hoping to muscle in on our action, or at least check it out to see if it was worth their while. They certainly have enemies within their organizations. I asked your people to pursue that line of investigation since it falls within the Bureau’s domain.”
“That’s in the works,” she assured him. “But it’s considered a real long shot, Sheriff. I’m telling you, James Hightower has plenty of reason to do something like this and he did. I’m sure of it.”
The sheriff pursed his lips and inclined his head. “Okay, I’ll give you the manpower to do the search, but let’s try to keep an open mind. Hightower’s got no business being back here on the Boundary anyway, but unless you can prove he’s committed some crime, all we can do is send him packing. Even that will take some doing.”
Clay could see Vanessa working up to an argument and quickly intervened before she could let it fly. “Thank you, Sheriff, that will be fine. Just catch him and let us question him. We’ll take it from there.”
The sheriff raised a dark brow and gave Clay another once-over. “You are convinced he’s our man? Do you have some information you haven’t shared?”
“No,” Clay admitted, “but Agent Walker’s concerns seem legitimate to me. We need to find this man and we need your help.”
He nodded. “All right, but I can’t commit every man available. I’ll give you six deputies and three cars.”
Vanessa looked outraged, but she knew when to hold her tongue. She realized that was as much cooperation as she was going to get. Clay added prudence and self-control to her attributes and would mention those in his report on her to Mercier. She also knew how to make do.
It was sometimes necessary in the business to work with what you had and make the most of it. Bureaucracy and limited manpower and funding often altered an operation and agents had to adjust and compensate for that.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said, schooling her features into a more pleasant expression. “We appreciate it.”
Clay wanted to reassure her. He kept getting the urge to do that for some reason. Why? She was just as capable of understanding all the ramifications of this op as he was. Why was he seeing vulnerability in her that probably didn’t even exist?
She began laying out a plan for the use of the limited resources available to her.
If he had his way, she would become a great addition to COMPASS, and Mercier would be thanking Clay for his assessment before James Hightower even came to trial. And he would, Clay thought. Vanessa would get her man one way or another. For what it was worth, her gut hunch about Hightower seemed right on the money to him.
He just hoped for all he was worth that personal prejudice wasn’t creeping into his evaluation of Vanessa. The pride he felt in her didn’t seem wholly of the professional variety and it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He truly liked her as a person and that was okay. But he was also powerfully attracted to her as a woman. And that was not okay. He would need to ignore that. If he could.
She nodded to the sheriff and the others who were present, thanked them again, then closed her notebook. “Okay, that does it. Sheriff, if you will divide up the search teams and assign areas to be canvassed, I’d appreciate it.” She turned to Clay. “You and I are on the radio and will act as control. That okay with you?”
Clay shrugged and followed her out the door, closing it behind them. “It’s your op. I’m just here to advise and lend a hand.”
“And grade me,” she added with a wry grin. “They’re setting up a small conference room over at City Hall for a command post. I asked one of the deputies to outfit it with maps, get a copy of James’s trial transcript and mark where his possible targets live and work. The EOD and other visiting personnel can use the place to coordinate.”
“A-plus, so far,” Clay told her. “I like the way you handled everything, how you interface with local authorities.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t handling them if that’s what you think. They’re wise people with good ideas. It pays to listen and learn, even when you don’t fully agree. I do wish the sheriff had bought into this a little more, however. We’re going to be stretched pretty thin.”
“You show respect where it’s due,” he said with a smile. “I like that.”
She replied with a succinct bob of her head. “Now, if you want, I’ll take you to Karen’s Kitchen and we’ll get some breakfast. I’m starved.”
He followed her out to the car and got in. “Don’t tell me. Karen’s another cousin of yours?”
She hopped in the driver’s side and slammed the door. “Nope, but she cooks the best hominy you ever had.”
“Hominy? Is that like grits?” Clay wasn’t sure he wanted a taste of that, but Van hadn’t led him wrong so far when it came to food. “I’m going to need some way to work out,” he told her. “If I don’t watch it, I’ll soon be too overweight to keep up with you.”
“We’ll run off some calories this evening,” she promised, wheeling the Explorer to the left and crossing the bridge to the other side of town. “Nothing like hauling it around a mountain for about five miles to keep trim.”
“Five miles?” He wanted to wheeze already. Because of his Seattle assignment, it had been over a week since his last run and he felt out of shape.
“Don’t tell me you’re a candy-ass, Senate,” she teased, laughter sparkling in her dark eyes as she looked over at him. “I had you pegged for going at it nonstop until I cried for mercy.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed at the picture her words painted. He surely didn’t need that image in his head.
“About the grits or whatever it is,” he muttered, trying to change the subject before he betrayed what he was imagining. “What else is on the menu?”
She laughed merrily and wheeled into the parking lot of a glass-fronted diner. With a flourish, she pushed the gearshift into park and sat back, looking at him with an impish expression. “C’mon, man, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Okay, okay, I’m working up to it,” he said, feigning resignation. He liked it when she snickered. Or when she frowned. Or when she looked pensive or delighted or disgusted or uncertain.
Lord, he was in trouble and hadn’t a clue how to avoid the train wreck that was certain to happen when they both stopped fighting whatever this was arcing between them like summer lightning.
The search that day netted nothing. Clay had hoped against hope they would find Hightower, he would confess and this would be over. Then he could go back to McLean and give his report. If he stayed much longer, he knew there would be trouble that had nothing to do with the job. And everything to do with it.
The Walkers made him feel welcome that evening, treating him exactly as they would a member of the family instead of a guest. They obviously didn’t know any other way. He ran with Vanessa, marveling at her endurance. How could she look so damn fragile and possess such strength? She just fascinated the hell out of him, though he was careful not to show it in any way. But his dreams that night drove him crazy.
When morning came, he found himself in the midst of a family gathering that started immediately after breakfast and looked as if it might last all day.
Clay stood on the back deck of the Walkers’ home feeling totally out of place. The house and yard had filled with family. They were celebrating a month’s worth of birthdays all at once. Apparently, this was a tradition. He had counted three cakes on the kitchen table before he’d been gently ousted by the women and herded outside.
Poor Vanessa seemed to be everywhere at once, looking harried but happy. She looked about fifteen in her low-slung jeans, orange tank top and short denim jacket. Her long dark hair, usually confined in that sedate little bun, was caught up in a ponytail today.
Clay had watched her dart across the yard hauling a tray of meat for her grandfather to put on his grill, then dash back inside to help her grandmother and the other women.
She had been pausing frequently, as she was doing right now, to carry on cell-phone conversations with the search teams looking for Hightower and the explosives. She frowned as she tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket and hurried over to him for the current report.
“Still nothing,” she told him. “You know what I think?”
“That he’s deliberately waiting until the last minute?” Clay guessed.
She drew her dark brows together. “You think so, too?”
Clay shrugged. “In his place, that’s what I would do. Wait until everybody stops looking. By that time, you won’t have much credibility left with the locals. He’s letting you cry wolf.”
She pounded a fist in her palm. “Dammit, I’m playing right into his hands. But how can I not order searches when we know he’s got the C-4? There are so many places he could plant it. The concessions, the exhibits, even turtle-shell rattles carried by the dancers! Who knows where he’ll choose?”
“Want a suggestion?” Clay asked, planning to give it anyway.
She nodded enthusiastically since she wasn’t a prima donna who insisted on calling all the shots. He really appreciated a woman who was willing to listen.
“Use the Explosive Ordinance Disposal teams to search the vehicles, homes and workplaces of those involved in his trial and conviction. He’ll set those first. Do the fair only after everything’s set up and ready to go.”
“That’s pretty much what they’re doing now, except that I asked them to go ahead and clear the bleachers.” She shifted from one foot to the other, obviously antsy. “I should be over there, doing something myself.” She threw up her hands in frustration.
“Not today. Not unless they find something.” Clay handed her a soft drink from the cooler on the deck. “Here. If you hover, they’ll be insulted and feel like you think they don’t know what they’re doing.”
She was already nodding, muttering the word delegate to herself. Clay smiled, knowing that was her weakest point, the ability to relinquish even a little control. But she was working on it.
Her cousin, Cody, wandered over. “What are you two looking so grim about? Am I interrupting something?”
“You live to interrupt things,” Vanessa teased. Laughing slyly, she poked his concave chest with her finger. “Look at him. He’s got a coyote-mischief look on his face, doesn’t he? That wicked, sneaky little look!” She poked him again, harder, then handed Clay her drink can. “I can still take you, cuz. Show me what you got!” She backed off and beckoned, taunting him. “Scared of little girls, cuz…zin?”
To Clay’s surprise, Cody rushed her. She grabbed his arm and, using his momentum, flipped him neatly onto the grass. He rolled to his feet growling in mock anger and rushed her again. They fell in a heap, laughing like loons.
Clay cleared his throat and looked away, checking to see what her grandfather and the others milling about the yard thought of the horseplay. He didn’t much like it himself. Undignified, he thought. Then he wondered if that was really what he thought. Maybe he just didn’t like seeing her make physical contact with another guy, especially one who seemed to be enjoying it so much.
Cody Walker was whipcord lean, not much taller than Vanessa and they were pretty well matched physically. Still, Clay didn’t like how the man had grabbed for her as if he meant business. Twice. Because of his own size, Clay was used to pulling his punches when he trained with women. He avoided doing so whenever possible.
“How about you, cowboy?” she asked him, jumping to her feet, dusting the grass off her jeans. “How’s your hand-to-hand?”
Clay pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow as he assessed her size. “I’ll pass. It wouldn’t be much of a contest.”
“Ah, come on, scaredy-cat. Give it your best shot,” she said. “Afraid to get those new jeans dirty? Or are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” She was biting her bottom lip and grinning. “You lead such a sedentary life, Senate! How do you keep your job?”
Clay grabbed for her, intending to toss her over his shoulder and show her how easily he could overpower and sweep her off her feet.
She ducked, whirled one leg, hit the backs of his knees and, in a blink, was on top of him with the heel of her hand right under his nose. With a sharp shove, she could have easily embedded the bones of it into his brain. He looked up at her and smiled. “Uncle.”
With a roll of her eyes, she got up. “Well, you’re no fun at all!” She shook her head in disgust. “And I am not paying any taxes ever again if you’re the best the government can hire.”
They had drawn quite a crowd. A snickering, pointing crowd. Clay thought maybe he’d better get into the spirit of the thing before he dishonored male agents everywhere.
He slowly rose to his feet, gave her fair warning, then went for her again. This time, he figured precisely what she would do, blocked her move and had her over his shoulder in less than a second. She cried out as if wounded. Clay quickly set her on her feet to see if he had really hurt her and found himself flat on his back before he knew what had happened.
She pranced comically around the yard, preening in her victory, bowing low to the boos and cries of “Unfair!”
Clay was laughing at her antics along with the others, not minding at all that his jeans were grass-stained and the sleeve of his shirt was ripped. “This is worse than touch football,” he complained.
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