Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) (25 page)

She flinched and looked down.

Curt stood. “Look, I know you lost your dad when you were young, and that led to some…issues…but you can’t continue idolizing every man you meet. Most men are pricks. Present company included.”

She glanced up at him. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. “I only idolize the ones who fly halfway around the world to save me from a firing squad.”

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I don’t deserve it.” He pulled her into his arms and sighed, hating what he had to tell her next. “You should know, the money in your account came from your uncle.”

Her beautiful eyes widened in shock. “Uncle Andrew deposited a half-million dollars in my bank account? Why would he do that?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I haven’t seen or spoken with him in months.”

“Aurora thinks he paid you to get me disbarred.”

Her gaze hardened, and she stiffened in his arms. “Screw you,” she said, trying to wriggle from his grasp. “I was horrified when I learned my boyfriend had been paid to seduce me. I would never—”

“I didn’t say I agreed with her. But you should know, your account is frozen pending investigation. If nothing comes up, then there may not be any legal reason you can’t keep the money.”

“I wouldn’t keep it. I highly doubt Uncle Andrew has that much money to spare. His legal bills must be astronomical.”

He’d been wavering between sympathy and frustration, but the concern in her voice for her scumbag uncle pushed him over the tipping point. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand how you can cling to belief in your uncle in spite of all the evidence against him.” He backed her up against the SUV until they were nose to nose. “He’s chief of operations of Raptor, and Raptor operatives are trying to
kill
you. They killed Roddy, shot at you, and killed Eric Fuller. I’ve just explained to you how he used his power and influence to buy your way into Stanford. I’ve pointed out the payoff he got from Raptor and how he sold weapons to a war criminal. He’s been using you and JPAC for years for dirty deals. And yet you’re concerned Andrew Stevens can’t afford to plant money in your account—money that makes you look like an accomplice?”

She clamped her jaw shut and glared at him. “You haven’t proven a damn thing. You’ve made a lot of broad accusations, but where is the body of evidence? Where is the smoking gun? If you could prove the arms deal, he’d have been indicted for it.”

“You found a smallpox bomb and then Roddy kidnapped you in North Korea. Do you really think that was a coincidence?” His voice rose as his anger reached new levels.

“And how the hell does that have anything to do with my uncle? That’s Raptor, through and through.”

“Your uncle works for Raptor! He owns one-fifth of the company!”

“So? That’s not a controlling interest. Sounds to me like Robert Beck is your real problem. Did you decide to go after my uncle because he was more famous than Beck? Are you so ambitious you don’t care if the defendant is guilty so long as he’s a big name?”

Her words sent ice down his spine. That she, of all people, could believe such a thing cut him to the core.

“No, Mara. I went after your uncle and not Robert Beck because I can prove—beyond a shadow of a doubt—your uncle destroyed files that had been subpoenaed. I’ve got him on the cover-up, and he was stupid for not rolling on Robert Beck. Because Beck has been my primary target all along.”

M
ARA WRAPPED HER
arms around her middle and shivered. “Can we hit the road again?”

Curt nodded, then reached to straighten a tie he wasn’t wearing. “I’m going to miss tomorrow anyway. Let’s find a motel. Get some decent sleep.”

“But we need to get back. The smallpox bomb—”

“Lee’s finding out what he can, and getting five or six hours of sleep won’t make much difference but will make for safer driving tomorrow.”

Her bones, or maybe it was her soul, ached as she climbed into the passenger seat. The interior heat hit her chilled skin and enveloped her in a cocooning warmth.

She was in a daze, reeling from all that Curt had told her. Had her uncle really used legislative bribes to get Stanford to admit her?

Why hadn’t she ever wondered about the miraculous scholarship? She’d just accepted it as her due. Her due. She was a self-pitying, self-absorbed teen who thought no one had ever had to deal with a trauma as bad as hers.

She’d been embarrassed, even ashamed, over the years as she healed, grew, and came to her senses. But none of that felt nearly like the shame she felt now.

Had she taken a scholarship from a more needy student? Stolen a spot in her class from someone who’d worked harder and deserved it more?

Or was Curt wrong? Maybe her essay and interview really had been brilliant, had proven her drive and brains and garnered her not only acceptance and a scholarship but also a plum job in the library, where she could study during her shift and was rarely bothered by students.

Oh shit.
Her Stanford-educated brain had to admit that when put that way, the math didn’t add up.

They reached an exit, and Curt left the interstate without comment. She pulled her knees to her chest as he passed two big-name motel chains to the center of the rural community. “I doubt they have by-the-hour motels here. We need a mom-and-pop place,” he said.

A few minutes later, he found a tiny, eight-room motel perched at the edge of the main road. The neon vacancy sign glowed like a beacon and looked like it dated to the 1950s—which had to be when the motel was built.

Together they approached the night window. He hit the buzzer. Was it less than twenty-four hours ago they’d done the same thing in Tucson? But then she’d been all over him. She’d wanted him, wanted to be his lover, even if only for an hour in a sleazy motel.

Now sex was the furthest thing from her mind.

Lights came on in the room beyond the window, and a boy—he couldn’t be more than twelve—appeared. He yawned and slid a piece of paper through a hole in the windowpane. “We’ve only got one room left.” His eyes drifted from Curt to Mara. “A single. That okay?” The question was cursory—the boy went through the motions of his job with the sleepy movements of an often-repeated task.

“Fine,” Curt said. “Cash okay?”

The boy nodded. “Just fill out the card and give your license plate. Fifty for the night.”

Curt slid a fifty-dollar bill through the window, and the boy passed him the key on a brown, diamond-shaped plastic keychain, the kind she remembered from her childhood, with the number eight printed on it. “Eight is on the end. Checkout is at noon.”

“Thanks,” Curt said and took Mara’s hand, sliding his fingers between hers.

What was his game? When was Curt the prosecutor and when was he a man?

She didn’t really need to ask that question. With the exception of a few minutes in Tucson, he was
always
a prosecutor.

The brass number eight was attached to the door with a loose center screw. The number lay on its side, defeated, or maybe the room represented infinity. She hoped to see endless possibilities beyond the solid wood portal, but when the door swung inside on creaky hinges, all she found was a motel room.

Old but clean, with a table, two chairs, a nightstand, and a bed. The full-size mattress suddenly looked even smaller than the V-berth bunk they’d shared…how many days ago? Days and crossed time zones made no sense anymore. Now she tracked the passing of time in miles.

And revelations.

She dropped the plastic bag filled with clothes purchased somewhere in Texas on the table and flopped onto the bed.

“Sorry there’s only the one bed,” Curt said as he unbuttoned his shirt. “But I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

Mara was exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but the last thing she expected to feel was a hint of anticipation as he peeled off his shirt. Her toes curled as each button revealed another patch of firm muscle. It was criminal how sexy this man was and shameful how titillated she was under the circumstances.

He caught her gaze. His eyes darkened, nostrils flared, and his hands slowed.

The air thickened. She took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into her lungs. “I’m so tired, I don’t care,” she lied, then darted into the tiny bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.

Her heart beat rapidly as she fought urges she could not, would not, give in to. After minutes of deep breathing, she found her composure and left the safety of the bathroom.

Curt was stretched out on the bed, all lights but the dim nightstand bulb extinguished. He rose and passed her, toothbrush in hand. She slid under the covers on the far side of the bed, presenting her back to the now empty room. A few minutes later, he joined her. The nightstand light went out with a click, and he slid under the covers, the old bed drooping under his greater weight.

She slid toward him. Really, it was gravity’s fault.

She didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the man beside her. From his breathing, she could tell he was battling the same preposterous desires.

Minutes passed. The ticking of the old clock did nothing to ease the tension. Instead the sound reminded her of the passing of time, and suddenly she felt like she was hurtling toward DC.

She’d been telling herself she’d be safe in DC, but now she questioned that assumption. The fear Robert Beck would inflict smallpox on an unsuspecting community merely for financial gain made her pain at Curt’s assertion she hadn’t really earned her spot at Stanford seem selfish and petty.

These thoughts twisted in her mind, and her anxiety intensified. It didn’t help that the blankets were thin and the night cold.

She turned to face the man who had saved her life and torn her world apart. The neon motel sign glowed behind the closed curtain, allowing enough light to discern his open eyes. “Go to sleep, Mara.”

“I’m cold.”

He let out a sigh and pulled her against him. She twisted so her back spooned against his front. Warmth seeped from his body to hers. His breath caressed her neck as his arms held her in a tight grip, and heat spread from her scalp to her feet. Curt’s arms represented safety. Something she’d been short on for far too long.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

M
ARA WOKE WITH
a jolt. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtain. A glance at the clock revealed she’d slept for six hours. The bed next to her was empty, but the sound of the shower told her Curt hadn’t abandoned her in this remote Oklahoma town.

The direction of her thoughts startled her. She had no reason to believe he would abandon her like her team had, but what would happen after she testified? Would she face the legal equivalent of wham, bam, thank you, ma’am? Her government would no longer need her, but what about Curt? Had he meant his flirtatious joke yesterday?

How would she feel about him if he succeeded in sending Uncle Andrew to prison?

The shower stopped. A quick glance around the room showed he’d taken all his belongings—including their cash, cell phone, and car keys, into the bathroom with him.

He didn’t trust her.

But had she ever given him reason to?

A minute later, the door opened and he appeared, wearing a towel around his hips and shaving cream on his face. Her heart gave a lurch at the casual intimacy. At some point on this ridiculous journey, the attraction had transformed from simple lust to something deeper.

No. She was just following her usual pattern—as he’d so deftly pointed out last night—and was idolizing him. There was nothing more to it than that. She cleared her throat. “I remembered something. About Egypt.”

He took a startled step forward, and the towel around his hips slipped an inch. “What?”

Did he have to have such amazing abs? She lifted her gaze, focused on the white cream on his jaw, and tried not to think about how good it would feel to have his hard body against hers. “Because he was no longer VP when my uncle came to Egypt, there wasn’t a press corps. No photographers. No fanfare.”

Curt nodded. “I knew that.”

“The photos, the ones that ended up on the AP wire, were taken with my camera.”