Facing It (3 page)

Shivering, Harrell Beecham stepped from yet another cold shower and grabbed a towel. He rubbed the water and gooseflesh from his skin. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could stand. Sharing a bed, a bathroom, hell, the freaking
house
with Jennifer much longer was going to kill him.

Pretending to be her husband, getting to touch her when they were out socially, then having to revert to the reality of professional distance was slowly driving him out of his ever-lovin’ mind. He should be able to draw hazardous duty pay for this assignment.

He toweled the excess moisture from his hair and dressed quickly—brown suit, blue shirt, no tie. Too bad he couldn’t claim he needed to be at work early for the housekeeper’s benefit and slip out before Jennifer returned from her morning run. She’d want to discuss her surveillance of the Chason house, although nothing ever changed there and hadn’t for the past six months, before he left for his day pretending to be an up-and-coming businessman in Charleston.

The scent of just-perked coffee filled the luxurious home’s lower floor. When he entered the state-of-the-art kitchen, Teresa, their live-in housekeeper and the reason he was trapped sharing a platonic bed with Jennifer, bustled about fixing breakfast. She smiled at him. “Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“Morning, Teresa.” He poured a cup of coffee and glanced involuntarily toward the French doors that opened onto the patio. Sure enough, Jennifer was there already, clad in her running shorts and tank top, her long bare legs toned and tanned. God, what he wouldn’t give to be between those thighs…

No, that wasn’t true. He wouldn’t give his career with the FBI, or Jennifer’s. He wouldn’t sacrifice her respect as his partner or the easy give-and-take friendship of that partnership. That was exactly why he was going to keep his pants zipped and his raging lust for his partner under control.

“I’ll take that out, Teresa.” He added his mug to the heavy tray and lifted it, smiling at the maid as she held the door open.

“Good morning, darling,” he greeted Jennifer and settled the tray on the table. Leaning over, he brushed his mouth over hers, for Teresa’s benefit, because the door remained open behind him, he told himself. Under his lips, Jennifer’s were warm and soft, supple and mobile. Desire tingled to life in his groin; he squashed it ruthlessly. “How was your run?”

“Very nice.” Her sleek blonde ponytail bobbed as she leaned forward to pick up a muffin. “But I didn’t see our chickadees this morning. I hope they haven’t flown away somewhere.”

Unease shivered over Harrell’s skin but he refused to look toward the house next door. They’d been watching the Chasons, particularly Stephen Chason for months now. The man had left town, supposedly on business, two days ago. But if his wife, whom he controlled like a puppet, was gone, did that mean Chason was on to them?

Harrell sipped at his coffee. “Maybe they’re off looking for food, hon. Doesn’t mean they’ve gone anywhere permanently.”

“Hmm.” Jennifer shrugged, her bright hazel eyes flickering to his. “I’ll go for a walk later, see if I spot them about the neighborhood. Plus I wanted to drop in on Ruthie, see if she’d like to go shopping with me.”

Bustling onto the patio with a plate of fresh fruit, Teresa clucked at Jennifer’s words. “Not likely, Mrs. Beauchamp. You know Mr. Chason. That man keeps a tight rein on Mrs. Chason. The things Lorna says about that house.” Teresa shook her head as she turned toward the door. “And those children, having to be quiet as little mice all the time. Poor things.”

Frustration tightened Jennifer’s pretty, full mouth, a familiar annoyance Harrell knew well. She didn’t like the situation Ruthie Chason lived in, hated that they had to watch and couldn’t do anything to help her or the children. Harrell could empathize—he’d been shocked to realize Chason’s wife was the sister of an agent he’d attended Quantico with, worked alongside in the FBI’s Organized Crime Division, considered a friend. Somehow, he knew Tick Calvert, now working with a small sheriff’s department in his Georgia hometown, wouldn’t appreciate Harrell knowing Ruthie lived in hell and not doing anything about it.

“Well, I’m going to shower.” Jennifer unfolded herself from the chair and stretched. Harrell glanced away from the sleek perfection of her body. My God, the woman was in fantastic shape. She leaned over to drop a kiss at the corner of his mouth; he gripped the chair arms to keep from dragging her onto his lap and exploring every last inch of that gorgeous mouth of hers. “I know you’re going in early. I’ll look for our little birdie friends… If I don’t find them, I’ll give you a call on your cell.”

He’d barely made it to the end of the street that led to their cul-de-sac when said cellular phone rang, his caller ID displaying Jennifer’s encrypted line. “Beecham.”

“Beech?” Stress tightened Jennifer’s rich voice. “They’re gone.”

“You’re sure?” He slowed for the stop sign.

“Definitely. Her car’s gone, the housekeeper isn’t there. This isn’t good, partner.”

“Maybe she just went for groceries or something.” One could hope anyway. If she truly had given them the slip…this might not be pretty.

“Right. If she’s out of milk, she calls for delivery, remember? The woman doesn’t go anywhere without Chason’s permission. Besides, yesterday’s mail is still in the box and today’s paper is on the front step. I’m telling you, she’s gone.”

“Okay.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Let’s give it an hour. If she doesn’t come back, you call me and I’ll come home. In the meantime, I’ll get a bulletin out on her vehicle.”

Goddamn, he really hoped Ruthie hadn’t finally defied the controlling son of a bitch and instead had only run out for a gallon of milk while Chason was gone. For some reason, the idea of Ruthie Calvert Chason as a wild card made him really,
really
nervous.

Curled into one end of the plush leather couch in Beecham’s home office, she tucked her feet under her and eyed the phone on the big mahogany desk. As he’d promised, once Ruthie Chason failed to return, Beecham had come back to the house. Now they were embroiled in a quiet, doors-closed conference call with their supervising agent, Greg Weston.

“Well, she’s not with Chason in Virginia Beach.” The speakerphone made Weston sound as if he were speaking at the end of a tunnel. “The agents there have visually confirmed he’s still at the hotel.”

“Wonder if he knows she’s gone,” Jennifer mused. She didn’t see how he couldn’t. The man kept tighter tabs on his wife than the federal government did known terrorist groups. The level of his control over Ruthie made Jennifer’s skin creep with nerves. She glanced sideways at Beecham, elbows on the polished desk, head bent, face buried in his hands. The taut line of his shoulders screamed with tension. She would almost bet she knew what was going through his head—he was berating himself for this perceived failure.

“Any idea where she is, Harrell?” Weston asked, his voice grim. Jennifer sloughed off a hint of pique that he seemed to be ignoring her. Beecham was the senior agent in their partnership, and he and Weston had a long working relationship. Besides, Weston’s disdain toward female agents in the FBI wasn’t exactly a state secret either.

“My guess?” Beecham lifted his head, his blue eyes narrowed. “She’ll go to Calvert for help. She’ll think Chason would look at her mother’s first, and she’s probably right. She knows Tick would help her.”

“Right. Good thinking. We’ll do an initial sweep with him. I’ll put in a call to the Albany office—”

“No.” Beecham shook his head. “Tallahassee or Thomasville. Calvert’s wife is at the Albany office, remember?”

“You think he’ll be uncooperative?”

“You know he plays his cards close to his chest, Greg. I don’t think we’ll get a lot out of him on initial contact.”

“Tell you what, then. No point in you two being there if she’s gone. We’ve got Chason covered in Virginia. Keep the cover intact, but make arrangements to fly into Albany, head down to that hole-in-the-wall county of Calvert’s so you can talk to him. He might be more willing to open up to you, Harrell, if the initial dialogue doesn’t go well.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Beecham muttered out of Weston’s range, then lifted his voice. “Will do. Keep us posted on Chason, Greg.”

He reached over, lifted the receiver and let it drop to end the call. Again, he rested his face in his hands, blowing out a long breath.

Jennifer frowned. “Why are you so worried?”

“If she’s gone to Calvert, that could be a problem.” His words emerged tight and muffled.

“Why?” Jennifer shrugged. “He used to be one of us. He knows how things work.”

Beecham lifted his head, a wry expression twisting his face. “She’s family. You don’t know what that means to this guy. He’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, even if that’s counter to our objective.” He cleared his throat. “Which it probably will be. And Tick Calvert as an unknown? Not a good thing.”

Jennifer slipped to her feet with a stretch. “So I guess I need to pack?”

He nodded and reached for the phone. “Seems like we’re off on a spur-of-the-moment trip.”

She opened the door and pitched her voice a tad higher. “I’ll pack a bag for you too, honey.” He grimaced at the endearment and she grinned. She used them whenever she could, just because it seemed to get under his skin. Ruffling her partner’s eternally calm exterior was one perk of this undercover gig. She winked at him. “Should I throw in my little black nightie?”

Beecham rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, baby, you know I love when you wear that.”

Teresa was dusting at the end of the hall. Jennifer rested an arm along the open door and struck a sex-kitten pose. “You love taking it off, you mean.”

Beecham waved her toward the hall. “Let me book our flight. Go pack.”

Blowing him a kiss, she sauntered to the stairs. An image lingered in her brain, of the nonexistent black scrap of lace, of Beecham’s hands sweeping it from her body. Ruffling his composure was a perk of the gig—having to live with him while her jones for him got stronger every day was not. She’d been drawn to Beecham’s quiet, steady persona from day one—he’d soothed her rookie-agent nerves and over the last two years, they’d settled into a strong working bond and even forged a relative friendship of sorts, although she knew far less about his personal life than her colleagues knew about their partners.

Living with him for nearly a year? He’d gotten under her skin, big time. She’d found herself drawn into the role-playing with a vengeance, using every opportunity she received to touch the warmth of his skin, to tousle his wavy auburn hair, to kiss his hard lips.

Upstairs, she pulled two carry-on bags from the huge walk-in closet. Her instincts whispered that the Chason case was about to break wide-open, with Ruthie’s disappearance serving as the catalyst. The agent side of her tingled with anticipation. The female part of her who’d gotten used to living with Harrell Beecham day in and day out cringed with dread. How was she supposed to go back to being simply his partner?

And what if she couldn’t? She was damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. Either way, it looked like she just might lose Beecham for good.

Tick leaned back in his desk chair, the ancient springs squawking, and watched as his fellow sheriff’s investigator Mark Cook perused the black leather ledger. Cookie pursed his lips and blew out a long, low whistle. “This guy’s smart. Doing it the old fashioned way too. No computer records to trace.”

“Yeah.” Tick rubbed a hand down his face, feeling the lack of sleep, reliving for a moment the shock of having his uncommunicative sister turn up on his doorstep at one in the morning. “And Ruthie’s right. He’d probably kill her over those.”

“If not for leaving him.” Cookie tossed the ledger on Tick’s desk. “Wish you hadn’t told me, though.”

Surprised, Tick quirked an eyebrow at him. He told the other man almost everything, did tell him everything in a professional sense. “Why?”

“Because now I have to
not
tell Tori.”

Tick grimaced at the mention of his other sister—and Cookie’s fiancé. Almost a year into the relationship, Tick was still getting accustomed to the fact that his partner was going to be his brother-in-law. It was good, though. The relationship seemed to be standing up to the test of time and stress, and even he had to admit the pair seemed good for one another, despite his initial misgivings.

Cookie gestured at the book. “So what are you going to do with that?”

Tick shrugged. “Still trying to decide. If Stephen is on the FBI’s radar at the Organized Crime Division, and from some of the names in there, I’d say that’s likely, then it’s equally likely someone may show up here.”

A tap sounded at the door. Tick lifted the ledger and stowed it in his desk drawer. “It’s open.”

Troy Lee, one of their younger deputies, stuck his head inside. “Hey, Tick, you’ve got visitors at the front desk. A pair of Feds.”

“Show them to the conference room.” A grin pulled at his mouth and Tick gave Cookie a knowing look. “What did I tell you?”

Cookie trailed him to the conference room with its makeshift, mismatched furniture. Two somber-suited men waited inside, their posture tight and stiff. Handshakes all around followed introductions as Agents Lewis and Freeman of the Tallahassee office tried to appear approachable. Tick waved them to sit. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Freeman folded his hands atop the scarred wooden table. “We need to know if you’ve had recent contact with your sister Ruth Ann Chason.”

“Why would I? She doesn’t stay in close communication with the family. Besides, why would the FBI be interested in my dealings with my sister?”

The two agents exchanged a glance. “It’s possible she may have information relevant to an open case at the Organized Crime Division.”

Tick feigned surprise. He leaned back, arms folded behind his head. “Really. An open OCD case. Care to share the details?”

“You know we can’t do that.”

“Then I’m afraid I really can’t help you.”

Another terse look between the two Feds. Freeman pulled a card from his wallet. “Please call if she does contact you.”

Tick and Cookie stood as the two agents exited the room. Tick leaned against the table and folded his arms over his chest. He sighed. “They gave up too easy and they didn’t try to work me. I’ll have a tail by the end of the day.”

Cookie nodded. “Yeah.”

“And next Stephen will show up.” His voice came out grim and tight. He was actually looking forward to that little interlude.

With a frown, Cookie shrugged. “Why not just tell them what she has? Obviously, they’re interested in what he’s doing.”

Tick slanted a look at him. “Because. I wasn’t a Fibbie for ten years for nothing. Those ledgers are Ruthie’s ace in the hole and I’m not ready to trump it yet. Besides, I only want to share those with someone I trust.”

Three hours into the trip, they stopped in Waycross for food, a rest stop, and the clothing and supplies Ruthie would need for the children. Chris chose the relative anonymity of a large retail discount store where they could handle all those needs in one trip. Inside, Ruthie settled Ainsley in the child seat of a buggy and lifted Camille to ride in the cart. John Robert trailed alongside, a hand on the metal as if he was afraid his mother and sisters would disappear if he let go.

As Ruthie went up and down the wide aisles, Chris walked behind, watching as she chose lesser-priced items and forewent others. Mentally tallying money. He caught up to stand beside her, on the side opposite John Robert. He placed a hand on the cart handle to slow her down but didn’t touch her.

“Stop worrying about money,” he whispered, low enough he hoped the children couldn’t hear. A slight frown wrinkling her smooth brow, she turned inscrutable eyes up to him. “Tick figured you’d need some stuff. He gave me enough cash to take care of it. Just get what you think they’ll need.”

Something indefinable—discomfiture, maybe—tightened her expression, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

He released his hold on the cart. Yeah, no short supply of Calvert pride there. She didn’t like the idea of being beholden to anyone, even her brother. She was strong—he could see it in the regal carriage of her tall, graceful frame, the way she held her head. How had this woman ended up in the situation Tick described—cowed, controlled, conquered by the son of a bitch she’d married?

Chris shook his head. Appearances could be deceiving and love—or what masqueraded as love—made a person do strange things. Hadn’t he learned that lesson well enough himself?

Ruthie lifted a thin pink sweater from a rack and held it aloft for Camille’s inspection. The little girl frowned over it for a second and nodded. Chris folded his arms over his chest. John Robert stood quietly to the side, his gaze trained on his mother’s face, and Ainsley clutched her battered stuffed rabbit, her thumb in her mouth. It had been a long morning, all of them crowded into his Jeep, but there’d been none of the “he’s touching me” or “you’re on my side” fussing he remembered from car trips he’d seen in movies. Now, in the store, they were quiet and incredibly well behaved. Nothing like the kids around them, he realized, as a mother two clothing racks over bribed her toddler with a sucker.

He thought about the handful of times he’d run into Ruthie’s brother Chuck and his brood of five at the grocery store. Chuck and his wife kept their kids in line, but they were a noisy, chatty little group with more than their share of mischief. Tick’s boy, at about a year old, was a handful too, and Chris had witnessed more than once the easy way Tick and Caitlin were trying to mold his already headstrong nature. In contrast, Ruthie’s children were
too
well behaved. No whining, no fussing, just an eerie children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard perfection. It made him nervous.

Ruthie was that quiet too. She’d barely said two words to him once they’d left Tick’s. He frowned. Actually, the only times she’d spoken had been in response to his questions, which granted were few and far between. Unlike Troy Lee and the others, he wasn’t much of a talker, which got him ragged constantly around the department as the “strong, silent type”. So he was quiet. He just didn’t see a point in talking unless he had something to say. His old man had been the same way.

But Ruthie’s silence spoke more of withdrawal, a turning inward of a strong personality. What had she been like before she’d married the bastard who was her husband? Bright and sparkling with laughter and conversation like her little sister Tori, maybe? Now there was a Calvert who never stopped chattering.

He tilted his head, watching Ruthie as she selected jeans in both little girls’ sizes and placed them in the cart. She looked like Tori, that was for sure. Although, where Tori’s sunny personality shone in her eyes and face, emphasizing her natural beauty, Ruthie’s isolation seemed to overshadow hers, so that someone not looking for the innate loveliness of her might miss it completely.

And she was beautiful, with strong features framed by thick strands of black hair that had escaped her loose topknot and balanced by big brown eyes and a wide, full mouth.