The Marriage Profile (17 page)

“Where do you think you're going?” Justin asked.

She paused, looked back at him. “To do my job. I have a list of properties to check out.”

“Not without me, you don't,” Justin informed her. He pulled the door to her condo shut.

“I just finished telling you that I don't need a bodyguard or a baby-sitter.”

“And you're not getting either. I'm doing my job, too. In case you've forgotten, this is my case. We'll take my truck,” he told her, and fished his keys out of the pocket of his jeans.

“You're in no condition to drive. Dr. O'Day said you needed to take it easy,” she argued.

“Then I won't drive,” he told her. “You will.” And he tossed the keys to Angela.

“I
warned you this would be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Justin told her as they called it a day and headed back to her condo.

“I still think we're on the right track. Otherwise, why would Del Brio have tried to have me killed?”

“It could have had something to do with the fact that you marched into the county clerk's office and asked for a listing of properties that he owned.”

“I also asked for a listing of all the ranches in the area that specialized in the training and breeding of horses,” she pointed out, then sighed at the give-me-a-break look he cast her way. “All right, so maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do. But I felt that if it would help us find Lena quickly, it would be worth the risk.”

“It would have been. But I've had Del Brio watched for a couple of weeks now, and if he's got the little girl stashed, he's playing it smart and not going anywhere near her. And so far there's no sign of a kid at any of his usual hangouts.”

“Then maybe it was something about one of those places I visited that set him off. Like I told you, I had this creepy feeling that I was being watched, only…”

“Only what?” Justin prompted.

“Only maybe I was being overly sensitive,” she admitted, no longer sure of herself and exhausted from the emotional roller coaster she'd been on for days now be
cause of Justin. And until they found Lena, she'd no doubt have more days like the one she'd just put in. “What I mean is, I hadn't expected things to happen between us the way they did, and we never had a chance to talk before you left that morning.”

“It's water under the bridge,” he told her.

“I know that. I'm just trying to explain that maybe I wasn't as focused as I should have been. I'd gotten lost. It was getting late, and my cell phone wouldn't work. Maybe I just imagined I was being watched.”

“It's possible. But I don't think so. You're not the type to get spooked or imagine things, Angela.”

“Thanks. I think,” she replied, somewhat surprised by his compliment.

“Just stating the truth,” he told her. “Anyway, I think we ought to retrace your steps and take a second look at those places. Maybe tonight you should put together a list of where you went and we'll hit those places first thing tomorrow,” he said, and grabbed at his shoulder as she hit an uneven stretch of road.

“I really don't need you to come with me,” she told him, noting how he held his shoulder and the way his lips tightened each time she hit the slightest bump.

“We've already had this conversation. Where you go, I go.”

“Fine,” she told him, exasperated by his stubbornness. “And when the pain in that shoulder becomes unbearable and you keel over, remember you have only yourself to blame.”

“My shoulder's fine. I just need some aspirin.”

“Too macho to take the pain pills, huh?”

“I don't want to argue with you, Angela,” he said, and leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The weariness in his voice, coupled with the shadows
beneath his eyes, sent guilt slicing through her with the swiftness of a bullet. As difficult as this situation was for her, it had to be even more so for Justin, she realized. Regardless of his feelings for her or lack thereof, he had insisted on staying at her place to protect her. That gallantry—as antiquated and maddening as it could be at times—was a part of who he was. And was one of the reasons she loved him, she admitted.

She glanced over at him asleep in the passenger's seat and sighed. There was no getting around it. She loved him, had always loved him and would probably go to her grave loving him. There was something so decent and solid about him, she thought. He was a man who had few secrets. A man who dealt in facts, in those things he could see with his own two eyes. While she…she lived in a world filled with secrets and shadows, and things that could never be explained.

Yet he had believed her about the sketches. Despite their history, despite how complicated things were now between them, Justin had believed her and in her. She took the exit that led to her condo and instead of dwelling on her own sense of loss, she contemplated what Justin must be feeling.

She knew from the notes in the file he'd given her to study that he had pushed himself unmercifully to recover the little girl long before she'd ever come onto the scene. Not succeeding would have left him frustrated and angry with himself, she reasoned. Her presence and his physical weakness now would have only magnified those feelings.

When she pulled into the driveway ten minutes later, she vowed to do her best not to add to Justin's troubles or her own. She'd get through this. They both would. Once they found little Lena—and she vowed that they would—she would return to her life in San Antonio and he would
go back to his in Mission Creek. She simply prayed that when she left, she'd do so with at least her pride intact, if not her heart. Angela cut the engines and lights, and was wondering whether to wake him or not when he opened his eyes.

“I must have dozed off. Sorry,” he said, and rubbed a hand down his face.

“No problem,” she said. After unfastening her seat belt, she exited the truck. When she reached her condo door, she spied the envelope taped to it. “It's for you,” she told him, and handed him the note with “Mr. Justin” scrawled across the front.

“It's from Mrs. Martinez. When we stopped for lunch, I called her at the ranch and asked her to pick up a few things at the grocery. She says she left them with your neighbors, the Collinses.” He shoved the note into his shirt pocket and looked in the direction of her neighbors' condo, where a car was parked in the driveway. “I gave her quite a list and with my arm in this thing,” he said, indicating the sling, “I may need you to give me a hand.”

“I was planning to go to the store,” she told him as she followed him across the lawn.

“Now you don't have to. And as long as I'm staying at your place, you'll be able to eat something besides junk food.”

“I happen to like junk food,” she countered, embarrassed that he'd had to ask his housekeeper to buy food for her place. She couldn't help wondering what the woman thought of her. Probably the same thing that his family thought of her. That she was all wrong for Justin.

“I don't,” he informed her as they made their way to the neighbors' door. “That's why I asked Mrs. Martinez to go to the store.”

“Well, I'll pay you for the groceries,” she told him.

He rang the bell and then turned to face her. “Let's get something straight. I'm staying at your place until we find out who tried to kill you and I put him behind bars. As long as I'm here, I have to eat, and I prefer to eat real food. I don't expect you to pay for my food or to fix it because I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. Are we clear on that?”

“Crystal,” she said, annoyed with him and herself.

The door opened and Angela got her first close look at her new neighbor. He was just under six feet, she guessed, but muscular with reddish hair, hazel eyes and a dusting of freckles across his nose. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at them. “Yeah?”

“Hi. I'm Angela Mason from two doors over.”

“And I'm Justin Wainwright. Angela's friend. I understand some groceries were left here for us.”

The man turned his head and glanced around. “Right. There's a box of stuff here,” he said, and picked up the cardboard box sitting just inside the door.

“I'll take it,” Justin said.

The man hesitated. “You sure you can handle it with that sling? I could bring it over for you.”

“Thanks, but I've still got one good arm,” Justin informed him as he took the box and anchored it under his arm.

“Thank you for holding it for us. We're sorry for any inconvenience,” Angela said.

“Honey, is that our neighbor?” a woman called out from inside the condo.

“Yeah. They're picking up the groceries that were left here,” he called back. “My wife, Annabelle. She was in the tub,” he explained.

“Don't forget the stuff in the fridge that's theirs,” Annabelle added.

The man frowned. “Hang on a second,” he said. “There's apparently a bag of stuff in the kitchen that belongs to you, too. If you want to go on home, I'll bring it over.”

“That's all right,” Justin said before Angela could agree. “We'll wait.”

“Suit yourself. I'll be right back with your stuff,” Collins told him, and closed the door on them while he retreated into the house.

“Real friendly guy, isn't he? Wonder why he didn't invite us inside?” Justin commented. He nudged the door, which hadn't been firmly shut, and it opened slightly to reveal a living room with only a couple of chairs.

“Here you go,” Mr. Collins told Angela as he returned, and practically shoved the bag of food at her. Evidently reading something in her expression, he said, “I'm afraid most of our stuff hasn't arrived from Kansas yet.”

“I understand,” she said. “Thanks again for holding this for us.”

“Sure. No problem,” he replied, and shut the door before she'd had a chance to offer him the use of some tray tables and a television set.

“How long ago did you say this guy and his wife moved in?” Justin asked her.

“About a week ago. They moved in the day after I did,” she told him as they headed back to her condo. “Why?”

“And I bet before you went to bed your first night, you had your pictures on the walls, pillows and knickknacks scattered around to make the place feel like home.”

It was true. She had. “So?”

“So Collins and his wife haven't put out so much as a snapshot,” he pointed out as they went inside and headed for the kitchen.

“Well, he said most of their stuff hadn't arrived yet,”
she offered as she placed the bag of groceries on the counter and began to unpack. “Besides, what difference does it make?”

“Maybe none,” he told her while he began shelving pasta and rice and canned goods in the pantry. “But something seemed off besides the guy's accent.”

Angela turned from the refrigerator where she'd just stored milk, eggs, cheese, butter and enough bacon and cold cuts to feed an army. “What was wrong with his accent?”

“It was as New York as you can get.”

 

“Did you have to say I was in the tub?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind,” Sean Collins told Annabelle Harte, the female agent posing as his wife. “I sure didn't want to have to explain why my blushing bride had dirt smudges on her cheeks because she'd broken into their condo to snoop around.”

Evidently choosing to ignore the remark, she asked, “You think they bought that bit about the furniture?”

“How do I know? You might have warned me that you'd accepted a delivery of groceries for them earlier.”

“I didn't have a chance. I barely made it back over here before they pulled in the driveway.”

“You're lucky you didn't get caught.” But there had been a speculative look in Wainwright's eyes that Sean hadn't liked. He'd been an FBI agent too many years not to recognize that look Wainwright had given him—the look of a hunter on the trail of a scent.

“You believe that stuff about her being psychic, Collins?”

“Hell if I know. But if she is, you'd think she would have picked up on the fact that we're not newlyweds.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Annabelle told him, her
voice dropping to that sultry purr that had resulted in several erotic fantasies on his part—before the lady had informed him she wasn't interested in a relationship with him. “You were pretty convincing the other night in the driveway when you were pretending to be overcome with passion.”

Sean gritted his teeth, remembered what a difficult time he'd had keeping an eye on the Mason woman and not losing himself in Annabelle. But he'd sooner cut out his heart than let her know she'd gotten to him. “Just doing my job, Harte,” he said breezily, as if he hadn't gone to sleep that night hard and aching for her. What sin had he committed, he wondered, that had caused his boss to send her as the undercover agent posing as his wife?

“So you were acting?”

“That's right,” he told her, and concluding that the Mason woman and Wainwright were still in the kitchen, he put down the binoculars he'd had trained on the windows of her den.

“Then I guess your body's, um, reaction was just your way of getting into the role?” she taunted, her dark eyes bright with sass.

He should have known she hadn't missed his obvious response to having her in his arms, Sean thought sourly. “Sure,” he said. “The same way those little moaning sounds you were making were all for show.”

“That's right,” she told him, and he was pleased to see that flush in her cheeks.

“But anytime you want a real demonstration of my kissing technique, Harte, you just let me know.”

“In your dreams, Collins,” she huffed. “I'm going to check in and see if Hunter's been able to find out anything more about when that shipment is going to be moved.”

“While you're at it, have them run another check on the Mason woman and Wainwright.”

“Why? I thought the reports came back showing they were legit.”

“They did. But have them checked again, anyway. It wasn't too long ago that they uncovered that group of corrupt officials calling themselves the Lion's Den down here. Just because the agency thinks they got rid of all the bad apples doesn't mean they did.”

“I thought Bobby said the sheriff was on the level,” Annabelle countered.

“Maybe he is. But the man's sleeping with his ex-wife and she's chummy with Ricky Mercado. Many a man has been known to do something stupid because of a woman.”

“Speaking from experience, Collins?” Annabelle asked him.