Page 76 of Dangerous Lover

She hadn’t slept all night, had simply stared at the ceiling, mind whirling restlessly and uselessly, until the black outside her window had slowly turned steely gray.

Jack realized that something was wrong. There was no way she could hide her upset from those perceptive dark eyes and she’d had to pretend the onset of flu to distract him. And then she’d had to stop him from bundling her back into bed with hot tea and seven hundred blankets.

They’d fought about her coming in to work, but she’d been adamant, threatening to drive herself in if he wouldn’t. That had shut him up and he’d driven her in, tight-lipped and silent.

Fine. Let him be angry. His anger allowed her space and time. She needed to know who he really was. Tonight. They hadto talk tonight.

Maybe he’d been too good to be true. Maybe, in her loneliness and grief, she’d conjured the perfect lover out of thin air. Only she hadn’t. Jack wasn’t a perfect man. He was a man with secrets and a past he never talked about.

The bell rang over the door. Another customer. She should be happy, but right now all she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts. Still customers meant money so she pasted a smile on her face and walked towards the door.

“Oh.” Caroline stopped when she saw Sanders. He was with another man, who was standing slightly behind him. “Sanders,” she said coolly. What did he want? To apologize? Today wasnota good day for him to show up. “I don’t think this is a good idea. I think perhaps you’d better leave.”

“Now Caroline, don’t be like that. You haven’t heard what I have to say.”

Something had happened to him. The crushed, beaten Sanders had disappeared and he was back to his old assured self—elegant and in control. He even had that slight smile that looked like a smirk. It did not endear him to her.

“I’m sorry Sanders, I’m very busy. Maybe some other time.”

He held his expensive gloves in one hand and looked slowly around the bookshop. The very empty bookshop. He took his time and finally brought his gaze around to her.

“I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say. Or rather, what this gentleman has to say.” He stepped to the side and Caroline saw the other man clearly now.

He was of medium height, with short sandy hair, bigoversized, unfashionable glasses. Whippy rather than thin. Shiny, black, ill-fitting polyester suit, white shirt, shiny black plastic tie. Completely nondescript, except for his eyes. They were light brown, flat, cold.

“Ma’am,” he said, and flipped a leather holder open to reveal a brass badge. “Special Agent Darrell Butler. FBI. New York Field Office.”

FBI?

Was this Sander’s idea of a joke? Or had he actually called in theFBIbecause Jack had thrown him out of the shop yesterday? That was going way too far, even for Sanders.

And shame on the FBI for even giving Sanders the time of day. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Wild-eyed terrorists were plotting day and night to blow people and buildings up and what do they do? Fly across the country because Sanders had had his hair mussed and his feelings hurt.

Caroline rounded on Sanders. “Listen, I know you said you’d sue, but calling in the FBI is just insane. You should know better than that. It’s a totally overblown reaction to what happened yesterday. This is?—”

“Ma’am,” the FBI Agent—SpecialAgent—interrupted. “I think you need to sit down. This isn’t about Mr. McCullin.” He shot Sanders a hostile glance. “Actually, Mr. McCullin shouldn’t even be here. But never mind. We need to talk somewhere, Ms. Lake.”

He wanted to talk toher?Bewildered, Caroline led the Special Agent to her desk at the back of the room, separated from the rest of the bookshop by a counter stacked with books.Caroline sat behind the desk, and the special agent sat across from her. There were only two chairs in her office, but Sanders went and dragged another chair from out front.

The FBI agent ignored him totally. He placed his briefcase on his knees and took out a folder. He didn’t open it, just sat it on his lap and placed his hand over it, as if protecting it.

“Ms. Lake. I understand you know someone who calls himself Jack Prescott. How long have you known him?”

“Why, I just met—” She stopped suddenly, frowning. “What do you mean—calls himselfJack Prescott? Isn’t that his name?”

Harris opened his briefcase and slid a photograph over her desktop, facing her. It was an enlarged snapshot of Jack in uniform, full face, the kind used as military ID. He looked younger, with a buzz cut and some kind of beret.

“Isthatthe man you know as Jack Prescott, ma’am?” He thumped the photograph with a rough forefinger.

Caroline swallowed and looked up into cold brown eyes. “I have no reason to think that he is anyone else. What is this about? How can this possibly be your business?”

“Just answer the question,” he snapped. “Is that the man you know as Jack Prescott or is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you meet him?”

He’d left his badge open, and the brass reflected the ceiling light. It sat there with the weight of the US government behind it, the shiniest thing in the room. Caroline watched it, as if it could yield up answers.

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