Page 39 of Deadly Secrets
“This place must have set you back a decent penny here in San Diego. I didn’t realize Homeland agents made such big bucks.”
Roman tossed in a detergent pod and closed the dishwasher, chuckling. “I made some money during my boxing days, invested it wisely, and…” He shrugged, punching the on button. “I don’t have anyone but myself to spend it on.”
“You must have been some boxer.”
One shoulder shrugged. “I did okay.”
Okay? He was being modest and she got the feeling he didn’t like talking about his boxing career. A new thought dawned. “The office where the DTT meets? You tricked it out on your own dime, didn’t you?”
Another shrug and he started a fresh pot of coffee, using some drip mechanism and a filter over the glass carafe that seemed ultra simplistic, yet obviously yielded amazing results.
Once he’d poured them fresh cups, he placed a laptop on the breakfast bar, his face serious. “Ready to see the video of the man from last night?”
Brooke’s stomach dropped. She never wanted to see the killer again, but she nodded, swallowing down her fear. Maybe this wasn’t him. Maybe…
It has to be him. There was no way someone else would know that sigil. Would know how intimately it was linked to her.
“Wait,” she said to Roman, placing her hand on his to stop him from hitting play. “I just… I need a moment.”
“Hey.” His hand took hers, pulling her closer to him. His other hand touched the side of her face. “We don’t have to do this now.”
She shook her head, feeling the heat of his fingers dissolving a little of her trepidation. When was the last time anyone had been worried about her?
Ignoring the brick sitting in her stomach, she used Roman’s steadiness to bolster her courage. “No, it’s okay. I need to do this.”
He gave a slight nod and pulled her in front of him, keeping an arm around her waist as his other hand tapped a computer key.
The footage was in black and white, the camera too far away to be of much help with details, especially since the overhead lights did little to illuminate that corner of the parking lot.
But there he was, a man in dark clothes moving toward her vehicle. A shiver went down her spine.
Was this him? The man who had killed Aleisha and her family?
Roman, looking over her shoulder, played with the laptop’s touch screen, zooming in on the man. The picture got grainier, and they both leaned forward.
The perpetrator kept his face turned away from the camera, but it didn’t matter—he wore a mask. He checked the driver’s door, and finding it locked, raised what looked like a small, black flashlight and gave the window a hard rap.
Glass exploded and he wasted no time entering the car. In the time it took Brooke to cover her mouth with her hand and blink, he popped the trunk, lifted her briefcase, and shut the trunk again. It was almost like he knew it was in there.
Roman squeezed her shoulder, his head close to hers as they watched the perpetrator return to the front seat and mess with the glove box. That must have been when he’d left the notecard. A moment later, he leaned into the backseat and grabbed Brooke’s suitcase, hauling it out and looking it over.
Setting her briefcase on the top of the car, he unzipped the overnight bag, reached inside and rooted around.
Shivers went down the back of Brooke’s neck. If not for Roman standing behind her, his supporting hand on her waist and shoulder, she would have taken a step back. “What is he doing?”
The man pulled out a piece of light colored clothing—one of her camisoles?—and held it up. Then he did something that made Brooke’s stomach drop to her feet.
He held the piece of clothing to his face and inhaled.
Brooke’s legs went weak.
One moment Roman was looking over Brooke’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his own soap mixed with the floral aroma of her previous day’s clothes, and the next, she was sliding to the floor.
Good thing he had both hands on her—he’d been dying to touch her since the moment she’d walked into the kitchen—and now he found himself catching her as her legs gave out.
Not exactly the way he’d planned to get his hands on her. He’d been entertaining fantasies of taking her on the breakfast bar since he’d watched her building the omelets, seemingly more at home in his kitchen than he was.
“I’ve got you,” he said in her ear, hugging her close. The bastard on the screen shoved the article of clothing he’d just sniffed into his jacket pocket. Roman hit the pause button and turned Brooke away from the screen, drawing her in for a hug.
