Carla Neggers - Cold Pursuit

She ignored him and tried skipping her stone across the pond, but it went straight in. “I never have gotten the hang of skipping stones. You must have shown me how to do it a million times.” Using the toe of her running shoe, she scraped another stone free from the dirt. “Just to set the record straight, there was never anything between Thomas and me.”

“So you didn’t hit the self-destruct button because he got engaged?”

“I fell for a prank and intercepted a barrage of airsoft pellets. If I’d wanted to self-destruct, I could have picked a more efficient way than getting nailed with a fake gun.” She scooped up her stone and rubbed the dirt off it. “Elijah, if what you’re up to has anything to do with Ambassador Bruni’s death, I need to know.”

“Why?”

She narrowed a look at him and didn’t answer.

He asked, “Have you checked with your friends in Washington about what happened this morning?”

He noted a thinning of her lips as she curved her arm, reared back and tried again, flinging her stone with ferocity if not much finesse. It skipped once. An improvement. But she still didn’t meet his eye.

Elijah put two and two together. “You tried checking with friends. No one took your call.”

“It’s not that simple.” She rubbed her hands together, brushing off the dirt from her rocks. “Elijah, people in town say you’re not satisfied with the official explanation of your father’s death. If you have reason to suspect it wasn’t an accident-”

“I’m just here skipping stones.”

She steadied her gaze on him. “Take whatever questions you have to the police, Elijah. Let them get the answers.”

Her words hit him in all the wrong places. He picked up another stone and shot it across the water, getting close enough to the ducks for them to move toward the opposite bank.

He turned to Jo, looked her straight in the eye. “Maybe I’ll buy your dad a cup of coffee and tell him I’m thinking about sleeping with you again.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her fleece jacket. “Go ahead, Elijah. Give me your best shot. I’m not a besotted teenager anymore.”

“Not a teenager, Jo. Still besotted.”

“Ha. Don’t you wish.” But he thought he heard just the slightest catch in her voice. She glanced around at the stone guesthouse, which, like everything on the estate, was bucolic, perfect. “Nora’s sense of trust must have taken a hit when her mother had an affair and then married one of her father’s best friends.”

“It couldn’t have helped when her father didn’t do anything about it.”

“Like what, shoot him?”

“He was passive.” Elijah started up the slight incline to a stone walk. He’d parked his truck in the turnaround on the side of the road. Time to get out of there, before he really did something he regretted. But he turned back to Jo and finished his thought. “Nora needed to see him stand up for himself. He didn’t have to fight. He could have forgiven her mother and Bruni. Instead he weaseled out of doing anything.”

Jo cocked her head back and gave him a knowing look. “Elijah. It wasn’t the same for us-fifteen years ago we were kids.”

“I should have fought for you, Jo,” he said suddenly, not exactly sure where the words came from. “Think of what might have been if I had. Even if I’d ended up in the army and you in the Secret Service-”

“We’d have split up in six months.”

“That’s not what you believe.”

“Forgiving yourself is a lot harder than forgiving someone else.”

He took two steps back to her and touched her hair, silky under his cold fingers. “Jo. Don’t. You didn’t do anything you need to forgive yourself for.”

“Neither did you.”

He leaned toward her, kissed her lightly on the lips. “Yes, I did,” he said, then dropped his hand from her hair and pulled back before he went further. Being around her was firing him up in ways that were dangerous-intrusive. He needed to stay focused on his own mission, not get mixed up with a Secret Service agent angling to get back to Washington as fast as she could.

“Elijah,” she said. “We can’t-”

He cut her off. “Nora’s bumping up against the difference between reality and fantasy. Sometimes that’s no damn fun.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing out here?”

He shrugged. “Following you.”

“You’re a lousy liar. You didn’t follow me. You got here first.”

“I’m clairvoyant. I knew you’d be here. See you later, Jo.”

She reached for him but seemed to think better of grabbing him by the arm again. She tilted her head back, scrutinizing him with those deep, suspicious turquoise eyes. “What’s going on, Elijah?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Agent Harper.”

He thought he saw a twitch of irritation at one corner of her mouth. “Tell me about Devin Shay,” she said. “Why are you looking for him?”

“If you want to show me your badge and interrogate me, have at it. You can even slap on handcuffs and haul me off somewhere. It won’t be the first time a Harper’s nailed my ass. Otherwise, I’ve got things to do and places to go. I’m sorry about Ambassador Bruni, but I didn’t know him.”

She looked as if she was, in fact, debating showing him her badge, slapping him in handcuffs and finding a hot light somewhere to interrogate him. “Where are you going now?”

Elijah didn’t answer. Jo had always hated being ignored, and from the rock she threw at him, he guessed that hadn’t changed. She missed him by two yards. He grinned back at her. “Your arm still sucks.”

“I missed on purpose.”

“Right.”

“I should have gone into exile in New Zealand after all. Having me here after what you’ve been through in Afghanistan and your father’s death isn’t helping.”

“It’s better than your Secret Service friends. That last bunch was scary. Big hairy guys. No yoga pants.” Elijah laughed as she threw another rock and missed him again. “See you back at the lake, Agent Harper.”

Maybe it was the sun or his imagination-or not enough to do-but he thought he saw her give a hint of a smile as he climbed into his truck.

There was no chance she wouldn’t follow him. She was a Harper, and there hadn’t been one born who knew when to give up.

Elijah drove up to the high, open ridge above the village of Black Falls. Old, graceful maple trees and stone walls lined the narrow road. He found a spot with passable cell service and called Ryan Taylor, a Navy SEAL who’d fought and bled with him in Afghanistan. Everyone called him Grit, which made sense once people met him.

Grit didn’t appreciate chitchat, so Elijah got straight to the point. “Hit-and-run of Alexander Bruni this morning. What do you know?”

“It’s a big deal,” Grit said in his smooth north Florida accent. “No national security implications at this point. No ID of car or driver. No consistent witness reports-it’s not as if people stand around on the streets waiting for a car to hit someone. By the time it happens, it’s over.”

“All right.” Elijah wasn’t surprised that Grit was on top of the situation, even if Grit himself was, at least apparently, still in rehab seven months after the firefight that had left him without his lower left leg. But Grit wasn’t accustomed to telling anyone what all he did in a day. “That’s what’s known. What’s suspected?”

“It was a hit.”

“Why?” Elijah asked.

“Rich, powerful, well-connected men don’t get run over by accident. I haven’t heard any talk, in case you’re wondering. Bruni’s been in this town too long not to have enemies. Hell, he married his best friend’s wife. You heard about that?”