Carla Neggers - Abandon

Using his cell phone, Jesse dialed Bernadette Peacham’s number in New Hampshire. He knew it by heart, because he was a planner. He doubted she had caller ID, but it wouldn’t have mattered – his was a private number.

“Hello.”

Mackenzie. His throat tightened. He pictured her, her big blue eyes staring out at the beautiful lake. Was she healed enough to wear her gun? It was wrong, her and guns. So wrong.

He heard her inhale.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong number.”

He hung up and looked out at the Potomac River, calm and still in the hot afternoon sunlight. He was no longer a knife-wielding lowlife. He was a wealthy Washington consultant home from an important meeting.

His transformation was complete.

Mackenzie pulled her backpack out of the small plane’s overhead compartment and slung it over her right shoulder. The tight quarters and the rough skies had jostled her just enough to make her feel every millimeter of her wound, but she’d resisted reaching for pain medication. She hadn’t taken any since Saturday. It was late Tuesday now, four days since the attack that had slit open her left side.

Four frustrating days, she thought as she disembarked, trying not to look too grouchy in front of the flight attendant, pilots and her fellow passengers.

Time to return to her ghosts, fall into her own bed and get back to work in the morning. Her attacker’s trail was stone-cold dead. The search teams hadn’t turned up any evidence of his identity or whereabouts in the mountains, and prints the police got off his knife didn’t match anyone in the system. Mackenzie had done what she could to help with the search, but she’d been too optimistic about diving right back into work.

She melted into the line exiting the Jetway. Her side ached, but as much as she wanted to go straight home, she had one stop to make first.

Bernadette Peacham had asked to see her.

A taxi was in order tonight, Mackenzie thought as she made her way into the crowded terminal. She could have called any number of people for a ride, but she’d kept her flight arrangements to herself. She was bedraggled and wobbly. If she had a good night’s sleep, she was confident she could be her usual kick-ass self by morning.

But as she stopped to figure out which way to turn to reach the terminal exit, Andrew Rook eased in next to her, catching her totally by surprise. He was in jeans and a lightweight jacket, and he was heart-stoppingly sexy, looking neither bedraggled nor wobbly.

“Allow me.” He took Mackenzie’s backpack from her shoulder. “All those pink swimsuits and dolphin towels get heavy, don’t they?”

“Rook, if you told anyone it was a pink suit -”

“I didn’t have to.”

“It’s all over Washington, isn’t it?”

“The suit. Not as many people know about the dolphin towel.”

Small comfort, she thought. “What are you doing here? How did you find out what flight I was on?” She stopped herself and sighed. “Damn FBI.”

He smiled. “We aim to please.”

Although he was dressed casually, it was a Washington crowd at Reagan National Airport. Anyone paying attention would peg him as an FBI agent. That she hadn’t the night they’d met still stuck in Mackenzie’s craw. No one would see her and think, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Certainly not tonight, with her hair yanked back in a loose ponytail and her baggy, casual attire covering up her bandages for the flight. She had dark circles under her eyes from pain and four nights of near sleeplessness as she’d tried to figure out who her attacker was, and rehashed all she’d done wrong.

Free of the backpack, she picked up her pace and said good-naturedly, “I liked you better when I thought you worked for the IRS.”

He ignored her. “My car’s in the parking garage. Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?”

“Since you have zero sense of humor, I assume you’re serious. No, I do not want you to get me a wheelchair. If you want to do something for me, flag me a cab.”

“Not a chance, Deputy.” He glanced at her, his eyes darker than usual. “If I let you take a taxi and you tripped in the dark and loosened a couple of stitches, I’d be in big trouble.”

She stopped abruptly. “Who put you up to this? Gus? Did he call and tell you I was on the way?”

“I called him.”

“Why?”

“To check on you.”

Her mouth snapped shut, and she resumed walking, telling herself not to expend any energy trying to figure out Special Agent Rook. “Maybe that was your cover story with Gus, but you have an agenda that has nothing to do with my health and well-being.”

With his free hand, Rook dug his car keys out of his jacket pocket. “Were you this cynical when you were a college professor?”

“Instructor. I was never a professor. And I’m not cynical. I’m realistic.”

When they reached his car, Mackenzie was out of breath, which irritated her. But four days of a downsized workout or none at all had taken its toll. She’d get up early and do some kind of exercise before she went into work, stitches or no stitches.

Rook tossed her pack onto the backseat of his car. “If it’s any consolation, Gus didn’t suggest I pick you up. He said if I did, I should treat you right.”

“He raised two nieces – he has a good eye for men like you.”

“Men like me? Carine’s married to a pararescueman. Antonia’s married to a U.S. senator and former rescue helicopter pilot.”

Mackenzie frowned at him. “You’ve done your research. Do you know Antonia? She lives in Washington.”

“I think she might have checked me out for a concussion once.”

Mackenzie wasn’t sure what to believe. Antonia, the middle Winter sibling, was an emergency room physician. She and her husband, Hank Callahan, the junior senator from Massachusetts, had invited Mackenzie to their house in Georgetown twice since her arrival in Washington. Had Rook checked out all the Winters because of his investigation? Because of the attack? Because of her?

“I’m in good company, if you ask me,” Rook added. “And Nate’s a decent guy -”

“Thanks to Gus, or so he’d say.”

“You stayed at his house after I left?”

She nodded. “Just at night. It was easier than having him on my case or, worse, insisting on staying up at Beanie’s with me. He’s a fabulous cook. That helped.”

“They treat you like one of the family.”

“But I’m not,” she said, stepping past him to the passenger door. “I have both my parents.”

Rook pulled open the door for her. “You were a hellion as a kid, pretty much on your own after your father was hurt. Your sense of humor and red hair and cute freckles must have kept you from getting throttled on a regular basis.”

She hustled in front of him and got in the car. “You have been talking to Gus.” She looked up at Rook, who might have been grinning, but it was difficult to tell in the dark. “Were you questioning him as part of your investigation?”

Without answering, Rook shut the door and walked around to the other side of the car.

When he got behind the wheel, Mackenzie, eyes focused straight ahead, said, “I have one stop to make.”

“Mac -”

“Bernadette summoned me to see her. She’s not someone easily put off. It’s up to you whether or not you want to drive me there.”

She thought she saw the muscles in his forearm tense as he stuck the key in the ignition. “It’s not a problem.”

“She lives off Embassy Row.”

“I know where she lives.”

Mackenzie sank back into the comfortable seat. “Of course you do.”

Bernadette Peacham’s elegant 1920s house on a quiet street off Massachusetts Avenue always made Mackenzie think of garden parties with its ivy-covered brick and lush landscaping. Rook parked under a massive oak, and when she climbed out of the car, the humidity almost took her breath away. The night air and massive shade trees hadn’t cut the stifling heat.