Lisa Gardner - Hide

Side by side, we did look like sisters. Except she was the glamorous one, destined for a life amid the stars, while I was clearly going to become the crazy cat lady who lived alone down the street.

Her gaze drifted down, spotted the photo. "Your family?"

I nodded, then felt, more than saw, her stiffen.

"I thought you said your father was a mathematician," she said sharply

"He was."

"Don't lie to me, Annabelle. I met him. Twice, in fact. Really, you could've just said he was with the FBI."

WE VIOLATED CURFEW. Catherine didn't get me back to the hotel Bobby and D.D. had booked until 12:23 a.m. I took a staggering step out of the limo, waved good-bye to my newfound best friend, and worked my way resolutely to the lobby. I figured either Bobby or D.D. would be keeping watch. It was Bobby.

He took one look at my disheveled appearance and stated the obvious. "You're drunk."

"It was just one glass of champagne," I protested. "We were toasting."

"To what?"

"Oh, you had to be there." We'd been toasting lies, and the men who told them, and that hadn't taken us one glass of champagne, but three. I was totally shit-faced, going-to-hate-myself-in-the-morning drunk. Catherine had simply mellowed enough to show me photos of her son and smile happily. She had a beautiful son. I wanted a son one day. And a daughter, a precious little girl who I would keep very very safe.

And I wanted sex. Apparently, champagne made me horny.

"Do you like to barbecue?" I asked Bobby. Then found myself humming, " If you like pina coladas, or getting caught in the rain …"

Bobby's eyes widened. "We should never have left you alone with her!"

I did a little dance around the lobby It was tricky, trying to get my feet to move in conjunction with my brain. I thought I did pretty well, though. In the ring, I'd always been admired for my footwork. Maybe I'd take up ballroom dancing. It was all the rage these days. Maybe that would do me good. Practice something beautiful and flowing and flirtatious. You know, instead of hanging out in gyms where sweaty men pummeled one another to death.

Yep, in the morning, I was turning over a new leaf. I was reclaiming my name. Annabelle Granger was going to shake hands with the first stranger she met. Hell, I'd post my Social Security number online and include all my personal banking information. What was the worst that could happen?

Bobby had a nice set of shoulders on him. Not overpumped; I never like that on a guy Bobby's shoulders were compact, well-defined. He wore a loose-fitting polo shirt, and it was fun to watch the way his pectorals rippled beneath the cotton expanse. I liked the way he moved, coiled, lithe. Like a panther.

"You," he said, "need water and aspirin."

"Gonna take care of me, Detective?" I sidled over. He sidled away.

"Ah Jesus Christ," he muttered.

I smiled up at him. "Does the hotel have a pool? Let's go skinny-dipping!"

I thought he actually squeaked.

"I'm calling D.D.," he declared, and made a beeline for the lobby phone.

"Ah, don't spoil my fun now," I called after him. "Besides, you'll want to hear my news."

That stalled him. "What news?"

"Secrets," I murmured. "Deep, dark family secrets." But I didn't get a chance to tell them. Just then, all those thousands of tiny little champagne bubbles finally penetrated my brain, and I passed out cold.

D.D. DIDN'T HAVE a sense of humor. I had suspected that before. Now I knew it. Bobby half carried, half dragged my sorry ass up to D.D.'s room. No romantic tucking in of precious little Annabelle. Detective Dodge dumped me onto D.D.'s sofa. The sergeant doused me with a glass of ice water.

I bolted upright, sputtering wildly, then racing for the toilet to vomit.

When I came back out, footsteps still unsteady, D.D. greeted me with a fistful of aspirin and a can of spicy V8.

"Don't puke this up," she warned me. "It's from the minibar and it's costing the department a fortune."

Expensive V8 did not taste any better than normal V8. I tried not to be ill.

"Sit. Talk." D.D. still sounded pissed.

I managed to register now that she remained fully clothed, though we were passing one a.m. Her laptop was powered up on the desk, and her cell phone was winking madly that it had new messages.

Apparently, D.D. wasn't getting her beauty rest these days, and that made her one cranky bitch.

I tried to sit. It made the nausea worse. I went with pacing.

Later, when I thought about it, I was very sorry I had the champagne. Not because it made me sick, but because it lowered my defenses. It made me talk when a sober Annabelle would've known better.

"My father was an undercover FBI agent," I blurted out.

D.D. frowned, blinked her eyes, frowned at me again. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"My father. He was with the FBI. Catherine knew him. Hey, stop doing that!"

"Stop doing what?" Bobby asked.

"Exchanging glances. It's very annoying. Not nearly as cool as you two seem to think."

This earned me a pair of arched brows instead.

"Catherine has met your father?" Bobby asked skeptically.

"He went to her hospital room where she was recovering after being rescued." My chest practically swelled with pride. Or gas. "He visited her twice!"

"Your father questioned Catherine?"

"Yes. I'm telling you, he was an FBI agent. And that's what FBI agents do, they question victims of crime."

D.D. sighed, rubbed her forehead, sighed again. "I'm going to brew coffee," she said abruptly. "Annabelle, you've got a lot of sobering up to do."

"I am not lying! Ask Catherine! She will tell you. He came to her room twice."

"In the hospital," Bobby said.

I nodded, an ill-considered motion that almost made me puke again. "He said he was a special agent, FBI, and asked her all sorts of questions about her attack."

Halfway across the room, D.D. stilled, caught the pause, got herself moving again. "All sorts of questions?" she asked. "What kind of questions?"

"Well, you know, FBI questions. Who grabbed her, what did he look like, what kind of car did he drive. Where did the perp take her."

"The perp?"

"Oh yeah, the perp. Plus all the stuff you asked. Where, what kind of supplies, how long was she underground. What did Umbrio say, were there any other victims, how did she get away, blah, blah, blah."

The coffee was percolating now, the rich, caffeinated scent permeating the air.

"He visited Catherine twice?" Bobby asked.

"That's what she said."

"Did he show ID?"

"I don't know."

"Was anyone else with him? Another member of law enforcement? A partner?"

"She never mentioned anyone with him." I placed my hand on his muscled arm. "But I think partners are just a TV myth," I told him kindly. "The real FBI doesn't do that sort of thing."

"But they have secret undercover agents," he drawled.

"Oh yes."

"Who still live at home with their families?"

Across the room, D.D. was making frantic ixnay motions with her hand. That, more than anything, caught my attention. All at once, I heard how ridiculous my words sounded. All at once, the true implication of Catherine's words hit me, and I felt my stomach plummet, the floor drop out from underneath me. Except I couldn't be sick anymore. I couldn't pass out cold. I had already played my best denial cards under the influence of alcohol. I had no tricks left.

"They do have undercover agents, don't they?" I heard myself ask. "I mean, they could…"

My hand was still on Bobby's arm. He took it now, led me back to the sofa. I sat down hard. Didn't move.

He took a seat across from me, on the edge of the bed. D.D. brought me a mug of coffee.

"Did your father ever tell you he was an FBI agent?" Bobby asked quietly.