Carla Neggers - The Whisper

She kicked the door shut with her heel. It'd been a month since she'd learned he hadn't been dragged off and killed, wasn't a traitor. She'd had time to imagine this moment and how she'd respond--or, more to the point, wouldn't respond.

She pushed back all the warnings she'd given herself not to succumb to being near him again and do exactly what she was doing now. Kissing him back, aching for him.

"This kept me going so many times," he said, drawing her to him, every inch of him lean and rock-hard. He lifted her as if she were slim and small, which she was not, and she could feel his arousal against her. "Just thinking about loving you again got me through one dark night after another."

"Rubbish." Josie draped her arms around his neck and tilted back from their kiss. "You never think about the past or the future."

He grinned at her. "Except when it comes to you, love."

He kissed her again, and she was hot now, her mind spinning. She responded to him, deepening their kiss, letting go of everything but that heady combination of needs she always felt with him. It'd been two years since she'd had a man. But she wouldn't tell him. Never.

The thought rocked her to her core. She clutched his upper arms and pulled back from their kiss. "I mourned you, Myles. I didn't have the luxury of thinking this day would come."

He set her back on the floor. "I'll be mature and give you time to sort this out." He took a curl of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, as gentle a move as he'd ever made with her. "Just not too much time. You're decisive. You'll know."

"There's nothing to sort out. You were wrong for me two years ago. Now you're just more wrong." She adjusted her clothing and cleared her throat. "I know it's not that late, but it's been a long day in the car."

He winked at her. "Now it'll be a long night alone in our beds."

He went back out through the hall door, and before she could change her mind, Josie threw on the dead bolt and pulled a chair in front of the connecting door. If he tried to sneak in, at least she'd have fair warning and could dry her tears. In her thirteen years with British intelligence, not once had she let a colleague see her cry.

And that was what Myles Fletcher was. A colleague.

"Bastard," she said, picking up a pillow and flinging it to the floor.

What would she get if she trashed her five-star hotel room out of pure frustration? She could present Myles to hotel security. Lizzie Rush could intervene and explain. Having taken on armed thugs and a violent billionaire with Myles, she would understand why Josie had been driven to breaking windows and kicking the feathers out of pillows.

Instead she picked up the pillow and sat on the bed with her knees tucked up under her chin. She touched her lips with her fingertips and looked at the connecting door. "Damn you, Myles," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I love you as much as ever."

Which, of course, was why he'd kissed her. He knew she loved him. He'd always known--and if that had given him comfort during the past two years, wasn't it a good thing? As a professional, shouldn't she draw some satisfaction that their relationship had helped an agent on a difficult, dangerous mission--one he hadn't expected to survive?

Some, perhaps, but never mind the past. What about the future?

Not to mention the present. Josie dipped under the silken duvet, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets. It would, indeed, be a long night alone in her bed.

14

Boston, Massachusetts

Scoop returned to his desk at BPD headquarters in Roxbury for the first time since he'd been shredded by shrapnel. Everything was just as he'd left it. He'd turned over all his notes on the possible involvement of a member of the department with the thugs who'd kidnapped Abigail Browning. The firewall was up between him and the investigation. It had gone up the second the bomb went off.

There was nothing for him to do except avoid people he didn't want to talk to. Josie's report was raging in his head, but he had to pull himself together before he talked to anyone--especially Sophie. He returned to Charles Street, the temperature dropping fast, the early evening air cool, even chilly. For once Jeremiah Rush wasn't at the reception desk in the Whitcomb lobby. Scoop rode the elevator with a couple from Houston who were in town to see as many historic sites as they could fit in. The wife wanted to be sure to visit the Louisa May Alcott house in Concord. The husband wanted to visit Bunker Hill in Charles-town.

They looked at Scoop to settle the issue. He grinned. "I'd go to a Red Sox game."

"Do you work for the hotel?" the wife asked. "Our tub drain's slow."

The husband winced as if he wanted to crawl out of there, but Scoop just said, "I'll let the front desk know."

She blushed. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I thought--"

"Not a problem."

They looked relieved when he got off the elevator. His room had been serviced, even his toothbrush, razor and toothpaste set in a clean glass. He didn't know what to do with himself. He thought about having a drink at the bar. Calling O'Reilly to join him. Tracking down Abigail on her honeymoon. Before the bomb, the three of them would get together in the backyard or in one of their kitchens and talk about whatever was on their minds. Now everything was different. He, Abigail and Bob O'Reilly were stuck on the wrong side of the investigation.

He rubbed a palm over his head.

He could go up and fix the Houston couple's drain.

Scoop grabbed a zip-up sweatshirt and returned to the lobby, bypassing Morrigan's and heading back outside. He turned up Mt. Vernon Street, telling himself he was just getting some air, working off the last of his jet lag and the effects of his long day. The nagging questions about Cliff's role in the bomb blast. His death. The bizarre scene at his apartment.

Sophie's wide, blue eyes as she'd taken in the disturbing, bizarre skulls, glass beads, DVD, cast-iron pot--the bomb-making materials and the former police officer hanging in his dining room.

As he came to the top of Beacon Hill, Scoop gritted his teeth, but he already knew what he was going to do. He continued on to the Malone twins' apartment. The gate was unlocked, which was an issue for him. He didn't ring the bell, just descended the steps and walked through the archway back to a cute little courtyard.

Sophie was, in fact, arranging mums. She was on her knees, a half dozen mums in apple baskets in front of her. She moved a yellow one behind a dark maroon one and rolled back onto her heels. "There. Better." She glanced up at Scoop. "What do you think?"

He nodded back toward the street. "I think you should keep your gate locked."

"That must have been one of the neighbors who share the courtyard. I'm in a batten-down-the-hatches mood myself."

"Smart. The mums look great. Perfect. Don't touch a thing."

She stood up and smiled at him. "You don't care, do you?"

"I like gardening when it involves something I can have for dinner."

"Ah. What have you been up to?"

"I just got mistaken for a plumber. Thought you'd be pleased. Not everyone looks at me and thinks 'cop.'"

She brushed loose potting soil off her hands. "Would you like to come inside?"

"I'm homeless. Sure."

She led him into the tiny apartment. The low ceilings would have him nuts in half a day, but that was affordable Beacon Hill. Unaffordable Beacon Hill came with higher ceilings. He noticed a laptop and papers by the fireplace, but otherwise, there was no indication Sophie had truly moved in.

"I know why you're here," she said.

That was good because he wasn't sure he knew.

She motioned to what passed for a kitchen. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, but help yourself."