Above Temptation Page 3

  At eight fifteen she excused herself, not free to say she had a business appointment, only that she had to leave.

  “I think you must have a hot date,” Luke said, after a fake cheek kiss.

  “I wish,” Kip answered, even though she didn’t. She couldn’t handle a girlfriend right now.

  “You sound like Kip’s ex,” Jen admonished him.

  “He has a point—and so did she.” Kip gave Jen one last hug.

  “Go get the bad guys,” Jen whispered in her ear.

  Kip grinned. “I promise.”

  Chapter Two

  “Thanks, Mercedes. Yes, I’ll take a jacket. Now go home to your family, would you?”

  Tamara Sterling tapped off her mobile, knowing Mercedes wouldn’t leave for a few more minutes. The fax to the client in Hawaii would be securely received before she left. That was her job and she was going to do her job and what part of that was so difficult for Tam to understand? Wasn’t that why she hired people and paid them so regularly and handsomely? Not a conversation Tam wanted to repeat, certainly not tonight, especially when she knew Mercedes would have the last word because she was, as usual, right.

  Even though she was not quite packed for her flight, Tam gave herself three minutes in the living room with a cup of her favorite coffee. She rarely got to linger in front of the view these days. It did little to ease the gnawing heartsick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the feeling she’d had ever since she’d found a photocopy of an SFI bank statement next to the server array. It had been purely accidental. She’d cast a professional eye over it without thinking, and hadn’t believed what her instincts had told her: the statement had been altered.

  If she started hanging around and peeking into files it might tip off the embezzler. She hoped that the several days she’d waited before seeking help hadn’t made matters worse.

  The ring of the doorbell drew her away from the window. Speaking of help, she thought. She had known from Kip Barrett’s supervisor’s reports that she was a capable, experienced investigator, but she hadn’t expected her to be so straitlaced. She appeared to have as much sense of humor as a rainy day. Of course, what did humor count for when she had handled that awkward moment with Ted so competently? She either had nerves of steel or no nerves at all.

  She suspected the latter and idly wondered if she’d ever know for sure.

  “I hope I’m not too late.” Barrett slipped into the foyer.

  Her watch told her it was eight thirty-one. “Not at all.”

  She was still in her suit from earlier in the day, but Tam thought she caught a faint aroma of sweets and coffee, as if she’d been to a restaurant. She didn’t exactly look like she’d been on a date. None of her business. Everybody needs to eat, she reminded herself.

  She started to lead the way to the garage but Barrett froze at her first sight of the view from the living room. Everybody did that.

  “Holy wow.”

  “It is lovely, isn’t it?” She let her have a good, long look. In her opinion, this ridge on the west side of Queen Anne Hill provided the most spectacular view of Seattle money could buy. The house was small, a custom design dating from the Sixties, and its trim outline was nestled into the height of the ridge, surrounded by trees and sky. The city glowed with mesmerizing activity. Lights pooled to the north and south in all colors. The glow ended abruptly at the shoreline, then began again across the sound in Bremerton. From the master bedroom, though she’d hardly take an employee there even if the view was spectacular, the Space Needle pierced the sky.

  “It’s stunning.” Barrett pushed her car keys into her pocket. “Friends from New York keep trying to get me to move there, but I’m devoted to Seattle. Views like these are one reason why.”

  Certain she wouldn’t get an answer, but curious about how Barrett would react, she asked, “But you considered living in D.C., didn’t you?”

  The openness of Barrett’s expression turned brittle. She turned away from the view to face her. “You’re persistent, Ms. Sterling.”

  “Call me Tamara, please.”

  It was a very cool smile. “Personal is personal, Tamara.”

  She let her smile turn cool as well. There was no mention of why Barrett had left the Secret Service in her file, and the mystery frustrated her. All mysteries frustrated her, a trait that was useful, though Mercedes had told her once that if she ever got answers to all her questions the earth would spin backward. “The boxes are in my trunk. I wasn’t sure this morning if I would need to meet you somewhere else.”

  “You were sure I’d say yes.” Barrett’s voice was carefully expressionless, but Tam thought she heard a hint of irritation.

  “Yes, I was.” She glanced at her over her shoulder as she led the way. Barrett looked slightly miffed, but the change of expression on her face was so minor she might have imagined it. Kip Barrett should be playing poker with that face. Attractive—absolutely, especially the luminous blue eyes—but the face was carved in stone. She’d spent years learning to read many different kinds of people, but Kip tested her experience.

  She triggered the garage door and opened the back hatch of her Pathfinder. Kip used her key fob to open the trunk of a trim Camry, then came back for a box. Glancing into the trunk, she gave a tiny sigh.

  “Too heavy for you?” Tam paused, wondering if the petite Barrett found lifting boxes full of paper a challenge. Based on her Secret Service profile and trim physique, Tam would have thought that she had plenty of physical strength.

  “Oh no,” Kip said. “I was just wondering where I’d start.” She lifted a box out easily and headed for her car.

  “I began cataloging, and the box you have has the thumb drive with the worksheet I’d started. I’ll get the last one.”

  As Tam slid the last box into the Camry’s trunk, she saw an overnight bag. She was briefly torn again—was Barrett meeting someone? Discussing or conducting work in front of even the most trusted spouse or companion was a breach of their work code. She realized that meant Barrett couldn’t work at the office, nor could she work at home if she didn’t live alone. Rock and a hard place. “Where are you off to?”

  Barrett looked startled, then said, “A weekend near Olympic. There’s a place I like to go to breathe. But my laptop’s on the backseat, so I’ll make a great deal of headway.”

  Alone then, it sounded like. Could she really trust her? Damn…someone stealing from the company was making her suspect everyone of double meanings and hidden agendas. Just today she’d been second-guessing Ted, wondering if Ted had really laid the groundwork for three very lucrative contracts on his New York trip last week. Ted talked a lot, did bring in clients, but sometimes the smoke was a little thick.

  Stupid waste of time, all these suspicions. She managed a smile as she slammed the trunk. “Don’t spend the whole weekend on it. Just most of it.”

  Barrett saluted her again, but this time with a decidedly mocking flip to her hand, and got into her car. So she had a sense of humor after all, but it made the Sahara look like a rainforest.

  She watched the taillights until the road curved out of sight. What did Barrett’s sense of humor matter when someone was stealing from SFI? The money was a blow, but the betrayal of a staff member felt very personal.

  She stiffened her shoulders, aware of the passing minutes. She didn’t have the energy for useless speculation. She’d be in New York before the sun rose there and home again in slightly more than twenty-four hours from when she’d left. She couldn’t remember a time as an adult when she’d been more depressed and tired than she was now. A break, like a day on the water, didn’t seem likely for several weeks. But she already felt some relief for the burden Barrett had accepted.

  Her mobile chirped as she walked back into the house. She answered, expecting Mercedes.

  Instead, Nadia’s cool voice flowed out of the phone. “I heard you’re off to New York.”

  “Blame your husband,” Tamara said lightly. “He arranged the new client.”r />
  “You’ll be back in time for the fundraiser, won’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m only gone for a day.”

  “Sounds exhausting. I could always drop by Sunday and make you a home-cooked meal.”

  “Since when have you cooked?”

  Nadia’s low, throaty laugh was one of her most attractive features, and Tam was momentarily glad simply to enjoy it—it was a beautiful sound. “Okay, I admit it. I could bring you dinner from an outside source.”

  “That won’t be necessary, sisterfriend.”

  “You’re no fun, Tam. You never were.”

  “No, none at all.” She abruptly realized she was too tired to keep up with Nadia. “I’m late for the airport.”

  “Sorry, darling. You will be there Monday night, then?”

  “Yes, as I said. And I’ll see you Tuesday night too, if you’re joining Ted for the client appreciation reception.” After Nadia agreed, she clicked off and hurried to the bedroom to finish packing her carry-on.

  In the twin beams of her headlights on the asphalt she abruptly saw Nadia Langhorn and Kip Barrett, side-by-side. They were a study in contrasts, in shadow and light. Nadia never approached any goal directly. The friendly call had been about something else and she would know in due time. Kip Barrett, on the other hand, seemed the type to lock sights on the target and take the shortest route.

  There was nothing useful to the comparison, so she did what she always did with irrelevancies: she unlocked the door in her mind, put the thought away and turned the key again.

  By the time she boarded her flight her head was clear. She read reports until her vision blurred, then fell asleep somewhere over the Great Lakes.

  Chapter Three

  Universal truth: drunks stink. Kip had just sat down at the counter in the old-fashioned diner and was reaching for a menu when the waft of cheap liquor and ripe body odor made her turn her head. So much for a quick stop.

  The drunk—the diner’s only other customer at this hour—didn’t hear her coming, but then he’d have missed a herd of trumpeting elephants. The waitress wasn’t yet truly alarmed by the customer’s sudden lunge out of the booth, but from the guy’s arc of motion Kip knew—yep, he grabbed the young woman by the forearm. Whatever it was he slurred was meant to be a pick-up line. Middle-aged Caucasian male, medium build and a beer paunch, brown/brown…

  The waitress weakly pulled her arm, but the drunk’s grasp didn’t slip. He let go, however, when Kip peeled his little finger back, then reversed her hold to coil it so the tip pushed violently toward the second knuckle. It wasn’t hard enough to break the bone—yet—but she knew it hurt like hell.

  The freed waitress yelped and rubbed the red patch on her forearm. Kip thought it unconscionable that the woman was apparently alone in the diner this late, and with no training to protect herself.

  Averting her nose as best she could, Kip said to the man, “With your other hand reach slowly into your pocket, get out your wallet and give me at least a five.”

  “Okay, okay. Jush wanted a bit of fun. You’re gonna break my hand.”

  “I will if I have to.” Kip let up the pressure only slightly. She took the crumpled bill—a ten, good—and handed it to the waitress. “For his coffee.”

  “I’ll get your change.” She backed away.

  Kip pressed harder on the drunk’s little finger.

  “Keep it!” He gasped when Kip let him go with a push.

  “Now get out of here and go sleep it off,” she ordered. “Next time get a woman’s permission before you touch her.”

  He staggered through the door toward his camper, shaking his numb hand in disbelief.

  She leaned nonchalantly in the doorway, watching him. She could hear his opinion of her being muttered under his breath. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, and like most drunk and disorderly men, he was spectacularly unimaginative. Nevertheless, he scrambled into the back of the road-worn camper and slammed the door. After a few moments it stopped rocking and she guessed that at a minimum, he’d sat down. He’d be asleep before long.

  The car clock had displayed eleven o’clock when Kip had pulled off Highway 101 to get coffee and a bite to eat. With another hour en route to Duckabush ahead of her, she’d realized the monotony of her headlights on the road was making her sleepy. She had tried switching from Bach to Santana, even tried to get riled up by listening to the hard core preachin’ of brimstone and damnation for gays in the military and unwed mothers, but it hadn’t helped. Her heart was certainly pounding now.

  She heard the waitress behind her. “Shorty only went home to check on his wife. She’s got the flu. I’m not usually here by myself. He’ll be back in two-three minutes.”

  “I’m glad I came along, then.”

  “You and me both. Dinner is on the house the moment he gets back.”

  Kip turned to see the waitress—name tag Sherry—blinking back tears. She was willing to bet the young woman hadn’t had a moment of self-defense training. “I’ll show you how to do that, plus a couple of Let Go defense moves.”

  “That would be so great. My dad will make me quit if he finds out I got hassled, but I need the money. And Shorty’s good to work for. You want coffee?”

  Kip hopped up on a bar stool and accepted the steaming cup. “Time of day and location don’t really have much to do with getting harassed. Sad fact of life.”

  Sherry nodded and her skin lost some of its pallor. “Haven’t seen you in here before, but I just started a few months ago.”

  “The old waitress, she’s okay?” Kip sipped, then added cream.

  “Oh sure. Got a baby on the way, didn’t want to work nights.”

  The back door of the diner slammed. Sherry called out, “Shorty! Filet, medium-rare. With shrooms and onions.”

  Kip grinned. “I’m really not that hungry.”

  “You can take it with you—be dandy for breakfast. No pecan pie today, but there’s apple. I think we’ve got some caramel ice cream.”

  “Okay, now that’s sounding very appealing.”

  “You drive here from Seattle tonight? Kind of late, isn’t it?” The question was asked as if Seattle were on the other side of the planet, not just two hours by road.

  “At least there’s no traffic once you’re south of Tacoma. Olympia had already rolled up the sidewalks when I went through. I had a late meeting. Work, you know.”

  “Yeah, can’t live with it and can’t eat without it.” Sherry busied herself at the carousel where homemade pies were gleaming with sugar and glazes.

  “We have a few minutes. Let me show you a basic move to break someone’s grip on your arm.”

  Sherry was a quick learner. Kip enjoyed their impromptu lesson. Enjoyed, too, the warm human contact, especially with a woman. Hopping up onto her bar stool again when her dinner was served, she admitted that her batteries were just about run dry, and her social life had to be a wasteland when putting a chokehold on Sherry was the closest thing to a hug she’d had in months. And there was little hope that would change.

  * * *

  Fall mornings dawned crisp and clean on the Olympic Peninsula. Seventy-foot pines swayed in the light wind, and the thin roar greeted Kip as she opened her eyes. It could almost be the sea. She could almost be on vacation. No work, no ex-girlfriends, no regrets.

  She rolled out of the loft bed and pulled on her robe and socks. The wood floor was cold and she knew from experience that it was hard to climb down the ladder from the loft if she was shivering. Had she not arrived so late last night she’d have left a fire banked in the stove to help take some of the chill off. Instead, she’d only managed to get the groceries and boxes brought in before crashing.

  The sky outside was dotted with puffed clouds against the blue, but the light was darkening. Rain later, perhaps. Now was the perfect time for the hike she couldn’t afford to take. She felt the urge to pummel something. Sure she was flattered by Tamara Sterling’s request, but a day she’d planned to spend in the
dogged pursuit of nothing at all was now wall-to-wall work.

  She loved her job. There was no job she’d rather have. Well, no job she’d rather have that she could have. Secret Service and its simulators be damned.

  Pulling on an old sweatshirt and jeans, she went outside for wood. The cold morning air snapped her awake better than any coffee ever could. After reheated filet for breakfast she decided that work or no work, there was not enough split wood ready for winter visits.

  She felt a lot better after a half hour of swinging an ax. The rhythmic thump of ax into wood, punctuated with the crack of splitting pine, became its own kind of music. She pictured the face of the supervisor who had told her she could either take a routine Justice Department job or resign the Service altogether. He’d just been delivering the news. It wasn’t his policy. No final score on the simulator, no career.

  She drove the ax into the image of his face and grimaced. After all these years, it still hurt, apparently. Tamara Sterling’s questions had poked the scar.

  Breathing hard, she stopped to stack for a while, letting the ache in her shoulders ease. She was out of shape from a job that had too much time at a desk.

  She did love her work. The bigger the investigation, though, the more paperwork. Preparing for testimony was time-consuming. Few people thought about the painstaking effort it took to catalog work papers and itemize evidentiary statements. Sure, a trainee could do part of it, but it was still a big pain in the ass.

  She pictured her boss’s face on the next log as she prepared to swing the ax. She liked Emilio, a lot. It felt really good to chop him to bits.

  Too much paper. Too much documenting.

  Not enough thinking, puzzling, solving.

  Not enough laughing, not enough fun, not enough jogging, sailing or tae kwon do. She was dull. Dull and boring. A bad friend, most of the time. A bad daughter, a distant sibling—well, that wasn’t entirely her fault.