off.”
Martha’s eyes, a lighter brown than her hair, widened and her Adam’s apple bobbed in her delicate throat.
His statement had scared but not surprised her, and he dipped his head to study her face for his next question. “Any reason for somebody to push you into the path of an oncoming train?”
“No.” She pressed her lips together. “It was crowded. Everyone was moving forward. I don’t think that was an intentional push.”
“It’s always crowded. Commuters don’t generally fall onto the tracks.”
She shifted away from him, and the odor from the sweaty guy behind him immediately replaced the fresh scent that had clung to Martha, which had been the only thing making this tight squeeze bearable.
“Well, thank you.” She tilted her chin up, along with her nose, and dismissed him.
Looked like she’d perfected the art of dismissing obnoxious men, but Cam had a date with Miss Prissy-pants here, even if she didn’t know it.
He left her in peace for the remainder of the ride, although her sidelong glances at him didn’t go unnoticed, and the knuckles of her hand gripping the pole had turned a decided shade of white. He’d planted a seed of suspicion in fertile ground.
When the train jerked to a stop, forward and then backward, Martha peeled her hand from the pole, hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and scooted out of the car, with a brief nod in Cam’s direction.
He exited the train and followed Martha up the stairs and out into the night air, its frigidity no match for Ms. Drake’s.
Three blocks down from the station, she stopped in front of a crowded Georgetown bar, clutching her bag to her chest, and turned to face him.
He sauntered toward her, then wedged his shoulder against the corner of the building, crossing his arms.
“Why are you following me? I’m going to call the police.” She waved her cell phone at him.
“We need to talk, Martha Drake.”
She choked and pressed the phone to her heart. “Who are you? Are you the one who sent the skull and crossbones?”
Skull and crossbones? That was a new one. He filed it away for future reference.
He shrugged off the wall and straightened his spine. “I’m Sergeant Cam Sutton, US Army Delta Force, and you discovered some bogus emails that compromised my team leader, Major Rex Denver.”
Martha’s expressive face went through several gyrations, and then she settled on suspicion, which seemed to be one of her favorites. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and slipped out his military ID. He held it out to her between two fingers.
She wasted no time snatching it from him and holding it close to her face, peering at it through her glasses. After perusing it for at least a minute, she handed it back to him. “Bogus emails?”
“Major Denver never did any of those things in those emails—” he jabbed the corner of his ID card in the general direction of her nose “—and if you hadn’t turned them over to the Agency, Denver wouldn’t be in the trouble he is now.”
“If I hadn’t...” She stamped one booted foot. “What did you expect me to do with them?”
“We can’t keep talking out here. Let’s go inside.” He jerked his thumb toward the bar.
Her gaze bounced to the large picture window of the bar over his shoulder and back to his face. The crowd inside must’ve reassured her because she dipped her head once.
Cam circled around Martha and opened the door, holding it wide for her to pass through. As she did, he got another whiff of her fresh scent, which seemed to cling to her.
DC office workers, unwinding at the end of the workweek, packed every inch of the horseshoe bar. They seemed more interested in socializing and watching the football game on the TVs over the bar than quiet conversation, leaving a few open tables toward the back of the room, near the restrooms.
Cam placed his hand on the small of Martha’s back and steered her toward one of those tables. She’d twitched under his touch but didn’t shrug him off. He’d take that as a good sign.
When he pulled out her chair, her eyes beneath her arched eyebrows jumped to his face, and she mumbled, “Thank you.”
After he took his own seat across from her, he folded his arms and hunched over the table. “Why weren’t you surprised that somebody tried to push you onto the subway tracks?”
Her nostrils flared, and then she pursed her lips. “I told you. I thought it was an accident. I still think so.”
“Really?” He reached across the table so quickly she didn’t have time to pull back, and smoothed his thumb over the single line between her eyebrows. “Then why are you jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.”
Martha’s mouth hung open, and Cam didn’t know if it was because he’d presumed to touch her petal-soft skin, or because he’d laid on a thick Southern accent. That slack jaw made most people look stupid, but Martha couldn’t look stupid if she tried. It made her look—adorable.
“Cat?” Her soft voice trailed off.
“You know—long tails, rocking chairs going back and forth.” He hit the table with his flat hand, and she jumped. “Nervous, jittery. Don’t deny it.”
A cocktail waitress dipped next to their table and tossed a couple of napkins in front of them. “What can I get you?”
Cam plucked a plastic drink menu from a holder at the side of the table and tapped a picture of one of the featured bottles of beer. “I’ll have a bottle of this.”
“I can’t just point at a picture.” Martha snatched the menu from his hand and flipped it over, studied it for what seemed like ten minutes and then asked about twenty questions about the chardonnays. When she finally tucked the menu back in its holder, she said, “I’ll have a glass of the house chardonnay.”
When the waitress dived back into the crowd, Cam drummed his fingers on the table. He needed to start at the beginning with Martha. She clearly liked to take things in order.
He took a deep breath and started again. “Can you tell me about those emails? Where they came from? What they said, exactly, or close to it?”
“I should report you.” She flicked her fingers at him. “What are you doing in DC? Why aren’t you on duty?”
Cam narrowed his eyes. She didn’t want to report him. Her voice had quavered, and she’d broken eye contact with him. If she’d turned those emails over so quickly, there shouldn’t be anything stopping her from turning him over—but she didn’t want to go there.
“I’m on leave. I’m not here on any official business, just my own.” He crumpled the cocktail napkin in his fist. “Look, I know Major Rex Denver, and I know he’s innocent of these charges.”
“He
