thought as his partner’s expression went blank.
“Think she still loves the bastard?” Gresham asked a few minutes later as Rafe filled the pot at the sink.
“Who can tell with women.”
Rafe hadn’t let himself think about more than the bare facts of the case. Seeing her softly rounded tummy had slammed him back hard, and he was still reeling. Thinking of Danni as a victim of fraud and forgery had been safe. Something that was familiar, part of his job. Imagining Danni in bed with that piece of slime, though, that would be a mistake.
Rafe didn’t like mistakes.
Consequently he did the extra work required to make sure he didn’t make many. In this case, that meant keeping the past blocked off and his mind focused on the job they’d come to do. Caffeine would help.
After conducting a methodical search, he found a bag of coffee grounds in an antique canister marked ‘Lump Sugar’ and measured out enough for a full pot.
Watching him, Gresham filched a chocolate chip cookie from a bag that had already been opened. Apparently Danni snacked as she shopped. “Think she’ll ask us to stay for dinner?” he asked as he chewed.
“Jeez, Gresham, don’t you ever think about anything but food?”
“Yeah, but you won’t let me talk about my sex life.”
Rafe shot him a look as he switched on the coffeemaker. “Talk about it all you want—as long as you don’t blur the lines between private and personal when you’re on the job. Mistake like that just might get you killed.”
It was advice he would do well to remember, he thought as he tugged his tie free of his collar and slipped open the button.
Daniela was just one more victim. He was a government cop determined to bring down one more bad guy, so he would ask his questions, make concise notes with cross-references and annotations, give her his card, and walk away—this time on his own terms.
This time without regret.
This time without tears in his eyes.
Chapter 3
Danni was halfway down the stairs before she smelled coffee brewing. Oh sure, just take over my house, she thought with a wild mix of emotions. On second thought, why not let someone else give it a shot? After all she wasn’t doing such a hot job handling things herself.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she heard them in the kitchen, talking in low tones. Though she did her best to remain quiet as she walked through the living room into the dining room, the conversation ceased before she reached the kitchen door.
Rafe was standing in front of the fridge, transferring eggs from the carton in his hand to the door. He’d hung his suit coat over the back of a kitchen chair, loosened his conservative gray and red striped tie and rolled his blue striped shirtsleeves nearly to the elbows, revealing wide, corded wrists and thick forearms furred with curly hair bleached almost white by the sun.
Beneath the well-fitting shirt, his chest was a massive wedge of hard-packed muscle, his torso long and lean, his hips narrow. Tucked into a leather holster clipped to his belt was an ugly black gun that seemed far too enormous to be a simple handgun.
His partner still wore his suitcoat, a nifty double-breasted pinstripe. Standing with his back toward the door, he was stowing canned goods in the cupboard pantry, shoving them with a haphazard carelessness that had her teeth grinding.
“I hope you do windows,” she said, glaring at them both in turn.
Rafe simply flicked her an impatient gaze. In contrast, Gresham turned to offer a friendly grin. “Only under extreme duress, ma’am.”
He had dimples, too, she noticed, and beautiful manners. His hair, neatly styled and cut to mold a head that was definitely patrician, was the color of semi-sweet chocolate. He had a straight nose, an angular face and a perfect tan. He was—in a word—gorgeous.
“Feeling better?” Rafe asked, looking at her directly now.
“Much better, thank you,” she said coolly.
“Coffee’s ready.” He closed the refrigerator door with a hard thump before tossing the empty egg carton into the trash can under the sink. “Made it strong. Figured it’d help drive away the chill.”
His thoughtfulness made her feel petty. She bit off a sigh. What was wrong with her that he could cause her to regress to the level of an insecure teenager? “Unfortunately, I’m on restricted caffeine intake for the duration. Doctor’s orders.” She patted the bulge beneath Mark’s old USC sweat shirt. “I’ll just put on some water for tea.”
He shrugged. “It’s your kitchen.”
“Exactly.” For as long as she could swing the rent, anyway, she thought as she carried the kettle from the stove to the sink. As she turned on the water, she was aware that Rafe was looking at her belly.
“How far along are you?”
“Five months.” She shut off the water, then carried the kettle to the stove and turned on the burner. She turned then, and deliberately met his speculative gaze. “I got pregnant shortly after Jonathan and I married. He said he didn’t want to wait, and at the time…” She took a shaky breath. “At the time neither did I.”
She caught the look Gresham sent Rafe and frowned. “Before I say another word, I want to know what right you have to ask me these questions.”
In response he retrieved a slim black leather wallet from the back pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers and flipped it open. Frowning, she stepped close enough to read the small print.
One side was a laminated card identifying the bearer, Rafael Martin Cardoza as a Special Agent of the Investigative Branch of the United States Secret Service. Attached to a removable black leather insert on the opposite side was a gold badge in the shape of a five-pointed star.
Surprised and a little awed, she lifted her gaze to his. “I thought Secret Service agents guarded VIPs.”
“Some do. In fact it’s the first billet a new agent receives when he leaves the academy.” He indicated his partner with a quick look. “Until a few months ago Gresham was assigned to the Vice President’s wife.”
“What happened two months ago?”
“He got promoted.”
“To what?”
“Major cases like yours.”
She frowned. “Mine? I don’t understand.”
“When the man you know as Jonathan Sommerset used your credit card, he committed fraud. Since the issuing institutions are in differing states, that makes it a federal crime.”
“The man I know? You mean that’s not his real name?”
Instead of answering, he returned his ID to his pocket, then drew out what looked like a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”
It
