at Slade’s feet, paws scrabbling for purchase against the legs of his jeans.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s a dog, believe it or not, and I’m taking care of her for my mother.”
Slade crouched and tickled the excited Shih Tzu beneath the chin. “Hey, little guy.”
“It’s a girl, and her name is Chanel.”
“Let me guess.” He straightened up. “She has a diamond collar.”
“You pretty much have my mom all figured out.”
“Where is she, your mother?”
“Are we discussing my mother or why a Navy SEAL is spying on me in Manhattan?” She crossed her arms and tapped the toe of her running shoe.
He waved his arm at a deep-cushioned chair. “Can I sit down first? Maybe something to drink? This spying is tough business.”
Her lips formed a thin line, and for a minute he thought she was going to refuse. “All right.”
“Water is fine, and I’ll even get it myself if you show me the way.”
She crooked her finger. “Follow me, but no more stalling.”
Was that what he was doing? He had to admit, he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news—and he had bad news for Nicole Hastings.
The little dog jumped into the chair he was eyeing, so he followed Nicole’s swaying hips, the Lycra of her leggings hugging every gentle line of her body. She was thin, but curved in and out in all the right places.
As she passed a granite island in the center of the kitchen, she kicked the leg of a stool tucked beneath the counter. “Have a seat.”
She yanked open the door of the fridge. “I have water, sparkling water, iced tea, juice, soda, beer and a 2008 Didier Dagueneau sauvignon blanc—a very good year.”
Was she trying to show off, or did that stuff just roll from her lips naturally? “Sparkling water, please.”
She filled two glasses with ice and then set them down in the middle of the island. The bottle with a green and yellow label hissed as she twisted off its lid, and the liquid fizzed and bubbled when it hit the ice.
She shoved a glass toward him. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s get to the main event.”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“I didn’t think you’d be one to mess around, either, the way you dropped that pirate who had me at gunpoint.”
“This is different.” He took a sip of the water, the bubbles tickling his nose. “You know that Giles Wentworth died in a car accident last February?”
“Went off the road in Scotland.”
“A few weeks ago, Lars Rasmussen committed suicide—took an overdose of pills.”
“I know that.” She hunched over the counter, drilling him with her green eyes. “What I want to know is the location and general health of Dahir Musse.”
He took a bigger gulp of his drink than he’d intended, and it fizzed in his nose. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’ve already connected the dots.”
“I don’t know if I’ve connected any dots, but Giles has driven on some incredibly dangerous roads without getting one scratch on the car, and Lars was about the least depressed person I know. Girl trouble?” She snorted, her delicate nostrils flaring. “He had a woman in every port, literally.”
Had she been one of those women?
The thought had come out of left field, and Slade took a careful sip of his water. “So, you already have a suspicion the deaths of your friends weren’t coincidental.”
“It’s not just that.” She caught a drip of condensation on the outside of her glass with the tip of her finger and dragged it back to the rim. “You said you’ve been here in New York just a few days?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve had a feeling of being watched and followed for about two weeks now, ever since I heard rumors about Lars.”
“Anything concrete?”
“Until I caught you going through my mailbox? No.”
Heat crawled up his face to the roots of his hair. He’d tried to tell the brass he’d be no good at spying.
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here and why you were going through my mail.”
“Someone who monitors these things—our rescues, I mean—noticed the deaths. This guy raised a red flag because there was a hit stateside on another person our team had rescued—a doctor who’d helped us out in Pakistan. That proved to be related to terrorist activity in the region.”
She’d folded her hands around the glass, her white knuckles the only sign of tension. “You’re telling me that someone is after the four of us? Do you know where Dahir Musse is?”
“We don’t know where he is, and I can’t tell you for sure that someone is out to get your film crew, but I’m here to find out.”
“A Navy SEAL operating in the US? Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“Not exactly, but it is top secret. I’m not really here.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “I am sorry about the loss of your friends.”
“Thanks.” Her chest rose and fell as the corner of her mouth twitched. “Giles’s mother called to tell me about the accident. At the time, I figured it was just that—an accident. Then a few weeks ago, I started hearing rumors that Lars had killed himself. That’s about the time I started feeling watched. I put it down to paranoia at first, but the feelings got stronger. Then I verified Lars’s death last night with his brother and seriously freaked out, especially since I saw you lurking across the street at two in the morning.”
“Sorry about that. What were you doing up at two o’clock?”
“Working.”
“Did you ever release that documentary? I looked for it but never saw anything about the movie.”
Her eyes widened. “We never finished the film. We were all shaken up after the kidnapping and moved on to other projects—with other people.”
“The film was about Somali women, right?”
“About Somali women and the underground feminist movement there—dangerous stuff.”
He scratched the stubble on his chin. “That might be enough to get you killed.”
“Maybe, but why now? We never finished the film, never discussed finishing it. I never even got my hands on the footage.” She swirled her glass, and the ice tinkled against the side. “Are you here to figure out what’s going on?”
“I’m
