Jackson's Woman

Claire was aware of Jackson moving to stand a few feet away in front of the fireplace. Propping a shoulder against the mantel, he crossed his arms over his chest.

A whiff of the familiar spicy tang of his aftershave reached her. Claire set her jaw against the quick clutching in her belly. Her body was simply reacting to a known stimulus, she told herself. Nothing more.

Still, his scent had her mind scrolling backward in time. It had been summer when he’d first walked into Home Treasures. She’d just been a sales clerk when she looked up and saw a tall, intense man stride through the doorway. While he explained he needed a wedding gift for a co-worker, she had felt the sexual attraction sparking between them, running like a sizzling conduit beneath the surface of every word they exchanged. The way Jackson’s eyes had deepened, darkened, verified he felt it, too. They went out to dinner that night. And the next. Days later, Claire linked her fingers with his while they climbed the stairs to this very apartment. They’d cranked the air conditioning to arctic, lit a fire and made love for hours while flames danced on the logs.

And when the task force had disbanded and he’d asked her to go with him, she’d said yes. Because she’d been so crazy in love she couldn’t bear to think about living her life without Jackson Castle in it.

It had taken six months to learn that making life-altering decisions based on one’s hormones was for the young and foolish. She was older now. Wiser. More practical. Never again would she put aside her own needs so rashly.

Her throat dry, she switched her mental focus to what Liz was saying.

“…and we dusted for prints only on the displays where things weren’t in the same place you said they’d been yesterday evening when you closed the shop. I asked the lab guys to be careful with the fingerprint powder, but you still have a mess to clean up.”

Claire pictured the blood that had pooled from beneath poor Silas Smith’s head. She had more than just fingerprint powder to deal with. “I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight so cleaning the shop will give me something to do.”

Her gaze concerned, Liz squeezed Claire’s arm. “My partner and I will be back in the morning to interview the square’s other business owners. Maybe one of them caught a glimpse of someone hanging around outside your shop. In the meantime, call me if you think of anything else that might be important. Or if you discover anything missing from the building.”

“All right.” In reflex, Claire shifted her hand from the ache in her ribs to her throat. “Liz, do you have any idea at all who killed Silas?”

“Not yet. The alarm company says your system was deactivated using your code, so it’s possible the suspect entered the shop after Mr. Smith turned off the alarm when he came in to do the repairs you wanted done. That’s the most likely scenario.”

“Do you have an unlikely one?”

“It’s possible the suspect somehow obtained your code fraudulently, or had electronic equipment capable of cloning the code and disabling the system. Later, the victim walked in on him.” Liz checked her notepad. “You’re sure the only person other than yourself and Mr. Smith who has your alarm code is Charles?”

“Positive.” Charles McDougal was much more to Claire than just Home Treasures’ previous owner. When she was ten, she had come here to live with her aunt, and Charles and his late wife—who’d lived in the apartment across the hall—had opened their hearts to her.

Over the years, he had taught Claire all he knew about antiques. He’d helped send her to college, kept the apartment vacant for her when she’d run off with Jackson, and he’d welcomed her home when she’d returned with her heart broken.

Claire swallowed hard against that painful memory. “I always call Charles and let him know when I change my alarm code in case he drives through town when I’m not here.”

When Liz frowned, Claire added, “You know how concerned Charles is about my safety. There’s no way he’d give my code to anyone.”

“Not on purpose,” Liz agreed. “I still need to make sure he didn’t write down the latest code and leave it lying around where someone could see it. Do you know where he is now?”

Claire shook her head. The day the crusty widower had sold her the building and the shop’s contents, he’d fired up his RV and taken off, vowing to stop at every antique shop, estate sale and flea market in the country.

“He called about a week ago from southern California. You should be able to reach him on his cell,” Claire added and recited the number.

Liz slid her pad into a pocket. She looked at Jackson with the hard eyes of a cop, then shifted her gaze back to Claire.

“Special Agent Castle is here because he has a very different theory about the break-in and murder. Since I need to coordinate things with my partner and the lab guys, I’ll let him explain it to you.”

Instead of turning to go, Liz slid an arm around Claire’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “I figure finding old Silas dead is just one of the shocks you’ve had tonight,” she whispered.

Claire nodded. The other shock—Jackson’s pres-ence—was something to be discussed in detail later, girlfriend-to-girlfriend.

The cell phone clipped to Liz’s waistband rang. She answered the call, spoke a few words then hung up. “Everything’s done downstairs.”

Claire pulled her keys from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll walk you out and lock up.”

She led the way down the inside stairway, acutely aware of Jackson trailing behind her and Liz.

At the bottom of the stairs, the door to the small room she used as an office stood open. Wordlessly, Claire passed by her tidy desk and file cabinet, then stepped into the shop where the lights blazed. She turned down one of the narrow aisles bordered by cloth-covered tables and display cases loaded with candlesticks, crystal bowls and vases. When she passed by the spot where she’d found poor Silas, her gaze lowered to the hardwood floor. The sight of the pool of dried blood had her stomach clenching while the apple-and pine-scented air cloyed in her lungs.

“Claire?” The deep timbre of Jackson’s voice registered up and down her spine.

Pausing, she glanced across her shoulder. “Yes?”

“You still keep the cleaning supplies in the closet behind the main counter?”

She nodded. Did the man ever forget anything? “I don’t expect you to help me clean.”

“It’ll go faster with two of us.” He veered off toward the waist-high counter while she and Liz moved to the front door.

There, Liz turned, her eyes crimped with concern. “Look, I know what this guy once meant to you, but I’m a homicide cop and I don’t take anyone at face value.”

Claire felt her face pale. “You don’t suspect Jackson…?”

“Not now that I’ve grilled him and checked out his credentials with the State Department.” Liz flicked a look back at the closet behind the counter. “Considering the past you two share, it’s gotta be hard for you to have him here. But if his theory’s solid, I’m damn glad he is here.”

Claire opened her mouth to ask what that theory was just as Liz’s cell phone rang.

Muttering, Liz jerked it off her waistband and checked the display. “I’ve got to go. Call me if you need anything.” Phone pressed to one ear, Liz headed out into the night.

Claire closed the door behind her friend, then engaged the dead bolt. From behind her came the rattle of the mop bucket.

It took a moment, a carefully indrawn breath, a steady exhale, before she turned. Her gaze tracked Jackson as he rolled the bucket containing a mop around the counter toward the spot where Silas had died.

“So, you have a theory about the break-in and murder,” she began. “Is the reason you’re here anything to do with what happened to Silas?”

Jackson positioned the bucket near the bloodstain, then leaned the mop’s handle against the nearby whitewashed pine armoire. “It’s possible.” He glanced again at the floor and frowned. “Not probable, but possible.”

She took in the hard set of his jaw, his rigid shoulders. He hunted terrorists for a living. Was it possible Silas Smith’s murder was an act of terrorism? The question might seem unbelievable if Reunion Square wasn’t a short walk from the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial. Like everyone else in the city, Claire had long ago abandoned the it-can’t-happen-here mindset.

For the first time she noticed the shadows of fatigue under Jackson’s eyes and the small, pronounced lines at the corners of his mouth.

“Where were you when you woke up this morning?” she asked.

From somewhere blocks away came the shriek of a siren. Jackson turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the mullioned window that spanned the entire front of the shop. When he remet Claire’s gaze, his eyes were intent, unnervingly watchful.

“I was in Spain.”

“Did you travel most of today specifically to get here? Not just to Oklahoma City, but here?”

“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “I hopped a nonstop military transport. Taking the time change into consideration, I logged nearly eleven hours in the air.”

She moved from the door, skirting several tables and displays before pausing a few feet from him. Beneath the shop’s bright lights, the gash that slashed his left eyebrow looked even rawer. Claire didn’t let herself try to imagine how he’d been injured. Or if he’d been in mortal danger at the time. She’d spent too many hours alone in various foreign countries while he was away on assignment, waiting for him to call, fearing he hadn’t because he was lying dead in some place with a name she couldn’t even pronounce.

“Are you saying you flew all those hours to get here because you suspected someone wanted to kill my handyman? Some homegrown terrorist? Someone like that?”

Jackson stepped toward her, halting when only inches separated them. His gaze narrowed, seemed to penetrate her.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I traveled today with the sole intention of getting here, to you, as soon as I could. But it wasn’t because I thought someone planned to slit your handyman’s throat.”

“Then why? Jackson, why are you here?”

“Because someone wants to kill you.”

Chapter 2

Jackson watched Claire’s face go pale and fear grow in her eyes. He gripped her upper arms. “It’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.”

Beneath his hands, she swayed like a sheet in the wind. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

He hooked a foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it away from a table loaded with china and heavy silver. With a gentle push, he nudged her into the chair.

Dammit, he hadn’t meant to tell her that way—after finding her handyman with his throat slit, the last thing she needed tonight was another shock. Someone wants to kill you. Smooth move, Castle.

When it came to his work, he was never at a loss. Didn’t allow himself to get distracted from his focus. But seeing Claire again had shaken him far more than he’d ever thought possible.

He ordered himself to snap back into control. Now. He couldn’t have her. Logically he knew that. Shouldn’t still want her. Didn’t want to want her. He bit back on frustration. Too much was at stake for him to let the emotional baggage he’d dragged around since she’d walked out get in the way. Right now, Claire Munroe was a job—that’s all she was. All she could be. Ryker had seen to that.

When she clutched the arms of the chair, Jackson crouched, putting them at eye-level. “Do you want some water? Something stronger?”

“I want an explanation.” She let out a long breath, but it didn’t steady her voice. “Who wants to kill me?”

He had found out less than twenty-four hours ago that she was in danger from a man he’d once considered his closest friend. He was still trying to come to grips with that. And everything else.

“Frank Ryker.”

“I don’t know him. Why would someone I don’t know…” Her forehead furrowed. “Ryker. Isn’t that your partner’s last name? The man you consider your mentor?”

“Frank Ryker’s my ex-partner, as of a little over a month ago.”

“A federal cop, your partner, wants to kill me?” There was dismay in her voice now and color was returning to her cheeks. The tight grip she had on the arms of the chair had turned her knuckles white.

“Ex-partner, yes.”

“Why?”

Because of me. His gut twisting, Jackson rose. After Claire had left him, he’d tried to put her out of his mind, and sometimes succeeded. But then he would come off an assignment and let go of the tight control necessary to survival on the job. It was at those times when he eased back his focus that thoughts of her closed in. They hovered around him like ghosts, whispering to him, brushing against him during the night until he thought he might go mad with wanting her.

Those tormenting thoughts had prompted his occasional casual mention of her to Ryker. Although Jackson would like to use the excuse that it was natural for personal feelings to spill out when two friends decompressed after a life-and-death assignment, he was realistic enough to admit he had never dealt with Claire walking away. Hadn’t wanted to. Still didn’t want to. Knowing she’d moved on, was planning to marry a man who could give her the life he never could, had been sufficient reason to stay away.

But Ryker had put Claire’s life on the line, which left him no choice but to face her. And the emotions he’d refused to deal with. Head-on.

He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “It’d be best if I lay out what happened from the beginning.”

“Fine.” Claire rose sharply. “You talk, I’ll listen.”

He watched as she tugged open a door on the pine armoire. She wore a soft denim shirt tied at the waist and slim jeans that molded tightly to her hips and legs. He knew what it felt like to have those legs part for him, wrap around him.

Two years of missing her, of wanting her with him, hit him like a ton of bricks.

Get a grip. He fought to repress the hungry, possessive storm inside him while watching her retrieve a rag and a bottle of cleaning solvent. Knowing he would waste his breath, he bit back the urge to suggest she wait until she felt steadier to clean up the dusting of fingerprint powder the cops had left on numerous items. Whenever she got nervous or upset, Claire was on the move. The night she’d told him goodbye, her pacing had almost worn a path in the carpet of their Cairo hotel room.

He retrieved the mop out of the bucket he’d filled with water and pine-scented disinfectant, then went to work on the bloodstain.

“A little over a month ago,” he began, “terrorists kidnapped an American attaché in Singapore. We got intel he was being held in a warehouse, so Ryker and I set up surveillance until a team from our Mobile Security Division—the equivalent of SWAT—arrived. MSD went in first, then Ryker and myself. Or so I thought until I hit the doorway and realized he’d hung back. A second later, the warehouse exploded.”

“The gash over your eye.” Claire looked up from the brass candlestick she’d plucked off a shelf. “Is that how you got hurt?”

“Yeah, shrapnel clipped me at the same time the blast blew me out of the doorway.” Jackson put his back into the mop as dark anger brewed in his gut. “The attaché and all members of the MSD team died. Turned out the terrorists weren’t inside the warehouse—they detonated the blast by remote.”

“Ryker?”

“Didn’t hang around to check on his pals.”

“And you think, because he held back, he knew the warehouse was going to explode?”

“He and I have gone through a lot of doors together over the years. He’d never hesitated until Singapore. In the split second before the blast, I saw it in his eyes—he knew the place was about to go up.”

Claire set the candlestick she’d dusted aside, then went to work on a cobalt vase. “What happened after that?”

“I woke up in the ER, got my boss on the phone and told him I suspected Ryker had sold us out. He’s like every other DSS agent, has connections all over the world, so it was anyone’s guess where he’d go.”

Just thinking about what Ryker had done—what he intended to do—filled Jackson with a rage so strong he wanted to slam his fist through a wall.

“I remembered Ryker mentioned a place he used as an off-the-book safe house in Kuala Lumpur,” Jackson continued. “Getting from Singapore to Malaysia only takes a couple of hours, so the house was worth checking. Another MSD team got there just as dusk fell. When they burst in, a shadow dashed from around a corner, and they opened fire.”

Jackson’s insides bunched. If he’d known who the MSD team would find there, he wouldn’t have told his boss about the damn safe house, just gone there on his own and dealt with Ryker. But he’d had no way of knowing.

“Was Ryker in the house?”

“No, but his wife and daughter were.”

The rag in Claire’s hand went still against the deep-blue vase. “You wouldn’t take me into Malaysia because it was so dangerous for Americans. Especially women.”

“Still is. Which is why the MSD team had no expectation an agent would risk his family that way.”

The thick-planked floor now clean of blood, Jackson replaced the mop in the bucket. Next on his agenda was the building’s security. He’d already arranged with Liz Scott to have OCPD do hourly patrols, but that was just the beginning of what needed to be done.

“Why was Ryker’s family at the safe house?” Claire asked.

“Emily, his daughter, was ill.” Jackson moved to the shop’s expansive front window. It was mullioned with large diamond-shaped panes. The panes wouldn’t open, which was good, but someone armed with a glasscutter and pry bar could make a silent entry in seconds. Shatter sensors, he determined, before looking back at Claire.

“From paperwork at the safe house we found out Emily had contracted a fever that did major damage to her heart.”

He turned his attention to the shop’s front door. After studying the dead bolt, he sized up the alarm panel, then the door mat. He added additional security devices for all to the mental list he was compiling. “Her only hope of survival was a transplant.”

“Transplants are performed in every state. Why did Ryker risk taking his wife and sick daughter overseas?”

“Emily had a rare blood type which narrowed the chance of finding a heart through legal channels almost to zero. I figure Ryker thought his only hope of saving his child was to buy a heart on the black market. The paperwork steered us to a Malaysian surgeon known to have ties to al Qaeda. He wouldn’t answer questions, but the theory is the black-market heart and surgery would have cost more than a million dollars. Which explains why Ryker sold out.”

Jackson felt his anger growing, a vicious heat that would bubble in his blood if he allowed it to. “Later, we found out Ryker had been selling blank U.S. passports to a terrorist named Hassan Kaddur. After an expert forger gets through with the blanks, it’ll be almost impossible to tell a fake from the real thing. That compromises unknown numbers of Americans on their own turf.”

Claire placed the vase in a display cabinet near a collection of salt cellars, then turned. “None of that explains why Ryker wants to kill me.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Jackson moved to the cabinet where she stood. He recognized the Chanel scent that pulsed off her in little waves and made his juices swim. Years of practice had taught him how to present a certain face and attitude to the world no matter how he was feeling. It was an ability he would put to good use as long as he stayed here.

“Last night I got a call from an informant in Hong Kong. Guy named Kim. He said that the night before he’d been at an outdoor market and spotted a man built like Ryker talking on a cell phone. His hair was black instead of blond and he wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, so Kim didn’t think it was Ryker. But Kim’s always looking to buy and sell intel, so he eavesdropped on the call. When Kim heard the man’s voice, he was even more convinced the guy wasn’t Ryker.”

“But you think it was?”

“I know it was.”

“So, why aren’t you in Hong Kong instead of here?”

“Because Kim overheard the man say Claire and Oklahoma City. Ryker was talking about you.”

Watching her, Jackson saw her breathing turn fast and shallow. Knowing the blame for her fear lay on his shoulders tore him apart. It was all he could do not to pull her against him. Hold her. Comfort her.

“This is crazy,” she rasped, her fingers clenching the dust rag. “Why would Ryker come after me?”

“To get back at me. I’m the only person Ryker told about the safe house. So when the MSD team showed up there, he knew I’d survived the warehouse blast and sent SWAT to hit the house. In Ryker’s mind, I’m the reason his wife and daughter are dead. His coming after you is his way of leveling the playing field.”

“How?” Claire asked, staring up at him in confusion. “You and I haven’t seen each other in two years. We haven’t even talked. We’ve both moved on. Why would Ryker think he can get back at you through me?”

Jackson kept his gaze locked with hers. The huge flaw in Claire’s reasoning was her assumption they’d both moved on. Only she could claim that. He had given it his best shot, but it hadn’t worked. All he’d managed to do was stay away from her.

“When you spend hours on a stakeout, you have to talk about something. Ryker’s pet topic was his wife and Emily. When you and I were together, your name naturally came up. Ryker knows I haven’t been involved with anyone serious since you. He blames me for the death of his family and wants to even the score.”

“His family,” Claire repeated, her face taut with worry. “You lost your parents years ago, but what about Garrett? He’s your twin, Jackson. You should be wherever he is, making sure Ryker doesn’t get to him.”

In a wave, the still-raw grief Jackson had fought hard to hold at bay washed over him. “Garrett’s dead.”

Her face went white and stiff. “When? How?”

“A little more than two weeks ago. He was in a Barcelona restaurant when a bomb planted there in a backpack exploded.”

“Oh, God.” What Jackson had said was terrible enough, but hearing it recited in a flat, empty voice iced Claire’s blood. Whatever grief, whatever anger he felt was masked by a calm, unapproachable expression. But she knew he had loved his twin brother deeply, and the pain he felt must be brutal.

Pure reflex had her dropping the cleaning rag and stepping toward him. She felt Jackson’s pain as if it were her own. She settled her hand on his forearm and murmured, “I’m so sorry.” Beneath her palm she felt his heat, his hard-muscled strength. “I loved Garrett, too.”

“Yeah.” Instantly, he turned away, forcing her to drop her hand.

A dull throb settled in Claire’s belly. She had turned down his proposal and walked out on him. Why should she think he’d welcome her touch for any reason? After all, he hadn’t popped back into her life for old times’sake. He was there because she was in danger. She was his current assignment.

“Do you think Ryker was behind the bombing?” she asked.

“There’s no evidence to indicate that. Which doesn’t mean a damn thing.” He jabbed his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. “If he was in on it and didn’t want me to find out, he’d make sure he didn’t leave a trail. All I know is that it’s the norm for whatever group is behind a bombing to claim responsibility. That hasn’t happened. But there’s a terrorist cell in Barcelona controlled by Hassan Kaddur. He might have had his extremists carry out the bombing to show Ryker his thanks for funneling all those blank U.S. passports his way.”

Claire picked up a brass microscope, set it back down. “So, with your family gone, you think Ryker has targeted me by default?”

“Something like that,” Jackson said carefully. He could still feel the warm press of her palm against his forearm. Knowing she shared his grief—and his love for his brother—he’d been seconds from dragging her into his arms and holding her. Just holding her until the suffocating pain inside him diminished.