Closer Encounters

A loud rumble from the vicinity of her stomach interrupted his thoughts and drew an embarrassed laugh from her.

“Or maybe it’s just hunger. I missed lunch.”

She’d just handed Drew the perfect opening. “Then we’d better get you something to eat.”

“Thanks, but you’re on the tour. I’ll just head back down on my own and—”

“Those ramps are steep. You might get wobbly again. I’ll walk down with you.”

“Really, I’m fine. You don’t have to cut short your tour on my account.”

Ignoring her protests, he took her elbow and steered her back through the Moorish arch. The rest of the group was just entering the ballroom. The guide looked distinctly displeased with their temporary absence.

“I must ask you not to wander off on your own like that.”

“My friend felt dizzy and needed air,” Drew explained calmy. “I’m going to take her down. Thanks for the very informative tour.”

His grip remained firm as they exited the ballroom. A fierce satisfaction hummed through him. He couldn’t remember the last time a prey had fallen into his hands so easily and conveniently.

“My name’s Andrew, by the way. Andrew McDowell. Drew to my friends.”

“Tracy Brandt.”

“Where’s home, Tracy?”

“Puget Sound, Washington. For now, anyway.”

Drew kept it casual. “You’re moving?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

He cocked an eyebrow, but she dodged the implied question with a small shrug. “It’s a long story. Not worth boring a stranger with.”

Baby, you’ve got that wrong! Hiding a sardonic smile, Drew helped her negotiate the sloping ramps. Once outside, he released her elbow. Her cheeks were still pale, making the shadows under her eyes stand out in stark relief, but she seemed to revive in the brisk salt air.

“Do you like seafood?” Drew asked.

She angled her head and gave him a smile. A real one, he saw, surprised at the way it transformed her face.

“What kind of a question is that to ask someone from Puget Sound?”

“My mistake. The restaurant at the inn where I’m staying supposedly does a great grilled tilapia. At least according to the manager of the Bella Vista.”

“You’re staying at the Bella Vista? So am I.”

“There you go, then. We’re neighbors. Want to give the tilapia a shot or have you already tried it?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Tracy hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. She couldn’t afford to rack up a bill at the inn’s fancy restaurant. The only reason she’d stayed at the Bella Vista was because it offered a modified American plan that included a continental breakfast. Unfortunately, she’d been too wired this morning to down more than coffee and half a blueberry muffin. She needed to eat something soon or she’d make a fool of herself—again!—by keeling over at this man’s feet.

“I’m not really dressed for a nice restaurant. I saw a place out on the pier that serves fish and chips. We could try that.”

“The pier it is,” he said easily.

Catalina’s Green Pier jutted into the harbor from midpoint on Avalon’s narrow, sandy beach. It got its name from the green-painted structure perched in the center of the pier. According to a tourist brochure Tracy had read, the wooden building, with its dazzling white trim and distinctive clock tower, was the island’s second most recognizable landmark after the casino. Originally a fish market, it now housed the official weigh station for sport fishermen, souvenir shops and eateries.

To Tracy’s secret relief, her escort insisted on paying for their meal. They ate in the open air, carrying their soft drinks and red plastic baskets to a long wooden table with an unobstructed view of the circular harbor and the town that hugged it. As advertised, the fish was crunchy on the outside, deliciously moist and flaky inside. The French fries and hush puppies were steaming hot. Tracy burned the inside of her mouth on the first bite, yet had to fight to keep from scarfing down another.

“This is nice,” Drew commented, his gaze skimming over the boats rocking gently on the swells.

“Yes, it is.”

Those scary moments on the casino balcony faded as Tracy munched on her hush puppy and drank in the scene. The late afternoon shadows had deepened into an early evening dusk. Lights were beginning to twinkle on in the shops and houses that stair-stepped up the steep hills surrounding the bay. The breeze had died and the temperature hovered at a comfortable sixty-five or so. The scene was so calm, so idyllic. Just as Jack had described it.

“Very nice,” she murmured with a hitch in her voice that matched the one in her heart.

Dunking a fry in ketchup, she pushed it around and waited for the ache to pass. When she looked up, she found Drew watching her with a question in his eyes.

They were really sexy eyes, Tracy decided, a palette of gold and brown and green framed by lashes the same color as the mahogany streaks in his dark hair. She liked the face they were set in, too. She wouldn’t qualify it as handsome, exactly. More rugged-looking, with a strong chin and tanned skin that suggested he spent more time outdoors than in. With his broad shoulders and lean, athletic body, he didn’t look the type to go in for salon tanning sessions.

Not that Tracy was any judge of type. Except for Jack, her relationships with the male species had been brief and somewhat less than satisfactory.

The thought made the ache sharper, until it lanced into her like vicious little shards. It took an act of sheer will to respond to Drew’s silent query.

“A friend of mine used to come here years ago. He fell in love with the place and talked all the time about coming back.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“I guess…I guess he just never got around to it.”

She couldn’t talk about Jack. The hurt was too raw, too private. Scanning the harbor, she latched on to a sleek white yacht as a change of topic.

“Look at that. What do you suppose something like that costs?”

“More than either of us could afford.”

The drawled response piqued Tracy’s curiosity. All she knew about this man was his name and that he had really sexy eyes. She glanced down and saw he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. That didn’t mean anything, of course, but it gave her the incentive to pry a little.

“Where’s home for you, Drew?”

“I live in Virginia, about an hour south of D.C.”

“What do you do?”

“My father-in-law and I own and operate a chain of shops that specialize in classic car restoration.”

Well, that settled the question of his marital status. Tracy was battling an absurd sense of disappointment when her dinner companion added a clarification.

“Actually, Charlie is my ex-father-in-law. I met his daughter some years back. I was in the navy then, and it took Joyce all of eight months to decide being a sailor’s wife wasn’t her thing. Not this particular sailor’s wife, anyway.”

She didn’t detect any hurt in his crooked grin. Only a self-deprecating chagrin.

“I take it the divorce didn’t damage your relationship with your wife’s father.”

“Just the opposite. Charlie was as relieved as Joyce when we split. He saw how upset she got when I had to pull sea duty.”

Upset wasn’t quite the right word for it, Drew thought wryly. His high-strung, temperamental wife had pitched a world-class fit every time he’d had to pack his sea bag. Short of going AWOL, all Drew could do was promise to leave the navy when his hitch was up.

Joyce had decided to leave him instead. Drew had never admitted it to anyone, but he’d been every bit as relieved as his father-in-law when she’d filed for divorce.

“Charlie and I always got along well,” he said with a shrug. “So well he asked me to join him in his business when I left the navy.”

Their partnership had proved far more enduring and satisfying than his marriage. Drew had already been recruited by OMEGA and needed a base of operations that would allow him to come and go at will. Charlie had been happy to turn over most of the traveling to classic car conventions and searches for rare parts to his partner.

Drew knew Charlie suspected his business partner did more than shop for parts during those travels, but the old man had never asked about the extended absences. The fact that Drew had helped grow Classic Motors, Inc. into a nationwide chain of highly profitable shops might have had something to do with Charlie’s reticence.

“What about you?” he asked, getting back to the business that had sent him on this particular trip. “What do you do?”

“I worked as a budget analyst for a defense contractor in Puget Sound until recently.”

He waited, wondering if she’d admit she’d been fired. When she didn’t, he applied the screws.

“Why did you leave?”

“It was, uh, time to look for something better.” With a show of nonchalance, she nodded to the sleek white yacht. “Who knows, maybe I’ll land something that pays enough to afford one of those.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, “who knows?”

Drew had spent almost six years as an undercover operative. In that time he’d taken down his share of drug dealers, black marketers and other scum who trafficked in human misery. He’d learned the hard way that greed had some ugly faces. Real ugly. Even the so-called religious fanatics who blew themselves up or bombed abortion clinics in the name of God were motivated by a sadistic hunger for dominance and power.

In Drew’s considered opinion, the bastards who sold their country’s secrets were among the worst of the lot. Their avarice put the lives of countless innocent citizens at risk. He had no evidence Tracy Brandt intended to sell classified information. He still hadn’t ascertained what, if any, information about the USS Kallister and its cargo she may have acquired.

But he would, he vowed. He would.

Infusing his voice with a sympathy he was far from feeling, he tightened the screws a little more.

“It’s tough to be out of work, but you can’t let it get to you. Or make you do something crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“Like up there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the round casino building now lit up like a beacon. “On that balcony.”

Her jaw dropped. Goggle-eyed, she gaped at him for several seconds. “You think…? You think I intended to jump?”

“Kind of looked that way from where I was standing.”

“I had no intention of jumping!” Indignation put spots of red in her cheeks and lit sparks in her green eyes. “I told you, it was the music…. It made feel me dizzy and disoriented.”

“Right. The music.”

Her flushed deepened to a rosy brick. “Or, as I said, I might just have been hungry. We’ve taken care of that problem, so you don’t have to worry that I’ll jump off the pier and you’ll have to dive in after me.”

“No need to get riled. I was just trying to help.”

“Yes, well…Thanks.” Her feathers thoroughly ruffled, she swung off the bench, scooped up her plastic basket and tossed it in the trash. “And thanks for dinner. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of yours.”

“I’m done,” Drew replied, swinging a leg over the bench. “I’ll walk back to the inn with you.”

“I’m not going back to the inn. Not just yet. Have a nice time on Catalina, Mr. McDowell.”

Drew trailed her to an Internet café tucked between two souvenir shops. Ignoring the coffee bar, she made a beeline for a computer and inserted a credit card. Mere moments later she was hunched over the screen and clicking away on the keyboard.

Keeping her in his line of sight, Drew chose an isolated bench well away from the glow of shop windows and extracted his cell phone. It was one of those ultrathin, ultraexpensive models that could do everything but flush the toilet. Drew figured the wizards who worked for Lightning’s wife, Mackenzie Blair, had probably packed it with enough souped-up circuitry to do that, too, if necessary.

Lounging on the bench like a patient tourist waiting for his souvenir-hunting spouse, he pressed a quick-dial button and was instantly connected via secure satellite to OMEGA headquarters. Standard protocol required Drew to be identified via voiceprint and code name before his controller responded. A recent case worked by a fellow operative, Jordan Colby, had added an iris scan to the process.

“This is Riever,” he said, aiming the phone’s built-in camera at his right eye.

Drew waited for another second or two until Denise Kowalski got the green light indicating the caller’s iris scan and voiceprint matched those on file for Drew McDowell.

“I read you.” Her image appeared on the phone’s screen. “How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. I’m in place and have established contact with the target. Matter of fact, we just had dinner together.”

The former Secret Service agent raised a sandy eyebrow. “That’s fast work, Riever, even for you.”

“The pace picked up in a hurry right after I got here.”

Keeping an eye on the dark head bent over the computer, he relayed the events of the afternoon and evening.

“She insists she wasn’t going to jump, but it’s hard to take the word of someone who hears voices. Check her medical records for me, will you? See if there’s anything else going on in her head besides singing.”

“Will do.”

“We also need to get linked into the Chocolate Cyberchip Café. She’s in there now, plugging away.”

“Already done. That’s the same site she used yesterday to make all those queries about the Kallister. Hang loose while I check with comm to see if they’re picking up her signals.”

Denise was back a few moments later.

“Comm has her. She’s tapped into one of those online music sites. Have a listen.”

Drew heard the slide of a trombone followed by a few bars of a reedy sax. Then a female crooned into his ear. Her voice was low and throaty and seductive, like a golden ribbon spooling out onto black satin sheets. Drew almost got hard just listening to her.

“Who the heck is that?”

“Comm says the singer is Trixie Halston. The song is one she recorded in the early forties. ‘I’ll Walk Alone.’ Hmm, the target is playing the same song over again. Wonder why she’s so fascinated with it?”

“Good question. See what you can find out about the singer.” A sudden movement had Drew signing off. “The target’s moving. I’ll contact you later.”

“Roger that.”

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he followed Tracy up to the inn. To his surprise, he could still hear the echo of that smoky, sexy contralto.

Okay, so maybe his target wasn’t a couple of bricks shy of a full load. Maybe the song had just stuck in her head, like it had in his. The melody was liquid and smooth, the lyrics simple and repeatable. Drew was humming them under his breath when Tracy disappeared inside the inn.

Once she was inside her room, Drew entered his. His first order of business was to attach a small, almost transparent disk on the wall between their two rooms. The communications gurus had assured him the minuscule listening device could pick up a sneeze on a street corner in Gdansk.

When he screwed a wireless receiver into his ear, Drew heard no sneezes, Polish or otherwise, just the sound of gushing water punctuated by a series of irate mutters.

“Jerk!”

A tap squealed. The water gushed faster.

“How could he think I was going to jump?”

Another squeal, followed by another mutter.

“Do I look that pathetic?”

No, Drew wouldn’t classify her as pathetic. Weird, maybe. Suspect, certainly. Fingering the earpiece, he adjusted the volume. A bird’s-eye view of Avalon’s twinkling lights lured him out onto the balcony.

Leaning his elbows on the rail, he listened to the splash that heralded his target’s immersion in one of the inn’s old-fashioned claw foot tubs. Her long, drawn-out ahhh evoked images of bubbles and rising steam. The squish of something wet and spongy evoked another image altogether.

Drew could almost see a wet washcloth sliding over Tracy Brandt’s breasts and belly. Despite the cool night air, he started to sweat. From what he’d seen of her under that baggy windbreaker, the woman came equipped with a nice set of curves.

He’d worked his way into a serious consideration of those curves when a squawk jerked him from Tracy’s bathroom to his night-wrapped balcony. The gull landed less than a foot from his elbow.

“Hey, fella. You’re out late.”

Yeah, the bird’s cocked head seemed to say. So feed me.

“Okay, okay. Just hold on to your tail feathers.”

Halfway to the minibar he heard a scream from the next room. Drew had charged for the door even before his supersensitive mike telegraphed the crack of breaking glass.

Chapter 3

Straining to pick up some sound from inside the target’s room, Drew rapped his knuckles on her door.

“Tracy?”

He waited a beat, his mind conjuring a dozen different scenarios, and rapped again.

“Tracy, it’s Drew.”

He was about to put his shoulder to the oak panel when the lock snicked and the door opened a crack. Cool air whooshed out, then a pale face topped by a towel turban appeared.

“Are you okay?” Drew asked sharply.

“I…I…”

The fumbling response upped his pucker factor another few notches. What the hell had she done?

“The walls are thin,” he said with only slight exaggeration. They were thin—especially with a high-tech listening device transmitting every decibel of sound.

“I heard a scream and the sound of glass breaking. Are you all right?”

She put a shaking hand to her temple. “I think so.”

“What happened?”

“I, uh, dropped something.”

She scrunched her forehead, as if trying to remember what. Worried that she’d fallen and whapped her head, Drew softened his tone.

“Something’s obviously shaken you. Why don’t you unhook the chain and tell me about it?”

She peered through the crack for another second or two, still confused, still hesitant. While she debated, Drew angled his body to one side and surreptitiously removed his earpiece. One way or another, he was getting in to that room.

“Let me in, Tracy. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

The combination of brisk command and gentle persuasion produced results. The door closed, the chain rattled and Drew stepped inside.

Her rooms were smaller than his. A good deal chillier, too, with the breeze blowing in through the open windows. The view was incredible, but Drew spared the brilliantly illuminated casino framed by those windows barely a glance. His quick, intense scrutiny swept over a combination bedroom/sitting area done in brass and flowery chintzes. He spotted no bloodstains, no overturned furniture, no shattered windows.

The bathroom, on the other hand, looked as though a tornado had just roared through it. Wet towels were strewn everywhere. The entire contents of a cosmetic bag had been dumped on the counter. Glistening glass shards decorated the floor tiles.

Drew eyed them, his gut tightening. Had she dropped that drinking glass by accident? Or was the breakage deliberate, a prelude to slit wrists?

His thoughts grim, he faced the target. She appeared to be recovering from whatever had hit her. The dazed look was gone, anyway. Playing with the belt of her lemon-colored chenille robe, she offered an embarrassed smile.

“The mirror got all clouded with steam. I used my sleeve to clean it and knocked the drinking cup off the counter.”

That accounted for the shattered glass. Not the cry that preceded it.

“Did something startle you? I could swear I heard you scream just before the glass broke.”

“Was I that loud? I thought I just let out a small squeak.”

Small was in the ear of the beholder. Wondering if the ultrasensitive listening device had made him overreact, Drew shrugged.

“Maybe it was just a squeak. But something must have generated it.”

“Something did.” Her smile went from embarrassed to chagrined. “After I cleared away the steam, I got a good look at this face in the mirror.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t tell me you can’t see the bags under these eyes! And this hair.”

Tugging off the turban, she raked her hand through the strands of dark mink.

“Look at it! As straight as a board. Not the slightest hint of a wave or a roll. I have to get my hands on some bobby pins.”

Bobby pins? Drew had a hazy memory of his grandmother with her head hard-wired into tight curls, but had no idea women still stabbed those sharp little implements into their scalps.

He found Brandt’s sudden determination to acquire some reassuring, though. If she was so worried about her appearance, odds were she hadn’t been planning to slash her wrists. Judging by the angry mutters he’d heard just before she’d climbed into the tub, she evidently hadn’t intended to jump off the ballroom balcony, either.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t suicidal. Just strange. And mercurial as hell. For a few moments there on the pier, her shoulders had drooped with weariness and sadness shadowed her eyes. Now she seemed gripped by a sort of quivering energy.

“Do you want to go with me?” she asked eagerly.

“Go where?”

“To a drugstore, to buy some bobby pins.”

“Now?”

She flipped the ends of her wet hair. “I have to do something with this floor mop. Besides, the night’s young. How about I tie on a kerchief and we see what’s playing at the Roxy? Or grab a stool at the soda fountain and split a dusty miller? It’s been ages since I dug a spoon into one of those!”

Drew didn’t have a clue what a dusty miller was, but he’d dig a spoon into one just to keep his target talking.

“Sure, I’ll go with you.”

“Great! I’ll get dressed and meet you downstairs. Ten minutes?”

Drew let himself out, wondering if Ms. Brandt had popped a few pills or snorted something before getting into the tub. She was wired. Most definitely wired.

Her eagerness to get out and have some fun stirred more than a few unpleasant memories. Drew’s young wife used to meet him at the door when he dragged in after twelve or fourteen hours performing deck drills. Joyce had spent the day cooped up in what the navy euphemistically referred to as junior enlisted housing and swore she had to get out or she’d go stir-crazy. So Drew had traded his uniform for civvies and duly escorted her to a mall or a movie or to the on-base club. Most often to the club.

Consequently Drew had to work to dredge up a smile when Tracy floated down the stairs. She appeared to have no problem with her smile. It was wide and sparkling and hit him with the same wallop it had earlier. Alive with eagerness, she hooked her arm through his.

“Let’s go. I can’t wait to dive into that chocolate sundae.”

Assuming that was the dusty miller, Drew escorted her out of the inn and down the winding walkway to town. He couldn’t quite get a handle on what was so different about her. Maybe it was the hair, tucked into a roll at the base of her neck and accented with a headscarf tied in a jaunty bow. Or the high color in her cheeks. Or her darting gaze that seemed to want to take everything in at once.

“The town sure is dead tonight,” she commented, clutching Drew’s arm. “Where are all the cars?”

“The streets are too narrow for vehicles. Most everyone gets around in golf carts.”

Which she should have known after two days on the island. Puzzling over the inconsistency, Drew let her tug him toward a shop with an old-fashioned Drugstore sign illuminated in green and pink neon.

“Here it is, right where I remember it.” Eagerly, she reached for the door latch. Excitement bubbled in her voice. “Come on, let’s…”

One step into the shop she stopped dead. Confusion blanked her face.

“Tracy? Something wrong?”

“It’s all changed,” she said in dismay. “Where’s the soda fountain?”

Drew skimmed a glance around the small shop. The stressed wood flooring and framed sepia pictures of Catalina in earlier decades suggested the place had been there a while, but the glass shelves crammed with the usual mix of medications, beauty aids and household items were sleek and strictly utilitarian.