Breakaway. Rochelle Alers

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СКАЧАТЬ in the large bedroom. Celia knew she had to get away from Miami, even if only for a month or two. Waking up to tropical temperatures, palm trees, the ocean views, the sounds of Spanish interspersed with English and luxury yachts moored along the Intracoastal was a constant reminder of the days and nights she’d lain in Yale’s arms while they’d planned their future.

      She reached for the cordless phone without bothering to look at the display. “Hello.”

      “¿Cómo estás, Cee Cee?”

      A hint of a smile parted her lips when she heard her older brother Diego’s greeting. There was no doubt he was in a good mood. Employees of ColeDiz International, Ltd. were thrilled now that its CEO, Diego Cole-Thomas, had married and become a father. He now greeted them with smiles and effusive handshakes. Before he’d met Vivienne Neal, most people, including family members, found Diego Cole-Thomas cold and intimidating.

      “Good morning, Diego.”

      “Have you looked at the clock, Celia?”

      Sitting upright, Celia took a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table. She groaned inwardly. It was after three in the afternoon. “I suppose I should’ve said good afternoon.”

      “Are you still in bed?”

      Her brother’s voice had changed, layered with concern that put her on the defensive. “I didn’t know I needed your permission as to when I should and should not go to bed.” Her retort was followed by a long silence, and Celia knew Diego was struggling to control his temper.

      “You don’t need my permission to do anything, Celia. It’s just that I’m concerned about you spending so much time by yourself.”

      Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Diego,” she said before exhaling an audible breath. “I feel better when I’m alone because I don’t have to pretend all is well when it isn’t. Most times I’m okay, but it’s when I dream about what happened that I find myself getting depressed.”

      “Are you depressed now?”

      She smiled. “I’m fighting it.”

      “May I make a suggestion without you biting my head off?”

      “Yes. And even if I disagree with you I promise not to bite your head off.”

      “I spoke to Nick earlier this morning, and he wants you to stay at the horse farm until you’re called to testify.”

      Celia rolled her eyes upward. “Nick knows how I feel about horses. I don’t like them and they don’t like me.”

      “It’s not about horses, Cee Cee. It’s about a change of scenery.”

      She smiled again. “You must be clairvoyant, big brother, because I was just thinking about leaving Miami for a few months to get my head together.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “North Carolina.”

      “No, Celia. If you go there you’ll be more isolated than in that mausoleum of a house you wander around in.”

      “Will it make you feel better if I take a lover for the summer to keep me company?”

      “That’s not funny, Celia.”

      “Make up your mind, Diego,” she countered. “I know you’ve been talking to everyone because you believe I’m either crazy or going crazy. I’m neither. What I am is mourning the loss of the man I loved, the man who was to become my husband and the father of my children. He was murdered right in front of my eyes, and my only consolation was that I didn’t watch him die. I am going away, and hopefully when I come back I’ll be able to start over.”

      There was another brief silence. “Will I see you before you leave?”

      “Of course,” Celia said.

      She would stay in Florida long enough to see her brother, sister-in-law and nephew, and to spend time with her parents and grandparents before driving up to North Carolina. Perhaps on her return trip she would stop at her younger brother’s horse farm in western Virginia.

      Two minutes later, she ended the call, swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the en suite bathroom. She’d committed to leaving Miami, and hopefully upon her return she would be able to get her life back on track.

      FBI Academy—Quantico, Virginia

      Gavin Faulkner reached up in an attempt to loosen the tie under his shirt collar. He stopped and then remembered why he’d worn it. Earlier that morning, he’d gotten a call from his supervisor that he was to meet him at 0900 hours. Bradley MacArthur ended the terse message with a direct order that he wear a suit and tie.

      As a special agent working undercover, there were few occasions when he had to wear what he’d referred to as an authorized noose. He much preferred jeans, boots, tees and a pullover sweater. The temperature had to drop several degrees before he deigned to wear a coat or jacket.

      “Agent Faulkner, you may go in now.”

      Gavin, rising to his feet, stared at the dour-faced woman guarding her boss’s door like a rottweiler about to pounce on an unsuspecting intruder. “Thank you, Ms. Rossen.” He gave her his best toothpaste-ad grin. He knew he’d shocked her because she stared silently at him, her mouth agape.

      Ms. Claire Rossen didn’t like him, and the feeling was mutual. The first time he’d been summoned to meet directly with Mac, she’d neglected to inform her boss that the newly appointed undercover special agent had arrived on time when she directed Gavin into his supervisor’s office twenty minutes later.

      He’d endured the tongue-lashing about the importance of punctuality, and then calmly asked Mac why he wanted to see him. The question had quickly diffused the career agent’s harangue, and within seconds the two men regarded each other with respect. He smiled at Ms. Rossen as he stepped into the sun-filled office. Much to his surprise, she returned his smile.

      “Good luck, Gavin.”

      It was the first time Claire had addressed him by his first name. His smile was still in place when he recognized the men sitting at a conference table in a corner of the large office. “Good morning, gentlemen,” Gavin said, greeting and shaking hands with associate directors of the FBI, DEA, ATF and the U.S. Marshals Service. A shudder of excitement rushed through his body when he realized he was to become a participant in a joint Department of Justice operation.

      Bradley gestured to an empty chair. “Please sit there, Agent Faulkner.” Gavin sat. It was the only place at the table with a file folder. “Before you examine the contents of the folder in front of you, I want you to know that your name was at the top of the list for this operation.”

      Thick, black, silky eyebrows lifted a fraction when Gavin met the resolute stares of the men looking back at him. “Am I correct to assume that I was the only name on the list?” The ATF and DEA officials exchanged barely perceptible smiles.

      “Yes,” the assistant Bureau director acknowledged. “Raymond Prentice, aka Ray Peterson, and sometimes known as Roy Perkins has just earned the number-one spot on the Bureau’s Most Wanted List.”

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