Ironclad Cover. Dana Marton

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СКАЧАТЬ on the side. But that didn’t mean that she was short-changing his. She’d given her word and she would keep it.

      Here they were, risking their lives, doing whatever they could to bring his mission to success. The least they would have deserved was a vote of confidence. “You don’t trust us.” She was still jumpy from the shooting at the restaurant, full of nerves and unexamined emotion. It was easy to snap.

      He was watching her, his mahogany eyes unblinking. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

      The nerve he had. “You don’t think we can do it, do you? Unwilling or incapable. Which one is it?”

      He said nothing.

      What did it matter? “Bottom line is, you don’t think we have what it takes. And yet we are here. Which means you’re risking our lives just so you can say you tried everything. I could have been shot and killed.”

      His expression turned dark. “Believe me, I’m well aware of that. And for the record, I never said I thought you couldn’t do it.”

      “Just that you don’t trust us.” Her words slapped his back.

      He drew up a dark eyebrow. “You want the truth?”

      She nodded.

      “I gave it to you. Now deal with it.” His manner was brusque and hard, the attitude she imagined he used with suspects during his investigations.

      Maybe she should go back to her apartment. She had been checking the whole way here—they hadn’t been followed. She could call a cab at the front desk and be just fine.

      As if he could read her thoughts, he stepped in front of her, solid as a construction barricade. “I’ll take you home in the morning.”

      He was too close. She couldn’t move forward and she wouldn’t move back, despite the fact that he made her jumpy in a way Nick Tarasov, with his tough commando-guy stance, never did. Neither had Michael Lambert, even when he had his lips on hers.

      Brant Law’s mahogany eyes said he meant business. He was not a man to cross. She couldn’t wait until he’d gone back to wherever he’d come from.

      It would be better if he thought he had her full cooperation. She pasted on a smile. “Sounds good,” she said, and turned from him. She would pick her battles.

      “You take the bed.” He went around her to the two armchairs by the wall and pushed them to face each other.

      Was that where he planned to sleep? And was that a limp?

      “Are you hurt?” He seemed such a wall of solid strength, it hadn’t occurred to her that he could be.

      “No.” His response was quick, his voice sharper than necessary.

      “Looks like you’re limping.”

      “Trick of the light.”

      The light was perfectly fine as far as she could tell. What was his problem? This macho man didn’t want anyone to know that he wasn’t invincible?

      “Okay. You’re fine.”

      What did she care? She made herself relax, sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him and bent to take off her shoes, wrinkling her nose as her hair fell in front of her face. She reeked of cigar smoke from the Chamber of Commerce reception.

      “Mind if I take a shower?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

      “Help yourself.” He was digging through his suitcase. The next second, he tossed something large and white toward her.

      A cotton undershirt, she recognized the thing as she caught it.

      “You can’t sleep in that.” He nodded toward her soiled dress, without meeting her eyes.

      “Thanks.”

      He bent back to the suitcase, pulled out a laptop and set it on the desk. Looked like he meant to work. She was more than willing to let him.

      Shirt in hand, she retreated to the bathroom, into the bliss of privacy and the cascade of water, washed her hair, using up one full minibottle of shampoo and conditioner. She was drying herself when he knocked on the door.

      “I called down for a courtesy kit for you.”

      She wrapped the towel tight around her body, opened the door and stood aside so she’d be covered and blindly reached a hand out. She pulled in the small plastic bag he placed in her palm then closed the door shut. “Thank you.”

      “I ordered room service, too.”

      Something to eat would be nice. All she’d had were a half-dozen microscopic hors d’oeuvres while scoping the crowd for Cavanaugh and Martinez at the party.

      She unzipped the courtesy kit and looked at the comb, toothpaste, toothbrush and razor inside. She rubbed her arm where it was sore from when he’d taken her down, out of the way of the bullet.

      He’d saved her life. He’d done so efficiently, with practiced ease, a true professional. And it just occurred to her that she hadn’t even thanked him. She’d been too focused on figuring out why he was on the island and how much he would interfere with her private investigation.

      “Thank you,” she yelled through the door. “For everything.”

      “You’re welcome. For everything.” He sounded tired and distracted. He was probably on his laptop, checking e-mail messages.

      He seemed sharply efficient while staying studiously detached. But then there were those acts of unexpected kindness, the shirt in her left hand, the small bag of essentials in the other, room service.

      Brant Law wasn’t an easy man to figure out.

      HIS HIP THROBBED. It ticked him off. Brant walked into the George Town police department, using every ounce of will he had not to limp. He wasn’t going to pass his next physical. This assignment would be his last. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

      All the more reason for him to want to succeed with this case, a big one, something to remember him by other than that one miserable, glaring mistake he had made five years ago. He needed this case. And he’d had to hand it over to a bunch of criminals. It was enough to put him into a permanent bad mood even without the pain.

      “Brant Law, FBI.” He flipped his badge to the man at the front desk. “I’m here for a consult. Mind if I get a cup of coffee first?”

      The young cop looked at him, duly impressed by the badge. “Help yourself. It’s in the back.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      He headed down the narrow hall, turned at the end. Damn if the evidence room didn’t conveniently have a sign on it. Locked. He looked around, produced his small tool kit, was inside the next minute. He riffled through the plastic bags in the in-box, found one with Reef Street Shooting scribbled on it along with the case number and date, then pocketed the bag with the lone bullet inside.

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