Memory Reload. Rosemary Heim

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СКАЧАТЬ Instead of pumping his fist in victory as he wanted, Ryan swept his arm in front of himself. “Right this way.”

      They headed down the beach in silence. She kept up with him, walking with an easy grace in spite of the soft sand dragging at their feet. He was acutely aware of her slender form beside him, just out of reach, but near enough to keep his senses on red alert.

      She was the perfect height, tall enough to tuck under his chin, but not so short he’d get a kink in his neck bending down to kiss her. Hold your horses, boyo. This is not an appropriate direction to be thinking.

      The small bungalow, hidden among another bunch of palms, came into view none too soon. He held the back door open for her and she stepped past him. She stopped just inside the tidy little kitchen, inspecting her surroundings.

      Ryan made a production of brushing the sand from his feet before stepping onto the clean terra-cotta tile floor, giving her as much time as he could to look around. The more comfortable she was with her surroundings, the more likely she would be to confide in him.

      The door clicked shut behind him. If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed her slight flinch.

      He stepped around her and moved to the other side of the room. Maybe she’d relax some if he kept his distance a bit better than he had been. “I imagine you might want to freshen up a bit.” He pointed down the hall. “Why don’t you go on through to the bathroom while I get that lemonade?”

      She hesitated, her hand clenching and releasing on the camera bag’s shoulder strap.

      Ryan cleared his laptop and paperwork from the small round kitchen table, turned away and began opening cupboards, setting out glasses and a plate. He waited until he heard the bathroom door close before turning around. A swift survey of the room confirmed his suspicion. She wasn’t letting that bag out of her sight.

      When she returned he was sitting in one of the ladder-back chairs, leafing through a recent Smithsonian magazine. A plate of gingersnaps, a frosty pitcher of lemonade and two tall glasses filled with ice covered the bright yellow tabletop. The second chair at the table turned out, an open invitation for her to sit down.

      Ryan sat up straight and tossed the magazine onto the counter behind him. He squelched the urge to stand and hold the chair for her as she joined him.

      She slid onto the chair without changing its position. The camera bag settled on her lap, her hands curled into white-knuckled fists around the bag’s handle. She flexed her hands a couple of times, then lowered the case to the floor, looping the shoulder strap over her knee. Her back never touched the chair’s ladder-back. An air of quiet panic swirled around her.

      The clinking of ice filled the room as Ryan poured them each a glass. He took a cookie for himself, then pushed the plate closer to her. “Not exactly the breakfast of champions, I know, but I figure it’s got the same basic ingredients—grain, eggs, sugar.”

      A fleeting smile answered his attempt at humor.

      She took a tiny sip of the lemonade and set the glass back on the table. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “For suggesting I come back here.”

      Ryan shrugged. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”

      Another smile flickered across those full lips of hers. He couldn’t help noticing how they shone with moisture from the lemonade. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, damning himself for noticing every little detail of her appearance.

      “She did a fine job. Are you from…” She cleared her throat again. “I can’t quite place your accent.”

      “Don’t guess I sound much like any one place. I moved around quite a bit when I was growing up, mostly in the South.”

      She nodded and the silence crept back in. Ryan wanted to ask her some questions of his own, but decided to bide his time. Maybe if she asked a few more questions, got to know a bit more about him, felt a little more comfortable, she’d begin to open up herself.

      “You don’t live here?” She looked around the retro-chic kitchen.

      “No, just visiting. Jamie lets me stay here whenever I have the time.”

      “Nice friend.”

      “Yeah.” Ryan took another swallow of lemonade to keep from asking her anything.

      “Where do you call home?”

      “Nowhere in particular.” He shrugged. “I’m kind of a nomad. My job takes me away for extended periods of time, so I’ve never really set up a permanent base.”

      “How sad,” she murmured. Her face reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

      Ryan shook his head and waved away her concern. “No offense taken. I just never saw any reason to settle down. Homebody is not in my nature.”

      “What do you do?”

      “At the moment, nothing. I’m…between assignments.”

      “But a government job?” She busied herself wiping the condensation from the sides of her glass.

      Ryan nodded and waited for the next question. He had a pretty good idea what it might be.

      “So, what, are you a secret agent, or something like that?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Oh.” She laughed, a bit nervously he thought. “I guess you probably can’t tell me much more.”

      “Not much more to tell. I’m posted to the Office of Professional Responsibility. It’s my job to smoke out bad agents and see that they pay for their treason.”

      She straightened in her chair, looking at him with a slight tilt to her head.

      “I could give you a number to call. A couple numbers, actually. My boss and a buddy. They’ll vouch that I’m on the up-and-up.”

      “I can call them directly? Any time?” The idea seemed to reassure her. She eased back into her chair.

      “Any time. It’s not a problem.” He leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs. It wasn’t much of a stretch for him to reach the little message pad and pen hanging on a hook by the cordless wall phone. The chair settled back on all four legs. He wrote the numbers, explaining as he went. “The first number is for Jacquelyn Kingston. She’s my supervisor at the Bureau. John Danse is a fellow agent I just worked with. He’s not exactly a buddy, but he’ll vouch for me. The last number is for this house.”

      He pushed the paper across the table. She studied it for a moment, then carefully folded it and tucked it into her T-shirt pocket.

      Ryan’s mouth went dry. The sharp edges of the paper stood outlined between the softness of the cotton material and the fullness of her breast. He lifted his glass and downed most of its contents. The icy liquid had little cooling effect.

      “You work for a woman?” Her voice pulled him back to the issue at hand.

      “Yeah. She runs a tight ship. That’s not easy with the bunch of retired military personnel she’s got СКАЧАТЬ