Profile Durango. Carla Cassidy
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disappeared into the house and the ball of tension expanded inside her. She would recognize Del Gardo anywhere. The last time she’d seen him he’d been distinctive-looking, with his shiny bald head and white beard. Even if he shaved that beard and grew hair, she thought she’d still recognize him.
What she didn’t know was if he’d hired somebody to take her out. A hired killer could look like anyone, a clean-cut young man, a middle-aged businessman, or an attractive woman with manicured nails.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Tom appeared in the doorway. “You can come in,” he said. “There’s nobody here.”
Her breath whooshed out of her as she stepped into the small entry with its niches carved out of the wall for displaying items. At the moment those niches were empty. In fact, even though the house was beginning to really feel like home to her, the furnishings were simple with almost no personal items displayed to indicate who lived here.
They walked from the entry into the living room where a beehive corner fireplace promised warmth on a cold wintry night and benches protruded from the wall along one side. The furniture was understated earth tones and woven rugs decorated the hardwood floor.
There were only two items in the room that were personal. The first was a photo of her mother on top of the television and the second was a picture of some of the people who worked at the lab and it sat on top of a miniature rolltop desk that held her personal computer.
Tom walked over and picked up the picture. “Maybe you could give me a crash course on the players at the lab,” he said.
Reluctantly, she walked closer and tried not to smell that hauntingly familiar scent of him. “The gray-haired man in the back is Jerry Griswold. He’s our firearms expert. The tall, dark-haired young guy is Bobby O’Shea. He’s the one who pulled me out of the building last night.” As she continued to name the people in the picture, her headache became a shooting pain across her forehead.
She knew this headache wasn’t from smoke inhalation. It was the band of tension created by Tom. As he placed the photo back on the desktop, she gestured down the hallway. “I’ll just show you to your room,” she said.
He nodded and picked up the duffel bag he’d dropped on the floor. He followed her down the hallway where she pointed to the first room on her right. “You can use the guest bath. Towels and extra soap are under the sink.” She stopped at the first doorway on her left. “You can sleep in here.”
The guest room was a nice size, with a king-size bed and a dresser with a mirror. He walked in and set his duffel bag on the multi-colored bedspread. “Thanks, this will be great.”
“Feel free to help yourself to anything in the refrigerator, although you’ll find the pickings slim. I don’t eat here much. And now, I’ll just tell you good-night.”
There was nothing more she wanted than to escape from him, to get out of the sight of his enigmatic gaze, to go someplace where she didn’t have to look at him.
“Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
She nodded and then hurried down the hallway to the master bedroom. All she wanted was a long, hot shower and the comfort of sleep without dreams.
She didn’t want to think about the fact that her life was at risk. She definitely didn’t want to think about the new risk that was now living in her house.
Tom was definitely a risk to her well-being, for he brought with him the threat of unearthing memories she’d thought she’d carefully buried, memories too painful to bear.
TOM AWOKE before dawn was even a promise in the eastern sky. The first thing he did was reach over to touch his gun on the nightstand. It was an automatic gesture, born of years as an FBI agent.
The second thing he did was think of the woman sleeping in the room at the end of the hallway. He’d always believed that he’d made the right decision for both of them when he’d walked away from her.
It had taken the undercover assignment in Mexico and a near-death experience for him to reexamine the path of his life and think about the successes and the failures.
Certainly his job had been one of the successes. Growing up in the foster care system, it would have been easy for him to have wound up a statistic of failure, either dead at an early age or in prison. It had taken a local cop seeing Tom flirting with trouble to intervene and give Tom a new purpose and drive to succeed.
As he swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, he scratched the ropey red scars that crisscrossed his chest and belly. Fifteen slashes, that’s what he’d received from the members of the drug cartel he’d infiltrated when they found out he was undercover FBI. They hadn’t stabbed him to death. That would have been too quick and easy. Instead they had cut him just deep enough to torture him, then had left him to bleed to death.
He’d spent four months in a Texas hospital fighting one infection after another and it was during that time that he’d realized that his personal life was a failure and much of his sense of failure came from his decision to leave Callie.
Water under the bridge, he thought as he got up and grabbed clean clothes from the closet where he’d hung them the night before. He darted across the hall and into the bathroom for a hot shower and once he was dressed for the day, he headed for the kitchen to make some coffee.
Minutes later he sat at the table and watched as the sunrise spilled orange light over the horizon. He heard the sound of water running and knew Callie was not only awake but in the shower.
It was going to be a tough day. Not only did he have to contend with Callie’s cool disdain, he also had a memorial service of sorts to attend. He frowned as he thought of Julie Grainger.
She had not only been a fellow agent, she’d also been a good friend. This morning Tom was meeting two other agents at a nearby park to say personal goodbyes to their fallen friend. Although officially Tom wasn’t assigned to Julie’s murder case, he intended to participate as much as possible unofficially.
Callie came into the kitchen, her features carefully schooled to indicate no emotion. “I see you found the coffee,” she said as she moved to the counter to pour herself a cup.
“You weren’t kidding about the refrigerator being bare. There wasn’t even a single egg in there.”
“There’s a cafeteria in the building with the lab. You can get breakfast there,” she said. “I’d like to leave here in about fifteen minutes and get to the lab.”
“Before we go we need to talk about your schedule,” he said.
She carried her cup to the table and sat down opposite him. One of her delicate blond eyebrows rose slightly, a gesture he knew indicated a certain level of stress. “What about it?”
“I think it would be in both our interests if there are no more late nights.” He held up a hand to still the protest he knew she was about to make. “Personal feelings aside, Callie, you have to work with me here. There’s no question that it’s more difficult for me to make sure you stay safe in the dark. I’d like you to leave the lab each day by dusk so we can get back here by nightfall. That’s the only thing I request of you, that small change in your schedule.”
The thinning of her lips as they pressed together let him know she didn’t like being reined in, but instead of protesting, she nodded. “Fine. Okay. I’m off the streets at dusk.”
Tom released a small relieved sigh. He had a feeling this would be the first of many battles they might have, but at least he’d won this one.
He took a sip of his coffee and eyed her over the rim of his cup. Clad in a long-sleeved white blouse and navy slacks, she looked all business, but the floral scent that emanated from her was all female.
“Callie, maybe it would be a good idea for us to talk, to clear the air between us,” he said as he lowered his cup.
Her