Her Private Treasure. Wendy Etherington
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broker of Palmer’s Island, I don’t see him blending well in that violent world.”
Hamilton nodded. “True enough.”
“Rafton also doesn’t drive an exotic car, which, if you’ll pardon the cliché, is a drug dealer’s biggest weakness.”
“And how do you know that?”
She shrugged. “The parking lot outside. There’s a well-used SUV that belongs to the family counselor. A fairly new but understated luxury sedan for the real estate agent, a pickup truck for the insurance guy and a perfectly restored Triumph Spitfire convertible painted British Racing Green.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Which I’m sure belongs to you.”
“You ran the tags.”
“Didn’t need to.”
He said nothing for a long moment as he studied her. “Well, I suppose somebody at the Bureau is taking my suspicions seriously if they sent you.”
She started to argue with him, to explain that the only reason she’d been sent was because he was friends with a powerful man. But admitting that would be admitting she had no influence and simply did as she was told. Plus, despite the urge not to be, she was flattered he recognized her investigative skills.
“We appreciate the cooperation of concerned citizens and follow up on any tip that will lead to the arrest and conviction of anyone participating in criminal activity.”
“Ah, the pat, politically correct answer. Not what I would have expected from a woman who risked her career by questioning Senator Grammer’s son.”
Malina felt the blood drain from her head as humiliation washed over her. “Agent Clairmont told you.”
Hamilton nodded. “As I’m sure he mentioned, we’re old friends. For what it’s worth, he considers you an asset to the Bureau. He also respects your willingness to do whatever it takes to see justice served, even if your methods are sometimes rash.”
“That kid was guilty as sin,” she said, fighting to talk past her tight jaw, even as she felt a quick spurt of pleasure in hearing her boss respected her.
“Sam thinks so, too. Power buys silence way too easily.”
“Not with me.”
“So noted. But I’m guessing a drug-and/or art-smuggling case could put a nice letter of commendation in your file. Not to mention I’m suddenly moved to make a generous campaign donation to whoever runs against that idiot Grammer in the next election.”
Her gaze shot to his. “Surely you didn’t just attempt to bribe a government agent.”
A wide, breath-stealing smile bloomed on his face. “Surely not.”
She rose slowly to her feet. Who the hell was this guy?
Smart, successful and wealthy. A law-abiding citizen who took untold hours of his time to investigate a professional neighbor, then used a powerful association to see that his observations were taken seriously. Was he bored, curious or did he have a hidden agenda?
Bracing her hands on his desk, she noted he’d stood when she had and now she was forced to look up at him. At five-seven, she wasn’t a tiny woman, but the height and breadth of him made her feel small and feminine in comparison. “I’m here to follow up on your information as ordered by my supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Samuel Clairmont. Do you have anything further to add to your previous statements?”
“I imagine you’d be interested in the storage garage Jack keeps under an assumed name in Charleston, which currently houses a brand-new Lotus Elise.”
“How do you—” She stopped, shaking her head, irritated that he’d, yet again, managed to surprise her. “You followed him.”
“I’d also like to point out that he chose Ardent Red instead of British Racing Green for the exterior paint.” He cocked his head. “Do you think that’s an indicator of law-abiding citizen versus master smuggler?”
Temper brought heat to her cheeks. “Mr. Hamilton, I’m—”
“Call me Carr.”
“Mr. Hamilton, I’m advising—no,” she amended, “I’m ordering you to bring your amateur investigation to a halt. Do not question Mr. Rafton or his associates. Do not ask others about him and definitely do not follow him. The Bureau will look into your information and take things from here.”
“But you don’t really believe me.”
“I do, in fact. I trust that you saw what you say you have. What those observations mean is an entirely different subject.” She reached into her pocket for a business card, which she laid on his desk to avoid touching him again. It seemed imperative that she get away from this man as fast as possible. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.” She turned, then paused and glanced back. “Or if you find Jimmy Hoffa.”
With that parting shot, she headed toward the door, longing to run when she sensed him following her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, a blend of sandalwood and amber, as warm and enticing as the man himself.
Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke. “Professional considerations aside, I’d like to take you to dinner sometime.”
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Sorry. You’re a witness. I’m not allowed.”
“But you’re not even certain a crime has been committed.”
Despite what she’d told him and the sheer unlikelihood of anything significant happening on Palmer’s Island, she knew there was. Her instincts were buzzing, and they hadn’t steered her wrong yet.
Well, except for that senatorial questioning thing.
“I’m investigating,” she said shortly, hoping to further discourage him.
Either he didn’t get the signal or he didn’t care, since he reached out, sliding his fingertip along her jaw, sending waves of heat racing down her body. “And I imagine you don’t give a damn about what’s allowed.”
Her breath caught. She didn’t. At least she never had.
And look where that attitude had led you.
Opening the door, she stepped out of his reach. “I also don’t have time to get involved. I’m going to close as many cases as I can and get back to D.C., where I belong, as soon as possible.”
Disappointment moved across his handsome face. He slid his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Thanks for coming.”
She regretted her abrupt tone but didn’t see how she could change what was. “One last thing about Rafton.” Though she already knew the answer, caution demanded she ask. “This isn’t personal, right? Rafton didn’t hit your car or steal your girlfriend?”
“No. And I don’t have a girlfriend.” His dark eyes gleamed with power and possession. “If I did, neither Jack Rafton nor any other man would take her.”
2
AS CARR SIPPED his whiskey at The Night Heron bar, he watched out the back windows as boats docked and launched for sunset cruises down the Intracoastal Waterway, then rounded the tip of the island and out into the Atlantic.
Had he finally spent too much time slowing down and reflecting?
Observation had become a staple. Watching other people do interesting things.
For so many years, he’d been on the fast track. He’d spent every waking moment establishing a lucrative practice in Manhattan, fighting for clients with prospects for big payoffs, dismissing others he might have helped but whose cases weren’t as profitable.
He’d dispassionately profited from suffering and built a fortune and fierce reputation by doing so.
He hadn’t