From Mission To Marriage. Lyn Stone
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“All right, but I can’t commit every man available. I’ll give you six deputies and three cars.”
Vanessa looked outraged, but she knew when to hold her tongue. She realized that was as much cooperation as she was going to get. Clay added prudence and self-control to her attributes and would mention those in his report on her to Mercier. She also knew how to make do.
It was sometimes necessary in the business to work with what you had and make the most of it. Bureaucracy and limited manpower and funding often altered an operation and agents had to adjust and compensate for that.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said, schooling her features into a more pleasant expression. “We appreciate it.”
Clay wanted to reassure her. He kept getting the urge to do that for some reason. Why? She was just as capable of understanding all the ramifications of this op as he was. Why was he seeing vulnerability in her that probably didn’t even exist?
She began laying out a plan for the use of the limited resources available to her.
If he had his way, she would become a great addition to COMPASS, and Mercier would be thanking Clay for his assessment before James Hightower even came to trial. And he would, Clay thought. Vanessa would get her man one way or another. For what it was worth, her gut hunch about Hightower seemed right on the money to him.
He just hoped for all he was worth that personal prejudice wasn’t creeping into his evaluation of Vanessa. The pride he felt in her didn’t seem wholly of the professional variety and it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He truly liked her as a person and that was okay. But he was also powerfully attracted to her as a woman. And that was not okay. He would need to ignore that. If he could.
She nodded to the sheriff and the others who were present, thanked them again, then closed her notebook. “Okay, that does it. Sheriff, if you will divide up the search teams and assign areas to be canvassed, I’d appreciate it.” She turned to Clay. “You and I are on the radio and will act as control. That okay with you?”
Clay shrugged and followed her out the door, closing it behind them. “It’s your op. I’m just here to advise and lend a hand.”
“And grade me,” she added with a wry grin. “They’re setting up a small conference room over at City Hall for a command post. I asked one of the deputies to outfit it with maps, get a copy of James’s trial transcript and mark where his possible targets live and work. The EOD and other visiting personnel can use the place to coordinate.”
“A-plus, so far,” Clay told her. “I like the way you handled everything, how you interface with local authorities.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t handling them if that’s what you think. They’re wise people with good ideas. It pays to listen and learn, even when you don’t fully agree. I do wish the sheriff had bought into this a little more, however. We’re going to be stretched pretty thin.”
“You show respect where it’s due,” he said with a smile. “I like that.”
She replied with a succinct bob of her head. “Now, if you want, I’ll take you to Karen’s Kitchen and we’ll get some breakfast. I’m starved.”
He followed her out to the car and got in. “Don’t tell me. Karen’s another cousin of yours?”
She hopped in the driver’s side and slammed the door. “Nope, but she cooks the best hominy you ever had.”
“Hominy? Is that like grits?” Clay wasn’t sure he wanted a taste of that, but Van hadn’t led him wrong so far when it came to food. “I’m going to need some way to work out,” he told her. “If I don’t watch it, I’ll soon be too overweight to keep up with you.”
“We’ll run off some calories this evening,” she promised, wheeling the Explorer to the left and crossing the bridge to the other side of town. “Nothing like hauling it around a mountain for about five miles to keep trim.”
“Five miles?” He wanted to wheeze already. Because of his Seattle assignment, it had been over a week since his last run and he felt out of shape.
“Don’t tell me you’re a candy-ass, Senate,” she teased, laughter sparkling in her dark eyes as she looked over at him. “I had you pegged for going at it nonstop until I cried for mercy.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed at the picture her words painted. He surely didn’t need that image in his head.
“About the grits or whatever it is,” he muttered, trying to change the subject before he betrayed what he was imagining. “What else is on the menu?”
She laughed merrily and wheeled into the parking lot of a glass-fronted diner. With a flourish, she pushed the gearshift into park and sat back, looking at him with an impish expression. “C’mon, man, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Okay, okay, I’m working up to it,” he said, feigning resignation. He liked it when she snickered. Or when she frowned. Or when she looked pensive or delighted or disgusted or uncertain.
Lord, he was in trouble and hadn’t a clue how to avoid the train wreck that was certain to happen when they both stopped fighting whatever this was arcing between them like summer lightning.
The search that day netted nothing. Clay had hoped against hope they would find Hightower, he would confess and this would be over. Then he could go back to McLean and give his report. If he stayed much longer, he knew there would be trouble that had nothing to do with the job. And everything to do with it.
The Walkers made him feel welcome that evening, treating him exactly as they would a member of the family instead of a guest. They obviously didn’t know any other way. He ran with Vanessa, marveling at her endurance. How could she look so damn fragile and possess such strength? She just fascinated the hell out of him, though he was careful not to show it in any way. But his dreams that night drove him crazy.
When morning came, he found himself in the midst of a family gathering that started immediately after breakfast and looked as if it might last all day.
Clay stood on the back deck of the Walkers’ home feeling totally out of place. The house and yard had filled with family. They were celebrating a month’s worth of birthdays all at once. Apparently, this was a tradition. He had counted three cakes on the kitchen table before he’d been gently ousted by the women and herded outside.
Poor Vanessa seemed to be everywhere at once, looking harried but happy. She looked about fifteen in her low-slung jeans, orange tank top and short denim jacket. Her long dark hair, usually confined in that sedate little bun, was caught up in a ponytail today.
Clay had watched her dart across the yard hauling a tray of meat for her grandfather to put on his grill, then dash back inside to help her grandmother and the other women.
She had been pausing frequently, as she was doing right now, to carry on cell-phone conversations with the search teams looking for Hightower and the explosives. She frowned as she tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket and hurried over to him for the current report.
“Still nothing,” she told him. “You know what I think?”
“That he’s deliberately waiting until the last minute?” Clay guessed.
She drew her dark brows together. “You think so, too?”
Clay shrugged. “In his place, that’s what I would do. Wait until everybody stops looking. By that time, you won’t have much credibility left with the locals. He’s letting you cry wolf.”
She pounded a fist in her palm. “Dammit, I’m playing right into his hands. But how can I not order searches when we know he’s got the C-4? There are so many places he could plant it. The concessions, the exhibits, even turtle-shell rattles carried by the dancers! Who knows where he’ll choose?”
“Want a suggestion?” Clay asked, planning to give it anyway.
She nodded enthusiastically