The Complete Red-Hot Collection. Kelly Hunter
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to bring his entire operation down and I needed one more name for my own satisfaction. In reality I probably had enough dirt on him to bring him down six months ago, but I wanted that one last name so much. And then your wedding invitation landed and I decided that enough was enough. I was leaving—first chance I got. Two days later an old business associate of Antonov’s turned up with a new grudge and enough C-4 to blow up a battleship—and I let him do just that while I went and got the kid and the nurse and took off.’
‘And your problem with that is …?’
‘I wanted revenge and I got it. Not sure I wanted it that way. Antonov wasn’t all bad. He was different things to different people. He had a son he loved. A sister he’d sacrificed all contact with to protect. Those other dead men—they had families back in Belarus. They sent money back all the time.’
‘They’re not dead by your hand, Jare.’
‘Then why do my hands feel so bloody?’
‘I don’t know. God complex? You are not responsible for all the bad things that happen in this world.’
‘But I am responsible for my actions, and I should be able to foresee some of the consequences. Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me when it comes to my interest in
Rowan Farringdon?’
‘All I’m saying is talk to the woman first—before embarking on the seduction campaign. Women are easy for you—God knows why.’
‘Money, looks, renegade status and genius.’
‘Like I said, God knows why. And you do not need the downfall of the first female section director in thirty years on your already overburdened conscience.’
‘She’s smarter than that.’
‘How do you know? Will you be reading her psych report next?’
‘Do you think she has one?’
Jared felt the edges of his lips lift. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. It was good to finally talk to someone freely. Someone who knew him inside out and didn’t hold back.
‘Doesn’t matter. Even if she does, I’m going to ban Damon from getting it for you.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, but I would.’
‘Would what?’ asked Lena, stepping from the house onto the deck. ‘‘Cause it sounds vaguely threatening.’
‘Your brother wants to read Rowan Farringdon’s psych report. Among other things.’
‘Seems only fair,’ Jared murmured. ‘She’s read mine.’
‘Are you still smarting about that idiotic psych report?’ she asked, and Jared grinned outright this time.
Injury and near death hadn’t softened Lena—they’d simply made her blunter … and surprisingly more affectionate, he decided as she engulfed him from his shoulders up in a fierce hug.
‘Where is it?’ she murmured. ‘Hand it over. I’m going to barbecue it. By the way, I stopped by the fishing co-op and bought barramundi and king prawns. And because I love you both I’m going to cook them up for dinner. You two can unpack the car, make the salads, pour me some wine and make encouraging remarks about my cooking.’
It was good to be home, Jared thought.
Maybe it would be enough.
Monday morning couldn’t come around quickly enough for Jared. He’d swum in Damon’s pool and in the surf, and nobly restrained himself from getting the windsurfer out. He’d gone with Lena and Trig to one of their favourite local watering holes on the Saturday night and reacquainted himself with old friends as they’d watched whatever game had been on the big sports screen. Flanked by the two people he trusted most, he’d even managed to relax.
But that had been Saturday. By Sunday afternoon Trig and Lena had retired to their farmhouse, and Jared had been rattling around by himself and trying to stay relaxed. He hadn’t been sleeping well. He missed the rise and fall of the ocean beneath him. Maybe he needed to investigate yacht ownership.
By Monday morning he’d made enquiries on three oceangoing vessels, and the need to do something thrummed through him at a low-level burn.
He hauled himself out of the pool and reached for a towel. His body was still various shades of black and blue, with a few cuts and scrapes besides, but other than that he was in good shape. Antonov had kept his crew fighting fit, and there’d been ocean all around them. Regular diving to examine the hull … Swimming …
Maybe Jared should take up marathon swimming now that he was home.
The doorbell rang and he ditched the towel and headed towards it. He opened it and stepped aside to let Rowan Farringdon in.
‘Pretty shirt,’ he told her, and it was.
The burnt-orange band of colour across the bottom of it suited her. The rest of it was white, and the inch-wide shoulder straps showed off more body tone than he’d expected from someone who sat in a director’s chair. The crisp white trousers she had on rested easy over her rear—not too tight, but not baggy either. Comfortable. He hadn’t expected this woman to look quite so comfortable in casual clothes.
And still maintain her air of authority.
Her gaze swept the open-plan living area and the pool beyond before returning to him.
Jared offered up a lazy grin by way of reward for her attention. ‘Would you like pancakes? I’m having pancakes.’
‘Is this a variation on dinner?’
Her voice came at him dry as dust and laced with amusement.
‘Could be. But it’s also breakfast time, and as a good host I’m offering you some. You’ve come all this way. It’s the least I can do.’
‘I’ve been in Brisbane,’ she said. ‘You’re a detour—not the main destination.’
‘I’m crushed.’ He led her through to the open-plan kitchen that backed on to the living area and the pool. ‘You take your coffee black, right?’
Her coffee at the farmhouse had been black.
She nodded. ‘With one.’
He diligently added sugar to her cup. ‘I hope you like Turkish? Lena found it for me in town on Saturday. It’s good. I had to promise not to mainline it.’
He lit a flame beneath the skillet and waited for it to get hot. He poured her some coffee and set it in front of her. Added butter to the pan and enjoyed the faint sizzle as he pushed it around with a knife. He added the batter next, before turning back to face her.
‘What did you want to see me about?’
‘Do you always do two things at once?’
‘Keeps me from climbing the walls.’
She smiled at that. ‘Say you came across some information that connected a now-deceased illegal arms dealer to a respected worldwide charity organisation …’
‘In what capacity?’
‘They fed Antonov money and within six months he quadrupled it for them.’
‘Did they know who they were dealing with?’
‘Does it matter?’ She eyed him curiously. ‘Do you think it matters?’
‘Yes. Intent matters. Maybe they didn’t know who he was or what he did. Maybe they were naive.’
‘The charity’s intention was to make money. They succeeded well beyond what any regulated money market could ever do for them. Hard to believe that they thought their investment strategy legitimate, but let’s ignore that for a moment. What might Antonov’s