Running Hot

SEVEN

It was after four o’clock by the time they checked into the beachfront hotel in the Wailea resort community. The suite was on the fourth floor with a view of the pool, the gardens and the ocean beyond. There were deeply shaded lanais off both the master bedroom and the living room. The perfect spot for a honeymoon, Luther thought, morosely. Not that he would know. He’d gone to Vegas for both of his.

He carried his small leather travel kit into the second bath and set it on the counter next to the sink, aware of Grace unpacking in the master bedroom. For a moment he indulged in a pleasant little erotic fantasy, thinking that it would have been very nice to be the real Mr. Carstairs on a real honeymoon with his real wife.

Don’t go there. She’s not your wife, she’s the partner you never wanted; one with zero field experience. That is not a good thing.

She was also the only woman who had revved up his senses and made him seriously hard in months. No way that could be a

bad thing. It was distracting, however. He was going to have to work in order to stay focused.

His leg ached. The combination of the flight from Honolulu and the drive from the airport had taken its toll. Annoyed, he removed the bottle of anti-inflammatory tablets from his kit and shook out four. He managed to resist the almost overwhelming urge to hurl the bottle across the room. The damn leg was never going to be the same. Get over it.

He dropped the bottle back into the kit, tightened his hand on the cane and made his way out of the bathroom. Grace was waiting for him. She had changed into a pair of lightweight trousers and another long-sleeved shirt. At least she wasn’t wearing the trench coat.

It occurred to him that she did not seem overly impressed with the suite. He was. He’d spent time in the army, put in several years as a cop and now he was a bartender and part-time contractor with J&J. None of those career paths had paid the kind of money that allowed him to check into classy suites like this one. Grace, however, seemed unfazed by the luxury accommodations. Maybe he should consider a position in the Bureau of Genealogy.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Thought I’d take a walk on the beach,” she said. “I’ve been in a plane or on the road for most of the day. I’d like to unwind before dinner.”

It was time to explain the facts of life, he decided.

“Got one rule on this job,” he said. “We’ll call it Rule Number One.”

She raised her brows. “And that would be?”

“I give the orders, and the first order is that you don’t leave this room alone. No wandering off on your own unless I give permission.”

She inclined her head very politely. “I take it that means you’re coming down to the beach with me.”

“What the hell. I need to get a feel for the terrain, anyway.” He opened the door for her. “But the order still stands. You don’t go out of here on your own. Got it?”

She went past him, neatly avoiding any accidental contact. “Fallon Jones said that you were in charge on this mission.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He followed her out into the hall and closed the door, waiting a beat until he heard it lock securely. Satisfied, he walked with Grace toward the elevator lobby, fighting the temptation to move into the invisible Don’t Touch Zone that enveloped her like another kind of aura. He noticed that her arms were folded beneath her breasts in a seemingly casual manner. If you looked closely, however, you could see that her fingers were tucked safely out of sight.

He brooded on what might have happened to a woman to make her dread touching another human being. The realization that a little skin-to-skin contact with him might actually cause her psychic pain was troubling. It just didn’t seem right that she might not be able to abide his touch; not when he was so certain that touching her would bring him nothing but pleasure.

“I’m starting to feel guilty about the glove thing,” he said.

“As well you should.”

“Damn it—”

“Don’t worry, I understand,” she said. She smiled wryly. “Wearing them on this mission would not be at all professional.”

He searched for another path through the Don’t Touch Zone.

“How long have you been in Genealogy?” he asked.

“A year.”

“That’s all? Fallon implied that he considered you very valuable.”

She glowed. “I’m delighted to hear that. Mr. Jones is not what you would call forthcoming with positive feedback.”

“He’s never going to be up for Boss of the Year, that’s for sure. But take it from me, he wouldn’t have used your professional services more than once if he hadn’t been impressed.”

“That’s good to know.”

“What did you do before you went to work for the Society?”

“Didn’t Mr. Jones tell you?” she asked.

“Fallon can be vague about details that he doesn’t consider important.”

“I used to work for a company called Crocker World.”

He stopped in front of the elevators and pressed the call button. “Martin Crocker’s company?”

“Yes.” She looked politely surprised. “You were aware of the company?”

“Crocker’s death made headlines. It was also big news within the Society. He was a member. Funded a lot of research projects.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What did you do at Crocker World?”

“I was on the corporate research library staff. After Mr. Crocker died, it became obvious that the firm was in trouble. Everyone knew that the company would fall apart without him at the helm. I could see the writing on the wall, so I started job hunting immediately.”

It was all said very smoothly, very casually, but there was something ever so slightly off. Luther jacked up his senses until he had a clear view of her aura. He might not be able to see details the way she apparently did, but he could make out certain strong emotions. There was tension in the energy field that blazed around her, the kind that, as a cop, he’d learned to associate with a well-crafted lie.

“How long have you been a member of the Society?” he asked.

“My mother registered me when I was born.” She paused a beat. “You?”

“My folks were both members. They registered me at birth.”

The elevator doors slid open, revealing a cab packed with people. He assessed the situation in a single glance. Joining the crowd would mean forcing Grace to run the risk of someone brushing against her. He could feel her sudden tension.

Luther smiled benignly at the cluster of faces.

“We’ll wait for the next one,” he said.

The elevator doors closed.

“Thank you,” Grace said quietly.

“No problem,” he said. “I’d suggest we take the stairs but—” He broke off, giving the cane a disgusted look. He refused to tell her that his leg was acting up and that descending four flights of stairs would make things worse. “I can make it down but it’s not the most graceful sight in the world,” he said instead.

“No problem,” Grace said gently. “It’s not as if we’re in a hurry.”

They stood together in silence and watched the illuminated numerals over the three elevators. Grace’s expression was calm and composed. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Luther used the time to wonder why she had lied about the job at Crocker World.