Chapter 9
They enjoyed their ice cream in comfortable silence. At least Lena felt comfortable. She sensed her "You're a good man," compliment embarrassed Nash.
It shouldn't have. She meant it.
But she should probably change the subject.
She fished a couple of dog treats out of her pocket. Nutmeg hadn't taken his eyes off their ice cream cones for one single second, and his jealous whimpers bordered on pathetic. "You're not starving, Nutmeg. And you don't need ice cream. But here you go." She fed him the treats.
Nash had grown quiet. He was probably calculating how many ways his mission could go wrong. She hoped he didn't regret helping her. If she could help him somehow—
She grabbed his arm when the thought hit her. "Hey, I want to show you something."
She fumbled in her purse one-handed, with the ice cream cone in the other. She withdrew her phone.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Well, to be honest, it might be nothing. But since you said you worked for the CIA—"
"Emphasis on the past tense."
"I know, but when you first told me you worked for a private security firm, I didn't know what that meant. I didn't know if you were just some sort of bodyguard or . . . anyway, you have an intelligence background. And you work with a team from this security company—"
"And that's why you want to show me . . ." He pointed to the phone. "What exactly?"
"Like I said, it might be nothing, but,"—she drew in a deep breath—"a day before the party, Cassidy had mentioned to me that Emil was supposed to be playing golf all day.
She was kind of annoyed about it. Anyway, his building is only half a block from my family's business.
I was going to get coffee at a coffee shop I like near his building that afternoon.
And I saw him enter a hotel lobby near his building. "
"Since he lied to Cassidy about playing golf and was going into a hotel, you thought he was having an affair." Nash finished her sentence.
"Yes, well, as terrible as it sounds, I hoped that was the case. Because I'd been trying to talk Cassidy into breaking up with him, but I couldn't give her solid reasons. But this, this is something she couldn't ignore."
Nash's eyebrows lift. "You followed him?"
Lena nodded. "He never saw me. And, like I told you, he wouldn't recognize me. But I kept my distance, so he wouldn't realize anyone was watching."
Lena wasn't sure if Nash's expression meant he was impressed or thought she was reckless.
"I followed him through the hotel lobby, but he didn't go upstairs.
He walked all the way through to the back of the hotel and went through an employee exit to a loading zone area.
I realized at that point that it probably wasn't a romantic rendezvous, but he was acting so secretive, he, well, he just looked plain guilty.
So when a man walked up to him, I started videoing with my phone. "
A new intensity flashed in his eyes. "They didn't see you?"
"No, I didn't get very close. I hid behind some crates and videoed through the crack between two of the crates. I'll show you the video. It's not that great. The traffic noise was so loud, and I was so far away. The video doesn't pick up a single word of what they said."
She scrolled through her pictures while she explained. "They look serious, and it was certainly a covert meeting. In the moment, I was hoping I was getting a recording of him doing something terribly illegal to use against him."
That sounded terrible. She flicked her gaze to his. "Not like blackmail. I wouldn't—I didn't mean like that. I just wanted Cassidy to realize he wasn't the man she thought he was. And if he was doing something illegal, I would let the police know. I wasn't going to blackmail him."
"I believe you. So, what's in the video?"
Her shoulders sagged. "I can't tell much from it. And maybe it's pointless, but I thought maybe you could see something I missed. You know how to read lips?"
"Not very well. But we have software that can."
Oh. Of course they do. "I was kidding, but um . . . She handed him the phone. "Good luck."
He played the ninety-second video, studying it like Emil could be planning world domination. At least Nash was taking her seriously.
"Well?" she asked when the video ended. "Is it helpful?"
"Not yet," he said. "But if you will send it to me, I can get it to someone who can take it apart.
Analyze it. Besides reading lips, we can dissect the sound, take out the traffic noise.
We can also work with some facial recognition software to see who this person is. Have you ever seen them before?"
"No, never."
He handed the phone back to her. "Don't send me the video now. I don't want you to use the boat's Wi-Fi. Wait until we're back at my apartment. It's more secure."
She slid the phone into her purse. "I hope it can help you. I didn't think I could use it for anything."
"Actually," he said, "it's not that you couldn't. It's that you shouldn't. Not on your own, I mean. You don't want to make an enemy of Emil Van Horn."
"So just let him—"
"I don't mean let him get away with whatever he's trying to get away with.
Not at all. I just mean if we find something incriminating on this, we'll act on it or turn it over to the authorities.
Don't try to use it on your own. Not even to show it to Cassidy.
You could tell her eventually, but you have to wait until showing it to her won't put you in danger. "
Fresh fear cartwheeled in her stomach. "I . . . I didn't think—"
"Don't worry. You're in good hands with WhiteRock. I get the feeling trust doesn't come easy for you. But my team—Jason, Knox, Allie—they're good people. I promise. We're going to see this through."
Tears threatened to form. She blinked away the moisture before she embarrassed herself. Stupid emotion clogged her throat.
Then, telltale stickiness trickled over her fingers.
Lovely. Ice cream dripped down her hand, Nutmeg happily licking up the overflow.
She tried to mitigate the flood of sugary vanilla with some strategically placed bites, but the warm tropical weather was no match for her efforts. "I'm a mess, sorry."
Nash chuckled. "I'm not doing much better. We should've sat in the air-conditioned area. The ice cream would've lasted longer." He held out his hand. "Here, hand me yours. There's a trash can over here."
He tossed them into a trash can a few feet away.
"Thanks. I think I have some wipes." She opened the bag with Nutmeg's name embroidered on it. "Victoria told me to carry this. She keeps this bag well-stocked for all Nutmeg's needs. Treats, toys, a portable water bowl, you name it. But there's also some wet wipes in here."
She fished out the organic, compostable, lavender-scented wet wipes and handed them to Nash.
"Thanks," he said. His fingers brushed hers. And she completely ignored the warm tingle his touch triggered. Hardly noticed it at all.
They both cleaned their hands and tossed the wipes in the trash.
She took out two more wipes and dabbed a few drops of ice cream off Nutmeg's face.
"So do you have a family? Married?"
The question fell out of her mouth. She winced when she realized she'd said it out loud.
"It's okay," he said. "I don't mind you asking. And to answer your question, no."
"Really?"
His shrug was casual, but she feared she'd treaded on a sensitive topic. "That shouldn't surprise you," he said. "I told you I'm gone a lot. It's not the kind of life women want to share. And I understand that."
The nonchalant tone was forced. He'd been hurt before. She saw the pain behind his gorgeous blue-gray 'I'm perfectly fine being perpetually single' lying eyes.
"But . . ."
"But what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Never mind." She had no idea what she wanted to say. And now probably wasn't the best time for . . . whatever it was anyway. She leaned her head over the railing. "I think we're almost there. Maybe we should get back in the car."
He checked his watch. All business. "Yeah, you're right. Let's go."
She had no idea why she asked if he was married. Or maybe she did, but that was ridiculous. Yes, he was kind, protective, attractive, and . . . and she needed to stop listing his qualities. And she needed to stay miles away from flirting.
The ferry docked, and Nash drove the SUV onto the shore.
There was one more thing she hadn't told him. And that would put an end to the silly infatuation because it would ruin any chance with him. As if she wanted one.
"You might as well know," she said. "Since you mentioned your team can do all that tech stuff. Analyzing video and whatnot—"
"Yes, lots of whatnot." He chuckled. Then looked sheepish. "Hey. Wasn't making fun of you. Just haven't heard the word 'whatnot' in a while. Sorry. You were saying?"
She steadied Nutmeg's back legs on her lap while he propped his front paws on her windowsill. "It's just that I'm sure digging into people's backgrounds is something your team does every day."
He slid on his sunglasses. Looking all Top Gun and everything. "Well, not every day. What is it you're not saying?"
"It's just that my family . . . their business . . . they . . ." She wasn't sure she wanted to have this conversation after all.
"They're in the real estate business, correct?"
"Yes."
He flicked his eyes between her and the road every few seconds, clearly reading her discomfort.
"Lena, I don't know much more than that." His voice was low, steady, and full of compassion. "We've mainly been concentrating on Emil. If there's something you'd rather us not know, I can tell them to respect your privacy when looking into all this."
"You don't have to do that. It's okay." Why did she want to tell him everything? Maybe it was because she wanted to douse the dangerous sparks dancing between her and Nash Stone before she got burned. And nothing pours cold water on a budding attraction like 'FBI investigation.'