Chapter 10
“Sassy said the photo is of Peter at his hotel room. Inside the room.”
Acer whistled.
“Shit.” Dane couldn’t drum up any surprise. He was good at expecting the worst.
“Obviously, this was not from Natalia Stravana. She’s in FBI custody and out of communication with her team,” Shana said. “Unless it was prearranged. She’ll still want her husband released.”
“Did Sassy see anyone at the inn while she was there? Anyone who could be from Stravana’s team?”
“No one but housekeeping. She went back to the trailer to get a couple of sweaters for me.”
“Did she see anyone at the trailer?” Dane asked.
“She’s on her way over now. You can grill her when she gets here.”
Shana was tired. And cold. He could see it now, should have noticed it sooner. What the hell kind of husband material was he? Shit for husband material, that’s what kind.
The last thing he wanted to do was grill Sassy. What he really wanted was to finish up their strategizing and get to bed—with her keeping it warm.
The bubble of longing didn’t last as Dane glanced at Peter. The reality was that they had confirmation that there was still a threat and it was not Stravana.
“If her team is out there, we’ll need to leave that to the feds to find out,” Dane said. “But I’m convinced this new photo represents a separate, more dangerous threat. Someone more sophisticated, with more resources than Stravana.”
“I wish I could disagree with you,” Peter said.
“Maybe you should reconsider giving another press conference,” Shana said.
“I’m wearing Kevlar.” Peter tugged his jacket together to button it.
“The sniper will know that and aim for your head.”
“We’re only guessing there’ll be a sniper,” Peter said.
Shana snorted. “Since they missed with their first guy, I’m sure they’ll figure it out, up their game.”
“You could be right,” Peter said.
Dane secretly agreed with Shana.
Sassy arrived shortly thereafter and they examined the photo, determining the kind of equipment and angle that was used.
“We have to assume there’s a leak somewhere or we’re being bugged,” Dane said.
“I checked the place. It’s clean,” Acer said.
“It could be any kind of listening device or the Feds are listening to our phones or someone on the staff talking innocently to the wrong person or being eavesdropped on.”
“Or it could be Mark Richards,” Shana said. Dane smiled at her. On the inside.
“I know you and Dane don’t like Richards, but he’s hardly going to hand me to a threat on a silver platter.”
“You’re probably right,” Dane said because he didn’t want to argue.
“I got Victor Yannis’s campaign manager talking to some prison outfit. A dozen calls in the past month.”
“What’s the campaign manager’s name and who exactly is he talking to?” Dane asked.
“Tanya Peal is the campaign manager. A she. I’ll drill down to find out who she’s talking to. If I can.”
“Or we could talk to her and ask,” Shana said.
“I’m thinking the same thing. We need to take a trip to Boston. Peter, can you have Rick set up a meeting with Ms. Peal?”
“Yes, but are you sure—”
“I’ll have time. I’ll be back on the island before midnight.”
“That’s not the only problem, Dane,” Shana said. “The police—and likely the feds—will know exactly where you’re going with the ankle bracelet.”
“How you underestimate me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked.
“It means I won’t be wearing the ankle bracelet.”
“Ah. I know what you have up your sleeve.” Acer grinned.
“I don’t want to know,” Peter said. “I don’t suppose you’d listen to me if I told you not to take any chances on my account.”
“No,” Dane said. He turned to Shana.
“I’d like to know what the big secret is,” she said.
Dane stood and took her hand. “Come with me. I’ll tell you everything.”
He led her to their bedroom on the second floor, refraining from lifting her into his arms as she made the long slow climb, losing juice with each step.
“Babe, you seem exhausted,” he whispered in her hair as he closed the door behind her.
She nodded. That alarmed him. She hated admitting to weakness, almost as much as he did. It was their standing policy to never admit to tiring even as they closed their eyes to sleep.
“So what’s the big secret?” She went to the bed, stripping along the way down to her panties before climbing in. His eyes drank in every movement, every inch of bare skin as it was revealed. He wanted to touch her with every part of him, to lie with her, bask in her warmth and keep her safe.
Pulling the covers up over her she smiled at him. “Cat got your tongue, big boy?”
He laughed, pulling his shirt over his head. “No big secret. There’s a black-market device we can use to remove the bracelet without discovery. We’ll have a short window before we need to get it on someone else for the duration. I figure Joe is a good candidate for my double.”
He took off his pants as he spoke, freeing his lust, feeling his excitement rise.
Then he joined her in bed. Holding her in his arms, he spooned her and whispered in her ear all the words and thoughts and longings he had.
She sighed and relaxed into him, her sweet rear against his hard desire, teasing him, taunting him.
But even as he stiffened in helpless arousal, Dane sensed the moment when she fell asleep, giving into her exhaustion.
He closed his eyes and held her tight, matching his breathing to hers, and thanked the heavens and all the gods for the gift of her for one more night, always aware that it could be their last. That he might never have had this night if he hadn’t shot Whitey Nash dead.
Day Three of the Trial
The day was bright, but colder than seasonable.
Dane was the last out the door to head to the courthouse and the continuing saga of his murder trial.
Peter looked around at them like they were in a lineup.
Dane, Acer, and Shana would be driving with him in the Gables’ Escalade.
The official protection would be in the Jeep, taking the lead at Dane’s insistence.
He’d also insisted that Sassy stay at the Gables’ and keep them updated if anything went on.
Shana decided she hated this court. It was so hard to sit still and breathe in all the stilted air, listen to the droning hateful district attorney and endure the surreptitious looks and outright stares from the jury.
Stares from Joe Public she could handle.
She was who she was and they could take her or leave her.
But the jury, they mattered. They were judging her.
And most importantly, they were judging Dane.
So she sat ramrod straight with a serious-yet-pleasant expression and no inflection of emotion at all.
Not even as the judge smacked her gavel and announced that the day’s proceedings would begin.
Not even a hint of trepidation or concern when Philimino called Governor Peter John Douglas to the stand.
She was the only one not to react. Even Dane showed his tension though she was probably the only one to see the telltale tic in his jawline, the small flexing of a thin, nearly hidden muscle.
God, she would give anything to relieve him of this horror show of a murder trial.
If the stakes weren’t so high, she would be content to frame it as a farce.
But she couldn’t do it, couldn’t dismiss it as a no-concern, undoubtedly positive outcome.
As for Peter, his voice was the usual loud, clear, and confident voice of authority as he was sworn in and answered the initial mundane questions to set the stage.
She watched Dane perk up when Philimino asked, “What was your role in the Whitey Nash matter, Governor? Why were you on the island at the time?”
Without showing the irritation she knew he felt, Peter answered in that same calm, measured voice.
“I was there because Dane and Shana are my good friends and they were missing, presumed dead.”
“What happened when you found out they weren’t dead? Tell us about the plan.”
“I assume you’re referring to our deception about Dane and Shana’s deaths.
We decided the best way to trap Whitey Nash was to lure him in with the irresistible prospect of Shana’s funeral.
We knew he held a grudge against her from prior threats and records we received from the prison in Australia where he’d been held until not long before his death. ”
“And was it your understanding that Whitey would be arrested when he arrived at the funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dane Blaise ever tell you of his intention to murder Whitey Nash in retribution for blowing up his home and trying to kill his fiancée?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Your Honor—”
“Save it, counselor. This isn’t the movies. You’re not getting in some offhanded hearsay comment as evidence in a murder trial.”
“Let the record show my objection.”
“So noted. Get on with it.”
“Did you see Mr. Blaise carrying a weapon during the planning of this trap?”
“Yes.”
“Was he carrying a weapon when he went to confront Whitey Nash?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Objection.”
“I’ll rephrase. What was your understanding of why Dane Blaise carried a weapon when he confronted Whitey Nash?”
“Self-defense.”
Philimino nodded, looking annoyed with Peter’s stingy answers.
He didn’t add one syllable more than required to respond to the questions.
Shana didn’t smile, too aware of the jury’s eyes, but her insides fluttered with the small victory of Peter’s excellent performance as a witness.
The prosecution yielded to the defense and Kimble stood.
“I have only one question, Mr. Governor. Did you carry a weapon to the funeral that day?”
“Yes.”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“You opened up the line of questioning, counselor. Live with it. Objection overruled.”