Fear Familiar Bundle Page 4

  "I'm sorry," Peter said, meaning it. He took her wineglass from her hand and put it onto the coffee table. He was sorry for a lot more than her past. He had a clear picture of what he was doing, and it wasn't very honorable. She seemed so damned open and vulnerable. His warm hands moved up her shoulders, drawing her to himself.

  "Peter, I…"

  "Relax a minute, Eleanor." Strong fingers found the knots of tension along her shoulders. "Just take a minute and calm down. There's nothing I can do to help, except maybe rub the tension from your neck." The bones beneath his hands were well-defined. She had one of the most extraordinary necks he'd ever seen. He could almost get lost in the soft whiteness of her skin.

  "That does feel better," she said after a few moments. There was no insinuation in the massage, only a desire to relieve her stress, but she moved away from him nonetheless and turned to face him.

  His smile was understanding. "I don't want you to think I'm strange when I say this, but I spend a lot of time with animals."

  The shift in conversation caught her by surprise. He had a knack for treading around her wounds, shifting the focus just when she was feeling too raw. She gave him a wry smile. "Since you're a vet, it follows that you might spend some time that way."

  "No wonder you professor types get a reputation for being arrogant," he teased. "Anyway, I watch animals. I study them, and I've discovered that they're far superior to people in some respects."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, take old Familiar. When he feels the need for some affection, he'll hop right up on your lap and demand it. Dogs are like that, too. I've watched dogs actually comfort each other after surgery, or when they're recuperating from an illness. One dog will go up and lick or help groom another. They understand how important it is to comfort and to be comforted." He gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. "No ulterior motives."

  "It's no wonder that Familiar likes you so much," Eleanor answered.

  Peter handed her glass to her. "We should have a fire," he said. "When I was a kid, I used to love it when my parents built a big fire. We'd sit around, talking, planning, dreaming." Damn it all, he found her far too easy to talk to. Next thing he knew, he'd be lying on her sofa, spilling his guts.

  "We did that, too," Eleanor said, clearly unaware of his conflict. "We'd make popcorn or hot chocolate. It was perfect. But back then we lived in the country, with a big house, lots of firewood and someone to cut it."

  "So, Eleanor, what are you going to do if this mercenary from your past continues to harass you?" Peter's voice was low. He had to keep his eye on his goal, to find out who'd sent Eleanor to his office. Who had finally decided to show the link to Arnold Evans?

  "I don't know." Eleanor swirled the golden wine in her glass. "I've tried to believe it won't happen again. If it does, I guess I'm going to have to call the police, even if it means reopening a lot of ugly wounds."

  "That's my girl," he said, unable to resist picking up her hand. Even her bone structure was elegant. "There's been no real damage, but I wouldn't want this thing to escalate. What about the other incident? I don't like the idea of some jerk mugging you in a parking lot. Do you think that's even related, or could it be the cat?"

  "I don't know," she replied. "If I could only remember exactly what the man said. He told me to get in the car, and he said something about what I knew. I guess it's possible that someone thinks Carter has some money stashed away somewhere. That's dead wrong. In fact, it took me seven years to get my credit rating straight." She sighed and took a long breath. "Anyway, that's the past. We have some snapper marinating for the present, and this wine has made me hungry. Let me finish getting dinner ready."

  Smothered in green onions, butter, garlic and lemon, the fish was perfect. The candlelight seemed to cast a warm mantle over the table, shutting out all unpleasantness. Peter proved a witty and facile conversationalist, and a man with a big appetite.

  "It was hard, but I saved a little for Familiar," Peter said at the end of the meal. "He was very well behaved."

  "If you believe that staring a hole through me was well behaved, you're a soft touch." Eleanor took the leftover fish to Familiar's plate.

  "Meow," he said as he settled down to eat.

  "He even knows how to say thank-you," Peter teased her. "How about we leave the articulate feline to his meal, and we take in a movie or some dancing? The cook deserves a treat." Even as he said them, the words sounded cheap and hollow. His grand plan didn't seem so great at the moment.

  "I'd love it, Peter. I haven't been dancing in…" She laughed uncomfortably. She did love to dance, and it had been years, but she was also aware that dancing could be a very romantic occupation. "It doesn't matter how long," she finished lamely.

  "Good, then," he said easily. "You won't mind if I'm a little rusty, too." Once he had her in the car, he could attempt another maneuver to get her to talk.

  They'd barely left the apartment building behind when he slowed for a light. "Would you mind if I swung by a few research facilities?"

  "To go inside?" Her tone held doubt.

  "No, they won't be open tonight. Of course, we could make a raid on them and get a few more cats like Familiar." He pretended to adjust the rearview mirror, turning it so that he could watch her eyes.

  "I never intended to keep him," Eleanor said. "I don't think I need another pet, Peter. Remember, you were the one who said a pet, a vet and suspense. I can't stand any more of it."

  "I suppose you're right."

  Gazing out the window at the traffic, Eleanor was completely composed. His plan to startle her with the suggestion of a trip to a lab was a dud. "Then why don't we skip the whole thing and simply go dancing?" For a moment he was distracted by the thought of her in his arms.

  "Whatever you want to do," she said. She couldn't believe she was agreeing to such an idea. She hadn't danced in years, but Peter made her want to dance. "I wish it would snow. It isn't like the holidays without some of that white stuff."

  Twenty minutes later they were dancing to a sexy alto sax in a small, dark club. Peter kept the conversation casual, and he felt Eleanor gradually relax, giving herself to the beat of the music. "I've never had the pleasure of dancing with someone so graceful." As he spoke, his face brushed her hair, loosening a burst of heady perfume.

  "I love dancing," Eleanor admitted with an impish smile.

  She moved like a dream in his arms. She was such a strange mixture of boldness and vulnerability. Bright, yet somehow tentative. Was it possible she was involved in raiding labs and bombing scientists? Could she be innocent and still know about his involvement with Evans?

  "I know it's early, but we should go home," Eleanor said when the dance ended. "It's wonderful, but I've had a hectic day."

  "Yes, you have." Peter held her on the dance floor a moment longer. "On the way home, we need to stop at a market," he said.

  "What on earth for?"

  "A big, fresh lobster. I think Familiar deserves a reward, for bringing you into my life." He felt as if he'd spoken the truth for the first time that evening.

  * * *

  THE TALL MAN stepped from the shadows of her building. He flashed a badge at her. "Eleanor Duncan, I'm Alva Rousel with the Central Intelligence Agency. May I have a word with you?" A strand of blond hair dipped and covered one eye. He appeared to be in his early forties, an imposing man with an aggressive attitude and a worried frown.

  Preoccupied with thoughts about Peter and the past day, Eleanor was thrown off balance. She failed to respond immediately.

  "What is this about?" Peter asked, taking Eleanor's arm. He was suddenly protective. If she was involved in raiding laboratories, the CIA was heavy-duty trouble.

  "This doesn't involve you, Mr…." The agent leveled a hard stare at Peter. "I need to speak with Ms. Duncan privately."

  "My name is Peter Curry. And whatever involves Ms. Duncan, involves me."

  "Peter, wait a minute." Eleanor recovered from the shock of having a badge thrust
into her face. That seemed to be a pattern in her life, she thought bitterly, no matter how hard she tried to avoid it. "What can I do for you, Mr. Rousel?"

  The agent turned to face her. "I have some questions for you, Ms. Duncan. Top secret," he added almost gently. "May I have a few moments of your time? It's important, or we wouldn't bother you at this hour."

  "It is late," Eleanor said. The suddenness of the man's appearance and the resurrection of past anxieties made her play for time. If Alva Rousel's questions involved Carter Wells, she didn't want to drag them out in front of Peter. "Can't this wait until morning? I'm really not prepared to answer any questions."

  "Did I mention this involved a top secret project?" The agent's voice was loaded with concern. "If we could step into your apartment. Alone. It will only take a few moments."

  Peter saw the flush of worry on Eleanor's face. If she was involved, she could be facing a serious jail term. He had to buy her some time and then make her tell him the truth. "Ms. Duncan has had a bad day. Call her tomorrow, after she's had a chance to get some rest." Taking Eleanor's arm, he started to the elevator.

  "You can interfere in this now, Curry, but it might not be in Ms. Duncan's best interest. If she is implicated in an antigovernment plot, she may be sorry. When a suspect refuses to talk, it often looks worse."

  "Antigovernment plot? Suspect?" Eleanor turned around. She ignored Peter's hand on her arm.

  "We have reason to believe you've been involved, perhaps innocently, in something that could have a detrimental effect on national security. We'd like to ask a few questions." The agent walked with them into the lobby.

  The accusation was ridiculous and frightening. Eleanor looked around for the doorman. Strangely enough, the post was empty. "What are you talking about? I don't understand."

  "Maybe we could step up to your apartment." The agent was at her side, his expression worried. "I know you want to help in this matter. Just a few questions."

  "I do want to help," Eleanor agreed. "What is this about?"

  "You're involved with the study of communication skills, aren't you?" Rousel drew together his eyebrows in apparent concern. He, too, scanned the lobby. "I sent your doorman on an errand, but I would be more comfortable inside your apartment."

  "I teach and study linguistics," Eleanor answered, aware that her tone betrayed her confusion. "My work is certainly not top secret, and I would think that it would be of minimal interest to most people, particularly the CIA."

  "Friday night someone violated a federal…center. A project was jeopardized and some items were stolen." She saw him glance at Peter as he spoke to her.

  "I don't know what you're referring to," Eleanor answered. "I had my own set of problems Friday night. Someone attacked me in the parking lot at my university."

  "Why were you attacked, Ms. Duncan?" The agent's eyes darkened.

  "That's the question I'd like answered," Eleanor replied, her voice rising slightly. "I was smacked in the face and threatened, and I don't have any idea why."

  "This research you've been doing. Could it possibly provoke such an attack?"

  "I don't see how," Eleanor answered.

  "Something from your past?"

  "No," Eleanor said, but her gaze turned swiftly to Peter. She tried to hide the expression of dread that briefly crossed her features. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rousel, but I feel sick. Could we possibly discuss this tomorrow?" She stumbled and took Peter's arm. "I need to go home."

  "Just a few questions…" the agent said again.

  "Call tomorrow after lunch," Peter told him, hurrying to the elevator with Eleanor. He was more than a little concerned. She'd turned gray before his eyes at the mention of her past.

  As the door opened at the ninth floor, she was still silent, her full lips compressed. Peter offered the support of his arm and kept his advice to himself.

  "So you've stumbled into a real hornet's nest, haven't you?" she said, striving for a light note. She fumbled for her keys to unlock the door. "You've been very kind to help me out with my cat and my apartment. As you can see, though, I'm a woman with a lot of problems."

  "A woman who can stand her ground," he corrected her. "You handled the situation." He paused. "If there is a situation…"

  "Living with Carter was a lesson in learning to hedge with law officers," she said. "As Carter's wife, I was questioned on more than one occasion. I tried to protect him, to be a good wife, but I could never lie." She finally found the right key and pushed the door open. Familiar was sitting on the sofa, looking at her with his large, intense eyes.

  "You don't have to explain to me," Peter said softly. "By tomorrow you'll have time to think it all through and decide on exactly the right thing to say."

  "I don't know what to do." Eleanor slumped onto the sofa, kicking off her shoes. "What's happened to my life? If one more strange thing— "

  The buzz of the doorbell interrupted.

  "I'll get it," Peter said. "If it's Rousel again, I'm going to strongly urge him to leave you alone until tomorrow. That guy just won't give up." He clenched his jaw and pulled the door open wide.

  "Eleanor…Ms. Duncan?" A bewildered doorman stood in the hallway. "Excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt, but someone left a package for Ms. Duncan while she was out. And since she's never out so late, I thought I'd stop by and leave it and make sure that she's okay. But I see she's fine, and I didn't mean to interrupt and…"

  "Come in, Wessy," Eleanor said, rising from the sofa. "What package?"

  The doorman reached inside his jacket and brought out a large manila envelope. "Right here."

  "Thanks." Eleanor took it and gave the man a warm smile. "Thanks for checking on me. I'm fine."

  "I worry about you, living here alone and all. I keep my eyes open, you know." He cast a suspicious look at Peter. "I think a lot of Eleanor," he added.

  "That makes two of us," Peter said, shaking the man's hand. "Thanks."

  Eleanor softly shut the door, her smile lingering. "He's a dear. If I come home in the rain and he's on duty, he meets me with an umbrella. If I have packages, he carries them. And not just for me, for all the women, young and old."

  "Thank goodness for the Wessys of the world." Peter eyed the package curiously. "Research?"

  "Hardly. I have no idea what this could be." She opened the flap and pulled out a picture. It was a black and white photograph of herself at the fish market a few blocks away.

  "What in the devil?" she asked, handing the picture to Peter. "I was there just this afternoon, buying the snapper."

  Peter flipped over the photo. On the back, a message was scrawled in black felt marker. "I'm watching you, my love!"

  "Peter, what is this?" she asked, her eyes wide. "What's going on? Who's watching me?"

  "I don't know." He dropped the photo onto the coffee table. "I'll be right back." He unlocked the door and dashed down the hall before she could stop him. He was back in less than ten minutes.

  "The doorman's gone, and so is Mr. Rousel," he said when he returned, breathing hard. "Maybe after everything that's happened to you, it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk with the CIA." He had a chilling sensation that Eleanor was exactly what she appeared to be, and that somehow her life was in danger.

  "Wessy will be back on duty tomorrow afternoon. I'm getting concerned," she admitted. She was curled up on the sofa, and Peter took a seat beside her. Very gently he took one of her hands and held it between his.

  "Stay calm." Peter's voice was soothing. "Think about every project you've been working on at the university. We've never really talked about your work. Maybe there's something there, some reason that would draw an attacker or the CIA. There has to be some connection between you, the attacks, the CIA— and maybe that cat."

  Peter's questions gave her something to focus her worries on. She quickly went over the past year's work, seeking anything that might interest the CIA— or anyone other than another academic.

  She shook her head. "No matter how hard I try, I
can't think of a single thing that would be sensitive or even controversial. The core of my research has been on cataloging colloquial expressions from the mountain regions where I grew up. My linguistics research is interesting, not crucial."

  "If it isn't your work, it might be personal," Peter reasoned. "You've been single…"

  "Nine years," Eleanor said, "and I can't believe that even Carter could have gotten himself messed up with national security. He was a gambler. And not a very good one."

  "If someone thinks you know something," Peter pointed out, "they might be tailing you. A little intimidation. Someone followed you to that fish market." He was beginning to like the direction of the conversation less and less. The thought of Eleanor alone, a stranger watching her every move, made him extremely uneasy.

  "Peter! This is terrible! Someone might think I've seen something really important!"

  "We have to figure this out, Eleanor," he said firmly. "It'll be light in another two hours, and by then, I promise you we'll have a plan."

  "I don't want to play junior detective." Eleanor drew back and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of her hand. "I mean it. I'm not interested in solving a mystery or getting involved in this any further. I value my privacy, my sanity, my peace. I want this to end."

  "You don't care why these things have happened?" Peter was amazed. "You're not even the least bit curious?"

  "I'm not! And it suits me if I never know. All I want is for this to stop. I want to wake up to the sun shining, to a simple Sunday breakfast, complete with a good newspaper and fresh orange juice. Then I want to talk with that agent and get this straight."

  "You're exhausted," Peter told her. "I'd like to stay the rest of the night, on the sofa. I'd sleep better if I knew you were okay."

  "That isn't necessary." Eleanor felt her discomfort begin to build. Peter had become far too involved in her life— and her troubles. It would be better if he didn't stay.