Death Angel Read online

  They were both new to this, to the sense of utter joy in someone else. Andie couldn’t stop touching him, either, astonished at how fast things had changed between them, that she was now free to touch him and kiss him, bury her face against his neck and inhale the wonderful heat and scent of his skin. She kept having little episodes of unreality: she was actually here with him? Her body had joyously accepted his presence, but her mind hadn’t quite caught up yet to this sudden change. The man she had gone in terror of for so many months was now her lover. Not just her lover, but her love. However ill-advised it was, she loved him. They didn’t have the comfort of having known each other for years, dating, learning all the details and quirks of personality and tastes. Instead, every time they’d met, the contact had been intense and fraught with emotions neither one of them had any experience in handling. She was as much a novice as he in this business of loving, so all of this was difficult to take in.

  To begin with, she felt giddy. Drunk. Drunk on him, on sex, on relief and joy and pain all rolled together. When he touched her, she felt cherished—she, Andie Butts/Drea Rousseau—who had never been cherished before in her life, who had never been loved, never been valued. The full realization that he valued her, that he was concerned with her pleasure, her comfort, her well-being, was almost more than she could take in.

  Just as disconcerting was the depth and strength with which she cherished him. She would do anything to protect him, to care for him and smooth life’s bumps out of his path. If she felt this way about him, she could only imagine how this emotion would feel turned around toward her, in a man whose middle name was “intense” and whose every instinct was that of a predator. How would he react if he knew she intended to put her life in danger? Not very well, she was afraid. No man would, not even an average Joe, and he wasn’t average by any measure she could imagine.

  She would have to tell him why she was here. She wouldn’t deceive him. This new, wonderful thing between them deserved better than that, but not right now. For right now, if he thought the time had come for questions and answers, then she wanted her own questions answered first, to prevent him from distracting her after he got his answers.

  She tilted her head back on his shoulder, looking up at his face as she sifted through the possibilities. “Even if you have a tracer on my Explorer, that would track me only as far as the airport parking lot,” she said, thinking aloud. “You wouldn’t know what airline I used or what flight I took to where. I suppose if you’re a good enough hacker—”

  “I am,” he interjected, without any hint of ego or bragging, simply stating a fact.

  “You could eventually find out, but that would take time unless, by sheer luck, you found me in the first couple of databases you hacked. But then, after you found I’d come to New York, you’d have to find out where I’m staying. Considering how many hotels and motels are in this area, and that you have no idea what name I’d use to check in, there is literally no way, using a computer, that you could find me so fast.”

  He didn’t say anything, his expression one of interest as he watched her think through the situation.

  “You have a tracer on me,” she said. “It’s the only explanation. Not on the Explorer, but on me.”

  “I have one on the Explorer, too,” he admitted without shame.

  “So where is it?”

  “Think logically.” His mouth curved in amusement. “You’ll come up with the answer.”

  “It would have to be on something I keep with me. My purse, but women change purses all the time. Something in my purse. Oh, hell—my cell phone.”

  “GPS technology is a great thing. I can locate you within a certain number of yards, and with my computer can even get the address where you are. For instance, why were you at the FBI building?”

  “Talking to the FBI. Duh.” She accompanied the “duh” with an eye-roll, just to tease him. She suspected he’d never been teased much in his life, and he needed some playfulness. “How did you get a tracer on my cell phone? When did you get your hands on it?”

  “Months ago. I went into your apartment early one morning, when you were sleeping.”

  He’d been in her apartment, in her bedroom—because she’d kept her purse close at hand, just in case—and she’d never known it. If an untimely lightning flash hadn’t revealed him standing in the parking lot at the truck stop, she never would have known he’d been watching over her like a guardian angel, keeping his distance but always making certain she was safe. But thank God for that lightning flash; because of it, he was here now, his arms around her.

  “You didn’t have to come to New York to talk to the FBI,” he pointed out. “There’s a field office in Kansas City.”

  “But none of the agents there have been keeping surveillance on Rafael,” she said. “I had to come here.”

  “The FBI has phones.”

  “Simon, I had to come here.”

  “Your being here is dangerous,” he said, ignoring her tone of voice, which invited him to drop the subject. He turned on his side facing her, so their bodies were pressed full against each other. “Even with your hair different, even though you aren’t staying in Salinas’s part of town, you shouldn’t be here. There are thousands of people on the street who are involved, one way or another, in his business. A good many of them knew you by sight. The FBI watches them; they watch the FBI. Salinas could already have word that a woman who looks a lot like you has been meeting with the feds.”

  She actually hadn’t considered that any of the people on the street could be photographing anyone and everyone who entered the federal building, though she should have. Certainly foreign interests involved in espionage and intelligence would be interested. Rafael—yes, she could see him going to that extent, too. He hadn’t gotten where he was in the drug trade by overlooking the obvious. Trust was nonexistent, even in his own organization.

  He cupped her chin in his hand, tilted her face up so he could read every nuance of her expression. “For the third time, why are you here?” His hand lingered, smoothed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  “You know why.” She sighed and turned her cheek against his palm. “Whatever I can do to help them get him, I’ll do. I spent the morning talking to two agents, going over every detail I can remember.”

  “Why is getting Salinas, in particular, so important? A lot of people deal drugs. They’re scum, he’s scum. He’s worse than some, but I’ve met others who make him look like a choir boy.”

  That was a scary concept. Andie shuddered a little. “He’s the one I know stuff about. I don’t know those others. And I profited from the drugs by living with him. I have to make up for that, try to make things right.” She wouldn’t tell him yet that she’d offered to act as bait in any trap the FBI could set up. Agents Cotton and Jackson hadn’t been enthusiastic about the idea, for various reasons, and if the idea never came to fruition there was no point in getting Simon riled up for nothing. She had the sneaking suspicion that riling Simon could be a dangerous thing to do—not to her, but she didn’t want him wiping out the entire building at Federal Plaza.

  But if—big if—Cotton and Jackson came up with a plan, she’d have to tell him. Trust came hard to her, and even harder to Simon. She wouldn’t abuse something so precious and new.

  Today, though, there was nothing to tell him. For the rest of the day, and the night, she had nothing more important to do than simply be with him. They might not have much time together, so she wanted to make the most of it.

  ANDIE WENT FROM being miserably unhappy to almost glowing with joy at Simon’s presence. They napped, made love again; by then the afternoon had worn away to evening and she was hungry. After showering—together—in the unremarkable and slightly stained tub, they walked down the street to an Italian restaurant.

  Simon didn’t have a bag with him, so he put on the clothes he’d worn there. Andie hadn’t unpacked, on the premise that her suitcases were cleaner than the dresser drawers, so she flipped open th