Off the Grid Read online

  “You gotta see this,” Taylor said. “She really buried the story.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Blake’s sister.” The LC nodded toward the screen, where the reporter was talking.

  John listened, stunned. “In light of the navy’s statement this morning about the training accident, investigative reporter Brittany Blake, who published a series of articles for the DC Chronicle about the so-called Lost Platoon of a secret SEAL team, has been dismissed for fabricating the stories. The Chronicle has posted a retraction. This is the second time Ms. Blake has been let go under the cloud of suspicion and wrongdoing.”

  John was glad the bed was behind him. “Ah, hell,” he said, sitting down.

  The LC was looking at him. “Man, you must have really persuaded her for her to fall on her sword for you like that.”

  John was too numb to say anything other than, “Yeah.”

  He’d done a number on her, all right. She’d sacrificed everything she’d been fighting for to protect him.

  And what had he done? He’d accused her of betraying him and then stood there, paralyzed, like a fucking coward when she told him she loved him, too scared to admit what he was feeling.

  John wasn’t his father. His first impulse when she’d gotten too close in Denmark was to go to pick someone up, but he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t do it. He hadn’t wanted to, and he’d known that if he did, she would never forgive him—and he would never forgive himself.

  He hadn’t been able to do it five years ago either.

  Because he’d been falling in love with her then, too.

  “I gotta go talk to her,” John said to the LC.

  He just hoped to hell that she would want to see him. That she would give him long enough to explain before slamming the door in his face.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  “Go,” the LC said. “Do what you need to do, but be careful.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Brittany couldn’t stand the thought of going back to an empty apartment, so she’d gone to the National Portrait Gallery and sat in one of the rooms staring at the paintings. Her mother had always loved museums and galleries, and sometimes Brittany came here to think. It made her mom feel not so gone.

  But George wasn’t helping much today. She looked up at the famous Lansdowne Portrait of the first president, by Gilbert Stuart. Her mother had always preferred the English and Continental artists—Gainsborough, Reynolds, Renoir, Monet. But there was something about the wise and serious countenances of the founding fathers that had always appealed to Brittany. Their strength, commitment, and certainty in the country they’d set up were somehow reassuring.

  A psychiatrist would probably have a field day with that, given her personal crusade with the First Amendment.

  But Brittany wasn’t finding much solace in anything today. Eventually, she gathered up her belongings, including the personal items she’d removed from her cubicle—all of which fit in her bag—and returned to her apartment.

  She parked her car on the street. Her building didn’t have a garage, but there was plenty of resident-permit parking around. She was almost to the door of the building when she looked up and saw a man standing there.

  For one incredible heartbeat she thought it was John. She saw the tall, broad-shouldered form in the dark clothes and ball cap and thought he’d changed his mind.

  But then the man looked over. The dark hair and slight crook in his nose made her realize that it wasn’t John; it was her Internet date, the hockey player Mick.

  Brittany swore under her breath and walked toward him. She’d forgotten to call him back and cancel their makeup date tonight.

  He grinned, seeing her. “Hey, there you are. I’ve been buzzing a while and was starting to think that you’d forgotten about tonight.”

  “I’m sorry to say that I did,” Brittany admitted. “I’ve had a lot going on this week, and I should have called to cancel.”

  His expression changed, the easygoing, lady-killer smile replaced by a tinge of annoyance. “But I came all this way—and I made reservations—and you already canceled on me once.”

  He looked around—which she thought was odd—and took a step toward her. She caught the hint of his aftershave. It smelled familiar, although she couldn’t place the scent.

  “Here,” he said. He started to reach for her bag with his right hand, but then switched to his left. “Let me help you with that.”

  Brittany looked down at his right hand and saw the cast on his arm. “What happened?”

  “Pickup hockey game,” he said with a crooked smile.

  He was standing a little too close, and it was beginning to make her uncomfortable. She looked around instinctively. There was a man walking on the opposite side of the street, but he wasn’t looking in their direction.

  Should she call out?

  Almost as if Mick could read her mind, he moved to block her view of the guy.

  Had it been intentional?

  Her heartbeat made a sudden lurch and started to race. Her instincts that something wasn’t right flared even before she realized what it was. “That’s okay.” She pulled her bag in closer to her body. “I really have to go up now. Call, and we can reschedule.”

  Not.

  She started to move away, but he grabbed her arm. “Sorry. Rescheduling isn’t going to work for me.”

  That was when it clicked. The profile, the scent of aftershave, the broken arm. Mick was the guy who’d attacked her in Norway.

  It happened so fast that she didn’t have time to react. He tucked her against his body and dragged her into the alley at the side of her building. She saw the car waiting and tried to yell. Tried to kick. Tried to do anything to get away.

  But her second of hesitation had cost her. The guy across the street was gone.

  She felt the sharp pinch of a needle in her neck and tried to break away, but she could feel the rush of fluid pouring into her body. Too late. “What are you doing? Mick! Stop!”

  “Not Mick,” he said softly, his face swimming above hers. “Mikhail.”

  Oh God . . . he’s Russian.

  It was the last thought Brittany had before she catapulted into unconsciousness.

  Twenty-seven

  Percy had known there was something wrong as soon as Kate walked in the door.

  It was no wonder. She must look like a wreck. Hurricane Colt had struck again. She’d been completely destroyed by that kiss.

  How could she still respond to someone she hated?

  She couldn’t. That was the problem. She didn’t hate Colt. She hated what he’d done, but not the man. She didn’t need to. He hated himself enough for both of them. He’d never believed he deserved to be happy, so he’d seen that he wasn’t.

  And heaven help her, she still felt drawn to him. Still felt that maybe she was the one who could get through to him. Was it arrogance or idiocy? Maybe a little of both.

  But what about her? Didn’t she deserve to be happy, too?

  She knew the answer, and she also knew that she wasn’t going to find it with Percy. Not if he didn’t want a child with her.

  And not if he couldn’t do that to her with a kiss.

  The conversation was painful but over quickly. For the first time, Kate told him how she felt. She wanted to adopt a child. Not in the future but now. As soon as they were married. If that wasn’t something he wanted, he needed to tell her.

  He did. He didn’t want to be a father again. He loved George and Poppy, but he was ready for a new stage in his life. One that didn’t involve diapers and parent-teacher meetings. He wanted to enjoy all the benefits of his being in the diplomatic service. The travel. The parties. All the opportunities that wouldn’t be as easy with small children.

  When it was over, Kate couldn’t help but think