Oh, RJ was cute when she worked. And he respected the work, but he just wanted to push a strand of that dark hair behind her ear, let his touch linger…
“And somehow—what?—gets into a relationship with Tsarnaev?” She made a face. “Okay, maybe I’m dreaming all this up. Glo is probably right—her mother is a patriot. Nothing about this makes sense.”
“You had a pretty good head of steam there. Let’s attack this from the other side.” He took the paper and wrote Arkady Petrov at the top. “Communist. Hard-liner. Wants Stanislov’s job. Is affiliated with the Bratva, whose main source of money is trafficking—drugs, women, and guns. More war means more guns, which means more money. So, if they can cause a cold war between America and Russia, that’s good business.
“Petrov and the Bratva have been trying to oust Stanislov since the bombing of the metro, putting in place their own informant and setting up an assassination, maybe even a coup. So, the Bratva hires Gustov to shoot Stanislov…and the shooting goes south, thanks to you.” He held up a fist.
She grinned and bumped it.
And he nearly followed it with a kiss.
But she took up the analysis. “If Jackson is working with the Russians, of course they’re going to protect her. Kobie and Plunkett, our bombers, are the real patriots, trying to stop her because Plunkett saw her working with Tsarnaev.”
“Right. Because Graham was a POW at a camp in Chechnya,” York said.
“That checked out, with both the facts and her time line,” RJ said.
“But we still have the gap.” He picked up the pencil and drew a line between Jackson and the Bratva. “Why?”
RJ sat back. “Jackson is a moderate. Hates guns and, until four months ago, was in an entirely different political party. I still can’t figure out why she aligned with Isaac White. He’s conservative, a former SEAL, and is pro-gun rights.”
Cher had come downstairs, and now stood at the end of the hall. “Reba Jackson has wanted to be president as long as I’ve known Glo. So, my guess is that she’ll do anything to win, even if it means switching parties.” She’d spent most of the evening creating Glo’s floral arrangement from the flowers Gerri had Coco order from a florist in Geraldine. She was pretty—red hair, tall, and wore a red-and-black kimono and leggings as she headed toward the fridge. “You don’t think your mom would mind if I find a snack, would she?”
RJ shook her head.
York pushed thoughts of kissing RJ out of his.
But, “Why did she have to switch parties?”
Cher opened the fridge. “Rumor is she was low on money. Being the VP isn’t a terrible position for a woman to have. Our first female VP in the man’s world of politics.” She took out a bag of baby carrots. Stood at the counter, pulling one out. “And of course, imagine what would happen if White died…”
“Oh my—” RJ said. “She’d be president.”
But York was thinking of something else. “Imagine, Inc.”
RJ looked at him.
“Imagine, Inc. It’s a subsidiary of the Jackson Foundation, right?”
“Yes.”
He pulled her computer over and typed the name in the search bar. A page of listings of articles popped up. “They’re all over the world.”
“Oh, sure,” Cher said. “The Jackson Foundation is huge. They build schools and dig wells and fight the AIDs epidemic—”
“So why is she out of money?” York asked.
Cher retrieved another carrot and put the bag back into the fridge. “By the way, I know you guys have Sloan locked in the bathroom, but I still think it was really nice of Tate to invite him to the wedding. Sloan really had a thing for Glo.” She headed back upstairs.
RJ was looking at York, trying to repress a smile.
“Yeah, really nice of Tate,” York whispered. “Because if we’re right, it’s Sloan who’ll need protection.”
“I’m still not sure how I feel about that. If I’m right, then we’ve uncovered an international conspiracy two weeks before a national election.”
“And if we’re wrong, then we locked an innocent man in the bathroom.”
“There’s worse places to be imprisoned. Like, I dunno, gulag?”
York laughed, her words stirring memories of their escape from Russia. He met her eyes, saw the same memories in them. Her hand curled around his on the table, and suddenly he felt his heartbeat turn to a fist in his chest.
He’d even go to gulag if he could be with her.
He nearly gave in to the impulse to lean in and kiss her.
“So, Imagine might have been a shell company with a fake office front,” RJ said, cutting off the impulse. She let go of his hand. “What if the Jackson Foundation has other shell companies?”
“Maybe we should get Sloan out of the tub,” York said, aware of his hand still on the table. “Do some more Q & A.”
“Not without Tate. He’d killed us. And right now, he’s just trying to keep Glo calm and get her down the aisle.”
“If it were me, this wedding wouldn’t be happening.”
“Why?”
“It just doesn’t feel right. It feels too rushed.” He shook his head. “I’m tired of all this. I wish…”
“You wish you were back in Shelly.”
“No. But I can tell you that as soon as this is over—” And he wasn’t sure he was ready to say it, but his hand still tingled from her touch. “I want us to disappear.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I keep thinking about what Hardwin said. About your mom being light in his dark world.” He caught her hand again. “You’re that for me, Syd.”
“Oh, York.” Her breath caught, something tender on her face. “I—”
And he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned forward and kissed her.
She tasted sweet, of late-night coffee and the teamwork between them.
Except her breath caught. And then she put her hand on his chest. Pushed. He leaned away, a little surprised. “What—”
She made a face. “I…I don’t know if I’m ready.”
He stared at her, the words not forming.
And that’s when her expression crumpled. “York…”
Just like that, his world ended. “Oh. I see.”
“No, you don’t—”
“Yes, I do. I’ve changed too much. I’m not…”
“I love the man I see!”
Oh.
She stood up, whisked the tears from her face. “But the man I see—this amazing man—he doesn’t want what I want anymore.”
Um, “What do you want, RJ?”
Her expression betrayed pain. “I don’t want a life in Shelly. Or on my ranch in Montana. I was built for something different. Something—” She looked at her notebook.
“Something more exciting,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” She swallowed, nodded.
He stood up too, his throat tight, burning. “I can’t live that life, RJ. Because my memories are back—all of them. I remember how my wife died. I remember my son floating in the bathtub. I remember how it turned me jaded and angry and I was filled with hate with every cell in my body. I pushed it down, and by the time I met you in Russia, I’d learned to live with it or dodge it, but it was always inside me, a burning ember. And then…then my memory was wiped and I became Mack. And yes, I remember the darkness now, but the one thing that took, with Mack, was the forgiveness. The moment at the altar when everything—all of the darkness and pain and grief and hatred—vanished. Washed away. I could breathe for the first time in…well, I can’t remember how long.”