“Yes, because each and every one of them was involved in the mission. None of the Keepers were telling their girlfriends about a mission. They had to know what was going on with them because they were actively in danger. Christina? She was simply at the wrong place and happened to meet someone we’re investigating. But she’s not involved. She doesn’t know anything about Jerry Kincaid, so she can’t know about our mission.”
White-hot anger speared through him, burning deep inside. He dropped his chin and stared at his boots, aware that he needed to pull his shit together while wanting to lose it at the same time.
“I know this is hard for you,” Mace said, standing closer, his voice low. “But—”
“I get it.”
No one said anything for a long moment. The cavernous room that would normally echo sounds remained silent as no one moved. With his fists still planted on his hips, he lifted his head. Holding Mace’s gaze, he repeated, “I get it. I don’t fuckin’ like it, but I get it.”
He could hear a collective sigh of relief but ignored it, turning and stalking through the room past his coworkers. Heading to the gym, glad that no one followed him, he took his frustration out on the heavy bag. Thirty minutes later, Tate and Cobb walked in. By then, he was a sweaty mess and was unwrapping his knuckles. Even with the protection, they were swollen and red.
“Look, Clay, I’m not going to begin to say that I understand how you feel. I know you said it was easier to have a relationship with Christina because she wasn’t involved in anything, but you’ve got to see, that’s still true. She may have been in the Bennett guesthouse where Kincaid lives, but she just met him. There’s no reason to believe that she’ll ever see him again. She doesn’t know he’s being investigated and doesn’t know that you’re part of that. So, it’s just a poor fuckin’ coincidence.”
He growled, “We’re doing the FBI’s dirty work for them because someone high up doesn’t want anything connected to Congressman Bennett. So we have to keep it all quiet for now.”
Tate sucked in a quick breath and shook his head slowly. “I know, and it sucks.”
Voice still shaking with rage, he said, “I watched that asshole take Christina’s hand. I watched him hang on to her fingers. You tell me if he did that to Nora, you wouldn’t care?” Another quick inhalation was his answer.
“Look, Clay,” Cobb said. “We’re stepping things up. We started with just surveillance, but Levi’s already on a secure line with his liaison. The FBI may be stalling this guy’s investigation, but Mace has clearance from the DOJ.”
Tate added in, “Just be cool with Christina. She won’t see him anymore, and we can get who we need. The last thing you want to do is freak her out.”
Nodding, he said, “I know. You’re right. She just managed to be in the wrong place, that’s all.”
“What about the daughter’s violin lessons? Does Christina usually go to the estate?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. I know she gives private lessons, but I never had a reason to ask her who her students were or where she met them.”
“Well, if you do bring it up, remember—”
“Seriously? Don’t go there. I don’t need a lecture on how to maintain mission security.”
Clapping him on the shoulder, Tate said, “I know, sorry, man. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”
As he walked back through the cavernous room, he was glad the others were all involved in their work. Most looked up, gave him a chin lift in support, then went back to their duties. He knew they had his back, and it felt good. It also felt good that they trusted him to do what had to be done. Now, if I can just trust myself not to strangle Jerry Kincaid.
Clay opened his door, his smile wide as he ushered Christina inside. When she’d called to say that she had a full day off with no practice, no concerts, and her private student had canceled, he jumped at the chance to be with her. He had offered to drive to Portland, but she said she was dying to get out of the city and would love to come to him. No way was he going to turn down a chance for her to be at his house again.
Now, standing in his living room, he stared at her, torn between wanting to pull her into his arms and kiss her and grouse because she’d been in Jerry Kincaid’s house. He jolted when she placed her hand on his arm.
“Are you okay, Clay?”
“Sorry, sorry! Got some stuff from work on my mind.” He opened his arms, and as she stepped forward, he enveloped her in his embrace, pulling her close to his chest. With her low heels, she once again was tucked under his chin. Her hair was down, flowing around her shoulders, and he kissed the top of her head.
She leaned back, held his gaze, and smiled. He took her lips in a slow-burn kiss. Nips and nibbles, soft and gentle. No matter what kind of kiss they shared, his cock rose to attention. With her plastered close to him, his arousal pressed against her stomach.
“Are we going to eat first or play first?”
Laughing, he said, “I’ll be a gentleman, and we’ll eat first.”
She scrunched her nose and laughed along with him, then they walked into the kitchen. “Wow, that smells good. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’m not a gourmet, but I can fix more than mac and cheese. Although, I have a mac and cheese recipe that’s amazing.”
“As a starving musician, I’ve had plenty of mac and cheese, ramen noodles, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Believe me, anything over that is wonderful.”
He checked on the lasagna in the oven, glad she opened the conversation to her life as a musician, giving him a chance to dive in for more information. “As much as you work, it’s hard to imagine you being a starving musician.”
She poured some wine and sat on the stool, taking a sip. “I’m not really, not anymore. I was lucky that my parents paid for my college education as long as I paid for my room and board. But as soon as I could, I got out of New York City. I would have to sell a kidney just to have a tiny room in a tiny, shared apartment. I also never wanted to use my parents’ reputation or name to get ahead. I looked at Boston but then tried out for a position with the Portland Orchestra and discovered that I really loved Maine. The symphony salary is decent, but not great. My private students help, and I have to admit the money I get from Amhrán M'anama with the gigs we play makes a huge difference.”
While he was curious about the band, he wanted to focus on her private students, and once again she’d provided the opening. “How many students do you teach?”
“It varies. Twice a year, I’ll teach a class to very young children. The symphony actually pays me for that. I usually keep about six to ten private students, but to be honest, ten is a lot. Right now, I have eight.”
“Do you like teaching one on one?”
She smiled, and his heart squeezed. Damn the investigation. What he really wanted was to just know about her. What made her happy or sad, frightened or excited. He wanted to know how she spent her days.
“I really do love it! The little kids are great, but I have to admit there’s something about tutoring a teenager. I know a lot of people don’t like working with teens, and if I had students that really weren’t into it and were only doing it because their parents wanted them to, I’d hate that. I’ve had a few of those, but I try to weed those out early. One of the first questions I now ask before taking on a new student is whose idea it was. If they tell me it was all the parent, then I tell them to call me when it’s their own idea. When I get a young person who loves to practice, really cares about what they’re doing, then it’s so exciting.”