Hart's Last Stand. Cheryl Biggs
stared into Hart’s eyes, searching for answers to questions she never in a million years would have imagined herself asking. But that was before the FBI had come knocking on her door.
Had Hart murdered Rick to protect himself? Was he the man the FBI should be considering a traitor? Maybe even a murderer? She took a deep breath. Was it really possible the body they’d identified as her husband hadn’t been Rick at all? She had to get Hart to help her and in the process convince herself he was innocent, or find some way to prove he was the one setting her up.
“The FBI doesn’t believe Rick’s dead.” She pulled a file folder from her bag and, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it, tossed the folder, open, onto a mechanics table near where Hart stood.
He looked down at the papers suddenly scattered atop the table’s tools, but didn’t understand what he was supposed to see.
“That’s a copy of a bank statement for an account I never knew I had,” she said, pointing to one.
He looked down at the statement. It was a new account, opened only six weeks ago. His gaze moved to the bottom of the page, and he noted the balance: $155,000.
She pointed at a photograph that lay beside the bank statement. “And that’s a picture of me talking to a man the FBI claims is a European spy.”
His gaze moved to the photo, recognizing Suzanne but not the man she was talking to. He looked back at her, still unwilling to believe, even for a moment, that anything she was saying could be true.
She could have deposited the money herself and be lying to him now, and the man in the photograph could be anyone. Her accomplice—a friend, a lover, even a stranger she stopped on the street. But why would she make up such an elaborate lie? What did she really want?
“He came into the auction house where I work…” She paused, realizing Hart didn’t know she’d revamped her career. “I don’t teach school anymore,” she said. “I’m a partner in an antiques auction house and gallery in Beverly Hills now.” She paused again, momentarily distracted by thoughts of just how much her life had changed since the last time she’d seen Hart.
She’d gone to Los Angeles with every intention of continuing her career as a high-school teacher. But two days into her new job several students in one of her classes started arguing and she couldn’t get them to stop. A moment later the sound of gunfire exploded in the room, and one of the teenagers fell to the floor.
She’d taken a leave of absence from her job, too shaken to even think of returning to her classroom. A week later she’d been browsing through a little shop that sold all sorts of bric-a-brac when she had run into Clyde, who’d been talking with the owner. Clyde Weller was Suzanne’s second cousin on her father’s side and had been her best friend through high school. They’d lost touch over the years, but seeing him again proved to be just what she’d needed.
They’d gone to dinner and talked, and talked and talked and talked. Finally, well into the wee hours, Clyde made a suggestion that seemed so natural Suzanne said yes instantly. She was widowed, had received a large settlement after Rick’s death she needed to invest, and her degree was in history, with art as her minor. Clyde had been doing freelance bidding on antiques for others for years, so he was already well connected in the business and had always planned on opening his own gallery/auction house.
It was as if fate had brought them together again. They’d pooled their resources, as well as their last names, and started Casswell’s.
Hart stared, but didn’t question her, so she decided not to explain. He obviously wasn’t interested in her personal life, which was fine. She only needed his help in clearing herself of the FBI’s ridiculous allegations.
“Anyway, about two months ago this man in the picture came into the gallery and introduced himself as Mason Brunswick,” Suzanne continued, “and said he was thinking of consigning Casswell’s—that’s the name of our business—some very old paintings for auction. The next day, on my way home, I ran into him on the street. We chatted a minute, and he asked me a question about one of the paintings. That’s obviously when the photo was taken.”
“So again, assuming this story of yours is true,” Hart said, “and somehow Rick survived that crash—and the body identified as his wasn’t, what do you think I can do?” He didn’t even know why he was asking. Her story obviously wasn’t true. It had taken six months after the Jaguar Loop mission and Rick’s memorial service before the army had been able to recover his body. But they had finally recovered it, and he was dead. So what did Suzanne really want? What could she possibly hope to gain by these ridiculous claims?
He didn’t know.
Nevertheless he knew that, instead of asking questions that had kept her from leaving, he should have just gathered up her so-called evidence, handed it back to her and sent her on her way.
“You’re the only one who saw Rick die,” Suzanne said, seeing the cynicism that still shadowed his eyes. “Hart, you saw it happen. You’re the only one who can swear that it was Rick who got in the Cobra that day, that it was Rick flying it, that Rick is dead—if he really is.”
He didn’t answer.
She continued to meet his hard stare as doubt and suspicion assailed her. What if she’d just walked into a trap? What if he’d cunningly drawn her into it and she was doing exactly as he wanted? What if he was the only person on earth who could help her, but wouldn’t believe her? A torrent of what ifs slammed her. She felt all her senses and feelings intensify: fear, attraction, suspicion, longing.
Her heart raced as he looked at her for several very long, very tense moments. His scrutiny made her breathing become ragged and forced, the blood rushing through her veins in a tumultuous, speeding, hot flow that made her light-headed. She’d known confronting him would be difficult, maybe one of the most difficult things she’d ever done, but it was proving far harder, far more complicated than she’d ever imagined.
Say something, she silently demanded, and gripped one hand with the other upon realizing they were trembling. Control, she told herself. She had to keep herself under control and not break down. She tried to pull her gaze from his, needing to escape those penetrating eyes, and found it impossible.
A chill swept up her back, then rippled through her entire body. Say something, she silently pleaded again. But it wasn’t only his silence that unnerved her, or even the cold fear that had invaded her senses. It was the urge she felt to reach across the space that separated them, to touch him and feel his warmth, his strength. The feeling was almost more than she could resist.
How many times since she’d left Three Hills had she thought of him? Dreamed of him? And told herself to forget him? To put all thoughts, all memories, all fantasies about Hart away?
She curled her fingers into fists and held them rigid at her sides, trying to force away the feelings she knew could only prove her downfall.
“The FBI is building a case against me, Hart.” Her voice sounded weak and pleading, but she couldn’t help it. “They obviously believe Rick survived that crash—or that it wasn’t him flying the plane that day.”
She inhaled deeply.
“My only chance to prove this so-called evidence they have against me and Rick wrong is you.”
“They retrieved the body,” Hart snapped. “They identified it as Rick. You want to believe they were wrong?”
She looked at him and shrugged. “The FBI does.” He saw the fear and desperation she was fighting to hide and the tears she was struggling to hold back.
Hart fought to control the emotions warring within him since the moment she’d turned from her plane and he’d recognized her. Desire and anger, resentment and need. He’d lived with them all for a long time, enduring them, but now they were hotter, stronger than ever.
Part of him wanted nothing more than to ignore everything that had happened in the past and just drag her into his arms to take what