State Secrets

2

Holly looked with a jaundiced eye at the mechanical department-store Santa Claus nodding beside the escalator. Thanksgiving is over, she thought ruefully, so bring on Christmas.

In the toy section to her left, a horde of shoppers were engaged in a good-natured battle of some sort.

Reaching the next floor and the cookware section of the large store, Holly found Elaine already there, her hair pinned to the top of her head, a clipboard in hand.

“What’s going on downstairs?” Holly asked irritably. The weekend with Skyler and his parents had been a disaster.

Elaine chuckled but did not look up from the list she was going over. “They got in a shipment of Webkinz.”

Shrugging out of her winter coat, Holly assessed the room. The store had done a good job of setting up; there were tables, aprons and even chefs’ hats for all the students. In the cooking area, where Holly would demonstrate the fine art of baking fruitcake, an assortment of copper utensils had been set out on the counter.

She peered at Elaine’s clipboard. Normally, twelve students were accepted for her popular cooking classes, but this time the list showed thirteen names. “David Goddard? Who the devil is that?”

Elaine gave her friend and employer an understanding, patient look. “There’s always room for one more, right?” she grinned. “The guy was so eager….”

Holly was annoyed and tired. All she wanted to do was spend the night at home, in front of the TV or better yet, in a hot bath with a book. Anywhere but in this posh downtown department store, teaching thirteen people how to bake fruitcake. “Elaine,” she began stiffly, “this is a popular class. There is a waiting list several months long, in case you’ve forgotten. So where do you get off letting some bozo walk in and sign up just because he’s eager?”

Elaine colored prettily. “Actually, he’s better than eager. He’s a hunk.”

“Great! You let him in because he was good-looking!”

Elaine shrugged. “What can I tell you? I looked up into those navy blue eyes and I could not deny the man ten lessons and a chef’s hat.”

Holly muttered an expletive and flung down her purse and coat. “I’ll be glad to deny him for you,” she snapped, washing her hands at the gleaming steel sink that was part of the store’s fully equipped kitchen. “Where is he?”

“Downstairs, I think, in the toy department,” Elaine replied, unruffled, as she checked the supplies of flour, sugar and assorted other ingredients against another list on her clipboard. “He said something about buying a couple Webkinz for his nieces.”

Holly found an apron and put it on over her jeans and cotton shirt. Despite repeated pleas from the store’s publicity director, she refused to wear a chef’s hat. “I don’t know why I agree to do these cooking classes, anyway,” she muttered.

“You have a contract with the store,” came the blithe reply from her secretary. “And they pay you big bucks.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Elaine looked up from her clipboard and made a face. “Anytime, boss.”

Holly couldn’t help it; she had to grin. “I don’t know how you put up with me. I’ve been a grouch all day and I’m sorry.”

Elaine sighed. “A weekend with Skyler Hollis would do that to anybody. Everything checks out, Holly. Could I go now? Roy and I are going to have dinner out and then do some early shopping.”

“Go. Leave me here to tell the hunk that he can’t learn to bake fruitcake.” Holly paused and assumed a pose of mock despondency. “The help you get these days.”

Elaine laughed. “When you see him, you’ll let him stay. Believe me, God was in a good mood the day He threw this dude together. Everything is definitely in the right place.”

“Elaine Bateman, you are a happily married woman!”

The pretty brunette was pulling on her coat. “Yeah. But I’m not blind,” she twinkled, before taking up her purse and starting off toward the escalators.

Holly was alone for about five minutes, and then a heavy, earnest-looking man arrived. She asked his name—it was Alvin Parkins—and checked it off on Elaine’s list. One by one, the other students came, some of them bringing copies of Holly’s books to be autographed.

And then he showed up. Number Thirteen. The intruder. At the very first sight of him, Holly’s stomach did a nervous flip.

He was tall and his hair was very dark, neatly cut, and his eyes were a piercing navy blue, just as Elaine had said. He wore blue jeans, a soft white sweater and a brown leather jacket and under each of his powerful arms, he carried a plush toy.

Holly lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and approached him. “Mr. Goddard?”

He tilted his head slightly, in acknowledgment or greeting or both. His cologne was musky and Holly found herself trying to identify it by name.

Holly glanced at the toys, trying to delay the moment when she must tell this man that there simply wasn’t room for him in the fruitcake class. “Mr. Goddard—I—” Holly cleared her throat. “The fact is, Mr. Goddard, that there just isn’t…there just isn’t room in this class for another person. I’m sorry.”

He set the toys down on one of the tables and calmly removed his jacket. He didn’t look as though he planned to go anywhere. “I’m sorry, too. That it’s a problem, I mean. But your secretary took my money and told me I had a place in good old Fruitcake 101 and I’m staying.”

Holly felt the color rising in her face. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

David Goddard smiled and folded his arms, stirring that appealing musky scent and touching something deep inside Holly. “If necessary,” came the simple reply.

To hide her annoyance, Holly looked down at her watch. It was time to start the class and all the other students were there, ready to begin. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of them and besides, Elaine had told the man he could participate. “All right, then,” she muttered, “you can stay.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and the deep warmth in his voice soothed Holly somehow, taking away the anger that had arisen at his stubbornness.

David Goddard proved to be an attentive student, listening closely to every word Holly said, watching every move she made. She could almost feel the steel-trap agility of his mind.

When the class was over and Holly was cleaning up, he stayed behind to help. Without a word he rolled up his sleeves and began running hot water into the sink.

Holly gathered mixing bowls and spatulas and bread pans and brought them to the counter. It was odd, the feeling she had—as though they were old friends instead of strangers, washing dishes together in a homey kitchen instead of a busy department store.

“This is quite a setup,” he remarked, up to his elbows in hot, soapy water.

Holly found herself smiling. “I know. I was impressed the first time I saw it, too.” And the first time I saw you, Number Thirteen.

“Did they put all this in just for you?”

She shook her head and took a dish towel from a top drawer. “I think it was a demonstration kitchen at first—you know, so people could see how the appliances would look in a home setting. When I started to become well-known, Cookware and Books put their heads together and came up with the idea that I should teach classes here.”

David smiled. He had a nice smile, she noted, a smile touched with humor. Full of straight white teeth. But what was that sad detachment in the depths of his ink-blue eyes?

“Doesn’t that take up a lot of your time? Teaching, I mean?” he asked.

Holly dried a lacquered copper mixing bowl to a red-gold shine. She liked the way it looked, so bright and cheery. “I guess it does. I travel a little, write my books. And I keep up a weekly newspaper column, too.” She paused, then shrugged. “I like teaching, though. I get to meet new people that way.”

“You don’t meet people when you travel?”

She smiled again, wearily. “Not really. I take classes in other countries, and sometimes I’m the only student. It’s precise, exhausting work and I usually don’t even get to see the sights, let alone strike up lasting friendships. What do you do for a living, Mr. Goddard?”

“Call me David or I’ll never tell,” he retorted, and even though his glance was pleasant, Holly had a feeling that he was stalling, for some reason.

“All right. What do you do for a living, David?” she insisted, watching him.

The navy blue eyes were suddenly averted; he was concentrating on scrubbing a baking pan. “I’m in law school at Gonzaga,” he finally answered.

The answer seemed incomplete somehow. David Goddard was in his mid-thirties, unless Holly missed her guess. Surely old enough to be through with college, even law school. On the other hand, lots of people changed careers these days. “What kind of lawyer are you planning to be? Corporate? Criminal?”

He took up another baking pan. “Actually, I’m taking review courses. I graduated several years ago, but I haven’t been practising. I thought I’d better brush up a little before I tackled the Bar Exam again.”

“The Bar Exam? I thought you only had to take that once.”

“It varies from state to state. I didn’t study in Washington.”

He was hedging; Holly was sure of it. But why? “Where did you study?”

David still would not look at her. “Virginia. Do they pay you extra for washing dishes?”

The sudden shift in the conversation unsettled Holly, as did something she sensed in this man. In a flash it occurred to her that he might be a very clever reporter looking for a story. Her cooking career usually didn’t generate a lot of interest, but being third cousin to the next president of the United States just might. And what if he knew about Craig?

Holly paled and withdrew a little. “I can finish this myself,” she said stiffly. “Why don’t you go?”

Now the inky gaze was fixed on her, impaling her, touching that hidden something that did not want to be touched. “Is there a sudden chill in here or am I imagining it?” he countered.

Holly kept her distance. Gone was the feeling of companionship she had enjoyed earlier. There was danger in this man; there was watchfulness. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? She fielded his question with one of her own. “Why would a lawyer want to learn to bake fruitcake?” she asked.

David went right on washing, his hands swift and strong at the task. “For the same reasons the other people in this class do, Holly. There was a bookkeeper, if I remember correctly, and a construction worker—”

“Maybe a journalist or two,” she put in sharply, glaring at him now.

“A journalist?” He looked honestly puzzled for a moment, and then a light dawned in the blue depths of his eyes. “You think I’m a reporter,” he said.

“Are you?”

“No,” came the firm and immediate reply. And Holly believed David Goddard, though she couldn’t have explained why.

“You really want to bake fruitcake?” Did she sound eager? Lord, she hoped not.

David laughed and touched the tip of her nose with a sudsy index finger. “I really want to bake fruitcake.”

They finished cleaning up and David lingered while Holly put on her coat and reached for her purse.

“Was there something else?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. For some reason Number Thirteen had a strange effect on her.

“Yes,” he answered. “I plan to walk you to your car. It’s late and I don’t want you to get mugged.”

Holly felt warm. Protected. Though she cherished her independence, it was nice to have someone looking out for her that way. “Thank you,” she said.

Her car was in a parking tower in the next block, isolated and in shadow. It probably wasn’t safe, walking there alone, but she hadn’t thought of that in her hurry to get to the store and conduct her class. She was glad David was with her.

He waited beside her sporty blue Toyota until she had found her keys, unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Toby’s model airplane, a miniature Cessna flown by remote control, was on the seat, and she moved it in order to set down her purse and the small notebook she always carried.

“Is that yours?” David asked with interest, his eyes on the expensive toy.

“Actually—” Holly grinned “—it belongs to my nephew, though I do admit to flying it now and then up at Manito Park.”

Again there was an unsettling alertness in David, as though he was cataloging the information for future reference. But why would he do such a thing?

“I have a plane like that,” he said, and Holly ascribed her instant impression that he was lying to weariness and an overactive imagination.

David Goddard was a kind, attractive man, not a reporter or an FBI agent. She was going to have to stop letting her fancy take over at every turn or she would become paranoid. She said goodbye, started the car and backed out of her parking space.

There was a light snow falling and Holly drove up the steep South Hill at a cautious pace, her mind staying behind with David Goddard.

He could be a reporter, she thought distractedly as she navigated the slick, slushy streets. He could even be an FBI agent hoping to find Craig.

Holly laughed at herself and shook her head. “You’d better take up writing fiction, Llewellyn,” she said aloud. “You’ve got the imagination for it.”

But even as she pulled the car to a stop in her own driveway, even as she turned off the engine and gathered up her purse, her notebook and Toby’s airplane from the seat, she couldn’t shake the conviction that David Goddard was something more than a second-time law student who liked to cook.

Inside the house, Holly found her housekeeper and favorite baby-sitter working happily in front of the living room fireplace. Madge Elkins was a middle-aged woman, still trim and attractive, and her consuming passion was entering contests.

Now, she was busily writing her name and address on one plain white 3-by-5-inch piece of paper after another.

“What are you going to win this time, Madge?” Holly asked pleasantly, putting down the things she carried and getting out of her snow-dampened coat.

“A computer system,” Madge replied, tucking a paper into an envelope and sealing it with a flourish. “Printer, software, monitor, the whole shebang.”

Another person might have laughed, but Holly had known Madge for several years and in that time had seen her win more than one impressive prize in contests. A car, for instance, and a mink coat. “Is Toby sleeping?”

“Like the proverbial log,” Madge answered, gathering a stack of envelopes, all addressed and stamped, into a stack. “You had a couple of phone calls—one from Skyler and one from a man who wouldn’t leave his name.”

Again Holly felt uneasy. “What did he say? The man who wouldn’t give you his name, I mean?”

Madge shrugged, fussing with her contest paraphernalia. “Just that he’d call back. Skyler wants you to call him.”

Holly was suddenly testy. If Skyler wanted to talk to her, he could darned well call back. She saw Madge to the door and then headed off toward the kitchen, planning to take one of her experiments out of the freezer and zap it in the microwave. She’d been running late before cooking class and hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner.

Just as the bell on the microwave chimed, so did the telephone. Muttering, Holly dived for the receiver, afraid that the ringing of the upstairs extension would awaken Toby.

“Hello?” she demanded impatiently.

The voice on the other end of the line was haunted, shaky. “Sis?”

Holly’s knees gave out and she sank into the chair at the desk. “Craig! Where are you? What—”

Her brother laughed nervously and the sound was broken and humorless, painful to hear. “Never mind where I am. You know I can’t tell you that. Your phone might be bugged or something.”

“Craig, don’t be paranoid. Where are you?”

“Let’s just say that this call isn’t long-distance from Kabul. How’s Toby?”

Holly deliberately calmed herself, measuring her tones. She was desperate not to panic Craig and cause him to hang up. “Toby is fine, Craig. How about you?”

“I’m all right. A little tired. More than a little broke.”

Holly closed her eyes. So that was the reason for his call. Money. Why was she always surprised by that? “And you need a few bucks.”

“You can spare it, can’t you?” Craig sounded petulant, far younger than his thirty-six years. “You’re a rich lady, sis. Didn’t I see you on Ellen a few months ago?”

“Craig, come home. Please?”

He made a bitter, contemptuous sound. “And do what? Turn myself in, Holly? Give me a break—I’ll be in prison for the rest of my life!”

“Maybe not. Craig, you’re not well. You need help. And I promise that I’ll stand by you.”

“If you want to stand by me, little sister, just send a cashier’s check to the usual place. And do it tomorrow if you don’t want me to lose weight.”

“Craig, listen to me—”

“Just send the money,” he barked, and then the line went dead. Holly sat for five minutes, letting her ka-bob get cold in the microwave, holding the telephone receiver in her hand and just staring into space.

Finally she hung up, forced herself out of the chair, and took the ka-bob from the microwave. Although she ate, she tasted nothing at all. The ka-bobs she had taken such pride in making might as well have been filled with sawdust.

David Goddard locked the two Webkinz into the trunk of his rented car, shaking his head as he remembered the way he’d had to scramble for them. He sighed, then grinned. The kids would like them, so it had been worth a few scars.

On his way back to the parking garage’s lonely elevator, he passed the place where Holly’s Toyota had been. Instantly, his mind and all his senses brimmed with the scent and image of her.

He reached the elevator and punched the button with an annoyed motion of his right hand. Walt Zigman was full of sheep-dip if he thought that woman was capable of espionage. Holly Llewellyn was harried and she was haunted, but she was nobody’s flunky.

The elevator ground to a stop; the doors swished open. David stepped inside and punched another button. He smiled to himself, thinking of the first fruitcake he’d ever put together in his life. It was a good thing no one had bothered to taste it; his cover would have been blown then and there. He’d been too lost in Holly Llewellyn’s aquamarine eyes to concentrate on baking.

Baking. He rolled his eyes. For this I went to law school, he thought. For this I walked the first lady’s dog.

He reached the first floor of the parking garage, where there was a wine shop and an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor. Ice cream, in this weather? David shivered and lifted his collar before stepping back outside, onto the street.

At the corner, he paused. Gung ho Christmas shoppers surged past him when the light changed, carrying him along. He went back into the department store where Holly had taught her class and again braved the toy department. This time he bought an airplane, a model that would fly by means of a small hand-control unit. Manito Park, she’d said.

Half an hour later David entered his apartment, acquired only two days before, with mingled relief and reluctance. It was a small place, furnished in tacky plaids. The carpet was thin and the last tenant had owned a dog, judging by the oval stains by the door and in front of the fold-out sofa bed. At least he had a telephone. David went to it and, with perverse pleasure, punched out Walt Zigman’s home number.