Fatal Fallout

Ivan remained oblivious to the threat, still searching for the pictures of his daughter. She tried to speak, to warn him, but her throat closed up and she couldn’t get the words out. Ignoring her frantic gestures, Ivan merely sat while the shadowy mass enveloped him, hiding him from view. Suddenly, his pained shrieks pierced the fog. She strained forward, reaching out her arms to grab him, but came up with nothing. After a breathless moment, the shadow disappeared to reveal Ivan, slumped over the table, his normally pale skin coated in blood from the thousand shallow cuts that crisscrossed his face and hands.

Claire screamed, fighting against an unseen force that kept her from reaching him. He was still and unmoving, the red pool on the table growing steadily with each breath she took. “Ivan! Ivan!”

“Claire!” There were hands on her arms, shaking her, pulling her away from the table, away from Ivan. “Claire!”

She opened her eyes, breathing hard. “Ivan,” she whimpered. “I have to help Ivan.”

“I know.” The voice was deep and soothing, and she was pulled into a warm chest while a hand stroked down her hair. “I know.”

She sniffled into the starched shirt, her awareness gradually returning as strong arms rocked her back and forth and a deep voice rumbled, low and comforting, in her ear. Ivan was dead. Her friend, her mentor—the man she loved like a father—was gone.

She’d lost her adoptive father almost twenty years ago. While she thought of him every day, the loss was no longer as raw as it had once been. She’d learned to cope, moving through life with the assumption that she would never again experience that kind of relationship.

Until Ivan came along, slipping under her defenses and becoming so much more than a professional colleague. He shared his family with her, and she’d reveled in his stories, basking in the reflected glow of the love he felt for his family. His wife had embraced her, as well, in what had been a welcome surprise, given Claire’s strained relationship with her adoptive mother. Dena had remarried shortly after her husband’s death, and hadn’t wasted any time in starting a “real” family, one that Claire was decidedly not a part of.

Ivan was—had been—such a good man. How could this have happened?

She pulled back to wipe her face, her gaze connecting with the bright blue eyes of the man who held her. Agent Kincannon, that was his name. He smoothed her hair back with a soft hand, then gently stroked her arm. He probably meant the touch to be reassuring, but one of his fingertips had a small callus, and the rough patch dragged across her skin with a tickling friction that shivered through her body.

She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in her bed, and she wanted nothing more than to lie back and pull him over her, to surrender to his weight. His lips were so close—she had only to tilt her head forward to touch her mouth to his...the urge was almost overwhelming. She could lose herself in sensation, postpone the need to think for a little while longer.

The wild impulse must have showed in her eyes, because he leaned away, putting more distance between them. The cooler air of the room replaced the heat of his body, making her miss his warmth. She almost raised her hand to pull him back but stopped before she embarrassed herself. It wouldn’t be right for her to touch him; he was here to act as her bodyguard, not her boy toy. Besides, she shouldn’t be having such inappropriate thoughts in the wake of her friend’s death.

“What happened?” She remembered lying down to rest, him leaving with a promise that he’d be in the living room. Why was he here now?

“You screamed,” he said, scooting back to give her even more space. His shirt was blotchy with wet spots from her tears, and she flushed in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to his shirt. “For that, too. I’m quite a mess.”

He looked down, shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to the rescue of a damsel in distress.” He shot her a sly grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nightmare?”

The smile faded from her lips as she nodded. “A bad one.”

“Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Those horrible images, both from the dream and the picture she’d been sent, were running through her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff them into a box. Talking about them would only keep them fresh.

“Fair enough.”

She moved to get out of bed, knowing she couldn’t go back to sleep now, wondering if she’d ever sleep peacefully again. Would she be able to close her eyes and not see Ivan, lying dead in a pool of his own blood?

Agent Kincannon stood as she got up, stepping back to give her room. “Did you want to talk to me?” she asked.

“Yes, but we can wait if you’re not up for it yet.”

She shook her head. “Let’s do it now. Just give me a minute to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you in the living room.”

Her body ached as she moved stiffly into the bathroom, flipping on the light as she entered. She winced at her reflection, the bright lights revealing pale skin, mussed hair, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Not a pretty sight.

She turned on the faucet, holding her fingers under the stream as she waited for the water to warm up a bit. She had no idea what kind of information she could provide that would help catch Ivan’s killer, but she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

Agent Kincannon seemed like a nice enough man, but she didn’t like having a stranger in her home, especially not when she was grieving the loss of Ivan. She wanted privacy so she could fall apart without fear of being overheard. The last thing she needed was for him to hold her again. She was hanging on to her self-control by a very thin thread, and further temptation would cause her to break, a reaction that would only make things worse.

After a few splashes of water, she patted her face dry and then quickly brushed her teeth. She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a serviceable ponytail. Her shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, but she couldn’t summon the energy to change it. She didn’t really care how it looked anyway. Taking a deep breath, she turned to head out into the living room. I can do this.

She settled onto the sofa, tucking her legs up so she was curled into a ball. Agent Kincannon took the recliner, leaning forward to place a glass of water on the table next to her. She blinked back the sting of sudden tears, absurdly touched by his thoughtful gesture. Not wanting him to see her emotional reaction to such an ordinary event, she reached for the glass, taking a small sip of water to wet her throat. “So, Agent Kincannon, where do we start?”

“How about we start with you calling me Thomas? We’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the foreseeable future, so I think we can dispense with the formalities, if that’s all right with you?”

Keeping her fingers wrapped around the glass, Claire nodded. “Okay,” she said carefully, feeling her way into this new conversational territory. “Where do we start, Thomas?”

He leaned forward, and she caught a whiff of his soapy-starchy scent as he moved. He rested his elbows on his spread knees and clasped his hands together in a loose fist, expanding his imprint in the chair.

He’s so big, she thought, taken aback by how much space he occupied. She wasn’t used to having a man in her apartment, especially such a large man. Ivan had been slight of stature, whereas Thomas was tall and broad. She could reach out a hand and touch his shoulder without having to stretch. The room seemed to shrink around her as he focused on her face, the space collapsing until only the couch and chair remained.

“Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Ivan?” His tone was friendly, belying the intensity of his gaze.

“What do you want to know?”

“Were you two close?”

She nodded. “I think so. We worked together for several years, so we got to know each other pretty well.”

He cocked his head to the side. “How well?”

She frowned, searching his face for a clue as to what he was really asking. His eyes were flat, expressionless—the blue of a quiet sea. No help there. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he cast a meaningful glance toward the bookshelf. She followed his gaze to the picture of herself and Ivan, taken two months ago during his last visit.

“I am so happy, milaya, my dear girl!” he’d said, using his favorite pet name for her. “The project is going very well, and I have you to thank for it.”

She smiled up at him, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. “It seems like we’re finally getting through to the government—they can’t just leave these sites unattended and hope for the best.”

“They are learning,” he replied, patting her shoulder. “They listen when a pretty woman talks, eh?” He winked at her, and she couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, as if he took personal credit for her successful presentation.

“Were you romantically involved with him?” Thomas’s voice interrupted her memories, pulling her back to the room. He was watching her carefully, like a stalking cat, waiting to pounce on any weakness. Focus.

“No.”

He raised a brow, his doubt plain.

“No,” she said, this time with an edge. “We were not sleeping together.”

Thomas stood and walked to the bookshelf, picking up the photograph and studying it as if seeing it for the first time. “You seemed rather close,” he remarked, extending the frame to her, his tone oh-so-reasonable.

“He was my mentor,” she bit out from between clenched teeth. “He was like a father to me, and I won’t have you twisting that into something dirty, something it’s not.” Her hands tightened around the glass, fingers pressing into the sides so hard she could see the tips turn white as they flattened against the smooth, wet surface.

“Okay.” He set the frame back on the shelf, turned and walked over to the recliner, settling himself into the chair again. “Tell me about it.”

She shook her head, unsure of where to start. “We met five years ago. I had just started at the Nuclear Safety Group, and one of my first assignments was to provide support to the international decommission team, Ivan’s group.”

“What does his group do?” His voice was soft and unobtrusive, steering the direction of her story without distracting her. She kept her eyes focused on the water glass, tracing the lines of condensation while she spoke.

“They advocate for the safe and effective disposal of nuclear material from decommissioned nuclear power plants. There are a lot of plants in Russia that are crumbling in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union, which is a huge security risk. In some places, it’s so bad that anyone could walk in and steal radioactive fuel. Ivan’s group pressed for greater security, tried to coordinate with the government to secure the money needed to provide it.”

“And you worked with him?”

“Yes. The first time I met him was at an NSG dinner. He was in town to drum up U.S. support for the latest round of talks with the Russian government, and I was seated next to him at the table. He turned to me, looked me up and down, and said, ‘My dear, you are too pretty for this job. No one will take you seriously. You should get out while you’re still young, find yourself a husband.’” She smiled wryly at the memory. “He was so...charming about it that I couldn’t get angry at him. Over the next few days, I sat in on the meetings and eventually convinced him that I knew what I was talking about. After that, he decided to take me under his wing and introduce me to his contacts in Russia.”

She paused, glancing up to find Thomas watching her, his gaze steady as he listened. He nodded encouragingly, so she took a deep breath and continued.

“That’s how we started working together. He was always very kind to me, making sure I was comfortable and included. He went so far as to introduce me to his family, take me to his daughter’s concerts, his wife’s dinner parties. I returned the favor when he was stateside, showing him around D.C. and keeping him fed and entertained when we weren’t in meetings. Not that kind of entertainment,” she said darkly, seeing his brows rise slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Thomas replied, eyes wide with false innocence. She glared at him, but he merely smiled in return. “Was there ever any indication he was involved in something...shady?”

She shook her head forcefully, denying the question before he’d even finished asking it. “No. No way. Ivan was a good man—he’d dedicated his life to keeping these dangerous materials out of the wrong hands, and there’s no way he would have compromised that.”

“Not even for money? It sounds like securing these sites takes a lot of cash. Is it possible he was selling a bit on the side, not enough to be suspicious, but enough to fund some other operations?”

Claire blinked at him, not following this line of thinking. Was he serious? “Why would he do that? Why would he sell off spent fuel, only to turn around and use the money to keep spent fuel from getting into the wrong hands?”

“Maybe he didn’t think he was selling to the bad guys,” Thomas said, shrugging a shoulder as if he didn’t care either way.

“That’s not logical,” she pointed out, needing Agent Kincannon to understand the fallacy of his argument. “Anyone who wants spent fuel has questionable motives, and Ivan knew that better than most. He wouldn’t do that.”

Thomas leaned forward again, mouth drawn as he regarded her. “You have a bit more faith in Ivan than I do.”

“It’s got nothing to do with faith.” Exasperation made her voice shrill, and she paused to swallow the emotions tightening her throat before continuing. “It’s logic, plain and simple. Ivan wouldn’t do something so unreasonable.”

“You like things to be logical, don’t you?”

Was she seeing things, or did the corner of his mouth twitch upward? She arched an eyebrow, sending him what she hoped was a cool look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Okay, that really was a twitch.

“Not at all. I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate,” he said.

“And this is funny to you?”

The hint of a smile vanished from his face. “Absolutely not. I just want you to consider the possibilities.”

“But you’re wrong.”

He stared at her for a beat, then sighed, a teacher disappointed in his student. “You just told me that you and Ivan were close, that he took you under his wing and made you part of the family. Do you really think he would have included you in something like this?” When she didn’t respond, he pressed a bit more. “Or would he have tried to protect you, keep you out of the loop because he knew that it was dangerous and he knew you wouldn’t approve?”

Claire stared at her lap, her thoughts swirling like flakes in a snowstorm. Could he be right? If Ivan had been involved in something illegal, she knew he would have kept it from her. But...why would he do that? What would compel him to toss aside his values and morals and his entire career? He’d spent his whole professional life trying to keep this material out of the hands of people who would use it for evil, so why would he join forces with them now?

He’d been so excited during his last visit, so hopeful for the future. She refused to believe he’d been selling spent fuel on the side.

As if sensing her turmoil, Thomas leaned back in the chair, giving her space. He didn’t speak, but she could feel his eyes on her, watching her face as she worked through his hypothetical scenario.

“I suppose what you say is possible,” she allowed, knowing she had to at least acknowledge the chance he was right, even though in her heart she knew it wasn’t true. “But I don’t think that’s what happened here.”

Thomas nodded. “Fair enough. I just need you to consider the possibility that Ivan was not what he seemed.”

Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Thomas cocked his head toward the door, holding up a hand to keep her quiet. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer to her apartment. He rose silently from the chair and padded over to the door, sliding up to the peephole to watch. Claire shrank down into the couch, huddling into a small ball, her palms slick from sweat and condensation. Her heart thumped hard in her chest when the footsteps stopped outside her door. She jumped when the doorbell rang, eyes glued to Thomas’s broad back as he stared out into the hall. Who was at the door? Someone dangerous? Why wasn’t he moving?

She heard a faint beeping sound, then a thud. Whoever it was walked back down the hall, and as the sound faded, Thomas relaxed. He opened the door, bent down and turned back into the apartment, an express mail package in his hands. She sighed as she realized the visitor had been nothing more than a deliveryman, shaking her head at her over-the-top reaction.

“Are you expecting something?” He set the package on the table with a frown.

“No.” She scooted forward to examine it, reluctant to touch it while Thomas regarded it with such open suspicion. “Oh!”

“What?” He held out an arm to keep her from getting too close, alarm evident in his voice.

“I know that handwriting.” Ignoring his grunt of displeasure, she reached out to trace the letters of her name. She looked up at him, his face blurry as she blinked back tears. “This is from Ivan.”

Chapter 3

What the hell?

After a few tense moments, Thomas had agreed to open the package. He’d insisted on doing the honors himself—no telling what it contained, and if there was some kind of chemical or biological agent inside, better for him to be exposed than her. It was his job to protect her, and somehow, he didn’t think Harper would shed too many tears if he were to meet his untimely demise.

The envelope contained nothing more than a yellowing stack of papers, neatly clipped together in the upper left corner. Claire removed the paper clip and began to flip through the pages, her eyebrows drawing together as she looked them over. He could see they were covered in tiny rows of precise, dark script but couldn’t make out the language at this distance. He sat next to her on the couch, leaning over her shoulder to get a better view.

She smelled like lavender, and the neck of her shirt gaped open enough to show the edge of her bra strap. A soft pink that matched the color on her toes, not white as he’d assumed earlier. Cut it out, he told himself sternly. She’s a job, not a woman. Feeling disgusted with himself, he forced his eyes away from the enticing sight, focusing instead on the papers in her hand.

At this range, he could see the writing was Cyrillic. “Can you read this?”

She jerked at his question, and he realized she’d been so focused on the papers she hadn’t known he was close. She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. I don’t understand why Ivan would send these to me. He knows—” she swallowed hard “—knew I don’t speak Russian or read Cyrillic.”

“Maybe he knew he was under threat and sent them to you for safekeeping.”

“Maybe,” she said, still sounding doubtful.

He stood, reaching into his jacket for his phone. “We need to get them translated, the sooner the better,” he said as he dialed. “If there’s a message there for you, we need to know what it says.”

She said nothing as he relayed this latest development to Harper, who agreed with the necessity of a rapid translation. “Bring them in,” he said. “I’ll get the translator lined up.”

He turned to find her standing next to him, her eyes wide but her mouth set in a determined line. “We need to take these papers to headquarters,” he told her, reaching out to take them from her. “My boss is lining up a translator for us.”

“Fine. Just give me a minute. I need to change my shirt.”

She walked down the hall, leaving him holding the papers. He busied himself tapping them into place and returning them to the envelope, anything to keep his thoughts from drifting to images of her without a shirt on, that pale pink bra on display....

He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. Not an option. Yes, she had a delicate beauty about her—the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck, the graceful lines of her jaw and brow—and right now, she did have the whole damsel-in-distress thing going on, which had his protective instincts flaring. It had felt good—too good—holding her as she woke from her nightmare. She had fit so perfectly in his arms, her head naturally tucking under his chin, as if she’d been made for that spot.

She had rallied quickly, though, and he knew underneath her tears and grief was a core of steel. He had to admire the way she’d held it together this morning, only letting her emotions out when she had surrendered to sleep. He could relate to that. He understood all too well what it cost to project an image of calm composure when grief and sadness and rage were boiling inside. God knew he’d done it often enough for Jenny, Emily and his mother.

Thomas shook his head and released a small sigh. Why was he having these feelings now, after months of apathy? Roger’s death had left him reeling, and he’d had no desire to start a relationship. Of all the times for his libido to wake up...

His brain recognized he had no business thinking about Claire outside the bounds of his professional responsibilities, but his body had felt her curves and wanted more.

“Not gonna happen,” he muttered, taking a long sip from his glass of ice water. Probably would have been more effective to pour it down his pants, but this would have to do. Besides, he thought, trying to use logic to appeal to his baser nature, Claire was dealing with a huge shock. Even he wasn’t so desperate as to hit on a woman who was in the throes of grief.

She won’t be sad forever, whispered his inner sixteen-year-old.

Damn.

* * *

Claire stared blindly at the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, her mind back on the papers and the man in her living room. He was too much...everything, she decided, reaching up to pluck a white blouse off the hanger. Too tall, too broad, too warm, too hard. His arms had made her feel safe and secure, and the steady thump of his heart under her ear had been a comforting rhythm. And that smell—soapy, clean, with the faintest hint of starch from his shirt. She could get lost in that smell, stay pressed against his chest for days. It would be the perfect escape from the nightmare her life had become.

Except it wouldn’t solve anything.

Shaking her head, she stripped off her wrinkled shirt and shrugged into the clean blouse. She had no business thinking of Thomas—Agent Kincannon, she corrected—as anything other than a man assigned to a case. A blanket of guilt settled over her shoulders as she remembered why he was here in the first place. Ivan was dead, and she was now a target.

But I’m not dead, a wicked little voice inside her head proclaimed. And if I really am marked for death, why not enjoy the time I have left?

Firmly shutting the door on that line of thought, she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into her slacks. She wished, now more than ever, she was the kind of woman who could have a no-holds-barred affair, to simply enjoy the physical pleasures of a relationship without letting her heart get involved. But she had tried that tack once before, and it had been a disaster. No, she thought, shaking her head as she smoothed a hand over her hair. Agent Kincannon might be quite nice to look at, and his touch might set her heart racing, but she knew all too well how things would end between them.

She didn’t have the best track record when it came to the people in her life, starting with the death of her adoptive father when she was eleven. It hadn’t been his fault, of course, but growing up, she’d harbored a lot of anger toward him for leaving her in the care of an adoptive mother who had never really wanted her to begin with. Dena had viewed her as a burden, something to be tolerated but never embraced. Her new husband had followed suit, and their apathy had turned to outright emotional neglect when they had a child of their own.