LITMIR.BIZ

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afterward when he’d held her…and hadn’t wanted to let her go. Even now his body was recalling the pleasure he’d felt simply lying there holding her close. He’d drifted off then, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d slept. But when Zoë had awakened him, she’d been all business, all tightly wound nerves.

      He hadn’t been able to resist the urge to loosen her up again. He’d wanted to experience once more what it felt like to make her come. Unfortunately, his attempt had tumbled them both out of the hammock.

      She’d laughed. They both had, like idiots. And strangely enough it had been the image of Zoë McNamara, sitting next to him on the ground and laughing that had most persistently haunted his thoughts during the night.

      He’d never heard her laugh before and he wanted to hear that rich, delightful sound again almost as much as he wanted to make love to her again.

      But he couldn’t follow up on either desire. Jed took a long swallow of coffee, and this time he tasted the bitterness. It suited his current mood. Pursuing any kind of further relationship with Zoë McNamara was impossible as long as he was a “dead” man.

      If the gut feeling he’d been experiencing that Bailey Montgomery had spotted him at that big D.C. party hadn’t been enough to spur him to action, the time he’d spent with Zoë certainly had.

      “Shit,” Ryder said. “This coffee sucks. It’s been—what?—ten years since we shared an apartment in college, and your coffee hasn’t improved?”

      Turning, Jed raised an eyebrow as he studied his friend. “Well, your taste buds are functioning. Are the brain cells up and running yet?”

      Ryder ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, glaring down at the mug in his hand. “Making a decent cup of coffee isn’t rocket science. I don’t know anyone who’s a better shot with a rifle than you are.” He waved his free hand. “Except for me, there’s no one who can match you at finessing the information highway to find out anything you want to know, whether it’s classified or not. You know Shakespeare’s plays like the back of your hand. My God, you’re even a brilliant tactical fisherman. If you ever want to give up government work, you can probably get your own show on the fishing channel. I can’t see how you can screw up fixing a simple cup of coffee day after day.”

      “Consistency is one of my finer qualities,” Jed said with a grin. “And if you’re through with your rant, I’d like to get down to business. I’ve been imposing on your hospitality for two weeks now, and I know that you’ve put in a good many hours but so far we haven’t even gotten the scent of who framed me for Frank Medici’s murder.”

      “Not true,” Ryder said. “We know that Agent Bailey Montgomery executed the hit. She may be in on the frame.”

      “Hell, I told you that much. But she didn’t execute the hit alone. It was a sharpshooter who got me in the shoulder. Her bullet was the second one.” Jed reminded him. “In any case, she’s the one person who might know something that would help me.”

      Ryder turned and studied him again. His eyes and the set of his face told Jed that either the words or the coffee had done the trick.

      “I’m thinking that it’s time I took a more proactive role in this,” Jed said.

      “You’ve decided to rise from the dead?” Ryder asked.

      Jed rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got this feeling that I may have already risen. I haven’t told you because you’ve been busy with Sierra. And I’ve been trying to come up with a strategy.”

      Ryder’s eyes narrowed. “Haven’t told me what?”

      “Bailey Montgomery may have spotted me at that D.C. party when I was supposed to be helping you guard Sierra.” He’d been stationed on the patio at the back of the Langford house right outside the room where Sierra was supposed to be meeting with the vice president. Someone had knocked him out. He hadn’t been out for more than a few minutes but it had been enough time for a killer to kidnap Sierra. It had certainly been enough time for someone passing by to get a good look at him.

      “I should have insisted that you wear one of your disguises.”

      Jed’s brows shot up. “And how would we have explained that to Sierra and her sisters and their significant others and Zoë? Besides, we didn’t plan on my being knocked out.”

      “Right.” Ryder sighed. “Why didn’t you mention the possibility that you’d been spotted before?”

      “Because I don’t have anything to go on besides a gut feeling. I got it again when we left your little engagement shindig the other night at the Blue Pepper. I think I spotted a car following us—a dark-colored SUV or a van. I lost it easily enough, so I can’t be sure, but I haven’t been able to get rid of the feeling that my time is running out.”

      “Great,” Ryder said. “I know you well enough—what your gut instinct is telling you is probably right. That means we have to make some kind of a move.” He took another swallow of his coffee. “That SUV—that’s why you did all that fancy driving on the way back here that night, isn’t it?”

      Jed grinned at him. “I thought you were too distracted with Sierra in the backseat to notice.”

      Ryder ran a hand through his hair again. “Yeah, I was, or I would have figured it out sooner. But if you’re right and someone saw you with Sierra and me, they’re going to pursue that connection. Good thing no one can trace me to this place. Even if they could, it’s next to impossible to find without specific directions.”

      Ryder took another swallow of coffee. “If you think Bailey Montgomery is your best source of information, please don’t tell me that you’re just going to walk into her office and ask her.”

      Jed smiled slowly. “It’s a tempting thought. But I was thinking of a more conservative move—to start off with at least. I’m thinking we might break into her office and search it—her desk, her hard drive.”

      Ryder’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You’re talking about breaking into the CIA headquarters in Langley? It’d be a challenge.”

      Just the kind of challenge that Ryder would enjoy. Jed was banking on that. Still deep in thought, Ryder took a long sip of his coffee, grimaced and then spat it out over the railing. “Shit. I can’t drink this. We’re going to finish this conversation in the galley.”

      Jed followed him down the short flight of stairs. The kitchen was small and well equipped with shiny pots and pans hanging off hooks. Ryder filled the teakettle, rinsed out the French-press pot and measured coffee into it.

      “Gage Sinclair might be willing to help us,” Jed said.

      Ryder frowned in concentration. “Gage Sinclair. If it’s the same man I’m thinking of, he doesn’t work at the CIA anymore.”

      Jed shook his head. “No. But we worked together on a couple of assignments, and I got him out of a messy situation about seven years ago on a job we did together in Jordan. He got shot up pretty bad and lost a leg but it could have been a lot worse. Since then, he’s gotten out of fieldwork.”

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