Delta Force Defender

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “We need to talk.”

“And clean that computer.”

“Don’t come anywhere near here. It’s a madhouse. I’ll slip out the back and head over to your hotel. The police are still questioning Casey, poor girl.”

He gave her the name of the hotel and the address before turning up the volume on the TV again. Several reporters were still camped out in front of Martha’s town house, and the speculation had begun. Since Martha owned the town house, the reporters had her name on their lips.

It wouldn’t be long before they dug up the fact that Martha worked for the CIA, and he hoped it wouldn’t be long before they discovered she hadn’t been the one who’d invited Congressman Wentworth to an after-hours meeting.

His blood percolated as he listened to the innuendo linking Martha to Wentworth, but he still couldn’t figure out how this had anything to do with the threats from the patriot.

With the TV still droning in the background, Cam straightened his hotel room, stuffing clothes back into his suitcase and shoving toiletries into the plastic bag hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. He hadn’t needed to see Martha’s place last night to figure she’d be a neat freak, and for some reason he wanted to assure her he wasn’t a slob.

He went a few steps further and got a couple cans of soda from the vending machine down the hall and stuck them in the mini-fridge. The woman must’ve had a rough morning.

By the time Martha tapped on his door, Cam had rendered the room acceptable to the neatest of neat freaks.

He opened the door and she barreled past him without even a hello, striding to the sliding door to the balcony.

She turned to face him, twisting her fingers in front of her. “This is bad.”

“Tell me what happened.” He gestured toward the sofa facing the TV. “Not many details on the news, except that you own the town house where Wentworth croaked.”

She perched on the edge of the sofa. “Casey’s name will come out. The police are still talking to her.”

“At least you won’t be portrayed as the other woman for much longer.” He yanked the chair back from the desk and straddled it, resting his arms across the back. “Give me all the details.”

“After you left, I went to bed and I could hear those two...whooping it up.” Two bright spots of red formed on her cheeks. “I have earplugs for just those occasions, and I was able to fall asleep.”

“Damn, you need earplugs?” Noticing Martha’s pursed lips, he wiped the grin off his face. “Go on. You fell asleep during noisy sex.”

“I...” She ran her fingers through her messy hair, dragging it back from her face. “Yes, I fell asleep, and the next thing I knew Casey was in my room hysterical and crying, saying Bob had died sometime during the night.”

“What time did she discover him?”

“About six. I ran into her room and felt his neck for a pulse. He seemed dead to me, but I have no experience in medicine. I called 911 right away.”

“The news said possible heart attack, so I’m assuming no blood or visible injuries.”

“No.” Martha crossed her arms, cupping her elbows. “He was half out of the bed, as if he’d tried to get up but didn’t make it.”

“Did Casey have anything to say?”

“Not much to me, but the cops were grilling her. They’d met for a drink at a quiet place. Bob wasn’t feeling great, and they decided to head back here.”

“You’d never met him before? It didn’t seem like you had last night.”

“No. I’m not saying she’s never brought him back to our place, but I usually make myself scarce when she brings guys home, so I’d never met him before.”

Cam tugged on his earlobe. “I don’t understand why you think some congressman’s heart attack is related to you and the emails.”

“Who says it’s a heart attack?” She jumped up from the sofa and twitched back the drapes at the sliding door, peeked out the window and yanked the drapes back together.

“It could be something else. Poison. He didn’t feel well. Or there are drugs out there that mimic heart attacks. Nobody would know the difference and poof—” she tried snapping her fingers, failed miserably and flicked them in the air instead “—you’re gone.”

Cam flattened the smile from his lips and drew his brows together to look concerned instead. He couldn’t help it. Even when he listened to Martha talking about murder, he found her irresistibly cute.

“Wait, wait.” He held up his hands. “How does that impact you, unless the patriot plans to frame you for Wentworth’s so-called murder...and that’s a long shot. How exactly does Casey’s illicit affair with a politician affect you and your investigation of the emails?”

“It brings everything back up. It tarnishes me and anything I might have to say about these emails. It’s a warning that he can get to me if he wants to.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Yeah, okay. It shows he’s powerful, although this is a risky way to do that. But—” he frowned for real this time “—what do you mean by bringing everything back up? Finding the emails?”

Her gaze darted to the TV, still humming in the background, and she took two steps toward the coffee table, picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV.

The reporter mentioned Martha’s name, and Cam jerked his head toward the TV. A picture of a young Martha with thick glasses and braces stared back at him next to a picture of a gray-haired man, who looked vaguely familiar. He tuned into the reporter’s words.

“In a bizarre twist to this story, the owner of the town house is none other than the daughter of convicted stock trader Steven ‘Skip’ Brockridge, who’s currently serving twenty-five years in federal prison for his role in a Ponzi scheme that bilked investors out of millions.”

He twisted his head back toward Martha, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. She raised one hand. “That’s me, Martha Brockridge, daughter of a convicted felon.”

Cam swallowed. “That’s your father, not you. Obviously the CIA already knows about your background. A name change isn’t going to throw off the Agency.”

“I never tried to throw them off. I was up front about my father. They knew. I think they even believed that my father’s criminal behavior had influenced me to follow the straight and narrow path, and they were right...until now.”

Her voice broke at the end, and he jumped up from the chair and took her by the shoulders. He dug his fingers into her tight muscles. “This situation is completely different.”

“Maybe, but do you think anyone’s going to believe me about the emails now? A convicted felon’s daughter?” She shook her head, and the ends of her hair tickled the backs of his hands.

“I doubt the patriot went through all this trouble to discredit or warn you, and the CIA already knows about your father. It didn’t stop them from believing you the first time you turned over those emails.”

“I don’t know what to think. It’s hard for me to believe there’s no connection between my online conversation with the patriot and the death of Congressman Wentworth.”

He blew out a breath. “I don’t believe that, either. I don’t believe in coincidences, but I can’t wrap my mind around his motives.”

“You think there might be another reason?”

He smoothed his hands down her arms and released her, stepping back. “How long has Casey been living with you?”

Martha blinked her long lashes. “About eight months.”

“You received the emails four months ago, right?”

“You’re not implying Casey is involved? That ditz?”

“It could’ve all been an act. The people who sent you the emails needed someone on the inside, and it would’ve been too hard to get one of your coworkers to cooperate. How’d that virus get on your laptop? I’m sure the CIA must drill computer security measures into your head and you didn’t just click on some random link in an email. Who does that anymore?”

Martha chewed on the edge of her thumb. “I thought maybe he’d used Dreadworm again to get to me.”