Rafe Sinclair's Revenge

She hadn’t found the courage yet to look at his face. She would have to, of course, but she needed a few seconds to prepare.

He had had that time. He had obviously been watching her since she’d come in through the back door. The place where he was standing gave him the perfect vantage point to do so.

His position had been carefully thought out. That was a lesson he had taught her—to use every advantage your adversary allows. He had given himself both time and opportunity to study her, while she had been completely unaware of him. Unaware and unprepared.

Except she hadn’t been. He had at least played fair in that respect.

That’s why he’d poured the whiskey. Why he’d left the decanter unstopped. To let her know he was here. She just hadn’t figured it out as quickly as she should have.

Out of practice, she acknowledged.

“I asked you a question,” she said instead of responding to his comments about her appearance.

That was certainly none of his business, but that wasn’t why she didn’t respond. There was something too personal about discussing those things with him. Too near an intimacy neither of them wanted.

“Griff came to see me.”

Of all the things he might have said to her, that was the last she would have expected. Rafe had made it as clear to Cabot as he had to her that the part of his life that had included them was over and done. She had gotten the message. Maybe Griff had a thicker skin.

“About what?” she asked, beginning to get her equilibrium back.

Her first reaction to his presence had been strictly visceral. Given their history, that was probably inevitable. It didn’t mean she couldn’t bring her intellect to bear on the reason he was here.

All she needed was a bit of detachment. Surely after nearly six years that would be possible.

“Someone at the agency passed along a security alert. They think Jorgensen may still be alive.”

She tried to decide from his tone what he felt about that. As always, it was impossible to read anything from what he’d said. Not unless he wanted her to.

“Griff thought you should be made aware of the possibility,” he continued.

Griff thought you should be made aware…

“So why didn’t he call me?”

“I assume because he doesn’t know how.”

“You did.”

There was no answer. In the dimness she watched as he brought the glass to his lips and took a long swallow of her whiskey. She wondered, feeling slightly vindictive, if he needed it.

“So how did you know how to find me?”

The more important question was, of course, why would you still know how to find me?

“I know how your mind works.”

She thought about that for maybe ten seconds. “That’s not an answer.”

“I trained you.”

“Don’t you think I might have learned anything after you left?”

There was a small movement at the corner of his mouth. “Probably not.”

She resisted the urge to tell him to go to hell. At least she had learned when he was deliberately goading her.

“Okay, so now I’m aware that the company thinks Jorgensen could be alive,” she said. “Anything else?”

“I like your house.”

“A little place in the suburbs. Isn’t that what we all dreamed of?”

“Is it? What you dreamed of, I mean.”

You’re what I dreamed of. As much as she hated admitting that, she could no more have stopped the thought from forming than she could have stopped herself from entering this room once she had known he was here.

“I guess that would have depended on which day you asked me,” she said.

“How about today?”

Inexplicably the tightness in her throat was back. She couldn’t think of a single sufficiently cutting thing to say to him.

“I have to put my groceries away,” she said instead, the suggestion that he should leave so she could get on with it obvious.

He let the silence lengthen a moment before he broke it.

“They’re wrong, but don’t take any chances. This may be someone copycatting Jorgensen’s agenda. Which might mean they are also targeting his enemies.”

“Then why should he be interested in me? I didn’t have anything to do with Jorgensen.”

“I did. That would have been enough for him. Whoever this is—”

“Couldn’t have found me,” she broke in. “Not if Griff couldn’t. And if you’re so concerned, why take a chance on leading him to me?”

“I wasn’t followed.” He was obviously amused by the idea.

That wasn’t based on arrogance, but experience, and as such, she accepted it. Actually she hadn’t been worried about Rafe leading him—whoever he might be—to her. She was more curious about why he had come, especially in person. Despite the excuse he had just offered, there must be something more to this visit.

Wishful thinking? She denied that idea, too, as soon as it was born. She had a perfect right to be curious about why Rafe Sinclair would all of a sudden show up on her doorstep after an absence of nearly six years.

“So what are you doing now?” she asked. “Working for Griff?”

“You know about the Phoenix?”

“Rumors,” she said, choosing the word with care. She didn’t want her feelings about that to be evident.

“They invited you to join.”