Wildfire
Page 55
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“I’m making chocolate mousse.”
“Now?” Grandma Frida asked.
“Yes.”
Thirty minutes later, with the diamond safe under my bed, I grabbed my favorite sleeping T-shirt out of the laundry, stuffed it, my laptop, and a packet of makeup wipes into a canvas bag, grabbed the baking pan with six teacups filled with mousse and a small container of freshly whipped cream, and walked over to Rogan’s HQ.
Bug was still at his station. His face brightened when he saw me. “Hey you!”
“Hey. Any news?”
“No more calls. All quiet. What’s in the pan?”
“Chocolate mousse.”
“Why?”
“Because Rogan likes it. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I climbed up another flight of stairs and tried Rogan’s door. The door handle turned in my hands. I walked in. He sat at a desk, his face illuminated by the glow of the computer. He wore sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His feet were bare. This was Rogan in his off mode—relaxed, tired, and unbearably hot.
He turned and saw me. Surprise slapped his face. He didn’t think I was coming over. He thought I was mad at him. Foolish, foolish Rogan.
I walked to the small fridge in the corner, which, as I discovered last night, he used for drinks, and slid the pan in there. It was a tight fit, but I managed. I went to the closet in the right wall, shrugged off my shoes, peeled off my stockings, got out of my dress, and took off my bra. Finally. There was nothing quite as good as getting out of a bra at the end of the day. I pulled on my sleeping T-shirt, went to the sink, and washed the war paint off my face. It took a while. The cold floor felt so good under my toes after they had been squished into those terrible shoes for two hours.
Finally, face clean, teeth brushed, I grabbed my laptop and flopped on Rogan’s bed, backwards, with my feet toward the headboard. I had neglected my email box for the last week and a half. There were things in there that couldn’t wait, like bills and invoice payments.
About a minute later, Rogan moved across the floor, opened the fridge, and looked inside.
Silence stretched.
I concentrated on the emails. Usually there would be at least one or two new cases in there, considering I hadn’t checked it for at least ten days, but there was nothing. Houston was waiting to see if we would pass the trials. If we failed, our business would take a serious hit and I wasn’t sure it would recover. Yet more pressure, because I clearly didn’t have enough of it in my life already.
An email from Bern. I may have something for you in the morning. Well, that wasn’t cryptic or anything.
An email from Rivera. Odd. Good evening, Ms. Baylor. You asked the hospital to notify you when Edward Sherwood awoke. He is awake. I escorted Rynda Sherwood to visit him this evening. House Sherwood has a new security chief and Edward Sherwood is under 24–7 guard.
House Sherwood stonewalled me again. Idiots. I typed a quick thank-you note.
Rogan climbed into bed next to me and sat cross-legged, his laptop in front of him. He had one of the mousse cups in his hand, and he’d spooned a small mountain of whipped cream on top of it.
“It’s not set yet,” I told him.
“I don’t care.”
His laptop showed a picture of a yellowed page, the kind that came from a notebook, covered in precise neat cursive.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“My father’s notes,” Rogan said, spooning more mousse into his mouth. “He kept a file on every potential threat. This one is on Sturm. You said you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t. I don’t have the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to cook some things.”
I nodded, scooted closer to him so we were touching, and went back to my emails. His fingertips brushed my back. He did it without looking away from his laptop. Just checking that I was still there.
This is what it would be like, I realized. We could come home to each other every night.
It didn’t have to be all blood and gore and fancy dinners. It could also be this, and this felt so good.
Chapter 9
I was sitting in Rogan’s kitchen, drinking coffee and eating another bear claw. The bear claw was dipped in a thin sugar glaze that crunched under my teeth with every bite and then melted in my mouth. It was probably ridiculously bad for me, but I didn’t care. Across from me, Rogan was drinking his coffee. Last night, after I was done going through my emails, Rogan decided that we both needed a bit of exercise before bed. He was very convincing. I could’ve used another hour of sleep today. Instead I was up, drinking coffee and wearing my semi-professional work clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, and a soft oversized sweater that was big enough to obscure my gun.
Heart, Rivera, and Bug sat around the island, drinking coffee and talking in low voices.
“Where are we with surveillance?” Rogan asked.
Everyone went silent.
Bug cleared his throat. “No sign of Vincent. He’s laying low. I’ve been keeping an eye on the Harcourts. No movement there. No sign of Brian.”
“Sturm?” Rogan asked.
“He went back to his house after the restaurant and hasn’t left.”
“Victoria Tremaine?” Rogan asked.
Bug shook his head. “If she’s moving, I can’t see it.”
It was unlikely that Brian was being held at Sturm’s house. Too obvious and too damning if Brian’s presence was discovered. Most likely Brian was secured somewhere else. Vincent, on the other hand, would be at Sturm’s house, because if I were Sturm, I’d want him on a short leash after his last fun outing.
Rogan looked at Heart. “Fortification analysis?”
“I’ve sent people out to install additional lightning rods,” Heart said, “but there is not a lot we can do against a tornado. This building is solid and has a basement, and so do the two others we designated as barracks. I had the three basements stocked with first aid, water, and rations. We’re installing reinforced doors. We’ll drill evacuation procedures today.”
“The warehouse?” Rogan asked.
“It’s properly anchored and the steel walls will bend rather than break apart,” Heart said. “Technically, it’s rated to withstand 170-mph winds. Practically, it depends on who you talk to. If you ask steel building manufacturers, they’ll tell you stories of people who survived F-4 in one. But nobody knows what will happen if Sturm spins off a tornado and then holds it in one place.”
“I’m making chocolate mousse.”
“Now?” Grandma Frida asked.
“Yes.”
Thirty minutes later, with the diamond safe under my bed, I grabbed my favorite sleeping T-shirt out of the laundry, stuffed it, my laptop, and a packet of makeup wipes into a canvas bag, grabbed the baking pan with six teacups filled with mousse and a small container of freshly whipped cream, and walked over to Rogan’s HQ.
Bug was still at his station. His face brightened when he saw me. “Hey you!”
“Hey. Any news?”
“No more calls. All quiet. What’s in the pan?”
“Chocolate mousse.”
“Why?”
“Because Rogan likes it. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I climbed up another flight of stairs and tried Rogan’s door. The door handle turned in my hands. I walked in. He sat at a desk, his face illuminated by the glow of the computer. He wore sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His feet were bare. This was Rogan in his off mode—relaxed, tired, and unbearably hot.
He turned and saw me. Surprise slapped his face. He didn’t think I was coming over. He thought I was mad at him. Foolish, foolish Rogan.
I walked to the small fridge in the corner, which, as I discovered last night, he used for drinks, and slid the pan in there. It was a tight fit, but I managed. I went to the closet in the right wall, shrugged off my shoes, peeled off my stockings, got out of my dress, and took off my bra. Finally. There was nothing quite as good as getting out of a bra at the end of the day. I pulled on my sleeping T-shirt, went to the sink, and washed the war paint off my face. It took a while. The cold floor felt so good under my toes after they had been squished into those terrible shoes for two hours.
Finally, face clean, teeth brushed, I grabbed my laptop and flopped on Rogan’s bed, backwards, with my feet toward the headboard. I had neglected my email box for the last week and a half. There were things in there that couldn’t wait, like bills and invoice payments.
About a minute later, Rogan moved across the floor, opened the fridge, and looked inside.
Silence stretched.
I concentrated on the emails. Usually there would be at least one or two new cases in there, considering I hadn’t checked it for at least ten days, but there was nothing. Houston was waiting to see if we would pass the trials. If we failed, our business would take a serious hit and I wasn’t sure it would recover. Yet more pressure, because I clearly didn’t have enough of it in my life already.
An email from Bern. I may have something for you in the morning. Well, that wasn’t cryptic or anything.
An email from Rivera. Odd. Good evening, Ms. Baylor. You asked the hospital to notify you when Edward Sherwood awoke. He is awake. I escorted Rynda Sherwood to visit him this evening. House Sherwood has a new security chief and Edward Sherwood is under 24–7 guard.
House Sherwood stonewalled me again. Idiots. I typed a quick thank-you note.
Rogan climbed into bed next to me and sat cross-legged, his laptop in front of him. He had one of the mousse cups in his hand, and he’d spooned a small mountain of whipped cream on top of it.
“It’s not set yet,” I told him.
“I don’t care.”
His laptop showed a picture of a yellowed page, the kind that came from a notebook, covered in precise neat cursive.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“My father’s notes,” Rogan said, spooning more mousse into his mouth. “He kept a file on every potential threat. This one is on Sturm. You said you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t. I don’t have the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to cook some things.”
I nodded, scooted closer to him so we were touching, and went back to my emails. His fingertips brushed my back. He did it without looking away from his laptop. Just checking that I was still there.
This is what it would be like, I realized. We could come home to each other every night.
It didn’t have to be all blood and gore and fancy dinners. It could also be this, and this felt so good.
Chapter 9
I was sitting in Rogan’s kitchen, drinking coffee and eating another bear claw. The bear claw was dipped in a thin sugar glaze that crunched under my teeth with every bite and then melted in my mouth. It was probably ridiculously bad for me, but I didn’t care. Across from me, Rogan was drinking his coffee. Last night, after I was done going through my emails, Rogan decided that we both needed a bit of exercise before bed. He was very convincing. I could’ve used another hour of sleep today. Instead I was up, drinking coffee and wearing my semi-professional work clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, and a soft oversized sweater that was big enough to obscure my gun.
Heart, Rivera, and Bug sat around the island, drinking coffee and talking in low voices.
“Where are we with surveillance?” Rogan asked.
Everyone went silent.
Bug cleared his throat. “No sign of Vincent. He’s laying low. I’ve been keeping an eye on the Harcourts. No movement there. No sign of Brian.”
“Sturm?” Rogan asked.
“He went back to his house after the restaurant and hasn’t left.”
“Victoria Tremaine?” Rogan asked.
Bug shook his head. “If she’s moving, I can’t see it.”
It was unlikely that Brian was being held at Sturm’s house. Too obvious and too damning if Brian’s presence was discovered. Most likely Brian was secured somewhere else. Vincent, on the other hand, would be at Sturm’s house, because if I were Sturm, I’d want him on a short leash after his last fun outing.
Rogan looked at Heart. “Fortification analysis?”
“I’ve sent people out to install additional lightning rods,” Heart said, “but there is not a lot we can do against a tornado. This building is solid and has a basement, and so do the two others we designated as barracks. I had the three basements stocked with first aid, water, and rations. We’re installing reinforced doors. We’ll drill evacuation procedures today.”
“The warehouse?” Rogan asked.
“It’s properly anchored and the steel walls will bend rather than break apart,” Heart said. “Technically, it’s rated to withstand 170-mph winds. Practically, it depends on who you talk to. If you ask steel building manufacturers, they’ll tell you stories of people who survived F-4 in one. But nobody knows what will happen if Sturm spins off a tornado and then holds it in one place.”
