“I don’t know,” she admitted.
He frowned but didn’t move. He’d be a heck of a poker player, she found herself thinking. No tells. Did he ever fidget?
“I won’t have a lot of time,” he said abruptly. “I can’t make promises.”
Promises?
“But when I have a minute, I’ll try to talk to them.” The lines on his face deepened, or perhaps it was a trick of the light. No, not of the light; the dark. “They remind me of myself. They’re…trying to quit feeling anything at all.”
Dear God, Lia thought. Had this man succeeded? The idea appalled her, but in the next second she realized, no. No, of course he hadn’t, or they wouldn’t be having this conversation. He wouldn’t have spent however many years he had running away from home. He wouldn’t worry about two little boys he’d barely met. He was a federal agent, he might be a threat to her, but Lia suddenly knew with absolute certainty that he was also a good man.
His brother might have dealt him wounds that still ached when he moved wrong, but Duncan had truly saved an angry boy and helped him become this man.
She’d seen Duncan’s picture in the newspaper and thought he looked cold and unlikeable. How wrong could she possibly have been?
“Yes,” she said on a sigh, “I think that’s exactly what they’re trying to do.”
Conall rose to his feet, a smooth motion. “I’d better go relieve Jeff.” He held out a hand. “Ready to go in?”
She gazed warily at his hand for longer than was probably polite. Touching him might be…risky. Still, she reached out and let his hand close around hers.
And knew immediately that she’d been right.
His warm clasp felt better than just about anything she could remember. Strong, safe…and yet not safe. She lifted an astonished stare to his, to see…something on his face. Something fleeting, but she thought it might be surprise.
So he felt it, too.
With a gentle tug, he boosted her to her feet. They ended up no more than a foot apart. Her breath caught in her throat. Neither of them moved. He didn’t release her. She wanted, quite desperately, for him to pull her closer, until her body bumped up against his. She wanted him to kiss her.
And she knew letting that happen would be stupid. He was only here for a little while, and she suffered enough every time a child left her. She couldn’t bear anything else temporary in her life. He could hurt her if she let him.
So I won’t.
She eased her hand free and said, “Good night, Conall.” Lia was proud of how firm she sounded. How unaffected.
Proud, that is, until he said, “Good night,” and sounded so utterly indifferent, she knew without question that she’d imagined any chemistry between them.
Grateful she hadn’t given herself away, she preceded him into the house. By the time she turned the dead bolt, he was already halfway up the stairs.
* * *
CONALL HEARD THE SOUND of a vehicle engine first. Noise traveled well at night in the country. There wasn’t much traffic out here at—he pressed a button to illuminate the numbers on his watch—3:18 in the morning. Conall guessed he was hearing a pickup truck, maybe diesel; the roar was too deep for a car. From this window he couldn’t see the gravel road, but he expected to see some suggestion of headlights through the woods. Nothing.
Not another neighbor coming home late, though; this truck or SUV had passed the other driveways, then Lia’s. The Dobermans began to bark and raced to meet the… Yeah, a dark colored pickup with a black canopy. Using night vision, he watched the vehicle roll to a stop in front of that triple car garage. No headlights.
“About time,” he murmured. Somebody had come calling.
And was expected. One of the garage doors rolled up. A light was on somewhere inside, probably a single bulb. Two men came out, one of them speaking sharply to the dogs who both dropped to their bellies. Passenger and driver’s-side doors opened and the two newcomers got out. They went around to the back and opened the canopy on the pickup. After some conversation, all four began unloading…something.
Conall felt a chill. The wooden crates they carried in didn’t look as if they contained drug manufacturing paraphernalia and seemed unnecessarily large and sturdy to hold packets of cocaine or heroin ready for distribution. He had a really bad feeling about this. Those crates looked to him as if they held guns. Big guns, and a hell of a lot of them.