Withholding Evidence Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Rachel Grant

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9893010-4-6

  ISBN-10: 0989301044

  Cover art and design by Naomi Ruth Raine

  Copyediting by Linda Ingmanson

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation with the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For Naomi

  For showing me unconditional big-sister love for as long as I can remember.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Falls Church, Virginia

  August

  TRINA SORENSEN STIFFENED her spine and rang the town house doorbell. She couldn’t hear a chime, so after a moment of hesitation, she followed up with a knock. Seconds ticked by without any sound of movement on the other side. She rang the bell again, and then repeated the knock for good measure. The front door was on the ground floor, next to the garage. Glancing upward, she checked out the windows of the two upper floors. No lights on, but at nine in the morning on a hot August day in Falls Church, that didn’t tell her anything. If the man she hoped to meet was home, he’d have to descend at least one flight of stairs, possibly two.

  Patience.

  She was about to ring the bell again when the door whipped open, startling her. She stepped back, then remembered she needed to project poise and straightened to meet her target’s gaze.

  Keith Hatcher was even more handsome in person than in his official navy photo, but she couldn’t let that fluster her. It just meant he’d been blessed with good genes, a rather superficial measure of a person, really.

  She took a deep breath and held out her hand. “Mr. Hatcher, Trina Sorensen, historian with Naval History and Heritage Command. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Somalia.” She cringed as she said the last part. Too perky. Too eager. That was not how to approach a former navy SEAL when asking about a mission.

  Sporting tousled dark hair that suggested he may have just gotten out of bed, and wearing low-rise jeans and nothing else, the man leaned an impressive bare bicep against the doorframe and raised a quizzical thick eyebrow. “Trina? Cute name.” He smiled. “It fits.” He reached out and touched the top of her head. “But I think you should go back to the day care center you escaped from and leave me alone.” He stepped back, and the door slammed shut.

  She jolted back a step. He did not just pat her on the head and slam the door in her face.

  Except that was exactly what Senior Chief Petty Officer Keith Hatcher had done.

  She was aware she looked young, but dammit, she was thirty-one freaking years old—the same age as Hatcher. In fact, she was a few weeks older than him. She squared her shoulders and rang the bell again.

  Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. She pounded with the side of her fist.

  Finally the door opened. “Yes?” He leaned against the doorjamb again, this time stretching out an arm to touch the hinged side of the opening. His body language conveyed amusement mixed with annoyance.

  “Senior Chief, I’m Dr. Trina Sorensen”—she never referred to herself with the pretentious title of doctor, but figured his crack about day care warranted it—“and I’m researching your SEAL team’s work in Somalia five years ago for Naval History and Heritage Command and the Pentagon. You must answer my questions.”

  “Dollface, it’s Sunday morning. The only thing I must do today is jack off.”

  She crossed her arms. “Fine. I can wait. It’ll be what, one, maybe two minutes?”

  The man tilted his head back and laughed. She saw her opportunity and ducked under his arm, entering, as she’d suspected, an enclosed staircase. The door to the left could only go to the garage. She went straight for the stairs, heading up to his home. Her heart beat rapidly at her own audacity, but she was never going to get the information she needed to do her job from the SEAL without taking risks.

  “What the hell?” he sputtered, then added, “Who do you think you are, barging into my home?”

  “I told you. I’m Dr. Trina Sorensen from NHHC,” she answered as she reached the landing that ended in the most spotless mudroom she’d ever seen. She crossed the room and stepped into his kitchen. Equally spotless. Either he had an amazing cleaning service, or he was a total neat freak. Given his disheveled appearance, she’d expected a disheveled home.

  She leaned against a counter as he paused in his own kitchen doorway. His mouth twitched, but his jaw was firm, making her think he couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or amused.

  “I’ll wait here while you masturbate. We can start the interview when you’re done.”

  Amusement won, and a corner of his mouth kicked up. He took a step toward her. “It’ll go faster if you help me.”

  Her heart thumped in a slow, heavy beat. Barging into his home might’ve been a mistake. She frowned. Of course it was a mistake. “I’m good to go. Already took care of business this morning in the shower. You go ahead without me.”

  He barked a sharp laugh, then shook his head. “What do you want, Dr. Sorensen?”

  “As I said already, I’m here to ask you questions about Somalia.” She pulled her digital recorder from her satchel. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  His brown eyes narrowed. “Hell, yes, I mind. More importantly, we aren’t having a conversation. You are leaving. Now. Before I call the police.”

  “Please don’t be difficult. I’m just doing my job.”

  “SEAL ops are classified.” All hint of amusement left his voice, leaving only hard edges.

  She sighed in frustration. Hadn’t he bothered to read any of her e-mails? “I sent you what you need to verify my security clearance in my e-mail. And my orders came directly from the Pentagon.”

  “I don’t give a crap if the pope sent you on orders from the president. I’m not telling you shit about a place I’ve never been.”

  He expected her to accept that and walk away? She’d never have gotten anywhere as a military historian if she allowed the men in her field to brush her off. “Oh, you’ve been to Somalia all right. You were there on a reconnaissance mission, gathering data about a rising al Qaeda leader who was taking advantage of a power vacuum created by ongoing interclan violence.”

  He crossed his arms and spoke softly. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  The man had a solid poker face, no hint that she’d surprised him with the paltry facts she knew. So he was handsome and big and had the most gorgeous sculpted pecs and abs she’d ever seen, and he was sharp to boot. “I’m researching various SEAL actions in Somalia over the last two decades, starting with Operation Gothic Serpent and ending with yours.”

  He cocked his head. “Who is your boss?”

  “Mara Garrett, interim director of the history department at Naval History and Heritage Command.”

  His eyes widened when she said her boss’s name. At last, a break in the poker face. Did he recognize Mara’s name from her trouble in North Korea, her notorious run-in with Raptor, or because he knew Mara was married to the US Attorney General? Regardless, the name Mara Garrett opened doors, and Trina had one more threshold she wanted to traverse—from the kitchen to the living room, where she could conduct a proper interview.

  “The work I did when I was in the navy is classified. Not
only do I not have to tell you about an op I was never on in a country I’ve never visited, but I could also get in serious trouble if I did tell you a damn thing about the places I have been.”

  She handed him her card. “But you do have to answer me. The Pentagon wants this report. Your input is necessary.” This project was her big break. Future naval operations could depend on her findings, and the biggest of the brass were eager for this account. She was already having visions of moving out of the cubicle next to cantankerous Walt. She could have walls. And a door.

  “But, you see there, dollface, that’s the problem. I’m not in the navy anymore. I don’t take orders from the Pentagon. I don’t have to follow commands from anyone, least of all a five-foot-nothing librarian who invaded my kitchen without my permission.”

  She straightened her spine and threw back her shoulders, determined to reach her full height. “I’m five foot three. And I’m an historian.” Her glasses slipped, and she nudged them back to the bridge of her nose.

  He chuckled, and she flushed. She’d have been better off if she hadn’t corrected him on the librarian label as she adjusted her glasses.

  “Whatever, doll. Listen, you have one minute to get out of my house, or I’m going to assume you’ve decided to watch me jerk off after all.”

  She couldn’t look away from the brown eyes that held hers in a tense gaze. Just her luck that he was so frigging gorgeous. Attractive men made her self-conscious. Especially ripped, half-naked ones. “I’m not playing games, Senior Chief. I’m just here to do my job.”

  He smiled slowly and reached for his fly.

  KEITH LAUGHED AS the woman bolted down the stairs and out of his town house. He was sort of sorry to see her go, because that exchange had been fun—certainly worth getting out of bed for.

  He waited until he heard the front door slam, then followed and locked the door. What kind of fool showed up at a guy’s house at nine on a Sunday morning and expected him to be forthcoming about an op that was not only top secret but was also the single greatest and worst moment of his military career? As if he’d tell her—or anyone—about Somalia.

  He’d been debriefed after the op. The people who needed to know what happened knew everything. It was enough for the powers that be, and it was enough for him.

  He climbed the stairs and returned to his kitchen, where he made a pot of coffee. The woman—Trina—had been hot in a sexy, nerdy-librarian sort of way. There was probably a fancy name for the way she wore her hair in that twist at her nape, but to him it was a bun. And the little glasses with the red rims? Sexy as hell the way they slanted over her hazel eyes.

  Did she dress the part of librarian on purpose, or was it some sort of weird requirement of her profession? It was too bad she hadn’t decided to stay, because he had a hard-on after watching her march up his stairs in that straight skirt that cradled her ass.

  He’d always had a thing for librarians—or historians—whatever.

  If she had a PhD, she was probably a lot older than she looked. Thank goodness. Of course, she could be some sort of Doogie Howser genius.

  Mug of coffee in hand, he headed into his office, woke his computer, and clicked on the mail icon. Had she really e-mailed him? It seemed like he’d have noticed.

  New e-mail notifications came pouring in. Shit. How long had it been since he loaded e-mail? He checked the date of the first ones—from his dad, of course. These were nearly two weeks old. Oh yeah, he’d been so upset after the last round of antigovernment, antimilitary e-mails from his dear old dad, he’d turned off the mail program and took it out of start-up so it wouldn’t run unless he initiated it. For some reason that had felt easier, less final, than blocking his father’s e-mail address.

  Thanks to the constant barrage of ranting messages, three months ago Keith had set his phone to only load e-mails from a select number of approved addresses. In the last two weeks, since he shut off mail on the computer, he’d received e-mails from the people who mattered to him on his phone, allowing him to forget he wasn’t receiving everything on the computer.

  He scanned the list, deleting the ones from his dad without opening any. Each time he tapped the button, he felt a twinge of guilt. It was time to block Dad once and for all. Yet he still refused to take that final step and wasn’t quite sure why.

  Misguided hope the man would change, he supposed.

  After he’d deleted several e-mails, the name Trina Sorensen popped to the top of the list—the time stamp was last night. He scrolled down further and found four e-mails from her in the last week.

  He opened her most recent message, noting the return address was indeed official navy. He scanned the contents. Huh. She’d told him that since he hadn’t responded to her previous inquiries, she would be stopping by his house this morning, and if he didn’t want her to show up, he should reply.

  He lifted a finger to hit the Delete button and paused. Dammit. He owed her an apology.

  Then he smiled, remembering that tight ass and those sexy calves. He’d liked the way she was quick with a comeback and didn’t back down easily.

  He wouldn’t apologize via e-mail. He wanted talk to her in person so he could see her again. No way was he going to tell her about Somalia, but he could explain that in person too. Sort of.

  Maybe his interest in the historian was only because he was bored. But at least she’d given him a reason to get out of bed this morning. Unemployment was for shit. He needed to do something.

  An e-mail from his buddy Alec Ravissant reminded him of the garden party this afternoon at the home of Dr. Patrick Hill, the head of The MacLeod-Hill Exploration Institute in Annapolis, Maryland. Rav was running for the open Senate seat in Maryland, and the party was intended to introduce Rav to Hill’s extensive connections in local politics and the military.

  Hill’s guests would be power-hungry high-society and military personnel. People who wanted to ingratiate themselves with military leaders, like the socialite made infamous in the Petraeus scandal a while back.

  Sorry, Rav. No way in hell. Keith might be bored in his very early retirement, but he wasn’t bored enough to attend a party that would require fending off the advances of married women while their husbands stood idly by, either oblivious, uncaring, or hoping their wives’ infidelity would gain them admission into the centers of power.

  Christ. He was starting to sound like his dad.

  Just before he hit the Delete button, his eye caught the note at the bottom. Curt Dominick would be there, and Rav wanted to introduce them. Keith knew the US Attorney General had been the one to finally convince Rav to run for the Senate, so it was no surprise that Dominick would attend. He was both a power player and a good friend of Rav’s. What gave Keith pause was realizing the man’s wife, Mara Garrett—who happened to be sexy Trina the historian’s boss—would probably attend as well.

  Something Rav had said rang a bell—didn’t the MacLeod-Hill Institute have some sort of oceanic-mapping joint venture with the navy? Specifically with the navy’s underwater archaeology branch?

  A quick Google search answered that question—yes—and revealed that the navy’s underwater archaeology department was part of Naval History and Heritage Command.

  Well, that changed everything. He’d lay odds everyone at NHHC with a connection to the MacLeod-Hill project had been invited to the party. This could be the perfect opportunity for Keith to apologize to the historian.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TRINA FROWNED AT her reflection. Her day dress was perfect for the party in that it was conservative. Staid. Dull.

  Keith Hatcher’s jab at her age and appearance still rankled four hours later. She would not show up at Dr. Hill’s party looking like a twenty-year-old librarian. She threw open her closet and searched through her dresses. Her hand stopped on a red, knee-length cocktail dress she’d never mustered the courage to wear. It showed cleavage, which she only had if she wore the really tight bra she’d bought just for this dress. Plus she’d have to wear a t
hong to avoid panty lines.

  Screw it. She’d wear the miserable bra and underwear and look like an adult for a change. Dr. Hill’s assistant would be there, and Trina had harbored a crush on the guy since they started exchanging e-mails for a joint NHHC-MacLeod-Hill PR project. Perry Carlson was good-looking, successful, smart, and had the most important attribute of any potential date: he wasn’t in the military.

  Because she was a military historian working on a military base, the only single men Trina met were in the military, and she’d dated a few of them. She was done with soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines. Hell, she was done with coast guardsmen too.

  Senior Chief Petty Officer Keith Hatcher was a prime example why. Hot as hell and full of himself, he’d belittled her and assumed she was a fool.

  No more. Perry Carlson was her ideal guy. Educated, charming. Plus, he respected her. He knew her work was important and could save the lives of servicemen and women in the future. And she’d be lying if she didn’t admit Perry’s looks were a bonus. He was gorgeous. Not rugged like disheveled Keith, but crisp, handsome.

  The last time they’d met, at an event at the Institute, they’d chatted for thirty minutes over glasses of champagne, and she’d been certain he was about to ask her out, when Dr. Hill made some boring announcement that ruined the moment. Perry’d had to run off to assist his boss and failed to follow up on his promise to return and finish their conversation.

  But it was a work event for both of them; she understood why she’d been left hanging. And sure, Perry could have called her at work and asked her out, but maybe she hadn’t given off enough I’m interested vibes and he’d been afraid she’d turn him down. A legitimate concern, since it would have made working together on the PR project awkward.