Withholding Evidence Page 2

  Today would be different. If he didn’t ask her out, she’d go for it and ask him. Perry was exactly what she wanted in a man, and she would wear a dress that would show him she was a woman.

  She slipped on the painful red bra and cinched it tight. Her meager breasts pulled together as promised. The dress fell into place, snug on the hips and bust. She turned to the mirror, making sure the fabric was smooth. Her body was skinny—a problem many women would love to have, she knew, but her slight frame contributed to everyone thinking she was ten years younger—or more—than she was. She’d never “filled out” during puberty and fit the same cup size she’d worn at fourteen. Eighty-five percent of the time she was content with her body. The other fifteen percent was usually triggered when her shape—or lack thereof—caused men to think she was in her teens.

  It was embarrassing to be not just carded when ordering a drink, but questioned—address, astrological sign, and even birthstone—when out on a date, because the server assumed she had a fake ID. It invariably made her date uncomfortable too. She could tell by the way they shifted in their seat that they realized the waiter thought they were out with jailbait.

  She twirled in front of the mirror. At least she had a decent butt. With just enough curve to look good in a tight dress, it didn’t disappear like her hips.

  Dress decision made, what to do about her hair? Thick but dull brown, there wasn’t much she could do with it. She was tired of the French twist and decided to try a loose braid, which would keep it off her neck in the summer heat but didn’t look too librarian.

  The one thing she couldn’t change was her glasses. She’d tried contact lenses several times over the years, but they hurt like hell. She’d given up and accepted her fate, choosing cute glasses in fun colors. So the glasses remained, but she chose the red-rimmed ones that matched her dress, then made a face at her reflection. She’d been feeling insecure about her appearance ever since meeting Keith Hatcher this morning, and the berating internal monologue needed to stop.

  I am a smart, powerful adult woman. If I don’t respect myself, no one else will.

  She stuck her tongue out at her reflection, an action that was neither powerful nor adult, but it did make her smile.

  Keith Hatcher’s opinion of her looks didn’t define her. She knew who she was, inside and out, and no man’s two-second assessment should override her sense of self-worth. Yet the half-naked man she’d barely spoken to had gotten into her head.

  Ridiculous. He was a source for information and nothing more. Unfortunately, she would face him again. Hatcher was her ticket away from spending her days analyzing World War II US Naval ship movements. Her account of the navy’s action in Somalia would be beneficial to future troops and ensure the mistakes made there would never be repeated.

  At least, she assumed there had been mistakes in Somalia. Why else would they give her the assignment? It also explained Hatcher’s reluctance to talk.

  She’d already immersed herself in the details: the attitude of the Somali government toward al Qaeda, the rival warlords and interclan violence that gave rise to the terrorist leader and the villagers who’d protected him. There had also been a UN peacekeepers camp, charged with protecting refugees who’d fled a warlord who had clashed with the al Qaeda leader. It should have been a case of the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but nothing was that simple in Somalia or with al Qaeda. As far as she could tell, the warlords had no concept of friend or ally.

  She’d thought her new level of security clearance made the assignment a slam dunk, but she hadn’t counted on facing down a recalcitrant SEAL. Actually, several recalcitrant SEALs—no one on his team would talk to her. She’d hoped that because she hadn’t received an outright “no” to her e-mails, Keith Hatcher would be the exception.

  Ready for the party, she knocked on her guest bedroom door. She’d rented out the extra room to an NHHC summer intern, Cressida Porter, who she liked a lot, but Trina was disappointed Cressida’s boyfriend was visiting for the weekend just so he could attend the party. Not because she didn’t like Todd, but because having set her sights on Perry, Trina needed a wingwoman, and with her boyfriend in tow, Cressida wasn’t available for the job.

  “Cress? You and Todd ready?”

  The bedroom door opened. Cressida looked gorgeous in an orange day dress that looked fabulous against her olive complexion. Her brown eyes and broad smile always reminded Trina of the actress Natalie Portman. Cressida looked pretty even rumpled and groggy first thing in the morning, which just wasn’t fair.

  “Wow, your dress is hot,” Cressida said, slipping a small purse over her shoulder. “Do I look okay? God, I’m so nervous.”

  “You look great. Dr. Hill’s parties are easy—there will be enough of us from NHHC there to make it a friendly crowd.”

  Todd draped an arm around Cressida’s shoulder. “I’m living the dream, showing up at the party with two gorgeous women.”

  It was nice of Todd to include her in the statement, but she would never compare to Cressida’s movie-star looks. Not that she wanted to, but sometimes she wished she had the kind of curves a man like Keith Hatcher would notice. Men like that never noticed the skinny, nerdy-historian types.

  I do not want a Keith Hatcher type. I want a Perry Carlson type. The Perry Carlsons of the world noticed and appreciated brainy historians.

  Her apartment was a third-floor walk-up on the border between the Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle neighborhoods. Because the party was in Annapolis, and neither Cressida nor Trina had a car, her coworker Erica Kesling and her fiancé, Lee Scott, were giving them a ride. As her trio stepped out into the humid summer afternoon, Lee pulled up in front of the building.

  She’d met and become fast friends with Erica when Trina was hired at NHHC nearly two years ago. Erica worked in the underwater archaeology division, housed in Building One at the Washington Navy Yard, whereas Trina, Cressida, and Mara worked with the historians and terrestrial archaeologists in the larger adjacent office building.

  Cressida and Erica were chatty on the drive to Dr. Hill’s estate. The younger intern only had two weeks left in DC before she would head back to the underwater archaeology graduate program at Florida State University. Trina would miss her. She’d been a fun summer roommate and coworker.

  “I’m going to try to convince Hill to give us a tour of his two-person research submarine,” Erica said, garnering a squeal of delight from Cressida. “The navy is very interested in the mapping he’s been doing off the Carolina coast. There is a submerged Curtiss SBC Helldiver in the area, and I want to know if he can get me a pretty image of it with that new side-scan sonar he’s been bragging about.”

  Todd, also a graduate student in Cressida’s program, launched into praise for the latest developments in side-scan sonar, and the three underwater archaeologists were off, chattering about things Trina knew nothing about.

  “What’s new in history?” Lee asked.

  She smiled. Lee was a military history buff and loved hearing about her research into World War II naval operations. “I’d tell you, but my current assignment is top secret. So, you know… I’d have to kill you.”

  “Finally getting to use that new security clearance? Cool.”

  The vetting process had taken months, and everyone knew the clearance was the necessary step if she wanted to finally move up in the ranks. She had Mara to thank for pushing her application through. She could have languished as junior historian for a decade if not for Mara’s support.

  They arrived at the party, and Erica, Cressida, and Todd went off in search of Dr. Hill and his magic submarine, leaving Trina to either stay back with Lee or venture off to find Perry. She decided to get a drink and play it cool.

  Lee glanced toward the outside patio and made a face. “I’m not in the mood for this today. Wanna play pool?” He nodded toward the game room to the right, which was just off the large patio.

  She crossed her arms. She’d played pool with Lee before. “Only if you pr
omise to shoot left-handed.”

  He grinned. “Deal.”

  He was probably just as good with his left. They headed into the empty game room. “I’ll get us beers if you rack,” he offered.

  She nodded and grabbed the triangle. She’d relax, shoot some pool, drink some beer, and then head out in search of Perry. Maybe, if she were lucky, Perry would wander in and join the game. Yes. That would be better. Fun. Casual.

  She was determined to make her move today.

  KEITH FROWNED AS he circled the patio. No sign of his sexy historian anywhere. The navy contingent at the party was high—but then, with the proximity to the Academy, he’d expected that.

  He finally caught sight of Rav, three-deep behind suck-ups who were hedging their bets that the man would be the next junior senator from Maryland. He caught Rav’s eye, and his friend grinned, extracted himself from the sycophants, and greeted him with a pat on the back. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

  “Well, there’s a woman I’m hoping is here.”

  Rav rolled his eyes. “Figures. Do I know her?”

  “No clue. She works for Mara Garrett at NHHC. She’s an historian.”

  “Good. For a second, I thought you were going to say she’s an archaeologist, and I was going to warn you to stay the hell away.”

  “That’s right, the nut job who’s giving you trouble with the Alaska compound is an archaeologist. Is the compound still closed?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—and why I want you to meet Curt.” Rav nodded toward the house. “He’s inside, getting his ass kicked at pool. C’mon. I’ll introduce you. Mara’s in there, so maybe your historian is there too.”

  Keith followed Rav through a sliding glass door into a large room with a pool table in the center. Along the side of the room were vintage pinball machines and a sweet old Wurlitzer jukebox.

  After a quick scan of the occupants of the room, he forgot all about Hill’s expensive toys. He recognized the gorgeous ass in the tight red dress bent over the rail and smiled. She took a shot, and her cue was true. A striped ball rolled into the pocket, and Trina straightened and high-fived the tall man by her side.

  Holy shit, if he’d thought her sexy in the buttoned-up blouse and prim skirt, she was smoking now in a snug dress that highlighted her slim figure and revealed a little cleavage. He found himself stupid jealous of the tall man who was now giving her tips on how to line up her next shot.

  “That’s enough coaching, Lee,” said a man who stood on the opposite side of the table with a cue in hand. “Trina’s kicking my ass enough as it is.” Keith recognized him as Curt Dominick. The man caught sight of Rav and said, “Alec, you done sucking up yet? I could use your help here.”

  Rav made a face. “I wish.”

  Trina and the tall man turned to face the door. Trina’s eyes widened, and she let slip a faint gasp.

  Keith liked being the cause of that slight intake of breath. For the second time today, he watched her cheeks redden, but this time, she couldn’t bolt down the stairs and get away. No, she had to face him, and he liked her flustered reaction. He liked even more that she didn’t lean toward the man by her side. If the guy were her boyfriend, she sure as hell would make it clear in front of Keith. But the man and Dominick were both focused on Rav. No one but Keith seemed to notice Trina’s distress.

  She stepped back and murmured something to another woman—Mara Garrett?—then handed over her stick and left the room without a word. Keith’s gaze followed her until she slipped out of sight in the garden.

  “Trina’s your historian?” Rav asked.

  He nodded.

  Rav snickered. “Clearly not yours, though, given her quick exit.”

  “Give me time, man. The party is young.”

  Mara Garrett studied him from across the room, her gaze speculative.

  Keith faced the men he was ostensibly here to talk to and was introduced to Lee Scott and Curt Dominick. “So, what’s going on with the Alaska compound?” Keith asked, referring to a state-of-the-art military training ground that Rav had acquired when he purchased Raptor, a private security and tactical training organization.

  “It’s going to reopen the first week of September,” Rav said. “Lee is flying out next week to go over the computer security. Someone hacked the system, but I don’t think it’s the woman who’s been lobbying to get the training ground shut down permanently.”

  “Why not?”

  “As far as I can tell,” Lee said, “she doesn’t have the necessary skills. It’s a sophisticated hack, and while the woman is clearly smart, she’s no techie.”

  Keith nodded. “And what do you want from me?”

  Rav smiled. “I want you to consider giving up your premature and lazy-assed retirement. I need you at Raptor.” He nodded toward Dominick. “And for the position I’m thinking of, Curt here needs to vet you.”

  The attorney general was doing background checks? This was no petty security guard position Rav was offering. Keith knew Dominick had vetted Rav personally—that was how the two men had met—before the government approved Rav’s purchase of the company after it had been seized from the previous owners. The attorney general, his wife, and Raptor had bad history.

  “I don’t know, Rav. I’m liking my lazy-assed premature retirement.”

  “Bullshit. You’re antsy as hell and just hoping to drive up the offer—before I’ve even made it.”

  “Will it work?”

  “It might.” Rav sighed. “I’ve got to go outside and resume the glad-handing. Can we talk tomorrow? Noon. My office?”

  “Sure.”

  Rav nodded and left.

  Keith hung back and chatted with the others, wondering how long he had to stay before he could pursue Trina without looking pathetic.

  Mara fixed him with an assessing look. “How do you know Trina?”

  The woman’s boss didn’t know Trina had asked him about Somalia? That was…interesting. “Through the navy,” he said, which was both cryptic and true. Since his interest in Trina must have been obvious, he decided looking pathetic was better than feeling antsy, and he set off to find her.

  TRINA’S HEART POUNDED, and not because she was approaching Perry. Keith Hatcher was here. Her body had gone into a full-blown awkward-schoolgirl reaction. She’d flushed and felt short of breath.

  She had a crush on Keith Hatcher? That was…insane.

  Sure, he was hot. But he was also condescending and rude. There was nothing there to like. But she needed to convince her body of that, because she was ready to hyperventilate. And it wasn’t from anger. No. The trigger was pure excited anticipation.

  Surely she anticipated talking to Perry again. Yes. It wasn’t Hatcher who had made her heart rate pick up. No way.

  Perry was deep in conversation with Dr. Hill and another man, so Trina scanned the crowd for someone else to talk to. With the exception of Erica and Todd, who were talking to another MacLeod-Hill Institute bigwig, everyone Trina knew was inside playing pool. She hated standing alone at parties, and her discomfort only intensified at the notion of Keith seeing her out here pitifully alone.

  What the hell was Keith Hatcher doing here? And how did he know Alec Ravissant? Months ago, she’d met Alec at a dinner party at Mara’s house but didn’t know him well.

  She headed for the open bar and requested a glass of red wine. Another man stepped up beside her and ordered a drink, then turned to her as they both waited. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Derrick Vole. I work for Alec Ravissant.”

  Tall and skinny with endearing freckles but not a lot of muscle, he didn’t look like the typical Raptor operative. “For Raptor?” she asked, then flushed, realizing her disbelief was evident in her voice.

  Fortunately, the man chuckled. “No. The senate campaign.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. Trina Sorensen, Naval History and Heritage Command.” She held out her hand, which he took in a firm grip.

  “There are several of you here today.
I was just talking to your coworker, Walt Fryer.”

  Trina hid her frown as she accepted her wineglass from the bartender and moved to the side to continue the conversation. Oh goody. Walt’s here. Walt was an old-school historian who didn’t truck with the idea of women being military historians. He’d flipped when Mara was promoted to interim director of the history program less than a year ago, and cried favoritism when Mara pushed for Trina’s security clearance.

  But hypocrisy hadn’t stopped him from dumping his work on her as soon as she’d passed muster. Walt was a piece of work and her least favorite person in the department.

  “I’m in charge of arranging events for Rav.” Derrick cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Alec—”

  Trina smiled at his formality; she knew Alec’s nickname.

  “—and after talking to Walt, I was thinking of arranging a tour at the history museum at the Navy Yard. Maybe round up some old vets and make it a photo op.”

  “That should be easy to arrange. The museum is pretty quiet during the week.”

  Derrick handed her his card. “I’d appreciate your help in setting it up. Maybe next week?”

  “I can try to help, but I’m afraid I don’t work for the museum. I’m an historian.”

  He gave her a look that likely mirrored the one she’d given him when he said he worked for Alec and he didn’t fit her mold for a Raptor operative. Turnabout was fair play, and in this instance, she was just as guilty of making assumptions based on appearance. “Really? I assumed you were an administrative assistant or an intern at the museum. I mean, you’re so young, and Walt said you’re the person to talk to for tours.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That sounds like the Walt I know and love.”

  Cressida appeared by her side. “It looks like Dr. Hill is going to give a handful of NHHC people rides in his sub—maybe even before I return to Tallahassee. Do you want to put your name in for the tour?” she asked.

  Trina suppressed a shudder. “No way. I’d get claustrophobic in a two-person sub.” She did not understand how archaeologists could find joy in all things buried or underwater. She’d take an oral interview or written account to tell her the past any day.