“Our guy would have found that.”

  “Down in the kernels? Only someone really clever puts shit like that there. Besides, if it’s Mark, why is someone banging away at that same terminal now, using Mark’s ID and password? The bank hasn’t reassigned that terminal or ID to another employee. I checked. Now, I know they have a lot of privileges in jail these days, but I doubt Mark can remotely access a secure bank terminal.”

  D’Nanza paused. “I don’t have time for your theories. This trial starts Monday.”

  Rafe cursed under his breath. “Don’t you want to bring the right man to trial? I think you’d have a better conviction rate if you did.”

  “Are you a fully trained federal investigator now?”

  “No, just someone who’s willing to look at all the facts in front of him. Someone willing to look beyond the surface, rather than being concerned with taking my next donut break.”

  “I ought to haul your ass to jail,” D’Nanza snarled. “You took money that did not belong to you. End of story. And I did some digging on you. I know all about your sordid little past pranking the CIA.”

  Rafe’s gut clenched, but he kept on with this game of chicken.

  “Goody. Then maybe you’ll realize I wouldn’t resort to such drastic measures if I believed there was a shred of a possibility that Mark Sullivan was guilty.”

  “You’re lucky you’ve done solid work for one of our assistant directors, Tim Norton, over the years. If he’d given me the slightest indication that you’re a thief or a crackpot, buddy, you’d already be standing on concrete looking through bars.”

  Rafe plugged his laptop into the data port. “Norton’s a good guy. At least he realizes that hauling my ass to jail won’t solve the problem. You got the wrong guy locked up. Sullivan was set up from start to finish either by his boss, his wife, or his best friend.”

  “That’s your speculation. The fact that Sullivan’s sister hired you doesn’t compel me.”

  “She didn’t hire me. I looked into it as a favor.”

  “A favor.” He snorted. “Do I want to know what you asked for in return? I’ve seen her; she’s a looker. Maybe I’d like to do a favor or two for her myself.”

  “Keep your dirty mind off Kerry Sullivan,” he growled.

  “Is that the way the wind blows?”

  Rafe heard the sticky smile in the agent’s voice and gritted his teeth. “I’m inside, so I’m not aware of wind blowing, actually. I am aware that if you just looked at what I’ve dug up—”

  “I have more than one case to work on, and my work on this one is done. I’m late for a meeting, so here’s the deal: If no one has made a move on that money by this time tomorrow, I’m going to arrest you and bring you up on every charge I can. If someone does make a move on the money, call me. Maybe you’ll avoid doing time. But personally, I’m looking forward to slapping you in handcuffs and bringing you in.”

  D’Nanza disconnected the call. Rafe put the phone down, tension knotting his insides.

  “Prick,” he muttered to the phone, then connected to Standard National’s mainframe.

  He’d known when he took the money that he’d be sticking his neck on the chopping block. The thought of jail made him shiver. All too well, he remembered the weekend he’d spent there before his old man had bailed him out. It had been cold, winter. The food sucked. Big guys with tattoos thought he was some sort of rich Harvard kid and tormented him. If he hadn’t been tall, built broad, worked out . . .

  Rafe shook the memories away and browsed Standard National’s files. It was quarter after 10 A.M. now, so hopefully all his suspects were at the bank and someone would start looking for the money soon.

  Scrolling through the overnight deposits and withdrawals, he sorted his list by terminal ID. There! Already someone had accessed terminal 4389 and, using Mark’s ID and password, gone on a fishing expedition. Rafe got down to the keystroke level and smiled. Now he was damn glad he’d installed a bit of software that would track the user’s keystrokes.

  A little prowling through the files had him pumping his fists in the air in triumph. Yeah, the guilty party logged in about twenty minutes ago and had looked everywhere for the money. No doubt whoever it was—and his bet was still on Jason, the lying twit—knew by now that the money had been taken.

  And likely knew that Rafe had taken it.

  Racing to the phone, he dialed Kerry’s number. His heart began to pound. He was going to talk to her. Would she be happy to talk to him? Three rings, four . . . five. Her voice mail. He hung up and scowled.

  Had Kerry decided not to speak to him? No, she might be upset about their time together or their parting or whatever, but she’d take a call that might be about her brother. Granted, he didn’t know a lot about women in general, except in bed, but he knew that much about Kerry. No question, she’d do anything for Mark.

  Before he could contemplate anything, his phone rang. He peered at the caller ID. Ah, his faithful assistant.

  “Morning, Regina.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Dawson. I have two urgent phone calls that have come into the office. The first from Mr. Smikins at Standard National Bank. He’s threatening nonpayment because the work isn’t finished.”

  “What a putz. I’m basically finished with their files. Their security breach was internal. I’ll update their external control measures today. Send him the checklist of internal security recommendations and tell him I’ll call later today. He’ll pay me.”

  Or else. Rafe planned to show up on his father’s doorstep the day he turned thirty and prove he was worth five million and more successful than the old goat had ever been. Then he’d feel vindicated. His father’s voice in his head telling him he was worthless and would never amount to anything for any reason to anyone would stop ringing in his head late at night when he couldn’t sleep. He was worthy of happiness, of success, of a warm beautiful woman like Kerry—not that he intended to make anything of their relationship. It was the principle. Rafe wasn’t about to give up his five-million-dollar goal for any reason.

  Unless you’re in jail, a little voice whispered in his head. Won’t Daddy be proud then?

  Telling the unpleasant part of his brain to fuck off, he turned his attention back to Regina. “Who else called? Someone named Kerry Sullivan?”

  Rafe heard the note of hope in his voice and thought about biting off his tongue.

  Perceptive Regina heard it, too. “No, but she must be something. The other call was about her. Someone named Jason Bailey. He called you some rather . . . interesting names. Sorry to say, I didn’t bother to write them down word for word. None were too polite. The rest of the message indicated that Kerry is crying, and it’s your fault. He demanded to know where you’re staying.”

  “Damn it,” Rafe muttered. “He went to see her this morning, I’ll bet. Son of a bitch.”

  Because Jason panted so hard after his best friend’s sister, he’d called around midnight—rude in itself—to ask when Kerry might be home. And he’d done it with the intent to . . . what? Confront her? Assault her?

  Or did he know now that the money was gone and suspect Kerry of having a hand in its disappearance?

  “Gotta go. If he calls again or if Kerry herself calls, let me know immediately. Don’t you dare tell him where to find me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. What is going on down there?”

  Rafe ignored the interest in her voice. “Just call me if you hear from either of them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Flipping the phone shut, Rafe paced, then tried to call Kerry again. On the fifth ring, her voice mail picked up again.

  Cursing loudly, he pocketed his phone. The knot in his gut didn’t comfort him. He had no reason to believe Kerry was doing anything but ignoring him. He’d parted company with her hours before because he wanted just to ensure her safety. But something was wrong; he felt it.

  He hoped whatever had happened wasn’t deadly wrong.

  A few keystrokes later, he found Kerry’s home address on the Internet and called the front desk for a cab.

  The ride there felt like the longest fifteen minutes of his life. The sun shone a bit too brightly through the gray clouds to match well with the worry gnawing his insides. Clouds swirled above, promising an afternoon shower. People came. People went. Traffic sucked. C’mon, hurry. He looked at his watch as buildings went by.

  Businesses and busy streets gave way to a neighborhood. The cabby steered the car into an older part of town, not quite run down yet, but getting awfully close. Mature trees shaded stucco houses in faded turquoise, terra-cotta, and pink. Shaggy grass, cracked sidewalks, and rust-stained driveways abounded.

  Suddenly Rafe smelled something acrid. Smoke? Then he saw it, swarming in an ominous charcoal-colored serpentine above the low roof of an old house at the end of the street. The plumes turned black and menacing as they rose from the tiny building. And the cab was racing toward it. The knot in Rafe’s gut clenched so hard he thought he might be sick.

  The cab came to a halt—right in front of the burning place. “You sure you want to stop here?”

  An explosion rocked the little house. Two windows burst open, scattering shards of glass everywhere. Flames growled and put off enough heat to roast a guy from ten feet away.

  “Call 911,” he yelled in return.

  Scrambling for money, Rafe threw some bills at the cab driver—he didn’t even know how many—and stumbled from the car, up the driveway.

  Please be gone, be shopping, be at a movie, be anywhere else.

  Kerry’s beat-up blue Honda sat in the open garage.

  Chapter 13

  Rafe charged to the faded yellow door. Smoke furled from the cracks all around. His heart pounded like a kettle drum. Fear thrummed in his veins.

  Kerry!

  He grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. The intense heat inside the house had sizzled the brass into nothing cooler than a fry grill. Fingers singed, he yanked them back with a curse.

  Damn, he had to save her. He had to get in the front door! God, what if it was locked? Break it down, kick it in, he told himself. Whatever it takes.

  Pulling his shirttails from his slacks, he doubled the fabric up and tried the doorknob again. Hot, but he’d manage.

  Wincing, Rafe gritted his teeth as heat from the brass stung his fingers. Everything inside him urged him to remove his hand before it held a permanent imprint of the knob. He refused.

  Roaring, he wrenched the door open.

  It had been unlocked.

  Rafe rushed into the living room. Smoke oozed everywhere, burning his eyes. They teared, and he swiped the moisture away with a vicious palm. He still couldn’t see a damn thing. A drag of air proved to be a mistake when his lungs seized up and he coughed worse than a patient in a tuberculosis ward.

  He covered his mouth with his shirt, trying to catch a decent breath, and narrowed his eyes to slits.

  “Kerry!” he shouted.

  Nothing. No sign of movement. He repeated the call, hoping, praying she answered.

  Still nothing.

  Dropping to his knees to avoid smoke as thick as cream soup, he crawled across the floor, looking for any sign of Kerry, of life.

  Again, he shouted for her as he crept farther into the house. Again, no response.

  Forcing himself forward, he edged his way through the living room, down a hallway to a comfortable den. The TV was still on. Rafe ignored the cable talk show and searched the cozy, worn couches and the carpeted floor through the haze of the smoke. He coughed. His skin sizzled in the heat.

  No sign of Kerry.

  Anxiety rose. Was she trapped or hurt? Passed out . . . or worse? How had this fire started?

  From the den, Rafe crawled into the adjoining room to the right. The door was closed. Covering the knob with his shirt, he gritted his teeth and pushed until the door opened. The fire wasn’t coming from this part of the house. The much cleaner air and absence of smoke offered a moment’s relief. Quickly, he entered the room, clearly her bedroom, and kicked the door closed behind him.

  “Kerry!” he shouted past the simple white lace comforter, to the soft peachy-colored walls. Still, no answer.

  He darted around a corner, into the adjoining bathroom. The air still hung humid and fragrant with soap. Water droplets clung to the side of the shower stall. Her personal articles—perfume, lipstick, her conglomeration of a key chain—dotted the counter. But no Kerry.

  Panic tore into Rafe’s gut. She was here. Or she’d been here. Had she escaped on foot? Had she set the fire accidentally and run out of the house?

  Or had someone committed a crime and used the fire to cover their tracks? Perhaps even the thief?

  Dark fear stabbed at Rafe as he wrenched open the bedroom door, emerged into the blazing part of the little house again and dropped to his knees. The ceiling was ablaze now. Instinct told him to get out. He shoved it aside, refusing to leave. Just another minute or two . . .

  He began searching the rest of the place, retracing his steps through the den and crawling toward the other adjoining room.

  Once he scrambled through a doorway, he’d entered the kitchen. Flames shot upward from the old stove, gas burners flaming high, catching on bits of paper and old cabinets all around the room. On a peeling vinyl floor that was curling and bubbling in the blaze around her, Kerry sat, holding her head in her hands.

  His heart squeezed him by the throat.

  Rafe scrambled across the room. “Kerry!”

  Dazed, she stared at him.

  “Rafe?” Her voice sounded like a croak.

  She inhaled, then began coughing furiously.

  “We have to get out of here,” he shouted.

  Finally, Kerry became alert. Her eyes focused on him. She nodded, then winced.

  Putting an arm around her shoulder, Rafe dragged her to her hands and knees and began crawling.

  It felt damn good to hold her, to know she was alive. Her vitality seeped under his skin. But he still had to get her out in one piece. Nothing else mattered.

  Sirens roared in the distance as they crept out of the kitchen. They reached the doorway and eased into the living room as an explosion rocked the room behind them. Something burst. Shards of glass hit the wall, the floor.

  Suddenly, pain seared his calf. “Argh!”

  “What?” Kerry choked into the smoke. Worry furrowed her pale brows.

  He gritted his teeth against the pain. “Just keep going.”

  Ten feet ahead lay the door and safety. The fire had other ideas. The opening between the kitchen and the living room they had occupied only moments ago now flared. Inches from their heels, the fire twisted with deadly hunger, catching quickly on the old wood. As if someone had doused them with gasoline, flames spread to the walls of the living room.

  “Oh, God. We’re going to die,” she cried.

  “No, damn it. We’re not!”

  Rafe swore he’d told her the truth, that they would make it. But in Vegas, he wouldn’t have taken these odds. He prayed they would make it to the door before the ceiling collapsed or the walls of fire around them closed in.

  “Go!” Rafe shouted, shoving Kerry to the door. “Faster!”

  As if spurred on by the danger, she picked up speed, edging on hands and knees. Kerry crossed the threshold, Rafe just behind her.

  Sunlight blinded them momentarily as they dragged themselves outside. Kerry lurched to her feet and stood in the driveway, drawing in huge draughts of blessedly fresh air. Panting, Rafe stumbled down to the sidewalk and inhaled his first clean breath in what felt like an eternity. Still, relief and something else that sat heavy in his chest closed his throat. What if he hadn’t found her? What if she hadn’t come to in time?

  When he looked at Kerry, she ran toward him.

  Swallowing a lump of tangled emotions, Rafe closed his arms around her and hugged her. Hugged her as if she were a life preserver in an endless sea. Hugged her as if she held his happiness in her hands.

  He pushed the thought away and focused on her.

  “Thank God you’re safe,” he whispered, squeezing her tight, as if that alone would fuse them together and always keep her safe.

  “You saved me,” she murmured into his ear. “I heard you shouting my name and . . . and I—”

  She shuddered. A sob rose from her chest. Rafe felt something suspicious sting his eyes, too, as his terrible imagination pictured her trapped, gasping for air, flames circling her . . . What would have happened if he hadn’t come to her house on the flimsy excuse that she hadn’t answered her phone? What if he hadn’t listened to that something inside him that ached beyond all reason to see her again?

  “You’re fine. You’re safe now. Babe, don’t cry. It’s going to be all right.”

  Sniffling, she nodded. “I was so scared.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  The sirens were drawing closer now. The crisis was over. Relief slid through his blood, slowly replacing the adrenaline that had sent him charging through the burning house.

  “What happened?” He held her shoulders, looked into her eyes. “How did the fire start?”

  Easing out of his embrace, she frowned. “I don’t know. The last thing I remember is deciding to make a cup of tea. Then . . . I thought I heard something behind me. But before I could turn . . . well, I must have passed out.”

  Suddenly, she winced and raised her hand to the back of her head. “Ouch.”

  “Kerry?”

  She brought her hand back in front of her. It was wet with fresh blood.

  Alarmed, she jerked her gaze to him. “What the . . . ?”

  “Did something hit you? Someone?”

  “I don’t know.” She stared into the distance, frowning. “I remember . . . well, the pantry door was open. I didn’t remember leaving it open, but often the latch doesn’t stay.”

  “Is it big enough for someone to hide in?”