“Like a child?”
“Or a spouse.” He squinted as if bracing for protestations of outrage.
“Oh.”
“I only did what I thought necessary to protect you and to plan for our future. Please don’t let this freak you out. I’m not trying to pressure you or anything.”
“The FBI thinks we’re married?”
“No. They think we’re engaged. It was no big deal to swap your name for Thalia’s.”
I held my tongue for a bit and avoided eye contact as I thought over what he’d said. With the same immediacy as a lightning strike, I had my epiphany.
Jon had snuck in a centimeter at a time and inexorably taken root in me, exactly like he said he would. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when I crossed the line from friendship to love any more than I knew when we’d moved from colleagues to friends. We’d been on a continuum since the first day we met. That he’d realized we’d end up in a romantic relationship sooner than me meant absolutely nothing because our heads and hearts had finally converged.
His gaze stayed locked on my face.
“Believe it or not, I’m not freaked out. I think you’re a very wise and discerning man, Mr. Cripps.”
He drew his lips back into a slow Texan smile and clinked wine glasses with me. “To the future Mrs. Cripps.”
“May she be me … someday.” I wiggled my brows at him and downed the remainder of my wine in a single gulp.
45
I pressed close to the bedroom door, trying to make out Jon’s words. He was talking to his buddy—the same guy who cuffed Ron Fein after I beat the snot out of him almost a year earlier—the latest news from Dallas their subject matter. Jon had declared the call official business I wasn’t supposed to hear and shut me out, keeping his voice far too low and muffled during the good parts.
The door shot away from my ear as it opened with a whoosh. Jon stood with his cell phone pressed to his ear, shaking his head at me. “I gotta go now, Charlie. Someone’s being very bad.”
“I was just—”
“I know what you were ‘just’, Gayle, but if you can squelch your Nancy Drew curiosity for a second, I’ll let you read Charlie’s email.”
Jon walked toward his computer.
I whispered, “Yay!” and did a happy dance. Of course, he turned and caught me. One of his killer smiles preceded a chuckle, reminding me again why I loved him so much.
“Looks like Marilyn is going to take the plea bargain the DA offered her in exchange for a full confession.” Jon finished printing the email for me to read.
“Oh, yeah? Charlie shared the whole poop with you, did he?”
“Here, read for yourself.” He handed me the note.
Hey buddy! How’s DC? Has Gayle said ‘yes’ yet?
I paused to wink at Jon. “If he only knew, eh?”
I hope you haven’t forgotten about us poor slobs slaving out in the field here in the trenches now that you’re back at Quantico.
I knew you’d be interested in hearing the latest intel about the Anderson-Blakely ring and Marilyn Driver’s trial. Turns out there won’t be one because she signed a confession in exchange for the DA not seeking the death penalty. I got a copy of it, and I hate to tell you, but you’ve lost your bet with Gayle. Marilyn was a lovesick fool for Libby Jameson. She popped Leslie Turner because Leslie somehow discovered that Marilyn killed Kenneth Petrovich. Leslie had been threatening to tell Libby and go to the police unless Marilyn sabotaged the FBI’s investigation. Leslie knew about the ring, and didn’t want her gravy train derailed. Hubby Bob had no idea she knew and was shocked to learn she’d been blackmailing Marilyn. This guy was a partner?
We recovered a cool mill in Jeff Hardinger’s Swiss bank accounts. Good work cracking those open, Jon. Bob had another quarter of a mill he voluntarily turned over. Quite the cooperative guy, your Bob.
Tell Gayle that in exchange for his testimony against Bob, Ron Fein admitted he’d trashed her apartment. We had to drop Doug Martin’s vandalism charges, however. Although he was a DNA match, Ron gave us an interesting account how and why the DNA ended up on Gayle’s skirt. I’ll tell you over drinks sometime cause it’s kind of disgusting.
Well, that’s all the hot news from the big D. I guess I’ll see you the next time you visit your family or the next time I get out to Quantico. Take care, my friend.
I dropped the page and moved to where Jon sat to do a bit of crowing. “I was right, Mista G-Man. You lost our bet.”
“What bet?” he asked trying to hide his grin.
“Nice try, but you don’t do dumb well.” I plopped down in his lap and put my arms around his neck. “Hand ’em over.” I held out my palm for my winner’s booty.
He sighed and reached behind him on our breakfast bar. Keys in hand, he paused. “No speeding. You’ll obey all the rules of the road, and park far away from all the other cars so you don’t get any dings in her.”
I batted my eyelashes. “Of course.” He dropped the keys in my hand. “Mine are on the key hook. Chrissy and I are going shopping first. She told me she thought the recently promoted supervisor at Lieberman Forensic Consultants needed a new suit, and I have to say, I agree with her. Wanna come?”
“Yes.” Jon pushed me off his lap, grabbed my hand and tugged me behind him into our bedroom.
“Not quite what I meant.” I smiled and tossed the keys to the floor in our wake. “I gather this will be a complete debriefing.” I snickered and sent a psychic apology to Chrissy for the delay in our girls’ afternoon out.
I was sure she understood.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to my wonderful beta readers: Julie S, Gary S, Sally G, Katy J, and especially Aimee L, who encouraged me to get this “out there”.
Thanks to the one, unknown Daphne Du Maurier judge who gave me high marks on this story, not enough for a win, but enough to earn my gratitude and make me think, “maybe …”
Absolute Write, Scribophile and The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pens earn my undying gratitude for cutting through the arrogance of my ignorance to make me a better writer.
Encouragement from any source is like a drop of rain upon a parched desert. Thanks to all the many others who rained on me when I needed it, and even when I foolishly thought I didn’t.
Claire Gillian
Claire Gillian is a number-crunching executive by profession, an after hours writer by passion, and a darkly romantic curmudgeon.
Published in short stories and anthologies, The P.U.R.E. marks Claire’s official, and debut, transition to the publication of her work in novel form.
While Claire’s writing spans all ages and subject matters, she’s happiest penning romance drenched in humor with a dash of intrigue and loads of spice.
Claire lives in the boggy Pacific NW with her husband and two teenaged sons.
June 2012
Table of Contents
Reviews
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgements
Author
Coming Soon