Page 68 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Let me guess.” He whipped the towel off his neck, exposing a set of gloriously pronounced pectorals. “She rested her head on the bed and looked up at you with those big eyes until you invited her. Trust me, I know all her tricks.”

Sheba let out a breath that sounded more like a sad little whine.

Still, Matt scowled, looking all darkly handsome. “I can’t believe you lifted my laptop. You’re turning out to be quite the talented little thief. If this analyst thing doesn’t work out for you, you might have a future as an operative.”

“Hardly.” She rolled her eyes, finally able to think straight. Although that tingling in her belly had her craving his lips on hers again. “Me without a laptop is like you without your gun, or Sheba. It would be like a part of you was missing. Wouldn’t it?”

That got her a reluctant but agreeable grunt.

“Come see what I found.” She opened several windows to show Matt the files she’d cracked into. “I’ve been trying to understand why George was so fascinated with a murder committed forty years ago in West Virginia. He even FOIA’d the police report, but parts of it were redacted.”

When he sat on the edge of the mattress to get a better look at the screen, his arm and shoulder touched hers, and she regretted the thickness of the robe.

While Matt read the police report and the old news article, she inhaled the smell of soap, shampoo, and the musk of a half-naked man. A bead of water from his still-wet hair trickled down his neck, meandering in a fascinating line between his pectorals.

“I’ll call the Berkeley County Sheriff’s Department tomorrow. It’s only a slight detour from our route home. I’ll ask for the entire report. Maybe there’s something interesting in the redacted portions.”

“Will they really show you the whole report?” she asked. “If George had to FOIA it, won’t we have to do the same?”

“I’ll flash my badge and stroke the sheriff’s ego. When feds and locals collide, that tact usually works best.” His brows drew together in another scowl, but this one she’d come to decipher was his deep-in-thought scowl. “The question is, why would digging into a forty-year-old murder get the reporter killed?”

“We don’t really know that’s what happened,” she said. “The chat room wording was that George knew something that would ruin everything if it came out.”

“Can you open this one?” He pointed the cursor at the draft news article dated yesterday.

She frowned. “Not yet.” Darn, she was better than that. By this point, she should have had it open, and a few others, too.

“You’ll get it. I have complete faith in your clandestine file-cracking skills.” He winked at her, and her belly fluttered.

Their attention was drawn to the TV, on which a color map of the Arctic Circle was displayed while an anchor for a political news show, Bob Foster, talked in the background. Small boxes on the upper part of the screen indicated Foster was posing his questions to both presidential candidates, Governor Thomas Hughes and Senator Michael Ashburn.

“Senator, Governor.” Foster glanced at notes on his desk. “Both of you have previously vowed that, should you be elected president, you would dedicate U.S. funds to support Canada in rebuilding its military presence to counter any possible Russian incursion into the Arctic region.” Both candidates nodded in unison. “But Senator Ashburn, last week you backed away from that promise. The Associated Press quoted you as saying, ‘I plan to review the matter carefully and thoroughly before committing taxpayer dollars.’ Senator, this is somewhat in opposition to your original commitment to support the Canadians in this effort. Why the change of heart?”

“Well, Bob, since I made that statement over a month ago, additional information has come to light that I was not previously aware of. I owe it to the American people to fully consider both sides of any international controversy that involves American troops and a significant amount of taxpayer money.” Senator Ashburn smiled charmingly into the camera, playing on what Trista believed would probably win him a lot of female votes: his genuine smile.

“Recently,” the senator continued, “the Russian Department of Geography and the Environment met with Canadian officials in Iqaluit and presented compelling evidence to suggest that the Arctic Ocean’s resource-rich Lomonosov Ridge is part of the Asian continental shelf, which would give Russia primary control over most of the Arctic seafloor. Canada, however, still supports the theory that this ridge is an extension of the North American continental shelf, which would, instead, give Canada priority access to those resources. All I’m saying now is that before making a decision, I want to be as fully informed as possible.”

“Thank you, Senator.” Foster turned his attention to Governor Hughes. “Governor, does that change your position in the matter?”

“No, Bob. It doesn’t.” Governor Hughes shook his head. “I am just as committed to supporting our neighbors to the north as I was the first day I hit the campaign trail.”

“Senator, Governor,” Foster said, nodding to both candidates, “I know you both have extremely busy campaign schedules during the next month. I’d like to thank you for taking the time this evening to be on our show.”

Matt killed the volume, and when he began tapping his fingers on his thigh, Trista suddenly noticed that he’d fully stretched out on her bed. That, and his dark brows were drawn together, his lips compressed into a thin line.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked. Iqaluit.

Turning onto his side to face her, he began absently stroking her bared thigh, sending fiery tendrils licking their way to her core. Beneath the thick robe, her nipples pebbled, and she shivered.

“What I’m thinking,” he said, staring over her shoulder as if he didn’t really see her, “is that for a tiny little town in one of the most remote and bitterly cold parts of the world, Iqaluit has become one hell of a burning hot topic. I find myself wondering why the Canadians, the Russians, both U.S. presidential candidates, and the rezidentura in a black net chat room can’t seem to stop talking about it.”

Trista nodded, urging him to continue, trying not to think about what his fingers were doing to her thigh.

“According to the chat,” Matt continued, “George found out someone is ‘not who he says he is,’ and George had to be stopped before the public found out. Found out what, is the big question, along with who that other person in the chat room was that had to leave within the hour for Iqaluit. Then, a week after you overheard that conversation, George is murdered, and someone has tried to kill you twice.”

As dire as their conversation was, Trista had difficulty keeping her head in the game. All she could think about was Matt’s hand on her thigh. “We don’t know what the reporter knew,” she said, “but we do know he was on to a big story, which may or may not be connected to this forty-year-old murder he was researching.”

“What we just heard about the Arctic could be totally unrelated,” Matt said. “Still, we can’t discount the possibility that this is all connected. But it’s only a theory.”