Normally, a summons to his father’s home would’ve been depressing. But today he was grateful for the diversion.
If he hadn’t had so many truly god-awful days in his lifetime, he would’ve been tempted to call this one the worst day of his life. As it was, the most he could say about today was that it was frustrating.
He wanted to do something to prove his innocence. And he needed to get moving—so he wouldn’t be tempted to obsess over wanting Dana in his arms.
Her FBI boss had asked him to go about his business as usual until a plan to draw out Escalante could be developed. Marc’s style would’ve been more along the lines of breaking into the cartel’s den and beating the truth out of them. But he held back for Dana’s sake, and managed to sit on his hands while she went about her job.
She was so competent and so obviously physically fit that the energy fairly rolled off her well-toned body in waves. He appreciated her intensity about the job and her professionalism—almost as much as he appreciated her lean physique. The more he drooled over her exquisite body while he watched her work, the more determined to keep his hands off of her he became.
Finally, Dana relented and agreed he could drive them over to Crofthaven in his SUV. Behind the wheel, he felt useful and a lot less ineffectual than he had all day.
“Do you go home often?” she asked as he drove them down the narrow highway. Her words were plain enough, but her smoky tones sent electric impulses through his veins and destroyed his resolve.
“Home? You mean Crofthaven?” He felt like a horny teenager whose hormones had turned him into an idiot.
He thought she must be nodding in the affirmative, but he’d decided against trying to catch a glimpse of her while he was driving. Keeping his mind off her body and his eyes on the road seemed like the best bet at the moment.
There were plenty of things for him to regret in his life. Causing an accident because he was ogling an FBI agent wouldn’t be the best thing to add to the list.
“Uh…I don’t exactly consider Crofthaven home,” he said with a croak in his voice. “Actually, I doubt that any of my siblings do, either.”
“But weren’t you raised there? I thought I read that in your file?”
“We had rooms in the house. There’s a world of difference between that and thinking of someplace as home.”
He turned off the highway and headed down the country road that meandered along the Atlantic coast. “I suppose when I was very small and my mother and grandparents were still alive, I thought of Crofthaven as a wonderful home. The grounds are extensive, there’s a private beach and lots of places for a kid to play. But all that changed after Dad came back from Vietnam and then Mother died in a car crash.”
“How old were you when your mother died?”
“Almost five.”
“That must’ve been hard on all of you.”
Marc heard the sympathy in her voice. “It was a long time ago, Dana. Dad hired nannies and then packed us all up and sent us to boarding schools. On holidays and vacations we spent most of our time at Uncle Harry and Aunt Miranda’s house, downtown in Savannah’s historic district. If I thought of anywhere except the farm as home now, it would have to be their house.”
As he drove the SUV closer to the Crofthaven gates, Marc began to notice cars parked along the sides of the roadway. Odd. It looked almost as if someone was holding a big party and more cars had shown up than the parking lot would hold. But that could never happen on a place as vast as Crofthaven.
When he finally realized what was going on, it was nearly too late to do anything about it. “Oh, hell! The local tabloids have arrived. Scrunch down in your seat, Dana.” He stepped on the gas pedal. “I know a secret entrance that the gardeners use. I’ll blow past the reporters and double back. But in case they recognize my SUV, you probably don’t want to be seen with me.”
Her quick shift in position was nearly automatic. “This wouldn’t be a problem if you’d let me drive,” she ground out through gritted teeth from her spot under the dash. Less than thirty seconds later, the SUV slowed. “Are we past them?”
“Yeah. I don’t think they noticed us at all.” Marc took a left and she sat back up in the seat. “The gardener’s gate is on a combination lock. I’ll have to get out to open it.” He pulled in between two rows of dense shrubs and stopped.
“Leave the car running and the door open,” she ordered before he jumped out.
While he was gone, she dug around in her backpack for the FBI-issued SAT phone. Connecting immediately to the special task force that her boss had set up to assist in the investigation and apprehension of Escalante, Dana barked out a few questions. The special agent who answered said he would get back to her.
Marc slid back behind the wheel and drove through the gate. “I don’t think any of the reporters noticed us.” Once through, he slowed the SUV. “I have to relock the gate.”
“I’ll do it.” Dana was out of the SUV in an instant. Undercover operatives usually didn’t have to fight off the glare of the tabloids to do their jobs. How in the world was she going to get through this mission?
“What do you suppose those reporters wanted?” she asked when she returned to the car.
Marc shrugged as he wound the car down a tiny tree-covered lane. “They’re probably waiting for Dad. He’s running for the Senate seat, you know.”
“Those guys looked like they were hot on the trail of a scandal. I have my doubts that they’re the standard political-beat reporters.”
After they’d driven a quarter of a mile up the private lane, she glanced around at the lush landscaping. The green lawn was manicured and trimmed. In the distance, the paved drive that led from the wrought-iron front gates to the main house could be seen, outlined by magnificent oak trees that were covered over by low-hanging mosses. The place looked like a picture postcard of the old South.
Only bigger and richer.
They topped a little crest and were surrounded by an orchard and the flower gardens beyond. The main house stretched out as far as she could see, and seemed to consist of three floors with at least two wings. To Dana’s mind, this place could only be called a mansion. Or maybe she would call it a fairy-tale castle.
Marc drove past gardening sheds and ended up in front of a ten-car garage located behind the mansion. “Hope you don’t mind if we go through the kitchen,” he said. “I don’t want to take a chance on running into any of Dad’s political buddies. They usually meet in one of the front rooms this late in the afternoon.”
“Kitchen’s fine with me.”
By the time they walked through an enclosed porch and then a series of mudrooms, Dana was nearly lost. The place was enormous, and the kitchen was big enough to feed a hundred people. With its professional-looking equipment, she was positive it was set up better than most restaurants.
Marc introduced her to the family’s cook, Florence, as they made their way to a swinging door on the other side of the big kitchen. “Where is everyone, Flo?” he asked.
Before the cook could answer, a paunchy man in his early fifties came through the door. “There you are.” He shook Marc’s hand and beamed at him from under his stock of thick dark hair and bushy eyebrows. “How are you holding up, son? You look tired.”
“I’m all right, Uncle Harry. But I’ll be a lot better when I find the proof to clear my name.” Marc turned to her. “Dana, I’d like for you to meet my uncle, Harold Danforth.”
The