His grin flashed again, revealing perfectly aligned, blazing white teeth. “That particular fact must have slipped by.”
“My obstetrician, Luke Jarrod, lives on the corner across the street. He’s also a colleague and a friend. When he found out I was essentially penniless and homeless, he talked the Paxtons into hiring a housesitter.” She managed a smile. “Me, of course!” Her smile faded. Her facial muscles felt stiff. Sometimes she felt as though she were strangling on her pride. “The house wasn’t available for a month so Luke and his wife Maddy let Lyssa and me stay with them until then.”
Though her budget was as thin as paper, she’d insisted on paying rent, both to Luke and now to the Paxtons—but at a far lower rate than a house like this would ordinarily command. Because she worked hard to keep the house and contents in perfect condition, she’d managed to convince herself that it wasn’t really charity.
“Sounds like you have great friends.” Gresham looked genuinely interested in her well-being.
“I do. And I’m very grateful.”
“Guess I envy you. This job being what it is I’m never home long enough in any one stretch to do more than nod at my neighbors in my place in Alexandria.” Holding his mug in front of him, he wandered around the room, inspecting the eclectic memorabilia.
Holding his own mug, sipping occasionally, Rafe waited politely until she settled into the corner of the plush sofa with its heavenly eiderdown cushions before taking the chair opposite. Face impassive, he watched her steadily. The body language was classic, the dominant male of the pride sizing up his prey—or his next mate. Her skin warmed, then grew tight and itchy. She refused to squirm.
Cupping both hands around her mug, she lifted it to her lips. She inhaled the steam, then took a sip. It was an old habit of hers, stimulating both senses simultaneously.
“What are those, toys?” Gresham asked, pausing in front of a curio case.
Some toys, Danni thought with a private moment of amusement. According to Raine, several of the small carved figures inside were worth more than the Lexus she still mourned.
“Those are Chinese chop marks. Mandarin warlords used them to make their marks on correspondence and military orders. Jade is relatively soft, so that it can be carved with the mandarin’s name, like a stamp.”
“Clever.”
Rafe lifted one sun-bleached brow and tilted his head slightly. As a signal it was so subtle it would have eluded anyone but a trained observer. She herself wasn’t completely certain until Gresham ambled over to another easy chair and settled comfortably.
Apparently Rafe had decided they’d succeeded in putting her at ease.
Looking deceptively relaxed, Seth took a couple of quick sips of coffee, then set the mug on a beaten silver coaster he took from the ornate holder on the table at his elbow. After producing a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat, he flipped to a clean page, then glanced up. Not at her, she noted, but at Rafe.
On the other hand Rafe was looking at her, a level, steady gaze that seemed to peel away the confident façade that had been her only protection in recent weeks. She felt a flare of resentment, and then humor surfaced. What difference did it make if he saw through her to the scared, humiliated woman beneath? she thought. Once a man had seen a woman naked, there wasn’t much left to hide.
“I’ll tell you all we know, and then I’d like to ask you some questions,” Rafe said, his mouth curving slightly, but not far enough to engage the comma shaped creases that she knew bracketed his mouth when he truly grinned. “Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” Feeling a little chilled in spite of the warm tights and fleece sweatshirt that reached nearly to her knees, she curled herself a little deeper into the cushions, then rested her mug on her thigh.
Rafe took a sip, then leaned forward to rest both forearms on his splayed thighs, his coffee mug held between both large, callused palms. It was a masterful use of body language, an optical illusion of sorts that made him look smaller and less intimidating as well as encouraging her to think of him as a friend instead of an adversary. She had to admire his savvy, but then, he had undoubtedly undergone expert training in one of those ultrasecret facilities outside Washington.
In this case, his attempt to manipulate her only put her more on guard. She took a sip of her too-sweet tea and contrived not to grimace at the syrupy taste.
“Folsom was born in L.A. in 1952 and grew up in Las Vegas. The details of his early years are sketchy, but we know his mother was a part-time blackjack dealer and full-time prostitute. Folsom’s first brush with law enforcement came at the age of eleven when he was picked up for trying to use a credit card he’d boosted from one of his mother’s johns.”
She realized he was waiting for her to comment and roused herself to admit, “He told me he grew up in a house on Philadelphia’s Main Line and that his parents were killed when their yacht capsized in a storm off St. Thomas when he was a senior at Andover.”
Gresham glanced her way. “That’s one of his favorite scams.”
“One of his favorite scams? That implies there are more.”
Rafe flicked a look toward his partner. Gresham’s face turned red. Clearly a blunder on the young agent’s part. The mom in her wanted to pat his head and tell him this lion’s roar was worse than his bite, but she wasn’t all that certain she would be telling him the truth.
“Folsom’s wanted for a long list of similar felonies,” Rafe said without changing his tone.
“How long a list?”
The hesitation was little more than a flicker of the thick curly lashes framing those sage green eyes. “Fourteen that we’ve definitely traced back to him. Possibly more.”
“He’s swindled fourteen other women before me, and he’s still running around free?” she asked, both incredulous and outraged.
Perhaps a less self-assured man would respond defensively. Rafe merely nodded. “He’s been arrested five times. Only three of those arrests resulted in prosecution. Twice he was acquitted when the victim recanted her accusation under oath.”
“And the third trial? Was he convicted?”
“He never went to trial.” Something shifted deep in his eyes, and she felt her own narrow.
“Why not?”
His mouth flattened, and his eyes were suddenly haunted by some dark emotion. “The complainant was shot and killed before she could testify.”
Danni’s lungs seemed incapable of inflating, and then suddenly, they drew in air in a violent rush. “Are you saying Jonathan murdered her?” she cried after forcing the air out again.
“We don’t know that for sure.” It was the literal truth, no more, no less. The man who’d pumped nine bullets into Alice—and four into him—had matched Folsom’s general height and weight, but so did half the adult males on the planet. The shooter’s hair and face had been covered by a ski mask, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. In Rafe’s gut, however, he knew Folsom had either pulled the trigger or hired it out. Either way, the bastard was directly responsible for Alice’s murder.
Danni’s face was still too pale, and her eyes told him she was still grappling with another shock. “But…but you, personally, think he…Folsom did it.” It wasn’t a question. Even though he hadn’t moved, he suddenly felt his back smash up against a solid wall.
The truth or a lie? Though it gave him no real pride to admit it, he had the knack of telling either with equal credibility. Because lying grated against every principle of decent behavior his parents had instilled in him, however, he preferred to stick as closely to the truth as the circumstances of the interview permitted. More importantly, the quick intuitive tug in his gut told him