his chest go suddenly tight. When he’d gotten his breath back, he’d booted up his special photographic program and added twelve years to her face.
He stared at that picture now, thinking that the real woman was more complicated than the manufactured image.
Quirking his lips, he went back to her résumé. It fudged her background, but he’d put several sources of information together and come to the conclusion that she’d worked for a supersecret government organization called The Peregrine Connection. There was no direct information on Peregrine, beyond speculation on whether or not it actually existed. But he gathered that both she and her dead husband, Trevor Kirkland, had been covert agents for them. They’d met in college where he’d studied international relations, and she’d majored in law enforcement. Without going into detail, her résumé said she’d worked undercover both in and outside of the U.S.
Then the husband had been killed, and Decorah Security had scooped her up. Probably because she had friends who already worked for them.
Since coming on board, she’d demonstrated extraordinary bravery and excellent investigative skills. But that wasn’t why he had hired her.
Instead, he’d sensed that she was the woman who could get him out of the trap he’d been sucked into—through no fault of his own, he told himself firmly.
He switched files—to their e-mail correspondence. He’d read it so many times that he’d memorized almost every sentence. They’d started off discussing business. But incidents from their daily lives had crept into the conversation. He remembered the confession she’d made about buying a very expensive leather jacket. He’d reassured her that there was nothing wrong with indulging herself.
He remembered when she’d told him about an all-Beethoven concert she’d enjoyed at the concert hall in Baltimore. He’d wished he could have been there. For the Beethoven and her company.
Their relationship had blossomed over the past few weeks. He’d enjoyed the give and take with her. Enjoyed the way she’d opened up with him. He’d even ended up advising her how to fix a leaky faucet in her Beltsville townhouse.
Now he kept wondering if bringing Morgan here and not telling her the whole story made him as guilty as his grandfather?
###
Morgan hurried upstairs, hoping that she wouldn’t bump into Janet because she was sure her face would give away her recent activities.
Her response to Andre had been supercharged. She didn’t like that—for a lot of different reasons. She had told herself nobody could take her husband’s place in her life—or in her bed. But she had certainly forgotten about Trevor in Andre Gascon’s arms. She was being disloyal to a memory that should have been sacred.
Clenching her teeth, she strode into her room and closed the door. After unpacking her laptop, she settled on the bed and connected to the Internet.
Then she quickly sent a message to Decorah, telling them that she had arrived safely. She debated what else to add and finally mentioned that men in town had exhibited hostility when she’d asked for directions to Belle Vista. She also noted that Andre Gascon seemed to be less than forthcoming in his answers to her questions about the presumed voodoo priestess who had been outside her window chanting the night before. But she also credited him with rescuing her from a flash flood—omitting any details that might alarm her friends back home.
A little smile flickered on her lips as she thought about their reaction to the voodoo part. Probably that would give them pause, but they knew she could handle herself. Right, if they didn’t think she’d lost her mind.
Of course, as far as she was concerned, a more urgent problem was not having a weapon. Her Glock had been swept away by the flood. Although she knew from her research that there was a gun shop in town where she could replace it, that would have to wait until she got her car back from the garage—and Andre checked it out for her.
Turning off her computer, she strode to the window. The view looked different in the daylight, of course. But she was pretty sure she could pick out the tree where she’d seen the woman last night. After stuffing some plastic bags and thin rubber gloves into her pocket, she headed downstairs again. On the first floor, she explored until she found a back door off the same hallway that led to the kitchen.
Outside, she breathed in the damp air, then looked down at the garden from the vantage point of the landing. The grounds had