She turned back toward the storefront. “If the weather holds, about three hours, I think.”
“Three hours.” He recited another phone number. “You can’t make it, you call this number and I’ll give you a new rendezvous point. And, Ms. Meyer?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t jerk me around. I’m going out on a limb here simply by stepping out in the open on this one. If you even suspect you’re being followed, you don’t show. Do you understand?”
Something in his tone sent a chill down Kat’s spine. Just how high did this run if an ex-CIA operative—assuming that was what he was—was wary of being seen in public with her?
The line went dead before she could ask.
A shiver of foreboding rushed over Kat’s skin as she hung up the phone and walked back to the car. “Three hours,” she said after she climbed in. “Fairmount Park.”
Pete eyed her a long minute like he wanted to ask what else they’d discussed, then finally started the ignition and backed out onto the street without another word.
What would happen in Philadelphia? Would this David be able to help them? And would Pete go in with her or leave?
“Stay here,” Pete said as he parked in the shadow of a large tree in the corner of the car rental lot and killed the engine. “I’ll be right back.”
Kat did as she was told only because it was easier and was relieved when he came out of the office ten minutes later with a key dangling from his fingers.
He pulled open the back door. “Grab everything you brought with you. The car’s in the lot around back. I’m going to ditch this thing on a side street and meet you back there in a minute.” He reached into the backseat for the small bag of groceries.
“And here I thought you’d grown attached to this thing,” she said as she climbed out. “Just where did you learn to hot-wire a car anyway?”
He held the car door open for her with one hand. Hesitated long enough to make her think he wasn’t going to answer, then surprised her when he said, “I had a friend in high school who taught me a thing or two.”
“Your parents didn’t care?”
“My parents were dead.”
His declaration was so matter-of-fact, it made her pause. It also made her realize they’d never talked much about family. At least not about his.
He grasped her arm to help her out of the vehicle. “It’s no big deal. My grandmother was too busy with her volunteer work and social clubs to pay much attention. And child rearing was the last thing my grandfather had in mind during his retirement. He spent most of his time on the golf course.”
“What happened to your parents?” she asked in what she knew was a shocked voice.
“Car accident. They were killed coming home from a political fund-raiser when I was fourteen. Lauren was nine.”
“Lauren?”
“My sister.”
He had a sister? How could she have never known that?
And then it hit her. She hadn’t known because in all the months they’d been together, they’d either been in bed or talking about being in bed.
A lump formed in her throat. “Your parents were in politics?”
“No. One of Dad’s friends. My father ran a fledgling art gallery in St. Petersburg. Oils, mostly. A few watercolors. Nothing spectacular. When he died, we went to live with his folks.”
That explained his love of art. “What happened to his gallery?”
“It closed up. My grandparents never really supported it. No one even noticed it was gone.”
There was more to it than that. But in the silence she thought she understood. His father’s dismal success and ultimate lack of legacy had obviously stuck with Pete.
“That’s…” Kat searched for a word that fit how she felt hearing about his past. She couldn’t help imagining him as a renegade teen, missing his parents, running with the wrong crowd, hot-wiring cars to gain attention from his uninvolved grandparents. When she couldn’t think of a single word that worked, she finally settled on one she’d heard time and again about her own childhood. “Sad.”
He shrugged. “Depends who you ask. Things hadn’t gone down they way they had for me and Lauren, we wouldn’t be who we are today.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
His sister’s name finally clicked, and her eyes snapped to his. “Lauren Kauffman? As in, Lauren Kauffman the underwear model?”
He frowned in a clear hint of disapproval. “It’s called lingerie, or so she tells me.”