Her shoes shuffled along the path at his back. “And I was telling you the truth. Then and now.”
“You’ll understand if I don’t jump for joy at that news.” Jesus, how the hell had he let the conversation take this side trip into insanity? They should both be focused on the meet-and-greet that was about to take place.
“Marty’s not my boyfriend,” she said again as if saying it enough would prove a point he knew was a lie. “He hasn’t been since before you and I were together.”
“You said a lot of things, Kat. And look how many of those turned out to be true.”
“If I lied to you, it was for a very good reason. Someday, maybe, you’ll understand.”
That did it. He stopped, wheeled around and faced her. She nearly ran into him before slamming on her own brakes and stopping mere inches from his chest.
“Lay it on me. Gimme your good reasons for fucking my life up, not only once but twice. I’m all ears.”
“I did it for…” Her eyes drifted from his face to his chest, her expression one of utter regret and extreme hurt.
And oh, yeah. His chest tightened as he stood there watching her. He could kiss her senseless. Dive right in, not bother to come up for air. Overwhelm the both of them so neither remembered what the hell they were arguing about in the first place.
But then he’d be in an even worse place than he was now. He was smart enough to know getting away from her here was the only way he was going to save himself.
“You know what?” he said, trying to get a handle on the conflicting emotions racing through him. “Everyone’s got reasons for what they do. You got yours and they make sense? Good for you. Everything you did got you here, didn’t it? So you tell me, Kat. Isn’t this where you want to be?”
She stared at him. Long and hard, battling some internal war she’d never share with him. He waited for her answer, felt she was on the verge of telling him something he might need to hear, but then her eyes dropped from his, and she nodded slowly. “Yeah. Everyone’s got reasons. And you’re right, Pete. This is the only place I can be.”
He felt like she’d just sucker punched him in the stomach. But he wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t like he expected her to confide in him after everything that had gone down between them.
And it wasn’t like he’d even know what to do if she did.
She started walking, and with no other choice, he followed.
As they approached the bridge, the man stepped out of the shadows. “Katherine Meyer?”
They stopped at the end of the bridge. Pete shoved his emotions into a lockbox and turned the key so he could focus. He kept his arms at his sides in case he needed to grab his gun. Kat glanced his way briefly, then looked back toward the man. “Yes.”
The man stepped into the light. He was easily fifty years old, but in superb physical shape for his age. “David Halloway. You probably don’t remember me, but we met briefly once. In Cairo.”
Her brow dropped as she thought back, but Pete could tell no recognition flared in her eyes. “No, I don’t remember you.”
He shrugged a little. “Not a surprise. I have one of those faces that tends to get lost in a crowd.”
“Good feature for a spook to have,” Pete interjected.
Halloway looked his way. “And you are?”
“Peter Kauffman.”
Halloway studied him, and like wheels clicking into motion, recognition dawned in his eyes. “I thought you looked familiar. Your dossier came across my desk more than once.”
He had a dossier? Fabulous. His day was just getting better by the minute.
“And for the record,” he continued, “I’m not a spook.”
Pete glanced at Kat and back again. “You’re not CIA?”
Halloway shook his head. “Retired FBI. I worked with the Art Theft Crime Team near the end of my career.”
“So how do you know Marty?” Kat asked.
“We worked together on a few cases. Interagency cooperation. Art theft and antiquities smuggling tend to be international affairs. I spent my fair share of time overseas.”
“What do you know about Busir?” she asked. “And this man Minyawi you said was with him.”
He focused in on her, and his expression went from conversational to serious in the space of a nanosecond. “More than you want to know. Busir’s small time, really. A middleman, nothing more. Does what he’s