Page 20 of The Devoted Game
The way he had performed this afternoon, she had almost forgotten about that bad habit. “No problem; the restaurant has a bar.” He allowed her to lead, one would surmise because she was familiar with the hotel, but she knew better. He just liked watching her from behind. She would bet her favorite Miles Davis collector’s album that he used those lewd glances and remarks to keep her at a distance. He probably did that with a lot of people. Then again, she could be giving him too much credit, like Worth said.
Vivian selected a table on the farthest side of the room, in a dark corner. If McBride was half as spent as she, and she felt confident he was, they didn’t need any outside stimulation.
Not that any other stimulation was required with him around.
She dropped her purse into a chair. “I need to make a call. If the waiter shows up, order me a club sandwich, which I highly recommend, and a glass of white wine.” She didn’t pause long enough for McBride to ask any questions. Weaving through the tables, headed for the restroom, she could feel his gaze on her. Looking back would only make her hesitate. No hesitating.
In the ladies’ room, she stood in front of the sink and stared at her reflection. None of this was right. She had known something was wrong, off, whatever, as soon as she had read the first email from Devoted Fan. Worth had played off her concerns. At the cemetery, she had told him again how she felt about the way this one had played out. It didn’t add up.
Nothing she said had convinced him to look at this logically—logically fromherperspective, at any rate. In her opinion, the kidnapping hadn’t been about Alyssa Byrne or her father and his bad business practices. The clues had been elementary. The location practically right around the corner from the field office. No ransom. No physical injuries to the child. When she had brought up all those details, Worth wouldn’t talk about it. He was too smart not to recognize the same inconsistencies she did. Schaffer, Davis, Pratt—they all saw the same things whether they said so or not.
And all of it pointed in one direction—to McBride. Vivian was certain. Oh, Worth agreed that the elements of the case pointed to McBride, but he leaned toward the theory that McBride had somehow set up the whole thing. He wanted McBride in town for the next twelve to eighteen hours to give him time to explore that avenue more thoroughly. And for Andrew Quinn, now retired, to be advised of the situation.
Vivian was the one who was supposed to keep McBride entertained. In other words, set him up a second time. Worth was on a witch hunt.
“God.” She closed her eyes, shook her head at the shortsightedness of the man she generally respected. How could he not see how wrong he was? Was it possible that someone higher up was putting the pressure on for him to investigate McBride? McBride’s connection to Quantico and the ugly ending to his career would logically point in that direction.
Unquestionably, she was prepared to do whatever necessary to get to the truth. If selling McBride out several times over was necessary to get the bad guy in the end, then so be it. But this was off ... way off.
“Pull it together, Grace.” She took a breath. Stared sternly at her reflection. “Get through this. Don’t overanalyze. Do the job.” She couldn’t screw up her career over a burned-out legend. Like Worth said, her instincts could be wrong. The only thing standing between her and getting the job done was her own inflexibility.
When she returned to the table, the drinks had arrived.
“Did you make your call?”
The question startled her, but then she remembered the excuse she had given. “Oh. Yes.” She settled into her chair and savored a healthy swallow of her wine. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t ask her any questions she couldn’t answer. After the events of the past thirty or so hours, she had to consider that maybe McBride had the right idea.If you couldn’t change it, just drink it out of your head.
He lifted his tumbler to his lips, took a long drink of whiskey, watching her as if he suspected she was keeping something from him.
“You ordered the food?” she asked in an effort to make conversation. She hoped so. Having not eaten in hours, she surely didn’t need the wine going straight to her head, as tempting as that might be.
“Two club sandwiches, fries, and another round of drinks.”
She quelled a shiver. That he had that effect on her made her want to kick herself. Giving herself a break, she admitted that there was something about the man’s voice. Deep, sexy in a blatant, I-know-I-could-make-you-scream-my-name way. Any woman alive would react to the sensuality of it. But that was the thing. She didn’t usually react like other women. Maybe it was the mystique related to the legend that got to her. The whole “idol” thing. Every agent wanted to be able to accomplish what McBride had—before that fall, anyway.
Whatever it was, she wasn’t going there.
Shifting her attention elsewhere, she surveyed the restaurant. “Quiet tonight. I guess we beat the crowd.” There were seven or eight couples spread out around the dining area, which was usually filled to capacity.
If he just wouldn’t stare at her that way, through hooded eyes that reached right inside her. If her own mutinous gaze didn’t keep straying to his lips, damp from the whiskey, or to those ridiculously sexy whiskers darkening his jaw. Then she might be able to pretend that he couldn’t, in a million years, get to her that way.
But all the above prevented her from pretending.
“What is it you’re not telling me, Grace?”
The waiter arrived with their sandwiches. Vivian smiled and thanked him, more for the interruption than the food. She consciously relaxed her posture. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He dragged a cigarette from his pack and planted it in one corner of his mouth and then seemed to remember that he couldn’t smoke in this establishment and removed it, tucked it into his shirt pocket for later. She watched each action with utter fascination.
“What’s the deal with Worth?”
Oh damn.
As if God had suddenly taken pity on her, her cell phone buzzed against her stomach. “Excuse me.” The relief in her voice came out way too obvious. She checked the display. Worth. So much for a welcome interruption. “Grace,” she said in greeting. Worth cut straight to the chase, his words souring the wine in her stomach. “I understand,” she assured him. She ended the call and slid the phone back into its holster, a chill invading her bones.
Steeling herself as much against what Worth’s call meant as the questions McBride would no doubt have, she looked directly into those piercing blue eyes. “We have to go back to the office.”
The glass he had lifted for another sip froze halfway to his mouth. “Any particular reason?”