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The taxi he’d taken from the hotel pulled up in front of her white stucco duplex. He should probably wait until a decent hour before he knocked on her door, but he had a flight to catch in less than six hours and didn’t have time to waste. He’d wasted enough at the hotel and then at MBPD straightening out the mess that had become the Rolston case.
Rolston had indeed been in the custody of the U.S. Marshals ; he had made a deal. In exchange for the government dropping the pending insider trading charges against him, he would testify at the Bastard Pharm criminal trial, provided he was placed in the witness protection program. The partes involved believed his testimony was strong enough that they’d granted Rolston the protection he sought.
At noon, Noah would board the plane back to Virginia and Rolston would have already testified. The whistleblower would be safely in protective custody, learning to become a plumber or landscaper or in some other non-accounting-related job training program for his new life.
Noah really could care less. He was just glad the ordeal was behind him. Except for one last loose end.
He exited the taxi and paid the driver. For half a second he considered asking the driver to wait, just in case she wasn’t home, but he knew that wasn’t true. He was in that place in between insane and insecure and he didn’t like it one bit. He’d never done well with uncertainty, but that was exactly what he was facing now.
The taxi took off, leaving him no choice but to face Alyssa or stand there on the sidewalk in front of her house looking like a stalker. He walked up the driveway to the side door.
A light was on over the sink, giving him hope that she might be awake. He opened the screen, knocked on the door and waited.
He lifted his hand to knock again a few seconds later, but the curtain lifted and there she was—glaring at him.
“Go away.”
He frowned and knocked again.
“Are you deaf?” she shouted from inside the house. “Go. The hell. Away.”
He didn’t bother knocking again. Instead, he twisted the knob and was mildly surprised when the door opened. Without waiting for an invitation he knew wouldn’t be coming, he walked inside and closed the door behind him.
“Oh. Oh,” she stammered when she spun around to face him. “Now that’s breaking and entering. You’re in so much trouble.”
“Not even,” he argued, trying hard not to be taken prisoner by the flinty sparkle in her eyes. Damn if she didn’t look adorable and cute and sexy as hell when she was all fired up about something. “We need to talk.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Go to hell.”
He let out a rough sigh and jammed his free hand through his hair. “Alyssa, please.”
“Funny how you know my name when I don’t know yours.”
She was exaggerating. She knew his name because she’d heard him announce it to the private investigators when he’d placed them under arrest, the 911 operator and every other law-enforcement official who’d entered their hotel room. Still, point taken. “Noah Temple,” he said. “Happy?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “Hardly.”
“I can explain.” If she’d let him. He was beginning to have his doubts.
“You can suck wind, too, for all I care.”
He dropped his garment bag on the floor with a thud. His patience was starting to slip. “Would you be rational for one minute, please?”
“Oh? Now I’m irrational? You have a hell of a lot of nerve.” She stalked out of the kitchen. “Get out of my house,” she said, her voice rising. “Better yet, get out of my life. Go back to Quantico, Mr. FBI Man. Your services are no longer needed here.”
All right, he knew she was pissed at him, and she had every right to be. He’d lied to her, but his job had required him to do so. But this wasn’t about his job; this was about their having sex underfalse pretenses.
Not needed? Big difference from not wanted. And in his book, that meant he just might stand a chance.
A chance at what? Forever? Or long enough to know whether or not she was pregnant? How many stolen weekends would they have in a long-distance relationship that had no hope of surviving? But what if they weren’t long distance ? What if one of them relocated? Was that what he wanted?
He followed her into a dining room that smelled like lemon wax. “What I did was wrong,” he admitted. “I should’ve told you the truth about who I was before we . . .”
“Made love?” she finished for him. Her hands landed on her hips and her chin held a mutinous tilt. “Or had sex?”
The defensiveness was back in her tone and he knew he was screwed. All of a sudden, he felt cornered, trapped in an emotional minefield of his own making. No matter which way he stepped, which answer he gave, he suspected it’d be the wrong one.
“We had sex, Alyssa,” he said in an even tone. “We made a mistake and had unprotected sex. I’m sorry for that, too.”
