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He inched forward again, slower this time. His fingers brushed against course black and brown fur at Maverick’s neck, and the shepherd closed his eyes in exhilaration. The dog’s tongue made an appearance as Baker targeted the area he’d noticed Jocelyn scratching in the med unit. “There. See? We’re friends. You like that?”
He kept up the scratching with one hand and brought the other to the tags to read the stamped lettering: “Maverick. Federal Protective Service. Miles Carville.”
An invisible sucker punch emptied the air out of his chest. More effective than any bomb he’d survived thus far. “Your mama wasn’t the only one who lost someone, was she?”
Maverick’s whine almost convinced Baker the dog had understood him. It made sense now. Jocelyn’s husband had worked for the Department of Homeland Security, and when he’d died, Maverick would’ve been forced to retire, too. The relationship between handler and K-9 took years to cultivate, from the time the German shepherd would’ve been a puppy. Maverick wouldn’t have responded to anyone else and ultimately would’ve become useless for the team once Miles Carville had died. But Jocelyn had kept him, literally kept a piece of her husband that followed her into the field and slept in her room at night. That protected her when it counted. “Damn, dog. I think I might be jealous of you.”
“That’s possibly the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.” Jocelyn leaned against the wide entryway into the kitchen, and hell, she was a sight for sore eyes. A few visible cuts here and there, but nothing that could take away that inner brightness that’d gotten him through the past day and a half.
His gut clenched at how much pain she must’ve been in. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Girl’s gotta eat, doesn’t she?” She limped into the dining room and dragged the chair beside his out from beneath the table with her good arm, then took a seat. “Besides, it’s hard to sleep when you know the bomber you arrested in the middle of the desert got away. You find anything in Albuquerque’s report that might give us an idea of where De Leon might’ve gone?”
Maverick moved in to be at Jocelyn’s side, marking his territory. Funny—Baker felt inclined to do the same. To erase all the times he’d been such an ass to her over the past few months and give her a reason to feel again.
“Not a single clue.” They were back at square one. “Bomb was pretty simple. Nitroglycerin explosive, a fresh car battery to initiate the spark, but there’s one thing that doesn’t make sense.”
She reached over the crime scene photos and grabbed for what was left of Baker’s dinner. “What’s that?”
“The receiver was an old pager,” he said.
Three distinct lines deepened between her brows as she sat a bit straighter. Warm brown eyes, almost the same color as Maverick’s caramel irises, scanned the photos he’d set across the table. Setting down the fork, she picked up one image in particular. A photo of a motherboard. No transmitter on the once leprechaun-green chip. Just a receiver.
“You’re right, but it fits with the Ghost’s preferences,” she said. “Harder to trace, maybe? Was the bomb squad able to recover a registered number?”
“Not yet.” It was easy to look at her and see the wheels turning. To know she was taking that incredible amount of knowledge she’d gleaned throughout her life to try to figure out why De Leon wanted him dead. Why after all this time, the Ghost had come back to haunt him.
Baker couldn’t help but smile as she silently read something to herself. Despite her claim to have as much at stake in this game as he did, that simply wasn’t true. She was here for him, and thank heaven for that. Otherwise he’d be at the bottom of that landslide or burned to the driver’s seat of his truck. “They’re still working through—”
“Let me guess. Dozens of shell companies.” Leaning back in her seat, she took a bite of lasagna. Hints of exhaustion still clung beneath her eyes and in her slowed movements. Every shift in her body seemed to aggravate the corners of her mouth, but she wouldn’t admit it. She’d never want him to know she was in pain, but not just that. There was something else she wasn’t telling him, something she’d held back in the medical suite. Because she still didn’t trust him. “I’m starting to feel like I’ve been here before.”
“Chief Trevino’s murder.” Baker lost the air in his lungs. “Yeah. I had the same thought. By the way, Maverick licked that fork.”
Jocelyn let the silverware hit the table. The metallic ping put a dent where it’d landed on the pristine wood, and understanding hit. There were no other dings in the table because nobody used it. All this time, he’d assumed Jocelyn’s efforts to bond the team over Christmas breakfasts, birthday parties and family dinners had succeeded.
But the table said otherwise. She’d said she needed to be part of the team. Socorro’s team. That she was afraid they’d have no use for her. Because nobody cared as much as she did. No one else made the effort like she did. She needed her team. Needed friends. A physical connection to this world.
“In that case, enjoy the rest of your food.” She pressed away from the table, her long, ebony hair sliding against her back. “I’m going to get something from the fridge.”
He’d never seen her like this before. The sight was surreal, as though he was witnessing the real her. Not what she wanted everyone to see. Not the logistics coordinator or the former solider. Just Jocelyn. Or, hell, maybe he’d hit his head a lot harder than he’d thought.
Baker tracked her into the kitchen, keeping his feet moving to close the distance between them.
“Don’t say anything about how a dog’s mouth is cleaner than mine.” She wrenched open the refrigerator door between them and pulled a large metal bowl covered in plastic wrap, identical to the one he noted earlier, from inside. Discarding the wrap, she set the bowl on the counter and threw open a drawer to her left. She drove a spoon straight into what looked like a giant bowl of cookie dough. “I don’t lick my own butt or chew on my feet.”
“Good to know,” he said.
She shoved an entire spoonful into her mouth and seemed to sink back against the counter, completely at ease and absolutely beautiful.
Baker shut the refrigerator door and took the spoon from her hand.
Just before he crushed his mouth to hers.
Chapter Ten
A balanced diet consisted of a cookie in each hand. Or in her case a spoonful of dough.
But having Baker pressed against her was pretty damn fulfilling, too.
