“I—I can’t do this, Elizabeth, it’s against the rules.”
“What rules?”
“What I meant to say is I’m on the job as an FBI special agent who’s supposed to be guarding you, keeping you safe, not kissing you. I’d willingly give up my prized Roger Maris baseball card to do more than kiss you, but I can’t.”
She gave him the lopsided grin he realized was unique to her and she kissed him again, sank into him.
It was a bad idea, really bad, but it felt so good he didn’t stop. He put his arms around her, pulled her to him over the center console.
Elizabeth pressed against him, even with the console digging into her stomach. She felt his hands over her back, tangling in her braid, caressing her neck. Her life was crazy, uncertain, terrifying, but nothing mattered in this moment; only he did, Roman Foxe. She knew in her soul life had sent her this man. If he didn’t know that yet, he would.
Chapter Forty-Three
Carla Cartwright’s house
Ardmore, Philadelphia Main Line
Saturday morning
Rebel parked seventeen-year-old Elliott Jordan’s beautifully restored 1975 Camaro across the street from a gem of a cottage in Ardmore, a rich suburb of Philadelphia built along an old Pennsylvania railroad line. What the pristine white cottage, with its deep-set porch lacked in sheer size and the ponderous elegance of its affluent neighbors, it made up for in grace and charm. High Italian cypress trees filled the yard, circled in front of the bow windows.
He’d parked across the street under a large oak and watched Carla Cartwright come out of her house wearing workout clothes, carrying a gym bag. He’d seen photos of her, but he’d never met her. She looked quite fit, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her skin very white. He couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but he knew they were blue. He decided not to approach her, he’d wait. He watched her pull her late-model Toyota Corolla out of her garage and pull out onto the road. He followed her at a discreet distance. He wasn’t surprised when she pulled into the Five Points Gym three miles away.
He drove to a small café nearby, had a cup of coffee, read theWall Street Journalon his phone, then drove back to her house to wait for her.
Close to an hour later Carla Cartwright pulled back into her circular driveway. He watched her stride to the front door, unlock it, and walk into her house.
He waited a moment, drove into her driveway, stopped behind the Corolla. He drew a deep breath as he walked to the dark-blue-painted front door. He felt calm and centered and ready. He’d been scared when the FBI took him into custody, and when Gregson had turned on her recorder and read him his Miranda rights again, but he wasn’t now. He knew what he was going to say. He gave the griffin-head knocker a sharp rap and waited. He heard light footsteps, then a woman’s voice. “Who is it?”
“Rebel Navarro, Archer’s brother. May I speak to you, Ms. Cartwright?”
The front door opened and Rebel faced the woman he believed had framed both him and his brother. She’d obviously worked out hard, her face still shiny with sweat. He hadn’t expected her to be so tall, only an inch or so shorter than he was. She looked younger than her thirty-six years with her fair complexion and razor-sharp cheekbones. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking.
She froze an instant, but then she smiled, stepped back. “Yes, of course I recognize you. It strange we’ve never met before. Please call me Carla. Come in, come in.”
He shook her hand. “And I’m Rebel.”
She stepped back, waved him in. “Have you heard from Arch? Did he send you?”
“No, sorry, I don’t know where he is. Have you heard from my brother?”
“Well, yes, some texts at first, then nothing. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Rebel. Arch speaks of you so often. Is Tash all right?”
“Yes, Tash is fine. He’ll be staying with me until this mess is cleared up and Archer is home, which will be soon since he’s innocent.”
She said, no change in expression, “Perhaps the FBI will uncover something to exonerate him. It’s been chaos at the firm, the FBI everywhere, everyone being questioned about Arch, the forensic accountants all over the computers, the client records, access.”
He said from behind her, “Arch?”
She turned, smiled. “I’ve never called him anything else since the evening I met him at the Spark and Clyde Bar on Clark Street in Philadelphia six years ago.” The smile fell off her face. She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m so very sorry, Rebel, very sorry indeed for what’s happened.”
“For what’s happened? So you think Archer stole that money from his own firm, his own clients?”
She gave him an ineffably sad look. “I must be honest. I don’t know what else I can think. Everything the FBI has found points to him, no way around it. Come this way, we’ll go into the living room.”
She led him through a distinctive harlequin-patterned black-and-white entry hall and through an arch into a small parlor, its walls a light cream with one vivid red accent wall, dramatic and fitting. The art covering the walls was starkly modern, and he wondered why she’d juxtaposed the bizarre slashes of red and black with the good antiques. He really liked the Victorian love seat covered in a rich red velvet and the three high-backed chairs in brocade.
She waved him toward the love seat but didn’t sit herself; rather, she stood with her shoulders against the mantelpiece. Rebel said, “From what my brother has told me over the years, I know you two were close. It was my feeling there was trust between you.”
