“It’s the phone she used to contact us and to contact him,” Boss told the group.
Ozzie reached for the device. Thumbed it open. Glanced at the screen. “The number is probably encrypted.” He hastily typed something on his laptop. Squinted. Typed again. “Definitely encrypted.”
“We could call it,” Sam suggested. “At the very least, we’d have his voice on record when he answers. We could run it through Ozzie’s voice recognition software.”
“Black Widow says he always uses a voice modulator,” Graham said. “And if we call him, he’ll know we’re onto him.”
“Exactly.” Ozzie frowned. “I’ll do some more work on tracing the number, but I?—”
He stopped abruptly when Peanut launched his fat, furry body onto the table, landing on the edge with a solid-sounding thump.
“Jesus.” Fish caught his coffee mug just before the old tom could tip it.
The cat sauntered across the table like it was his own personal runway, flicking his tail into Ozzie’s face, sniffing Sabrina’s coffee, and then—with the deliberateness only cats possess—sitting down in front of Hew to lift a leg and thoroughly clean his butthole.
“How are we supposed to have a serious conversation with this goin’ on?” Graham gestured toward the former alley cat.
“You’re just jealous because you can’t lick your butt,” Fisher quipped.
“True.” Graham shrugged. Then, when he saw Boss eyeing him closely, he demanded, “What’s with your face?”
“Ozzie’s right.” Boss nodded, not joining in the joking, keeping squarely attuned to business. “Bishop could only be a handful of folks. He shouldn’t be hard to find if we have a man inside the West Wing.”
“A man inside the West Wing?” Graham blinked uncomprehendingly.
“Maybe I should’ve said a woman inside,” Boss stressed. “You think your friend Lura’s up for the task?”
Sabrina lifted an eyebrow at the muscle that started ticking in Graham’s strong jaw.
Boss had given her the skinny on Lura Dougherty. But Graham’s reaction said maybe there was more to the story than she’d been told.
“She’s not my friend,” Graham insisted. “She’s an acquaintance from back home. And she’s an assistant, not an operator. She doesn’t have the trainin’ for?—”
“She doesn’t need training to keep her ear cocked and her nose to the ground,” Boss interrupted.
Graham’s nostril flared and Sabrina lifted an eyebrow. Her curiosity was well and truly piqued.
Boss’s next words came out slow and deliberate. “Graham, my man, how do you feel about a trip to D.C.?”
Sabrina didn’t hear Graham’s response because Hew suddenly slung an arm across the back of her chair. His forearm warmed the back of her neck. His fingers brushed her shoulder.
It was nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before. It was friendly. Unceremonious.
Ha! Tell that to my nervous system, she thought hysterically.
Every synapse in her head short-circuited. All the oxygen had been sucked from the room, and even though her lungs worked, she couldn’t get enough air.
He squeezed her shoulder. Offering casual comfort just as he’d been doing since the day they met. Except her skin tingled like champagne bubbles ran beneath it.
She knew what it was to taste him now. Knew how warm his skin was against her lips. Knew how his pulse felt as it beat against the tip of her tongue.
She crossed her legs against the ache in her sex. Refused to look down for fear she’d see her nipples pearled against the front of her T-shirt.
She could feel Hew looking at her expectantly. Besides being observant, he was incredibly perceptive to the slightest change in her breathing. Undoubtedly, he’d clocked her subtle gasp and wondered what had caused it.
Ignoring him would be proof that even though she’d asked him to forget what happened upstairs, she was the one who, despite talking the talk, couldn’t walk the walk.
So she risked a glance.
