For Your Eyes Only

By Sandra Antonelli

The smart–talking, quip–cracking, pop–culture addicted author of A Basic Renovation is back with a new romance for grown ups...

By day, Willa is a mild–mannered scientist; by night, she's on the trail of stolen classified documents. Technically that makes Detective John Tilbrook on her side, but Willa has secrets she can't share.

John is instantly fascinated by the new physicist on the block, even though Willa keeps her distance. A fan of coincidence and happy endings, John has plans for the secretive scientist with the wicked sense of humour.

But Willa has more than her heart on the line – her best friend is at the top of the suspect list for espionage, she's having trouble leading her double life, and somehow her hair just turned purple. As days speed past, Willa's life unravels as she struggles to come to terms with her unexpected feelings for a man she just met. John's a big fan of happily–ever–afters, but will he believe in love and happiness when Willa divulges the real reason she's in town? Will he break the law he's sworn to uphold – for love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857990723

Sandra Antonelli

Sandra Antonelli grew up in Europe, but comes from the land Down Under. She prefers peanut butter to Vegemite, drives a little Italian car, lives in a little house with a little peanut butter-loving dog, and is married to a big, bearded Sicilian. When she's not writing, Sandra can be found at the movies, drinking coffee, or eating cookies.   To find out more, visit Sandra on her website.  You can also Follow Sandra on: Facebook Instagram Twitter  Pinterest 

Book preview

1

Fear was a powerful motivator. If it hadn’t been for the fear, Willa would have had the good sense to not fall for the flattery. Her ego wouldn’t have gone on a superhero power trip. She wouldn’t have believed she was capable of saving the day. She would have told Oscar to shove this job up his Alabama butt. Instead, provoked by terror that reached down to the pit of her stomach, seduced by praise, she’d lacked the strength—superhuman or mortal—to refuse.

An angry squall of cold wind whipped dirt into her mouth and stung her calves. She checked her cell phone and willed the missing reception bars to appear, but telekinesis was another superpower she lacked. The damned thing still said no service. Swearing, the lug wrench in one hand, she crammed the useless, so-called ‘smartphone’ into her blazer pocket and got greasy black smears all over the cranberry wool. Her next curse was carried away by a frosty gust.

Nose running, fingers like ice, Willa crouched again in front of the final lug nut, the one the Volkswagen service department had clearly welded onto the left rear wheel of the Jetta during the last tire rotation. Furious with herself, with Oscar, she set the wrench against the obstinate wheel nut and prepared for a fifth round.

Yeah. Fear had pinched her, but flattery had sucker-punched her. Come on, Heston, she mumbled, imitating Oscar’s twang, do this and then yew can push your papers and analyze all yew want. I need yew back on my team. No one knows this stuff like yew. These other guys lack the science. I need yew in Los Alamos. Willa twisted the lug wrench as hard as she could. That slick, she hissed, manipulative, pork-rind-eating, she grunted as she tried to force rotation, "cueball!"

A dust-devil whirled across the road carrying leaves, foliage, and sandy soil that moved in a frenzied tornado-like dance around her. The bouncing tumbleweed that thwapped into her wasn’t big, but had enough force to knock her off balance and dump her backwards onto the red-dusted road. Skirt hitched up high on her thighs, tailbone smarting, she sat beside the tire iron and blinked against the wind that blew salmon-pink dirt into her face. She swabbed her running nose and wiped muck from her eyes with the elbow of her jacket. Over the edge of worsted wool, she caught sight of another twister reeling along the asphalt. It was billowing up a cloud of rose-tinted soil and bearing down on her at high speed.

Willa always assumed work would be the death of her, but this was not how she pictured things would end. She somersaulted in what she hoped was a safe direction, shut her eyes, and said her prayers.

She hit a patch of half-melted old snow. Vulcanized rubber screeched on pavement.

Gravel hit her like buckshot.

Something wobbled past her head and clanged metallically against rock.

Then it was all over. Above the howling wind came the sound of a rumbling engine and sputtering exhaust system.

A door slammed.

Slowly, Willa cracked open her eyes to yellow scrub grass, chamisa, and rolling tumbleweeds. Patches of snow and ice were tinged by pinkish volcanic clay. The wind screamed. It was a blustery April day in New Mexico, and she was still very much alive. She sat up, heart thumping at high velocity, and stared at the mud-spattered, purple tornado made in Detroit.

Are ya drunk or somethin’? The cowboy-hatted driver yelled, as he snatched up the hubcap that had flown off his rusted violet pickup. What are ya doin’ laying there like that, you stupid heifer? You coulda killed someone!

Willa sucked in a breath. The mustachioed Roy Rogers wannabe had jumped the gun on who got to go first. Yes, she had been sitting halfway in the northbound lane of New Mexico State Route 14, but the southbound pickup had come shooting down the highway straddling the double-yellow center lines.

"I could have killed someone? Listen, assh—" She caught herself. As much as she would have liked to point out that he nearly squished her, confrontational finger pointing wasn’t going to help her situation. Biting back a rush of road rage, shaking from a surge of near-death adrenaline, she got to her feet, hair whipping into her mouth and eyes. Yes. Right. Whatever. Okay, look, she said, hating to be in this position, hating to ask, I’ve got a flat tire and I nee—

So change the damn thing and get your ass the hell off the road, grandma! Cowboy swung into his running truck, veered around her and squealed off towards Golden, leaving black stripes on the pavement.

An acrid blue haze of burning oil wafted into Willa’s face. Coughing, she grabbed the lug wrench and climbed into the Jetta to blow her streaming nose. She tossed the greasy tool on the passenger seat. It landed on top of her shoulder bag and the Albuquerque Journal. Dusty pink and black grime smeared across the front page.

While the hazard lights ticked out a tempo, Willa sniffled and began to pull things from her oversized purse. She took out the source of all her fear—the fat manila envelope Oscar had given her last week—set it in her lap, and dug around inside the leather pouch for the packet of Kleenex at the bottom. Then she blew her nose and read the newspaper headlines for the millionth time. Body Identified as Clovis Man. Los Alamos Busts Meth Lab Ring. Funeral Gets Teen Off Robbery Conviction.

Willa shuddered. Headlines made things seem so simple, so cut and dried. Headlines seldom saw the big picture, like she did. Willa had been good at her job, careful, thorough. She had a keen eye for minuscule detail and a reputation for being unflappable when things went wrong or had an unexpected outcome. As if any of that mattered now. That was before Miles. After he died, unflappable wasn’t the same as indifferent.

Still, there was a certain freedom that came with not giving a rat’s ass about anything. It made life easier in some way, sort of like the how the newspaper presented items in a disengaged manner. Willa had grown accustomed to being detached, especially when it came to Alicia. Detached had been the norm until Oscar approached her with data that ran across various projects. She told him she’d have a look at the data and that was all, but after fifty or so pages, comfortable dispassion shifted.

While she didn’t possess a photographic memory, it was curiously enhanced. Her perceptions were different than what most people experienced, and she remembered things differently, with more than one sense. Reading, seeing words or numbers on a page triggered involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. Numerals and letters were full of colors and occasional sounds. As she read the documents Oscar had presented, the hues of her senses swirled around and recollections of dates and events and experiments snapped into multicolored focus, just like a Schrödinger equation.

At first, she told herself the findings were a coincidence, only she didn’t believe in coincidence. She could lie to herself and say Oscar’s ‘no-one-can-manage-but-Willa-Heston’ flattery had truly influenced her, but she only kidded herself for a moment. The real truth of it was she was driven by a sense of loyalty and sickening fear. That undeniable fact made her realize she still cared. About six seconds after everything clicked into place in her brain, she’d decided there was no way in hell anyone else was going to Los Alamos.

A forty-five minute drive from Santa Fe, Los Alamos—birthplace of the atomic bomb and Manhattan project—was a small town on the edge of the Jemez Mountains. It was a paradise for nature-lovers and outdoorsmen, but hiking and getting in a run down the Pajarito Mountain ski slope before spring settled in was out of the equation. With a groan, Willa crumpled the tissue and threw it on top of the newspaper. She changed her shoes and hopped out of the VW into the sand-filled pink gale, lug wrench in hand. It was a six-mile walk to Madrid or five miles back to the General Merchandise Store in Golden.

Grit slapping against her legs, she stood in front of the stubborn flat tire and kicked it as hard as she could.

Avril Lavigne.

John Tilbrook groaned inwardly. The last half hour in the car it had been the Canadian pop star singing ‘Ska8erBoi ’ and a cheerleader-esque tune called ‘Girlfriend ’ that was so much worse than the ’80s one-hit wonder ‘Mickey’ had ever been.

This had to be punishment for some sin he’d overlooked, retribution for some transgression he’d failed to address, like how he’d treated his older sister when they were kids.

Sofia reached for the stereo controls and said, Oh, we gotta hear that again!

John’s butt clenched the same time his jaw did. Yeah. Karma was laughing at him. Do we have to? We’ve listened to it nine times already.

Nuh-uh, just three, Sofia tossed her streaked blonde hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head, but we can listen to Fergie too.

The clenching happened again. It was his fault. He’d volunteered to drive his niece to this birthday party in Santa Fe, since she had the day off from school and it was on his way home, but what had he been thinking?

Just drive. It could be worse. It could be Taylor Swift. Ignore it and drive.

A haze of rain moved far off to the east. Up ahead in the distance, a blue sedan was parked on the side of the road. John kept both hands on the wheel and cast a sideways glance at his niece. She was seat-dancing like a chubby little kid, but the make up she wore, the streaks in her hair, and the off-the-shoulder, throwback-to-Flashdance top that exposed too much skin made her look like a chubby little…

He shook his head and fixed his gaze on the road. In his book, eight was too young for hair streaks and makeup, yet Sofia had black eyeliner caked around her eyes the way Avril Lavigne did.

According to Sofia, anything Avril did was awe-some. John thought listening to Sofia and Fergie sing about ‘lovely lady lumps’ was aw-ful. Did his sister understand that letting her daughter dress like a cheap hooker was provocative and inappropriate? He cut his eyes to Sofia again and thought about JonBenet Ramsey, Little Miss beauty pageants, and how stupid his sister was to let her eight-year-old strut down the path of precociousness.

The realization was like a sudden slap. Popular music sucked and he was moaning about unsuitable clothing for pre-teen girls. Shit. He’d finally crossed the line into middle age. Next stop was liver spots, incontinence, and dentures, a room at the Aspen Ridge Lodge with round-the-clock nursing care, and picking out a headstone. He was as good as dead.

What the hell was he thinking?

This had nothing to do with middle age. Sofia and Fergie asking him what he was gonna do with ‘all the ass inside their jeans’ made it obvious this wasn’t a question of age. Some things were absolutely unacceptable for eight-year-old girls, especially songs that were booty-call requests.

Repulsive stories and images of child exploitation and kiddie-porn he’d dealt with in the past filled his head for a moment. Whether he was behaving as a cop doing his job, acting like some kind of sensitive New-Age guy, or simply being a concerned uncle didn’t matter; a very grown-up, responsible John reached over and turned off the music.

Hey!

Hay is for horses, Miss Sof.

What?

It’s a Captain Kangaroo thing.

Who?

Nothing. Did your mom buy you that outfit?

Yeah. Put Fergie back on.

No. I don’t think it’s really appropriate to put Fergie back on.

Why not?

He sighed. Well, he began, I thi— Right genius, how are you going to explain this, tell her she looks like a hooker? Does the average eight-year-old know what a hooker is? Probably. Harrison is nine and. thanks to TV, he knows what erectile dysfunction is, so go with the you’re-growing-up-too-fast thing. Okay, Sofia, it’s—

Oh, yeah. I see.

You do?

Well, duh. It’s hard to miss with the way you’re looking.

John made a face. Now he felt bad. Ah, Sof, I know you want to be gro—

Mom says since you’re a detective you have three-sixty vision, which is way better than twenty-twenty, but I see pretty good too. I see the old lady there.

The old lady?

Yeah. Sofia pointed out the windshield to the beat-up blue Volkswagen just ahead on the side of the road. I coulda told you her car was broken down when we were, like, ten miles away.

Although he had been preoccupied by the negative influence Avril and Fergie were having on his niece, the VW had registered in his brain as they’d come down the hill about a mile back. He’d had the car in his line of sight as they approached, but somehow, even as they as they got closer, he’d completely missed the white-haired figure crouched beside the sedan.

He sure as hell didn’t miss her now.

Her dark red suit was vivid against the indigo of the car, as vivid as the hot pink Converse on her feet, but her sartorial choices and hair color weren’t what made her stand out. It was the way she was beating the crap out of the left rear tire with a lug wrench.

Sofia sighed. You’re gonna stop and help her and old people never like today’s music, right?

Amused by Sofia’s take on things, and oddly fascinated by the elderly woman’s frustration—she had some real power behind those blows—John nodded absently. The wind lifted the lady’s white hair and whipped it into her face as she stood and watched him pull off the road in front of her Jetta. You stay in the car, Miss Sof, he said, shutting off the Subaru’s engine.

After he punched his hazard lights, he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. An ice-tinged gust jerked it right out of his grip. It was mid-April, but a hint of snow mixed with the sagebrush-scented, squally air. John shut the door firmly then squinted into the wind and made his way to the back of the dented Volkswagen. A piece of grass blew into his mouth. He spat it out and surveyed the scene.

Something told John this was not a woman who’d been waiting to be rescued by the first Good Samaritan who came along. She had the jack set in the right place, the hubcap upturned to collect the lug nuts, and the waiting spare tire on the ground near the fender. She even had a chock in front of the right front tire. Clearly she knew what she was doing, but two potential scenarios ran through his mind to explain the recent-looking dents in the VW’s side panel and her vicious beating of the tire: stolen vehicle or pissed-off wife exacting revenge on a cheating husband.

Whatever the reason for her assault on the wheel, he decided to err on the side of caution. Emotional people sometimes did irrational things, and she had a lug wrench gripped in her hand. Her knuckles were white, and the scrapes on the back of them showed up a livid pink.

Hi. You got a flat? John asked over the whistling wind, keeping a safe distance between them, in case she happened to start swinging.

Willa tried to tuck her hair behind her ears. It blew back into her eyes and slapped against her cheeks. She barely made out a quilted, chocolate-brown shirt-jacket and a tawny beard on the man’s jaw. As the sky started to spit rain, she grabbed a handful of hair and held it back.

He gave her a friendly smile.

Willa sized him up quickly. She estimated he was six-one and probably weighed two hundred pounds. His eyes were a hazel that bordered on dark green. Despite gray-dappled blondish curls that crowned his head in an unruly frenzy, he was handsome in a boyish way that made it hard to judge his age. The denim stretched over the contours of his thighs showed he was quite fit. She could take him if she had to, if he gave her any trouble, and he’d never see it coming.

How about I lend a hand? he said, like the hero in a romantic cheese-fest.

Willa ground her back teeth together. Regardless of the triteness of the situation—the romance novel, flat tire/good-looking guy scenario—relief tempered her frustration. He’d made it simple, which was good because she wasn’t about to ask for help. The purple tornado pickup truck experience aside, having had a man to come to her rescue once in her life was one time too many.

Maybe you’ll have better luck. That last lug nut is one uncooperative motherf— She thrust the wrench in his direction. Here.

His amiable smile didn’t waver, but one eye narrowed slightly, and he waited a moment before taking the cold metal from her hand. I’ll do my best, ma’am, he said, pausing to look back at his car.

Besides his posture, the ‘ma’am’ was a dead giveaway: Marine on vacation or cop. Willa went with cop because she’d never met a Marine with a beard. Either way, ‘protect and serve’ was applicable, and she liked that. He wasn’t rescuing her. He was doing his duty. That made accepting his assistance easier.

Shaking with cold, Willa let go of her hair to hug herself for warmth. The wind blasted her locks in every direction as he squatted beside the wheel. She stood beside him, watching, shivering, arms crossed, nose running. He put the wrench over the lug nut and twisted, gritting his teeth.

It didn’t move a millimeter.

He repositioned the crossbar, rose, and rammed his booted foot down on the metal. When he looked up at her, the grin on his face was triumphant. There you go, he said.

Willa wanted to kiss him. She probably would have if he hadn’t crouched down again. Thank you, she said. Thank you very much. I really appreciate it. You’re a very nice man.

So they keep telling me.

I tried jumping on it a couple times too.

You’ve gotta have a bit more weight behind the force.

Yeah, and the force is with you.

He laughed. Or at least she believed he did. She couldn’t hear him over the sound of the wind in her ears, but his shoulders shook and his head bobbed like he thought it was funny. Then he turned around and reached for the jack. When he started to pump the handle, she stopped him. He’d done enough. It’s all right, she said, I’ll take it from here.

No, ma’am. Once I start a job I like to finish it. Why don’t you get in my car? You’re freezing. It’ll be warmer in there than it is out here.

No offense. I appreciate your help, but I’m not getting in your car.

He kept cranking the jack. Good idea. I could be the Ted Bundy type, but for all I know you might just be another Aileen Wuornos.

She went for truck drivers. You’re not a truck driver.

John looked up at her again. The white hair blowing loose and wild about her face had been deceptive. There was a scar on her pointed chin. A small, sharp nose sat above a mouth that was offset by dimpled laugh lines. Fine crow’s feet feathered her striking gray-green eyes, but this woman wasn’t elderly. And you’re not a college co-ed, ma’am.

Her mouth twitched into a smile and the tightness drained from her triangular features. John smiled back. He knew he was smiling a lot, but damned if could help it. She was pretty.

A second later, she was crouched beside him, hands on the tire, her shoulder pressed to his. His arm had come out of the sling only yesterday, and she rubbed across where his stitches had been. The skin was still sensitive and prone to throbbing, but having her brush against the healing wound didn’t bother him one bit.

I’ll pull this off, she said, and since you’re the big strong one, you get the other tire.

Yes, ma’am.

And stop calling me ma’am.

"Would you prefer darling?"

Actually I’ve always been partial to ‘your majesty’.

Well, my queen, I think you’re screwed.

Willa wiggled off the old tire and eyed the location of the lug wrench, just in case. Why? Because you really are a Ted Bundy type?

No. The spare’s flat too, he said with a boyish grin.

Willa swore. She chose a nice four-letter word, attached an ing ending, and followed it with hell.

It started to snow the moment he started laughing. Wet sleet mixed with big fat flakes of snow blew sideways in the wind. Downy white settled on his poufy hair. As far as I see it, your highness, you’ve got two choices. I toss your tire in my trunk and take it up to Madrid to have it pumped up while you freeze in your car and wait for me to come back. Or you can get in my car with me and my eight-year-old niece, and we can come back here together.

Eight-year-old niece?

He nodded. She spotted you on the side of the road, and she’s been staring at you from the back window this whole time.

Willa had a look at his car. A little blonde girl was watching them intently. She waved.

Ninety seconds later, the tire was in the Subaru’s trunk. Willa had grabbed her laptop and bag from the Volkswagen. She’d shoved the manila envelope into the outside pocket of the computer bag and climbed into the warm front seat of a stranger’s car.

Blue eyes rimmed by black eyeliner that would put Cleopatra to shame peered over the back of the headrest. The little girl smiled. She was missing a tooth. Hi, she said. You already know my Uncle John, but I’m Sofia Christensen.

I’m Willa.

Wow, your hair’s a mess, innit, Willa?

I imagine so.

Oh, no, you don’t have to imagine. It is. You know, I thought you were older, like eighty or something, but I bet you’re still too old for Avril Lavigne and Fergie, so you’ll want to listen to Uncle John’s Garbage.

She means that literally, Uncle John said, holding up the Garbage 2.0 CD case. Okay, Sof, buckle up. You too, Queenie.

Mitchell shook the snow off his jacket. It landed on the rubber mat beneath his feet. The inside of Trujillo’s Hardware store smelled like a movie theater mixed with weed killer. The odd combination of aromas made sense when he saw the popcorn machine sitting on top of the service desk. A dusky-skinned Latina behind the counter gave him a friendly nod as she filled a paper bag with freshly popped corn.

Is he here? Adams asked.

I just walked in, like you did. Did you see me talk to anyone? He watched Adams brush snowflakes from his hair. It fell all over his shoulders. Mitchell thought it blended in well with the dandruff already there. His partner was wearing a tailor-made, fifteen-hundred-dollar suit, but between the dandruff and acne he looked like a teenage surf slob playing dress-up. You been using the same face scrub Avril Lavigne uses?

Every day. Adams smiled and ran a hand across his jaw. You can tell, huh?

Of course. Your pimples are redder than usual. So why don’t you talk to the salesgirl.

Awesome.

Mitchell rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was hard to believe this guy had made it out high school alive.

Excuse me, Miss…Adams walked to the service desk and leaned forward to read her nametag, Daphne. He glanced back at Mitchell. We’re looking for Dr Brennan. Is he here?

Bag of popcorn in hand, Daphne set her hip against the counter. He’s busy right now. Maybe I can help you? With eyes like two giant Hershey Kisses, she smiled at Adams and flicked a swathe of glossy black hair over one shoulder. Nice suit.

Thank you. You have beautiful hair.

Oh, just keep it in your pants, junior. They were here to see one Dr Dominic Brennan, a forty-seven-year-old quantum physicist turned hardware store owner, not to hook up. Mitchell cleared his throat. Ma’am, is Dr Brennan here?

Eyes on Adams, the woman offered a dreamy-sounding sigh. He’s in the office. Follow me.

Anywhere, anytime. Adams grinned.

Mitchell stepped on his foot.

Daphne came out from behind the service area carrying the popcorn. She led them down an aisle stocked with sandpaper and timber stains. Then she turned left and took them past a paint display. At the back corner of the store was a door. She knocked once and entered the office after hearing a muffled, Yeah?

Hey, DB, she said, putting the popcorn on his desk. Some guys are here to see you.

Dr Brennan lifted his head from the document he was reading. He had the bluest eyes Mitchell had ever seen.

Dominic found himself looking at a blond, zit-faced Dustin Hoffman and a brunet Robert Redford. He took off his rimless reading glasses and tossed them on the desktop. His chair squeaked as he leaned forward and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Thanks, Daphne. Have a seat, guys.

The two men stayed standing and waited for Daphne to leave before speaking. Dr Dominic Brennan? the taller one said once the door was closed.

Yes.

I’m Special Agent Mitchell, this is Special Agent Adams. We’re wi—

You want some? Dominic held out the bag and stuffed a couple of pieces of popcorn in his mouth.

No, thank you. Pimple-faced Adams shook his head.

Mitchell wanted the popcorn, but if he had some, then he’d want a Coke, and if he had a Coke then he’d want potato chips and a whole bunch of other junk food. It was a deadly circle his body would hate him for in the morning. He looked around the office and put salty, fizzy goodness out of his mind. His gaze settled on an old calendar tacked on the door. It was from 1999. Arched above the staff photo on the top half was Trujillo’s Hardware Proudly Serving Los Alamos Since 1945. In the picture, Brennan’s startlingly blue eyes were made more vivid by the peacock-hued polo shirts he and his employees wore. Dr Brennan, he said, shifting his attention to Brennan in the flesh, we’re here t—

I know what you’re here for. Dominic waved his hand. This wasn’t unusual. Since the Los Alamos National Lab conducted classified nuclear research, security was always an issue. A Federal background investigation for new employees—and existing ones who were moving into an area with a higher clearance—was standard. Family, friends, current and former co-workers were often questioned. By Dominic’s count, this was the fifth ‘interview’ this year. So whom are you checking out now? He set his snack on the desk.

Mitchell cocked his head. You.

Excuse me? Popcorn paused at Dominic’s mouth. I’m not currently employed at the Lab.

Agent Adams picked up where Mitchell left off. We understand you were once the Associate Director of the Physics division of Experimental Physical Sciences and head of the Quantum Institute at the Los Alamos National Lab.

Yes.

And from time to time you do consulting work for both the Sandia and Los Alamos labs.

Yes, but I’m not doing any consulting now. I haven’t done anything at the Lab for at least eighteen months.

Sir, did you work with Dr Harold Dichter, Dr Willa Heston, and Dr Himesh Chandra?

Agent Mitchell lifted the bag of popcorn and helped himself, sighing.

Dr Heston was back in the nineties. Chandra and Dichter, on and off on various projects over the last seventeen years. Frowning, Dominic sat back in his chair. So this is about one of them?

The two agents looked at each other. No, sir. It’s about you, Mitchell said.

How can it be about me?

Adams shook his head. We’re here to ask you questions, sir, so that makes it about you. We understand your last job with the Lab was in 2010?

Yes.

And that was in what section? Mitchell crunched some popcorn.

Physics-P and Physics-X Divisions, and MST-16 Division, briefly, but that work didn’t include any of the people you mentioned.

We know that, sir.

If you know, then why did you ask?

I’m afraid we can’t tell you that, sir. Adams smiled, glancing at Mitchell.

The kid was good. Mitchell hid a smile behind the popcorn he chewed and let Adams run with the ball.

You know, Dominic exhaled, the cloak and dagger stuff is really annoying.

The work in 2010, what did that involve? Adams tipped his head in genuine interest.

Consulting.

What sort of consulting?

You’re the ones with all the information already, so you ought to know.

Thoughtfully, Adams’ finger stroked over a large red pimple on his chin. What sort of work does a quantum physicist do with a supercomputer?

Supercomputers are used for calculation-intensive tasks like problems involving quantum mechanical physics. They can run physical simulations to test the detonation of nuclear weapons or, for instance, follow the propagation of a shock front in liquid deuterium.

Adams nodded again. Dr Chandra investigated nonequilibrium thermodynamics at nanoscale.Dr Heston worked on research on the interplay between decoherence and resources in qubit metrology. Dr Dichter examined quantum decoherence in thermodynamics. As a consultant, what did you do?

Same thing as always, fooled around with research models of nuclear fusion and the idea of using quanta of light or photons as the basic elements for quantum information processing.

Sorry, my physics is a little rusty. Mitchell shook his head. What’s a photon?

The smallest unit of electromagnetic energy.

Adams continued stroking his zit. Interesting. So what would quantum processing be used for?

A muscle in Dr Brennan’s jaw pulsed. A functional quantum computer could solve certain large mathematical problems at speeds faster than the fastest supercomputers. Once quantum computers are built, they’d factor large numbers, which would make them useful for cracking secret codes or decoding information encrypted by means of currently standard methods. They would also run physical simulations to test the detonation of nuclear weapons, and research models of nuclear fusion. Are we done?

Almost. Mitchell dug into the bag for more popcorn. You’re not planning any trips out of town any time soon, are you?

No. Why?

We may need to speak to you again, Mitchell said, just before he shoved more puffed kernels into his mouth.

Dr Brennan was a tall man who had been a bachelor until last October. He stood. A simple gold wedding band gleamed on his left hand. Agent Mitchell, the next time you and Special Agent Dustin Hoffman want a physics lesson go to the library instead of wasting my time. Smiling, luminous blue eyes narrowed, he planted his big palms on the desk and leaned forward. Now give me back my popcorn.

2

John had been a regular at Santa Fe’s Tortilla Flats for years. By the time he had shrugged out of his quilted jacket, Angie, his favorite redheaded waitress, had set his iced tea with double lemon on the table next to the basket of blue corn chips and salsa. You want the blue corn chicken enchilada or the chicken quesadilla today, Officer John? She smiled.

The blue chicken, Angie, with black beans. And make it Christmas. It’s so cold outside I need red and green chiles to warm me up.

In another month you’ll be missing winter. Sopapillas or tortillas?

Sopapillas.

And one chile relleno, she smiled as she scribbled on an order pad, right?

Ah, Angie you know me so well. He winked.

Angie giggled. I’ll be right back.

The cell phone in his pocket rang. John pulled it out and checked the number. It was his cousin’s husband, a man he’d come to consider a best friend. Howdy, Mighty Colossus.

What’s shakin’, JT? How’s the ‘vacation’?

Very funny. You know I only pretend to like you for your wife’s sake.

Liar. You love me. You’d marry me if you could. I’m a great catch. You miss me. You wish I were on ‘vacation’ with you. In fact, this is why you should be your own boss. No one can force you to take a ‘vacation’ because of litigation. I don’t get how defending yourself against a drunk gets you suspended.

Breaking someone’s finger is considered excessive force. Can we talk about something else?

"She came at you with a knife. She stabbed the shit out of you. What were you supposed to do, ask her to be your valentine?"

It was a meat fork, and I’m hanging up now, asswipe.

No, wait! Wait! Sorry. Where are you? Still with your sister and her kids?

No. I’m in Santa Fe, having lunch. I’ll be home afterwards. John drank a little tea.

Good. We’re coming to your house for dinner tonight.

You are? Did I invite you and forget about it?

No. Our stove died, it’s too cold to use the grill, and my wife doesn’t want another night of serving her brother take-out. She’s bringing some stuff to your place to make Indian curry. Can you pick up two jars of tikka masala curry paste?

I guess so.

"Thanks. I appreciate this. Uh, by the way, in case you didn’t get that, including you, there’ll be five for dinner. Sean and his wife are staying with us."

I’ll be sure to make your pain-in-the-ass brother-in-law feel welcome.

A snicker came down through the phone. "Thanks. Eat your lunch. Enjoy your enforced leave. I’ll see you later."

John closed his cell and tucked it back into his pocket. Enforced leave. That’s exactly what it was. And it was driving him nuts. A simple arrest had turned into complicated bullshit that kept him from the job he loved.

Growling, he shoved the ridiculous lawsuit out of his mind, reached for the corn chips and noticed how filthy his hands were. There was a black smear of brake dust on the inside of his wrist and red grime under his fingernails. Had he left smears of dirt all over Sofia when he’d hugged her goodbye?

With a sigh, he scooted his chair back, left his jacket on the seat, and headed for the men’s room to wash up, humming ‘Ska8erBoi’. His absentminded thoughts were a music video filled with images of windblown white hair that was a cloud of spun sugar glittering with snowflakes.

Damn, he’d really wanted to comb his fingers into that tangled nest of hair, but a man couldn’t go around shoving his hands into a woman’s hair simply because it was