Chapter 97

J.D. nodded, but—Nolan noticed—didn’t apologize. Instead he said, “If that were my woman in there—” he nodded toward the house “—and I had to go in and tell her what you just learned about her brother, I figure I might be too angry at the bastard to calmly sit here drinking coffee.”

Nolan leveled a gaze at J.D. “Then it’s a good thing she isn’t my woman. Isn’t it?”

In sheer defiance, he took a bite of the muffin and chewed in silence. Slowly. And calmly. To make sure J.D. didn’t misinterpret his chewing as anger. He didn’t want J.D. thinking he needed to be protected. The best protection there was would be getting information as soon as it was available, not when someone else thought he was ready to hear it. His feigned indifference had nothing to do with how he felt about every damn person in the company knowing his business.

Because of course he was angry. If it were up to him, he’d hunt Andrew down and rip the bastard a new one. Nolan only wished his motives were pure. That he wanted to find Andrew because the man had broken the law.

Or because he may have done irreparable damage to Carrington Security’s reputation. Or even because his actions would break Candace's heart.

No, right now Nolan despised Andrew for the simple reason that Andrew had probably just destroyed any chance Nolan had of winning Candace back.

Because he would hunt Andrew down. And he would turn him over to the authorities. He had to do it. Because it was his job and it was the right thing to do. But once he’d done it, Candace would never forgive him.

So instead of doing what he should do—which was march up to Candace’s doorstep and question her again—Nolan sat there eating his muffin and sipping his coffee as if his heart hadn’t just been ripped out of his chest. He was choking down another flaky bite of muffin when there was another knock on the window. He looked up, expecting to see Alyssa again.

Instead, it was Candace.

She stood shivering in a knobby cream sweater and a pair of wide-legged pants that looked far too thin for the cold. Her arms were wrapped around her waist, which—combined with the dark circles under her eyes—made her appear more drawn and frail than he knew her to be.

J.D. rolled down the window, looking sheepish as he said, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Candace crouched to talk through the open window. “Let’s have it,” she said.

“Have what?” J.D. sipped his coffee in a fair imitation of innocence.

“Whatever news you have.” She shifted her gaze pointedly from Nolan's car to the one behind it. “Obviously you had something to report or you wouldn’t be out here at six in the morning. If I get any more cop cars out here, the neighbors are going to start thinking we are selling crack out of the back bedroom.”

“We’re not police offi—”

“Whatever,” she snapped. “Neither of you blend well with the neighborhood.” She rolled her eyes in Nolan's direction. “Give that one a cape and people would mistake him for Captain America. Now tell me what you know.”

Nolan knew what she was really asking. She’d bid him not to come to her with evidence; she wanted proof. She didn’t want to know what he’d found out. She wanted to know if he had proof yet. He managed to choke down his turbulent emotions and finally meet Candace's eyes. “Go back inside. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She held his gaze for a long time. Her eyes were filled with concern, her face lined with exhaustion. Eventually, she nodded, turned and headed back for the house, muttering something about coffee.

As Nolan and J.D. climbed out of the car, J.D. asked, “So you want me to stay here?”

“No. Go back to the office. Let me know if you hear anything more from the FBI. But don’t share what you’ve found out with them for at least another day or so. We’ll just have to hope they’re confident enough with their own investigation that they don’t come to us for information before then.”

“And if they do?”

“Then give them the file. I don’t want to be accused of obstructing justice.” As he rounded the car and headed up Candace's walkway, he added, “And make sure the jet is gassed up and the pilot’s ready to go.”

J.D. nodded his understanding. “Flight plan?”

“Cayman Islands. As soon as possible,” he said grimly. “I’m going to go down there, find the bastard and drag him back.”

But first, he’d have to face Candace and decide whether or not to tell her the truth about her brother.

—-----------

Candace felt as if she hadn’t slept at all. Her eyelids burned as if they were lined with sandpaper, her throat was dry and swollen as if she’d been up all night crying, when in fact, she’d just been up most of the night trying not to cry. When she had slept, she’d drifted in and out, dreaming over and over again that she and Nolan were driving down a dark country road, the police lights flashing behind them. Except in the dream the person who pulled Nolan from the car wasn’t the sheriff but Andrew. And then an FBI agent would appear and arrest her and throw her in jail. And each time as she was pulled away and stuffed into the cop car, Nolan just stared at her with his impassive gaze void of emotion.

She was losing him all over again. Not that she’d had him. Not that she’d necessarily wanted him again. But for a few minutes last night, there seemed the possibility that she might one day earn his trust again. And during those few heady moments, her heart had soared.

After the evening and the night she’d had, she wasn’t up to contemplating what that meant for her emotionally. All she knew was that just now, when she’d gone out to his car, the look Nolan gave her said it clearly enough:

Andrew was in a whole big heap of trouble. And Nolan—being Nolan—was going to treat this mess with his unquestioning sense of honor.