Aimpoint by Candace Irving (best mystery novels of all time .TXT) 📗

don't know. There's a mystery or two left there."

"Really?"

She nodded. "How you both met, for one."

That damned dimpled fold cut in. She swore he'd intentionally weaponized it against her. "You mean you didn't ask him?"

They both knew she had. But she could play pretend, too. Better than he, in fact. She didn't have that lovely pulse point to rat out her true emotions. The captain really did not want to discuss this. Too bad. "As a matter of fact, I did ask. But it was at the end of our interview and he was in rush." She pushed forth a light shrug as she reached for her tea. "He left it to you to fill in the details."

They both knew it was a lie. Just as they both knew he couldn't afford to risk piquing her "reporter's" curiosity more than it already had been by calling her out on that lie.

He smiled instead—with nary a dimpled crease in sight. "Okay, then." He retrieved his tea, using the cup as she had. As a shield. "We met in Kabul. I was a first lieutenant at the time, dealing with a warlord who'd become a real pain in the Army's ass. I'd heard about a Turkish colonel who was tight with him." He nodded. "Ertonç. He also had a rep as an ass, but I probably did too, so it evens out. Anyway, I paid Ertonç a visit, did something to show due deference to the man, and he was impressed enough to make the intro I needed with the warlord. Even vouched for me." Garrison returned his cup to the table without taking a sip. "That's about it."

The hell it was. That vague little tale created more questions than answers and he knew it. "What exactly did you do for the general?"

Silence greeted that question, followed by an enigmatic shrug.

The shadows were back too. The complicated ones that clouded his stare with an intensity she wasn't comfortable with. For his sake.

Time to lighten the mood.

She tapped the rim of her cup and teased, "Tea? Aren't you supposed to woo a woman with fine food and a finer wine?"

Instead of easing, the shadows multiplied…and deepened. What on earth had she said now?

Unfortunately, silence greeted that unspoken question as well. She was contemplating the best way to break it when he offered up another one of those enigmatic shrugs. "I only drink when I'm depressed—very depressed—which I am definitely not at the moment. Besides," he reached for his own tea, toasting her with the cup as he made a visible effort to haul himself out of this latest, inexplicably murky quagmire. "I'm on call while the general's in town."

Of that, she was all too aware. But because of his collateral man Friday duties? Or did Garrison's previously admitted concerns for Sergeant LaCroix—and the things LaCroix needed to work out—play into his vigilance, too?

It was as good an opening as any. "Speaking of the general—" She retrieved her chopsticks and prepared a bite. "I saw something odd this morning."

"What's that?"

"A look. Just before that speech. Between you and your houseguest. It wasn't friendly."

"Ah, that. It was nothing. A work-related issue that's been settled."

Another lie between them. Nor did she need a telltale pulse to know it. It was in the sudden tension in his grip on that cup.

Instinct had her pushing it. Ruthlessly. "That's good, I suppose. It's just— I've been thinking about the guy off and on today. Well, since that speech. I thought that, perhaps…" She trailed off deliberately, left the bait jiggling about for several beats before she shook her head. "I guess not."

Oh, yeah, she'd hooked him.

The captain actually leaned toward her, then stopped, holding himself rigid as he waited. Until, finally, "You thought what?"

"Carys." This time, she simply dropped bait in the water…and waited.

Confusion nibbled first. Then suspicion. And then, the bite. The one she'd been counting on. Full-on jealousy. "Carys? You spent the day thinking about Evan and his fiancée?"

"Yes and no. It was a weird morning. In several ways. When I arrived at the auditorium, I bumped into some sergeant. He mistook me for the woman. Called me by her name, in fact. He seemed stunned that I was wearing an Army uniform—until he realized I wasn't her. I guess… Well, I didn't realize I look so much like her. According to that sergeant, I'm her twin. You didn't tell me that last night." She tinged that last with hurt and more than a bit of accusation.

"Who was it?"

"The soldier?" She shook her head, added a furrowed frown. "I didn't catch his name. He was wearing an SF tab, though. Does that help?"

"Doesn't matter. He was probably with LaCroix in Syria last year. Hence, his surprise over your uniform. Carys was Scottish."

"You do know her then?"

"No. I was in Yemen when Peace Spring went down. I've never even seen a photo of the woman, so I have no idea how much she may, or may not, have resembled you." He reached up, his fingers catching a stray strand of her hair as his remaining jealousy ebbed beneath the clearly welcomed balm she'd offered in the form of her own vulnerability. He tucked the strand behind her ear. "Okay?"

"Okay."

He sat back, staring at her…and, yet, not. He appeared to be looking through her. He nodded to himself, as though something had clicked.

"What is it?"

"Hmm?" His vision cleared. Focused. He seemed surprised she'd read him so easily. "It's nothing."

It was definitely something. Someone. LaCroix.

Unfortunately, she'd pushed it as far as she could. For now.

"Besides, it wouldn't matter if I'd met Carys." He reached for the bamboo spoon in the wok to help himself to seconds.

"Why's that?"

"You're the only woman I've ever cooked for." He glanced at her plate, still burdened with her first serving. "Though I'm not sure you think it tastes as good as it smells."

"I do." She used her chopsticks to prove it. "The only woman, huh? I'm not sure I believe that."

"It's true. Well, except for