Riptide

it, boss."
    "No smoking."
    Silence.

    Becca said very quietly, "Who is Krimakov?"
    Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing
    in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he'd
    spent his first night in Jacob Marley's house. She'd opened the door
    and he hadn't heard a thing. He was losing it.
    "Who is Krimakov?"
    He said easily, "He's a drug dealer who used to be involved with
    the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He's dead now."
    "What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?"
    "I don't know. Why did you open the door without knocking,
    Becca?"
    "I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going
    on. I knew you wouldn't tell me. I also came up to get you for
    breakfast. It's ready downstairs. You're still lying. This doesn't have
    anything to do with drug dealing."
    He had the gall to shrug.
    "If I had my kitchen knife, I'd run at you, right this minute."
    "And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can't you just
    accept that I'm here to do a job and that job is to make sure that
    you don't get wiped out? Get off your high horse."

He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him
    still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with
    four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. "I told you I wouldn't hurt
    you," he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn't
    have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his
    teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn't gay, he supposed
    he couldn't blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up
    his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned
    his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.
    "Who are you?"
    He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he nipped the sheet and
    blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow
    that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.
    When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She'd
    heard Krimakov's name. It didn't matter. She'd never hear it again.
    The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free.
    To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn't Thomas said
    anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and
    headed downstairs.
    She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon,
    just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch's fantasies,
    the fresh cantaloupe she'd sliced, ripe and sweet.
    Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had
    a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that
    much down.
    He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, "What
    is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? By God,
    could it be that you're sulking?"
    That got her, just as he hoped it would.
    "How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of
    your neck?"

He grinned at her and saluted with his coffee cup. "I wouldn't
    like that at all. At least you're speaking to me again. Look, Becca,
    I'm just trying to find out what's going on. Everyone is floating a
    lot of ideas, a lot of names. Now we have this skeleton."
    He was so slippery, she'd bet if he were a pig in a greased pig
    contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.
    "Who were you telling not to smoke?"
    "Hatch. He's my main assistant. He has more contacts than a
    centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except
    when it comes to cigarettes and loose women.That's the way I
    can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire
    him if he lights up."
    "But I heard you tell him to put out the cigarette. Obviously he's
    still smoking. And he knew you were on the other end of the line."
    "Yeah. It's more a game now than anything else. He lights up
    just to hear me blow."
    "Did he find out anything about the skeleton? What's this about
    DNA testing? They think they know who that poor girl was?"
    He stretched, drank down the last of his coffee, carefully set the
    cup on the table, then stood up.
    She was on her feet in the next instant. Two fast steps and she
    was in his face. She was fast, he'd give her that, and she was mad.
    He was grinning down at her when she slammed her fist in his
    belly. Becca felt her face turning red. "Damn you, you will not treat
    me like a cipher, like I'm a moron who isn't even important
    enough to talk to. Who are you?"
    He grabbed her wrist. "That was a good shot. No, don't hit me
    again or I'll have to do something. I want to keep those