The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [91]
“Even though I brought this mess to your door?”
“You’re not responsible for the truth being what it is. Just tell me that you didn’t ask me out because of my connection to your book.”
“I asked you out in spite of it,” he said honestly, and raised her fingers to his lips. He wanted to thank her for her generosity of spirit, wanted to comfort her, wanted to find a way to ease the painful emotions that must be churning inside her. Wanted to forget for a while that he was still a reporter and that he’d probably never uncover a story bigger than this one . . .
And so he said nothing but simply took a right onto Connecticut Avenue and headed toward the bridge that would take them to Arlington, thinking that for him, too, Dina was the best part of the whole mess. Both lost in their own thoughts, neither spoke until they reached their destination.
“Your development is really pretty,” Dina said as Simon drove through the faux Greek columns that stood at the entrance to the community of rented town houses that he temporarily called home.
“Thanks. It’s relatively quiet, too. There seem to be more single, executive types and young couples than families. I’ve only seen a few little kids around.” He made a left onto his street. “They have a nice recreation center—a pool and a very well equipped gym.”
“Do you use it?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “Gyms are for desk jockeys.”
Dina laughed, pleased that he had remembered the remark she made the first time they met.
“Nice landscaping,” she noted as she got out of the car. “A nice balance of shrubs and perennials, just enough trees . . .”
The mood had turned just a little lighter, for which Simon was grateful, for Dina’s sake. She’d dealt with the morning’s ghosts as best she could. He was thinking about how much he admired her strength as he went to put the key in the front door.
And realized that it was already open.
Not by much and not enough that you’d notice it from the street, but the door did in fact stand open by mere inches.
“Uh-oh,” he muttered.
He held out a hand to stop Dina from entering with him. Who knew who had been there, or why, or if they remained?
“Call nine-one-one on your cell phone. Tell them there’s been a break-in,” he said quietly.
“Are you serious? . . . Oh, my God, Simon, don’t go in there.”
He pushed the door aside far enough for them both to see inside, enough to know that someone had done far more than simply paid a visit. Tables and lamps were knocked over; cushions from the living room furniture were scattered about.
“Stay out here and call nine-one-one,” he repeated as he stepped into the hall. “And wait out there for the police to arrive.”
“Why is it safe for you to go in and not for me?” she asked as she dialed the number.
Ignoring her, Simon stepped inside, cautiously, one step at a time, though he was pretty sure that the person who’d broken in was long gone. There were no strange cars outside, and it wasn’t likely that someone would break in during daylight hours. Most likely, he was thinking, this had occurred during the night. His neighbors on the one side rarely arrived home before midnight and didn’t leave in the morning until after ten, and the town house on the other side had been vacant for two weeks.
The inside of the house was cool and silent. Simon paused in the hallway and listened for the sound of someone taking cover, but there was nothing to indicate that he was not alone in the house. He peered through the living room into the dining room. He’d been working on his laptop on the dining room table two nights ago, before he left for what he thought would be a day trip to the Pierce farm. It had never occurred to him to take the computer with him. But he could see from where he stood that it was gone.
“Shit!” he yelled to no one in particular. “Damn it!”
Dina ran through the door. “Simon . . . ?”
“My laptop is gone. Along with the disk that was in it.” He met Dina’s eyes from the next room. “The disk on which I’d kept a running