Not on His Watch

by Cassie Miles

  She glanced up at him. “Is something wrong?”

  It was hard to sneak anything past her. “I’m just looking around, enjoying your city.”

  The man in the windbreaker stayed a good distance away, a few stairs behind them, doing a fairly good job of hiding among the visitors to the Art Institute.

  “Miss Natalie, do you mind if I take a gander at those shops across the street?”

  “Not at all. And, by the way, I prefer when you call me Natalie. ‘Miss Natalie’ doesn’t suit me.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” As they backtracked down the stairs, Quint watched the black windbreaker. Would he follow them?

  The man with the Vandyke continued up the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of the columns. He must be just an innocent tourist, here to appreciate fine art.

  When they reached the curb, Quint said, “Changed my mind. I’ll shop for souvenirs later. Let’s go see some art.”

  “Fine.”

  A slight edge of irritation crept through her professional politeness, and Quint figured he was driving this lady crazy.

  Inside the Art Institute, Quint felt relatively safe. There were plenty of guards on every floor. Nobody was going to grab Natalie in here.

  He allowed himself to relax.

  “What sort of art do you like?” Natalie asked. “Old masters? Asian? Photography?”

  “I like Remington.”

  “Pictures of cowboys,” she said. “Of course.”

  In his wildcatting years, Quint had blown through life like a Texan tumbleweed. He’d viewed art collections around the world from the Louvre in Paris to the Georgia O’Keefe Gallery in Santa Fe. In fact, he’d visited the Art Institute of Chicago once before.

  As they toured the postmodernists, he stopped in front of a painting by Edward Hopper depicting a night scene of a near-deserted cafeteria on a city street corner. “Must be lonely living in the city,” he said. “After the crowds go home, there’s nothing but you and the concrete walls.”

  “Sometimes, it’s lonelier in a crowd,” she said.

  He stepped back, supposedly to get a better perspective on the painting. His gaze rested on the back of Natalie’s head. Her smooth, thick, brown hair fell in a delicate swoosh to her shoulders. Highlights of gold shimmered in the light. Her hair looked soft, touchable. He hated to think she might be lonely.

  In another part of the gallery, he paused in front of the famous portrait by Grant Wood of a bald farmer with a pitchfork and his plain wife, American Gothic. “They look bored.”

  “Not much action on the old homestead,” she said.

  “Depends on your viewpoint. I’ve spent a whole afternoon on horseback, watching the prairie grass grow and the clouds roll by. But I wasn’t bored.”

  “No?”

  “Sameness is a comfort, knowing that every morning the sun is going to rise in the east. Whether or not I’m there to watch, the clouds will build and the rain will fall. I don’t need a lot of excitement to be content.”

  For once, she didn’t sneer or smirk. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “I can appreciate the stillness in nature. The touch of the wind on your face. The amazing beauty of a pink sunset.” She nodded toward the old couple in the painting. “Maybe they’re the smart ones. Knowing what to expect. Being together no matter what.”

  “I like that,” he said. He liked her, too. He wanted to take her to his ranch and show her the vistas that went on forever until you could see the curve of the earth. Natalie would enjoy ranch life. From the way she handled those threatening notes, he knew she was tough and brave—not a sissy.

  She was a city gal with a highly competitive nature. She didn’t like to be second best, and she wasn’t shy about stating her opinions. If she came to his ranch, she’d likely be running the damn place within a week.

  When Quint turned away from the painting, he glimpsed a face—shaggy hair and a Vandyke beard. It was the guy from the street, but he wasn’t wearing his black windbreaker. Was he following? Was his presence a coincidence?

  The cell phone inside Natalie’s purse rang out, and she quickly grabbed it. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I hate to interrupt anyone’s appreciation of these paintings.”

  “Don’t worry on my account.”

  She stepped into the foyer and conferred in hushed tones. After she disconnected the call, she returned to him. “We have to leave. Prince Zahir arrived a week early. He’s at Quantum.”

  Chapter Three

  The unexpected arrival of Zahir Haji Haleem sparked a warning inside Quint’s head, and he tried to recall the details from this morning’s Confidential briefing when they discussed Middle Eastern politics. He remembered that Zahir—identical twin brother of Javid—was estranged from his family in Anbar but was still referred to by his hereditary title of Prince of Anbar. He had a reputation as a playboy. Zahir expected to be named leader of Nurul. What else? There was a connection between Prince Zahir and Sheik Khalaf of Imad. In fact, Zahir was planning to marry Khalaf’s daughter so he could be sure of taking over the throne of Nurul.

  As their taxi neared the Quantum Building, Quint thought it might be useful to have a backup expert at this meeting with Zahir. “Say, Natalie, don’t you think Whitney would get a kick out of meeting a real prince? Maybe we should call her.”

  “Absolutely not.” Natalie was all business. She’d spent the whole time in the cab on her cell phone, making arrangements with her staff. “The fewer people at this meeting, the better. It’s important to avoid any publicity. Until the Quantum board of directors decides our position regarding oil purchases from Nurul, we can’t be placed in a position where reporters would ask those questions.”

  “Why not tell the media the truth?”

  “Protocol.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a tiny gold mirror and lipstick. “Zahir is, in title, a prince. As such, we should treat him with a certain deference. At the same time, we need to avoid any substantive discussion of policy.”

  “You’re the expert,” he said. “Why do you think Prince Zahir showed up early?”

  “My guess? He wants to force our hand, to make Quantum commit to using Nurul as a supplier before he’s even on the throne. His early arrival throws us off guard.”

  “An ambush,” Quint said.

  “Exactly.”

  As she outlined her lips with a soft cranberry color, he watched the purely feminine procedure with fascination. Her pretty mouth pouted then smiled, showing pearly white teeth. Damn, she was a lovely little thing. He wanted to kiss that war paint off her lips, to taste her womanly sweetness. His pulse speeded up. He felt the stirring of desire, numbing all logical thought, and he told himself to look away from her. But his eyes refused to obey. It was going to be a struggle to keep his brain above his belt buckle.

  When the taxi pulled up at the curb, she suggested, “I’m going to be awfully busy for the next few hours. Maybe you should return to your hotel, and we can make plans for tomorrow.”

  No way. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just tag along. You think the prince is going to wear his native costume? Long flowing robes and a scimitar?”

  “Doubtful. From research, I know he prefers western dress.” She hopped out of the cab. “Not western like you, of course.”

  Quint adjusted the bolo tie at his throat. “Of course not.”

  Inside the Quantum Building, they took the elevator to the thirty-first floor and went down the hall to her father’s office. Though this was nearly the end of a long day, Natalie’s attitude was crisp and alert. She’d been given a public relations challenge and had risen to it. By contrast, Quint felt ill-prepared. Still thinking about her cranberry lips, he could barely remember his own name, much less recall the pertinent data about Zahir…until he shook hands with the handsome prince in his classy-looking tailored suit and silk necktie.

  When Quint looked into the dark opaque eyes of Zahir, he remembered. Zahir was dangerous. He’d been t
rained as a freedom fighter in a regime where cruelty was sometimes prized as much as courage.

  Quint’s instincts warned him to shoot this rattlesnake before it had a chance to strike, but he kept himself in control. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Zahir waited a few seconds before responding, a subtle tactic to make the other person uncomfortable. But Quint didn’t fidget or rush to break their handshake. He wasn’t intimidated by Zahir.

  “I know you,” Zahir said, echoing the words of his brother when he first met Quint. Déjà sheik. This was getting a little spooky.

  Quint played his part by saying, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I know your reputation as a wildcat oil surveyor. You are, I suppose, my competition.”

  In more ways than one. Quint was up-front, honest and direct. He would always try to do the right thing. Zahir, he reckoned, was out for Zahir.

  If Quint hadn’t been undercover, he would’ve pushed for more information about links to Imad and a true definition of “freedom fighter.” Did Zahir’s secret occupation include the slaughter of helpless women and children? Was he also a secret terrorist? And, by the way, what did he know about a bomb in Reykjavik?

  But this wasn’t the time to pick a fight. Quint’s job meant blending inoffensively into the woodwork. He released Zahir’s hand and slapped a friendly grin on his face. “Heck, I’m not much competition for anybody in the oil business. Right now, I concentrate on ranching. I like to keep my butt in the saddle from dawn till dusk.”

  “What brings you to Chicago?”

  Same thing that brought you. “Just a little vacation. I’ve been imposing on the public relations lady here at Quantum to show me around.”

  “Natalie,” Zahir said.

  Quint didn’t like the way the syllables of her name rolled around in Zahir’s mouth. “That’s right. Natalie Van Buren.”

  “Daughter of the CEO.” Zahir’s glance slithered across the room toward Natalie, who was chatting with her father and another Quantum employee. “A very pretty woman.”

  Quint’s muscles tensed. “Looks to me like you’ve got your own entourage.”

  Zahir was accompanied by three attractive ladies and a bland guy who looked like a classic hanger-on.

  “It’s the title,” Zahir confided proudly. “All women dream of being with a prince, and I hate to disappoint them.”

  “You married?” Quint asked.

  “Not yet. Soon however I will be—a bride is necessary before I ascend to the throne of Nurul. It will be merely a political marriage.”

  Again, his gaze strayed toward Natalie, and Quint had the urge to smack him upside his handsome face. His impulse was stifled by the arrival of the man Natalie and her father had been talking to.

  He introduced himself. “Gordon Doeller, vice president in charge of marketing. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before, Prince Zahir.”

  “Indeed,” Zahir said.

  Though Zahir presented a decidedly cool face to Gordon Doeller, Quint noticed a nervous spark between them. He reckoned these two men were more than nodding acquaintances, and made a mental note to have Gordon Doeller checked out through the computers back at Solutions, Inc.

  Gordon didn’t look like a bad guy. He was all angles, from his flattop haircut to his square-toed shoes. His shoulders and torso formed a perfect rectangle. A straightforward guy. But looks could be deceiving.

  Natalie clapped her hands, drawing their attention. “Prince Zahir,” she said, “we are honored by your visit to Quantum and have prepared a simple reception upstairs in the penthouse. Would you all please come with me.”

  Quint made a point of being on the same elevator as Zahir and Natalie. He watched with satisfaction as the prince made smoldering advances toward her, and Natalie politely kept him in his place. Every woman wants a prince? Obviously, not Natalie! She was a professional public relations person, able to put everyone at ease and make them feel accepted. And to rebuff unwanted attention.

  In the penthouse lounge where several windows offered an impressive view of the city, Natalie had arranged via cell phone for canapés, snacks and an open bar for beverages. Several Quantum employees milled around, waiting to meet the prince, who was escorted toward a comfortable sofa by Natalie’s father.

  “Nice job putting this together,” Quint complimented her.

  “It wasn’t hard,” she said. “We have a chef on payroll, and he’s accustomed to quick receptions. Getting the employees to hang out was probably more difficult, but Maria Luisa can be incredibly persuasive.”

  “I’m still impressed,” he said.

  She whispered, “I had to act quickly. To head off the ambush.”

  He liked that she was confiding in him. Maybe she was only being nice to him because of her job, but he still appreciated her talent. He appreciated her…a lot.

  She made a flicking motion with her hand. “Go mingle.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” If she’d asked him to jump out of the penthouse window, he might have given her suggestion serious consideration.

  NATALIE STOOD at the edge of a conversation, not really listening as she sipped her Perrier with a lime twist and considered the possibility of eating something. The crab cakes, miniquiches and assorted hors d’oeuvres looked appetizing, and she needed caloric sustenance. But when she reached for a thin cracked-wheat cracker brushed with Asiago cheese, she pulled back her fingers. The inside of her stomach felt like a pinball machine—an unfortunate reaction to the stress of Zahir’s surprise visit.

  She couldn’t fault her staff for the way they’d responded—they’d created a simple reception for the prince without alerting the press and thereby pressuring Quantum to take a position on future dealings with Nurul or questions about Imad. Their work had been satisfactory and things had gone smoothly. All lines of protocol remained intact. Why, then, was she feeling so edgy? Was it her forced association with Quint?

  Glancing around the room, she spotted him easily. In his cowboy boots, he towered above everyone else. Though he interacted with perfect manners, he seemed to stand apart. A stillness surrounded him. Yet, she sensed, he was not at peace. His body language bespoke a certain tension. Even when he grinned, his jawline was taut. Occasionally, his gaze drifted, and he squinted as if searching a distant horizon.

  Natalie found herself wondering about this habit. Though he made his money in oil, he was also a rancher. She imagined him on horseback, tall in the saddle as he surveyed his lands and tended the little lost calves gone astray. He was a natural protector—solid and reliable, staring into the distance, anticipating the arrival of wolves and predators. But now, he was in the city. What was he looking for?

  When her father touched her elbow, Natalie startled, spilling a lithe cascade of Perrier on his sleeve. “Sorry, Henry. I didn’t see you coming.”

  Brushing off his sleeve, he said, “Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’m going to have cameras installed in your office.”

  Her reverie of Quint and his ranch vanished as she snapped back to reality. Natalie didn’t like the idea of being under constant surveillance. Most especially, she didn’t want protection dictated by her father. It felt like he was asking for a baby monitor.

  “Why in my office?”

  “The package you received today—the one you handed over to your friend, Whitney—didn’t come through the mail room. It was hand delivered.”

  “The hall cameras must have—”

  “Our security men reviewed the tapes. A couple of times, the door to Maria Luisa’s office opened and closed, but they couldn’t identify anyone going in or coming out.”

  “Not even after they paused and enhanced the image?” Natalie asked.

  “Nothing definite. And, of course, there were people who had legitimate reasons to enter your office. The guy from the mail room. One of your assistants. Gordon Doeller.” He exhaled a slightly ragged sigh. “I’m worried about you.”

  Which was exactly why she didn’t want special security
measures. All her life, Natalie had struggled with accusations of nepotism. Of course, she’d ascended through the ranks at Quantum more quickly than someone not named Van Buren. She was the youngest vice president and the only female one at corporate headquarters. Still, her job performance justified her position. She worked hard and was more than competent.

  She asked, “If someone else—Gordon Doeller, for example—had received these threats, would you insist on a camera in his office?”

  Her father’s hesitation provided an answer.

  “I thought not,” Natalie said. “Please understand, Henry. I don’t want an office camera. It’s an unnecessary expense, and I need privacy.”

  Henry scowled. “What for?”

  “Sensitive aspects of public relations. I might leak information to one reporter and not another. My staff meetings need to be confidential. I don’t want a record of everything I do.”

  She thought of her confrontation with Quint this morning. Their game of grab-the-package would have made embarrassing viewing for a bored security guard. “Please, Henry. Respect my wishes.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She and her father moved forward to say their goodbyes to Prince Zahir and his entourage, who were preparing to take their leave. As if she’d needed further confirmation that her position at Quantum was unique, the prince singled her out for his attention.

  He clasped her hand, then lifted her fingertips to his lips. His dark eyes devoured her with an embarrassing, lip-smacking lasciviousness.

  Though she had to admit that he was impeccably handsome, she wasn’t swept away. The exotic fragrance of his cologne, reminiscent of sandalwood and sage, was too strong for her taste. His features were too perfect. His voice oozed like rancid oil. Also, as Zahir admitted himself, he was engaged. She snatched her hand from his grasp. What a creep!

  “Until we meet again, Natalie.”

  Crisply, she lied, “I look forward to it.”