Better Off Dead

by Meryl Sawyer

“I’ve worked for the Four Seasons. Too corporate.” She mustered the smile that usually worked wonders on men. “Everything is by the book. No room for creativity.”

  Now this was an utter lie. She hadn’t applied to any of the large hotels because Warren had been concerned some visitor might be a person she’d known in the past. She doubted anyone would recognize her now, but Warren had insisted. Also larger offices were likely to be on higher floors with only one way out—a death trap.

  “Bury yourself in working class Honolulu,” had been Warren’s order. She’d taken the extra precaution of selecting a ground floor office with two exits.

  Three beats of silence. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She decided if she added anything more, she would sound defensive.

  “Do you have a home phone?” he asked.

  Her green eyes fixed him with a somber gaze. “No. I just use my cell. Later, you know, when I’m making more money, I guess I’ll get a regular phone.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Do you live alone?”

  She’d anticipated this question. Anyone who’d bothered to check her DMV application and knew she didn’t have a home phone number must have checked to see if she’d applied for electrical service. She had but she’d used another name.

  “I have a roommate,” she hedged, thinking of Zach. She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better go. Zach must be dry by now.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. One finger under her chin, he lifted her face to the light, taking her by surprise. Her heart seemed to soar into her throat. Only a scant inch separated their lips.

  “Devon, just where do you live?”

  She gazed into his eyes without wavering. “I prefer not to discuss this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say I moved here to get away from certain things. I want to maintain a very low profile.”

  Chad measured her for a moment, wondering just what she meant. Her explanations for his other questions had seemed reasonable. He thought she was telling the truth, but why wouldn’t she give her address?

  “Okay, I respect your right to privacy. Just answer one question.”

  She nodded a bit tentatively, he thought.

  “Are you wanted for some type of criminal activity?”

  “Of course not!”

  The mortified expression on her face convinced him in a second. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help wondering. Why else would you be so secretive?”

  “It’s personal,” she told him in a tremulous voice. “I haven’t done anything illegal. There’s someone I would rather never see again.”

  “Gotcha.” He should have guessed. A lover, an ex—there was a man in Devon’s life who’d made her miserable enough to leave her home and move thousands of miles away.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  His finger roamed the curve of her cheek. She wanted to pull away, but too much was at stake. She told him, “I’d like to be friends.”

  He rolled his shoulders as if stretching a tight muscle. The snug-fitting T-shirt pulled taut across the well-defined contours of his chest. She would bet her life no woman had asked to be just his friend.

  He was standing so close that she had to fight the urge to run. His hand slipped under her chin, forcing her to look directly into his eyes again. Even in the muted light on the terrace, it was impossible to miss the raw sensuality in his gaze.

  Friends. Chad groaned inwardly. Just what Keke had suggested. The hyena theory. S’okay, it might work for some guys, but it wasn’t his style. He’d been trying but it made him as frustrated as hell.

  “Sweetheart, I’ve got three sisters and all their friends. I don’t need another friend.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but before a word could slip out, he lowered his mouth to hers. He slid his strong fingers into the hair at the base of her neck and held her head in place. His tongue touched hers, and an unexpected surge of pleasure nearly buckled her knees.

  He pulled her close, his powerful body molding against her smaller frame with shocking sensuality. She allowed herself to be thoroughly kissed. It was part of the plan, wasn’t it? Get him to like her, believe her.

  He moved back as if to say something. Instead his lips brushed her ear, and she had to stifle a moan of pleasure. He tickled the soft lobe with his tongue.

  “I understand you’re trying to put a bad relationship behind you. I can wait. Just don’t think of me as a friend.”

  Suddenly her body seemed weak, and a strange excitement was building within her despite knowing this was wrong, dangerous. What he could do to her without half trying was amazing.

  His lips met hers again. The caress of his mouth, the solid feel of his body, pressing into softness stoked a primal urge to kiss him back. His hands scaled down her ribs, slid to her waist for a moment, and came to rest on her buttocks. He held her firmly against his erection.

  “Here’s Zach,” Rory called as he bounded out of the house, the retriever at his side.

  Devon pulled away, grateful for the interruption. Mission accomplished, she told herself. Chad had bought her explanation.

  She would have to hold him at bay. With luck, someone else would capture his interest. She would need to be careful. She couldn’t afford to let him get close. She was already responsible for one man’s death. She refused to cause another senseless murder.

  BROCK LEANED CLOSER to Jordan Walsh. They were in a booth at Tuscan Steak, his favorite restaurant in fun house Miami. Others might be trendier or have better known chefs, but the steak here was the best in town. He was on his third Knockando and Jordan was sipping her second Black Dahlia. She was getting a little tipsy, he decided. As soon as they ordered, he would broach the subject of selling the Gull Wing.

  “I always have the New York strip,” he told her.

  “Too big for me. I’ll take the petit filet rare.”

  “Wine?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Brock ordered an expensive ’89 Chateau Margaux with confidence. After all, it paid to make a good impression and he could tell Jordan was impressed.

  Let that asshole Horst Trensen IV eat his heart out. He’d hogged Jordan all day. Trensen had been blown away when Brock had walked over and reminded Jordan that he would meet her in the lobby at eight.

  “How’d you enjoy your first show?” Brock asked after the waiter had taken their orders.

  “Exciting. Very exciting. My feet are killing me.”

  “It’s a lot of work. It gets rougher the longer you’re on the circuit.”

  “I can just imagine.” She took a sip of her martini with those pouty lips. “I like it, though. I’ve always wanted to have a one-of-a-kind car.”

  That makes two of us. He took a peek at her tits just visible at the neckline of the moss-green dress she was wearing. He could taste them. Just wait until he got her up to his room.

  “Do you think you’ll sell your Gull Wing?” he asked.

  “Why would I do that? I want to buy another special car. Did you see the crowd? I had more people than anyone.”

  “I thought you might get bored doing shows.”

  “I love the shows. How else could I meet interesting men like you?”

  He could see that he was going to have to have his new agent, Operative 77, take care of this broad—after he’d had some fun with her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BY THE TIME BROCK brought Jordan up to his room, he was half in the bag. Three Scotches and the wine put him over his limit. Over Jordan’s, too. He had absolutely no trouble getting her up here.

  Thank God she hadn’t wanted to take in South Beach’s infamous club scene. Strobe lights and techno music always put him in a foul mood. He had no use for degenerates with easy money and nothing better to do than stay up all night dancing.

  “Fucking A,” he muttered under his breath.

  The message light on his telephone console was blinking. Who in hell would be calling him? Operative 77 had a
lready contacted him, and Brock didn’t have any ongoing projects that would merit a call unless there had been a security breach and Obelisk needed him.

  “Just a minute,” he told Jordan. “Let me pick up this message.”

  “I’ll fix us a nightcap.”

  She trundled off toward the bar, her sexy legs none too steady on those spiked heels. He smiled to himself, imagining her buck naked in bed.

  “It’s Cassidy. Call me immediately,” said the voice mail.

  Call him now? It couldn’t be a security breach. Obelisk’s CFO always handled those problems. Cassidy was merely a face man. The message had been left two hours ago. It was late, but Brock knew better than to ignore the prick’s call.

  He grabbed the handheld phone and walked out onto the balcony so he would have some privacy. Cassidy answered on the first ring.

  “About the Robbins woman,” Cassidy said the minute Brock identified himself. “Did you check name stew?”

  “Of course,” Brock said as calmly as possible. What a piss off. Name stew was lists of names from book clubs, magazines, DVD Web sites, political parties, churches—you name it. He kept track of name stew with a special soft ware program, and Cassidy knew it. This was just his way of jerking Brock’s chain.

  He was suddenly hit by a gut-wrenching thought. Maybe Cassidy wasn’t giving him a hard time. Cassidy reported to a group of wealthy men who were behind Obelisk. Their names were supposed to be top secret, but Brock knew exactly who they were. When he returned to his office, he would check the reverse ID he had on Cassidy’s telephone and see who he’d spoken with lately.

  “If you check newer subscriptions to Vanity Fair and the Smithsonian, you might find her.”

  “And Dog Fancy. When she was in Santa Fe, she was also taking a dog magazine. I checked them. Nothing yet.” Cassidy was such a dumb-fuck. “Anything else?”

  “This has gone on too long. I want that tap installed immediately. I double-checked Robbins’s phone records from Houston. She spoke to her sister twice a week during the last few years. She’s calling her now. Get on it.”

  “I have a better idea. I’ll explain when I return.” Brock hung up, something he would never have done a month ago, a week ago, even yesterday. But now he had the top secret device. He’d stored it in the small safe in the closet along with his computer. He hadn’t had a chance to test it yet.

  Meanwhile he had conceived a brilliant, foolproof plan to find the bitch.

  “What’s going on out there?” Jordan asked.

  He turned, smiling. She’d taken off her shoes and had a snifter of Le Paradis cognac in each had. The woman had expensive tastes. He didn’t mind as long as she sold him the Gull Wing.

  “A business call. Not important.” He took the snifter from her extended hand. “Isn’t this a great view?”

  Jordan sidled up to him, a little bleary-eyed. He hoped she didn’t pass out before he got her in bed.

  “I have the same view from my room. It’s awesome.”

  He swigged his cognac to kill a caustic remark. Sometimes she was just a little too uppity. The thought of Operative 77 slitting her throat warmed his stomach like the fine cognac.

  Brock gazed at the view. Directly below was the Delano’s long rectangular pool. A couple was fucking doggy style on a chaise. That’s why he hated SoBe. No class. Wannabe models by the hundreds, drag queens, exiled dictators, drug addicts and Eurotrash.

  He preferred Coral Gables, the bastion of WASP power until the Cuban invasion. Now even Coral Gables was more South American than American. A friggin’ shame.

  The Biltmore, the crown jewel of Coral Gables, was his kind of hotel. It had been designed by the same team who created the Waldorf-Astoria. An architectural triumph frequented by classy people with impeccable backgrounds.

  Like a glistening silver ribbon, the beach beyond the swimming pool caught the moonlight. Waves tumbled onto the shore like dice. That’s what he was doing.

  Rolling the dice.

  He wanted Kilmer Cassidy’s big corner office and the leggy blond secretary who undoubtedly serviced him on that black leather sofa. Cassidy was just another suit. In contrast Brock had the cunning instincts of a predatory animal. Obelisk was a secret agency funded with money misdirected from military projects and controlled by a pack of thieves who were already wealthy. Brock could run the operation better than Cassidy.

  Jordan interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve got a view for you that’s better than the one you’re looking at.”

  He turned and saw she’d slipped out of her dress. She was standing next to him in a green thong and a lacy push-up bra that matched her dress. He was hot and achingly hard before he could draw a breath. She turned and flashed her perfect ass. It had a small tattoo of a black widow spider.

  Brock almost belted out a roaring laugh. This broad was totally clueless. She probably thought she was some femme fatale. What he could teach her about death! He caressed her smooth ass with his fingertips.

  He dumped their snifters of cognac in the potted palm and ripped off the small swatch of fabric that passed for panties. Quick as a snake, her fingers were inside his pants. She clamped her hand around his cock and pumped him hard. He screwed her, standing up on the balcony.

  BROCK WOKE UP the next day. It felt as if someone had tried to take off the top of his head with a chainsaw. Sunlight blinded him and all the white in the room only made it worse. For a second, he didn’t remember where he was.

  Ugh. The Delano with all its white walls, white drapes, white furniture. White. White. White. No wonder his head ached. This would never happen at the Biltmore.

  “Jordan,” he mumbled, suddenly recalling raw sex on the balcony. Where was she?

  He was naked in bed. Alone. He braved a glance around the room but saw no evidence Jordan had ever been there.

  His gaze fell on the digital clock on the nightstand. Shit! It couldn’t be one o’clock. Could it?

  This was the final day of the car show. It would close at three and the cars would be loaded for shipping. He had to shower and shave and get across town in traffic that was constantly gridlocked.

  He swung his legs to the floor, and his stomach took a sickening upward lurch. He stumbled across the whitewashed floor to the bathroom, his head spinning, and vomited. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, sweat drenching his body.

  “No wonder they pronounce Knockando No Can Do. Three scotches puts you on your ass.”

  He grabbed a washcloth, wet it and crawled on all fours back to the bed. He lay there for almost an hour, the cool washcloth over his eyes. He’d never had a hangover this bad.

  “Never mix the grape and the grain,” he recalled his father warning him. Sick bastard had been a major boozer. Jack Daniel’s straight up. A bottle a night. The blowhard probably knew what he was talking about.

  Brock wondered how Jordan was doing. It gave him a perverse sense of pleasure to imagine her suffering the way he was. She was great in bed. Majorly kinky.

  “Wait a minute.”

  He didn’t actually remember her in bed. His last memory was pounding into her body as he had her backed up against the wall of the balcony. They probably had progressed to the bed, but he didn’t remember it.

  “Shit!”

  He hated not being in control. How could he have let it happen?

  THERE WAS A TERSE MESSAGE for Brock from Kilmer Cassidy, when he returned to his office in the underground bunker at Obelisk. He was still queasy from yesterday’s hangover. He doubted he could ever drink single malt Scotch again.

  By the time he’d gotten his act together and arrived at the convention center, the show was over and the cars were being loaded into transport trucks. Jordan’s one-of-a-kind Gull Wing was already gone. She wasn’t around, either. He still intended to get his hands on her car, but first he had to deal with Cassidy.

  If he’d tested the DoD device, Brock could tell off the prick, but he’d had to load up his cars and get them safely back to thei
r warehouse in Washington. By the time he did, it was late, and he was too beat to test anything.

  Brock shivered as he shrugged into his microfiber jacket and gloves. Sometimes the need to cool the hyper-sensitive equipment was a pain in the ass. When he had Cassidy’s office, he could wear thousand-dollar suits instead of a dull gray jacket.

  He stalled, not wanting to see Cassidy, and checked his messages. Nothing important. He took out the handheld device and put it in his desk drawer and locked it. He plugged in his laptop to the flat screen monitor and Ergonomic keyboard.

  He preferred working on the laptop to any of the computers in the room. The laptop had all the info the other computers had—and more. He plugged in the reverse caller ID and accessed Kilmer Cassidy’s records.

  With a special software program he’d designed, he compared hundreds of calls from Cassidy’s office and came up with a list of names in minutes. Most were Obelisk employees. None were from any of the coven of wealthy jerk-offs who actually owned Obelisk.

  Smiling to himself, Brock accessed Cassidy’s cell phone records. Bingo. Six calls to retired General Bashford Olofson. Bash to his buddies. The former army officer had made a fortune after his retirement by supplying mercenary soldiers to train Third World armies.

  Then Bash had concocted a more lucrative scheme—divert funds from legitimate military projects to Obelisk. It was set up to appear to be a super secret government organization devoted to combating terrorism. In the post 9/11 era, the cloak of government secrecy was sacred. Obelisk employees signed confidentiality agreements, believing they were working for an elite arm of Homeland Security.

  Olofson was the one prompting Cassidy to put the heat on to find the Robbins bitch. The general had ties to PowerTec executives Rutherford and Ames. They were weak sisters who would roll over on Olofson if Samantha Robbins wasn’t taken care of properly.

  Brock decided to go to the general directly as soon as he’d tested the DoD’s new infrared device rather than confront Cassidy. The revolutionary gadget would fascinate the general. Brock’s innovative idea of how to deal with the bitch would assure him of Olofson’s backing to take over Kilmer Cassidy’s position.