His practiced eye roved ceaselessly as he smoked with steady movements of his large, capable hands, remaining out of the traffic pattern against the wall of the administration offices. He was dressed to be inconspicuous: his wheat colored corduroy jeans and oxford cloth shirt blended in well with the preppy casual wear of the law students surrounding him. Even so, he moved behind a tree to get a better look. He knew that he drew the eye, and had found it to be a disadvantage in his business. Anyone studying him too closely would have seen that he was at least ten years older than most of those on campus, with lines bracketing his eyes and finely molded mouth to prove it. His features were hard, sculptured, set in a dusky, high cheekboned face. He tapped ash onto the ground and pushed back a wayward lock of thick black hair with his other hand.
He tensed suddenly, tossing away his cigarette and grinding the butt under his heel. There she was: Patria’s niece. He recognized her immediately from the picture in her uncle’s file. Both her height and the color of her hair distinguished her from her peers. She was tall and slim, with waist length auburn hair. She was attired like her comrades in jeans and boots with a turtleneck green sweater. Devlin’s sharp, catlike gaze followed the lithe form as she ran lightly up the steps of the lecture hall and disappeared.
Devlin leaned away from the tree trunk and followed her inside at a leisurely pace, fast enough to track but not fast enough to attract attention. Her class was in B-12 on the second floor. He merged with the flow of people heading for the upper level.
At the entrance to B-12 Devlin paused casually and looked inside. She was not there. He lingered past starting time, past the arrival of the professor and the closing of the door. Devlin sighed and glanced around at the empty hall. Patria’s niece was cutting class.
Well, she had to be in here somewhere. He knew that the law library was at the end of the wing, and that was a good place to sit out a skipped session. Devlin sauntered toward the double glass doors, running over the floor plan in his mind, heedless of the snatches of conversation and lectures he heard as he passed open doorways. When in pursuit of prey he was oblivious to other matters.
Devlin’s lips twisted in annoyance when he saw the library’s interior. The place was big, and mobbed. She could be anywhere. Devlin muttered inwardly but began to pace the vast main room unobtrusively. He had been trained to be methodical.
He finally found her at a table by herself in the back, in the little used periodicals section. Her head was bent over a thick volume, her bright hair cascading over her shoulders like a flaming waterfall. She was very still.
Devlin stopped beside a study carrel, watching her from a distance. If he hadn’t known that she was twenty-five and a third year law student, he would have guessed her age at no more than eighteen or nineteen. Her face appeared devoid of makeup, her mouth a shell pink bud unadorned by lipstick. Long lashes obscured her downcast eyes.
Devlin drifted closer, drawn inexorably toward his quarry. This girl was his entrée into Patria’s world. She was only a few feet away from him now, and he moved with feline stealth. Abruptly, he stopped in shock.
She was crying. While she pretended to read, silvery tears slipped down her pale, set face. Only the slightest tremor of her lower lip betrayed the inner turmoil she must be feeling.
Devlin withdrew, disturbed. He walked around the shelves and paused by a window to look out at the fall day, his face thoughtful. Something about that lonely figure, weeping in stoic silence, had touched a chord of sympathy deep within him. Her obvious fragility, combined with the innate dignity that compels the proud to disguise their own misery, moved him. Angela Patria for all her dirty money was not happy, and he was surprised to discover how much that bothered him.
Then Devlin made a soft, disgusted sound, turning away from the autumn scene before him. He couldn’t allow emotions to interfere with his duty, and he dismissed his unexpected empathy for the poor little rich girl.
After all, she was probably as crooked as her decidedly crooked uncle.
* * * *
Angela Patria wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. She risked a glance around her. Nobody was looking. She closed the book on the table in front of her and fished in her purse for a tissue. Her fingers touched the cable from her Uncle Frank.
He was in Hong Kong, and he was not coming back. He had promised to return when they received the first threat on her life, but his plans had changed. Business demanded that he remain. Instead he had instructed his lawyer, Harold Simmons, to hire a bodyguard to protect her.
Angela blew her nose. A bodyguard! Some stranger Simmons selected from the stable of a private detective agency was going to move into the brownstone with her and follow her around twenty-four hours a day. The thought of it was unbearable.
How could Uncle Frank do this? He knew how scared she was. There had been three letters, two phone calls, all anonymous. Frank Patria was worth a lot of money; he had many interests worldwide, chief among them the importing of Oriental art. One of his enemies had apparently decided that the way to get through to him was to make Angela, his only living relative, a target.
Frank Patria was all Angela had. Frank’s brother and his wife had died in a car crash when Angela was ten. She had come to live with her uncle fifteen years ago, but had seen little of him since her arrival. He was usually away on business. He had hired a housekeeper, Josie Clinton, to supervise the young girl, who had now grown into a young woman. During the intervening years Josie had been more of a parent figure than Frank Patria ever was. A benign cipher who appeared on holidays and birthdays, dispensing gifts and casual affection, he paid the bills and did his duty by his brother’s child. Angela could not fault him there. But surely he knew that she needed him now. Hiring some goon to shadow her was no substitute for the presence of someone who actually cared about her.
Angela sniffled and squared her shoulders. Feeling sorry for herself was not a solution. It wasn’t Uncle Frank’s fault that he had never married, never had children, and consequently had little understanding of her feelings. He did his best, and at least she had Josie for a friend.
She glanced at her watch. She’d skipped Estate Taxation to wallow in self pity, which was childish. She had Agency at 12:30, and two hundred pages to read for Patents and Copyrights at 3:00. There was work to do.
Time enough to deal with Harold Simmons and his headbuster tonight.
* * * *
Devlin walked with Simmons up Sixty-Fourth Street toward the Patria house. Simmons turned to him nervously.
“Remember,” the lawyer said. “The girl knows nothing. She thinks that you’re here to protect her.”
“I know my job,” Devlin replied contemptuously. Simmons made his skin crawl. The lawyer was setting up his own client and colleague, the girl’s uncle, in return for immunity from prosecution when he turned state’s evidence.
“The deal was we go light on you if you give us Patria,” Devlin went on. “You just get me inside. Let me worry about the rest.” He eyed the older man speculatively. For now, Devlin needed him. Simmons was only the flunky, the local representative of Patria’s worldwide organization. He wasn’t let in on that much, just enough to handle regional matters. Devlin had to penetrate the whole network in order to get the goods to put Patria away.
Simmons wiped his palms on the pants of his suit. Devlin smiled slightly to himself. No wonder the guy was nervous. Simmons and Devlin’s employer, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Substances, had arranged for the phony threats on Angela Patria’s life. Simmons had then offered to select a bodyguard, scheming to plant Devlin in the Patria house. If Patria found out what was going on before Devlin completed his mission, Simmons’ life wasn’t worth small change.
“You’d better be careful,” Simmons whined. “She’s very smart.”
Devlin stopped walking. “If she’s so smart how come she doesn’t know her uncle is smuggling drugs into the country concealed in his Oriental imports?”
<
br /> Simmons could not meet his eyes. “You don’t understand how she is. She loves Frank, she trusts him. He’s been her only family for a long time. It would never occur to her that he might be doing something against the law.”
Devlin considered that. She was either very guileless or very loyal. He felt another unwanted stab of sympathy for Angela Patria. If what Simmons said was true, she was looking for help and guidance from two of the least savory characters walking the earth, her uncle and this shady attorney.
Devlin glanced up at the facade of the house they were approaching. He wasn’t entirely convinced that the niece wasn’t involved in Patria’s business. Simmons could be lying, or uninformed, though the latter seemed unlikely considering the lawyer’s close ties to Patria. It bothered Devlin that the girl was going to law school. It was a little too convenient. What better way to groom a lawyer to represent Patria in the future than to send the girl to learn the ropes? What an asset she would be once she knew all the tricks and loopholes that could keep her uncle safe from the law. No, he wasn’t convinced at all. She would bear investigation too.
Simmons led the way up the steps and rang the bell. Devlin looked away from the other man in order to resist the urge to punch him. This guy was turning in his lifelong associate to save his own hide. Who had said there was honor among thieves? Patria, whatever he was, trusted this man who was about to betray him and the situation left a bad taste in Devlin’s mouth.
Angela answered the door. He examined at close range the woman he’d last seen in tears.
She had dressed for the occasion, and had progressed from a tenuous eighteen to a mature and gracious . . . twenty-two? Her luxuriant hair was piled on top of her head and she wore a crisp navy linen dress with high heeled sandals. Pearls gleamed in her ears. Light makeup enhanced her features: a touch of mascara, a trace of coral lipstick. She led the two men into the marble floored foyer of the brownstone.
Devlin tore his eyes from the redhead and looked around him. The entry hall was illuminated by a crystal chandelier overhead and crystal sconces on the silk covered walls. A cherry grandfather’s clock faced them, complementing the cherry paneled wainscoting and the roll top desk to his right. A Ming vase stood on a glass enclosed pedestal, and a delicate watercolor done on rice paper was displayed prominently on the wall behind it. Patria had appropriated some of his imports for himself; the whole place reeked of money.
Devlin’s eyes moved back to the girl. She wasn’t beautiful, exactly; her hazel eyes were too wide set, her mouth was too full, she would be considered too thin for some tastes. But not for his. He could feel himself tensing with the force of his attraction, and he deliberately looked away to avoid staring at her.
Angela greeted Simmons, and then examined Devlin in the full light of the hall. Her first impression was that the lawyer had lost his mind. She studied the man with him and knew that Uncle Frank would never approve. It was apparent he’d had no hand in this selection.
The bodyguard was too young, too—Angela could hardly put a name to his challenging, masculine aura. She had expected another conservative, middle-aged- gray-suit type, like her uncle and his lawyer. Uncle Frank made sure she was surrounded by such men. With the single exception of her current escort, Philip Cronin, her uncle’s sales manager, all comers under the age of fifty were pointedly discouraged. Few chose to argue with Frank Patria and the invisible moat surrounding the fortress remained unbreached. Those who did venture across it were quickly driven off by their chilly reception.
All of which made Simmons’ companion a definite surprise. He was in his thirties, with thick, coal black hair layered from a center part and bold, arresting features. His eyes were a curious color, very light brown, not the mud brown of ordinary eyes, but the golden amber of vintage Kentucky bourbon. They regarded her from a face made distinctive by a broad forehead and a wide slash of mouth. He looked, as the absent Josie would have said, like a tough customer.
“Angela,” Simmons said, “this is Brett Devlin from the Somerton Detective Agency. Brett, this is Angela Patria.”
Devlin stepped forward to offer his hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Devlin?” Angela murmured, riveted by those cat’s eyes fixed on her face.
Devlin nodded, but did not smile. His fingers clasped hers briefly and then withdrew.
Angela remained gazing up at him. He was tall, well over six feet, and whipcord lean. He was the type to give the impression of slimness when dressed, but she suspected he would be a revelation without his clothes.
Angela dropped her eyes, flushing. What on earth was the matter with her? Still she couldn’t help sneaking another glance at him. He was dressed casually in jeans and running shoes, a corduroy jacket open to reveal a tennis shirt underneath. His single bag was on the floor at his feet.
Angela swallowed, taking a breath. This man was going to guard her body? Someone should be guarding his.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Mr. Devlin,” she heard herself saying in a remarkably cool tone.
“I’m sure I will,” he replied. His voice was a husky bass.
“Is that all you brought with you?” she asked, pointing to the canvas gym bag on the floor.
“I travel light,” Devlin replied quietly.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Simmons said hastily. He seemed very edgy. He glanced around and asked, “Where’s Josie?”
“She left early for the day,” Angela replied. “Her daughter isn’t feeling well and she wanted to check on her.”
Simmons nodded, distracted. “Good night then, Angie. I’ll be in touch.” His eyes met Devlin’s, then slid away, and he left.
Angela was alone with Brett Devlin. She had no idea what to say to him. Was he to be treated as a guest, an employee, or what? Her innate good manners made her opt for the first choice.
“Can I get you something, Mr. Devlin?” she asked. “A drink? Something to eat?”
He shook his head. “But I’d like to smoke, if I may?”
Angela got him an ashtray from the coffee table in the living room. It was made of exquisite Venetian marble, and she saw him turn it over in his hands admiringly before he withdrew a packet of Players from his breast pocket. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, and regarded her thoughtfully from his superior height. Angela herself was tall, but he made her feel petite and . . . intensely feminine. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
His steady gaze unnerved her. “Shall I take your jacket?” she asked quickly, to give herself something to do.
“Thanks.” He put aside the cigarette and the ashtray, shrugging out of the blazer and handing it to her. Angela reached for it and then stopped short. He was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster strapped across his back, the weapon protruding from a pocket beneath his arm. It had been concealed by the coat.
He saw her eyes on the gun, saw the expression on her face. “It’s necessary, Miss Patria,” he said evenly.
Angela stood with his jacket, still warm from his body, in her hands. She nodded slowly without comment. The firearm was a grim reminder of this man’s purpose in her life. For a moment she had almost forgotten it.
“I’ll just put this away,” she managed, clearing her throat. “If you’ll come with me, your room is right down this hall.”
Devlin followed her, waiting while she hung his jacket in the front hall closet, and then continued in her wake as she showed him to a guest room with a bath which opened onto an adjacent corridor.
“I thought you would want to be close to the door,” Angela explained, leading him inside. “My ... the other bedrooms are upstairs on the second floor.”
“This is fine,” Devlin replied, taking in the neutral blond furniture, bleached oak if he wasn’t mistaken, and the thick Chinese rug. Some care had been taken to make him comfortable; extra blankets were folded at the foot of the bed, and a stack of towels stood atop the carved armoire. A key extended from the lock of its top drawer. He turned back to Angela, and at
that second a loud thud sounded in the vicinity of the front door.
All the blood drained from Angela’s face. Instinctive reaction made her fling herself into Devlin’s arms.
He caught her against him, alarmed. She was terrified. He could feel it in her trembling body, hear it in the frantic pace of her breathing. This was the reason for her tears earlier that day, for her clinging dependency now. She was truly frightened, and he was ashamed of his role in the deception that had manufactured this unwarranted fear.
Devlin soothed her, murmuring softly, and discovered that he did not want to let her go. He held her a few seconds longer than was necessary, and it was a few seconds too long. The single clip holding her hair came loose, and the rich auburn tresses spilled over his hands. Her perfume filled his nostrils, clean and fresh, with a faint citrus undertone. His fingers moved from her shoulders downward as he steadied her, and he found that he could almost span her waist with his hands. She was warm and pliant, soft and inviting despite her slimness. He was fully aroused in an instant. As Angela turned to gain her balance, her hip moved between his thighs and he heard her gasp as she felt the evidence of his desire.
Angela’s head fell back and she looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and blank, seeming dark in the filtered light from the hall, her lips parted to reveal a glimpse of white teeth. Her breath caught for a moment, then came audibly. My God, Devlin thought, she feels it too. He released her suddenly, turning away in confusion.
He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, unwilling to look at her. He had to get a grip on himself. He was in this house to bring about her uncle’s destruction. The woman herself could be a part of Patria’s underworld empire. And even if not, he had to maintain a professional distance or his cause was lost.
Men of Intrgue A Trilogy Page 49