by Julie Miller
Whitney held her tongue. Didn’t anybody give a straight answer in this house? She turned back to Weston. “So are we hostages or not?”
“Absolutely not.” He moved toward Whitney and cupped his hands beneath her elbows, holding her in a friendly embrace. “Think of this as a safe house. We’re well guarded, well stocked, secluded. It’s a perfect place to wait until Chilton’s men have been disposed of.”
“What does that mean? ‘Disposed of?”’
He tapped his finger on the end of her nose and Whitney nearly gagged. “You’re worrying your head with details that don’t concern you. I’ve taken care of everything.”
“Dimitri Chilton concerns me.” She decided to push his buttons, see if she could force some useful information out of him. Whitney stepped back and held out her wrists, exposing the bruises and scrapes Chilton had inflicted on her. There was no way to reveal the internal wounds he had scarred her with. There was no way a man like Ross Weston could ever understand that kind of hurt. “I want the FBI or the state police or somebody to arrest him. Put him on trial. Make him pay for his crimes.”
“He will pay.” Ross gathered her hands in his. The move reminded her of Vincent, the way he always protected her. Listened. The way he tried to understand even when he had no clue. Her skin crawled at this mockery of a good man’s brand of comfort. “You know my stand on foreigners in the U.S. They live by the same rules we do, or they go home. And if they dare to bring their politics into my country, then I will deal with them.”
Whitney snatched her hands away. “You’re talking about stump speeches. Winning votes. You’re too casual about all this. Dimitri Chilton has killed people.”
“Trust me. I stopped him.”
She’d rather trust a rattlesnake. Damn his callous ego. She wanted answers. “You can’t just stop a terrorist by paying him off and shipping him out of the country.”
“I’m a powerful man.” He dismissed her concern by walking away. He sat behind his oversize desk and pushed a button on an intercom panel. “One day soon you’ll realize that.”
Whitney followed him to the desk. “What’s to keep them from coming back?”
“I’ll explain it when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
Ross smiled that bright false grin of his. “I’ve always liked your spirit. But later. You’re tired now.” Right on cue, the maid appeared in the doorway. “Alysia. Take Miss MacNair up to the green guest room. Show her where to freshen up.”
“Yes sir.”
“Rest for now, then join us for dinner.”
“But—”
“Later, Whitney. I promise.”
He traded some secret with her that she didn’t understand. But he wouldn’t let her question it. He’d already called Warren over to evaluate something he’d pulled up on the computer.
Whitney nodded an excuse to Margery and followed Alysia’s long black braid up the grand staircase to her room.
So much for her first foray into gathering intelligence. Frustrated as she might be, she hadn’t completely lost hope. She’d heard Daniel say that a mission wasn’t always accomplished in one strike. At least she’d gotten herself behind enemy lines where she could do some good. She’d play along with the senator’s egomaniacal hero plan for now. Later, she’d find a way to get into his study alone and dig up the proof she needed to connect him in a premeditated plan with the terrorists.
She only needed to do two things. Find out what Weston had done with Dimitri Chilton. Then find out what had brought the two together in the first place.
Getting out of this mess with her head still attached to her neck didn’t sound like a bad idea, either.
WHITNEY DISCOVERED two things after she finished her shower and started to dress.
There was no phone in the plush guest room where she was staying.
And Ross Weston still remembered her dress size.
According to Alysia, her own clothes had been taken to the laundry room, leaving no option but to slip into the clingy off-white sweater dress. Matching hose and shoes had been provided as well.
“This is sick.” She surveyed her appearance in the adjoining bathroom’s full-length mirror. Whitney felt like a package, wrapped up and put on display in a department-store window. The dress fit her beautifully, hugging the curves she had and skimming past her more angular features. The color set off her hair and complemented her fair skin. The two-and-a-half inch heels on the strappy pumps had probably been chosen to show off her long legs.
“What a sick man.”
A year ago, four months ago, even, she would have accepted Ross Weston’s gifts. She’d worked her butt off for the man, putting in long hours, racking her brain, calling in family favors. She’d earned the bonuses. Just as any other employee earned compensation for a job well done.
But the senator hadn’t meant to reward her for her hard work. He wanted to buy her favor. He wanted to woo her. He wanted to dress her up like his own little plaything and put his hands on her in any sneaky way he could.
A shudder crept through her and Whitney snatched at the sleeves, pulling the material away from her skin. “Idiot.”
She’d been stupid and trusting and naive.
But no amount of tugging and straightening and redressing could erase the feeling of being bought and sold from her skin.
No wonder her father, her brothers, Daniel and Vincent were so overly protective. With her impulsive judgment, she was a menace to herself.
But no more.
She had gotten herself into this mess—no, she had dived headlong into this mess. This time, she would get herself out.
She’d still play the part Weston wanted her to. His golden girl with the young, firm body and connections to one of the most influential men in American politics. But now, at least, she understood the game.
Whitney eyed the clock beside the bed. Dinner was at six. She had a good twenty minutes before she had to make an appearance.
The house was huge, bigger inside, it seemed, than outside. To her knowledge, the four men who’d taken Chilton and his thugs away hadn’t yet returned. That left Weston, Margery, Burke, the maid and two bodyguards to avoid. Whitney had slipped in and out of parties with bigger guest lists before. Avoiding those six should be a piece of cake.
She removed her shoes and carried them with her down the stairs so as not to make noise on the wooden runners. On the first floor, she heard Warren Burke talking on the phone in a small office that had been assigned to him. She’d expected the household to be bustling about for dinner, but no one else seemed to be on the premises. Even the doors to Weston’s study stood slightly ajar. The room was dark, except for the flickering shadows given off by the dying fire. She listened outside for a moment. Nothing.
Loving her luck, Whitney checked the hallway, saw it was clear, then quickly slipped in between the folding doors. In the moment it took for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, she realized she wasn’t alone.
Alysia stood behind the senator’s desk. She quickly closed a drawer when she heard the door move.
“Alysia?”
The maid’s stoic eyes revealed nothing except the glow of embers in the fireplace. “May I help you, Miss MacNair?”
Was it proper agent etiquette to ask someone why they were snooping in a drawer when she had come there to do the same thing?
Whitney wasn’t ready to trust anyone. Her instincts told her to cover her appearance. The same old excuse seemed to be a good one. “I was looking for the senator. I was curious to know if he’d contacted my father yet. I’d really like to place that call.”
Alysia nodded. “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. If you’d like to wait here, I’ll rebuild the fire.”
“That’s all right.” Maybe she could buy herself some time alone, after all. “I’ll just turn on a few lamps.”
“Very well.” With a polite nod, Alysia glided from the room.
Seizing the moment, Whitney dropped her
shoes on one of the couches and hurried around the desk. She tried the drawer that Alysia had been in, but the thing wouldn’t budge.
“Locked.” So how had the maid gotten into it?
A quick check through the other drawers revealed nothing that would put the nation’s welfare in jeopardy. Stationery. A bottle of aspirin. Writing utensils. A hodgepodge of mementos from the University of Montana at Bozeman.
Keeping an eye on her time, Whitney grabbed the letter opener from the top of the desk and pried it into the keyhole of the locked drawer. “Dammit, Vincent, how would you do this?”
Thoughts of her big, brooding rescuer inspired her to keep trying. Just as quickly, thoughts of her betrayal rushed in, zapping her will to continue.
How one man could keep leaping into her thoughts time and again, she didn’t know. She only knew she missed his gruff presence, always around somewhere, annoying her, protecting her, loving her.
Loving her?
Whitney sank into Weston’s oversize chair and analyzed what her heart was trying to tell her.
Vincent Romeo couldn’t possibly love a flaky handful of trouble like her. He could make love. Oh yeah, he could do that real well. But he probably didn’t understand the emotion any better than she did. She only knew that she wanted…that she wished…
A drawl of hushed laughter outside the door cut short Whitney’s brief detour into hopeless speculation.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
A time to run, a time to fight, a time to shut up.
“Definitely time to shut up and hide.” She slapped her fingers over her mouth and ducked beneath the desk, desperately wishing her nervous words wouldn’t get ahead of her brain.
She poked her leg with the letter opener she still clutched in her fist. Nothing should be out of place. She climbed out, dropped the letter opener back into the pencil holder on top of the desk, and… Yikes!
Halfway across the room, standing out in mismatched glory against black-and-tan leopard spots were her shoes.
Whitney reached out helplessly, but it was too late. The door slid open and she slipped beneath the desk and held her breath.
The woman’s laughter entered the room first. “Warren, that’s hardly an appropriate thing to say.”
Margery.
There was the click of the door, the shuffle of footsteps, then Warren Burke answered on a laughing whisper. “You like it when I say inappropriate things.”
Whitney flattened her back against the inside wall of the desk. Did kissing make a sound? The few beats of silence were punctuated by Margery’s slurred laugh. “I don’t know how I’d survive this godforsaken wilderness without you. If Ross wins this election—”
“He’ll win,” Warren promised.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” The sudden sadness in Margery’s voice touched Whitney’s conscience and filled her with pity. “If he wins, there’ll be no divorce. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep living this lie.”
“I’ll always be here, Margery.” Whitney heard that kissing sound again. A sigh, perhaps. Maybe a hum of pleasure. Then Warren broke it off. “I have to go. We’ll walk in separately for dinner.”
“Of course.”
The door opened and closed once.
So the wife and the campaign manager were having an affair. Hardly anything worth reporting. But her stomach clenched with angry resentment at the discovery. Why had she, the innocent victim, been burned by scandal, while the couple really having the affair went unnoticed by the press?
Why the hell had she ever wanted to get into politics, anyway?
The door opened a second time. Whitney waited a few seconds longer before crawling out from beneath the desk. The clock gave her only a minute to get to the dining room without raising suspicion.
She checked her pulse as she dashed across the room to get her shoes. Did all agents develop high blood pressure?
“There you are. Alysia said you were looking for me.”
Or maybe an agent’s heart stopped beating often enough that pulse rate wasn’t a problem.
With her shoes still dangling from her hand, Whitney fixed a smile on her face and turned to greet Ross. In another time and place, he might have looked handsome in his western-cut suit of fine gray wool. But Whitney saw the corrupt man he was inside. She smiled, all the same.
“Thanks for the dress.”
He nodded toward the shoes in her hand. “Is everything all right?”
“They pinch my feet a bit. I’ll have to break them in.”
“Did you want a drink?”
“No, I—” Dammit, Whitney, think. She’d lied to Alysia, and now she had to lie her way out of this. The phone on the desk offered her the perfect escape. “I’m just worried sick about Mom and Dad. There’s no phone up in my room. Can’t I call them?”
“I put you in that room so you wouldn’t be disturbed. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through with Chilton. But I thought the opportunity for complete rest would be what you needed.”
What she needed was a confession of collusion from him, preferably brought about by intense, painful torture. “I want to call home.”
“I’ll have a status report after dinner. I promise I’ll explain everything then. After that, you can call your father.” He reached out and stroked her cheek, a gesture of comfort she found eerily reminiscent of Chilton’s taunting caresses.
Whitney froze the smile on her face but moved away. Weston followed. He walked up right behind her and clutched her shoulders. He nudged aside her hair and whispered into her ear.
“Be patient with me. I have plans for this country you can’t imagine. I want to make us strong again. Powerful.”
“We’re the most powerful country in the world.”
He turned her in his arms and shook his head. “We’re losing our respect. We’re getting weak. I intend to reverse that course. With your father’s backing, with you at my side. You’d make a beautiful first lady.”
Whitney laughed, hoping that was a joke. “Senator, you already have a wife.”
His bright eyes narrowed to searching slits that held no laughter. “I can take care of that.”
The implication of his words chilled Whitney all the way to her bones. Maybe she’d overplayed her hand. Maybe Vincent was right, that it was a mistake for her to think she could deceive such a ruthless man.
But it was too late to back out of the charade. She was on her own. And come heaven or hell, success or failure, she would have to see this game through to the end.
Since bolting from the room and running into the mountains wasn’t an option, Whitney did what she thought was impossible. She braced her hand on Ross’s shoulder and went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Judging by the satisfied gleam in his sparkling blue eyes, the action pleased him.
Leaving him that little taste to lure him along in her game, she smiled. “I look forward to our talk later.”
‘YOU THINK she’s in there?”
“Yes.” Lying on his stomach on the ground beside Daniel, Vincent adjusted his night-vision goggles and surveyed Weston’s ranch one more time. He wanted a glimpse of red-gold hair. He just needed to see her.
He and Daniel had taken up point at the very same spot where Whitney had thrown her arms around his neck and he kissed her. She’d been worried about him getting hurt. Worried if he was coming back to her in one piece or a body bag.
Now it was his turn to worry. At last he understood Melissa’s fear about a relationship with an undercover agent. This scared the hell out of him. Whitney could be a prisoner in there. She could be hurt and unable to call for help. Even if she hadn’t tipped her hand to anyone thus far, she’d be living moment to moment, making snap decisions, doing things that she normally wouldn’t do. One wrong move could get her killed.
If it hadn’t already.
Daniel shared that fear. His every move on this operation had been careful and discreet. “I want a visual.” He called the order over the shortwave radio
each man wore. “Who’s in position?”
Vincent handed Daniel the goggles and pulled the black stocking cap he wore down over his face. “I know my way around the compound.”
Daniel grabbed his forearm. Out of respect alone, Vincent paused to listen. “Your face has been ID’ed. You’re strictly backup on this.”
“By Chilton’s man.” Vincent nodded toward the layout of buildings. “If he pops up again, I’ll take him out.”
“Not good enough. If you raise a ruckus, Whitney could get caught in the crossfire.”
A cold, antsy fury simmered beneath the surface of Vincent’s skin. This wasn’t just about retrieving the one hostage who had gotten away from him. It wasn’t about proving himself on the job to these men. “I know I’m not DPS, but I’m better than you think.”
“I don’t care if you’re 007. You stay put.” Daniel turned his head back to the microphone on his shoulder. “Kyle. Report.”
“There’s no activity outside. Not even a guard posted. Does anybody else think that’s a problem?”
“Chief?” Court Brody called in. He’d been searching outside the immediate perimeter of the compound, keeping an eye out for unexpected company.
“Yeah, Court.”
“I got four John Does in a ravine stuck inside a blue Ford sedan. They’ve been hit execution style.”
Daniel’s curse was echoed by Kyle and Frank, who sat back in the van with the radio and tracking equipment. “Please tell me it’s Chilton?”
“Negative,” Court replied. “Three Caucasian males. One African-American.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Vincent reacted to the news with the same fearful implication of the other men. Chilton might not be at the ranch with Weston, but he was still around. The fact that no one knew his present location made him that much more unpredictable. And unpredictable meant deadly.
“Romeo!”
Vincent was already halfway to the house when Daniel summoned him. He had no intention of turning back until he saw Whitney with his own eyes.
In one piece.