He pushed on her shoulder, and she raised herself partially off him. Her topaz eyes looked into his, and he counted four of them and two noses.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
With the air sucked out of his lungs, he couldn’t speak. Face white, her gestures frantic, she patted his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, searching for an injury. “Are you hit?”
He grabbed her hands before she moved her inspection lower and he responded in a manner that would embarrass them both. Despite his tortured lungs, her silky skin pressed to him was already heating his blood. And as he finally drew air into his lungs, a whiff of vanilla mixed with her scent upped his interest. She was such a mixture of feminine heat and prickly competence that she fascinated him. Life around Devin was never boring.
He shouldn’t be reacting to her.
But she was fascinating.
And he hadn’t even thought about how much he missed Rhonda in the last few minutes.
Because Devin was such a contradictory mix of womanly intelligence and tomboy fun, she had him thinking about more than business. Instead he was thinking about how she’d react if he lifted his head and touched his lips to the pulse pounding at her graceful neck. Thinking about how good it would feel to place his arms around her neck, thread his fingers into her hair and kiss her senseless.
A crowd encircled them, and several high-pitched laughs mixed with outright chuckles. His vision settled, refocusing her face.
Biting her lip, Devin paid no attention to the curious onlookers. Her wild-eyed gaze centered on him. “Talk to me, damn it!”
Her tawny eyes darkened with concern, and she couldn’t have looked more gorgeous. Her gown tangled about him, and with her hair cascading around her shoulders and her makeup smudged, she’d never looked more desirable. He yearned to take her into his arms and kiss the frightened look off her face. That is, when he could breathe fully again.
“I’m fine,” he finally gasped.
“You don’t sound fine. You can’t even breathe. Should I call an ambulance?”
His rib cage expanded, and he filled his starving lungs amid a few hacking coughs. “There was nothing wrong with my breathing until you tackled me and pounced on my chest.”
Her head jerked, and she stiffened. “The shot—”
“The champagne cork popping out of the bottle didn’t hit me.”
For the first time, Devin spied the crowd milling around them. The music had stopped. As comprehension glimmered in her eyes, and she realized she’d created a scene, a crimson blush rose from her breasts to her neck to her cheeks.
“Damn! I told you I don’t do parties.” Her shoulders trembled, and she lifted her knuckles to her mouth. “I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” He sat up slowly, biting back a groan. She’d obviously thought she was saving his life from a bullet. He’d never forget how courageously she’d shielded him with her body. A very interesting body. Beneath her curves, she had the well-conditioned muscle tone of a trained athlete. He could still feel the imprint of her breasts molding to his chest, her heart thumping as she’d protected him. But his hand cradling her bottom was the physical imprint that seized his imagination. She had the most delicious backside, round and firm and lush, and earlier he couldn’t resist lagging behind her so he could enjoy the surefooted sway of her hips. A surge of desire curled in his stomach, but now was not the time for such thoughts.
Chest heaving, Devin scooped up her purse and scrambled to her feet. She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and polished it off like a longshoreman downing a boilermaker. Her eyes darted back and forth like a cornered animal’s. Recalling her prior concerns about attending this party, he suspected she was about to flee, run off where she could be alone to lick her wounds.
He had to stop her from leaving, but at the moment, he was in no condition to chase her. Forcing himself to concentrate on inhaling and exhaling, he thought about regaining his feet.
He let out a small groan and held out his hand. “Could you help me up?”
“Show’s over,” she muttered. The music resumed, and the crowd drifted away as she leaned down to take his hand. Surprising him with her strength, she pulled him up, her eyes a mixture of anger, worry and pure misery.
“You don’t think I broke any ribs, do you?” she asked.
“I’d be more than glad to check yours after we return to the hotel,” he teased, deliberately misunderstanding her.
She glared at him. “I’m not some overnight floozy.”
Good. The anger he’d provoked would give her the internal fortitude to face the still-tittering crowd. When she started to move away, he let his knees buckle, putting more weight on her shoulders and pinning her to his side. The skin of her shoulder beneath his forearm was downy soft, and the flesh of her arm just as velvety, though toned with firm muscles. Her combination of softness and hardness appealed to him on a level he didn’t wish to examine too carefully. He’d already made one mistake with Lindsay Betancourt. He had no wish to make another.
Cane tapping, Bruce Willowby stepped toward them, clearly ready to offer assistance, but with a nod, Ford declined his offer and gestured him away, asking Devin instead, “Can you help me outside for some fresh air?”
“Gladly.” He bit back a comment about her relief to be heading out of the party.
She led him toward the front door, but before he took two steps, a silver-haired gentleman approached with a mincing gait but perfect posture, his gnarled hand outstretched and shaking with old age. “Gustave Druary.”
Keeping one arm over Devin’s shoulder to prevent her from slipping sway, Ford shook Gustave’s arthritic hand. “And this is Devin Ward.” As she offered her hand and Gustave raised it to his lips with a creaky bow, Ford told her, “Mr. Druary owns Swiss National Bank of Geneva.”
The banker’s horsey face broke into a careful smile. “Call me Gustave. I’m sorry to arrive late. I just came in and heard about the excitement. A woman mistook the pop of a champagne cork for a gunshot.” He clucked his tongue against the roof of a mouth wrinkled with frown lines. “Now, that’s a heroic woman, one that would risk her life for a man’s.”
Beneath his arm, Devin trembled, but she held her ground.
“We should all be so fortunate.” Ford didn’t wait for Gustave to respond, but continued, steering the topic in the direction he wanted. “And speaking of fortunes, I’ve been wondering if you might do me a small favor?”
Gustave handed him a business card, his shrewd, old eyes probing and assessing. “I understand you are interested in buying a home in Monaco, monsieur?” Devin’s eyebrows knotted. Apparently, she hadn’t yet caught on that Gustave was willing to sell them the information. In exchange for the details they wanted from the banker, Ford would pay a premium price for a home in Monaco. The bribe would appear a simple business transaction, and if Ford paid too much for the home, no one except his business partner, Martin, would question the purchase.
Ford lifted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and handed it to Devin, then took another for himself. Their fingers touched, and their eyes met, hers revealing a dawning comprehension.
He clinked her glass with his before turning back to Gustave. “I’m quite fond of the principality. I vacation there every few years. A home in the area would be convenient.” Gustave’s rheumy eyes didn’t blink. “The favor, monsieur?”
Ford handed him a slip of paper with the transaction they wanted traced. “I’d like information on the recipient.”
“What kind of information?”
“Anything you’ve got. A name, a description, an address or IP address, a forwarding bank account.”
Gustave placed the paper in his coat pocket. “I’ll see what I can do. Where can I reach you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be in touch. It’s been a ple
asure.” After the men shook hands, he and Devin continued through the swirling crowd toward the front door. Handing off her untouched drink to a waiter, she still wore a haunted look in her eyes.
No longer the center of attention, she’d stopped trembling, and her face, although alive with color, had lost its crimson blush. “You’re paying too much for the house in Monaco in exchange for the information. Is that legal?”
“Is it justice to allow Rhonda’s murderer to go free?” he countered. “I’m just buying a house.”
“One you haven’t seen.”
“I buy things I haven’t seen almost every day.”
“That doesn’t make it prudent.”
Amused at her indignation, he restrained himself to cocking one eyebrow. Besides, if he laughed, his ribs would hurt, and pride demanded he maintain a don’t-give-a-damn, uninjured air. “Are you sure you’re the same woman who kidnapped me?” he countered.
The music faded as they ambled outside. As they descended broad steps between imposing columns that led to the street, Devin shivered from the brisk night air. He wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her tighter to him.
She let out a small sound at the closeness, then stiffened and tried to pull away. “I don’t normally take on kidnapping assignments. You were the exception.”
He kept her there a second longer, then reluctantly released her. “Of course. I’m an exceptional man, and you can’t resist me.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she retorted. “Although you do have your moments.”
They walked down the rest of the steps, and he thought about taking her back into his arms and kissing her. Perhaps letting his fingers wander from her shoulders to the small of her back and lower to her lush—
“Get down!” Devin called out, tugging his wrist, jerking him forward.
Ford swore. Not again. His ribs weren’t up to another pounding.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a spray of chalk rained onto his face. He glanced at one of the columns to see a bullet lodged in a crater behind the spot where his head had just been. Adrenaline surged through him. Although he hadn’t heard a shot, someone had just tried to kill him.
She’d saved his life.
How had she known?
While he was still trying to figure out what had happened, Devin yanked him around the column. They merged with a group of chattering Spaniards who remained oblivious to the shooting.
She kept her throaty voice low, urgent. “We need to find another way out. Fast. The sniper has a silencer. He went for a head shot. Probably a pro.”
The same modus operandi as the one used by the Black Rose.
He had no idea how she moved so quickly on those high heels, but as the sounds of conversation engulfed them, they reached the building under the protective cover of the unknowing Spanish diplomats. Holding her hand tightly, he tugged her through the crowd. Worried that once they reached the street she’d be a prime target in her spectacular gold-sequined gown, he searched for words to convince her to leave him.
After shouldering past a dancing couple, he spoke urgently, “The assassin’s after me. Let’s split up. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
Her voice was urgent but lacking panic. “We can’t return to the hotel. We can’t take your car. And if you want to live, you can’t leave me behind. We have to sneak out of here.”
She was right. Lord knew, she was better at the complexities and difficulties of cloak-and-dagger work than he was. He could solve their problems with his cell phone, but he’d tossed it into the creek. Still, phone or no phone, he wouldn’t put her life at risk, and he could only think of one way to make her stay behind.
He guided her toward the kitchen. “In that gold gown, you’ll stand out like a Krugerrand in a pile of nickels.”
“You’re right.” She stayed with him as they threaded their way past white-coated chefs in tall white hats rushing to and fro between stoves, ovens and countertops, dinnerware and pots clinking and clanging. Amid the chaos, the fragrance of garlic, butter, onions, chicken and cream sauces made his mouth water, his stomach rumble, but he kept looking over his shoulder for the assassin.
Relief flooded him that she’d agreed to split up. Before he could name a place to meet later, she dug in her heels and hauled him to a screeching stop.
He twisted around, expecting to be shot at. When nothing happened, he turned to her with a frown. “What?”
“I need clothes and a translator.” She dragged him over to a woman wearing jeans and a sweater.
He’d misunderstood, he realized. She hadn’t agreed to leave him but had simply acknowledged her dress made her a target. And she’d left him to make the awkward explanation in French.
Sixty seconds later, the two women stripped to their underwear in the middle of the kitchen while he stood protectively nearby, searching for a killer. The chefs, cooks and their helpers bustled around the trio as if they didn’t exist. No one except Ford seemed to notice anything unusual. The chefs kept their eyes on their work. The waiters entered with empty trays and left with refills. Perhaps they all thought the women were part of some acting troupe—entertainment for the guests.
Although he kept a sharp watch for danger, he wasn’t immune to Devin in her strapless bra and gold-colored panties. Turning his back to avoid staring, he searched for the killer, but he couldn’t banish Devin’s lovely figure from his mind. Her lean muscles and firm curves proved an almost irresistible distraction.
Hurriedly dumping the contents from her purse to the woman’s handbag, Devin used precious seconds to zip their passports into a side pocket. After she’d dressed, he found breathing easier. The huge navy sweater was loose, and the tight jeans clung to her hips like leggings, but with all her gorgeous skin once again covered, he’d regained his composure.
She smoothed down her sweater and joined him. “The shoes fit. Come on, let’s go.”
He looked left, right, back over his shoulder. “We should split up.”
“No way. I don’t speak French. I’d get lost. The Black Rose could find me.”
“He’s not after you.” No matter how much he’d miss her company, he wouldn’t risk her life. A woman with Devin’s street smarts would be better off alone in a strange country than burdened by him with the Black Rose on his tail.
Searching for a side exit, he removed his bowtie and his dark jacket and rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt to appear more casual. She led him behind a pastry shelf to a door. A bread truck had backed into the narrow alley, blocking their exit. He was about to turn around and look for another way out when she climbed into the truck.
She slid a basket of bread rolls aside and merged into the shadows. “After we found Grendal, we shouldn’t have returned to the hotel. That was a mistake. But we can discuss it later. Right now, let’s get out of the building. We need to put as much distance between the embassy and us as we can, as quickly as we can.”
DAMN THE BRADDACK luck! The man had more lives than the proverbial cat, and the woman P.I. with him was an additional complication. Why couldn’t Braddack follow his usual pattern of dating society debutantes? Ford must have hired Devin Ward. Nothing else could explain their showing up at Grendal’s farmhouse. Somehow the woman had found a clue to Rhonda’s death, and Ford was now following through on his vow to find Rhonda’s killer.
Too bad he wouldn’t succeed. Too much time had passed. All tracks had been covered.
Still, it paid to be careful. With all the trouble Braddack caused, he deserved to die slowly. But there was no more time for games.
Their escape at the embassy was only a minor setback. They were on foot, in a foreign country. They’d already made several mistakes. They’d make more of them. No doubt Braddack couldn’t go an hour without using his phone and credit card. And the P.I. was out of her league, no longer up again
st cheating husbands and deadbeat dads, but the Black Rose, the most renowned assassin in Europe.
They wouldn’t last the night.
FORD LEAPED INTO the truck after Devin, the scent of fresh-baked bread welcoming him and reminding him of his growing hunger. As he followed her past long French breads and braided loaves of wheat and rye, he replaced the baskets she’d moved. Toward the front, she’d cleared a space between two rows of shelving where they leaned against the truck’s inner wall.
Helping herself to a flaky croissant, she munched while giving him another. He sat beside her, wincing at his sore ribs, and accepted her offering. “When we left the party, how did you know about—”
“The sniper?”
“Yes.”
Wedged into the cramped space, she was forced to lean against him. He put his arm around her, liking the way her shoulders fit. A tendril of long curly hair drifted across his cheek, and it was hard to remember such a feminine bundle could think so fast on her feet. She’d saved his life tonight, and words of thanks seemed inadequate. His admiration for her soared at her unusual display of courage. While she hadn’t hesitated to tackle him earlier, now she tried to edge away so they didn’t touch, letting him know she was more affected by him than she’d admit.
And once again she was right. Now was not the time for anything except staying alive. And yet Rhonda’s sudden death had told him to grab on to the good things in life while he could. And Denise was one of the good things. Special.
Dim streetlights filtered through the open metal door of the bread truck and reflected on her face. Dark circles under her eyes revealed the strain. Were her instincts telling her he wanted to do more than sit by her side? If she knew what he was thinking, she’d probably punch him in the nose.
“Don’t tell me your instincts warned you about the sniper?”
She swallowed the last of her croissant and plucked another from the shelf beside them. As she spoke, a crumb at the corner of her mouth tantalized him. “It was luck. A car’s headlights glinted off the gun barrel.”
Born in Danger Page 6