That Bolt made damn sure she wasn’t left alone with the man was part of his job on this mission—but it also suited his own interests as well as hers. She simply had to trust that he could keep protecting her from Hathaway, a man who the more she got to know, the more she despised.
But her thoughts about Hathaway washed down the drain as Bolt took over her senses. With his hands on her body, his lips on hers and her body begging for sweet release, she lost all awareness of time. She had no idea when he’d donned the condom. She could think only of Bolt’s hands on her hips as he lifted her. And she parted her thighs as he ever-so-slowly lowered her onto his erection. Once he’d filled her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck and raised her mouth for a kiss.
She wanted every inch of her skin to be touching his. And as his tongue fused with hers, as her senses spun deliciously out of control, she clung to him, wishing they could stay in this suite and make love all day and night. He cupped her bottom and she braced her feet against the shower wall. And they moved as one, riding together through the storm, the whirlwind of wanting spiraling through her until her heart thundered and her blood ran wild.
And when she found delicious, intoxicating release, she threw back her head and opened her eyes to lock gazes with Bolt. He tensed and poured into her, but the intimacy of his look at the moment of climax shocked her.
Because in addition to his passion, his eyes were filled with unmistakable love.
* * *
THROUGHOUT THE LONG DAY, Amanda fortified herself with the memory of Bolt’s searing look. It carried her through Hathaway’s innuendos and demands and dozens of minor emergencies that had started at 6:00 a.m. with his stolen limo. It sailed her past the enormous difficulty of coordinating dozens of last-minute details with the hotel, the designers and the models. The work was exhausting and time-consuming and left her no time for private moments with Bolt, who was busy with security.
But her priorities were changing. Work was no longer preventing her feelings from emerging. Not only was Bolt constantly slipping into her thoughts as she worked, she was missing him.
The event would take place in the same hotel where they’d met, at the street level of Hathaway’s offices. And after finding the bottle and suspecting Hathaway needed a certain proximity to it to use his powers, she knew why he rarely left the building that included his office, personal suite and hotel.
The mega skyscrapers were almost a self-contained city with shops and restaurants inside. But despite her many trips up and down and through vast lobbies, she still struggled with a cloying claustrophobia. It wasn’t as if the walls were closing in, but that Hathaway was. He had a certain vibe, and a certain look in his eye that warned her he was up to something. Yet, surrounded by dozens of people, she should have felt safe.
But her gut churned and, as she hunted down a missing shipment of shoes that hadn’t shown up with the dresses, she wondered if she would ever find out what had happened to her sister. All her efforts didn’t seem to be leading her in the direction she needed and she had to keep reminding herself that each task kept her in Hathaway’s employ, which was the only way to keep her moving toward her goal.
Her phone seemed to ring every five minutes with another problem that Hathaway needed her to solve. A model needed aspirin from the pharmacy, a special powder. The flowers in the ballroom were droopy and needed watering. Would she call the florist? The printed sheets for the buyers were the wrong color. And the air-conditioning hadn’t been turned down. There weren’t enough chairs and the aisles were too wide. The place would look empty. A reporter needed a photopass left at the registration desk and someone had dirtied the carpet and the hotel needed to clean it immediately.
During the day, she wondered if anyone without ulterior motives would work for Hathaway. He didn’t pay well enough to inspire this kind of madcap working pace. Demanding, autocratic, he seemed to believe that the harder he drove his people the more successful he would be.
But everyone was stressed. After a designer screamed at a model for gaining weight and ruining the lines of his dress, the model broke into tears. Every time the makeup artist fixed her face she began crying again. Backstage was chaos. Clothing racks wheeled back and forth by assistants never seemed to be in the right place.
Then the sound system came on so loud it almost blew out Amanda’s eardrums. And the lighting check left her with spots in her vision and a blazing headache. She stopped at a water fountain to down two aspirin and leaned against the wall to take a well-earned breather.
Of course, that was the moment Hathaway chose to find her. He swaggered down the hall like a king who expected his subjects to scurry out of the way. Most did. Amanda remained against the wall, praying he wouldn’t notice her.
But he stopped and she figured he was about to call her out for taking a break. But he lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Where’s Bob Timmins?”
Bolt? “I’m not certain. Why?”
“The police have found my limo. There’s been damage to the computer system and I want him to check that out as well as sweep the vehicle for bugs.” He plucked a paper from his right breast pocket and pressed it into her hand. “The vehicle is being repaired at that address. Find Timmins and have him see to it immediately.”
She thought of the myriad of tasks she still had to finish before the fashion show began and realized that she couldn’t go with Bolt. She checked the address and saw that the limo wasn’t even in Manhattan, but Staten Island. Bolt would be gone for hours.
“If you want me to stick with him, you’ll need someone else to take over here for me.”
“We’ll have to trust him to go alone and do his job. You did say he was capable.” Hathaway didn’t wait for her answer, but moved down the hall, a man certain his orders would be followed to the letter.
Confused by the sudden change in plans, she dialed Bolt’s cell phone. Hathaway had originally told her to watch Bolt because he didn’t trust him. So what had changed? She didn’t get it. “Bolt?”
“I heard.” She fingered the pin at her collar.
Amanda gave Bolt the address. “If you don’t go, it will blow your cover.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.” At Bolt’s admission, her heart warmed. She liked having him worry over her because he cared—not because he feared she couldn’t handle herself.
“I should be fine for the duration of the show. Hathaway will be in the limelight and surrounded by his adoring public. He seems to pull his stunts only within the privacy of his home or office.”
“He might still find a few minutes to get you alone.”
“I don’t think so. He wouldn’t risk it. There’s too much to do. Too many people around.”
“You’re probably right.”
“But?” She heard the reluctance in Bolt’s voice.
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted, her pulse elevating. “Over how long a distance will this transmitter work?”
“It might reach most of Manhattan. Not all the way to Staten Island.”
So not only would Bolt be far away, he’d be out of touch. A spike of cold shimmied along her spine, but she fought down her apprehension. She patted her thigh and her gun reassured her. “Get back as soon as you can, okay?”
“No problem.”
With a sigh of resignation, she shut off her phone, pushed away from the hall and almost bumped into the arrogant Frances Ledan. The model’s eyes sharpened when she spied Amanda. “Just the person I was looking for.”
Amanda hadn’t seen the model since she’d left for Boston. She’d wanted to ask her more about Hathaway’s private habits, especially his diary, but the busy hallway leading to the side entrance to tonight’s show was not the right place. As if by mutual consent the two women walked out of the building and onto the sidewalk. Amanda had to step smartly to keep up with the long-legged beauty, but with her curiosity leaping, she was re-energized.
“How was Boston?
”
“Snobby. Boring.”
“Sorry.” Traffic sped by and the crowded sidewalk of disinterested strangers gave them the illusion of privacy. Amanda hadn’t forgotten that Frances had openly admitted that Hathaway had told her what to say the last time they’d spoken. The woman was an enigma, playing her own game. “So what’s up?”
“Hathaway wants you to join him in his quarters for a party tonight.”
Amanda frowned. “I just saw him. He didn’t mention it to me.”
“He wants you to wear something special tonight for the fashion show. And he requested that you not change before his celebration party.”
If Amanda had been wearing her normal clothes, she would have understood Hathaway’s request. But the Shey Group had supplied her with a wardrobe in the height of fashion. Hathaway had no reason to be ashamed of her clothing.
Suspicion made her ask, “Will you be at the party?”
Frances raised one haughty eyebrow. “Of course. The entire office staff and all the models are invited. We all wait for the midnight papers and the social papers to come out—just like for a Broadway show.”
“All right then.”
Frances suddenly pulled her close. “Be careful. He wants you badly.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“He’s willing to go further than you’d think to have you,” Frances warned.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, sensing no friendliness in the other woman.
“I’d be fired if I didn’t.”
“I don’t understand.” But Amanda did. Hathaway was warning her with all the audacity of a man certain that she’d be unable to resist. He was testing her.
“I have to go.” Frances turned on a four-inch spiked heel, dismissing her.
“Wait. One second,” Amanda demanded, suddenly remembering why she’d wanted to talk to Frances in the first place. “Does Hathaway keep a diary?”
But her question came too late. Frances had already hurried away.
* * *
BOLT RENTED A CAR to drive to Staten Island, found the garage easily and parked across the street. He’d had the Shey Group check the police report and learned that Hathaway had pulled strings to keep the vehicle from being impounded. As he neared, he saw no damage, no dents, no broken windows, not even a scratch on the glossy white paint. But a mechanic was under the raised hood, checking the oil, which he found odd. Why would the guy be doing routine maintenance?
Out of habit, Bolt took in his surroundings. Two other mechanics stood outside the garage, smoking cigarettes. It appeared normal, yet his suspicions had gone to full alert. He’d expected damage to the limo and the routine of the oil change alerted him that all was not as it seemed.
When the two mechanics on cigarette break approached, Bolt kept them in sight, noting that they moved with a lithe grace that suggested martial arts training. By the size of their biceps bulging under their uniforms, these guys had some muscle on them, too. As they approached he noted their hands. He saw no grease under the nails and calluses along the ridges and his wariness ratcheted up another notch.
This was a setup. Hathaway had sent him out here on a wild goose chase to prevent him from protecting Amanda. The realization raced through his mind at the same moment the guy checking the oil drew a gun and aimed it at Bolt.
Big mistake.
Bolt slammed the hood down on the man’s arm. Bone crunched. With a scream, he dropped the gun and the bullet he fired whizzed harmlessly by Bolt’s ear. One down, two to go. The pair of mechanics approached warily but with the confidence of men certain of their abilities.
One bent and slid a knife from his boot. The other advanced to attack with a jab to the jaw. Bolt’s catlike reflexes and hand-to-hand combat experience stood him in good stead. He hadn’t fought for his life in years but the instincts and muscle memory kicked in. He shifted, side-kicked the man’s knee, a dirty fighting move that was efficient, but not deadly. His opponent went down with a satisfying thud.
Bolt wished he had time to draw his gun. But the third opponent with the knife lunged in, slicing from side to side and displaying a keen knowledge of knife fighting.
If the man gave him one extra second, Bolt would have gone for his gun. But he required his hands for defense, and if he tried for his weapon, dropping his guard for that brief moment would likely be the last thing he ever did. The knife fighter would seek the opening and split him open from neck to gut.
Even a defensive wound on the wrist could be deadly, due to massive amounts of blood loss. As Bolt backed away, giving himself more room to fight, he considered running straight for his car. But if his opponent could throw the knife as well as he could fight, that option wouldn’t succeed, either.
Better to circle, wait for an opening. He watched the knife fighter’s eyes, not his hands, waiting for the moment of attack. The two men circled, sizing up one another with the experience of battle-hardened pros.
One slip, one stumble and the other man would be all over him like a wild dog on raw steak. And he wouldn’t just lose the fight and possibly his life, he would be letting Amanda down. There was no guessing what that bastard Hathaway intended to do with her.
His opponent feinted to the right. But Bolt didn’t take the bait.
Patience.
Watch the eyes.
Wait for the real attack.
He didn’t consider any move but a defensive one, balanced with a counterstrike. The main rule of knife fighting was to first disarm, then disable. And the men were too well matched in ability for Bolt to become an aggressor when he didn’t also have a knife in hand.
Focus.
Wait for an opening.
Wait for the eyes to give him a clue.
Seconds ticked by and his awareness that every movement delayed his return to Amanda had his nerves on edge. He couldn’t force the fight or he’d end up dead and a dead protector was useless to help her.
For the first time, Bolt’s opponent glanced down at his hand—the warning sign he’d been watching for. His opponent wanted to sneak in the knife without suffering a counterattack from Bolt’s fist. And that concern gave away his intention to commit to a full attack.
Bolt tensed on the balls of his feet. Hands open, wrists cocked, he didn’t so much as blink. And his opponent didn’t disappoint him. He lunged. And sliced.
Bolt moved inside the attack, captured the wrist, viciously twisted until bones snapped and the knife he dropped to the pavement. His opponent didn’t make a sound. Nor did he yield. Despite the huge amount of pain he must be suffering, he delivered an uppercut to Bolt’s chin that rocked him off his feet.
Dropping to the ground, he swept the man’s feet out from under him. And then the two were wrestling, rolling, digging with elbows, gouging with fingers, kneeing exposed shins and thighs.
Despite his useless hand, his opponent put up a remarkable fight. But Bolt found the carotid artery in the man’s neck and applied choking pressure until he blacked out. Rolling over, tossing the man’s body aside, Bolt began to shove to his feet.
The sound of swishing air warned him, and he ducked. But not fast enough. A crowbar caught him behind the ear. Pain exploded in his head and he fell. The guy with the crushed arm had found it in him to wield the crowbar with his other hand.
The glancing blow almost knocked him out. If he hadn’t ducked at the last second his brains and skull would have been spattered among the grease and oil in the parking lot. Blood dripped into his right eye, blurring his vision.
He swiped at his eyes, ordered his feet to gather under him. But his body refused to obey. Shock had set in and it felt as though an electrical cattle prod had zapped him. Pain cramped his muscles but he could hear voices talking.
“Hey. Don’t kill him.”
“The shithead broke my arm.”
No matter how much he willed them to do otherwise, his limbs still wouldn’t move.
Bolt heard the click of a hammer being p
ulled back, signifying a gun about to fire. From this distance, the man couldn’t possibly miss.
Amanda, I’m sorry. Sorry I failed to protect you. Sorry that I never told you…
Blackness claimed Bolt.
13
WHEN BOLT HADN’T ARRIVED back at the fashion show’s finale, Amanda tried to call him on his cell. He didn’t answer. And fifteen minutes later when he still didn’t respond, she knew something was very wrong.
Bolt was reliable and as she recalled that loving heat in his eyes, she knew he wouldn’t be out of touch unless there was a big problem. She kept telling herself his cell battery could be low, or he could be in a dead area, or changing a flat tire on the rental car, but she wasn’t convincing herself. Bolt was too protective and dependable not to call from a pay phone if his cell wasn’t working.
Without Bolt to back her, she was uncertain if she could or should proceed. So with trepidation in her heart, she put in a call to Logan Kincaid and wasted no words, coming right to the point. “Bolt isn’t answering his cell phone.” She gave him the Staten Island garage’s address.
Kincaid’s calm tone soothed her jangled nerves. “I’ll send someone to check on him. And someone to guard you. Don’t go back to the apartment—”
“Hathaway expects me to join him at a celebration party in his suite with the rest of his employees, staff, models and designers.” She didn’t need to spell out the implications that if she didn’t go, Hathaway might be suspicious of her cover.
“There are too many ways he can get you alone.”
She was well aware that attending Hathaway’s party involved risk, extra risk without Bolt to back her up. But she would never win justice for her sister by playing it safe.
“I’m armed, sir.”
“Then it’s your call.”
She appreciated Kincaid leaving the decision to her. While technically he wasn’t her boss, he could easily call her boss and force her hand. Bolt had told her that Kincaid trusted his people in the field, and in turn they gave him their best. She could see why Bolt enjoyed working for the man.
“I need to attend that party.”
Uncontrollable Page 17