by Rebecca York
He turned back to his lists, noting the security arrangements at the Dark Tower, where his very special guest was being held.
Stan Winston’s daughter. Winston’s most prized possession. Oliver had a long memory for wrongs done him in the past. And he’d been waiting for the chance to pay Winston back for screwing him out of several important manufacturing deals—deals that would have channeled a great deal of money into legitimate enterprises.
So when the opportunity to snatch the girl had come up, he’d leaped on it. But the party later in the week meant that he’d have to put any decisions about her on hold.
Maybe he’d even return her to Winston only slightly the worse for wear—if Winston came up with the right price. He was still thinking about what he wanted. Not money. Some terms that would humiliate the man, put him in Oliver Reynard’s debt. But that was only one interesting possibility. It might be more satisfying to return her in a coffin, and demonstrate that he had absolute power over Winston’s life.
THE STEAK WAS GOOD—broiled just the way Maddy liked it. The baked potatoes excellent, not steamed in foil but delicate and fluffy so that they mixed perfectly with the sour cream, chives and bacon bits that were provided as garnishes.
“Winston Industries knows how to cook,” Jack commented as he cut off another piece of tender, juicy steak.
“Only the best for Stan Winston.”
The comment came from the man himself. He was standing in the doorway, looking like an earthquake victim. His hair was uncombed. His clothes might have been slept in for the past month. And the lines in his face had deepened to furrowed channels.
“Mr. Winston,” Maddy murmured. “Come join us. I’m sure the kitchen can send up something for you.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down.
Maddy nodded. Despite her invitation, it was impossible for her to talk to the man, to be in the same room with him without feeling guilty.
The dinner that had seemed so appealing a few minutes ago might as well have turned to library paste.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Winston said. “I was just wondering how your plans are going.”
“We’ve been establishing the personas we’re going to project for Reynard,” Jack said. He had also put down his knife and fork. “And I’ve obtained detailed aerial photos of the island.”
“Let me see them,” Winston said eagerly.
The dinner forgotten, Maddy jumped up and brought the pictures, self-conscious in the revealing dress. But Stan barely glanced at her.
Jack stood too, coming over to point out the features he’d shown Maddy.
“Where do you think the bastard is holding Dawn?” Winston asked.
“Anything I tell you now can only be a guess,” Jack answered. “He could have her in the main house. Or somewhere else on the island.”
The distraught father took the news badly. “This is all my fault,” he whispered.
“No! How can you say that?” Maddy asked.
He turned his face toward her. “I know you’re still blaming yourself—even after I told you that was nonsense. I’ve been working up the guts to explain what was really in that girl’s head.”
“You can’t know her thoughts,” Maddy protested.
“I can make an educated guess. What happened was that Dawn blames me for her mother’s death last year. Jill and I had had a fight the night she died. And she was angry when she got into her sports car. That’s why she was driving too fast and missed the turn on Thunder Road.” He heaved a sigh. “Since then, Dawn has barely spoken to me. And I’ve been so afraid that something would happen to her, too, that I’ve kept her under virtual house arrest. That’s why she planned her escape. To get away from me. Now both of us are paying the price—I mean you and me. We both think it’s our fault. Only I’m the one responsible. Not you.”
Maddy’s heart ached for the man. “We’ll get her back,” she murmured.
“You have to,” Winston said. “Or I won’t be able to live with myself.”
She moved into the background while Jack took over, emphasizing the research he’d done, and offering reasonable strategies for getting Dawn back. His speech was reassuring, even though Maddy knew that much of the presentation was designed to lift the man’s spirits.
Jack kept up the encouraging monologue as they walked Stan Winston to the door.
The man was profuse in his thanks.
“You made him feel better,” she said when the door had closed behind him.
“I’m praying we can deliver on those promises.”
She nodded. She hadn’t thought Jack Connors was the praying type. But then there was so little she knew about him.
She started to turn away. But she was so tired that when one of her stiltlike shoes caught in the rug, she stumbled.
Jack’s arm shot out, catching her, and she tumbled into his arms. There was a shocked moment when her body registered the lean form and the hard muscles of him—when her breasts flattened against his chest—when her fatigue fell away, to be replaced by a sharp stab of sexual need.
She sucked in a breath, felt his large hand slide down her back. And she knew in that moment that the surge of sexual excitement wasn’t one-sided. He was aroused. And as his hold shifted on her, a sudden tantalizing image swirled in her head. An image of what they had done together—and what they might do.
But the whole supercharged incident lasted only seconds. Before she could blink, he was setting her away from him, transferring her hand from his shoulder to the back of a chair.
“It’s been a long day,” he said gruffly as though the only thing that had happened was that she’d tripped and he’d caught her.
She nodded wordlessly. She’d thought he was indifferent to her. That their tumble on the bed had represented only a momentary burst of pleasure for him. Now she wondered if she’d been too quick to assess his reactions.
“Go home and get some sleep. We’ll start again in the morning. And change out of those shoes before you kill yourself,” he added.
She didn’t have the energy to come back with a retort. Or the courage to ask him what he was feeling. But at least she made an effort to straighten her shoulders as she marched back down the hall.
Jack wasn’t in the room when she returned. She’d never thought of him as a coward. Now she wondered if he’d deliberately made himself scarce.
The speculation had a buoying effect as she rode down in the elevator. It was after ten, but there was no problem getting a ride home. Winston Industries maintained a fleet of private cars with drivers always on duty, and Maddy had no qualms about using their services tonight.
Twenty minutes later, she was saying hello to the doorman at her upper East side apartment building.
Just off Lexington Avenue, it was a small but exclusive residence for young executives. A luxury building by New York standards where rents had gone through the roof.
But she made a good enough salary to afford a two-bedroom unit—with one of the bedrooms outfitted as a home office.
Callie’s meow of protest greeted her as she unlocked the door and stepped into her small foyer.
Coming down on her knees, she stroked the calico cat’s silky fur.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she apologized. “I know I’ve been gone a long time. And I’m going to be gone even longer,” she added with a pang, thinking that the first thing she’d better do in the morning was call her friend Jan and arrange for cat-sitting.
Tail up, Callie followed her onto the Berber carpet, then leaped into her lap, purring furiously as her mistress sat down on the corduroy sofa.
Maddy leaned back, closed her eyes and stroked the cat with long sweeps of her hand that started at her head and went all the way down her tail.
Shoes off, she swung her feet onto the old ship’s hatch that she’d found at a flea market, refinished, and bolted to metal legs so she could use it as a coffee table.
; Smiling, she listened to the sound of her pet’s contented purring. Dogs were affectionate because it was programmed into them. If your cat sat in your lap and purred, you knew it was because she loved you. Or because she expected you were going to feed her, she added with a laugh.
After a few moments, she shifted the animal off her lap, and padded into the kitchen to fill the food bowl.
Seconds later, Callie was chomping away, and Maddy was wandering toward the window to look out at the lights of the city.
She’d lived in New York all her life—except when she was away on assignment or during summers at the Winston estate. She loved the excitement of the city and loved the homey feel of her apartment. Usually she was content here. Tonight she felt restless.
She wandered across the room to the walnut bookshelves that spanned one wall and looked at the picture of herself and her father. It had been taken when she’d first joined the Winston security force—when she’d been infused with the passion to reach the top.
She couldn’t hold back a snort. She had what she’d always wanted. Only now the luster had worn off the prize. It wasn’t just the fiasco with Dawn. It was Jack, she silently acknowledged. This afternoon he’d made her realize how empty her life was, and she didn’t like the realization.
When the buzzer on the intercom sounded, she jumped. Then her heart began to pound as she crossed the room.
Was he downstairs now? Had he forgotten to tell her something? Or did he simply want to see her?
“Hello,” she said as she pressed the buzzer.
“Maddy.”
Her disappointment was instant. It wasn’t Jack; it was Ted Burnes, who worked for her at Winston Industries.
“Ted. What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’d like to talk to you. Can I come up?”
She glanced at the clock. It was ten-thirty, an unusual time for a visit.
“It’s important,” he said.
“All right. I’ll buzz you in.”
Glad that she’d changed back to her work outfit before coming home, she scuffed her shoes back on and smoothed her hair in the mirror.
Seconds later, the chimes sounded, and she opened the door.
Ted surged across the threshold, then came to an abrupt stop as Callie dashed directly in front of him and bounded into the bedroom.
“What was that, the Cannonball Express?” he asked.
“My cat. She doesn’t take to strangers. You won’t see her again. I promise.”
He nodded, then turned in a circle, inspecting her living room. “Very nice.”
“Thank you. Uh—why did you stop by?”
As soon as she said the words, she knew she wasn’t being very hospitable.
Ted shoved his hands into his pockets. He was a tall man—almost as tall as Jack. And he was muscular. But while Jack was dark, Ted was fair. With blond hair and what she thought of as Midwestern good looks. He’d tried to date her a time or two, but she’d made it clear that she didn’t go out with employees.
Now, to her embarrassment, the recent episode with Jack leaped into her mind. Flustered, she turned toward the window so Ted couldn’t see the flush that had crept into her cheeks.
“I guess you’re tired. Maybe I shouldn’t have come rushing over,” he apologized.
“No, no. That’s fine. I’ve just had a pretty trying day,” she answered, forcing herself to turn back to him.
“I know. You brought in Jack Connors to help you get Dawn Winston back.”
“How do you know that?” she inquired, making an effort to keep her voice even.
“People have seen him in the building. They put two and two together.”
She nodded tightly.
“Maddy, I wish you weren’t going with him.”
Lord, another man trying to discourage her from doing her job. Quietly, she asked, “Why not?”
Ted looked down, then brought his gaze back to hers. “I’ve heard stuff about him.”
“Like what?”
He sucked in a breath and let it out. “Like he’s not the most reliable partner for the job.”
“I think you’d better explain that.”
Ted pressed his lips together. “Okay. You know he’s ex-CIA. Do you know why he quit the agency?”
“He could make more money in the private sector, with his own company.”
“That may be true. But his leaving was the direct result of an assignment in Albania. With a female partner. He lost her.”
“You mean, she was killed?” Maddy asked tightly.
“Yeah. And it was his fault.”
“How do you know?” she pressed.
Ted hesitated. “Confidential reports.”
“Where did you get hold of something like that?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Ted, you work for me!”
“But in this case, I can’t reveal my source. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I acknowledge that someone wants to discredit Jack Connors. And if you can’t tell me who it is, I can’t make an evaluation of the information.”
“I can’t tell you,” he repeated.
“Then I’ll take it for what it’s worth.”
Ted folded his arms across his chest. “You’re confident that Jack Connors can protect your back?”
“Yes,” she answered, her voice ringing with conviction—because she couldn’t drop out of this assignment, which meant her only choice was to trust Jack with her life.
Ted stood there, staring at her as though he thought she was making a serious mistake. Desperate to change the subject, she said, “Jack and I both think that Dawn might have had help escaping from the Winston compound.”
“That makes sense,” Ted answered, his voice tight.
“Do you have any idea who might have aided her?”
“Actually, I’ve done some thinking about that myself,” he answered quickly. “One of the maids in the household is new. I’m redoing her background check. And there’s a gardener who was friendly with Dawn. I’m having him investigated, too.”
“Thank you for getting on that.”
“I thought you’d want the information.”
“Yes,” she murmured, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Why don’t we continue this discussion in my office tomorrow?”
Ted didn’t take the hint. “Who’s going to be in charge of security while you’re gone?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. Ted was one of her chief candidates, which he probably realized. But she wasn’t going to discuss that now. And she wasn’t going to make any decisions until she had time to review the recent work records of her senior staff.
Ted took a step back. “Well, I guess I’d better go.” He looked up at her. “You won’t…uh…tell Connors I spoke to you about…uh…Albania, will you?”
“Of course not,” she answered, reaching to open the door.
Ted nodded tightly, then departed as quickly as he had come, leaving her with thoughts that were even more unsettled than they had been earlier in the evening.
3
OLIVER REYNARD SPENT part of the morning personally inspecting each of the villas and rooms in the guest wings. Then he toured the kitchen to make sure everything was ready.
After that he visited the guards on the target range—noting their proficiency with both machine guns and automatic pistols.
Now it was time for one last check on his visitor files.
Striding across the antique Oriental rug in his comfortable office, he stopped by the desk and ran his fingertips over the stack of folders on the wide mahogany desk.
The thicker ones held dossiers on the men who would be arriving on Orchid Island in a few hours. The thinner folders had information on the female guests.
The women hardly registered on his scale of potential threats—unless he wanted to worry about the ones who were daughters o
f mafia dons.
The males were his primary concern. All of them were rich. All were powerful and ruthless in their own right. And all thrilled to be visiting the home of the world’s top crime boss. And all of them would murder him in his own bed if he gave them the chance.
He’d known some of them for years. Exchanged e-mails and teleconferences with others. The only ones he’d met face-to-face had come to Orchid Island. The island was an independent state. Subject to no laws but his own—which were modeled on the Napoleonic Code. Guilty until proven innocent. And few men—or women—who crossed him got a chance to prove the latter.
Although he worked from home, he hadn’t given up his U.S. operations. He’d only switched them to trusted operatives who were his legs—and his eyes and ears on the mainland. They’d brought him some of the information on his guests. The rest of it had been culled from the secret Internet databases that cost him a fortune in fees every month.
He reached for the folder on Jack Craig and opened it again. Oliver had never worked with him, but he was always interested in new moneymaking operations—particularly if they presented no risk to himself.
Like most others in his line of work, Craig had gone to considerable lengths to hide the details of his business operations from the world. But Oliver had discovered the interesting fact that Mr. Craig had recently moved into territory left vacant by the arrest of several key crime bosses.
So Jack Craig appeared to check out. And he had a couple of very well-respected mob kingpins who were willing to vouch for him. But there were some holes in his resume—some periods of time that weren’t accounted for.
Stints in prison? Stretches when he had gone underground to avoid a murder rap? That was the rumor.
Which might or might not be true. If he’d been a federal prisoner, it had been under another name, although taking another identity in midcareer wasn’t unusual for a man like Craig who wanted to hide some of the unfortunate incidents in his background.
Intrigued but still on his guard, he’d kept Craig on the guest list—partly for the challenge of sparring with the man. And partly because of the companion he was bringing. Maddy Griffin.