Despite the tight control she kept on her feelings, something must have shown on her face. McQuaig paused, glanced at the other man, and snapped his fingers, pointing toward the telephone. “Let her talk to him, Harvey,” he said tonelessly.
The bald man with the face like a skull was named Harvey? She thought the name was ludicrously ordinary, like Jimmy Stewart’s giant rabbit. And on the heels of that thought came the realization that she was close to losing control. She dug her nails into her palms, her pulse counting off the seconds, while Harvey the skull man dialed and spoke a few terse words into the phone. He held the receiver out to her. “This isn’t because you asked,” he said. “It’s because we chose to. Remember that.”
She wiped her palm on her skirt and took the receiver. “Hello? Simon?” Nothing but silence greeted her. She felt her heart clench and looked at McQuaig. He stared back at her with flat indifference.
Suddenly, her brother’s voice, weak but recognizable, drifted through the receiver. “Emma?”
Her breath whooshed out. “Simon! Are you all right?”
There was a long pause. Then he spoke quickly, his words running together as if he were worried about getting them all out. “Do what they say, Emma, please, please, I'm scared, they'll kill me if you don’t.”
“Simon, where—”
“That’s enough,” McQuaig said, pressing his finger down on the disconnect. The line went dead. “Don’t try anything cute. Just do the job your brother was supposed to do, and we'll all come out of this satisfied.”
From outside the warehouse came the sound of screeching tires and the throaty noise of a powerful engine. Both men glanced at each other as if already dismissing her presence. McQuaig gestured toward the emptiness on the other side of the glass wall of the office. “He’s early. Bring him inside while I finish up with the pilot.”
The pilot, she thought numbly. The word that had once connoted freedom now sounded dirty. Emma moved away from the phone on the desk, trying to hang on to the threads of her unraveling composure. Through the glass wall she watched Harvey walk across the cavernous gloom to the outer door.
The new arrival stepped into the first pool of light, suddenly materializing from the shadows. Emma felt her heart thump hard. Even with the width of the warehouse between them, this man looked more dangerous than either of the others. He was tall, maybe an inch or two over six feet. He moved with the sleek, fluid ease of a big cat as he peeled off his black leather jacket and held his arms extended outward at his sides. Harvey said something that elicited a negligent shrug, then passed his hands over the man’s body in a swift but thorough check for weapons. Evidently nothing was found, and the man was waved forward.
He walked with a riveting combination of arrogance and grace. It was more subtle than a strut, the way his legs stretched confidently and his hips rolled just enough to suggest a casual sensuality. For a moment he faded into the shadows, then reappeared in the next pool of light, and Emma felt her palms sweat.
He hadn’t put the jacket back on. He hooked it with two fingers, letting it hang over his shoulder—his bare shoulder. The olive drab undershirt he wore exposed almost as much skin as it concealed, and that skin was stretched taut over solid muscle. She tried to look away, hoping to ignore the involuntary clutch of...something that responded to his blatant masculinity. But she couldn’t. He came closer, and she was able to see more details. He didn’t have the sterile shape of a bodybuilder but rather the firm, rangy physique of a man who used his body hard.
“You can use the same crates as your brother.”
She jerked, her gaze snapping back to the man behind the desk. “What?”
“Cover the merchandise with rocks, just like he did. But as long as you keep your mouth shut, you won’t be stopped.” He picked up his gun and sucked in his stomach in order to tuck the weapon into his waistband. “You'll have until 10:00 the morning after the pickup to deliver the merchandise to the location we tell you. Your brother will be waiting there. We remove one of his fingers for each minute you're late.”
Dots danced in front of her eyes. Breathing in deeply, she grabbed on to the corner of a battered filing cabinet to steady herself. “I'll be there.”
“Good.”
The solid footsteps that were echoing from the concrete grew nearer. Clenching her jaw, she delved for a reserve of strength in order to straighten her spine. This was a business deal, she told herself. She couldn’t let them see her weakness. “Fine. Then we have a deal, Mr. McQuaig. Just let me know the date and time.”
“We'll be in touch.” He glanced at the doorway. “Mr. Primeau?”
A deep, resonant voice replied. “Yeah. You McQuaig?”
“Yes. Please, come in.”
Emma felt the man’s presence the moment he stepped into the office. She kept her gaze on the floor until he moved into her field of vision. He wore black leather cowboy boots, not the dusty, beat-up kind but the highly polished, expensively tooled kind. Black, skintight denim hugged the muscular contours of his calves and thighs and clung indecently to his slim hips. The olive drab undershirt molded against washboard firmness. Emma tightened her fingers on the edge of the filing cabinet to keep from trembling.
“I've heard good things about you from our mutual acquaintance in Chicago,” McQuaig was saying. “What brings you out here to the coast?”
“Business.” He shifted to drop his jacket over the back of a chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I heard you're reliable. My last source retired prematurely, and I'm looking for someone who can supply my customers on a regular basis. You interested?”
Something stirred at the back of Emma’s mind as she listened to the voice. It was rich and deep-chested. She knew she would have remembered if she had heard it before, but still it seemed familiar. She looked at the man’s powerful arms, then raised her gaze as far as his chin. It was a long, stubborn chin set in a square jaw. His skin gleamed with the tightness of a fresh shave, but he wore his hair on the long side. It was dark blond, slicked straight back from his face and caught into a short ponytail at the back of his head. A thin gold chain with a cross on the end of it dangled from his right earlobe.
On some men the ponytail and the earring might look effeminate. They had the opposite effect with this Primeau. Everything about him, from the sensual walk to the arrogant stance to the aura of leashed power in his lean muscles, exuded raw masculinity.
“As a matter of fact, a regular supply is what I guarantee,” McQuaig said. “My network is second to none.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“My latest shipment has already been distributed, but I should have several kilos by the end of the week. Harvey,” he said, gesturing toward Emma. “Get her out of here.”
That was one order that Emma was eager to comply with. She was unraveling. On top of the panic over the threats to Simon, and the horror of what she had to do, this gut-level reaction to the man called Primeau was making her sick with revulsion. She knew what he was. He was a drug dealer. He was the next link in the obscene chain, the one that would distribute the white death to its ultimate victims.
Until now, she had focused on his walk, his clothes and his body. As she was straightening up to leave, she raised her gaze to his face.
He was staring at her, and his eyes were...beautiful. The color was a brilliant blue, unlike anything she had seen in her life. Surrounded by long, thick lashes, his gaze was fascinating, like an unexpected glimpse of clear sky. His eyebrows were bold and straight, angled downward in a frown. His nose was long and narrow, with a subtle bump in the center...
She blinked. No, it was impossible. Impossible.
His cheekbones were high, with hollows carved beneath them that would be partly hidden by a beard...
Her breathing stopped, simply suspended on a gasp. This was crazy. She must have snapped from the tension, but this drug dealer bore an uncanny resemblance to...
No. It couldn’t be.
Rapidly her
gaze traveled over him again. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on that tautly muscular body. There was nothing shy about his arrogant stance, nothing plain or awkward about the boots or the tight clothes or the earring that dangled defiantly down the side of his neck.
His firm, well-formed lips spread into a smile with no warmth. “Hi, there, sweet thing.”
She stared at his lips. She knew their shape, and their texture. But this didn’t make sense. She had never seen this drug-dealing scum in her life. Had she?
“Harvey, I told you to get her out of here.”
“What’s your hurry?” The man who called himself Primeau moved between Emma and the office door. “A woman like this does wonders for the decor in here, McQuaig. She yours?”
Disgust, along with anger, tightened Emma’s stomach, adding to the insane suspicions whirling in her head. She tried to step around him, but he shifted smoothly, blocking her path.
McQuaig laughed, a low grating sound like an unused hinge. “Primeau, meet Emma Duprey. She’s our pilot.”
“Her? A woman?”
“She'll be bringing in the next shipment.”
“So she’s working for you?”
“We have a mutual agreement, don’t we, Miss Duprey?” McQuaig drawled.
She nodded numbly, not taking her gaze from the man who stood in front of her. Were those hints of sun-streaked gold in his tightly slicked hair?
“Hey, she can fly my friendly skies anytime.”
The crude comment sickened her. She must be mistaken. The kind, gentle accountant would never—
Before she could move, Primeau’s hand shot out and fastened on her upper arm. His grip was like an iron band. If she struggled, she would have bruises. He brought his face close to hers, his unbelievably beautiful eyes holding her spellbound.
She felt it then, that spark between them. The man-to-woman, hunter-to-hunted connection. The bond of recognition that dwelled in the depths of instinct. The truth seared across her mind in a dazzling flash.
It was impossible.
But it was Bruce. Bruce. In a different body, a different person, but she knew it was the same man!
Before a single sound could escape her frozen lips, he swooped closer and brought his mouth next to her ear. “Play along,” he breathed, “or we're both dead.”
She couldn’t move. Her pulse raced, her lungs heaved. She felt a swirling disorientation threaten to sap the last of the dwindling strength that kept her knees from dissolving.
He pulled back and stared straight into her eyes, the message in his gaze as clear as a shout. His mouth moved into a cold smile and he released her arm to rub the crest of his knuckles across her cheek.
The contact was a hollow parody of the tender caresses Bruce had given her in the past. Bruce. How? Why? Confusion fogged her brain. She could barely deal with her anxiety over her brother and her fear over what she had to do for these criminals. She couldn’t deal with these questions that had no answers.
Bruce—yes, Bruce—grasped her wrist and tugged her forward, bringing her hard against the front of his body.
The impact of his solid, muscular form knocked her speechless. She squirmed, but that only intensified the contact of their bodies. No. No! This couldn’t be happening. How could the nightmare be getting even worse? It was as if reality had shifted, like one of those children’s pictures that changed if it was viewed from a different angle. She felt sick, and she felt instant heat spark along her skin from the proximity of this man, and that made her feel even sicker.
“What price are you asking for your merchandise, McQuaig?” Bruce asked.
McQuaig laughed his rusty hinge noise again. “Which kind, Primeau? The shipment at the end of the week, or what you're holding now?”
He answered with a chuckle that was deep and ugly. “I'm referring to business. What I'm holding is pure pleasure.” He named a price for several kilos of cocaine that made those dots dance before Emma’s eyes again. McQuaig haggled briefly and demanded a down payment. Bruce demanded to test a sample before he took delivery. A bargain was struck in less than a minute.
Emma felt as if she were going to throw up.
Bruce let go of her wrist and fastened a powerful forearm around the small of her back. He reached past her to pick up his jacket, then twisted quickly and propelled her toward the office door. “Looks like I'll have some time to kill around here, sweet thing.” His fingers dug warningly into her ribs. “What do you say we go somewhere for a drink?”
She stumbled alongside him, her heels skidding on the gritty cement floor. She clutched at his hand, trying to pry it loose, but it was like trying to pry granite.
“You don’t mind if I borrow your pilot for a few hours, do you, McQuaig?” he called over his shoulder.
“If you're thinking of striking a private deal with her, forget it,” McQuaig replied. “We only use people we can rely on. Isn’t that right, Miss Duprey? You wouldn’t think of doing anything to change our arrangement, would you?”
Simon had cried on the phone. They would kill him if she didn’t deliver. She shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Then what you do on your own time doesn’t concern me,” McQuaig said. “Keep in touch, Primeau. Harvey will see you out.”
Bruce held her firmly to his side as they walked through the pools of light, his body strung tight with tension. Emma felt it the same way she felt his simmering anger. Why was he here? What was he doing? She looked up at him as they reached the outer door. Who was he? What was he? A mad hiccup rumbled from the place where she was suppressing all her roiling emotions. This was Bruce. A blue-eyed, sexy-like-a-snake Bruce.
The night air was cool and damp as they stepped outside. A gleaming black car was parked beside her blue pickup. Of course, she thought, feeling another hiccup bubble to her throat. This Bruce wouldn’t drive a beat-up old van, he would drive a Corvette. Did he trade in his vehicles like he traded in his clothes? And his body?
Bruce steered her toward the car. “This is for Harvey’s benefit,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. His grip on her loosened for a moment. Before she could pull away, he rubbed his hand up and down her arm. “I saw a place a few blocks from here, sweet thing,” he said aloud in a voice that would be sure to carry to the man who still stood in the open warehouse doorway. “You can follow me in your truck.”
She wanted to scream. Bruce, you're not like this. You're gentle, and kind and tender. We shared our desserts. We talked about books. You held me while I cried, remember? You're a man I could grow to...
His hand dropped to her hip, his fingers caressing the curve of her buttock.
The gesture was a travesty. Emma felt something shrivel inside her. The peace of her cabin by the isolated lake had already been shattered, her simple joy in her skills as a pilot was being corrupted. Why shouldn’t the warmth of what she had shared with the shy accountant be destroyed, too? “Don’t touch me.”
His mouth stretched into a predatory smile as he tightened his grasp and pulled her closer. “It’s not only Harvey,” he said between his teeth. “There are eight men stationed around the warehouse. Get in your truck and follow me.”
She had to tip back her head to look at the stranger who held her. He was tall. And strong. He couldn’t be her Bruce. But he was.
With a low curse he moved his hand to her back and steered her to the passenger side of his car. “Okay, we'll do this the hard way,” he muttered, opening the door and pushing her inside. Before she could recover enough to react, he had rounded the hood and jumped into the driver’s side. The engine came to life with a powerful growl.
“No,” she gasped, reaching for the door handle. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”
He clicked the power locks and put the car into gear. The tires squealed on the pavement and she was thrown back against the seat. Bruce didn’t even glance at her. In the sliding bars of light from the scattered streetlights they passed, his profile looked as if it were carved from stone.
<
br /> Emma braced her hands against the dashboard, feeling her grip on reality slip another notch toward hysteria. This was no rusty old van he was driving. The black car could go almost as fast as her plane. And he knew perfectly well how to handle it. That clumsy performance with the grinding gears and jerky starts that he’d put on when he’d driven up her driveway had been as phony as his shambling walk. Why? If he was a drug dealer, why had he masqueraded as a klutzy tourist?
Wide-eyed, she looked at the large, strong hands that gripped the wheel. Her gaze traveled up his arms, halting briefly at the firm biceps before going on to the broad shoulders and coming to rest on his profile once more. He was the same man. The nose was the same, so was the forehead and the cheeks and the masculine jaw she had glimpsed through the beard. But he wasn’t trying to hide his attractiveness. No, he was flaunting it. Her pulse raced, her thoughts spun like the tires that squealed across the darkened streets.
Bruce drove in silence. In a matter of minutes they had left the run-down area of the warehouse and were cruising toward a neon-lit strip of bars and old brick hotels. Without warning he abruptly turned the car into an alley and skidded to a stop.
“Okay, this will have to do,” he said. He twisted toward her. In the dim light from the dashboard his features took on a harsh, threatening cast. “First of all, let me say as one professional to another that your act is one of the best I've ever seen.”
No, she thought as she listened to the cruel tones. This wasn’t Bruce’s voice. Bruce was gentle, and sweet and understanding.
“You've managed to surprise me all along, but this tops everything,” he continued. “I was wrong about you. I can see that now.”
She shook her head, trying to regain some control over her wits. “Who are you?”
“You can forget the innocent act, Emma. I saw you with McQuaig. I heard you make your deal with him. You freely admitted that you were his pilot before you recognized me.”
True Lies Page 9