by Kylie Brant
“I think we’ve done enough for one day.”
“I want to learn.”
He was beginning to observe a rather noticeable stubborn streak in her. With a mental shrug, he acquiesced, and drove her across the island to a shooting range.
Half an hour later, with his hands on his hips, Nick surveyed the target outline she was practicing on. She’d listened to his instructions carefully before emptying the clip in her gun, but there wasn’t a mark on the cardboard.
Cocking an eyebrow, he strolled back to her. “That was an interesting start,” he said through his headset.
She glowered at the weapon she held. “I don’t like guns.”
That was easy enough to discern. It showed in the way she looked at them, full of suspicion and perhaps a glimmer of fear. Despite his repeated suggestions, she still held the weapon gingerly, instead of clasping it firmly in her hand.
With more patience than he would have dreamed he possessed, Nick reloaded her weapon, handed it back to her. “Okay, let’s start again. Show me your stance.” At least she’d gotten that part right, he noted. “Good. Feet shoulder width apart, and remember, the gun is an extension of your arm. Use your other hand to brace it.” If she’d been anyone else he would have stepped up behind her, guided her hands into the proper position with his own. Instead, he reached over, attempted to arrange them correctly as he murmured directions. “All right. Try it again and don’t close your eyes this time.”
Her second attempt was slightly more accurate than the first. There was a hole squarely in the center of the outline, which he chalked up to luck, and a few others scattered around the outer edge.
“Better. Want to try it again?”
She relinquished the gun to him just a little too eagerly. “Tomorrow, all right?”
He nodded and took off his headset. When he would have turned away, she caught his sleeve to stop him. His gaze dropped to her slim hand for a second before she let it fall to her side. “I just wanted…to thank you, I guess. For everything. Yesterday…helping me leave last night…and today. I guess I never did thank you for saving my life.”
The words sounded as though they were hard for her to form. They were harder, much harder, for him to hear. He ejected the spent cartridge from her weapon with savage force. “I don’t want your gratitude, Amber.”
“What do you want?”
The quiet question, no less intense for its lack of volume, snared his attention. Slowly his gaze raised to hers. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
To her credit, she didn’t flinch. “I told you once…”
“That you wouldn’t sleep with me.” He shifted his focus once more to the gun, prepared to hand it in.
“It’s not fair…”
“If you’re concerned for my feelings, don’t be.” He gestured for a nearby employee to come and get the weapon and ear guards. “I rarely do anything for altruistic reasons.” His words served a twofold purpose. They should hold a warning for her, one she’d be wise to heed.
And they should serve as a warning to him.
Chapter 4
Victor Mannen straightened one tailored suit sleeve and suppressed the rage throbbing at his temples. Control was the true mark of breeding, and above all else he considered himself well-bred. The battle, however, was difficult. There were few things more infuriating than incompetence.
When he returned his attention to his phone conversation again, he made certain that nothing but polite interest sounded in his voice. “You disappoint me, Robert. You’ve given me nothing new.”
Special Agent Robert Thorson’s tone was entirely too casual for Victor’s liking. “There’s nothing else to tell. And believe me, I put my ass on the line keeping you updated.”
Mannen thought disparagingly of the man’s ample form. “A substantial danger, to be sure, but you are compensated for being accurate and in-depth. This information is neither.”
“I can appreciate your concern, sir, but if there were anything else to tell, I’d know about it. Nothing happens in the Department of Justice without coming through my office first. Like I said, they’re close to shutting Golden Enterprises down. We’ve got agents tugging at every string they can find in your operation, and if nothing else, they intend to keep you tied up fighting our lawyers. If you can liquefy, you should pull your money out now.”
Bringing the seventeenth-century wine flute to his lips, Victor sipped from the fine crystal and resisted the urge to snap its slender stem. If incompetence was offensive, stupidity was intolerable.
With practice, he kept his voice smoothly melodious. “How gracious you are to offer me the benefit of your advice. You can’t imagine how I value it.”
Wariness threaded the agent’s words. “Of course, you know the police are looking to pin the Delgado murder on you. But as far as I’ve been able to discover, they’ve got nothing solid to trace him to you.”
“Delgado was a vicious criminal who overdosed in jail on his own heart medication. What could that possibly have to do with me?” Mannen paused. The delicious irony of the man’s demise still managed to amuse him. “I’m more concerned about any renewed interest at Justice regarding that irritating murder charge your department leveled at me six years ago.”
The silence that stretched following his words gave him his answer, even if it wasn’t the one he’d hoped for. The agent hadn’t heard of it. Yet Mannen had no reason to disbelieve the report from the new source he’d cultivated. Thorson’s ignorance of the matter indicated that either Justice suspected him of leaking information, or that he didn’t wield as much power in the department as he once had. Either way, the man had outlived his usefulness.
“There hasn’t been any talk to that effect. How could there be? The only surviving witness hasn’t surfaced for years.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Victor sipped again. “I’m worrying excessively.” He set the wine flute on the table and prepared to end the conversation. “You’ll contact me if you hear more.”
“Of course.”
Victor hung up the phone and studied the expensive wine in his glass, admiring the way the chandelier overhead laced the liquid with shards of color. It wasn’t enough to savor the taste of the wine, he reflected. One really needed to experience it with all the senses. After several moments, he murmured, “Franklin.” The massive man who was his new assistant came to attention. “I fear our friend is no longer of assistance to me.”
“Shall I take care of that for you?”
“Please do so. Allow him to return to D.C. first. The city has such a nasty reputation for violence, his death will make fewer waves there.”
The other man nodded and disappeared into the next room.
Mannen contemplated his surroundings in the penthouse he’d rented for the day. When traveling he always liked to take some of his own things with him to maximize comfort. Hence the antique crystal, the rare wine and the exquisite lace tablecloth. Certain standards must be upheld to consider oneself civilized.
His lip curled slightly. Despite his ire with Thorson, he had of course divested himself of as many of his connections to Golden Enterprises as possible. But with the huge conglomerate inoperable, it had become necessary to find other ways to supplement his finances. Fortunately, he’d never lacked ingenuity. His newest venture might well be the most lucrative to date.
Smiling at the thought, he brought the glass to his lips again. He didn’t spare a thought for any obstacles in his path. Obstacles were no deterrent to a man of his means.
He simply eliminated them.
Sara pushed herself harder, even though her thigh muscles screamed in protest. It wasn’t an innate competitive streak that made her reluctant to fall too far behind Nick, at least not completely. The man was obviously in superb condition, whereas her idea of running was to seek the nearest shelter from rain. But it was a matter of pride that she improve the time and distance she’d accomplished yesterday. And the day before that.
&
nbsp; “Let’s take a breather.”
Since he didn’t even appear winded yet, she knew the suggestion was more for her benefit than for his own. She ignored it, but settled into a slower pace that would give her hammering heart a rest. And as she had the two previous days, she used the opportunity to study her surroundings.
Out of habit and necessity she’d made mental notes of escape routes off the island. Nick had been right on one point—she needed to learn to defend herself. She’d become an expert on how to create new, believable identities, how to get jobs when references weren’t available, how to recognize when it was time to leave one place and start over in another. Survival techniques, all of them. But the lessons Nick was providing involved survival of another kind. And they offered an opportunity she could ill afford to pass up.
That was the only reason she hadn’t left yet, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t prepared for her departure. Their runs had given her a chance to scout the area, as had her nightly forays when she’d climb out her window onto the porch roof and shimmy down the drain spout. She’d made note of which of the nearest houses had boats, but the knowledge probably wouldn’t help her. She’d yet to discover one that had the keys left in it. And since her skills didn’t extend to hot-wiring engines, she’d start checking cars in the proximity tonight.
She suppressed a prickle of conscience. Conscience was a luxury for someone who lived by her wits. There was no need to waste sympathy on Doucet, at any rate. Whatever his reasons for bringing her here, she doubted her absence would disturb him for long.
Sending the man a sidelong glance, she noted that he ran as he did everything else—effortlessly. The sight of him in running clothes was always disconcerting. He was usually beautifully dressed in tailored, obviously expensive garments. The garb failed to mask his danger, but did lend it a polished edge. When he ran, however, he wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves torn out, shorts that showed the muscles bunching and releasing in his lean legs. Without the sheen of civility the more formal clothes afforded, he projected an aura of certain menace. One she’d do well to heed.
He slowed, his hand reaching out to clasp her wrist, forcing her to stop. “You need a break. If you push your body too hard you’ll have a difficult time getting out of bed in the morning.”
It was hard to protest when her muscles were quivering like Jell-O. “I have to cool down.”
He nodded and released her, then adjusted his stride to hers as she set a fast walking pace. “You’re really not in bad shape for someone who hasn’t exercised regularly.”
The compliment amused her. “Well, waitressing has me walking miles a day between the kitchen and tables, and the trays I carry aren’t exactly light.”
“Is that what you’ve always done? Wait tables?”
Deeply ingrained caution had her delivering a lie. “The only jobs I’ve ever held. With tips, the salary allows me to get by.”
“And is that all you want? Just to get by?”
His question scraped a nerve. It had been a lifetime since she’d been able to consider what she wanted. Her long ago dream of helping others through nursing or social work seemed peculiarly ironic. It was all she could manage each day just to stay alive. “We can’t all be handed businesses that have been in the family for generations.”
Nick didn’t seem to take offense at the caustic observation. “I suppose not.” There wasn’t a hint of impatience in his tone, and not for the first time Sara wondered where he’d learned his control. Because if she was guarded, this man had a regular force field around him.
Squelching her curiosity, she concentrated on her stride. It wouldn’t do to let herself wonder about him. She wasn’t planning on staying long enough to ask the questions that plagued her. And she certainly wasn’t expecting to let him get close enough for the answers to matter.
“Actually, my grandfather still has a tight grip on the family import business, with the occasional aid of my father. I’m not in New Orleans often enough to do the job justice.”
“Ah, that’s right. I suppose you’re tending to those investments you mentioned.” The conversation almost distracted Sara from the burning of her sore muscles.
“Among other things, yes.”
“You don’t get to be as good as you are in martial arts, conditioning and shooting from dealing with stocks and bonds.” She noted the abrupt stillness that came over his features. “I mean, I hear Wall Street is tough, but not that tough.”
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. She didn’t know which of them was more surprised when he finally said, “Perhaps not, but Army Special Ops is.”
Her heart, which had been beating so furiously a moment ago, seemed to stop. “You’re in the army?” She tried to imagine him as a recruit taking orders, and failed to do so.
He nudged her, one hand to the small of her back, to get her moving again. “I used to be in the army. The Green Berets. A lifetime ago.”
She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from him. Yes, that would explain his extraordinary control, his well-conditioned body, and the subtle threat he projected. The Green Berets. She might not have a high school diploma, but even she had heard of the highly trained unconventional warfare team. They were the forces given the most perilous assignments, in the riskiest places. No wonder he’d seemed to overshadow even the tough NOPD detective. She couldn’t imagine the situations Nick had been in. Or the things he’d done.
Her palms had dampened, and she rubbed them on the tail of her shirt. “How long have you been out?”
“Five years.”
His voice was clipped, as though he was already regretting the disclosure. But Sara didn’t heed the warning signs. “Why did you leave?”
An imperceptible flame leaped in his eyes, which were fixed on her own. “Deep cover can be reality altering. It’s easy to lose sight of what’s real, what’s important.” His voice, his gaze, were hypnotic. “There comes a time when it’s impossible to tell where your false identity begins and where you end. When you start to question your motives, your goals… If you’re lucky, you get out before you make a mistake that someone else ends up paying for.”
He didn’t voice the words left unsaid. He didn’t have to. She knew what happened when innocents were drawn into situations not of their own making. She swallowed hard, his low, rough words striking a chord within her. Because he’d just described how she’d spent the last six years of her life. She recognized the look of haunting regret in his eyes.
She faced it in the mirror every day.
“Eat. You need the fuel.”
At Nick’s command, Sara set down the fork she’d been using to disinterestedly stir her food, and shot him an irritated look. “You give a lot of orders.”
Although he didn’t smile, his face lightened a fraction. “Most of which you ignore.”
She now knew where that innate authority of his stemmed from, but the knowledge didn’t make her any more amenable to being told what to do. “I’ve never been much for following directions.”
“If you don’t care for the shrimp, I can have Marta make you something else.”
Sara shook her head. “The food’s fine. It’s just the heat and exercise. I’m finding our daily routines affecting my appetite, that’s all.”
His dark gaze on her, he said, “Exercise can depress the appetite, but you have to feed muscle to build it.”
“I don’t need to be an Amazon to excel at the lessons you’re teaching.”
“No, but you need stamina and strength to disable an opponent long enough to get away from him.” He considered her for a moment longer. “Was that experience in New Orleans the first time you’ve been attacked?”
The ground had just become treacherous. She’d developed a remarkable aptitude for spinning plausible falsehoods. But lying to Nick, in the face of what he’d done for her, was growing increasingly unpalatable. “I don’t suppose many people come that close to violence. At least not more than once.”
<
br /> He speared a shrimp. “Fortunately not. But from what I’ve heard of Detroit, it can be a pretty tough town. If you escaped there without once needing to defend yourself, you were probably lucky.”
Sara froze. “Detroit?” Her current identity was from Detroit, but she’d never mentioned the town to Nick. Had she?
His face was quizzical. “Isn’t that where you told Detective Chatfield you were from?”
Tension seeped out of her, and the hand she stretched toward her glass wasn’t quite steady. “Yes. But you can hardly compare fending off hormone-laden teenage boys with meeting up with someone intent on killing you.”
This time a faint smile crossed his lips, but his eyes remained watchful. “I think you’ll find your self-defense lessons equally useful in both cases. If someone tries to take something from you, you should do your damnedest to prevent it.”
“Does that apply to you, Nick?” Her tone, her gaze was direct. “Just what is it, exactly, that you’re interested in taking from me?”
He reached for his wine, drank, never looking away from her. “Yes, I suppose in one sense it does apply to me.” His voice was sleek and smooth, sliding over her like a lover’s caress. “Because I’ll take…as much as you’ll give me.”
He watched the moon rise from the ocean to hang low and heavy in the star-studded sky. The night was silent. Not a sound emerged from Amber’s room. Not the faint scrabbling noises she made when she climbed out onto the roof night after night. Not the creak of the drainpipe when she climbed down it. Perhaps she was too tired to engage in any nocturnal journeys tonight. But then, it was barely past midnight. She didn’t usually stir until after two.
He brought the slim cheroot to his mouth and filled his lungs. He wasn’t a man accustomed to peace, but here he experienced at least a sliver of it. Sitting outside on the small balcony of his bedroom, contemplating the shimmer of moonlight on the water, inhaling nicotine. And thinking of the woman in the other room.