by Debra Webb
The bold smell of fresh-brewed dark roast coffee filled the air.
“Are your clients usually female?” She clasped her hands atop the granite counter and studied her bodyguard. She wondered how many of his clients wanted more than just his protection.
What in the world? She shook herself. Her brain was obviously muddled.
“Two out of three, maybe.” He poured the coffee, added cream to hers and then walked toward her with a mug in each hand. “Victoria assigns the best man or woman for the case. Gender has little to do with her decisions.”
“Thank you.” Marissa wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “I imagine you have plenty of damsels in distress hoping for more than your protection.”
The silence that followed exploded in her ears. Had she really asked that question out loud? To think it was bad enough. Oh...dear...God. She really, really needed to go into that room upstairs and close herself inside. What he must think of her!
He finally laughed, a sort of choked sound. “I have to say I haven’t encountered that situation yet.”
What did the mere thought say about her? The answer echoed in more of that embarrassing silence.
“I think maybe television and the movies glamorize the kind of work I do a little too much. I can see how you might think these situations could easily drift off into a romantic interlude.”
Now she was really embarrassed. She tried to laugh, but it came out more like a squeak. “I guess I read too many romance novels growing up. My mother was a big romantic. She had a library of hundreds of books. They all had a couple themes in common—boy rescues girl, girl falls in love with boy.”
This time his chuckle was the real thing, the sound pleasant. She liked it. “My mom had one of those, too,” he offered. “She and my sister always had a book on their bedside tables.”
“How old is your sister?”
“A couple of years older than me. She’s a veterinarian. Takes care of the horses and the cattle. You two would get along well. The only difference is her patients generally have four legs.”
Marissa was the one laughing this time. It felt good, made her relax marginally.
Traynor told her which of his siblings were married and who wasn’t, who had children and who wanted more. He loved his nieces and nephews. Loved his family. The pride in his eyes and in his voice made her smile. She liked listening to his voice. His laughter made her feel normal again. How long had it been since she’d had a conversation like this with anyone besides her colleagues at work? She couldn’t even remember.
“I have to say, Mr. Traynor, listening to you talk about your family, you almost sound homesick.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. “Sometimes. But my work here makes me happy. I don’t see myself going back.” He reached for his coffee. “By the way, you have to stop calling me that. Mr. Traynor is my father. Call me Lacon.”
“All right, Lacon. Then you should call me Marissa or Issy. That’s what my friends call me.” She made a face. “Except Eva. She insists on calling me Dr. Frasier whenever we’re wearing scrubs and at work. Any other time she calls me Issy, too.”
“Issy it is, then.”
Her cell vibrated against the granite and she jumped. Blocked Call. Her blood ran cold. “It’s him.”
“Stay calm,” Lacon warned. “Don’t let him hear your fear. When you answer, put it on speaker.”
She accepted the call and tapped the speaker icon. “Marissa Frasier.”
“I wanted to thank you, Doctor.”
It was him.
“No need to thank me. I didn’t do it for you,” she replied, barely keeping a snarl out of her tone. “I did it for the man who’d been shot.”
“Be that as it may, I appreciate your work. I was able to extract the information I needed, and I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
And then his thugs had killed him.
“You son of a bitch!”
Lacon held up his hands and gave her the signal to bring it down.
She tried, she really did, but she was so angry. “I hope you die screaming.”
Laughter echoed from the damned phone. It took every ounce of control Marissa possessed not to fling it across the room.
“I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t been angry, Dr. Frasier. In fact, I have to give you credit. Having your friend call in the fire department was ingenious. I’m genuinely grateful my men were able to get what I needed before the men in the turnout gear arrived. You see, if my people had failed and been forced to abandon this traitor, I would have been most unhappy. No one likes it when I’m unhappy, Marissa. May I call you Marissa?”
Lacon silently cautioned her again.
“If this arrangement is going to be so informal, then I’ll need to know your name, as well.”
A soft laugh whispered in the air. “Vito. You can call me Vito, which is far better than ‘son of a bitch.’”
She would not apologize.
Lacon made a hand signal for money. At first she was confused, then she understood.
“If you think I’m going to continue this arrangement out of the goodness of my heart, you’re mistaken, Vito. I expect far more than whatever you were paying William.”
Another laugh, this one not so soft. “You have one more test before we talk about money. There is one matter, however, we should discuss. Your bodyguard. He cramps my style. Get rid of him.”
Fear bloomed in her chest. Lacon shook his head.
She swallowed back the fear. “Except,” she countered, sounding almost casual, “now I have you threatening my safety, so no deal.”
The silence dragged on long enough to make her sweat.
“I like you, Dr. Marissa Frasier, so I will grant you this one demand. But make no mistake, if you or your bodyguard screw with me, you will both die—screaming, as you say.”
The call ended.
Marissa grabbed the countertop to brace herself.
Lacon gave her arm a squeeze. “Really good job, Issy.”
She turned to him. “I don’t know if I can do what he wants...” She shook her head. “God only knows what the next scene he sends me to will look like.” Her body shook with the fear she wanted to keep at bay.
Lacon pulled her to him, gave her a big hug. “You’re strong, Issy. You can do this. If you help the police take him down, think how many lives you’ll be saving.”
She pressed her face against his chest and closed her eyes. “I keep telling myself that’s the upside of this situation.”
“But any time you want out, say the word and I’ll make it happen.” He drew her away from him to look into her eyes. “My job is to keep you safe. That’s all that matters to me.”
She hugged him this time.
Maybe, just maybe, with the help of this man, she could get through this.
Vito Anastasia was going down, by God.
Chapter Six
Saturday, June 30, 7:45 a.m.
Marissa slowed the speed of the treadmill for her final mile. Her heart pounded and sweat clung to her skin. It felt good. She’d missed the stress release that went with a long, hard workout. The entire week had been so busy, she’d fallen behind on her usual workout routine.
The first thing that entered her mind when she woke this morning was the jarring and painful memory that William was dead. In a few days, his family would be claiming his body, there would be a funeral and then he would be laid to rest.
Would she be able to attend his funeral? Should she? They had been in love once. Five years as husband and wife was significant. In truth, she had worked hard to evict any good memories along with the bad ones over the past two years. After what he’d done to her toward the end, who could blame her?
Slowing to a fast walk, she pushed the questions aside. The second thought to pop into her head be
fore she threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed was about Vito Anastasia. He had to be stopped. But the police were right; that wouldn’t happen until they had a significant body of evidence to make it happen. They needed a way in, a way to get close to him. All she had to do was play along until she could make that happen. For whatever reason, fate had dropped that terrifying potential into her lap.
How could she ignore the possibility of taking one more ruthless murderer off the streets?
The treadmill stopped and she swabbed her face with the towel hanging around her neck. The thought of dealing with another injured person Anastasia might murder made her shudder. But he would never stop unless someone stopped him.
She could be that someone. All she needed was the right kind of backup.
Traynor—Lacon—was her protector. He’d made it clear that his top priority was to protect her. She was very grateful to have the Colby Agency backing her up. But would he be willing to cross certain lines and boundaries for her? She wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t tied to the same rules. There were things she could say and steps she could take where Anastasia was concerned that the police could not.
She had heard the interest in Anastasia’s voice. For some reason, he was intrigued by her. Or maybe that part had been her imagination, though she didn’t think so. He’d also acquiesced to her demand to keep Lacon around. Perhaps she was reading too much into the conversation, but she had nothing to lose by exploring the potential.
Except the same thing William had lost—her life.
You have to be smarter, Issy. William was desperate. Desperation breeds mistakes. If she could keep her wits about her, she could do this. For William and all the other victims Anastasia had taken and would take in the future.
She could help stop him. Maybe.
After she’d showered and dressed in a pair of the jeans and a T-shirt she’d packed, she went in search of Lacon. She found him in the kitchen pouring orange juice. Bacon, eggs and toast waited on the stove.
“Good morning.” He set the bottle of juice aside. “You feel like breakfast?”
Today she was starving. “I do. Thanks.”
He passed her a plate and they met in front of the stove. He wore jeans and a button-down cotton shirt—this one in white—much like yesterday. And, of course, the cowboy boots. Another of those casual suit jackets hung on the back of one of the stools facing the large island. Today’s jacket was navy. Somehow the outfit was perfect for the man. She couldn’t imagine him in a dress suit.
“I wasn’t sure how you liked your eggs, so I figured scrambled was the way to go.”
“This is exactly how I like my eggs.”
His smile was contagious. “Good.”
Marissa settled onto a stool and dug in. The eggs were soft, the bacon crispy and the toast lightly buttered. Certainly not her usual fare of yogurt and granola, but so scrumptious. Maybe it all tasted so good because she’d hardly eaten in the past forty-eight hours. The ER had been so busy Thursday night, she’d barely had time to grab a bag of veggie chips.
Or maybe it was just because she was alive and not dead.
When she’d slowed down, she asked, “Any news on the drug tests?”
“Ian Michaels called first thing this morning. You tested positive for Rohypnol. We haven’t heard from PD’s lab yet, but I’m sure they’ll find it in the bottle of wine you drank from that night, and something similar in Bauer’s tox screen, as well.”
“Wow.” She placed her fork next to her plate as the news traveled through her.
The confirmation that one of Anastasia’s men came into her home and laced her bottle of wine with a date rape drug made her furious. As a teenager and a college student, she had been extra careful about having so much as a soda in public places where her drink might be left unattended even for a second. The fact that this drink—this drug—had been administered in her own home, in a bottle of her wine, made her feel ill.
The queasy feeling abruptly morphed into outrage. “I will not allow him to get away with this. If there is any way I can help stop him, I’m up for it.”
“We’re doing all we can toward that end, as well,” Lacon promised.
She wanted to tell him, to blurt out the decision she’d made this morning, but that wouldn’t be the smart move. He would see the emotion behind the announcement. When the time was right, her words had to be calm and logical.
“I know you are.” She picked up her plate and fork. “Thanks for the breakfast. I didn’t know chef was a part of your repertoire of skills.”
He chuckled as he followed her to the sink. “Chef, personal shopper, chauffeur—it all goes with the territory.”
Putting her cleaned plate into the dishwasher, she asked, “Do you ever make operational decisions without consulting the boss?”
“There are times when—” he placed his plate behind hers “—split-second decisions have to be made. At the Colby Agency, we receive extensive training and daily briefings. Victoria trusts her investigators to make the right decisions.”
Marissa doubted very seriously if the operational decision she wanted him to make fell within the agency’s approved guidelines. “Victoria is right to trust you.” She peered up at her bodyguard and again acknowledged the warmth in his eyes. “You were spot-on with every move last night. If I had any doubts about any aspect of moving forward, they disappeared when you made that call to summon the fire department to help that man.”
“Unfortunately it didn’t help.”
“True.” She nodded. “But you tried, and that effort helped me tremendously.”
He held her gaze, searching her eyes. Was he looking for the motive behind her words? Did he sense that she was up to something? He was, after all, a top-notch investigator trained to spot potential issues.
Her cell vibrated and she jumped. She snatched it from her hip pocket, her pulse racing as she considered the possibility that it could be Anastasia again.
Please don’t let it be him.
The number was the staff line at the Edge.
“Marissa Frasier.”
Lacon watched her expectantly. She mouthed the word work. He nodded.
“Dr. Frasier, this is Patsy. I realize this is your weekend off, but Jeremiah Owens’s mother is here and she says it’s imperative that she speak with you in person.” The rustle of sounds on the other end indicated Patsy had moved to a different location. “She seems pretty upset. What would you like me to do?”
Fear thumped in Marissa’s veins. “Tell her it’ll take me about forty-five minutes to get there, but I’ll leave right now and head that way.”
“I’ll tell her. Thanks, Dr. Frasier.”
Marissa slid her phone back into her pocket. “It’s the Owens boy’s mother. She wants to speak with me in person.”
Lacon reached for the keys on the counter. “We should see what she has to say.”
If Anastasia had harmed that child in any way...
Well, Marissa would make him pay. Somehow.
The Edge, 10:00 a.m.
MARISSA HAD WORKED herself up by the time they reached the Edge. She fluctuated between utter outrage and sheer terror. She should have called Jeremiah’s mother to check on him. She could have done so without giving away why she was calling. If something had happened to the boy, it would be her fault.
She hurried to the desk and waited for Patsy to finish registering a new arrival. As soon as the elderly man had shuffled away, the registration specialist said, “I put her in the small conference room.”
Marissa thanked Patsy and headed for the double doors that separated the large lobby that served as a waiting room and the emergency department. Lacon was right behind her. She waved to Nurse Kim Levy and hurried past the nurses’ station to the small conference room.
Mrs. Owens sat alone, her hands wringing together atop the small round con
ference table. Her worried face lit up as Marissa walked in. “I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off.”
Marissa slid into a chair next to her. She patted the woman’s clasped hands. “No problem. Is Jeremiah okay?”
She nodded. “He’s doing fine. But I wanted to ask you about those men.”
The bottom dropped out of Marissa’s stomach. “What men?”
“Two men have been watching my house. They were there all day yesterday, and they’re back today. I finally worked up my nerve this morning and walked out to the car. I asked the driver if there was a problem, and he said no. He said they were just keeping an eye on things and that they’re friends of yours. I’m not trying to be mean, but they make me very nervous.”
Fury roared through Marissa’s blood. “I will take care of this, Mrs. Owens. There’s been a miscommunication. Those men aren’t supposed to be there. You go home and don’t worry about this anymore.”
She nodded, relief washing over her face. “I figured there was a mix-up of some sort.” Her face pinched with worry once more. “I hope whoever those men are supposed to be looking after is okay.”
“They’re fine. Just fine.”
Marissa, with Lacon right next to her, walked her back to the lobby. “Thank you for coming by. I really am sorry for the confusion.”
When Owens was halfway across the lobby, Marissa yanked her phone from her pocket once more. She sent a text to the contact who had sent her Anastasia’s instructions last night. The message was brief and straight to the point.
Tell Anastasia to call me. Now.
Surprise sent Lacon’s eyebrows shooting up. “That should get his attention.”
Marissa stormed back to the conference room to wait on a response. She did not want to be closed up in a car if she was able to speak with him. Lacon closed the door behind her and took a seat. She couldn’t sit. She paced the small room, anger building with every step she took.
“You might want to take a breath,” he suggested.
She stalled and flashed him a fake smile. “I am breathing.”