Hidden Hearts

by Susan Kearney

  Had his adrenaline surged more strongly since it had been Alexandra in danger? Without a doubt. He couldn’t help admiring the woman. She had a good head on her shoulders, plenty of ambition, the drive to accomplish her goals and the courage to see things through. And she had eyes potent enough to make a man tipsy.

  Alexandra set down her water glass and brushed some loose sand from the wisps of hair escaping her braid and curling softly around her face. “Don’t you think you might be overdoing it?”

  She just didn’t understand that his world operated by different rules. She was a bright, savvy woman, and he had to keep in mind that life-and-death situations were new to her. But to him, the signs were as clear as the Remember Your Hard Hat warning sign on the back of the trailer’s door.

  “Someone probably just tried to kill you,” he pointed out again, hoping she’d take him seriously enough to let him hide her someplace safe.

  Stubbornly, she lifted her chin. “And maybe someone accidentally placed the wrench too close to the scaffolding’s edge. A tremor from one of the concrete trucks could have caused it to fall.”

  He shook his head as she denied reality. “Look, anything’s possible. Maybe it was a coincidence that the wrench fell the moment you took off your hard hat. But maybe it wasn’t. I plan for the worst-case scenarios.”

  “That’s a cheery way to live.”

  “But the point is, you do live.”

  She shuddered, then straightened her shoulders. “So what’s the plan?”

  “We hide you.”

  “And what is plan B again?”

  Naturally she wouldn’t buy plan A. Oh, no. Alexandra would make things difficult. “We copy the papers Jake sent.” He strode over to a brand-new copier and hit the warm-up button. “Is there any way of anyone knowing we used this machine?”

  “It’s a rental. I believe the machine has a counter and we pay for each sheet of paper that runs through. Why?”

  “I don’t like leaving tracks. But I suppose we have no choice.”

  “You honestly think someone would come in here and check with the secretary to see if we used the copy machine?”

  “If they are thorough, yes, it’s possible—but unlikely. And even if they ask, they’ll only know extra pages were printed. They won’t know for sure that we made those duplicates.”

  Alexandra took out the photographs and papers. One of the old black-and-white pictures captured Roarke’s attention. He leaned closer. “Can I look at those?”

  “Sure.” She handed him six or seven pictures.

  “This is Colonel Penkowsky.”

  “Who?”

  “An officer of the GRU. Soviet Military Intelligence. He was the highest double agent the CIA ever placed in the Soviet Union.”

  Alexandra’s eyes lit up with hope and excitement. “We should talk to him.”

  Roarke shook his head. “He’s dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I attended his funeral in Moscow. It was open casket. I assure you, the man is dead.” As he saw the hope dim in her eyes, he tried to give her something to hang onto. “But just his presence in these pictures tells us that your parents must have known the man, possibly worked with him in some operation.”

  “You think my parents were CIA?”

  “It’s possible. Do you feel up to making the duplicates while I check around?”

  “I guess.”

  She didn’t sound enthusiastic, but he wasn’t sure if her reluctance was due to what he’d just told her, how she felt physically, how she felt about him leaving her, or his insistence that they had to go on the assumption that she might not be safe.

  As Roarke slipped out the door, he glimpsed her discreetly checking her purse and the weapon he’d given her. Good girl. She locked the door behind him without being told. At least she understood safety precautions. But all the precautions in the world wouldn’t save her if a team made a frontal attack.

  Roarke kept the trailer in view but made a quick perimeter check of the site. Boot prints in the dirt, hand smudges on railings and the scaffolding made it impossible to tell if a worker had just waited for the opportunity to knock off the boss or if someone had accidentally mislaid a tool.

  Accidents around his clients made Roarke wary. Accidents around Alexandra had all his senses on alert. Worry weighed down his footsteps. He noted the crews coming back from lunch, some of the men looking at him with curiosity, others murmuring about Alexandra’s close call. Discreetly, he scrutinized the men’s steel-toed work boots, dirty and concrete-covered, searched the men’s hands for calluses. And spied nothing that didn’t belong.

  Not that he expected to find a killer. If one had been there, he would be long gone.

  And yet Roarke couldn’t relax. He sensed someone hunting him. Someone out there watching the site.

  Waiting to take Alexandra from him.

  It wasn’t going to happen if his vigilance could stop them. It wouldn’t happen if he remained alert. He damn well wasn’t going to lose another woman he cared about. And he did care about Alexandra—and not just because she was a client. He liked the way she knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. He liked the way she argued with him, standing up for herself. And he liked the way she had kissed him back even when she clearly hadn’t wanted to.

  He couldn’t see anyone suspicious outside the chain-link fence, but he sensed danger with a strength that made him ultra cautious. Roarke held perfectly still and let his eyes search the shadows for movement. Across the street, people strode in and out of a variety of brick and stucco buildings that perched between two skyscrapers. A Chinese restaurant, a lawyer’s office, a bail bondsman’s blinking neon sign and shop all appeared normal enough.

  To the south, the St. John’s River flowed almost traffic-free, the scenic water reflecting the city skyline but not providing cover. Semi-trailers parked with construction materials blocked his view of the city to the east and west. The extensive hustle of traffic, honking horns, the occasional police siren and loud stereo systems all sounded normal.

  Which didn’t exclude a sniper with a rifle scoping out this site from a quarter-mile away and shooting Alexandra down. Or a businessman holding a semi-automatic behind his newspaper as he sat at the café. A quick stab on the sidewalk. A well-placed knifehand to the neck. Roarke knew all the ways to kill. All the ways to die.

  The spot between Roarke’s shoulder blades itched as if someone was aiming at his back. But nothing untoward occurred. Gulls screeched overhead. The crews started the concrete pour. And the sun shone brightly with a taunting intensity.

  He made his way back to the trailer, knocked twice. Alexandra opened the door, her hands gray from handling not-quite-dry ink. “See anything?”

  “Nothing useful.” He shut the door behind him. “Are you almost done?”

  “Almost.” A smudge darkened her chin. “Where do you think I should hide the duplicate papers?”

  “Someplace clever.”

  “Like?”

  Roarke looked around the trailer. “Someplace out in the open. Someplace someone could look right at but not recognize what they were seeing.”

  Alexandra grabbed up a cardboard blueprint tube from a stack in a corner. “How about inside here? We finished this job last year. No one has any reason to open the tube.”

  “Perfect!” He moved close to her and took half the documents. Their hands touched and static electricity zapped him. “Oops.”

  Her lips tugged upward as she rolled documents to slip inside the tube. “First you tackle me. Now you’re zinging electricity at me. You going to hit me for your next trick?”

  “As long as I’m not hitting on you,” he joked.

  This time she couldn’t restrain a laugh. And he admired her for being able to put aside her frightening experience. She had an upbeat outlook on life that made him feel jaded and rejuvenated at the same time.

  Don’t get any ideas, bub.

  Just because he couldn’t fo
rget the fresh taste of her lips or the scent of sunshine in her hair or how amazingly good it felt when she simply held his hand was no reason to think there could be more between them. He didn’t mess around with clients. Actually, he hadn’t messed around with any woman since Sydney’s death.

  At first he’d been in mourning. And later, he’d just been too busy with work. It was only since he’d met Alexandra that he realized how much he’d missed talking to a woman, verbally sparring with a woman, looking at—touching—a woman.

  But now was not the time to have all these yearnings come back—especially all at once. Especially with the sister of Jake Cochran, who might be a beneficial business contact. Jake could throw lots of business Roarke’s way, and Roarke needed those potential referrals if he wanted to continue to work in the States.

  While he wasn’t ready to settle down behind a white picket fence, he wanted to limit his worldwide roaming. He wanted to work in a country with civilized laws and a justice system that put criminals behind bars.

  Perhaps after he completed this assignment, he and Alexandra could go out a few times and discover whether there was more to this attraction between them than lust enhanced by danger. If Alexandra responded to him, he wanted it to be because she was attracted to him, not because their unusual circumstances caused her to behave abnormally. Because eventually the mission would end. He’d rather pursue her once she was no longer in danger.

  Right now, he had to keep her safe. Right now he had to concentrate on how to escape the site without anyone seeing them. He needed to keep his mind on business so they could possibly have a future to discover. Together.

  As much as Roarke regretted leaving his vehicle and sophisticated equipment behind, he knew better than to depart the construction site in the same car in which they’d arrived. The enemy likely knew their location and could watch the perimeter, waiting for them to leave.

  Roarke needed a distraction, a decoy and an alternate ride out. He entered the bathroom and noted the cleaning supplies with satisfaction. A fire in one of the Dumpsters, maybe a contained explosion should draw the eyes of the most vigilant observer for at least a few seconds.

  He retreated from the trailer’s bathroom with the chemicals in his arms. Before Alexandra could ask whether he intended to go on a cleaning binge, he asked, “Can you find someone to drive my car to my office?”

  “Sure.”

  “Someone about my height with dark hair?”

  She thought for a minute. “Won’t that put that person in danger?”

  “These guys are pros. They don’t make a hit until they verify the target. And they don’t want me, they want you.”

  “How are we getting out of here?”

  “On the floor of a concrete truck.”

  “Can’t you think of a cleaner option?” She glanced down at her bronze-and-cream pantsuit, already smudged with dirt from when he’d shoved her to the ground. “You sure are hard on my clothes. Around you I’m always getting dirty.”

  He winked at her, enjoying the image of her getting down and dirty. “I’ll let you be on top.”

  “Very funny.” She swallowed a grin.

  Glad her sense of humor had resurfaced, he hoped she’d let it out more often. Maybe she thought he wasn’t taking the mission seriously enough, but he’d learned a long time ago that the stress of field missions had to be dealt with constructively. Many agents turned to alcohol, dangerously dulling the senses. The stress could kill a man unless he balanced the nerve-wracking spy business with a hobby, a woman, or a sense of humor. The bodyguard business was no different.

  Alexandra picked up the phone.

  Roarke shook his head. “Don’t—”

  She paused, the receiver halfway to her ear, frowning as she apparently recalled the information he’d given her about bugs. Twisting the phone cord around her finger, she gave him a thoughtful and somewhat confused look. “Why would anyone bug the office phone?”

  “To learn your schedule.” No need to tell her that the FBI and the CIA could listen to every phone within four city blocks if someone high enough in the government approved the operation. “Better to be safe. Can you give me a note to pass on to the driver?”

  She wrote in a bold scrawl on a pad, one note for the concrete driver, the second for a foreman asking him to drive Roarke’s vehicle home. Finished, she handed the messages to him, eyeing the chemicals warily.

  “What’s up?”

  “We need a diversion so we can slip into the concrete truck unnoticed.” With the chemicals and messages, he turned to go out the door.

  Her fingers gripped his shoulder with surprising strength and pulled him to a halt. “You aren’t going to hurt my building?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Or any of the men?”

  “Not unless they hit me first.”

  She locked her eyes on his, assessed his intentions, then nodded. “Okay. How long have I got until you come back?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve a few details I should clear up,” she gestured to the notepad. “Instructions I want to leave.”

  “Fine. Just don’t use the phone. And don’t tell anyone where we’re going.”

  She sighed, tossing the pen onto the desk. “Now there’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.”

  “What?”

  She played with the tiny diamond earring in the lobe of her ear. “You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  He juggled the cleaning supplies and avoided replying to her statement by firing his best believe-in-me grin. “I don’t suppose I could convince you that I’m playing this all by ear?”

  “A man like you probably has at least three safe houses, five passports and three cars.”

  “Two and four and two,” he admitted, his respect for her rising another few notches. She might be new to the danger game, but she didn’t panic, and she kept her brain in gear. And even dusty, she smelled real good.

  Too good.

  She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a clean trash-can liner. One by one she removed the assorted cleaning supplies from his arms and placed them into the plastic bag. After pulling the drawstring tight, she handed it back to him, her eyes alight with satisfaction and a hint of interest.

  She looked as if she might kiss him full on the lips and had then thought better of it. “Go on, already.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Again he headed for the door.

  Again she stopped him. “And Roarke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful.”

  He leaned one hip against the door and looked over his shoulder at her, taking satisfaction from the thought that her warning showed she cared. Especially when it was so obvious that she didn’t want to let on how she felt.

  He couldn’t resist ribbing her. “Worried about me?”

  “Naw.” This time she let loose her smile, a brilliant smile that made her glow. “Just concerned about my building. Remember, you promised not to hurt it.”

  He supposed he deserved her teasing. He should have been annoyed, but he liked a woman who could give as good as she got.

  Swallowing back a chuckle, Roarke stepped out into the sunlight and heat, prepared to do battle for this woman. He hoped not even a skirmish would be necessary.

  The construction site seemed normal. A gentle breeze picked up the dust and fine particles settled everywhere. Concrete trucks and their drivers waited patiently in line to dump their loads. And with a smooth precision that took years to learn, the crews hustled to even the concrete before it hardened.

  Then why did Roarke feel so strongly that something wasn’t right? Why did the hair on his neck stand up and sweat trickle from his brow?

  What in hell made him so uneasy?

  ALEXANDRA OPENED the trailer door and took in Roarke’s serious demeanor. No welcoming smile, no ready taunt on his lips. He was all business. He seemed about as uncomfortable as a roofer on a hot copper roof. Eyes bright and wary, weight shifting from foot to foot
, he looked as if he expected trouble.

  She drew him inside, her stomach knotting. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She teased him, hoping to bring back a smile. “What happened to Mr. I-Have-an-Answer-for-Everything?”

  If it were possible, his expression darkened. “Someone’s out there.”

  She forgot about teasing him and frowned. “I thought you said you didn’t see anything?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “But?” she prodded.

  She’d never seen him this serious. All business. Until now she’d found it remarkable that he could keep such an upbeat attitude with his life so frequently on the line.

  Now she saw another side of him. The vigilant warrior. He wasn’t necessarily cold and unfriendly, but was holding back part of himself as he watched out the window and evaluated their situation. Keeping himself at an emotional distance, alert, he was ready to protect her.

  But from whom? What could make him so edgy?

  She already knew that Roarke liked to feel firmly in control. And that loss of control clearly caused his stress. By reacting with wary silence, he spooked her more than almost any explanation he could make.

  However, Roarke hadn’t answered her verbally, and she realized he was capable of communicating on many levels. She suddenly understood that he must be operating on pure instinct. He’d gone beyond wary, confident, and observant to another level where he relied on his survival instincts. Even if, on the surface, everything appeared just fine, Roarke wouldn’t be a man easily fooled.

  This self-assured, independent, tough and assertive man wouldn’t be worried without reason. And realizing that made her break into a light sweat and take the weapon out of her purse and click off the safety.

  “Put that away,” he told her with an abruptness that startled her.

  “Okay.” She wouldn’t think of arguing with him while he was in his warrior mode. This was his area of expertise. And she wanted all his concentration focused on the enemy, not on arguing with her.

  “The concrete truck is on the way over. I told the foreman to instruct the driver not to park but keep it rolling.”