“What?”
“Enjoy life while you can. What if tomorrow never comes?’ That always seemed to be the way he lived, too.” Mumbling, she swiped her fingers at the runaway tear then braced her elbow on the center console. “Too bad I never remembered to live his advice.”
Reactively, he covered her hand with his own. He knew how she felt. “Hey, in hindsight, everybody has advice they wish they’d followed.”
“Even you?”
“More than you’ll ever know.” He stared at the road ahead, forced the past from his thoughts. “It’s how you live your future that matters.”
She flipped her hand over and intertwined her fingers with his. Squeezed for a couple seconds then released. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Any time.” The warmth of her touch melded with his body’s heat. Not something he felt very often. Not something he needed in his thoughts. He moved his hand back to the steering wheel.
They were quiet after that, which was just as well. She had to process, and he had to stay alert. Some places on the island were darker than dark on moonless nights like this. Navigating Sanibel Captiva Road near the J.N. “Ding” Darling National Wildlife area could get tricky. Out of nowhere, gators and lizards and raccoons were apt to appear. First, as beady eyes in the brush. Then, full-blown critters in the middle of the road.
At least, the closer they got to the Captiva beach house, the less the traffic. Mitch knew the property well from previous times he’d used it for a safe house on assignment. It was one of OPAQUE’s places to disappear for high-profile cases.
Leaning her head against the headrest, she blew out a slow sigh. “Why would my mother agree to never telling me? And, my dad… What was he thinking?”
Her questions required answers he didn’t have, so he stayed focused on navigating the curve to Captiva Drive. “Tell me about your job. I read a couple of your recent magazine articles. They were…”
“Fluff.” She straightened in her seat. “I used to be good. Got some big awards. That was before I let the idea of big money enter into my reporting.”
“What do you mean?” He didn’t like the sound of that, but maybe he was being too cynical.
“A different publisher offered more money, so I hired on with them.” Her tone softened. “Ends up all they ever gave me were fluff articles to write. Always in Texas or Arizona or New Mexico. That was until five days ago, when I got fired for questioning my sources.”
“Shouldn’t you always question your sources?”
“That’s what I thought. Evidently, I made the mistake of asking too many questions to a big shot in town.” She steepled her fingertips together then pushed them upward and outward like an explosion. “No more job.”
“Sorry.”
She turned to the passenger window. “That’s okay. Think of the story I can write when this is all over.”
He didn’t have the heart, or guts, to tell her none of what was happening would ever be for public consumption.
Slowing, he turned into the driveway leading to the two-story salmon-colored beach house with white trim. The iron-railed upper porch, wicker furniture, and arched French doors were beautiful and inviting during a normal day. Tonight, they were a secure haven.
At least they’d made it to their refuge for the next few days without any problems. Maybe this case wasn’t as involved as Drake thought. Once he checked in with the other members of his team, he’d have a better perspective as to what he might have missed on the drive over. Keith had driven shadow behind him all the way from the Mariner’s, but lagged far enough back to not be seen. He’d know if they’d been followed.
“How long has Drake’s security group been watching me?” she asked.
“Since you landed at Fort Myers Airport.”
“You?”
“No. I was sent in special. Took me some time to get here.” He stopped the car in front of the beach house. Immediately, the front door opened, and one of his team members stepped onto the porch.
After releasing her seat belt, Liz reached for the door handle. “That’s my housekeeper.”
“Yeah, so I see. Don’t get out until I come around to your side.” Gun in hand, he stepped from the car and made his way to the passenger side. He sheltered Liz with his body as they walked the short distance straight up the steps to the front door.
Once the three of them were inside, the purported housekeeper quickly closed the door behind them, turned the lock, and checked out the peephole, before settling her gaze on Mitch. “Contact Drake. There’s been chatter from Coercion Ten.”
Liz turned her head in their direction. Not questioning. Evaluating. One corner of her mouth quirked upward, along with a barely heard grunt. The more he watched her, the more he realized how aware of her surroundings she seemed to be. Probably went along with being a journalist.
His own instincts ratcheted upward with the mention of Coercion Ten. What the hell did Liz and her dad have to do with CT?
He shoved his Glock in the shoulder holster then motioned toward the housekeeper. “By the way, Liz, this is one of our operatives.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. At this point, nothing would surprise me. Next, you’ll tell me her name isn’t Shauna,” she responded, tossing her purse onto the entry hall chair.
“That part’s true. My name really is Shauna. But everyone calls me Cat.” She held out her hand.
Liz smiled weakly as she grasped the offered hand and held. “Of course. One syllable. Fast to say.”
“I see Mitch has done the name game with you.” Cat shot him one of her classic you’re-an-ass expressions. “Probably convinced you to go by Liz instead of Elizabeth.”
He didn’t have time for chitchat, least of all if he might be the center of the conversation. “We call her Cat, because she’s deadly silent when she wants to be.”
“And graceful as a tiger when I pounce on my prey,” she stated with pride.
“Yeah, there’s that, too.” He snarled.
Cat pointed toward the dining room. “I set your equip bag on the table.”
“Thanks. First I need to call Drake.” Mitch turned and walked away. “See what you can do to make the client look different.”
Chapter Four
Before Liz could ask what he meant, Mitch had already left the room, so she automatically turned toward Cat. “I take it I’m the client.”
“Yes. You are the client. He’s a typical alpha protector.” Cat motioned her toward the other side of the house. “Always remember one thing and you’ll be fine.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s in charge.”
Liz’s first thought—been there, done that…never again. No one had control of her. Not now. Not ever. Birth to college had been enough rules, restrictions, and rebukes. Her second thought told her to keep her mouth shut for the time being. She dutifully followed the woman.
Cat headed down the hallway leading to the door into the lockout room. “Right now, the only thing on his mind is keeping you safe. Next, he thinks about the team. And, finally”—she unlocked the door, pulled it open, then pushed in a few numbers on the keypad next to another door—”if he’s still kicking when the assignment’s over, all’s good in his world.”
The inner door slipped open, and Cat walked inside.
Liz remembered the door had been locked when she arrived a few days ago, just as she had expected. When renters were on property, the room stayed locked, at least that’s what Drake and her father had told her when they all vacationed together at the house during her teens. This was the lockout room of the house, meaning it held everything personal and valuable to the owner.
Watching Cat open the doors with a key and passcode suggested the valuables in this room were a lot more than floats, snorkel gear, or a priceless vase. Being an inquisitive, and sometimes bored, teenager years ago, Liz had drawn out the floor plan of the house one summer. Even took measurements, trying to figure out the dimensions of the lockout room.
The size of the room she’d calculated had insinuated something big must be stored inside. Her mind had run rampant with what could be so valuable and fit through the door. She’d also figured out the room sat in the middle of the house. Had no windows. And, only one way in and out—the door now standing wide open. The one Cat motioned her to come through.
Lockout room? Panic room?
She stepped backward down the hallway, again and again. A quick, heavy load of fear rushed her senses, settling in her chest. Forcing a hard exhale of breath helped clear her mind and stabilize her breathing. This wasn’t the past. Wasn’t a nightmare. These were people sent to help her. All she had to do was stay in the present and follow their lead.
Liz stood in the hallway, shaking her head. “No. I won’t go in there.”
“Why?” Cat asked.
“You’re not going to lock me in. I don’t care how secure you’re trying to make me.” She wished she hadn’t tossed her purse on the chair when they came in, because that mace might have come in handy about now.
“That’s good. You think like one of us.” The woman standing in the doorway smiled. “But if you’re afraid of me, then you should have run the moment I opened the door. Gotten something big between you and me. Something I can’t reach across. Can’t easily jump across.”
Liz took in the advice. Didn’t move. “Drake said trust Mitch. I trust Mitch. Mitch left me in your care. So, I trust you.”
“Good…good thought process. Except, money and power at the right time can make even the most trustworthy turn.” Cat’s tone held a tinge of regret, and she seemed to pause with a memory. Her expression blanked. Then, on an intake of breath, her nostrils slightly flared. She blinked. “By the way, we would never lock you in the panic room. That would be your choice.”
Choice? She hadn’t been given a choice when she was ten. Her dad had simply secured her mom and her in what he called the safe room of their house. She hadn’t liked the idea then. And didn’t to this day.
“I still won’t go in that room,” Liz said.
“Understood.”
Cat disappeared back into the window-less room then reemerged carrying an armload of shorts and tops, skirts and pants, bikinis tops and bottoms. She nodded for Liz to follow her into the bedroom. Once there, Cat dumped the items on the bed then turned back toward the lock-out room.
“What are these for?” Liz asked.
The woman came back with shoes and sandals, plus maxi and mini dresses. “These are a few things I’ve picked up for you. Things to change your image.”
Liz picked up a matching bikini top and bottom then held it against herself. They weren’t as small as the ones she used to wear, but they were still small. “I can’t wear these. In fact, none of this is my style.”
“Exactly. If we change your look, the people looking for you may be thrown off the trail.” Cat leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Besides, don’t take offense, but your style could use a little updating.”
“I’m a professional journalist, not some beach bunny.”
Liz ignored the niggling thought of how much she’d love to still be the carefree woman from college. The one who wore the latest trends. Shortest shorts. Loudest prints. The one who laughed freely. Danced to every song she heard. Life used to be one hellacious good time after another, all the while carrying a 4.0. One classroom and one college professor had shattered that girl. She’d still carried the “A” grade, for the most part, but had conformed to meet the criteria of someone else. Never again.
She held the skirt in front of her and shook her head. “Too short.” A maxi dress. “Too low-cut.” A mini. “Way, way too short.” The bikini top… “Wrong message.”
Cat walked into Liz’s personal space and pointed to the master bath. “Pick. Out. At least one of each, and try them on. You have to change clothes.”
Liz pointed back at the woman standing in front of her. “I’m not moving until you give me a good reason why I have to change my look. I am who I am, and—”
Her chin uncontrollably quivered with the realization the words were a lie. Everything was a lie. She wasn’t who she was. Elizabeth Walkert didn’t exist. She’d never existed. The person she’d grown into over the years had never been real, either.
Even now, the name Liz seemed more real than anything else had evidently been. She understood that name. Liz was in danger. Liz required protection. Liz needed to know her short name could save lives.
With a slight gasp, she swiped her palms across her cheeks. Tears. Damn tears. She never cried. Hated the idea of losing control. Of looking weak. But she couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t stop.
What had happened to her life? Five days ago, she had a life. A career. Now all she had were tears. And the people protecting her.
Cat lowered her gaze to the floor and walked back toward the lockout room. “You know, it’s okay to break down. You’ve had a rough few days. I’ve been proud of the way you held up since you arrived here. Heck, I’ve even been known to shed a tear.”
“Thanks. I needed that.” Catching her breath, Liz tried to smile. “I doubt Mitch has ever shed a tear.”
“You’d have to ask—”
“Ask me what?” Mitch said as he entered the room.
“Nothing,” Liz countered.
He glanced at each of the women. “I didn’t imagine my name being said. What’s going on?”
“No big deal.” Cat raised her fingertips in a sweeping motion. “She’s just not happy with the clothes I chose for her to change her style.”
Mitch walked over to the bed and rummaged through the clothes, holding on to a green bikini top. “What’s wrong with them? Wrong size? Color? What?”
He sounded like a waiter wanting to know what to tell the chef when he took the plate back to the kitchen to be recooked. That was all she needed. The only thing she had left to hold on to was how she looked. To him, the clothes were nothing more than one more step in his assignment.
For a millisecond, she thought of telling him how good he’d look in red swim trunks and a pair of sexy sunglasses. Nothing else. His hand covering hers on the drive over had triggered her hormones. Got her to imagining all kinds of impossible scenarios. Like leaning against the ripped abs and tanned muscles she figured lay beneath his clothes. But she still wouldn’t let him tell her what to wear.
She pushed into his space. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I simply refuse to change the way I dress or look or sound or smile or—”
“Do you want to be dead on a slab?” His words, and stare, bored straight to the bull’s-eye. He leaned closer. “Well, do you?”
“No. I don’t.” Surely, he was being overdramatic just to scare her. He’d soon learn she didn’t scare so easily. “You had your questions. Here are mine. How would you like it if someone said you needed to do away with your five o’clock shadow look? Shave your head?”
He dropped the bikini top back on the pile of clothes and dodged out of the way of her moving hands. She jerked in reaction to his bob-and-weave action. Evidently, she’d been talking with her hands.
Flailing because she was anxious. “Wear a shirt and tie every—”
“I’ve worn everything imaginable to stay alive. Sometimes, nothing at all.” His phone rang, and he headed out of the room. “Cat, explain how bad this could be if she’d been put in our OPAQUE security program. Maybe then she won’t be so upset about simply trying some new clothes.”
“Right.” Cat’s expression never wavered, but the loud sigh said she hated getting stuck with some parts of the job. She started picking out clothing pieces, stacked them in a pile on a chair in the corner, then pointed to what was left on the bed. “Okay, I’ve narrowed your choices. Humor me and try them on.”
This was the second time Mitch had mentioned OPAQUE. She’d also heard the word years ago, from her dad and Drake when she’d walked in on one of their conversations. She needed to know what that stood for. Seeing no chance of onl
ine access any time soon, she decided to broach the subject with Cat.
Nonchalantly, Liz picked out one of each type of clothing from the bed then helped Cat carry the remaining clothes back into the lockout room. “What did Mitch mean by OPAQUE type security?”
In the room, she was pleasantly surprised to find a setup of table and chairs, small fridge and microwave, books, CDs and headphones, even a small laptop. The place was nothing like the bare essentials in the safe room when she was ten.
Cat laid the clothing on a table off to the side then opened a cabinet in front of her. “You’re one of Drake Security Shadow’s normal protection clients. Means we need to take some of your familiar edge off. Make people look at your clothes, body, walk, anything but your face.”
“Especially men?”
“Sure. Except, the bad guy can be a man or woman. Women will look at the outfit if it fits their style. Or wish they could wear what you’re wearing. They’ll wonder where they could buy the skirt. What would they wear with the top? Something like that. See what I mean?”
Liz nodded, understanding fully the reason for the different outfits. Her style was simple. Unprovocative. All business. She’d worked on perfecting that look ever since she lost an internship at college because a professor said she looked too cute. The next day, she’d walked into class wearing the all-business style and showed him what she thought of his chauvinist attitude. With the help of the local newspaper, she’d received an even better internship, earning an A in the course.
She’d kept that same style ever since. “So, we’re only changing my clothes?”
“That’s it.”
“What if I were an OPAQUE client?”
“You’d be prime-time danger.” Cat opened a drawer, motioning for Liz to look inside. “One that requires a lot more change. Tinted contacts. Tanning agents. Hair color. Extensions.” She picked up a pair of scissors. “Chop the hair short. Maybe a mole or a fake tattoo. Whatever it takes to make the person look completely different.”
“No way would I let you, or anyone else, ever cut my hair.” Liz pressed her already smooth style in place then glanced in the mirror above the counter. “I’m known in the publishing world for my neat makeup and hair. Makes me appear more serious. Makes the reader take me more seriously. Makes the publisher know I’m serious when I ask for more pay.”
Dangerous Lies (Shades of Leverage) Page 3