Tate nodded, wishing shed’ come closer. “Makes sense.”
“Mona was the one who put Alvarez up to being at the construction site. She was at the party and knew about the accident with the Rodeo. She knew because she helped plan the attack.”
Tate nodded. “That’s what I figured after I saw the picture of the women who looked so much like her. No one else at the party paid so much attention to you leaving.”
“Except you.” She smiled and walked back to him.
“Except me.” He analyzed her features. She’d gone still and pensive. His guts churned. “What are you plans now?”
“Oh. Well.” She swallowed hard and looked around the room.
What was wrong? “Tell me.”
“I thought I’d take a vacation.”
He grabbed his wound. But the pain wasn’t there, but in his heart. “Really? As your boss, I’d say you’ve been on extended leave for more than a month.”
“True. But as my boss, you must agree that federal business is not something I could negotiate. And I really did work hard. Night and day with those guys.”
He wouldn’t live well without her. Not for a day. Or a year. Or whatever she had in mind. “How long would this vacation be?”
She licked her lips. “Two months?”
“That’s a long time.” Where are you going, babe? Where can you go without me?
“I already booked the resort.”
He wanted to grab her and shake her, kiss her, make her stay. “Where?”
“Tahiti.”
“Ta—” He pulled back and took a good long look at her. “Are you yanking my chain?”
“Is there anywhere else as good? As exotic?” She walked around the room, nonchalant as a kid in a candy shop. “Is anyone else here?”
“What?”
“Your housekeeper? Your mother?” She circled round and round, peeking into the adjoining hall.
“No one.” Now he was pissed. Petrified. She was going to dump him. “Why?
“Why?” she repeated like a sleepwalker and faced him with a grin. She unbuttoned one button on her dress, then another.
“Sweetheart, if you trying to inspire me to get better, you’re doing a hell of a job.”
She returned to sit on the arm of his chair, bent down, kissed him like she’d been away for years and years. Her bodice gaped and he adored the view. “You’ll have to prove it to me.”
He cupped her cheek. “If you kiss me again like that, I’ll show you proof.”
She snorted. “There’ll be the right time and place for that.”
“Where? When?” He gripped her around the waist. “I want you to stay with me.”
He’d never begged a woman before. This was different. Anna was everything to him. He was losing his mind. The woman he wanted more than water or air was sailing away from him. He wanted her permanently all the days of his life. If he was going to make her his, he had to start now and with the right words. “I love you, Anna.”
She branded his mouth with a kiss of flame. “Oh, Tate, I love you, too. More than anyone in this world.”
Finally. “Words I understand.” He grabbed her hands.
“One thing though.” She eluded him, a teasing light in her eyes.
“What?”
She winked at him.
Now he was confused. Frustrated. “Tell me.”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
He pulled back, breathless, stunned, not knowing what to make of this turn in conversation. “Anything. Name it.”
“Well, you see. I have a problem.”
“Whatever. I’ll solve it.”
“I want to change my name again.”
He scowled. Was he crazy or was she? “You’re asking me if I know a forger?”
She smiled at him. “I’m asking you to marry me. Let me change my name one last time.”
Joy burst through his fog of despair. Straining up, he pressed his lips to hers. “Easiest thing I’ll ever do, honey, is make you Mrs. Tate Ryder.”
She kissed him and giggled. “Oh, wonderful. And I promise never to change my name again.”
“You bet your sweet life you won’t. You’re mine.”
“And I’ll spend no more nights without you.”
“Ever.”
THE END
NO NIGHT TOO LONG
By
Cerise DeLand
Chapter One
Grant Warwick took another sip of espresso and pushed his Ray-Bans up his nose. Leaning his elbows on the café table, he narrowed his eyes at the sight that shot hot surprise through his guts. Yes. The woman in the tissue-thin white cotton dress was one he knew. No one moved liked that, elegant and spirited. No other woman’s body affected him so instantly. Positive to negative. Earth to sun. Light to dark.
She yakked with the Venetian guy on the stalled vaporetto as if they’d known each other for years. Grant told himself it was the June sun’s refractions off the murky water of the Grand Canal that hurt his eyes. But he knew it was the sight of Coco Dalton that burned his brain.
Damn her.
You’d think after three years of searching for another woman to replace her in his bed, he’d have replaced her in his mind. Forgotten her. And the fire in his belly. The concrete in his soul. The idiotic dreams in his head.
One look at that gamin body, the cap of platinum curls, the up-turned breasts that didn’t need a bra, the legs that went on forever right down into her latest ugly pair of shoe leather—yeah, and he’d been hooked. Like a fish. And after the way she’d dumped him long ago, he knew his heartache smelled like an old fish.
Christ. What a waste you are, Warwick. A hulking Scots-Irish loner who never got hooked on any woman.
Except to graceful, reckless award-winning photojournalist, Coco Dalton.
What was she doing here? Though he could see she had her camera bag slung over her shoulder and one tiny piece of luggage, she never took a vacation. He scanned the hoards of tourists streaming past him toward St. Mark’s Square, noting that no wise person traveled here after May unless they wanted to be trampled to death by the crowds.
Coco suddenly frowned at whatever her companion was saying. Odd. You used to laugh. Often. With me. In bed. Out. On kitchen counters. Floors. His eyes drifted shut as he recalled how she felt like molten satin in his arms, sinuous and artless, the would-be ballerina who gave up the quest for pro. The way her lush lips would spread over her teeth when she grinned. The way her purple eyes flashed at him just before she kissed him. The way she’d given herself to him almost completely—and he’d lost his reserve and fallen for a woman for the first time in his thirty-eight years.
He ran a hand over his newly shaven bald head. Time to go, Warwick. He downed his coffee, gave the high sign to his waiter and plunked twenty euro on the table for his lunch. Buttoning his suit coat, he stood and headed for the meeting for which he’d flown to Venice.
He worked his way from the Grand Canal back into the winding calle of the ancient city. Last night, after he arrived on his private jet at the small metro airport, he’d checked into his hotel and promptly gone out to find the building. Venice always confused the hell out of him but he got off on knowing all the details of any event and prepared for every one. That research, that caution made him and his company one of the fastest growing and better known among international security firms. The reputation that gave him had guaranteed him this new contract with the government of Quintar for their new government historical museum.
Grant arrived within minutes at the buttery stone-faced building that housed the commercial offices of the Emirate. A palazzo built in the fourteenth century by one of the Electors of Venice, the structure reflected the beauty of the ancient city. With a heavy, ornate door of rose and green inlaid tiles, the building rose in three different turrets to the cloudless blue sky. Inside, the tiny hall spoke of age–old schemes and secrets in the dark intrigues of the city’s politics. He took the hair-pin stairway up to the f
irst floor, bending low to avoid the ceiling that was unfit for an American of six-foot-four.
“Buon giorno,” he greeted the receptionist, a lovely white-veiled Arab woman with a king’s ransom of gold dripping from her fingers, her wrists and hanging around her neck. “Grant Warwick to see Sheik Khalid Nasar.”
“Welcome, Mr. Warwick,” the lady responded with a crisp British accent and a blazing set of perfect white teeth. She rose from her chair and inclined her head in deference. “Please wait here a moment and I will announce you. May I offer you refreshment as you wait? Tea, perhaps, or coffee?”
Grant wanted neither but he knew from his years in the Middle East, it was an insult to refuse. “Tea, thank you.”
He took a seat in one of the huge, sumptuously upholstered chairs that reminded him of those he’d seen in the Doge’s private residence. He’d heard the emir of Quintar was a very forward-looking man and favored modern furniture. This medieval look amused Grant. Ah, well. When in Venice, do as the Venetians.
The receptionist appeared with a tray with one thimble-sized cup of steaming liquid. The aroma of anise and fennel met his nostrils and he decided the brew might soothe his irritation at seeing Coco again. He took a sip—heard the door open, looked up—and promptly saw no relief was possible.
Struggling in the front door, Coco dragged her little red suitcase behind her and smiled tentatively at the receptionist. “Buon giorno, Signora. I am Coco Dalton.”
What the hell?
She parked her suitcase and let her camera bag slide to the floor. In the stilted movements of her body, Grant detected a change from the total grace she normally possessed. “You are expecting me.”
The woman nodded, her lashes fluttering and descending with wide-eyed dismay to the thin, almost transparent dress Coco wore. “Yes, of course, Ms. Dalton. May I offer you tea or coffee?”
“Thank you. Tea would be wonderful.” Coco smiled stiffly, kneading her hands in what appeared to be a case of nerves. Where are the remnants of the serene woman who once wanted to become a professional ballerina? Her back was ramrod straight and she never turned to face him but chatted on about the weather and her walk from the vaporetto.
Good thing, because his eyes drilled through the cotton to the curve of her hips and the straps of the white thong. His whole body stiffened, taking note of the length of those legs that had once wrapped tightly around his. He swallowed. Hard.
Coco bent, fiddling with one of the zippers on her suitcase and trying to yank out something. “May I ask if you have a room free so that I might change my clothes?”
Grant’s cock didn’t want her to change a thing.
“My plane was late and I had no time to go to my hotel,” she told the woman.
Grant forced his gaze lower and winced at the sight of Coco’s latest outrage. Clunky neon pink running shoes.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I do not want to meet the Sheik in my traveling attire.”
She’s here to meet the same man I am?
“Yes, Ms. Dalton.” The receptionist beamed as if she were relieved. Grant figured she hoped this Western woman in scanty attire would wish to appear here in more modest clothing before her employer. She turned toward the hall and smiled at Coco. “Allow me to show you. Come. Do you also have a scarf for your hair?”
What did the sheik need with a war-zone photographer? Certainly not to open a private historical museum in Quintar.
And if he does…?
Grant scrubbed his jaw and worked to tamp down his anger. Why hadn’t his VP of Research told him about this? Todd Cummings usually knew all. But if Coco Dalton was involved in this new job, Grant was pulling out now. He had no desire to meet her or talk with her. She’d made it plain to him three years ago when she’d failed to meet him at the airport for a romantic vacation that she was not and could never be devoted to him. He had no intention of looking at her over a conference table and gnawing out his guts any more than he already had.
He stood.
The receptionist rounded the corner of the hall and paused, casting stunned eyes on him. “Sir? You are—”
“Leaving. Give my apologies to Sheik Nasar, will you please? I must—”
“Mr. Warwick,” came a baritone from the far end of the corridor. The petite, olive- skinned man in a hand-tailored dark grey Italian silk suit spoke with a faintly British accent. “Please, sir, you cannot leave.”
“Your Highness,” Grant inclined his head in respect to the emir’s cousin, a noted businessman who had his own private collection of Middle Eastern artifacts. “I am most pleased to meet you. We should have done so years ago.”
For Grant to make a hasty exit now was impossible. Hell, one look at Coco and he went brain dead! You can’t run from a planned meeting with a man who has agreed to sign a contract with you for two million dollars a year for ten years.
When Grant got hold of Todd again, he was going to put his feet to the fire for his failure here this afternoon. Now all Grant had to do was just keep away from the cute blonde trick in bad shoe leather.
“Come,” said Nasar. “We will discuss our matters at length. Naila?” He turned to his receptionist. “Please see we have privacy.”
“I will.” She averted her eyes, smiling at the floor in feminine courtesy to her superior.
Nasar led the way into a large office with a floor-to-ceiling view of the red and ochre rooftops of Venice. Inside, a blinding Carrara marble conference table stretched to a size capable of seating ten or more. Shown to the prince’s left hand side, Grant pulled out a rolling chair and waited for Nasar to sit first. He heard another door open in the hall outside, and then another. Odds were, from one of those came a woman he had never wanted to see again.
The first person to appear in the doorway was a man. Taller than the prince, darker than he and younger by a decade, this man strode forward, all grins. “Mr. Warwick! Jamal Husseini. How wonderful to welcome you here finally. We have written often! I am the curator of the new museum.”
Grant nodded, took his hand in the western way and shook. Husseini, too, had a British accent and Grant knew from what information Todd Cummings had gleaned on this job, that the curator’s mother was British and his father from Qunitar. With degrees from Oxford and Harvard in ancient texts and archeology, the man was renowned for his doctoral thesis on the works of early Islamic poets. A distant cousin of Sheik Nasar, Husseini’s credentials and connections ensured that he had been appointed curator of Nasar’s lavish new private museum.
Grant and Jamal took their cue from Nasar when he sat down, then took their time on the formalities of getting to know each other. As they spoke, Grant listened not to the man but for sounds of the woman whom he knew was somewhere in this office.
Finally, he heard it. Clip, clop. Clip, clop. Clattering down the hall was a woman wearing high heels. Grant had sworn Coco owned only one pair. Therefore, the odds that it might be she who appeared in the doorway were few. But so was what he saw her wearing as she came into view. Here, in all her svelte glory, stood Coco Dalton, all five-foot-six inches of her in a sleek white linen suit that cupped her lush breasts and flowed down her hips like a fresh coat of paint. And, yes—Grant knew his brows rose in shock—on her feet were ivory stilettos, six inches high.
The other two men rose at once. Grant got to his feet last.
And she was smooth. Her eyes were happy, business-like and clear. Even when she gazed at him, she gave no sign of emotion. The formal smile she put on her face was that of the diplomat’s daughter who’d met hundreds of important men and women since she was a child.
Grant set his jaw. Irritation spread like fire in his guts. Why didn’t she at least blink in shock at his presence? He wanted to affect her. Needed it. Revenge was a miserable desire.
“Forgive me, for being late. My plane,” she said, flourishing a hand in explanation. “One can never count on schedules these days.”
Nasar and Jamal spoke of their understanding as she shook hands w
ith them.
“Hello, Grant,” she said in an impartial but friendly tone that held no fear he might reject her.
Okay. That settled it. She was not at all surprised at his presence. Why not?
He shook her hand. Warm, silken, her fingers withdrew from his with a jerk. So. You are nervous about seeing me again.
You should be.
He’d stay, by god. He had to learn why she was here and why she’d come even knowing he’d be here. Most of all, like a fool, he needed the gratification of watching her cover her anxiety at seeing him again.
She took the chair across from him and he sat down with full knowledge he could watch her every move. Without briefcase, computer or pen and paper, the four of them began the preliminaries of their first face-to-face meeting. The weather, their health, the adequacies of their hotel accommodations were each reviewed and found pleasant.
Nasar folded his tiny hands before him. “Ms. Dalton, Mr. Warwick, I am grateful to you both for meeting me here earlier than we planned. Thank you for altering your schedules to go straight to Qunitar, but I needed to see you here. My needs were recently changed.”
Jamal leaned forward. “We have a problem we did not anticipate.”
Grant frowned. If some hitch meant they were now going to withdraw the contract for his firm to supply security to their buildings, he wouldn’t be happy, but he wouldn’t starve, either. “I assure you both it was no problem for me to come here.”
Coco agreed. “I am at your disposal. And knowing how well Mr. Warwick works, I know he maintains his supremacy in his business because he is always flexible. Understanding of changed circumstances.”
I’m understanding? He stared at her. Her violet gaze slid over his in a nano-second. You’ve got some nerve, babe, to speak for me. And yeah, I’m understanding except when you ripped out my heart and left it in two goddamn pieces.
Grant sat forward. “If this problem concerns our contract, I would be eager to discuss it with you.” He opened a palm. “If not, could you give me some predictability on where our relationship will go in light of your challenge?”
Tall, Hard and Trouble Page 11