The Bodyguard Contract

by Donna Young

  Anton glanced over, unable to stop the concern. Each day it seemed the other man’s skin became thinner, almost papery. Now, its paler hue was visible even in the darkness. They were running out of time.

  “Did you destroy the rocket launcher?” Anton asked, surprised when the older man jerked.

  “Yes. I had to use several grenades.”

  “No worries. I have more than enough,” Anton joked, but this time he kept his voice low, not wanting to startle the priest again.

  “I know,” Father Xavier responded, his tone weary. “Tell me what happened.”

  “She had help,” Anton said, wanting to get the worst over. Anton didn’t like to disappoint him, but sometimes… “A man. Most likely another operative.” He automatically reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard, then stopped. The urge to smoke collided with the need to protect the man beside him.

  Sighing, Anton placed both hands on the wheel. “At first, I wasn’t so sure we’d succeeded. You’d said Eos was good but Armand’s pilot survived her initial attack, then got the drop on her. If he’d killed her outright—”

  “But he didn’t,” Father Xavier inserted.

  “No he didn’t. Her partner took care of the pilot. Everything else went according to the plan.”

  “I told her to tell no one.”

  “Obviously, she didn’t listen.” Anton paused, remembering the woman’s surprise when the man spoke. “Or she didn’t know he was coming.”

  “Either way, I warned her.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, it’s in God’s hands,” Father Xavier murmured, but didn’t open his eyes. “Did you recognize her?”

  “No. The shadows kept her features hidden. Then the man came up from behind me.” Anton remembered her, though—the low, angry brush of her voice when she threatened him, the feminine cry when he’d hit her. “Don’t worry, when the time is right we’ll discover who she is. And the man, too.”

  “We’re running out of time, Anton,” Xavier whis pered, his words barely audible now, weakened by exhaustion. “And we must…not…fail.”

  Anton looked over, heard the uneven rasping and knew from experience the old man was already asleep.

  “We won’t, Father,” he whispered and once again thought of the woman called Eos. “I promise.”

  THE INTERIOR LIGHT in the Hummer cast a muted beam on the passenger seat. Lara ran her hands over the briefcase’s smooth leather surface, searching for any anomalies.

  “Here,” Ian drew a nonmetal, polymer wire from the cuff of his sweater. “Use this to pick the lock.”

  “I have one, thanks. I’m more worried about a miniature explosive in the catch.” Lara took her time giving the briefcase another once-over.

  “The miniatures are Kate’s new toys. She hasn’t shared them with the rest of our friends,” Ian said, using slang for the Bureau and Central Intelligence.

  “Actually she gave me one to test….” Satisfied, Lara snapped the catch. “It wasn’t locked.”

  Lara raised the lid and let out a long, slow whistle. “There has to be a million dollars worth of Ben Franklins in here.”

  “Must be the going rate for a military cache.” Ian put the wire away, then started the engine. “Let’s have the details, Red.”

  “I’m sure Cain briefed you.” She snapped the lid shut and turned off the overhead light but not before she caught his profile. Shadowed with a night’s growth of whiskers, Ian’s features sharpened, his expression dangerous.

  Desire brushed the base of her spine. Uncomfortable, Lara shifted.

  “Cain brought me up to speed on the players and the handoff.” Ian reached under his seat. “But I think you need to fill in the rest.” He dangled Father Xavier’s rosary from his fingers. “Starting with how long you’ve been Catholic.”

  “I’m not and you know it.” She grabbed the rosary from him. “How did you get into the car?”

  Ian pulled out his cell phone, wiggled it back and forth. “My super decoder phone. It scans the mechanism, runs a series of electronic codes. And presto, not only does it unlock the door, but it starts the engine.” Ian put it back in his pocket. “It’s a Kate D’Amato original. And it beats the hell out of the cereal box super decoder rings.”

  “Grow up.” Lara’s eyebrow arched with disgust, but acknowledged the fact that Kate hadn’t passed her one. “You had no right breaking in and searching my car, Ian.”

  “Really? And in my place, you wouldn’t have?”

  He had a point, but tonight she wasn’t in the mood to keep score. “Did you at least grab my duffel and the equipment bag when you were done?”

  “Back there,” Ian jabbed a thumb toward the seat behind them. “I’m interested in knowing why you’d bring half the tech lab with you when you’re on a courier operation.”

  “Kate gave them to me,” Lara replied. “Cain must have told her of my pregnancy. And with Kate being six months pregnant, her mothering instincts went into overdrive. When she kept piling on the equipment, I wasn’t about to argue with her.”

  Ian grunted his understanding. His sister had brought nesting to a whole new level.

  “After, I went right from headquarters to the airport.”

  “Okay, so…” Ian prompted.

  “Father Xavier is holding the biochemical weapon as hostage.”

  “And his terms?”

  “I’m to deliver Anton Novak to him within the next—” she glanced at the dash, found the clock “—thirty-seven hours.”

  “Or?”

  “Or Father Xavier will release the chemical into the public.”

  “A priest willing to murder?”

  “You forget this is no ordinary priest.”

  “Still,” Ian paused, considering. “It could be a hell of a bluff.”

  Lara gripped the cross tighter. If it was, the priest played it well. There was no possible way for her to test the cross without going back to headquarters. After leaving the church, she’d taken no chances and immediately washed it clean.

  “Maybe.” Lara remembered the regret in Father Xavier’s voice, the hollowed sadness. “But there’s no way to be sure. And if I warn anyone, he won’t wait the thirty-seven hours to release the toxin.”

  “Exactly what kind of toxin are we dealing with?”

  “A synthetically enhanced version of the Red Tide.”

  “Red Tide? As in toxic oysters?”

  “Yes. When the victim ingests the infected shell-fish, the toxin is released and attacks the nervous system. Death occurs from asphyxiation or respiratory paralysis. Sometimes within hours.”

  “How did Davidenko’s people enhance the poison?”

  “You no longer have to ingest it,” Lara answered. “You need only touch it. The skin absorbs the substance and slowly processes it throughout the body.”

  “So if someone is contaminated, all they have to do is touch another’s skin to expose them,” Ian reasoned aloud. “How do we stop it?”

  “Some biochemical agents degrade when exposed to light, heat or oxygen. The Katts Smeart degrades when exposed to antibacterial soap. When someone comes in contact with the agent, all they have to do is wash the exposed skin or contaminated object with an antibacterial soap and warm water to kill the strain. It stops the spread to others.”

  “Antibacterial soap? Seems simple. Too simple. Why not apply something harsher, like bleach?” Ian tapped the steering wheel, a short staccato, that rode Lara’s nerves.

  “Harsher chemicals like bleach only serve to open the skin’s pores, allowing the poison to seep faster.” She reached over, stopped his fingers and instantly realized her mistake. The slide of her head against his tickled her pulse points making them jump to attention. Quickly, she yanked her hand back, but not before she caught the wry twist on Ian’s lips.

  “There is no other way to pass it. Not airborne, not through body fluids?” he asked, ignoring what had just happened.

  “No, it has to be ingested or absorbed
in its purest form. After the body processes the poison, the agent breaks down.” Lara closed her eyes against the pounding in her temples. What did the doctor say? Aspirin wasn’t good for the baby. Absently, she rubbed the side of her forehead, only to stop, startled when she realized her decision not to take aspirin.

  “How long will someone have once they’ve become contaminated?” Ian asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  She opened her eyes. “It depends on how much they come in contact with. A little over a tablespoon and they’d be dead within a half hour. A smaller portion—anywhere from four to seventy two hours—depends on the amount. And, of course, a smaller amount increases the chance of survival with the antidote.”

  “There’s an antidote?”

  “Father Xavier says there is,” Lara admitted. “I haven’t seen it.”

  “So we only have the word of a priest that it exists.”

  “A priest who has gone rogue.” Lara caught Ian’s frown.

  “And you have no idea why the priest wants Novak?”

  “No,” Lara answered, finding no logical reason to tell Ian she’d been infected. They had enough to deal with. “But Château Bontecou was no random choice for a meeting. Davidenko owns it.”

  “Does the priest know who you are, what you look like?”

  “No. Of course not, but—”

  “And Novak? Do you think he got a good look at you in the desert?”

  “He could have but I doubt it,” Lara explained. “I could barely make out his features when we tangled. Either way, we’re forced to chance it. I need Novak.”

  “You do remember the fact that he was ready for you, Red?”

  “Even if he was, it doesn’t matter. We’re running out of time. And options.”

  “Not if it means another trap.” Ian glanced from Lara to the briefcase, then he threw the Hummer into drive. “I think we should take advantage of Novak’s generosity first.”

  Lara raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Everyone knows with gambling the odds favor the house,” Ian stated. “But I think we’re about to change their luck.”

  CHTEAU BONTECOU, like most casinos, advertised their winners in a loud obnoxious fashion. Bells chimed, horns blew and people clapped.

  A loud cry pierced the air.

  Some, Ian discovered, even screamed.

  His gaze slid to the casino bar’s entrance where an elderly woman—one of many seniors—hopped up and down, her ample bosom heaving in excited agitation. In a glance he took in her tangerine pants suit, matching pumps and beehive hairdo. Obviously, the woman liked the fifties so much, she hadn’t wanted to leave it, Ian mused. He leaned on the bar and enjoyed the show.

  Across the casino floor, a woman wandered into his line of sight. A brunette, her hair dark and bobbed. A white sleeveless blouse, trimmed with a black collar. Modest by most standards—if Lara hadn’t left all but the two middle buttons unfastened. The cotton stretched across her breasts, leaving a tantalizing glimpse of the silk and lace beneath.

  Flared, pin-striped trousers hung low across her hips, exposing just enough of her stomach to frame a diamond belly ring.

  Desire punched him—on its heels a more powerful jab of protectiveness. His baby—their baby—was there, nestled beneath the soft curve of her belly.

  Cool green eyes flickered over the crowd, once, twice before they settled into a lazy perusal of his pants and polo shirt. She paused a moment on his expression of warning before she took another long appreciative glance.

  Ian let out a hiss of air. He knew what she was doing, and damn it, it was working.

  With slow deliberation, Lara sauntered over to him, placed her leather, mini backpack on the bar and slid onto the closest empty stool.

  The bartender—Hank, by the nametag—flashed a nice, practiced smile and slid a napkin in front of her. “What can I get you?”

  “Shot of whiskey, please.” She ran her tongue quick and light over her glossed red lips. Her eyes, lined in a deep smoky gray and fringed with thick black-tipped lashes, shimmered green with amusement. She lowered one lid into a slow, sexy wink. “MacAlister whiskey, if you have it.”

  She’d ordered his family brand deliberately. Ian stretched in front of her and grabbed a handful of peanuts. “Watch, it, Red,” he murmured right before Hank reappeared with a glass.

  Once Lara had accused him of putting duty above all else. It hadn’t been duty that placed him here.

  His eyes ran the length of her.

  Not by a frustrating, sexy, long shot.

  “Hello, handsome.” She swiveled until she faced him then crossed a long, easy leg over the other. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She’d made contact, after agreeing he’d make the first move. Ian suppressed the urge to throttle her delicate neck and instead allowed a lazy smile to play across his lips.

  “Absolutely.”

  Without taking his eyes off her face, he said to Hank, “Same. But make it a double.”

  Lara’s eyebrow quirked in response. “Maggie.” She held out her hand.

  Ian slid his hand into hers, catching the slight tremble of her palm against his. “Jim. Nice to meet you.”

  “We’ll see.” Gently, she tugged her hand free.

  When Hank placed the double shot in front of Ian, Lara raised her own. For a moment he watched the track lights catch and set the gold liquid on fire. “A toast, Jim,” she purred.

  A tickle of warning danced across Ian’s shoulder blades. He raised his glass.

  “To—”

  “Excellent whiskey,” he drawled.

  “All right,” she agreed, then lifted a casual shoulder.

  Not waiting, he tipped the glass toward hers—heard the clink of promise. Over the rim, he watched Lara fake a sip before tipping hers onto the carpet.

  So, she wasn’t drinking. Because of the mission or the baby?

  Ian downed his drink in one gulp, felt the bite, then the burn before he slid the glass back onto the counter. With a casual nod, he caught the bartender’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. Hank had been behind the counter long enough to know that there was better money if he left them alone.

  Ian leaned into Lara, whispered in her ear. “Ready?”

  Lara’s laugh held the edge of seduction, her finger lightly tapped Ian’s lips—an intimate gesture to any onlooker. “Too soon. I don’t want to appear that easy,” she whispered, her tone husky with promise.

  “Easy?” Ian nuzzled her ear, allowed himself to breathe in her fragrance. She smelled of ginger with the faint hint of jasmine. The delicate scent stole through him, then settled deep in his gut. “You?”

  Lara had never been one to wear the same scent. Hell, she couldn’t even buy the same brand of shampoo twice in a row.

  “You’re a lot of things,” he murmured against the shell of her ear, pleased when he felt the slight shiver of her shoulders. “Arrogant, bossy…” He paused, his lips tasted her delicate lobe “…extremely sexy. But you’re not easy.”

  “And,” she whispered and pulled away until they were nose to nose. “I’m not ready.”

  “Okay,” he murmured. Vulnerability dimmed the shimmer in Lara’s eyes. The air shifted between them, like a slow-moving pendulum, swinging dangerously close to personal. “Hold on.”

  Lara watched as Ian strolled over to a nearby jukebox. He’d traded the black sweater for a gray polo shirt that molded snug around his broad shoulders and exchanged his pants for a pair of navy Dockers. He’d left the shirt untucked in typical Ian-fashion. That combined with a day’s growth of whiskers, gave him that sexy, go-to-hell appearance.

  A dangerous combination. One that turned Lara’s nerves into a handful of Mexican jumping beans.

  Across the empty dance floor, drifted the deep, pulsating, Etta James rendition of “At Last!” Lara closed her eyes, letting the words seep in, the mournful melody soothing the erratic tempo that thrummed throughout her body.

  “Want to da
nce?”

  Lara opened her eyes, saw his eyebrow arch in challenge. Chin hiked, she placed her hand in his, felt his callused fingers brush against her palm.

  With her second step, she was in his arms, snug against the hardness of his body. One hand splayed across the small of her back, his fingers absently stroking, reassuring. The other held hers clasped between them.

  “That was a dirty trick, Ian.” Her tone strived for haughty, but fell way short. Etta James was a weakness she’d shared with him the night she’d grieved for her father.

  “I don’t have time to court you. We need to get close, quick. The more we play up our attraction, the less camera time our faces will have.”

  “Fine.” The song lasted what? Two minutes. She sighed, snuggled in. Keep it simple. In the poignant, sadness of the music, she found an escape.

  Without thought, she breathed in the clean scent of soap, hummed the tune against the hollow of his neck.

  Allowed both to seep through, settle within.

  “We’re doing fine. Drawing just the right amount of attention.”

  “Hmmmm.” Lara floated, drugged by the low, whiskey-soaked voice in her ear and the slow, pulsing music surrounding her. Her lips skimmed Ian’s jaw, enjoyed the simple tang that touched off a long-forgotten craving for the spice underneath.

  Not knowing who made the move, not caring. Lara sighed when his mouth met hers. From that moment, Ian took control.

  Then her mind shut down, stopped thinking about the operation—urged by the sensual lure of his mouth. With a whimper, Lara opened, tasted—then like an addict she saturated herself in the thick, sultry heat. The kind conjured from smoky dives with dark corners.

  When he started to pull away, she clamped down on the taut muscles of his arms. Felt them flex with indecision. “More.” Her order sliced through the low murmur of voices, effectively cutting off all sound.

  The music had stopped.

  The thrum of yearning, the rush of moisture between her thighs unsettled her. But it was the humiliation that heated her face, made her eyes tear. Damn it!

  “Maggie?”

  The name snapped her chin up, brought reality rushing back. But pride straightened her spine, gave her strength. “Yes?”