She smiled at her boss gently, then took a step as if considering going in the direction he and the others had urged her to go for the last three quarters of an hour—toward a coffee shop several blocks away. She stopped immediately. And gasped.
A man down the street seemed to stare right at her. He was too far away to be sure, yet it could be Farley.
“What’s wrong, Ms. Englander?” Flynn asked.
“Right there. It’s—” She’d turned briefly to respond to the security man, but when she turned back, the man was gone.
“It’s what?”
The crowd had thinned. Most people had wandered off, encouraged by the police, who had cleared a substantial perimeter around Englander Center.
“It’s probably my imagination,” Dianna said, her heart thudding hard beneath her ribs. “But I think I just saw Farley.”
“Where?” Flynn demanded.
She pointed fruitlessly in the general direction.
As the four of them had been swept along with the crowd earlier while crossing the street, Dianna had scanned faces. Farley had to be there. Who else would leave a bomb on her desk?
Of course she hadn’t seen him…then. She figured he was too smart to hang around when police were present and she could point him out. After all, his cleverness had kept him from being captured after he killed her husband, despite being on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list for the cold-blooded murder of a U.S. Representative. He’d even been featured on a national television show that encouraged citizens to report sightings of dangerous fugitives.
At first, as a courtesy, Dianna was scrupulously kept informed about tips, leads and sightings, as if her opinions mattered. But when none resulted in Farley’s arrest, she’d asked to be left alone. He could not have been in all the places he had been “seen”—especially since he had so often been around, taunting her.
Not that the federal agents in charge had believed her. Sometimes she’d been treated as having less credibility than the myriad of faceless masses who called—good citizens seeking the monetary award. Her cynicism had come to overpower her fear at seeing Farley—most of the time. She wondered whether that was a good thing.
One thing seemed evident: Farley had to have money to have eluded capture for so long. That’s what the authorities told her, for he wasn’t like people who lived off the land in wilderness areas to escape apprehension. He’d grown up in urban locales, never served in the military, never even went camping according to family and friends interviewed after he’d fled.
But the reason for his hatred had been poverty—which he had blamed on Brad, who’d promoted redevelopment in areas of urban blight. One such redevelopment had closed down Farley’s small business. Though he’d been paid for the taking of his property, he’d never reopened. He’d blamed Brad for leaving him destitute.
So how had he survived, in a manner that suggested he’d had money to flee?
Dianna’s hand again went to her belly. She had been five months pregnant when Farley had used her as bait to bring Brad home one horrible day. He had broken into their house when she had been grocery shopping. When she’d returned, he’d grabbed her, tied her to a kitchen chair, then called Brad. She hadn’t intended to say a word, hadn’t intended to put her husband in danger. But Farley had made it clear he had no compunction about killing both her and the baby.
Of course Brad had come immediately, unarmed but not without resources. He’d told Farley that the police were outside, demanded that the gun-wielding madman surrender. Farley had tried to make him apologize for his position on urban redevelopment and to promise—on the pain of future peril to his family—that he would stop sponsoring such legislation, but Brad had insisted he would never give in to terrorist threats.
Farley had shot him. And though cops actually had been present, remaining outside at Brad’s insistence, Farley had somehow, incredibly, eluded them.
The shock had sent Dianna into premature labor.
“Where’d you say you saw him?” Flynn’s harsh tone pierced her thoughts.
“Forget it,” she told him. “I was probably mistaken.”
“Yeah, just nerves,” Flynn agreed. “Even if the guy’s around here, he’s not about to be so obvious.”
Even if? Dianna wanted to cry out in the pain of the harsh recollection of all she’d lost—her husband. Her baby.
Even her own integrity.
She didn’t care whether Cal Flynn believed her. He could join the club.
“You okay, Dianna?” Wally asked, coming closer to stand beside her. “You look awfully pale.”
“I’m fine.” The lie came as easily as her latest false smile. This was no time to let her thoughts wander like that.
Time. She looked at her watch again. Another minute had gone by. Another minute in which Farley—if it had been Farley—had escaped again.
Another minute not punctuated by the sound of an explosion.
Another minute in which the bomb disposal unit and the rest of the cops—including Travis—had lived….
Damn! She needed to get away. To think about something other than Farley. She turned abruptly. “Excuse me, guys. I need to—” She was interrupted by the ring of her cell phone, a cheerful tune that didn’t match her ominous mood. She reached into her purse and extracted it. The caller ID number on the screen looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Dianna Englander,” she answered.
“Travis Bronson,” said a deep, strong voice.
“You’re okay?” she asked, knowing how silly the question was. He’d called her, not Jeremy. She recalled that she had reluctantly given him her number yesterday. Her knees felt so weak that she lowered herself carefully back into her chair.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Where are you, Dianna? There’s something you need to see.”
SINCE CIVILIANS WERE being permitted back into the building, Travis decided to wait for Dianna and her shadows there. That way he could hand the evidence right back to one of the Scientific Investigation Division— SID—forensic technicians, so chain of custody wouldn’t be a problem.
Assuming there were prints or anything else to tie it to a bad guy. And also assuming they ever apprehended and charged that bad guy so evidence against him could be put to use in a criminal proceeding.
When he’d gone inside the building to show the guys in the Bomb Squad where the bomb was, he’d made a point of bumbling as they’d stuck the protective gear on him, as if he hadn’t known what he was doing but was simply obeying their orders. Just in case anyone had been watching. With luck, he’d appeared like a street peddler with a little info, who’d been cooperating with the cops, that was all.
Of course, unlike street peddlers, he always carried, but his weapon remained concealed beneath his pants leg. And it didn’t do a hell of a lot of good against a bomb threat.
Now, Travis sat on a soft plaid chair—surprisingly comfortable notwithstanding its designer look and probable price tag—in the brightly lit reception area. Alone. The SID techs were still in Dianna’s office. Even though the Van Nuys area, with its many kinds of government offices, was a patchwork of jurisdictions among the city, the county and even the feds, the LAPD stayed in charge of this situation and hadn’t needed help.
Where the heck was Dianna? She had said they were only a short distance away, and he’d called ten minutes ago.
“Hi, Travis.” The first to enter the office, she appeared out of breath, a little flushed. As if she had hurried all the way back.
His eyes met hers. Her stare was soft and searching. When she pulled her gaze away, she scanned his body, as if to make sure he was all in one piece.
Yeah, he sure was. And when she looked him over like that, one of his pieces felt like standing up and saluting.
He turned away quickly, greeting the three guys he’d nominated as her temporary custodians. They might be out of shape and stuffy—even the security chief—but they’d done the job. Dianna, too, remained in one piece. One lovely, shapely, enticin
g piece in her form-hugging, silky green pantsuit…
“Come into my office and tell us what happened,” she said in a voice that was quiet yet sounded full of subdued emotion. As if she cared.
Sure, she did care. About the building that bore her name. No, her dead husband’s name.
“Nope, your place is still occupied by the investigators.” He heard her small gasp of dismay but didn’t respond. If he did, he might want to take her into his arms and comfort her.
Yeah, some comfort he’d be: an irritated would-be bodyguard whose interest in her would become obvious if he held her against him.
Instead, he said, “How about your office, Jeremy?”
The tallest, stuffiest of the mismatched guardian brigade didn’t look thrilled, but he acquiesced.
Travis let them precede him down the hall, then followed, carrying a large, sealed plastic evidence bag behind his back.
When they were all seated, he pulled it out.
“What’s that?” Wally held out pudgy hands as if to take it.
Travis pulled it back. “No touching. It’s a clock.”
“We evacuated the whole place for that?” Jeremy sounded irritated. “Was that all that was in the package?”
“If so, then thank heavens,” said Dianna. She raised her clear blue eyes quizzically to Travis. A wisp of her blond hair had blown out of place and fluffed up around her ear.
Travis withstood the urge to smooth it down as he nodded. “Pretty much all. There was this, too.” He reached into a pocket for the other small evidence bag he’d retained. He handed it to Dianna, who drew in her breath in a sharp whoosh.
It contained a note, written in ink in block letters on a plain white sheet of paper.
“What do you want to bet there’ll be no good fingerprints on it?” he asked.
“The way Farley toys with me, he probably wants to be identified.” Dianna sounded defeated. Travis didn’t like that one bit.
“Maybe. Anyhow, what do you think it means?”
The note read, Time to have a Happy Anniversary, Englander Center.
“This wasn’t just a sick joke, was it?” Dianna’s voice quivered. “It’s a warning. Farley intends to really blow up the Center during the anniversary party.”
Chapter Five
“So, do you intend to stay the night?” Dianna despised her waspish tone. But it was either that or let her inner trembling show, and she would choose nasty over vulnerable any day.
Especially where Lt. Travis Bronson was concerned.
And particularly since the idea of the much-too-sexy undercover cop staying the night at her home was spraying ignited flares up and down her psyche.
“Do you want me to?” he countered. His grin was slow, sensuous and altogether too tempting.
“No,” she replied quickly. “I just want to be left alone.”
The problem was, she wasn’t sure she did want to be left alone. Not after today’s scare. Not after everything else that scratched her nerve endings until they were frayed enough to scream.
Travis and she stood in the high-ceilinged entry of her Tudor-style home. On two sides were halls that led to the spacious living and entertaining areas of the first floor, and straight ahead was the sweeping stairway to the floor above. Travis scanned the place as if memorizing it, as she’d seen him do with each new location he visited with her.
He hadn’t changed clothes, so the same worn blue jeans hugged his slim hips. She’d noticed—oh, yes, she’d noticed—that his maroon T-shirt with the pushcart logo was damp with perspiration earlier, after he removed the protective gear he admitted to wearing. It was dry now but still outlined every hard muscle of his chest, particularly as he pivoted to look over her home.
Who was he? Had he grown up in L.A.? Was he married?
Why did she want to know?
“Have you been a police officer long?” she asked.
“About six years.”
“And before that?”
He scowled, apparently not happy with her questions. “College, and before that the Army.”
“Are you originally from—”
“If you’re sure you want me to go,” he interrupted, “I’ll leave.”
She blinked in the bright light from the polished brass fixture above them. Surely she hadn’t heard right. This domineering, overly protective man was suggesting that she stay by herself after today’s threat? Was it because she’d dared to ask questions? He knew her background. He’d done his homework.
“Fine, go ahead,” she said, then cleared her throat, angry at her hoarseness.
“But you’ll still be under surveillance all night. Like you were last night.” He turned to look at her again, the brilliance of his deep blue eyes daring her to challenge him.
And of course she did. Or at least she started to. “What do you mean, surveillance? I told you I wanted—”
“What you want is to survive, isn’t it?” He crossed his sinewy, hair-dusted arms over his chest.
“Yes.” The word escaped before she had time to consider a measured response. But what difference did it make? The answer would be the same, no matter how she said it.
“Well, then, that’s something we can agree on.”
“A first,” she acknowledged.
His ironic smile lifted a corner of his wide, masculine mouth. One light brown eyebrow arched. “No need to pay me to agree with you.”
“What—” She began, as his hand reached out and gently moved aside her hair. She all but shuddered at the touch that felt much too intimate as it skimmed her ear. She watched his eyes darken in apparent sensual awareness. “Travis, I—”
“Here.” His voice was as raspy as hers was earlier. With a flourish, he waved a quarter that he appeared to have removed from behind her ear.
She couldn’t help smiling at the errant magician as she reached for the coin. It was warm from the heat of his fingers. She wondered for a moment, as she looked into his eyes, just what heat those magical fingers might generate along skin at more erogenous parts of her body.
“I don’t suppose you do that with hundred-dollar bills,” she said quickly, crossing her arms in protective withdrawal.
He obviously noticed the gesture, for his gaze was instantly drawn down to her folded arms. At first. She realized after a moment he was looking beyond them. To her curves, beneath her blouse. Damn. The magician had managed to warm her without even touching her this time.
“I can work any kind of magic you want,” he said huskily, his smoky blue eyes rising to captivate hers once more.
“Then I want to be left alone,” she repeated stubbornly. No double entendres there. But she was lying even more this time. She took a step back for emphasis. “Besides, how can you keep up your cover, pretend to be a street entertainer, and come to my home like this?”
“You’re attracted to me, of course.” His tone was glib, his eyes smiling. He knew he was lying. Wasn’t he? “Slumming a little, though you’re just leading me on. I’m trying to convince you to hire me to put together entertainers for your anniversary fund-raiser, so I’m playing along. We’ll do a dialogue or two in public to that effect, so my cover won’t be breached.”
“Right. I’m slumming.” She scowled. “But anyone who knows me realizes I don’t even…” She tapered off. It wasn’t his business that she didn’t date. Didn’t have a social life at all. Didn’t want one.
“Besides, since it’s what you want, tonight you’ll be alone in your house,” he said brusquely, all cop again, his cover notwithstanding. “But I’ll have a team outside watching to make sure there’s no activity here.”
“Fine. Go home to your wife. Maybe she won’t mind your telling her what to do.” Dianna could have kicked herself for saying that. She could simply have asked him.
And maybe he’d have answered.
“I’m not married.” He sounded amused. “Now, if you hear anything out of the ordinary tonight, call me. I’ll be home all by myself. Got it?”
To touch her…
“Got it,” she managed to say.
BACK IN HIS CAR, Travis made calls to get a surveillance team ready. Then he sat back, tuned into some sultry jazz on a local station, turned it low, and waited for his backup.
He’d parked on the street after following Dianna home when she’d finished a full day of work. Amazing lady. After that sick joke, after possibly even spotting that SOB Farley again, she’d apparently hunkered right down and done her job.
Yeah, and her diligence wasn’t the only thing he found amazing about her. Her hair had been every bit as silky to the touch as he’d imagined. And then there was the way her lush mouth quivered a little, then took on a determined set as she defied him. Defied the world.
More than once, he’d wanted to lay his own hungry lips right on that very appealing mouth…
Come on, Bronson, he taunted himself. You’re steaming the damn car windows all by yourself.
She’d wanted to know if he was married. Hell, he’d learned before he was even Julie Alberts’ age, when his folks died, that getting close to anyone was a mistake. And the one time he’d tried it, he’d found out just how much of a mistake. Cassi had died, thanks to him.
He glanced out the misty windows, taking in all directions to make sure nothing seemed amiss on the narrow, twisting street in the hills. It was late December and dark out, so even as early as 8:30 p.m. he had to rely on streetlights and security lights gleaming from private property for illumination. Palm trees and eucalyptus towered above the lightposts. Many homeowners here in the hills of the San Fernando Valley kept their places private by building block walls or growing tall hedges, so there weren’t a lot of homes to scrutinize.
Cars—that was a different matter. Angelenos loved their wheels. Most households had more vehicles than spots in their garages or on their steep driveways. People showed how important they thought they were by the cost of their transportation.
Travis had no argument with his Jeep. Though it was eight years old, it was reliable.
Guardian of Her Heart Page 6