He nodded solemnly. “I wish I would have known while he was still alive.”
“Why? How do you think that would have changed anything?” Reginald would have been the same man. He still would have shut everyone out, including Ruby. To Georgia, that was unforgivable. Selfish.
“I would have tried to get to know him more. Maybe I wouldn’t have joined the military.”
“You’d have worked at AdAir?”
“If I was close to my father?” He considered that awhile, looking over at a waiter pouring wine into a glass at a neighboring table before turning back to her. “Maybe.”
Wow. Georgia was impressed. It took a noble man to admit his shortcomings, and Carson had nearly done that. Joining the military had been a form of rebellion. But if he’d been close to his father, he might not have been inclined to run away.
“You wish you would have known him better,” she said.
He nodded. “Most of my life I thought of him as a cold, ruthless tyrant who didn’t love us. Any of us. Patsy, either. I remember wondering why he didn’t just leave us. I thought it was because he didn’t want to pay Patsy. She’d take too much from him. But that wasn’t it.”
Reginald had simply been unhappy and resigned to the fact that changing who he lived with wouldn’t matter.
“Losing his son doesn’t excuse him from treating everyone else poorly,” she said. “I can understand why you wish you could have had a better relationship with your dad, but he made the choice to alienate himself. He didn’t have to do that. He could have chosen to show his love.” But he hadn’t. “He lost any hope of happiness by choosing that path. He must have lived in the past.”
“In the past and in the shadow of his parents. They treated him much the way he treated us growing up.”
“Some people survive by living with what’s familiar.”
Carson grunted. “Loneliness is familiar. Maybe you’re right.”
“I wouldn’t spend too much time feeling bad for never knowing your father. If he really knew you, he’d be proud of the man you’ve become. He’d be proud that you made your own way in life.”
“He’d think he won if I run AdAir.”
“The ruthless tyrant would. But the dad before Jackson’s kidnapping wouldn’t. He lost touch with the father in him.”
Carson met her gaze with soft appreciation. His regard slowly changed from healing talk of his father to an awareness of her. The way he took in her face heated the moment.
Georgia was relived when a decadent chocolate torte arrived for dessert and she had something to occupy herself. She ate a few bites while she wrestled with how much she was beginning to like this man. How easy it would be to forget her original assumptions, to compromise her beliefs and see what happened. What if she just enjoyed him? What if she stopped trying to protect her future and just lived in the here and now? With Carson. She could decide later where they were and how she felt and make a decision then. Nothing may come of this. Carson could get bored with pampering her and then a side of him she wasn’t seeing now might emerge and ruin everything.
“Not very good?”
She looked over at him and then down at her barely touched dessert. “It’s delicious. Everything was delicious.”
“What were you thinking just now?” he asked in a low, deep voice, an intimate voice.
“That I’d be a fool to fall for you.”
He studied her. “Maybe I’m the one who’d be a fool...falling for you.”
Was he falling for her? The heat returned between them, making Georgia look down at her dessert.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked, his voice low and gruff, as though he struggled as much as her.
Grateful, she nodded and he helped her into her shawl before they walked out of the restaurant. A valet summoned the driver of the limo that had taken them there. The excessive show of wealth should repulse her. Instead, it was a fitting end to a wonderful evening—a drive home in a princess carriage. Everything she’d previously thought about rich people—about the Adairs—wasn’t true tonight.
The driver got out of the limo and started to walk around.
Carson tugged Georgia’s hand. She stopped and faced him. With the warm gleam of his eyes, he seemed as content as she felt.
“I had a nice time tonight,” he said.
“I did, too.” Truth rang in her tone.
“I won’t tease you about that.” He grinned, sexy and full of affection.
Her heart flopped into more excited beats.
“I started out taking you here on purpose, but now I can’t recall when I’ve enjoyed being with a woman more.”
Her breath caught for a second.
“I’d like to do this again, Georgia.”
“Oh...I...” She may as well melt right here.
He slid his arm all the way around her, pulling her close. And then he kissed her. It happened before she could react. His mouth over hers sent tingles of shocking pleasure all the way through her, spiraling down to her core and brewing desire she wasn’t expecting.
“Gun!” someone shouted.
Carson lifted his head and then swung her around before she could look to see who’d called out. He brought her down onto the stone driveway and covered her body with his as a shot exploded. The limousine blocked the bullet. Georgia heard it hit the other side and glass shatter.
A woman screamed.
Hearing footsteps as though someone was running, Georgia sat up as Carson’s weight left her. He crouched low to peer over the hood of the limo. Kneeling behind him, Georgia grew aware of stinging pain on her knee and palm. The silky cream-colored gown offered little protection.
Carson turned toward her. “Wait here.”
She held her stinging palm as he ran off with an uneven gait. Standing up, she watched him go down the driveway. A valet was chasing another man. He must have been the one to shout out.
“Are you all right, miss?” the limo driver asked.
Still stunned, she nodded.
“Police and paramedics are on the way,” he said, holding a cell phone in his hand.
The sound of squealing tires said the gunman was getting away. Seconds later, Carson walked into sight, his limp more pronounced than before he’d gone running. The valet driver was behind him.
Sirens sounded.
Carson reached her and took her hands. “You’re hurt.” He looked down at her dress, where blood had seeped through from her knee. He helped her to her feet and guided her to the front-passenger seat of the limo.
“I’m all right,” she said as she sat down.
The driver retrieved a first-aid kit and handed it to Carson. He rummaged inside and found some alcohol wipes. She sat still as he treated her hands. Both palms were scraped.
Fire trucks and police cars arrived before the ambulance, and a throng of onlookers had gathered, some from the street, some from the restaurant.
Carson lifted the hem of her dress to expose her knee. He was gentle and considerate of her modesty. She winced as he applied the alcohol. Next came a big Band-Aid.
“Are you folks okay?”
Georgia looked up to see a firefighter standing there. “Yes.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Carson shook his head.
A police officer approached. After introductions were made and the officer wrote their names down, Carson explained what had happened.
“The gunman shot at you?” the officer asked.
“Yes.”
“Why do you think he was shooting at you in particular?” the officer asked.
Carson told him about the shooting in the parking garage. “He shot right at me again this time. The bullet hit the back window. I was walking to Georgia’s left. If someone wouldn’t have shouted, ‘Gun,’ and we hadn’t gotten down, I would have been hit.”
* * *
The questioning finished up and she and Carson were allowed to go. The limo driver had arranged for another car to drive them to the helicopter pad
.
Georgia’s magical evening was gone. She wondered if it had gone when Carson had kissed her. Because foolish or not, she was falling for him.
* * *
Two days later, Carson was back at AdAir Corp, sitting behind his father’s desk again. He’d been busy ever since the shooting outside the restaurant. He’d studied all the video surveillance at the ranch and spotted a suspicious car drive by the entrance in one of them. That alone wasn’t significant, but Carson thought the car was the same as the one he’d seen the shooter get into and race away. None of the camera angles gave him a clear view of the driver. One would have, but the man was wearing a hat and a hoodie. He was about the same build as the unidentified man they’d encountered in Myanmar. Not taking any chances, he’d bolstered security at the ranch.
He’d reported the car to police and given them a copy of the tape. Now he had an hour to call his commander before his meeting with the vice president of Human Resources. Sergeant Major Copeland must have something new because he’d called this morning and left him a message.
“Carson,” Sergeant Major Copeland boomed into the phone.
Carson sat in AdAir’s SCIF. “Sir.”
“We got a big break yesterday,” Copeland said.
Carson leaned back in the leather conference table chair. Finally. Something to go on. How big would it be?
“We’ve tracked the man in Myanmar to the Philippines. Nothing came up there on him, but we also checked passengers who flew from there around the time of our mission. We did background on all of them and three came up suspicious. Two men were traveling together on false passports. They ended up having connections to an emerging terrorist cell. Homeland Security apprehended them and brought them in for questioning. They were able to prove they weren’t in Myanmar at the time of the mission. Both had hotel reservations in Davao and the hotel was able to corroborate.”
“That leaves the third man,” Carson said.
“Stephen Chow,” Copeland said. “His father was a businessman working for a US corporation in China. His parents moved him to the States when he was around five. The father traveled a lot and the mother died of cancer when he was a teenager. He’s had brushes with the law, the usual adolescent things. He drops off the radar as an adult. He’s thirty-one now.”
“He traveled to Myanmar under his real name?” Carson pressed the speaker button and stood so he could walk around secure conference room.
“No. We only found a round trip from the United States to the Philippines and back.”
“Around the time we were in Myanmar?”
“Yes. Do you want to hear something even more chilling?”
Carson waited for Copeland to continue.
“He lives in San Diego.”
Carson stopped pacing. “What?”
“He recently moved there, as in, right after the failed mission.”
“Really.” Carson started walking again. “You have an address?”
“I’ve got a lot that I’m sending over the SIPRNet.”
Secret Internet Protocol Router Network. “What else do you know about him?”
“Not much. I was hoping you could go in and get that for us.”
A flash of excitement coursed through him. It would be like being in the Marines again. Working for the mission.
“If he’s after the missing data and thinks you have it or can get it for him, this could be dangerous for you.”
That didn’t scare him. “If he’s after the missing data, then there is no other choice. I have to find the data and I have to stop Stephen.” He thought of Georgia. Stephen had seen her with him. That was a new feeling for him. He had never had to worry about anyone other than himself on missions like this. Now he was determined to see to her safety.
“We need to know his connection to the organization in Myanmar. Why did he start smuggling technology to North Korea and is that all he’s doing?”
Carson had been thinking about the data a lot. “Stephen must have been the one who was supposed to deliver the data.” Then the mission had gone bad and everyone had scrambled to get out of there alive. “If he doesn’t have the data, who does?”
“That’s what I need you to find out, Carson.”
That was his intention all along. “We’ve had some incidents since I left North Carolina.”
“The lead detective told me about the shooting. Is your lady all right?”
Why had Copeland phrased it that way? Your lady.
“She’s a strong woman. She’ll hold up just fine.” And in that instant he knew it was true. Georgia was no kept woman. No trophy wife. No sheltered, frail thing. The opposite of Ruby, who struck him as someone who needed constant care. Another reason why Georgia was the way she was when it came to her stepmother.
Georgia was pampered only when Carson pampered her, and he was of the opinion that she needed a lot more of that. Someone to take half the burden. An equal work share in a relationship.
“I think the car that the gunman got away in is the same one I saw on my surveillance video,” Carson said. “The police believe it’s the one that was reported stolen a few days ago.”
“What about the car involved in the shooting at AdAir Corp?” Copeland asked.
“The rental was found abandoned in a parking lot of an out-of-business retail store.”
“Hmm.” Copeland fell silent while he thought. “The shooter stole a different car for the second attempt?”
“That’s how it appears. My guess is the police will find that car abandoned, as well.”
“Let’s hope he’s overconfident.”
If he was confident enough to smuggle technology to the North Koreans, he was confident enough to keep a stolen car hidden.
After talking to Copeland, Carson left the SCIF and walked up to his father’s office, shutting the door and going to sit behind the desk. His phone rang and he saw that it was Whit’s—no, the new executive assistant Whit had hired. His boldness was getting irritating. He’d hired an assistant for Carson.
“Yes?” he answered.
“You have a delivery, sir.”
“Please call me Carson. I’m not formal about office protocol.” He might be in a suit, but no one should mistake him for his father’s ilk.
“Sorry, sir...er...Carson.”
“What kind of delivery?” he inquired.
“It’s from the police department. It’s a box of things they don’t need for your father’s murder investigation anymore.”
That stunned him for a second. “I’ll be right out.”
He opened the office door, which, he realized, he kept closed too much. The short, skinny girl with thick black hair had trouble meeting his eyes. Whit had introduced them, but he’d barely spoken to her. She was probably bored out of her mind.
“Abby, isn’t it?” Carson said.
She looked at him and nodded.
“I know I’ve been in my office with the door shut and not here much. I’ve been a little preoccupied. My brother hired you and I’m not accustomed to having an assistant.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Ad— Carson. All the assistants work together here. There’s plenty of work.”
“Oh. That’s good, but if you have some downtime, don’t think you can’t take care of personal matters. I can’t stand corporate environments. There’s more to the bottom line than a workaholic mentality. Productivity increases the happier the people are.”
She smiled.
“Will you set up a luncheon with all the administrative staff? Include Whit and the head of HR. I’d like to get to know you all more.” His brother was going to feel his pain on this one. And if he was going to drag him into the office, then things were going to be run the way he liked. Nothing like his father. Not that Whit wasn’t a good boss. He was. But Carson wanted his ideas on corporate culture communicated.
Abby’s smile grew bigger. “I’ll get something on your calendar.”
“I don’t look at my calendar.”
> “I know. The calendar is more for me. I’ll make sure you’re aware of when the luncheon is scheduled.”
“Thanks.” He picked up the box and walked back into his dad’s office. His office now. He was about to swing the door shut when he looked at his assistant and then some others working in cubicles. Leaving it open, he went to stand behind the desk.
His employees were human beings who had personal lives that mattered to them. His father hadn’t cared about that. He’d only cared about making money. Well, Carson was going to make more money than he did—by making sure his workforce was happy when they walked into work, that they were glad to be at work.
Carson opened the top of the box. There wasn’t much. Notepad. Pen. Several documents. There was another box, this one sealed. He took that out and used a pocketknife in the middle desk drawer to open it. Inside, something had been carefully wrapped in packaging paper. Removing the paper, he found a ceramic bowl—the one he’d seen in the picture on his dad’s desk. Carson picked that up and turned it in his hands. It was old. An antique. Asian, he’d guess, with its pretty blue-and-white intricate pattern and its smooth, daintily curving shape. He didn’t know that much more about it. Putting it down on the desk, he stared at it, wondering what his dad had liked about it.
Did tyrants like art?
He supposed anyone could. No matter how brutal or harsh. But this piece must have cost a fortune.
Sitting down, he placed the bowl on the desk and called his brother.
“When did Dad start collecting art?” he asked Whit when he answered.
“I don’t know. He’s been going to antique auctions for years. Why?”
The idea of his dad at an antique auction chipped away a tiny bit of his perception of the man. “I never knew that about him.” He’d never paid attention to his book collection, either.
“You were gone by the time he started taking an interest in that. He didn’t go often. It wasn’t a passion or anything. He donated everything he found to his favorite gallery downtown.”
“He donated everything?”
“It was a tax write-off. You aren’t starting to think he had a redeeming side, are you?”
Carson grunted. “No.” Even his book collection didn’t make him redeeming. He hadn’t collected them for anyone other than himself. Or had he? He’d had the ceramic bowl on display in his office. And if he collected rare books, why not art that caught his fancy? Not everything had been a tax write-off.
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