Pulling the unlit cigarette from his mouth, Dirk leaned both hands on the low-bricked wall and stared at the tobacco jutting out from between his fingers. The only thing stopping him from grinding it resentfully underfoot, the same way he had wanted to grind down Micki's will, was that his boss would undoubtedly have something to say about both matters afterwards. Despite the satisfaction it would have given him, there was a proper time and place to deal with the cigarette, and Micki's bullheadedness.
Things would be better after they were married. Then she'd learn her place.
Turning to look for an ashtray, Dirk stopped short upon finding that sneak, Reynolds, standing right behind him. Lighting his own cigarette, Reynolds puffed out some smoke and offered the light. After a moment's hesitation, Dirk leaned forward, put his cigarette back in his mouth and sucked on the tiny flame. Straightening, he inhaled deeply as Reynolds pocketed his lighter. They stood in mutual silence, sharing the view of the ocean like the buddies they weren't.
Finally Reynolds spoke. "Bite off more than you can chew, Jurgensen?"
Dirk scowled. This 'lover's spat' was between him and Micki. He wasn't going to discuss it with a slimeball like Reynolds. Instead, he grunted, non-committal, and changed the subject. "Who was that on the phone?"
Reynolds took a long pull on his smoke. "Carl. He's in Miami. Got a buyer for the boats, no questions asked."
"Good."
"Some dame called for you, too. Something about a house in South Shore?"
Dirk nodded, making a mental note to replace the cellphone he'd destroyed before leaving the US with something new from the local carrier. For the past month, he'd been negotiating the purchase of a multi-million dollar, five acre, beach front estate in one of Bermuda's prestige locations. It was all completely above board—no more shady dealings for him—and now that he was there the deal could finally be closed.
Maybe that would make Micki happy. Even if it didn't, it would take a few more days to finalize things and by then she would come around to his way of thinking. Micki was already hungry. Another seventy-two hours or so would make her a lot more receptive to their future plans. Maybe not totally subservient to his orders, but nonetheless more pliable than she was now.
"Nine-point-five smackeroos?" Reynolds asked. He smirked. "Man, you got the hots for her bad, don't you?"
Dirk glared, but before he could comment, a cultured British voice interrupted from the terrace door.
"Gentlemen, a word if I may."
They both turned. Dominic Van Allen was a lanky, middle-aged Englishman, with jet black hair that skirted the sides of a balding pate. He held his croquet mallet under his arm as he removed his tan eel-skin gloves, watching his employees from hooded eyes that were perpetually cold, even when he laughed. A quiet spoken man, he hardly ever raised his voice and yet commanded attention whenever and to whomever he talked.
Van Allen was a chameleon in the true sense of the word. Tall and thin, what he lacked in physical characteristics he made up for in other areas. His clothes were one example. If the old cliché that 'clothes make the man' had any truth to it, then he was a living testament. The dove gray ascot at his throat was a casual alternative to his traditional necktie. As expected, it was also a perfect complement to his white cotton twill trousers and lemon polo shirt that today substituted for an expensive tailored suit.
Dirk was the first to oblige his superior's request, obediently stubbing his cigarette in the provided ashtray and moving indoors, leaving Reynolds to follow. It was only when they were seated in the library that Van Allen continued. Standing behind the leather reading couch, Dirk helped himself to a glass of sherry. Reynolds sat across from their employer in the only armchair that directly faced the desk.
"Dirk, I'm sending you back to the United States," Van Allen said conversationally. "To New York."
The sherry glass froze at Dirk's lips. The Florida Keys were to have been his last field assignment. He was supposed to be retiring from work in the US. He was supposed to be setting up permanent residence in Bermuda, with the woman he loved at his side and a cushy seat at the Van Allen table. "What?"
"I'm afraid young Julian is not doing a satisfactory job," his boss said, "so I want you to take over my interests in Manhattan. As soon as things are back to normal, Gordon will resume your position in the Keys. He'll supply you the same way you supplied Julian, via the drop shop in Miami."
Gordon? Feeling betrayed, Dirk glanced at Reynolds, who sat back with both arms resting on the leather chair, grinning unpleasantly. Reynolds was taking over his old position?
With considerable effort, Dirk controlled his expression. Dominic Van Allen did not tolerate outbursts of any kind, no matter how justified. Placing his untouched sherry next to the decanter, he edged nearer the desk. Since Reynolds had the only chair, he was left to stand before his boss like a schoolboy called on the carpet. "But I'm... retiring. You offered me a position here, sir, and... and..."
Van Allen clasped his manicured hands on the gleaming mahogany desk. "The situation has changed and I now require your services in New York."
Dirk's mouth went suddenly dry. No one defied that patient, reasonable tone. "But Mr. Van Allen, I've made plans to stay in Bermuda, with Micki. We're buying a house! I don't want to go to New York. And Micki will never agree to it." He hedged a grin. "I haven't been able to convince her that Bermuda is a good idea yet. No way she'll go for—" He licked his dry lips, aware of how childish he sounded, and repeated, "I've made plans, sir."
"But, Dirk, you misunderstand," Van Allen said. His voice was soft but there was steel in the resonant British tones. "I have changed your plans. You're expected in New York by Friday."
Dirk paled. "But what will I do with Micki? Five days is not enough time to convince her that her place is with me."
Van Allen's right hand scooped a large, showy crimson flower from the vase on his desk, like he was lifting a brandy balloon. He admired the bouquet in much the same way. "Hibiscus moscheutos. Did you know that a hybrid of the swamp rose mallow is capable of producing the most striking colors?" He frowned at his flower. "Pity. I was hoping for a little more purple-blue in this one."
"Sir, about Micki—"
Van Allen returned his hybrid to the vase with a flourish that negated further question. "Dirk, the point I am trying to make is that we all want something, and we all must be willing to wait to get it. It's true I had considered offering you a position here with me, but the circumstances have changed and so must our plans. Perhaps in another year or two."
Another year or two? Dirk's throat tightened in panic. Six months ago he had told his boss that he wanted to leave the States, bring his fiancée to Bermuda, and start a new life. Van Allen had even agreed to let them stay in the compound until they found more permanent accommodations on the main island. Now, without warning, all that had changed. A few short days ago, everything had been fine, just fine, until—
His narrowed gaze shifted to Reynolds. The rat had squealed about Micki not being happy with her new home. Dirk had planned to soft pedal that detail, keep her there until he could bring her around to his way of thinking, and then everything would be okay. Correction: then everything would have been okay, if it hadn't been for Reynolds and Hardigan, and their meddling.
"If this is about the way Micki's acting, sir, then rest assured I can handle her."
"'Handle her?' My dear Dirk, from Gordon's account, she knows far too much and accepts far too little of our business dealings. Will she be missed by anyone in the States?"
"No, she doesn't have any family there."
"But surely she must have friends or acquaintances who will notice her absence?"
"I took care of it, sir. I took care of everything.
Van Allen smirked quietly. "Evidently you did not, or we would not be having this conversation."
Dirk's rage threatened to strangle him. "It's all because of Hardigan's interference."
Van Allen pushed to his feet and turne
d to the wide window behind his desk that overlooked the terrace and the gazebo workers. "Speaking of the Commander, you'll take care of that, too, won't you? Discreetly?"
"You know I will, Mr. Van Allen."
"Because if there is a threat to my business in the US then it must be eliminated before Gordon can resume operations."
Dirk shot a glance at the smirking Reynolds, then began to round the desk so he could face his boss directly. "Sir, if Gordon hadn't shot Micki down, then none of this—"
Van Allen turned, the sharpness in the movement stopping Dirk in his tracks. "I don't want excuses, I want results. I thought you would have learned your lesson about personal entanglements after what happened the last time."
"It's different with Micki, sir. I love her."
Van Allen snorted at the word. "By bringing her here against her will, you have compromised the integrity of my good name, and my home. I am most displeased with you and your conduct, Dirk. Most displeased."
Dirk fell back an uncertain step. Back lit against the huge window, Van Allen looked to be the perfect gentleman. He had never seen his boss with a hair out of place or a lapel ruffled in the entire decade he'd worked for him. Van Allen always portrayed the well-bred, well-dressed Englishman with impeccable manners, and for good reason. People reacted favorably to the clothes and the decorum, many without ever learning of the calculating and often ruthless criminal lurking just underneath. Dirk had known the truth intuitively, but now, for the first time, he came close to seeing the harsh reality.
As if sensing his consternation, Van Allen smiled. It transformed his features with genteel charm, but Dirk was all too aware it did not reach his eyes.
"Come now, Dirk, you have been a trusted employee for many years. I am not an unreasonable man." Van Allen placed an arm about his shoulders, and it was all Dirk could do not to shy away. "We can work this out. There are still some very lucrative business dealings awaiting us both." He gently guided Dirk away from the window and back past Reynolds, giving the impression that he had forgotten the seated man. "You'll resolve our little Florida Keys problem for me, yes?"
Dirk, acutely aware of Reynolds presence, nodded. "I'll take care of it."
"Very good." His employer sounded more like a pleased uncle than the implacable criminal Dirk had glimpsed moments ago. "You sound more like your old self. I knew I could count on you. You will, as always, be handsomely rewarded for a job well done."
"Thank you, Mr. Van Allen."
His grip tightened ever so slightly on Dirk's shoulders as they reached the door. "And in regard to your lady friend, I am giving you until Monday week—an extra three days—to make amends and reach an amiable solution there as well."
"I can take care of Micki, I promise you that." Sensing dismissal, Dirk reached for the door, only to be stopped by one more instruction.
"You do understand—don't you?—that unless I am convinced she is not a liability, she may not leave this island."
"Not leave?" Dirk hesitated, one hand on the polished brass door handle. "You mean... she's a prisoner?"
Van Allen's smile was thin but very urbane. "Good heavens, no! Miss Jacinto will remain here as my guest if, as you said earlier, you cannot persuade her to return to New York with you. She'll be safe here, and you have my word as a gentleman that her every comfort will be met."
Dirk's gaze flicked from his employer to the other man in the room, who was definitely no gentleman.
"Gordon and I will both watch over her, until he can return to his duties in the Keys." Van Allen rested one hand on Dirk's shoulder, exerting slight but inexorable pressure toward the door. He smiled, and a shiver unlike anything Dirk had ever felt in his employer's presence chased down his spine. "You have until Monday week."
Dismissed, Dirk said nothing, only nodded. At this point, there was nothing he could say. Micki wasn't staying there, not with Reynolds, not over Dirk's dead body. He'd bring her to her senses and he'd fix 'the little Florida Keys problem,' and then it wouldn't be Reynolds who was laughing. Not by a long shot.
Without looking back, Dirk left the room and headed toward the wine cellar. Many things needed to be done to reach his goals and he was going to attend to one of them right away.
Van Allen allowed the latch on the library door to click closed again after Dirk had gone. Crossing to the sideboard, he claimed Dirk's untouched sherry from beside the crystal cut decanter. As he moved back to his desk, he handed the glass to his other employee, who took it without hesitation.
"There's no way she's ever gonna come around," Reynolds pointed out with a grim smile. He took a sip of the sherry Dirk had poured for himself. "You know that."
"Yes," Van Allen said. Seating himself behind his desk, he leaned back and steepled his fingers across his lemon polo shirt. "Yes, I know that. But I also know Dirk, as demonstrated with—what was her name?"
"Kimberley."
"Ah, yes." He shook his head as if in regret. "Such a tragedy."
"You think he'll make the same choice again?"
"I know he will. Jurgensen's love of money will again exceed his desire for the girl, especially if she continues to defy him as I believe she shall. Thus I will retain a productive employee... and the problem of Miss Jacinto herself is easily solved once he is in New York."
Reynolds smirked knowingly. "He's going to expect her to be here when he gets back."
"Yes." Van Allen gazed thoughtfully at the door then lifted another hibiscus flower from the vase. "But it's good business never to let an unresolved problem linger too long."
Finishing the sherry in one swallow, Reynolds turned to his employer with a wolfish grin. "When he's gone, what do you really want me to do with her?"
Van Allen swiveled his chair back to the window and drew in the scent of his crimson bloom. His thoughtful gaze was directed at the view, his tone the same cultivated one he had used to assure Dirk of Micki's comfort and safety. "After you've had your fun, Gordon, do try to make it look like another accident."
***
The room looked like a tornado had ripped through it, leaving all the drawers that weren't locked open with clothes spilling from them, and a closet full of other expensive garments flung violently on top. Micki stood in the center of the chaos, hands on her hips, as she furiously surveyed the results of her efforts.
She had been through every inch of the room. Not only was there no way out except the locked and guarded door, there wasn't a single piece of clothing she would be caught dead wearing. Dirk had locked all the drawers and closets containing his shirts and trousers, not that she relished the idea of having something of his that close to her body. He had disposed of her scavenged jogging suit, and left her with bits of wispy lace and slinky silk in their stead.
"Girlie girl stuff," Micki muttered resentfully, kicking at a champagne-colored sheath dress. "Every last bit of it."
Her action revealed a negligee, tossed in a heap with others, and stopped her cold. Slowly, feeling as if the world had just reeled about her, Micki knelt to take it into her hands. It was the white silk and lace garment Dirk had given her early in their short but failed romance. She refused to wear it and he refused to take it back, so it had been sequestered in a drawer in her bedroom in Marathon. Now it was here in Bermuda.
Understanding dawning, her gaze swept the disarrayed room. Dirk had planned her future down to the last detail. It was no accident all these clothes were in her size, and no oversight that none of them fit her personal style. This was Dirk's vision for her—one that she would never allow to be, even if it took desperate measures to escape it. She was going to have to use his plans against him, and compromise her own principles to achieve a greater goal.
Hands shaking, Micki slowly got to her feet, staring at the item of slinky apparel she held as if it were a deadly viper. She and Dirk would never again be lovers—not by choice, anyway—and clearly, with all the secrets and lies, they had never really been friends either. Now she was his personal plaything, loc
ked in a satin and silk prison.
The idea that maybe that was all she'd ever been to him almost made her cry.
Then it made her spitting mad.
Micki flung the hateful garment from her and turned to dig through the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. Picking up the black silk dress Dirk had thrown at her earlier, she moved briskly toward the en suite bathroom. If it took a few moments of playing the part of Sex Kitten to escape a lifetime of enduring that role, then that's what she would do. He had left her no other choice.
Feeling as if she were marching into battle, Micki strode into the luxurious marble bathroom and slammed the door with a satisfyingly loud bang. She would face this as if it were nothing more than another of life's challenges, which she had always met head on, no matter how unpleasant. The alternative was, quite possibly, death, because she would never, ever, give in to Dirk Jurgensen's plans.
Or his fantasies.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Smoothing black silk over her waist and hips, Micki examined herself critically in the vanity's mirror. She hated this. She absolutely hated this, but she supposed it would have to do. The dress with tiny spaghetti straps fit her perfectly, accenting her slim figure and leaving very little to the imagination. Although not her favorite color, she had to admit that black set off her hair and skin quite nicely.
At the thought of her hair, she frowned, and raised a speculative hand to the dark mane that flowed unchecked over her shoulders and halfway down her back. It was still slightly wet from her shower. She would have preferred to catch it back in a braid, but if she were going to do this then she was going to do it right. That meant leaving the silken mass free, at least for a while.
Full makeup was where Micki drew the line, mainly because she had no idea what to do with most of the tubes and bottles with which Dirk had stocked the vanity. Compromising, she settled for a neutral shade of eye shadow and a bit of red lipstick. Even though the mirror told her she had done well, she felt painted, pushed beyond her comfort zone.
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