by Cindi Myers
He stood and moved beside her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let her go, to tell her she was brave and foolish and too precious for him to lose. But he didn’t touch her. “If you do this, let me go with you,” he said.
“Richard would never permit it,” she said. “He knows you’re with the Rangers. If you show up with me, he’ll be instantly suspicious.”
“He’ll know one Ranger will be no match for all his guards, and he’ll be curious enough to want to hear what you have to say to let you in, in spite of my presence.”
“He might kill you.”
“He could kill you, too.” His throat constricted around the words. “Are you afraid?”
“Terrified. But I’m more afraid of sitting here and doing nothing.”
He took her hand and squeezed it.
“I’m telling you not to do this,” Graham said, with the air of a man choosing his words carefully. “But as of four o’clock this afternoon, I’m not your commanding officer anymore.”
“I’m just a rogue agent, acting on my own,” Marco said. “I understand.”
“I’ll provide backup.” Rand stood.
“We all will.” Michael stood also, and then they were all on their feet, men and women alike. They began talking about the steps they’d need to take, equipment they’d need to acquire, when the best time would be to approach Prentice, how they could keep him off guard.
Lauren squeezed Marco’s hand and moved closer. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He slid his hand under her hair to caress the back of her neck. “You’re either the bravest woman I know, or the craziest,” he said.
“I think it’s a little of both.” She looked up at him. “Is that all right?”
“It’s more than all right.” He wanted to kiss her, but not now. Not with all these people watching. He’d save that moment for later, when he could show her, without words, all she was coming to mean to him.
Chapter Ten
Lauren felt as if her safety belt was the only thing keeping her from levitating in her seat. Nervous energy jittered through her, making her hyperaware of everything around her—the brilliant gold and purple of wildflowers on the side of the road, the smoothness of the leather seat against her bare arm, the subtle spice-and-soap scent of Marco in the driver’s seat, the way the muscles of his forearm bunched as he gripped the steering wheel.
Was this nerves or the beginning of a manic episode? She’d taken her medication, done her breathing exercises, sent up prayers. How did so-called normal people—people without this anomaly in their brains or chemical imbalance or whatever you wanted to call it—act in a bizarre situation like this? She had no idea. All she could do was trust her own instincts—and the man beside her—and hope they didn’t lead her astray.
“How are you doing?” Marco asked.
She smoothed her hands down her thighs, trying to dry her sweating palms. “I’ll be okay,” she said. She plucked a loose thread from the fabric. She’d chosen the outfit carefully, opting for a short skirt instead of slacks, hoping to tempt Prentice with a little sexiness, but selecting flat sandals instead of heels in case she had to run. She fought the urge to laugh, afraid if she started she’d be that much closer to hysteria. Who would have thought she’d ever be debating fashion choices for becoming a potential hostage—or murder victim?
Marco turned his Jeep into the gravel drive that crossed Prentice’s ranch and stopped at the gate. A guard emerged from the stone guardhouse and Lauren gasped.
“Something wrong?” Marco asked.
She shook her head. “I know him. His name is Henry.” He’d been one of the nicer men who’d guarded her, polite and respectful, unlike the men who’d tried to grope her or treated her with disdain.
“This is private property,” Henry said as soon as Marco lowered the driver’s side window. “You need to turn around.”
“Hello, Henry.” Lauren leaned forward so he could get a good look at her. “I need to talk to Richard.”
He blinked, clearly thrown off guard, but he recovered quickly. “Hello, Ms. Starling. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I think he’ll want to see me, don’t you?” She gave him her brightest smile, the one she used for pageants and other public appearances. The one that had graced billboards and even the sides of buses all over Denver when she’d been the star of Metro News.
Henry shifted his gaze to Marco. “What’s he doing here?”
“Richard has his bodyguards. I decided I needed one, too.” She’d lobbied for this frank approach, sure Prentice would see through a lie.
“Wait here.” He stepped inside the guardhouse and pulled out his phone.
“He’s not going to like my being here,” Marco said, keeping his voice low.
“No, but Richard is very big on cost-benefit analysis. The cost of having you along won’t outweigh the benefit of seeing me.” She was hoping that was true, anyway. If Richard was the one behind the attacks on her, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to have her where he would think he could easily control her.
Henry returned. “Step out of the car, sir,” he ordered. “I need to search you.”
Marco stood with arms outstretched and allowed Henry to frisk him. The guard stopped at Marco’s ankle, pulled up the leg of his jeans and extracted a small pistol from the holster there. Lauren felt faint; she hadn’t even known Marco was armed. “You can pick this up on your way out,” Henry said. “Mr. Prentice doesn’t allow weapons in the house. I’ll also need your phone.” He turned to Lauren. “Yours, too, Ms. Starling.”
“My phone?” She clutched at her purse, which contained her smartphone.
“New rules.” The guard held out his hand. “All visitors must surrender their phones. I’ll return it to you when you leave.”
She sent a panicked look to Marco. Having a gun wouldn’t have made her feel safer, but being without her phone meant being completely cut off from the outside world.
Marco pulled his own phone from his pocket and handed it to the guard. Hand shaking, she did the same.
“Why did they take our phones?” she whispered when Marco rejoined her in the car.
“Another way for Prentice to remind us he’s in charge.”
She glanced at the guard, who’d carried their phones and Marco’s pistol into the stone guardhouse. “What were you going to do with that gun?” she asked.
“Whatever I had to.” He put the Jeep in gear and they followed a second guard down the drive and up to the fake castle Prentice called home.
“He told me this place was designed to look like a famous castle in Germany,” she said.
“So he made it this ugly on purpose.”
Another guard met them at the front door and escorted them to the library. Marco studied the bookshelves. “Do you think he ever reads any of these?” he asked. “Or are they just for show?”
“I think he told me he likes to read history.”
“So you are remembering more things he told you?”
“Yes, but nothing significant, only trivia.”
The door opened and Prentice entered. He was dressed casually, for him, a sport coat replacing his usual suit jacket, his shirt open at the collar, with no tie. “Lauren, dear, how lovely to see you.” He kissed her cheek and squeezed her arm—too hard, but she forced herself not to flinch, or to show any reaction to him but pleasure.
“It’s good to see you, too, Richard,” she lied.
He ignored Marco, not even glancing in his direction, and led Lauren to a sofa by the cold fireplace. He sat, pulling her down beside him. “I knew you’d be back,” he said.
“You did?”
“Of course. I knew you’d realize we’re meant to be together.”
She couldn’t decide if he really believed this, or if he was saying it to get a rise out of Marco, who had followed them across the room and sat opposite them, stone-faced. “This is my friend Marco,” she said. “I don’t know if you two have met.”
“I know all about the Ranger.” His tone was dismissive. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d love something to drink,” she said. “Maybe some coffee?” She had knockout drops in a vial tucked into her sleeve—like some movie spy. Carmen had assured her they were potent enough to down a linebacker.
“Certainly.” He picked up the phone on the table beside the sofa. “Please bring Ms. Starling a cup of coffee. One sugar, no cream.”
“Aren’t you going to join me?” she asked.
“No.” Again the dismissive tone.
What now? She had to get Richard out of the way so that she could search his office, down the hall.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked.
Right. They had to talk. The Rangers had drilled her on what they thought she should say to him—meaningless small talk that amounted to verbal stalling. But she decided to take another approach. “I was very hurt by the things you said about me in the papers,” she told him.
He sat back, one arm stretched along the top of the sofa, just behind her head. “What things?”
“That I’m crazy. That I’m a liar.”
A man arrived with her coffee, and they fell silent until they were alone once more.
“Now, Lauren, I never called you a liar,” Richard chided. “I merely felt you gave the press and police an unfair picture of our relationship.”
The man really was delusional. “Richard, you kept me a prisoner.” Marco stared at her, clearly warning her to be more cautious, but she’d set aside all caution when she agreed to come here. She might as well try to find out what Prentice was thinking.
“I was keeping you safe,” Richard said. “When you came to me, I was concerned you might hurt yourself. You needed someone to look after you.”
“I’m an adult. I’m fully capable of looking after myself.” She picked up the coffee cup, wanting something to do with her hands, to hide her growing agitation, but then she set it down again. She didn’t trust Richard not to have put something in the drink.
“Are you really capable of taking care of yourself?” Richard asked. “Then, why did you bring him along?” He glared at Marco, who returned the angry look.
“I brought him because the last time I came here alone, you wouldn’t let me leave,” she said.
“You were free to go anytime you wanted,” he said. “All you had to do was ask.”
“I asked.” Repeatedly. She’d also tried demanding, crying, running away and fighting. Each time he’d had her restrained, carried away and locked in a room.
He smiled an oily, patronizing look. “You didn’t ask,” he said. “You begged to stay.”
She opened her mouth to argue with him, but the slight shake of Marco’s head caught her attention. Right. Don’t argue. Go along with him. “I’m trying to rebuild my reputation now,” she said. “I’m hoping you can help.”
“I’ve always tried to help you before,” he said. “But if we’re going to talk about hurt feelings, I’m wounded that you feel you need protection from me.”
She leaned toward him. She was taking a lot of risks coming here today; why not take one more? “I had to bring Marco because someone is trying to hurt me,” she said. “My car was tampered with, and yesterday I was attacked by two men in the parking lot of a grocery store.”
He furrowed his brow, the picture of concern. “That is worrying. But are you sure it was an attack? Maybe they were merely fans who wanted your autograph.”
“They were not fans, and they didn’t ask for autographs.”
“Why would someone attack you?” he asked.
“You tell me. Did you have anything to do with those attacks?”
His expression remained as impassive as ever, not even a glimmer of guilt or concern in his eyes. “I imagine a woman like you would have made many enemies in your life,” he said.
“A woman like me?” The way he said the words made the hair stand up at the back of her neck.
“You’re beautiful, but unreliable.” He moved his hand to cradle the back of her head. “Prone to irrational behavior.”
The only thing irrational about her now was the fear that gripped her at his touch. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming as he rubbed his thumb back and forth across the side of her neck. Across from them, Marco stiffened and leaned forward as if ready to spring up.
“If I’m so irrational, then what do you see in me?” she asked. “How would I ever fit into your life?”
“That would be the beauty of our alliance.” He continued stroking, and slid closer, his thigh touching hers. “I could rebuild your reputation. Money and power are transformative. It no longer matters what you did or who you were. All that is important is who people think you are. Build the right image and you can do anything.”
“That’s what you’ve done for yourself,” she said. “You’ve built an image, and now you think you can do anything.”
“I can do anything.” His fingers closed around her neck, hard enough that she cried out.
“Let go!” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”
“Sometimes we hurt the ones we love,” he said, increasing the pressure of his fingers.
Her heart pounded painfully and she had trouble breathing. She clawed at him, but he leaned over her, holding her down with surprising force. “Marco!” she cried.
“He can’t save you now,” Prentice growled. “Don’t come any closer, Ranger, or I’ll kill her.” His hand tightened even more around her neck and her vision clouded. Was he trying to choke her, or to break her neck? She beat her fists against him with no effect. And she was growing weaker...
A weight crushed her, squeezing breath and life from her. Above her, Prentice struggled with someone. Marco? She fought to remain conscious and was dimly aware of the two men grappling on top of her.
Then the pressure released and a strong hand grasped hers and pulled her up. “Come on,” Marco said. “We’ve got to get to the study before the guards show up.”
* * *
THEY LEFT PRENTICE lying in a heap on the library floor. Not dead, but knocked out from the blow Marco had landed on his chin. “Wh-what happened?” Lauren asked as she stumbled from the room after Marco. “What about Richard?”
“He’s out for now. He’s lucky I didn’t tear him in two.” The sight of the billionaire’s hands on her had filled him with rage.
“He was going to kill me,” she said, half sobbing now. “Right there in front of you.”
“He was arrogant enough to think so,” Marco said. “But I never would have let it happen.” He pulled her up beside him and put his arm around her. “You’re safe now. Come on. We have to get to work.”
The door to Prentice’s office stood open. Clearly, he felt secure in his own home. “You look through the filing cabinet. I’ll search the desk,” Marco said.
Though Prentice could have afforded the sleekest designer furnishings, he chose to work at an old-fashioned wooden desk, the top easily five feet across, the mahogany finish scarred and worn. Marco rifled through the drawers, passing over the office supplies, peppermints and scattered sticky notes with cryptic messages: “Talk to JR about Wednesday.” He pocketed a few of these, then turned his attention to the file drawer at the lower right-hand side of the desk. It contained stacks of neatly folded blueprints and land surveys, along with brochures for developments he assumed Prentice had an interest in.
“There’s just files with names of companies he owns or has an interest in,” Lauren said. She stood before the filing cabinet, the top drawer open.
“Don’t bother reading through things,” he said. “Take anything of interest.”
He stood back and studied the desk. Why would a man like Prentice, whose house was furnished in either fine antiques or the latest styles, opt for a desk that looked better suited for the junkyard?
He knelt and began feeling along the underside and backs of all the drawers. Sure enough, behind the top left-han
d drawer he felt an indentation, and a hidden spring. When he pressed it, a small wooden box dropped into his hand.
He moved into the light to examine the contents of the hidden compartment. A man in a military uniform stared up at him, from a black-and-white photo as worn and faded with age as the desk. The man in the picture had removed his cap and wore his hair slicked down and parted sharply on one side, a thin moustache above his tightly compressed lips. Why would Prentice hide this? He tucked it into his shirt.
“I may have something.” Lauren ran to him, a slip of paper in her hand.
He examined the three numbers written on the paper: 96-14-6. “Is it a date? June 14, 1996?” he asked.
“I think it’s a combination,” she said. “Maybe for a safe?”
“Then we need to find the safe.”
He opened the closet and found nothing but an overcoat and a set of golf clubs. Judging by the dust that covered them, Prentice hadn’t played in a while. “I’ve found it!” Lauren called.
She’d removed a picture above a credenza on the back wall of the office to reveal the slightly recessed door of a safe. “Hurry and open it,” he said.
While she spun the dial, he moved to the door and listened. No sign of the guards yet, but he was sure it was only a matter of time before they showed up. Too bad that desk hadn’t contained a gun. He looked around for a weapon and had to settle for a letter opener. It looked flimsy and would be no match for the automatic weapons the guards usually carried.
“It’s open,” Lauren called, and he rejoined her in front of the safe. She reached in and pulled out handfuls of paper and gave him half.