by Cherry Adair
“The early start of those nimble fingers of yours.” His lips twitched. “Why aren’t you a card shark?”
“No money in it. Not the way I played, anyway. Uncle Hank worked as a security guard at one of the big casinos. As a lark, he taught Pop to open the safe at his cousin’s gas station. Not stealing anything—the cousin was there, just as a gag. Of course if my dad did it, I had to try too. It became a game for the three of us.”
“Interesting game to teach a kid,” Hunt murmured.
“Hey, some kids play with dolls, I played safecracker. Another friend of Pop’s was an illusionist, close up. Sleight of hand, card tricks mostly. I was a willing pupil, and they loved teaching me more and more complicated tricks. Then they’d bet on me. See how fast I could open a safe, or get some poor rube to bet on spotting the mechanics of an illusion. I was a kid, and cute.” She laughed. “And I was good. Man, I was good. Pop made a mint on me. I was dexterous and quick, and got a percentage of my father’s take. I loved it.”
She shook her head. “He was caught robbing the local 7-Eleven when I was fifteen. He took Hank’s safecracking lessons seriously. Unfortunately,” she added on a sigh, “he wasn’t as gifted as I was. And I have no idea where the hell he got that gun. He was shivved then strangled in prison a few weeks after he got there.”
“What happened to you? Social Services?”
“Are you kidding me? I wasn’t going to wait for them to show up. I pulled my first job the day after Pop was arraigned. Some small-time hood had put the squeeze on Uncle Hank for payback on a racing bet—”
“Jesus bloody Christ. You robbed a bookie?” Admiration warred with pity that warred with the urge to protect. Damned if he didn’t want to travel back in time and look out for her. Although, he admitted, a teenage Taylor would have fought his urge to help every bit as much as she fought him now.
“You bet. He was a lousy bookie, and a nasty piece of garbage. Had twenty grand in used bills in a child’s play easy-to-open safe in his basement. I was in and out in six minutes.”
Hunt shook his head. “Then what?”
“I went to a Goodwill store, bought a wig and a suitcase, asked Hank to get me a fake driver’s license because I was still underage.”
“You were only fifteen, for Christ’s sake.”
She shrugged. “I could look considerably older, believe me. From there, I went to Sacramento, applied for a passport, stayed at a motel for a couple of weeks, and when the passports came, left on the next flight for Europe.”
Hunt wondered who she was protecting. “Who was the second passport for?” he asked easily, watching her eyes.
She looked at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
His jaw clenched, then he said easily, “You went to Europe alone? At barely fifteen?”
“Me and—” She yawned. “And twenty thousand American dollars.”
No, darling, Hunt thought savagely. Not you alone. You and somebody important. Who? A boyfriend? A lover? “Then what?”
“I bummed around Europe for a while, then ended up in Zurich and went to work for Consolidated Underwriters. The rest—” She yawned again. “Is history.”
He rose, placing his half-full glass on the pull-down table beside him with care. Lust mixed with anger was a lethal combination. “Try to sleep,” he told her flatly. “I’ll wake you before we land.”
She straightened, gave him a puzzled look. “What did I miss? What just happened?”
Hunt ignored her as he walked away.
He gritted his teeth as he moved rapidly to the rear of the aircraft. He’d fucked away the last remnants of his intelligence. Why the bloody hell had he permitted the intense, insatiable, unquenchable fever in his blood to win?
Why her? Why now?
It was a madness. As if he’d somehow cease to exist if he didn’t have her. Right then. Right there.
His training, his life, his work—everything he did, he did with unrelenting control over his emotions. His choices were driven by logic, his actions carefully calculated. He never made a move without being certain he considered the possibilities and was satisfied with the projected outcome.
He’d never allowed himself to be swept away on a tidal wave of emotion. Until now. He raked his fingers through his still-damp hair. Jesus Christ. He’d lost his fucking mind.
He slammed open the door to the aft cabin with more force than necessary. The room was dark. He brutally flipped on the lights.
“A simple knock would’ve done it,” Max bitched, opening his eyes. He’d been sleeping in the desk chair. Bishop, obviously immune to loud noises, snored in the narrow bunk across the small room. A second bunk was tucked up against the bulkhead, but Max hadn’t bothered to lower it.
He narrowed his gaze on Hunt as he came over to lean against the desk. “My God. You’re smiling.” He rubbed his eyes and pretended to get up. “Alert the media. Huntington St. John cracked a smile.”
Hunt raked his fingers through his hair, scraping it back away from his face with both hands. Much as Taylor had done a few moments ago, he realized. “Wiseass. I smile.” Although the smile now felt more like a grimace to him.
Max leaned back in the chair and looked up at his friend. “I’ve been keeping track. Not a damn thing has amused you in the last decade.”
“As I recall,” Hunt said wryly, “I laughed uproariously last year when that snake latched onto your ass—and wouldn’t let go.”
“No, you didn’t,” Max reminded him. “That snakebite was potentially serious, and as I remember it, you refused to suck the poison out. Said twenty years of friendship didn’t warrant you kissing my butt.”
“It was hardly more than a scratch, and here it is a bloody year later and you’re still whining?” Hunt mocked. “Poor big bad T-FLAC operative. Hell, the snake probably died. Maybe I should’ve got Catherine to come and kiss it better?”
“God, no.” Max contorted his face, making Hunt smile genuinely. “That taught me to learn from my friends’ mistakes.”
Hunt rose, not wanting his mind to wander down the Catherine path. Old news. Lessons learned. For both of them. “I tried to lead by example.” Restless, he paced the small cabin.
“Problem with our guest?” Max asked, watching him pace.
“A few,” Hunt admitted. “She presses my buttons.”
“Pulls your handle too, I gather.”
“Unfortunately. Damn hard to concentrate with a permanent cockstand. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough for me,” he said grimly. This insane lust had to stop. “What do we hear on Morales?”
Twenty-two
BLACK ROSE CENTRAL OFFICE
LONDON
“What’s in the parcel?” The head of Black Rose herself motioned to Clive Urbach.
“As you see, I have not opened—”
“Fetch it.” Didn’t he understand he was paid—and paid well—to inspect packages? She stayed exactly where she was.
He rose, walked across the room. Returning, he offered her the package, and she wondered if she should take it. The address label was typed.
ROSE AND SON
Purveyors of Fine Linens
London
And the Black Rose’s address. Nothing more.
She waved a hand at Urbach. “Open it.” It was too light to be a bomb. And too tightly wrapped to contain a live insect, poisonous or otherwise. But there were hundreds of topical poisons that could kill instantly on contact. She stepped back to be on the safe side. Urbach was eminently replaceable.
He shrugged, removed a small sharp knife from his breast pocket, and cut the brown string. He laid the box on the coffee table between them and used the tip of the knife to open the wrapping. Inside there was a small, plain white confectioner’s box.
Still using the knife, he tipped off the lid. She recognized the smell.
He frowned. “What is it?”
On the knife’s point, he speared the four-inch-square lump of raw meat from the bloodstained, white tissue-paper-lin
ed box.
It stank of putrefied flesh, and she covered her nose. The knife glittered in the lamplight as he turned it so she could better see what he’d speared like a shrimp on a skewer.
The gruesome offering captured her full attention.
Beautiful in its own way, the graying skin with its ragged, blood-crusted edges indicated the warning had been cut purposefully and premortem.
The message was clear.
In the center of the filleted flesh was a tattoo.
The tattoo of a Black Rose.
They were missing only one member.
“I’d wondered,” she mused out loud.
Who would send her such a gift? She tapped a bloodred nail against her chin.
So this is what became of Theresa Smallwood.
Twenty-three
6:00 A.M.
OCTOBER 10
ZURICH
A black Lincoln Town Car waited for them beside the private arrivals terminal at Zurich’s Kloten International Airport.
“Tell the man where we want to go,” Hunt instructed Taylor as he stepped into the car after her, neatly sandwiching her between his large body and Max’s.
In brisk Swiss-German she gave the driver the name and address of the bank, then instructed him to take the N3 directly to the financial district. Hunt reached up and slid the privacy window closed, although she was pretty sure they wouldn’t discuss anything classified on the trip anyway. She turned her head, her attention on choppy Lake Zurich as they drove parallel to it into the city proper.
Even when she wasn’t looking at Hunt she was aware of everything about him. He’d changed into a beautifully tailored dark suit before they landed. With it he wore one of the light grayish blue shirts he favored, and a subtle print tie. He smelled delectable. Not cologne or soap. His skin.
She frowned as she looked out of the window. How odd. If they stuck her in a dark room with a hundred men, she would be able to pick Huntington St. John out by the scent of his skin. A useless talent she’d never have to utilize.
She didn’t need his kind of complications. She had her work, and Mandy . . . and that was plenty. In an hour or so he’d be gone, and she’d resume her normal life.
Good. Fine. Great.
Exactly what she wanted. Sex wasn’t hard to come by. She was reasonably attractive. If she wanted straightforward, unencumbered sex, she knew where to find it.
“Which hotel?” Hunt asked.
Taylor turned her head to look at him. She didn’t need a hotel. Home was a four-thousand-square-foot condo overlooking the lake. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding since leaving Houston. At least he wasn’t going back on his assurance they’d let her go once she handed over the goods.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she told him sweetly. “Why? Thinking of staying over a few days and enjoying the sights?”
“No.”
She shook her head at the typically monosyllabic response. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?” she said mockingly.
Hunt stared her down.
“It’s very annoying.”
She turned back to the passing view.
Whatever. It wasn’t her job to civilize him. Apparently, he was one of those men she’d read about who got surly after sex. He’d barely said a word to her in the past six hours.
So much for their bonding moment.
Get a grip, she told herself firmly. They’d had sex. Superlative sex. But it was only sex. And this wasn’t a holiday fling. The man was working.
Though there was a feeling of And now what? that she couldn’t quite shake. Taylor stared out of the rain-spattered window and asked herself what she’d expected.
Answer: nothing.
What did she have to show for their incredible bout of lovemaking?
Answer: a membership in the Mile High Club? Which amounted to—nothing. Her lips twitched.
“Whatever you’re planning, forget it,” Hunt said point-blank as their eyes met.
Sparkles, like effervescent champagne bubbles, darted through Taylor’s bloodstream, as bright and happy as Hunt looked somber and cranky. She liked the annoying man. Go figure.
“I’m thinking about a hot bath,” she told him serenely. “Which, as far as I know, isn’t against the law in Switzerland.”
Max Aries’s lips twitched.
“Don’t even think about attempting anything slippery.” Hunt gave her a stony look. “I’m not in the mood to chase you all over hell and back. Again. The easier you make this for us, the easier it’ll be for you.”
“Yes, sir,” she said deferentially, earning herself a hostile glare. She smiled at him. Really, she couldn’t help it. The man was such a stuffed shirt, it was impossible not to be amused by him. She turned back to look out of the window. It was still raining.
She’d never met anyone like Hunt St. John, and she guessed she never would again. He was one of a kind. She’d miss him, Taylor decided, a little surprised. Miss him. Think about him, and once in a while, pull out the memory of him and wonder what it would’ve been like to make love all night in a big warm bed. To wake up with him, bathed in late morning sunlight, and read the Sunday paper together.
And maybe, Taylor gave herself a mental shake and a reality check, maybe she could have a frontal lobotomy so she didn’t remember him at all.
She was relieved at the distraction when they pulled up in front of the bank ten minutes later. Max opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle. She swung her legs out and glanced at Hunt over her shoulder. “If you’d like to wait—”
“We wouldn’t,” he assured her, indicating, impatiently, that she should keep moving. “Stay with the car,” he instructed Bishop.
She hadn’t thought they’d wait for her in the car. But it had been worth a shot. She got out and, without a backward glance, went through the imposing wrought-iron doors of the two-hundred-year-old bank. She strode across the cool marble lobby, greeted the receptionist in fluent Swiss-German, and waited for the bank officer to accompany her to the vault.
One area was reserved for the thousands of secure mailboxes. Another for safety-deposit boxes. And of course she also had her bank accounts here. But today all she was interested in was her mail.
Taylor punched in her code outside the high-security area and waited for the light to blink green. The bank officer then did the same. A screen lit up, and she kept her eyes open for the retinal scan. She thanked the gentleman, who’d wait outside, then preceded her entourage into the large silent room.
It took a matter of minutes to slide the large metal box from the wall and return to the table in the center of the room where Hunt and his men stood waiting.
“Might as well take a load off,” Taylor told them, sitting down herself after lowering the heavy box to the table. She unlocked it and flipped the lid.
The last envelope she’d mailed to herself was on top. She removed the padded envelope and set it aside.
“A little something splashy?” Hunt asked wryly.
“The Elliott emeralds.”
He shot her an unfathomable look. Taylor wondered how he’d react if she closed the foot of space between them to kiss him.
“Jesus,” he said roughly. “That smile scares me.”
She patted his thigh. “Anything unfamiliar is always frightening. Don’t worry, I’m harmless.” She felt the flex and play of his muscles beneath her hand and wanted to fan herself. She’d always loved the adrenaline rush of danger. And Huntington St. John personified it.
The legs of his chair scraped across the carpet as he shoved it back out of range and stood. “Insidious, you mean.”
Max laughed.
Taylor shrugged, then removed the package she’d mailed from San Cristóbal.
Hunt and Max came up on either side of her.
“Back off,” she told them firmly. “I’m here. You’re here. The envelope is here. Breathing down my neck isn’t going to make me open it any faster.”
“Ope
n the damn thing and let’s get on with it.”
She picked up the small knife she kept inside the box to slit the envelope.
Hunt’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist. “No knife.”
He wasn’t holding her tightly, but there was no way she could break free. The knife fell from her numb fingers with a small clatter. A fabulous trick, and one she’d love to learn.
“Geez.” She looked up at him. “What do you think I can do to you with this little thing?”
“We’re not going to find out. Here, I’ll open it.”
“I’ll hold the envelope. You cut.” She didn’t want them to know the weight of the contents. They could have the disks. But whatever else was in the envelope was none of their business.
“Fine.” He slit the top of the large padded envelope. “Pour everything out on the table.”
She could see the Barter diamonds from Morales’s safe coiled like a glittering snake at the bottom of the heavy padded bag. Her heart did a little excited lurch at their fiery beauty. She would have them couriered to the office in the morning, along with the emeralds.
She stuck her arm into the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers, envelopes, interspersed with what looked like mini-DVDs in plastic cases. There were two left deep inside the bag, tangled with Maria Morales’s necklaces.
“Here.” She handed the unwieldy bundle to Hunt with her left hand, while palming the other two small disks with her right.
Insurance.
She had absolutely no proof, other than Huntington St. John’s word, that they were the good guys. And although she believed it 99.9 percent, there was always the possibility of a double cross. It never hurt to watch your own back because, basically, people never did what you thought they were going to do. They were all out for number one.
Well, so was she. She had to be. As long as she took care of herself, Mandy was taken care of. And that was all that mattered.
“Thanks, Taylor.” Max smiled. He had a nice smile, easy, relaxed, friendly. It might not reach all the way to his eyes, but it was there nevertheless.
She smiled back at him. Max Aries was a lot easier to get along with than Hunt. Too bad she wanted the guy with no sense of humor. Go figure.