Reluctant Runaway

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Whoa! She’d promised herself and God to work on her forgiveness skills.

  Better concentrate on encouraging Max. Maybe she should let her best friend and treasured employee win this one.

  Yeah. Right. Lip curled, Desi imitated Maxine Webb’s West Texas drawl. “In a pig’s eye!”

  Her flame-haired friend would skin her alive with a dull knife if she suspected that Desi hadn’t done her best to beat Max’s precautions. They had an internal audit on their work. If Desi could navigate through the safeguards the same way a thief would—no cheating—they’d keep working on the plan until it was Desi-proof. No exceptions. Their bread and butter came from keeping HJ Securities Company the best in the business of art and antiquities protection.

  Of course, the timing for this caper could have been better. If the gallery hadn’t insisted on moving their grand opening up to the day after tomorrow, she wouldn’t be stuck on a crumbling ledge on the same night she was due at a White House party.

  Desi climbed to her knees, pulled the grappling hook up, and secured it in her pack. Scoping out the window, she found it booby trap-free. She dug out her cutting tool and made a neat hole in the glass. A specialty hook probed inside, and the interior lock clicked open.

  The slither between lintel and sash tested every scrape and bruise on her body, but at last Desi stood on cushy carpet inside some executive’s office. She took a few steps on wobbly knees, nerves still doing the boogie-woogie. A fat leather office chair beckoned. She collapsed into it, leaned back, and perched her feet on the desk. Her right big toe throbbed.

  Small price to pay.

  She dug a water bottle out of the pack on her lap and took a long pull. As she lowered the bottle, her gaze met the lighted face of the desk clock. Her feet thumped to the floor. Scrambling through her bag of tricks, she found her walkie-talkie.

  “Max, do you read me? I’m in, and I’m in a hurry.”

  The instrument crackled. “You’re in where? In trouble? That I can believe.” Male hoots sounded in the background. “You have a little more than an hour to get ready for that society shindig with Tony. Now tell me where you’re stuck, and I’ll send the cavalry after you.”

  More background guffaws.

  Wouldn’t the night guards love to brag to their buddies about how they rescued the high-toned security woman from a pickle? Well, not tonight, boys. “I’m sitting in a ninth-floor office, looking at the clock.”

  “Get outta here! No way you breached that window security.”

  “Way! But take heart, no one else will be loony enough to follow in my footsteps.”

  “Do I even want to know?”

  Desi laughed. “I’ll explain later. Right now, I do have to get outta here pronto. Tomorrow night we can pick up where we left off, and you’ll have your chance to nab me in the gallery showrooms.”

  Low-voiced grumbles answered her, foreground and background.

  Grinning, Desi switched off the walkie-talkie and loped—er, limped for the elevator.

  If Supervisory Special Agent Anthony Lucano of the Boston office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation wanted to walk into the White House ballroom with her on his arm, she didn’t intend to disappoint him. And she sure didn’t want him to catch a whiff of her derring-do tonight. That would be asking for trouble in paradise.

  Clad in nothing but her shower towel, Desi brushed a final stroke of genuine Egyptian kohl onto her left eyelid. An awkward activity with one hand, but Max had the other trapped on the bathroom vanity counter, doing a warp-speed job on Desi’s fingernails.

  Good thing her shoulder-length hairstyle was wash-and-go. All she needed with her costume was the gemstone-studded headdress. The attached set of false bangs matched her sable-brown hair. She lifted the piece from the hotel bathroom vanity and held it to her head. The bangles dripping from the sides swayed and sparkled, highlighting the shades of green and gold in her hazel eyes.

  Ooooh, Tony was gonna love this.

  Max glanced up from her bent-over position. “Give me a sec, and I’ll pin that on.”

  Desi set the headdress down and picked up one of a set of amber hairpins that had belonged to the mother she’d lost to a car accident when she was a baby. Her father, world-renowned security expert Hiram Jacobs, gave the pins and other jewelry heirlooms to Desi shortly before his murder four months and two days ago.

  Daddy, did you already know you were a target?

  Her vision darkened. To lose a parent in an accident hurt, even though she’d been too young to remember. To have one stolen by a killer …

  Hot pain seared through her insides.

  “Hey! Hold still.” Max clicked her tongue. “What have you done to your fingertips? Looks like you lost a fight with a blackboard.”

  “A brick wall. And I won.”

  “Ai-yi-yi!” Max screwed the top on the polish bottle. “Let’s get you into that neck-snappin’ dress. One look at the Queen of Sheba and the guy’ll need a brain transplant to think straight.”

  Desiree laughed. If only she could cheer Max up so easily. “Better not distract him too much. The poor man wants his gray matter working. The director of the FBI will be there, and Tony’s got a sweat on to make a good impression for his office. Budget time and all that.”

  Max lifted a corner of her mouth. “He could stand on his head and whistle Dixie. He’s got to be flavor of the year after haulin’ in a top al Qaeda operative, alive and kickin’.”

  “You’d be surprised how fast such things are forgotten in Washington. But it’s significant that his office chose an agent who’s only thirty-five and just climbing into supervisory level to attend such a highbrow function. He’s getting favorable notice, all right.”

  In a flurry of fabric, Desi let Max help her into the shimmering emerald gown of watered silk. The high-waisted style copied Anne Baxter’s costume when she played Nefretiri in Cecille B. DeMille’s tour de force The Ten Commandments.

  “Sit down by the table, and we’ll add the crownin’ touch.” Max waved the headdress.

  Desi saluted and took a seat. Fingers played in her hair, not once jabbing her scalp with a fastener.

  “A fine piece of work if I do say so myself.” Max stepped back. Then she knelt and picked up the shoes that matched Desi’s gown.

  “Hey, you don’t have to treat me like Cinderella. I can put those on myself.” Desi snatched at the footwear.

  Max avoided her and grabbed Desi’s right heel. “As I thought. You’ve got a big toe turnin’ black-and-blue.”

  “I swear I’ll tell all when we’ve got time.” Desi bent the digit and winced. “At least I chose to wear the Persian slippers instead of the strappy sandals.”

  Max sniffed. “You’ll have to throw in a funky hip sway to convince anyone that your limp is a fashion statement.”

  “Call me Forrest Gump.”

  “Run, Forrest, run!” Max chuckled like her old self.

  Desi would take ten jammed toes to get another reaction like that.

  Feet encased in the slippers, she rose and Betty Boop-wiggled across the room. She glanced over her shoulder. Max lay on the floor, clutching her sides and wheezing.

  Man, she’s lost weight. Max used to fit the cliché pleasingly plump. Now …

  They’d talk about it later. “How’s that?” She batted the false eyelashes that made her lids feel sultry.

  “Works … for me … You’ll just have to … fool Tony.”

  Not going to happen. The man was born with an extra set of eyes and trained to use them. She’d have to fess up sooner or later. Later would be fine. He hated when she walked into danger. Ironic. Considering his occupation, she’s the one who should lecture about risks.

  “I wish you were going along tonight.” She helped Max up.

  “Why? So I can distract the big boy from your bad deeds?”

  Desi stuck out her tongue. “No, so you can get out of this hotel for something besides work. We’re in the capital of the U.S. of A. for crying ou
t loud.”

  “Like we’ve never been here before?”

  A chill breathed over the room. Their eyes met. Too true. They’d shared the same glass of fear and loathing on the trail of Hiram Jacobs’s murderer.

  Max began to pick up discarded clothes. “I need to call home and find out how Mom’s doin’ with the kids. When I called this mornin’, she told me Grandpa Steve was comin’ over to take them out to a matinee.”

  She bracketed the words “Grandpa Steve” with two pairs of finger swipes. They grinned at each other.

  “The Lord has a colossal sense of humor.” Desi laughed. “Who’d have thought Tony’s Godzilla of an ex-partner would take a shine to a pair of little kids? Even kids as cute as yours. That bullet in the chest must have been a wake-up call for the Man with the Iron Heart.”

  Max shook her head. “He’s been a miracle for us, steppin’ in when … ” She cleared her throat and went back to housekeeping.

  A rap sounded at the door.

  “Showtime!” Max opened the door with a flourish.

  Tony’s tall frame filled the entrance. Desi’s breath quivered in her throat. Oh, mercy! King Solomon never looked so fine.

  Who would have guessed she’d swoon over her twenty-first-century agent-man in a beard and Middle Eastern robes? The Hebrew amulet that hung from a chain around his neck matched the color scheme of her headdress. Max must have advised him on that. An understated gold circlet framed wavy black hair cut too short to be period perfect. But who cared?

  Desi stepped forward. A white smile split the dark beard. His brown eyes widened into a stare that set a pedestal under her feet and turned her limbs to warm taffy so she could tumble off her exalted perch straight into his arms.

  Max smirked, and Desi could almost hear her thought—Neck-snappin’, oh yeah!

  Tony stepped over the threshold, his thoughts also clear. By sheer willpower, Desi put a hand on his chest and stopped him.

  “Rain check.” Her voice came out husky. “My lipstick looks better on me for now.”

  His muscled ribs expanded under her palm, then relaxed. Tony smiled and offered his arm. Desi curled a hand around his elbow, and they paraded past a grinning Max into the hall.

  “Have fun, kiddies.”

  Tony lifted a hand in a backward wave.

  Desi glanced at her friend. Thank you, she mouthed. Then she looked up at the man beside her. Way up. The top of her head broke even with his square shoulder. The sharp planes of his profile made him more a rough-hewn Marlon Brando than a refined Robert Redford. She inhaled a deep breath of her date’s sandalwood scent.

  Tony chuckled as they neared the elevator. “I intend to collect on that rain check.”

  “And I intend to let you.”

  His gaze darted toward the floor and then back to her face. “Are you hurt?”

  Drat, the man was sharp. “Close encounter with a wall in the dark.”

  Tony’s sideways glance promised more than a heated embrace. She knew that set to his jaw. He meant to worm the facts out of her or eat his badge.

  Let the battle of wits begin. Desi grinned on the inside. When she was with him, even if she lost she won. If they weren’t both committed to respecting each other and God, they’d be deep into a torrid, steamy affair by now. Maybe someday they could have a torrid, steamy marriage.

  Desi’s cheeks heated, and she turned her face as they entered the empty elevator. There she went, thinking the M word again. Mere months ago, she and Tony had been adversaries. Then they became allies. Now much more. But she couldn’t assume he wanted a permanent commitment. Besides, she still knew little about him—except that she adored him. The guy was an expert at avoiding personal topics, about himself, that is. For sure, they had things to work on.

  The M word could wait.

  Tony’s arm circled her waist, and he lifted her chin, a knowing crook to his mouth. She narrowed her eyes. Should she slap away the smirk or yank off his crown and muss his hair?

  He nuzzled the tender skin under her left ear. “A little something to tide me over.”

  His false beard tickled, and the air in Desi’s lungs turned to helium.

  “You smell great.” Tony lifted his head, dark gaze intense. He rubbed the side of her jaw with his thumb. “You know you drive me nuts figuring out what crazy business you’ve been up to.”

  So he’d guessed she’d done a caper tonight. Too bad she couldn’t promise never again to take chances. He’d have to accept her for who she was and what she did for a living, or they wouldn’t make it as a couple.

  He smiled, laugh lines creasing his tanned face. “You couldn’t shake me off your trail before, my queen. And you won’t succeed now.”

  Desi stood a few feet away and studied Tony as he visited with Director Richard Harcourt of the FBI and a senior presidential aide. The director made a formidable Roman Emperor Constantine and the aide a dapper George Washington.

  “They’re grooming him,” said a voice in her ear.

  Desi turned to meet the amused hazel eyes of a blunt-mannered man she’d met at the hors d’oeuvres table. His massive build and shiny moon face fit a Jabba the Hutt impersonation better than the Darth Vader costume.

  “Hamilton Gordon?”

  The man nodded double chins. “Very good, my dear. Almost as skilled as a federal agent at matching faces and names. The talent will serve you well if you’re going to stick with him all the way to the top.” He inclined his blond head toward Tony’s group. “I own a corporation, and I know the signs when the powers-that-be have plans for someone.” He winked.

  Desi’s gaze darted to the group of men. Did the director have an acquisitive gleam in his eye? Constantine put a hand on Solomon’s shoulder, and the king leaned toward the emperor. Director Harcourt stood inches shorter, but no observer with a grain of sense could misinterpret the picture of a superior showing interest in his subordinate—except someone too distracted by the flutters of her heart. She’d missed the obvious.

  What did this development mean? To her? To Tony? Her roots, not to mention the headquarters of her business, were in Boston. Comprehension sent gooseflesh up her bare arms. An FBI agent didn’t control his destiny. Tony could be transferred to the Washington office, the most coveted post in the Bureau, in a heartbeat. But the professional coup would mean a long-distance romance for them. The odds of such a romance lasting were dismal, especially when half of the couple thought communication was a one-way street.

  Her stomach clenched.

  As if sensing her turmoil, Tony whirled, but his stare went past her shoulder. Desi looked around. Hamilton Gordon was gone. A red-eyed Max staggered toward them, face pale, freckles standing out like pepper in porridge.

  “Max!”

  “T-trouble,” her friend croaked and crumpled forward.

  Two

  Tony dashed past Desi’s open-mouthed stare just as Max went down. For a second he thought he was too late, but he managed to catch Desi’s friend before she hit the floor.

  Desi knelt beside him. “Oh, Max!”

  “Bring the woman this way.”

  Tony looked up to find the White House aide standing over them. “George Whitcomb as George Washington,” the guy had said when he introduced himself. Tony hefted Max and stood up. He took two steps, and a fist slammed his shoulder. He looked down.

  Max’s face glowed like a fire engine. “Put me down, you lummox! People are starin’.”

  “They’re storing because you fainted.”

  “Texans don’t faint.”

  “Then you did a world-class imitation.” He set her on her feet.

  “Tony-y-y how can you be so cold?” Desi scooted by, glaring.

  “Hey, I’m the one who caught—”

  She skewered him with her eyes, then turned her back on him and hugged her friend. The women buried their faces on each other’s shoulders.

  Desi and Max whispered together. Something was off here. Not because one wore the kind of dress over the sor
t of figure that made a man forget his name and the other crashed the party in a sweatshirt, blue jeans, and furry bedroom slippers. Get a load of those!

  But no, that wasn’t the issue. It’d take total chaos to send down-to-earth Maxine Webb into hysterics and do-or-die Desi into shock.

  Tony stepped forward, but Whitcomb/Washington swooped in and herded the women toward a door. The ladies went without argument. Tony followed, invited or not. The aide took them to a small room furnished with a sofa and a couple of stuffed chairs.

  The white-wigged aide waved toward the furniture. “Shall we all sit?” He might be a pompous little housefly, but he had a way with social crises.

  Desi settled Max onto the sofa. The redhead doubled over and rocked back and forth. Bits of phrases reached Tony’s ears.

  “I can’t handle this … not again … family curse.

  The Queen of Sheba beamed at the pseudo first president of the United States. “May we have a moment? We have a few things to sort out here.”

  “Yes, of course. Not a problem.” The aide cast a glance at Tony. He frowned back. King Solomon was not about to budge.

  Desi nodded in Tony’s direction. “He can stay.”

  Nice of her.

  “Very good.” Whitcomb/Washington dipped his head and went to the door. A Secret Service agent Tony hadn’t noticed before stepped from the shadows.

  The aide leaned toward him. “ … breach of security. Find out how … ” The men slipped away.

  Sooner or later, pointed questions would come. Wild-eyed women in street clothes didn’t barge into a White House bash without knocking the pins out from under everyone.

  Max sat huddled, silent now. Desi stared at her with a helpless expression.

  Desiree Jacobs helpless? Anger spurted. Whatever caused the problem wasn’t acceptable. He’d have to fix it.

  She looked up at him. “In the ballroom, Max told me she got some bad news tonight. A loss in her family—”

  Ice bit his gut. “Not one of the kids!”

  “No, but it involves a—”

  “I’ll tell.” Max sat up, tears streaking her face. “I acted like a nut coming here, but I couldn’t think … ” She shook her head. “I didn’t know who else I could trust. Just you two.”