Deep Cover

by Moira Reid

  “Yes.” He’d hesitated again, but this time gave an answer she hadn’t known. Progress.

  “Then your boss, the Err, sent you here because his daughter accused you of a crime—one you did not, in fact, commit.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “Does it ever bother you that you were sentenced unjustly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, Butch. I had my wisdom teeth cut out when I was twenty-three. I was knocked out during the three-hour surgery and awakened to find my cheeks so swollen I thought I’d swallowed two small hot air balloons. This conversation reminds me a lot of that day.”

  He stopped chewing, and a small crease formed between his eyebrows. “What’s a hot air balloon?”

  “Never mind. Well, I’m eating, so come on. You promised to tell me what I was missing.”

  He swallowed his bite of sandwich and picked up his napkin. “I didn’t say you were missing anything. I said you might miss something.”

  She shook her head and took another drink of her soda. “Oh, no, don’t hedge on me. You meant something specific, and I want to know what it was.”

  He shrugged and shifted his gaze around them.

  Was he afraid someone was watching them? Nothing unusual was happening here, she thought as her gaze followed his. She had never eaten in the cafeteria before, but it was exactly what she’d expected. People showed up in pairs and small groups, got their food, and ate it. They were all ensconced in their own conversations.

  “You can speak freely. No one is paying any attention to us. Tell me: what might I miss?”

  For the first time since she’d met him, he looked uncomfortable and failed to meet her eyes.

  “It can’t be that bad. Tell me.”

  “You said it earlier: I’m your bodyguard…nothing else. Whatever I think about your business has no bearing on the reason I’m here.” He took a drink of his Coke. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “It must be really bad.” She forced a smile and leaned back in her seat. “I can take it. Come on. Let me have it. What might I miss?”

  He looked up into her eyes, and she continued to smile at him, encouraging him to tell her the truth; then he looked back down to his food. He’d been right about the “food as fuel” thing. Why wouldn’t he be right about this? She wasn’t going to let him leave here without saying his piece.

  She didn’t speak again as she watched him eat his sandwich and finish his drink, all the while waiting for him to respond. He wiped his hands on his well-used napkin once more, then finally met her gaze.

  “Okay, then.” He pushed his tray forward, sat back in his seat, and folded his enormous hands on the table. “I think your people lack initiative.”

  “What?” This confession was certainly not what she’d expected. She glanced around again, then leaned closer to him. If this was the conversation they were going to have, she definitely didn’t need her employees hearing it.

  “They are not sharing their ideas, or they have none. I’m not sure which.”

  She forced herself to nod and keep her defenses in check. It wasn’t easy to hear dissension, but if things were going to operate at top efficiency, she wanted to consider all feedback. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out why,” he said, lowering his voice. “Maybe you just hired people with no ideas. That’s one possibility. More likely, they have ideas but are either too lazy to share them or too afraid.”

  She nodded again. Okay, at least he’s not putting the blame on me. “And what are they afraid of?”

  His lips turned into a small grin as he unclasped his hands and dropped them into his lap. “You.”

  Then again, maybe he is putting the blame on me. “I think you give me too much credit. I’m not that intimidating.”

  “I’ve watched you all morning. The phone calls, the meetings, the dictation to that secretary of yours, who by the way is even more scared of you than the rest of them. They are all afraid to tell you anything.”

  Claire shook her head. She’d known Elizabeth for five years; Liz wasn’t afraid of her. Why would she be? Claire had been completely fair with Liz, straightforward, clear about what she wanted. Liz was always straight with her. Wasn’t she?

  Then another thought occurred to her. “If she’s so afraid, why is she still working for me? There are other jobs out there. She’s a talented, hardworking woman. She could go anywhere, work for anybody.”

  “But she won’t.”

  He said the words with complete finality. What could he possibly have heard or seen in the five-minute conversation she’d had with Liz that would make him think such a thing? Had he talked with other employees when she hadn’t been watching? That was impossible. In every meeting, every conversation, she’d been aware of his presence. She’d seen and heard everything he’d done all morning.

  “Give me one reason to believe you have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  Butch seemed to consider this before he answered. “She has inoperable cancer. She doesn’t want to tell you, doesn’t want to be treated differently. She’s afraid you’ll find out, and it will endanger her job.”

  The words were like a punch in her stomach and took her breath away Cancer? Liz had two young children and was raising them on her own. Butch was wrong; he had to be. She forced air into her lungs to ask the next question, afraid now to hear the answer. “How do you know that?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t say much beyond „nice to meet you’ all morning; I had to do something during all those meetings. So I listened.”

  “No one said anything like that! I was there.” Even if he had overheard something, what in the world made him jump to the conclusion that Liz was afraid of her? “Endanger her job? Does she really think I’d get rid of her because she’s sick?”

  He glanced at the table behind them, then leaned closer to her. “You’ll have to eventually. She’ll have more nausea and body weakness than she can continue to hide. You’ll need someone at her desk doing her job; she won’t be able to fulfill her duties.” Butch’s gaze scanned her face. “I’ve heard of cancer. It’s slow and painful. Insidious.”

  Claire felt tears begin to burn at the backs of her eyes, and she blinked them away in frustration. “Are you sure about this? Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

  “I recommend you ask her that.”

  Recommend? He recommends? Her temper began to burn. “If you know other things like this, I want you to tell me right now.”

  Butch nodded. “This is why she didn’t tell you, that look on your face. You might not think you’re intimidating, but I can see where a lot of people would misread that look, that intensity. You probably scare a lot of people.”

  Not him, obviously. Claire pushed her hair back from her face with both hands and took a deep breath to clear her head. In the hospital herself just yesterday, she’d known she would be leaving soon, known she’d be fine. The picture of Liz bedridden and dying with her children standing helplessly nearby slashed like a knife in her belly. The company had a great medical plan and an employee-assistance program; something could be done. Liz felt intimidated by her, and that had stopped her from asking for help? She clenched her fists in her lap.

  “Well, I can’t fix things if I don’t know about them. She should have said something. I’m not a mind reader.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “But I’ll have to be? That’s what you’re saying.”

  He rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. “You’re a smart woman. I don’t pretend to know what you should do. You asked me what you might be missing. I told you.”

  “Well, I can’t fix something when I don’t know it’s going on.”

  “You’re not going to fix it. She’s going to die, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He watched her. “It’s not your job to fix everything.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what my job is.” Fury burned in her veins, more at herself than at him. He
, however, was a convenient target. A man who knew nothing about consulting had diagnosed her and her business in one short morning. Moreover, he was right about this: if her own employees didn’t tell her what was going on, how was she supposed to do anything about it? He’d picked up on it in a few short hours of being here, and she’d missed it all.

  Now he could sit there and smugly tell her that she had no control over this situation? That there was nothing she could do about it? Well, that much he was dead wrong about.

  Her BlackBerry’s muffled ring startled her, and she snatched it out of her jacket pocket. “Yes?”

  “Claire, you need to come home now. Say nothing to Butch. If he’s with you right now, say „yes’ and nothing more.”

  She glanced at Butch. “Yes.”

  “Make some excuse. Get out of there and come straight home. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”

  Her father hung up.

  She clicked the Off button and dropped the BlackBerry back into her suit pocket. What in the world was that all about? She schooled her features. “The Anthony Group representatives are confirmed for Monday morning. Ten o’clock.”

  “It’s funny, but you sound just like your father.”

  The words came out low, but they might as well have been shouted at her. “All I said was „yes.’”

  Butch’s eyebrows rose. “That was a compliment. He was a great leader. Bit of a tyrant, but he earned the respect of his men.”

  She rose from her seat, and he rose with her. “Don’t follow me. I want to be alone for a few minutes. I need to clear my head.”

  Butch considered this. “Where?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  Suddenly she didn’t care about all the people around them who might overhear. Yeah, but you’re the boss, she reminded herself as she walked toward the door, hearing his footsteps closing in behind her. You’ve got people depending on you, and a business to run, and you don’t need those people thinking you can’t handle the pressure. And whatever that call had been about, she didn’t need Butch asking questions.

  She spun around before he could reach her and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t compare me to my father, do you hear me? If it weren’t for my father, I wouldn’t have half the problems I have.”

  “Who are you trying to convince? Me? Yourself? Or your father?”

  The urge to slap his face surged through her, and she quelled it only by supreme effort. “You stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Where are you going, Claire?”

  She watched his eyes examining her like a war map, determining a strategy and tactic to defeat his enemy. She was not his enemy, however. She was his charge—his job—and this was all her father’s doing. Well, her father was obviously having second thoughts. Frankly, so was she. Maybe he had been falsely accused; maybe he was really a criminal and a consummate liar. Right now, there was no way to be sure. And after that revelation about Liz, the one thing she didn’t trust anymore was her own feelings about anyone around her.

  The thought washed sadness over her, and she gritted her teeth in frustration. She had to get away from him; find a few minutes of peace from those penetrating, beautiful, and all-seeing eyes. There was no way she could do that by brute force.

  She released the beginnings of the frustrated tears she’d been keeping in check. Pathetic really, to intentionally play the crying card, but no man on planet Earth knew what to do with a crying woman except leave her alone until she stopped. Hopefully, that applied to extraterrestrials too.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room to wash my hands and face.”

  Butch nodded and took a step backward. Claire turned and walked out of the cafeteria.

  * * * * *

  Butch watched her stride off through the swinging door, her head bowed and hands on her face. Damn. He’d intentionally goaded her, had forced her to push him away. The pheromones coming out of her pores were driving him absolutely insane, and he’d had to get some distance between them.

  Before the phone call, when her eyes had misted as he’d told her about her secretary, all he’d wanted was to pull her into his arms.

  Shit.

  What else could go wrong? He’d wasted most of a day following her around, trying like hell to ignore the scent of her desire, and getting no closer to finding out what the hell Garren was doing here and why he was targeting this woman.

  Humans didn’t realize the powerful chemicals their bodies released, and as a kindred, hers were even more potent. Every moment near her made him ache in ways that had nothing to do with the job he was supposed to be doing.

  He was her bodyguard, brought here to keep her safe. He wasn’t her lover, and he wasn’t a frigging consultant. What the hell was he doing talking business anyway? What a clusterfuck.

  Butch walked to the large bank of windows overlooking the parking lot. He stared at the cars. Idiot. He’d wanted her mad at him, turned off by him at the very least—not crying. What kind of bodyguard, human or otherwise, made a stone pillar of a woman cry?

  The main entrance door opened and one floor below him, along with a group of suits and shirts leaving the building, came one easily recognizable shock of blonde flowing hair. The answer to his question walked toward the handicapped parking spaces.

  What kind of bodyguard?

  A bodyguard who’d just been played.

  Butch slapped the windowsill, then ran across the cafeteria, ignoring the gasps and stares of the other employees. Slamming the door open, he never broke stride as he raced toward the door to the stairwell. He shoved the heavy door like it was a piece of paper, then jumped down the flight of stairs in one leap, closing the distance between him and his manipulative responsibility.

  That little…

  Butch covered the expanse of lobby floor in fewer than ten strides, then slammed the glass doors opened and jumped. As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he took off running as fast as he’d ever moved toward Claire’s car.

  She dropped into the driver’s seat and almost had the door closed when he reached her. He grabbed the car door and jerked it out of her hand.

  “You little lying—”

  Her head snapped up, her face first registering surprise, then a celebratory grin. “I didn’t lie. I exaggerated, Mr. Spock. Now get out of my way.”

  She grabbed the door handle and wrenched the door out of his hands. The slam echoed through the parking lot, followed quickly by the snap of the automatic door lock.

  “Open this damn door!” Butch hit the window with his fists, most likely drawing the attention of anyone within earshot, but he didn’t give a shit. The woman inside this car was the most hardheaded, obstinate little…

  “Open it, Claire!”

  She didn’t look up. Slipping the key in the ignition, she started the car and began backing out of the parking space.

  Butch grabbed the door handle and yanked on it, knowing the motion was a waste of time but needing to do something with his hands besides break the window into a thousand pieces.

  “Claire! Stop! Damn it!”

  For an instant, he considered jumping on the hood but decided against it. That look on her face told him one thing. She wouldn’t stop. She turned, smiled up at him, then mouthed the word that sent his blood pressure off the meter.

  No.

  She peeled out of the parking lot, her tires squealing on the black asphalt and kicking stray rocks at him. Butch held up his hands to block them from hitting him in the face as he watched her go.

  That damn…

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw another vehicle pull out of a parking space along the tree line. As his fury blazed, he knew even before he saw exactly who was driving.

  A large white van with a panel door on the passenger side and double doors in the back made a beeline across the parking lot toward the exit.

  “Claire!”

  He took off at a dead run, following the exhaust that still hung in the air from
her car. Her windows were rolled up, so there was no way she would hear him shout again. He wanted to roar her name anyway, but even with telepathy she wouldn’t hear him from this distance. When that van got to her, this time she wouldn’t be so lucky. Garren wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice.

  His legs pumped with his arms, but the dress shoes he wore were not made for cross-country racing. On Vivemonde, he wouldn’t be able to run this fast, as the gravity was about double Earth’s. But even with the advantage, he couldn’t catch the van, now less than fifty yards away from her.

  The blast of a car horn behind him broke his stride. He looked over his shoulder. A vintage Corvette Stingray drove a few feet behind him, the driver waving him out of the way with wild movements of his arm.

  Butch skidded to a stop in the fancy dress shoes and turned toward the car, careful not to move out of the driver’s path. Gasping for breath, he pulled his .357 out of his shoulder holster and pointed it at the driver.

  “Get the fuck out of the car!”

  The driver’s eyes opened so wide, Butch could see the whites all the way around the poor guy’s irises. Intimidation, weaponry, and fear were powerful motivators, as was the element of surprise. Before the driver thought to simply mow him down with his Corvette, Butch ran over to the car, grabbed the door handle, and jerked it open.

  He clasped the guy’s suit jacket and yanked. “Get out!”

  The man held up his hands and cowered out of the vehicle with Butch keeping the gun trained on him just in case. Some guys grew a spine out of nowhere, and Butch didn’t want his bluff called. He wouldn’t shoot the guy—probably wouldn’t, anyway.

  When the man finally had both feet on the ground, Butch shoved him to the pavement, jumped into the car, and shut the door.

  “Sorry, dude! Call the cops! Now!”

  He stomped the gas pedal, and with two-hundred-some horses beneath the hood, the power threw him back against the seat. The car kicked up a spray of stray gravel, pieces of rock hitting the poor guy’s suited form like hail raining down from heaven as he lay sprawled on the ground.

  The car was speeding along before he had a chance to look down at the speedometer. Luckily, no one else was driving through the parking lot. If they had been, the fiberglass body projectile would have killed them. He jammed his gun into the crook of the passenger seat and grabbed the seat belt from behind his shoulder. Jerking it forward and across his chest, he heard the snap click as he lifted his foot from the accelerator and stomped the brake at the parking lot’s exit.