Читать книгу A Time to Die - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER GIVING the place a thorough inspection, Geoff Monday decided that the Bedell mansion on Lookout Mountain was almost as secure as Fort Knox. That didn’t mean some brilliant criminal couldn’t figure out a way to penetrate the fortress, but the odds of that were slim to none. Unless a plane dropped a bomb directly on the old house, Cara Bedell was safer here than anywhere else.

Upon arriving two hours ago, they had gone through electronic gates that required a code to open, and once inside the massive antebellum house, she had given him a quick tour, showed him the security system, which included camera surveillance, and then assigned him a room.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bedell, but this room won’t work,” he’d told her.

“I beg your pardon?” Cara Bedell looked sweet and wholesome, not glamorous or sophisticated the way one would expect the heiress to billions to look. The lady was a tall, rawboned, freckled redhead and, although not nearly as pretty as Lucie Evans, reminded Geoff of the lone female Dundee agent.

“I need a bedroom as close to yours as possible,” he’d explained.

“Oh. Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

She had quickly taken him to another wing in the huge house, showed him her bedroom and pointed to the one directly across the hall. “Will that one do?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Despite not being a great beauty, there was something downright appealing about Ms. Filthy-Rich Bedell. Within minutes of meeting her, he’d been aware of the fact that she was a take-charge, used-to-being-obeyed woman who didn’t waste time with pleasantries. But whenever he’d pointed out the obvious to her, she hadn’t argued with him and had so far acquiesced to his expertise. He figured she was smart enough to know that was why she was paying Dundee Security the big bucks—to get the best. And that was exactly what he and Deke Bronson were: the very best. Dundee’s security and investigation team had no equal in the business. They were the cream of the crop.

Just as he started unpacking his bag and putting his clean underwear and socks in an antique dresser, his cell phone rang. After checking caller ID, he dumped his stuff into the drawer, closed it and answered the call.

“Hello, Dimples. You’re calling rather late, aren’t you?”

Geoff had been told by friends that he was a flirt, which he supposed he was, but he loved the ladies—all ladies, young and old, rich and poor, fat and skinny, pretty and plain. And one of his favorite ladies was Dundee’s Ms. Efficiency. She always had a warm smile and a friendly greeting for him. He had given her the nickname because she had a set of gorgeous dimples.

“I finished putting together the preliminary reports on Ms. Bedell, Ms. Murrough and the Helping Hands organization,” Daisy told him. “I’ve sent both as e-mail attachments to you and to Deke.”

“Anything unusual? Something that warranted a phone call?” He placed the phone between his shoulder and ear, then removed his two sets of clothes, still on hangers, and searched for the closet.

“Nothing really. Just one of my odd feelings.”

“Hmm… So tell me.” He couldn’t find a closet. The only door, other than the one that led into the hallway, opened up into the adjoining bathroom.

“Helping Hands is a charity organization,” Daisy said. “Their reach is worldwide, with about a third of their efforts centered on poverty-stricken areas in the U.S. But two-thirds of HH’s money goes overseas to third-world nations. One of the chief beneficiaries is a little African country called Gadi.”

The word Gadi struck a nerve, but he didn’t react, other than to say, “Yeah, and…?” He found an empty armoire lined with padded clothes hangers and realized this was the only closet space in the room. He shoved aside the fancy hangers to make room for his clothes, which were on the metal hangers from the dry cleaners.

“Ten years ago, Lexie Murrough was a reporter for UBC. She was in Gadi, at the capital, covering Babu Tum’s inauguration the day he was assassinated. She took a bullet in the back when she got caught in the crossfire between Tum’s guards and the assassination squad. Because of that, she was left partially paralyzed, and had to undergo several surgeries and years of physical therapy.”

“And this is important to our case because…? To this day, no one outside of top-secret British and U.S. intelligence knew that an elite squad of UK and U.S. special-ops soldiers had assassinated President Tum. After all, both countries claimed they no longer assassinated undesirables. And only two people knew that Deke Bronson had shot Lexie Murrough—Geoff and Deke.

“I’m not sure, but my gut tells me that there might be a connection between Gadi, Ms. Murrough and the bomb. After all, we know for a fact that some of the rebel factions in Gadi now belong to the Majeed, and they hate the U.S. What if they don’t like Helping Hands being such a strong force in Gadi?”

“You know what, Dimples? Your talents are wasted as office manager. You should be an agent. You think like one.”

Daisy laughed. “No, thanks. I prefer staying behind the scenes.”

“We need to find out if—”

“There are three citizens of Gadi working there in Chattanooga at Helping Hands,” Daisy told him. “Robert Lufti, Vega Sharif and Malik Abdel.”

“Run a check on each of them.”

“It’s being done as we speak.”

“You’re always one step ahead of us, aren’t you? You’re one in a million. I hope you know that.”

Silence.

“Dimples?”

“Hmm…?”

“You got terribly quiet there for a bit.”

She laughed again. “I was just taking a minute to appreciate the compliment without letting it go to my head. I had to remind myself that you’re free and easy with your praise.”

“Ah, Dimples, you wound me.” He chuckled. “I might exaggerate when I use my debonair British charm on other ladies, but never with you. Any compliment I’ve ever given you came straight from the heart.”

“Yeah, sure.” She quickly changed the subject. “I’ll phone when I get preliminary workups on Lufti, Sharif and Abdel. It could take a couple of days to compile a full report.”

“Thanks, love. I’ll be in touch from this end once we get more info from the Chattanooga PD.”

DEKE HELPED LEXIE clean up after supper, and although he did his best to contribute to the conversation she tried to maintain, he failed miserably. He wasn’t good at idle chitchat. And he was even worse at sharing anything personal with another person. Finally they fell into a silence that filled the massive loft until Lexie turned on the CD player and Andrea Bocelli’s voice, blended with Spanish guitars, vanquished the utter quiet.

Deke sat in the overstuffed tan leather chair aligned at a right angle to the plush, brown chenille sofa. When Lexie didn’t sit, he watched her roam restlessly about the room. With each slow, deliberate step she took, aided by her cane, he experienced a stabbing twinge. She would never be free of that limp or the cane she relied on for support. And he would never be free of his guilt and the memory of the day he had shot her.

She walked toward the middle of the three sets of French doors. Before he could speak and tell her it wasn’t smart to stand in front of anything glass and make herself an easy target, she opened them.

“Close them,” he ordered.

She glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

“Close the doors and move away from them.”

Obeying him instantly, she moved toward him. “I simply wanted to get a breath of fresh air. I wouldn’t have stayed on the balcony more than a few minutes because it’s chilly tonight and—”

“A long-range rifle could take you out like that.” Deke snapped his fingers. “If someone wants to kill you, we have no way of knowing to what lengths they might go.”

All color drained from her face. He realized she was remembering another time, another place. And another rifle shot.

“Yes, of course. It was stupid of me not to think about that, especially considering the fact that… You’d have no way of knowing, but once, years ago, I was shot in the back. That’s why I have a limp, why I use a cane.”

The muscles in his throat constricted, his chest ached and his pulse thundered in his head. Damn it, why was he here with Lexie? Why hadn’t he taken Geoff up on his offer to guard her? This was only day one. He’d only been with her a few hours, and already he wanted to bare his soul and confess his sins.

“Mr. Bronson?”

“Yes?”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, why would you think that?”

“Oh, no reason, really. It’s just when I mentioned having been shot, you got a rather odd expression on your face.” She sat down on the sofa catty-corner from his chair.

People usually accused him of being stoic, of showing little or no emotion, telling him that his facial expressions gave away nothing. So why had she picked up what couldn’t have been more than a momentary flicker caused by a memory that plagued him?

“Sorry. I wasn’t aware that my expression changed.”

“Actually, I’m not sure it did.” She looked directly at him. “It was more something I saw in your eyes. A flash of sadness.”

Every muscle in his body tensed.

“I apologize,” she said. “I can see you’d rather not talk about it.”

“There is no it.” He stood and turned his back on her. “I’ll check the doors and windows now, then again after I take my shower.” After he finished his inspection, he walked toward the guest bedroom. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Certainly.”

With his hand on the door handle, he paused and said, “I’ll check on you, too, before I go to bed. Do not answer the door, no matter who it is. Not unless I’m with you. And if you need me, don’t hesitate to call out to me. Scream, if necessary.”

“Yes, I will.”

He escaped into the bedroom, closing the door, shutting out the sight and sound of Lexie Murrough. He didn’t like the way she seemed to be able to read him so clearly, to see beyond the obvious.

This wasn’t going to work. He’d been a fool to think it would.

Tomorrow he would call Geoff and let him know he’d been right—they needed to exchange clients.

THE LITTLE BOMB had been simple to construct and very easy to hide away in the storage closet at Helping Hands. Even if someone had caught him there, no one would have questioned him or suspected him of doing anything wrong, because everyone knew him. Luckily, he’d been able to enter and exit the closet without detection. If he was very careful, his next menacing act could be carried out as easily.

Although he was in the United States on a far greater mission, one that would soon come to fruition just in time for the Jewish and Christian holidays that were approaching, he had been given permission to claim the personal revenge that was his due. As long as his personal issues did not interfere with the job the Majeed had sent him here to do, he could threaten and torment Lexie Murrough, and even kill her when the time came.

Did she honestly think that a few good deeds would absolve her of guilt? She was just like all the other Americans who thought handing out food and medicine to the people of a suffering nation was enough penance for their nation’s gluttony and greed. The United States and its closest ally, Great Britain, possessed a condescending attitude toward the African and Middle Eastern countries whose beliefs and lifestyles differed greatly from their vast majority. They felt they were right and all others were wrong. They plotted and executed horrendous crimes in secret, then presented themselves on the world stage as benevolent and fair.

He did not know the names of the men who had killed Babu Tum, nor would he recognize their faces. But he remembered one face, a face that, to him, had come to symbolize the United States. She had been there that day, covering the inauguration for her television network. She had been welcomed into Gadi, had taken advantage of the new government’s desire to be publicized in a positive light, all the while knowing that a team of highly trained soldiers from her country and the U.K. would kill the newly elected president.

It was partial justice that she had been shot and almost died. But until she paid the ultimate price…

He could have killed her today. He could have placed the bomb in her office. But that would have been too easy. Lexie Murrough deserved to suffer. He intended to see that she and the woman whose money allowed her to play the benevolent benefactor to Gadi both knew the true meaning of torment. And on the day when he and other members of the Majeed issued the United States a dire warning, Lexie Murrough would become just one more casualty in the great war of good versus evil.

CARA PROPPED the large, overstuffed down pillows behind her back and nestled into a comfortable position so that she could read. Since taking over as the CEO of her father’s worldwide conglomerate, she had little time for reading, so she usually read at night for an hour or so before falling asleep. But tonight her mind wouldn’t settle down enough for her to concentrate, and as she gazed at the open page of the latest Kay Hooper novel, the words seemed to run together.

This had been one hell of a day. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t become accustomed to handling crises on a weekly, if not daily, basis, but the bomb at Helping Hands had been totally unexpected. Why would anyone bomb the headquarters of a charity organization? And why would that same someone issue a threat to a woman such as Lexie Murrough?

Don’t forget that he extended that threat to you, too, she reminded herself.

Being the primary heir to a sizeable fortune made her vulnerable to fortune hunters and crazies, and she seldom went out in public without a member of the corporate security force. Both the downtown Chattanooga headquarters and the family home here on Lookout Mountain had the best security money could buy. She believed in covering all her bases, in being overly cautious when it came to her life. That was why she had called in Dundee’s. They would not only provide private bodyguards 24/7 for her and Lexie, but they would do their own independent investigation.

Lieutenant Desmond would cooperate with Dundee’s, up to a point. Two years ago, when her half sister had come up missing, her father had hired Dundee Security, and Daddy dearest—may his soul rest in peace instead of rotting in hell, where he probably deserved to be—hired only the best. In that, she was her father’s daughter.

Who was she kidding? She was Edward Bedell’s daughter in more ways than she wanted to be. She not only resembled him—with her freckles, bright-red hair and tall, rawboned build—but she possessed an innate business sense that astounded her father’s associates, especially those who had been leery of a twenty-four-year-old taking control.

When her cell phone rang, Cara hesitated before she checked the caller ID. Her former brother-in-law had been pursuing her, begging her to marry him, for two years now. Although she had discouraged him as much as possible without being unkind, he was the type who refused to take no for an answer. He made a point of phoning her several times a week, usually around this time of night, reminding her of how much he adored her.

Hogwash. Grayson Perkins loved Grayson Perkins. But to give the devil his due, Gray had actually loved her sister, Audrey; it was just that he’d loved her money even more. And that was what he loved about Cara—the Bedell billions. She might have been foolish enough to believe his lies when she was a teenager, but after having a crush on Gray all her life, she’d finally wised up.

When she noted the caller’s number, Cara tensed. But not because it was Gray. She lifted the phone from the nightstand, flipped it open and said, “Hello, Lieutenant Desmond.”

“Good evening, Ms. Bedell.”

“Do you have something to report about today’s bombing at Helping Hands?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, not yet. This is a courtesy call. I wanted to make sure you’re following your bodyguard’s orders and not giving him any trouble.”

“Have you already called Lexie to make sure she’s toeing the line?”

“I don’t need to do that with Lexie. She’s not as headstrong and impulsive as you are.”

“I’d think you might drop by in person to make sure that big, hunky bodyguard of hers doesn’t sweep her off her feet. After all, you don’t want some other guy trespassing on your territory, do you?”

Bain Desmond chuckled. “You know that Lexie and I are just friends.”

“And what are we, Bain? Certainly not friends.”

“I guess we’re just acquaintances, Ms. Bedell. I mean, what else could we be? You’re who you are—the CEO of Bedell, Inc., who’s worth billions—and I’m a CPD detective with less than fifty grand in the bank.”

“East and West and never the twain shall meet, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m going to get married one of these days,” she told him.

“Yeah, you probably will. Just don’t marry Grayson Perkins.”

“No chance of that.”

“When you find yourself a husband, whoever he is, I’m not going to like him.”

Emotion lodged in Cara’s throat. She’d been slowly but surely falling in love with Bain Desmond since the first time she’d met him, when he’d been the detective assigned to locate her missing half sister, and now she loved him so much it hurt. She suspected that he felt the same way. But an old-fashioned macho guy like Bain could never get serious about a woman like her. They lived in two different worlds, and neither could exist in the other’s.

“Someday there will be a woman who’s more than just your friend,” Cara said. “And I’ll hate her.”

Bain didn’t say anything for a long moment; then he cleared his throat. “If I could, I’d be there with you to take care of you.”

“I know.”

She flipped the cell phone closed, laid it on the night-stand and swallowed her unshed tears.

HE LIFTED her into his strong arms, holding her close, protecting her from all harm. The clatter of battle, of gunfire and retaliation, of shouts and screams and the cries of the injured and dying, faded into nothing more than background noise as he carried her to safety. Barely able to endure the pain, she drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts a wild jumble of questions and blurred memories. The only constants in her world were the feel of his powerful, protective arms, the scent of his musky perspiration and a foggy glimpse of his smoky-gray eyes.

Reality blurred with fantasy, taking her away from the past where she’d been wounded and he had saved her.

He held out his open arms, inviting her into his embrace. She went happily, willingly, no other place on earth she would rather be. He slipped his arm around her waist and took her right hand into his left, and led her onto the ballroom floor. He waltzed her around the room, faster and faster, their bodies moving in perfect unison to the music and the beating of their hearts.

Suddenly her legs froze and she couldn’t move. No, please, no. I want to dance and dance and dance.

He released her, moved away from her and slowly disappeared.

She cried out for him, begging him to come back, pleading with him not to leave her.

“Ms. Murrough!” The concerned voice broke through the haze and awakened her from a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

“Hmm…?” Her eyelids fluttered.

A heavy weight dropped down on the side of her bed. “Ms. Murrough? I heard you crying out. Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes. There in the semidarkness of her bedroom, with only the moonlight streaming in through the tall windows, she saw the hulking figure of a man sitting on her bed, hovering over her.

“Oh…oh, Mr. Bronson. I’m so sorry I woke you.” When she pushed herself into a sitting position, she suddenly realized just how close he was. Eye to eye close. She gasped silently, and they both pulled back far enough that there was little danger of their bodies touching. “I was dreaming.”

“From the way you were crying out, it sounded more like you were having a nightmare.”

She nodded. “I suppose, in a way, my dream did turn into a nightmare.”

“Are you plagued by nightmares very often?” he asked.

“I—I used to be,” she admitted. “But I don’t have them as often now.”

He eased off the bed and stood. “Would you like a glass of water? Or I could make you some hot chocolate or—”

“Hot chocolate sounds good.” She tossed back the covers and stood, then realized she was standing there in her silk pajamas, the ones that hugged every curve. “I’ll make the hot chocolate, if you’ll share a cup with me.” She felt around at the foot of the bed for where she’d tossed her robe earlier that evening.

“I wouldn’t mind a cup.” He backed away from the bed and toward the open door. “I’ll just go put on my pants first and meet you in the kitchen.”

As he exited the room, she caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight. Wearing nothing but a pair of cotton boxers, his big, hard body glistened like a bronze sculpture. Just that one glimpse took her breath away. My God, he’s got a gorgeous body!

Ten minutes later, with her in her robe and him in his slightly wrinkled tan slacks, they sat at the kitchen bar and sipped the hot cocoa she had prepared.

Lexie tried her darnedest not to keep looking at his bare chest, but how could a woman not stare? His hairy chest was broad, lean, muscular and apparently naturally tanned. His arms were large, every muscle well defined.

What’s the matter with you? she asked herself. Was she transposing images of her dream man onto Deke Bronson? Was her pulse racing and her stomach fluttering because of Deke, or because she had him confused with the memories of her long-ago rescuer?

“Ten years ago, after I was shot and learned I was partially paralyzed, I had a lot of nightmares.” Lexie cupped the mug in her hands and stared down into the creamy brown liquid.

“That’s understandable,” he said.

She hazarded a glance his way and caught him staring at her. Their gazes met and locked for an instant. What was it that she saw in his eyes? Sympathy? Concern? Lust?

Lexie swallowed. “I don’t remember much about what happened to me after I was shot. But I do remember one thing. It’s a good memory, and it’s always a part of my dream before it turns into a nightmare.”

He didn’t say a word, just kept staring at her, almost as if he were holding his breath waiting for her to tell him about that one good memory.

“There was a man who saved my life. A soldier. He lifted me up in his arms and carried me to safety. I don’t know who he was. I never saw him again, and no one could or would tell me his name.”

Deke clenched his jaw tightly. “He was probably just a guy doing his job.”

She shook her head. “No, I distinctly remember hearing someone say, ‘You can’t take her with us.’” She sighed heavily. “I think he went against orders when he took me with him and saved my life.”

Deke lifted his mug to his lips and sipped the cocoa.

The silence between them returned and lingered. They drank the rest of their hot chocolate without talking. Oddly enough, Lexie realized that they didn’t need to talk. Just sitting there together quietly felt right, as if they were old friends who didn’t need words.

Or old lovers…