Читать книгу Not on His Watch - Cassie Miles - Страница 12

Outside the square granite entryway to the office building, dirty snow marked the curb where a white Fiat sedan and a blue Toyota were parked. The sidewalks appeared to be deserted. No lights shone from the office windows. The stealthy gray of dawn thinned the night shadows into faded streaks.

If Quintin Crawford had to guess, he’d place the time in the snowy scene to be somewhere between six and six-fifteen in the morning. Quint and four other agents stared at the high-resolution video on the large flat monitor in the special-ops room. They were watching, waiting for something to happen.

On the screen, a bearded old man came onto the street. His lips moved. His hands, in ragged mittens, pounded the air and twitched as he mumbled incomprehensibly. He could’ve been anyone—any tired soul who got fed up with the daily struggle and opted out. Not too long ago, Quint silently acknowledged, that guy could’ve been him.

Trudging aimlessly, the bearded man pulled his brown knit cap low on his forehead. His filthy, rumpled jacket and grease-stained trousers were also brown. The only hint of color showed in the dark red woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. Beside him, a three-legged black-and-white Border collie bobbled along in syncopated gait. When the dog hopped ahead, the man hurried for three paces, then slowed again as he rounded the corner and disappeared.

It was quiet on the street, windless. Nothing moved.

For one fleeting instant, the building shuddered and shimmered with an eerie glow. More light than color, this brief flash signaled the onset of danger.

Quint’s muscles tensed. His senses alert, he watched the screen.

The gray dawn shattered in flames.

With a deafening roar, a fierce explosion erupted from inside the stone walls. Glass splintered. Metal door frames crumpled. A ball of fire pitched the Fiat and the Toyota like empty tin cans, sending them crashing and rolling on the concrete street. The Fiat landed on its roof with tires spinning in the air. Black smoke gushed across the sidewalk. The granite entrance gaped like the ragged jaws of hell, spewing flame and soot.

In the wake of this man-made thunderhead, a remembered pain—more intense and fearsome than any physical hurt—sliced through Quint’s gut. The knife twisted. He closed his eyes and catapulted backward in time. Two years, three months and nine days ago, he had faced another senseless explosion. In those fire-streaked skies over Texas, he had lost everything.

In his mind, he saw the single-engine Cessna. His wife, Paula, on her first solo flight. The white winter skies over the prairie. Another plane. A blast of gunfire.

On the ground, Quint was helpless. He could do nothing to stop the attack.

The Cessna was caught—trapped in the cross fire between earth and air. Lethal flares. Tracer bullets. There was a flash. A shimmer. An explosion. The underbelly of the clouds glowed blood-red.

Pieces of the Cessna, debris, fell to the earth.

Quint’s heart dropped. His world stopped rotating on its axis. He was numb, yet aching in every fiber of his being.

Without Paula, he had no reason to live. In the months that followed, he prayed for death—a dark, silent embrace to fill the inconsolable emptiness. He rode into the plains alone and stayed for days, waiting, begging for the end to come. But death was a stubborn bastard.

Eventually, Quint’s bitter tears ran dry. The remnant of his life was nothing better than a sick joke. He had his health, his oil business, his ranch…and no reason to enjoy any of it.

Somehow, he forced himself to go on, learned how to laugh to keep from crying, told himself that he’d be able to accept Paula’s death. Someday. He’d pull himself together and become a whole man again. Someday.

Someday wasn’t here. Not yet.

His eyelids pried open as the last echoes from the office building explosion on the high-resolution screen faded and the picture went black. It would’ve been nice to pretend this bombing was a DVD from Hollywood where the macho hero would stride through the flames with a smudge on his forehead and a beautiful starlet tucked under his arm—but real life was seldom so neat and tidy. All too often, people died. Real people.

It was the job of Quint Crawford and the other members of Chicago Confidential, a special division of the Federal Department of Public Safety, to confront the violence and end it. They pursued their investigations undercover—deeply undercover. All agents had other lives. When not on assignment, they worked at successful careers that weren’t necessarily related to law enforcement.

The Confidential program had started in Texas under the direction of Mitchell Forbes, and there was another branch in Montana. Here in Chicago, the front for their operations was Solutions, Inc., a fictitious corporation located on the penthouse floor of the Langston Building, a skyscraper in the heart of the city.

With a quick glance, Quint surveyed the faces of the other four agents who sat at the round table in the high-tech confines of the special-operations room. Everybody but the boss seemed shocked by the explosion, a little off balance. Quint was the new guy in town, on loan from Texas Confidential, but he wasn’t sure he liked the way this assignment had been introduced with a bang. It might be good to lighten the mood.

“I have a couple of questions,” he drawled. “First off, what happened to the dog?”

Three of the other four agents chuckled, but Vincent Romeo, the head of operations, did not crack a smile. This dark, brawny man, a former National Security Agency operative, was responsible for setting up this new Confidential branch. Though Vincent had the reputation of being a good man and an effective agent, his attitude seemed aloof—somber as his black turtleneck and trousers.

In Quint’s estimation, Vincent was a serious tight ass. The only time he brightened was when he looked at his redheaded wife, Whitney MacNair Romeo, who had to be the prettiest agent in any Confidential branch.

Coolly, Vincent responded, “By the time the authorities responded to the explosion, the dog and his owner were long gone. No one—not even the security guards in the building—were injured in this explosion.”

“So, they never saw the dog again,” Quint clarified. It seemed odd that the authorities on the scene wouldn’t make a point of finding a witness.

“The dog isn’t our problem,” Vincent said. His tone was near sarcastic. “If there are no more questions, we’ll continue with our briefing.”

Quint stretched out his long legs and leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable ultramodern chair that hugged his behind like a handcrafted leather saddle. If Vincent wanted to play it cool, Quint would oblige. “Cause of the explosion?”

“The mechanics of the bomb will be explained in a moment.”

“When was this video taken?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where?” Since it was March, Quint assumed the snow on the curb indicated a colder climate. Something about the shadows and light made him think of northern latitudes.

“Reykjavik, Iceland.”

“Why?” Quint asked. This was the hard question—the one that would surely drive their undercover investigation.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. The corner of his mouth pulled into an expression that could’ve been a frown or a sneer. “You don’t waste words, cowboy.”

“Y’all have to excuse my impatience.” Quint purposely exaggerated his Texan drawl. “I didn’t know we were chitchatting at an afternoon tea party. You just take your time…city boy.”

Vincent’s coal-black eyes flared. Apparently, he didn’t like to have his leadership challenged.

Beside him, Whitney groaned. “This is what I hate about working with men. Everything turns into a contest.”

She was much too ladylike to call this altercation a spitting match, but that’s what it was. Neither man would quit until they knew whose spit flew the farthest.

Ever since Quint arrived in Chicago two days ago, Vincent Romeo had been treating him like a brainless hick from the sticks. That attitude was going to stop. Right now.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Quint said. “I hail from Midland, Texas. My business is oil, but I run a few head of cattle on my ranch so it’s true I’m a cowboy. Damn proud to be one. And I surely don’t mind if you call me ‘cowboy’ or ‘Tex’ or ‘good old boy,’ but you’d better learn to say it with a smile.”

“You might not have noticed,” Whitney said, “but my husband isn’t big on unnecessary grins. I think it’s a brooding Italian thing.”

“I think his shorts are too tight.” Andy Dexter gave a snorting laugh and shot a loopy grin in Quint’s direction. Like most guys who spent a lot of time with computers, Andy was lacking in social skills. He was, however, a genius in telecommunications and computer forensics. His specialized computer equipment made the special-ops room look like the cockpit of a 747, with wall-to-wall blinking lights, switches, screens and dials. In an instant, Andy could analyze and match voiceprints or fingerprints, pull up Interpol data or reproduce satellite photos of troop movements in Zaire. It had been his idea to install built-in laptops in front of each chair at the round table for briefings.

“Could we get back to business?” Lawson Davies glanced at his Rolex. “It’s already nine-fifteen, and I have a deposition in forty-five minutes.”

“Really, Law?” Whitney arched a delicate eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think the vice president in charge of a big corporation’s legal department needed to bother with such mundane legal tasks.”

“I’m observing and training a new attorney.” He turned toward Vincent. “That bombing in Iceland. It was the building where Quantum Industries has its offices. Correct?”

“Yes,” Vincent said.

“The story they put out to the media claimed the explosion was an accident caused by a gas leak,” Law said thoughtfully. He was well acquainted with the ins and outs of the oil business. When not on undercover assignment, he worked for Petrol Corporation, an oil distributor whose competition was the multinational giant, Quantum Industries, the largest buyer and seller of oil worldwide. “Why was the bombing covered up?”

“There was a need for an undercover investigation.” Though Vincent directed his reply toward Law, he trained his gaze on Quint. “Within Quantum, nobody but the CEO knows the truth.”

Staring back at Vincent, Quint asked, “Do we know who set the bomb?”

“Not yet.”

“Any of the usual terrorist suspects?”

“Not as far as we can tell.” Vincent nodded to his pretty redheaded wife. “Please proceed with the briefing information.”

“Right.” Whitney tapped a few computer keys on the laptop in front of her. The built-in screens all around the table came to life. “First, you have detailed information about Quantum Industries, which you can read later. Second, we have an analysis of the bomb—a high-tech mechanism on an override timer which appeared to be deactivated long enough for the old man and his dog to pass safely. We’re assuming the terrorists didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention with fatalities. The third point is most important for our investigation. Although nobody took credit for the bombing, there was a message. It said: ‘Next time, home base.’”

“Are we sure they meant Quantum?” Law asked. “There are other offices in that building.”

“We’re sure,” Vincent said.

“Then, home base is Chicago.” Law looked away from the screen and removed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore for reading. “If we had windows in this special-ops room, I could point out the Quantum Building over toward the Sears Tower.”

“Right here in our own backyard,” Whitney said. “That’s why we’re involved. Several other agencies are working on security and surveillance. We’ll be undercover, as always, trying to prevent another strike.”

Law asked, “Where did we get this video?”

“There was a routine surveillance camera across the street.”

“Digitally enhanced,” Andy said, calling on his expertise. “I’m sure the original wasn’t in color and wasn’t so sharp. If you want, I can run a downgrade to give us the actual picture.”

“Not necessary,” Vincent said. “But I would like your digital analysis on the incendiary and the trigger mechanism. Your assignment, in addition to the usual telecommunications, is to study the Quantum Building blueprints and pinpoint probable locations for explosives.”

Andy beamed. Excitedly, he dragged his skinny fingers through the wild mop of blond hair that perched like a bird’s nest atop his narrow forehead. “Oh, man! I love a challenge.”

The younger man’s enthusiasm brought a smile to Quint’s lips. It had been a very long time since he’d been so eager about anything. “I’m assuming,” he said, “that since both Law and I are in the oil business, we’re going to investigate Quantum.”

“Correct,” Vincent said. “There’s the possibility that this is an inside job. However, it’s much more likely that we’re looking toward the Middle East.”

“We’ll start with the nation of Imad.” Whitney tapped another key on her computer. A map displayed on their individual screens. “Imad is on the Arabian Peninsula, bordered by Oman, Anbar and Arabia. This oil-rich emirate is under the thumb of Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed. Though it’s not general knowledge, the sheik is suspected of human rights violations. Imad is on the verge of being sanctioned by the United States.”

Quint exchanged a glance with Law. Both men nodded. Whitney’s information wasn’t news to them.

Law said, “Several distributors are already refusing to buy oil from Imad. Quantum is among them.”

“Correct,” Whitney said. “Quantum was the first distributor to back off from Imad.”

“Sounds like a motive for terrorism,” Quint said. “Maybe the sheik blew up the Quantum Building in Iceland for revenge.”

“Revenge doesn’t make sense,” Whitney said. “The sheik wants to be friendly with Quantum, to have them buy his oil reserves. In any case, we have reason to believe Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed has plans to come to Chicago. He has a daughter, Miah, who lives here.”

“In Chicago?” Quint asked.

“Yes, and I’ll have more information about her later,” Whitney said. “This is our most recent photograph of Khalaf.”

Their screens displayed a sharp picture of a trim, older man, dressed in a tailored military uniform. Though his expression was stiff, his dark eyes burned with a sinister inner flame.

Whitney continued her briefing. “This trip is highly unusual. Sheik Khalaf seldom leaves Imad, especially now when he appears to be building up his military.”

“What’s the reason for the buildup?” Quint asked.

“Money,” Whitney answered. “The bottom line is always money. Unless Quantum starts buying oil from him again, the sheik’s regime will go broke. He might attempt to gain leverage by taking over the country to the north of him—Anbar.”

“We’re friendly with Anbar,” Law said.

“Yes,” Whitney said. The photograph on the screen changed. “This is Prince Javid Haji Haleem of Anbar. He’s next in the line of succession for the throne of Anbar.”

With curling black hair and dark piercing eyes, he was a good-looking man. Even Quint would call him handsome, and Quint didn’t generally notice such things about other men. “I’ll bet the ladies are standing in line to join this guy’s harem.”

“Not funny,” Whitney chastised as she displayed a series of photos of Javid. “The future ruler of Anbar believes in treating women as human beings and not chattel. In many ways, he’s an enlightened leader, promoting literacy and education among his people. He travels all over the world as a goodwill ambassador for Anbar, and he investigates.”

“Investigates what?” Quint asked.

“Javid is an expert on terrorism. With his assistance, a lot of tragedy has been averted.”

The last in the series of pictures showed a subtle difference. Javid’s features were honed by a sharper edge. “Whoa,” Quint said. “Was this picture taken on a bad day?”

“Very observant.” Whitney sounded impressed. “That photograph is not, in fact, Javid. It’s his identical twin brother, Prince Zahir Haji Haleem. Notorious international playboy.”

Her information came as a surprise to Quint, who generally kept up on events in oil-rich countries around the world. He knew there were brothers in Anbar, but he didn’t know they were twins.

“Both Zahir and Javid are half-American and were raised here. Now, they both live in the Middle East. It’s important to keep in mind that Zahir is more than a jet-setter,” Whitney said. “He’s been involved with supposed freedom fighters in the Middle East, most recently with Khalaf when he deposed the government in Nurul. Which brings up another issue.”

Quint leaned forward, listening carefully to this complex explanation. “Does this have something to do with Khalaf’s daughter?”

“Good guess. Miah Mohairbi’s lineage links her to the throne of Nurul. If Zahir marries her, his claim is solidified.” Whitney brought up the map again. “Nurul is on the Red Sea by Yemen.”

Law frowned at the screen. “I’m familiar with Nurul. Quantum isn’t buying oil from them until the political situation settles down. Other distributors, Petrol included, are following their lead.”

“How does Zahir fit into the picture?” Quint asked.

“If he’s allied with Imad,” Law said, “his tactics are questionable.”

“As in terrorism?”

Law shrugged. “There’s no stated U.S. position as yet.”

Whitney spoke into the intercom that connected with the front desk. “Kathy, would you please escort our guest into the special-ops room?”

While waiting for the electronic door to open, Quint scrolled through the data on his screen to a section with information on Quantum Industries. In his dealings with the megapowerful oil distribution giant, he’d met many of the principals, including the CEO, Henry Van Buren. He noticed an unfamiliar face in their briefing notes, a very lovely face. He paused on her photograph. Natalie Van Buren, vice president in charge of public relations. Her soft brown hair fell neatly to her shoulders. Her green-eyed gaze was cool and direct and somehow mysterious, as if she had a secret. Why was the photograph of a public relations vice president included in a briefing about terrorists?

As soon as the electronic door whooshed open, their screens went blank.

Whitney stood. “Gentlemen, I’m pleased to introduce Prince Javid Haji Haleem, future ruler of Anbar.”

In person, Javid was impressive. Though he was probably only in his early thirties, he carried himself gracefully. As he shook Quint’s hand, he said, “I know you.”

“No, sir, I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”

“We have not met. I know your reputation.” His slight accent made his speech seem formal. “You have led wildcat oil crews.”

“Not for a long time.” In his twenties, Quint built the resources of Crawford Oil by wildcat exploration around the world, usually in Central and South America. He quit traveling when he settled down with Paula, five years ago on his thirtieth birthday.

“You discovered oil in many nations,” Javid said. “Yet, you never exploited the local population. Instead, you created employment. In some cases, you won freedom for oppressed peoples. I admire you, Quintin Crawford.”

“Thank you, sir.” Embarrassed by the tribute, Quint got back to the topic at hand. “How can Chicago Confidential be of service to you?”

Javid strode around the table and sat beside Vincent. “I believe my brother, Zahir, helped in the overthrow of Nurul by Sheik Khalaf. It is no secret that Khalaf would like to put Zahir on the throne in Nurul. The alliance between these two is perilous for my nation. If Imad and Nurul combine their military resources, they could conquer Anbar.”

“If they conquer Anbar,” Law said, “they might become the most powerful force in the Middle East.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Javid frowned. “I have come to you because I am also convinced that Zahir was involved in the Reykjavik bombing.”

“Do you have proof?” Quint asked.

“Not direct evidence.” A pained look crossed his face. “It saddens me to think my own brother is linked with terrorists, but I am not naive. Zahir is capable of…anything.”

Quint said, “We just heard that Sheik Khalaf is coming to Chicago. How about Zahir?”

“He will be here soon,” Javid said. “There are rumors he is betrothed with the estranged daughter of Khalaf, but his stated purpose in coming to Chicago is to meet with Quantum and to discuss the future sale of oil from Nurul. And possibly to convince them to buy from Imad.”

“But he supposedly bombed Quantum in Reykjavik,” Andy said.

“My brother negotiates with one hand,” Javid said. “He plots with the other.”

Andy nodded, seemingly unconcerned about human treachery. “What can you tell us about the incendiary?”

“If you’d like,” Whitney said, “we can review the specs right now.”

Vincent nodded his assent, and the large high-resolution screen lit up with a three-dimensional blueprint for an incendiary.

Once again, the door from the outer office opened, and Kathy the receptionist stepped inside. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have an urgent phone call for Quint.”

“I’ll take it out front.” He rose from his seat, glad to be leaving a technical discussion of bombs and bombing.

In the outer office, he winked at Kathy Renk. “Thank you, ma’am. All those switches and coils are way too much information for me.”

“Me, too. When Andy explains mechanical stuff, it’s hard for me to stay awake.” A pleasantly plump woman in her late thirties, Kathy couldn’t be considered beautiful. But when she smiled, the world was a friendlier place. She pointed toward Whitney’s office. “You can take the call in there. It’s Daniel Austin.”

Quint closed the office door behind himself, picked up the phone and said, “If it isn’t Daniel Austin, the head hound dawg at Montana Confidential.”

“Surprised you can remember with that peanut-size buzzard brain of yours. How the hell are you?”

“Can’t complain,” Quint said. “I’m in the middle of a briefing, so I got to keep it short. What’s up?”

“What’s your take on Javid?”

“He’s not afraid to look me straight in the eye. He seems a mite quick to turn on his brother, but I don’t know the family history. And, I’d have to say, Javid’s a real handsome fellow.”

“You got that right.” Austin chuckled. “And don’t we sound like a couple of prancin’ Nancy boys?”

“Don’t know about you,” Quint said. “I happen to be confident enough in my masculinity to notice when another guy is good-looking.”

“Boy, you’re beginning to sound like Oprah.”

“Well, perhaps that’s why I was sent to Chicago,” Quint said. “Now, was there a reason for this urgent call?”

“The CEO at Quantum, Henry Van Buren, is an old friend of mine, and I’m worried about him.” All the joking left Austin’s voice. “I want you to take real good care of him and his family.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Most especially,” Daniel said, “I want you to look out for Henry’s daughter, Natalie. From what I understand, she’s a single woman.”

“You’re matchmaking,” Quint said. “Now who sounds like Oprah?”

Austin gave a hoot of laughter. “Seriously, how are things going with the set-up of Chicago Confidential? What do you think of Vincent Romeo?”

“A good man.” Quint didn’t choose to mention his personal spitting match with Vincent which was a man-to-man private matter. “This is a real high-tech operation, and they’re doing just fine.”

“Take care of yourself,” Austin said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me a lot of room, sir.”

After saying goodbye, Quint disconnected the call and returned to the outer office where Kathy Renk was scowling at a half-eaten candy bar.

“Something wrong?” Quint asked.

“It’s that new maintenance man, Liam Wallace, who thinks he’s God’s gift. The ego on that man!” She fluttered her hands. “Oh, listen to me. He’s got my feathers all ruffled. It’s not important. You go back to your meeting.”

Quint smiled at Kathy as he returned to the special-ops room. The discussion with Javid continued, outlining the arcane politics of Imad, Nurul and Anbar. Why had Austin alerted him? What did he suspect about Javid? Quint wondered if the twin brothers really were estranged.

As Vincent wrapped up the briefing, Lawson Davies was given the assignment of researching other terrorist groups and ferreting out possible traitors inside Quantum Industries. Quint wondered how he was going to be used in this investigation. Infiltrating Quantum was out of the question. Even if he buried his Texan accent, he couldn’t disguise his identity; too many people at the company already knew him. Nor was it likely he could go undercover with the terrorists.

As the others left the office, Vincent caught his gaze. “Stay behind. We need to talk.”

Quint returned to his chair. Idly scrolling through the information on his laptop, he paused again on the photograph of Natalie Van Buren, a lady who should be safe at her desk, escorting visiting dignitaries and sending out press releases. What was her connection?

Vincent returned and took the seat beside Quint. For a moment, they sat quietly, allowing the energy in the room to settle.

“When I started out,” Vincent said, “I never planned to be the guy behind the desk. The administrator. The boss. It’s harder than I expected.”

“‘Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,’” Quint quoted.

“And the butt that sits on the throne.”

A joke from Vincent Romeo? Quint could hardly believe it.

“Except,” Vincent said, “I’m not a king. We all work together, and I want you on my team, Quint.”

“I’m ready to play.” Quint figured this was as close to an apology as he’d get. And it was enough.

“I’d like to hear your opinion on the briefing information.”

Quint glanced toward the woman’s face on the screen. It would be her job with Quantum to make sure these Middle Eastern dignitaries were entertained while in Chicago. “From what Javid said, I’m worried about his brother, Zahir. He’s convinced the world that he’s just a playboy, but his plan might be to take over the whole Middle East.”

“Wish we had solid proof against him.” Vincent sighed. “It’s easier to go after known criminals. We know how they think, how they operate.”

“Not always.” Paula’s death had been caused by a drug cartel, a viperous nest of professional criminals who had ultimately been stopped by Texas Confidential. Unconsciously, Quint’s gaze wandered toward a mounted set of cow horns over the door in the special-ops room. The horns—an anachronism in this high-tech arena—were a good-luck gift from Daniel Austin. “The only thing to count on is the unexpected. Mitchell Forbes gave me that bit of advice.”

“Mitchell’s a good man. He told me a lot about you. Information that wasn’t included in your dossier.” Vincent’s voice lowered. “I’m sorry for your loss. Deeply sorry.”

Quint acknowledged his sentiment with a shrug. Neither of them were men who spent much time expressing their emotions. “What’s my assignment?”

Vincent pointed toward the computer screen. “You’re looking at her.”

“Natalie Van Buren?”

“She and my wife went to boarding school together, and Whitney is worried about her. It seems that Natalie has been receiving threatening notes.”

“For how long?” Quint asked.

“A couple of weeks. They started before the bombing in Reykjavik and might be unconnected threats from a crank, but we need to keep an eye on Natalie.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Quint said. “She’s not hard to look at.”

“Here’s the complicated part,” Vincent said. “We don’t want to alert the terrorists to our presence. You can’t tell anyone you’re her bodyguard. Not even Natalie herself.”

“Wait a minute,” Quint said. “Are you saying that she won’t be told that I’m there to protect her?”

“Exactly.”

“How am I supposed to shadow her every movement, without letting her know why I’m there?”

“Turn on that famous Southern charm.” Vincent grinned broadly. “Okay, cowboy?”

STANDING ALONE at the floor-to-ceiling window in her father’s office on the thirty-first floor of the Quantum Building, Natalie Van Buren stared at the familiar Chicago sky-scape. Tall, solid buildings thrust into the cloudy March day, defying the blistering winds from Lake Michigan with their muscular presence. She loved the character of her big-shouldered city. Chicago had been built from the honest sweat of plain, hard-working Midwesterners. Chicago was a city that got things done.

Usually, this view comforted and inspired her, but not today. Natalie knew, in her heart, that someone was lying to her. Behind the bland reassurances from the other corporate vice presidents that everything was business as usual, she sensed a thin veil of deception.

When it came to Quantum business, Natalie trusted her instincts more than she did data, meetings or memorandums. This was her home; she’d grown up here. These corporate offices had been her childhood playground. As the eldest daughter, she’d always aspired to taking over the family business. Her life had been dedicated to proving herself worthy of running the largest oil distributor in the world.

Impatiently, she turned away from the window. Where was her father? Why was he taking so long? The minute he stepped through the door to his office, she’d pounce and demand to know the truth. As if that would make him tell her. Nobody ever forced Henry Van Buren to play his hand.

Her father entered his office and closed the door. Though he strode with his usual athletic vigor, his green eyes—exactly the same color as Natalie’s—seemed tired. “Good morning,” he barked.

“I need to know what’s going on,” she said.

“Read the Tribune.” He sank into the black leather chair behind his desk. “I have a job for you, and I don’t want you palming it off on an assistant.”

She never shirked her responsibilities. Why would he even insinuate that she wasn’t a hard worker? “Before we talk about anything else, I want some answers. In five days, I’ll be speaking to that energy consortium in Washington, D.C., and I must be sure of what I need to say.”

He tilted his head to one side, studying her as if he didn’t see her every Monday through Friday. “You look nice today, Natalie. That’s a pretty color.”

“Loden green.” Her tailored, silk-blend blazer with matching knee-length skirt ought to look more than simply “nice.” This suit had cost a small fortune. “Back to business, Henry. I have a few questions.”

“Shoot.”

“The security in this building has been increased. New fish-eye cameras have been installed on the floors. There’s a new machine in the mail room for x-raying packages. Why?”

“It was time for an upgrade.”

He had on his poker face. Natalie recognized the expression because she often wore it herself. She and her father were very much alike—hardworking, skilled businesspeople who were absolutely dedicated to Quantum. Yet, they weren’t close. They never hugged. And they weren’t confidants.

Natalie strolled across the carpet to his desk and casually picked up a clumsy-looking ceramic paperweight that she’d made for him when she was in fourth grade. “I hope we’re not going to the expense of upgrading security because of those stupid threatening notes I’ve received.”

His poker face slipped. “I’d do anything to protect you, Natalie. You know that.”

His sincere concern worried her. Though Natalie had been a bit disconcerted by the first couple of notes, she was more angry than anything else. She refused to be intimidated. But if her father was taking the threats seriously…

“Next question,” he said.

“Does this extra security have anything to do with the explosion in Reykjavik?”

“You have the PR information on the explosion. An accident. What else?”

“I’ve heard that someone is buying oil from Imad.”

“There’s no law against it,” he said. “What does that have to do with Quantum?”

“We’re not dealing with Imad?”

“Hell, no. Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed can take a flying leap, as far as I’m concerned. In my opinion, the man is a murderous terrorist.”

“I’m glad.” The moral center at Quantum always made her proud. Though they were a megacorporation in a sometimes dirty business, her father kept them on the high road. The suspected human rights abuses in Imad truly disgusted him. “What’s our position on Nurul?”

“I’ve agreed to meet with Prince Zahir next week. Though he’s not officially part of their new government, he’s acting as emissary. But I don’t intend to buy from Nurul until their politics have stabilized.”

“What’s the story with Zahir?”

“Even though he’s supposedly engaged, he has the reputation of being a ladies’ man. Which makes me glad that you’re going to be out of town meeting with the energy consortium while he’s here.”

Though her sense of being deceived lingered, she had to smile. Her father didn’t want her getting involved with a renegade prince from the Middle East. “Do you really think I’d fall for Zahir?”

“You never know.” He scooted a stack of papers to the center of his desk and eyed the top sheet, apparently anxious to start work. “Are we finished with your questions and ready to start your new assignment?”

“I’m not quite finished,” she said. “About my speech to the consortium, the legal department has compiled proof against the allegation that Quantum is a monopoly. Our contracts are clearly nonexclusive. According to—”

“Hold it! This job assignment will give you a new perspective on contracts. I want you to spend the next couple of days with one of our oldest suppliers, the owner of Crawford Oil. His name is Quintin Crawford. He’s up here from Texas and would like to be shown around the town.”

“You’re joking!” She had tons of work to do before she left town. “You want me to waste my time babysitting some minor-league supplier?”

“Watch your attitude, Natalie. The loyalty of men like Quint is what keeps us in business.” He pressed a button on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. “Please show Mr. Crawford in here.”

“No, Henry, my schedule is full. I can’t… I don’t want to…”

Her objections faded to helpless sputtering when the door to her father’s office swung wide and an extremely tall man swaggered into the office. From the top of his black Stetson that almost scraped the upper edge of the door frame to the toes of his brushed-leather cowboy boots, he was every inch a Texan. He was not—definitely not—the type of sophisticated escort Natalie preferred.

Though his denim jeans and suede jacket might pass for an eccentric fashion statement, the rest of his outfit was over the top. At the throat of his white cotton shirt was a bolo tie with a silver concha that matched the blindingly polished silver in his gigantic belt buckle.

“Howdy, Miss Natalie,” he drawled. “Your daddy tells me you’re going to show me the town. I am much obliged.”

“Hello, Mr. Crawford.” Her brain raced, trying to figure out ways she could dump this assignment. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Call me Quint.” He removed his ridiculous cowboy hat, strode toward her and stuck out his hand. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

When she accepted his handshake, Natalie looked up at him. His brown hair was a little too long and untamed. A dark tan bronzed his features. His startling blue eyes, surrounded by crinkles from the sun, held her gaze. Strangely mesmerized, she saw wide-open skies, unlimited vistas and wildflowers—a breath of fresh air through her sterile corporate existence. His handshake was firm. His large hand engulfed her soft palm, but his touch was gentle and controlled.

She swallowed hard. No way would she allow herself to be interested in a shaggy-haired cowboy.

Her father came out from behind the desk and rested his hand on each of their shoulders. His gesture startled her. It felt as if he was giving them his blessing.

“You two have fun today. All day. That’s an order, Natalie.”

She didn’t mistake his meaning. Natalie would not be allowed to assign the task of sightseeing with Quint to an assistant. According to her father—the CEO of Quantum—this Texan was her problem.