Читать книгу Protecting the Innocent - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 12

At seven o’clock that evening Roman connected with Maureen, a slinky redhead. In her tight jeans and see-through blouse, she was hotter than wasabi on sushi. Not that her appearance mattered to him. Maureen wasn’t a date. She was his contact inside the CIA, a special ops agent.

They met at a cheesy tavern in Oakland where the specialty of the house was tequila-fried perch, but they didn’t need a menu. After a quick hello, they went to her car at the back of the parking lot, far from the neon sign above the entrance.

Maureen slid behind the steering wheel and turned on the radio. Instead of music, there was a whirring sound. “This interference noise disrupts any bugs or listening devices pointed in our direction.”

“Nice tune,” he said.

“You know how I love my secret-agent toys.”

She’d been his contact for almost a year. When Roman learned that the think tank had manipulated federal regulations on offshore banking for an emerging Central American nation, he hooked up with a special branch of the CIA, and they assigned Maureen, an attractive woman who could easily pass as one of his dates. That was their cover.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I’m concerned about two innocent people who are now living on the Legate grounds. Anya Bouchard Parrish and her son, Charlie.”

“She’s the wife of your friend who was killed, right?”

He nodded. “Slater talked her into signing a contract that would allow him to raise and educate her son.”

“Why?”

“Charlie has a genius IQ, and Slater wants to groom him. He thinks Charlie will be his legacy.”

“But he’s not related to the child?”

“No,” Roman said.

In the dim glow from the dashboard, he saw her thoughtful frown. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I.” But Roman had given the issue some thought. “Anya participated in a fertilization experiment at Legate. That was how she conceived her son. Slater might feel a proprietary connection.”

“How does Mrs. Parrish feel about this?”

“She doesn’t know.” Roman frowned. None of this made sense. “By bringing her son to Legate, she thinks she’s following her late husband’s wishes.”

“Why?”

“Jeremy made a provision in his will saying he wanted his son to attend the Legate school, starting when he was five.”

“Do you believe he’d do that?”

“Not really,” Roman said. “If his signature on the will is a forgery, how would I find out?”

“Get me the original. Our experts can verify.”

That wouldn’t be easy. He didn’t want to alarm Anya by asking to see the document. “Even if the will was forged, it doesn’t explain why Slater is so fixated on Charlie. True, the boy is smart, but there are plenty of whiz kids out there. Why Charlie?”

“Maybe there’s a connection in Anya’s family tree. Should we run a trace?”

“Not necessary.” Anya’s privacy had been invaded enough, and he knew just enough about her father to realize that an investigation could be a problem.

Maureen swept her thick auburn hair off her forehead and fastened it at her nape with a clip. Though her makeup was sultry, her attitude was all business. As always, when Roman allowed his gaze to wander over her body, he wondered where—in that tight-fitting outfit—she kept her gun.

“Bottom line,” Maureen said. “Are these two people in danger?”

“Not Charlie. He’ll be pampered like a prince.”

“And his mother?”

He’d given Anya’s safety a great deal of consideration and had decided there was no immediate peril. “She’s safe for now. Slater won’t let anything happen to her that might traumatize her son.”

“So why did you contact me?”

“I wanted to give you a heads up,” Roman said. “If it turns out that I’m wrong and Anya is threatened, I’m pulling the plug.”

“Sorry to hear that. Your inside info has given us excellent leads.”

“I’m not cut out for undercover work,” he said. “I feel like crap when I’m encouraging somebody with one hand and betraying them with the other.”

“Make no mistake,” she said. “You’re doing a good thing. Because of your information, we’ve been able to sever terrorist plots, stop an attempted takeover of the government in Burma and shut down an illegal munitions plant.”

“For the greater good,” he said in ironic reference to the Legate motto.

“It still amazes me,” she said. “Who would have guessed that all those international bad guys consulted a think tank?”

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said. “In the future, you might not be the best person for me to contact.”

Her pearly teeth flashed in the dark. “Does this mean you’re breaking up with me?”

There had never been anything between them except for CIA business. “I can’t be seen going on dates. My current assignment at Legate is to make Anya happy. You know, to romance her.”

“Oh, ugh!” Right before his eyes, the hard-boiled CIA agent turned into a girly girl. Her voice rose an octave. “That’s so creepy, Roman. How can you lead that poor woman on?”

“As if you’ve never used your physical assets to get what you wanted?”

“This doesn’t sound like you.” She peered through the dim dashboard light into his eyes. “You hate deception.”

He returned her gaze. “Anya won’t be hurt.”

“How can you say that? You’re planning to lead her down the garden path, to promise her a rose garden, to—”

“I won’t lie to her,” Roman said. “Anya will not be hurt. Never again.”

“Oh, my God.” Maureen gasped and leaned back in her seat. “You really care about this woman.”

She had no idea how much he cared.

AT CHARLIE’S BEDSIDE, Anya leaned down to kiss her son’s forehead. He was sound asleep at nine o’clock—a bit early, but this had been a hectic day. “Sleep well, sweetpea.”

If he’d been awake, he might have complained about the nickname. But now her son was quiet, breathing steadily, innocent as a little blond angel. She tucked the covers around his shoulders, closed the door to his bedroom and went downstairs.

This part of the day was Anya’s alone time when she could reflect. For the past month, her private deliberations had focused on one thing: Should she or shouldn’t she sign the contract?

Finally, that decision-making process was over. The ink on the document was dry, and it seemed that she’d done the right thing for Charlie. But why did her heart feel so heavy?

She stood in the center of the living room and slowly turned in a circle. The cottage wasn’t exactly the way she would have decorated, but close. The earth-tone furniture was better quality than her own sofa and chairs in Denver. The bland artwork on the wall didn’t appeal to her, but she loved the wall of bookshelves separating the living room and a modern kitchen with shiny new appliances.

She couldn’t complain about the living accommodations. This cottage—which was equal to the square footage of her rented house in Denver—was cozy and comfortable. And free.

Slowly, she turned again. Her gaze flitted from the plasma-screen television hanging on the wall to the charming stone fireplace to the welcoming fruit basket on the side table. This wasn’t the life she’d imagined for herself. It felt…too organized.

Anya wanted more adventure. An impulsive weekend vacation. A surprise visit from friends. And she doubted that unplanned excitement was included in the Legate program. Spontaneous would only be a word on Charlie’s vocabulary list.

Might as well make the best of it. She padded around the main floor, turning off the lamps, leaving one burning in case Charlie got up during the night and wandered. At the door to the cottage, she doused the porch light and stepped outside into the darkness. The cottage was surrounded by a forest of landscaping, giving the impression of seclusion. She couldn’t see the gray stone mansion from here, but one of the outbuildings was only twenty yards away from her roofed porch that stretched the length of the cottage.

It was a beautiful night. The autumn breeze held a chill that stimulated her senses. She cinched the sash on her flannel robe more tightly and inhaled. The air was moist with a woodsy scent of cedar and pine. If she stood very still, she could hear the faint echo of the bay surf.

At the edge of the trees, she noticed movement from something much larger than a squirrel. “Who’s there?”

A man stepped away from the shadows. “Good evening, ma’am.”

She shouldn’t be surprised. There were several other people who lived on these grounds. “Hello. Have we met?”

“No, ma’am.”

As he came closer, she saw the dark blue uniform worn by Legate’s security corps. His trousers were tucked into his boots, military-style. There was a holster attached to his belt, and he carried something else, held tight to his side.

“My name is Anya,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. I know.”

“And you are?”

“Harrison,” he said.

Staying on the porch, she edged closer to him. “Are you armed, Harrison?”

In answer, he revealed the object he’d been hiding. An automatic rifle.

She was shocked and more than a little upset. “Why do you have that gun?”

“Intruders.” He took two steps back, fading again into the shadows. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

Of course, she knew that Legate handled sensitive political and scientific information. Security was necessary, but she hadn’t expected constant patrolling by armed guards.

Why was it necessary to have such intense protection? Harrison the security man looked like he was prepared to take on an army. What kind of place was she living in? The bracing chill turned icy cold, sinking deep through her flesh to her bones.

Back inside, she locked the doors. Sleep was out of the question. Anya whipped through the house, turning on the lights she’d extinguished only moments ago. My God, she’d made a terrible mistake. They couldn’t live here. Not with an armed guard patrolling outside her front door!

When the telephone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“It’s Roman. How are you doing?”

“Why is the security man carrying an Uzi?” she demanded.

“It’s not an Uzi,” he said. “His weapon is specially designed—”

“I don’t care,” she said. “How dangerous is this place? What kind of intruders are they expecting?”

“I’m over at the mansion, Anya. If you’d like, I can be at the cottage in three minutes.”

“Hurry.”

She slammed the phone into the cradle and went to the front window to watch for Roman’s approach. He should have warned her. He never should have allowed her to bring Charlie into danger.

In the glow from the porch light, she saw Roman jogging along the path toward the cottage. He’d changed from the suit he was wearing earlier into Levi’s and a black leather jacket that made him look a bit dangerous himself. Dark and mysterious, Roman was a big man, over six feet tall and muscular.

Before he could knock, she opened the front door and placed her forefinger across her lips. “Shh. Charlie’s sleeping.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m a little freaked,” she said.

When he stepped inside, his male energy filled the house. She could have sworn that the lightbulbs burned a little brighter and that the temperature rose several degrees. He placed his hands on her shoulders and stared down into her eyes. In a husky whisper, he asked, “What happened?”

“I stepped outside for some air and met a security man who was armed like a commando. Why is he here?”

“This is an international think tank. We handle sensitive, top secret projects—scientific and political. The guards are a precaution.”

“Against what? Terrorists? Did I bring my son into a war zone?”

His smile was warm and reassuring. He lightly brushed her hair back from her forehead, and she remembered his gentleness—unusual for such a big man. “You’re safe here.”

How could he say that? Her husband died here. Of course, that was an accident, unrelated to the security corps. “If Charlie sees armed guards, he’ll be scared.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “Your son might be a genius, but he’s also a typical boy. He’ll think the guns are cool.”

“That’s worse! I don’t want him to be comfortable around weapons.” Her fingers clenched into fists, ready to battle an invisible enemy. “I might be overreacting.”

“Maybe.”

He lifted her chin so she had to look directly into his face. “What’s really bothering you?”

“I don’t know.”

As she continued to gaze up at him, she became distracted. An errant strand of his thick, black hair fell across his forehead. His deep-set eyes shone with a dark compelling light. Up close, his irises weren’t completely black, but a dark tawny-brown. His firm jawline was outlined with a day’s growth of stubble.

She focused on his well-shaped mouth. His smiling lips were the most welcoming feature in that hard chiseled face. What would it be like to kiss those lips?

Immediately, she squelched that impetuous idea. Roman had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He dated models and socialites. He lived in a bachelor’s pad on a cliffside—a legendary setting for seduction. Even if he had been a suitable person to kiss, she wasn’t ready to go down that path. It had only been eight months….

She caught hold of his hands and lowered them from her shoulders. Roman was a friend. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of him in any other way. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d rather have wine.”

“Me, too.” She tossed her head, trying to shake the idea of Roman as a man she could be attracted to. “But I don’t know if I have wine.”

“Allow me.”

He led the way into the kitchen where he opened a cabinet near the back door. The face of the cabinet door was oak, like the rest of the cabinetry, but it sealed like a refrigerator. Inside was a full wine rack.

“White or red?” he asked.

“Merlot,” she said. “Is that another refrigerator?”

“A mini wine cellar. It’s sealed to keep the temperature stable at the proper fifty-five degrees with humidity of seventy percent.” He pulled out a corked bottle. “We take our wine seriously in Northern California.”

He went to the cabinets above the sink and found two stemmed wineglasses. Quite obviously, Roman knew his way around this kitchen far better than she did. “You’ve been here before.”

“We’ve used this place as a guest cottage,” he said. “But it’s yours now. Everything in here is yours.”

So she’d been told, but Anya couldn’t help feeling like she was at a fancy resort with an honor bar that she’d somehow end up paying for. “A nice young man from the public relations department showed me around. From what he said, I don’t even have to go to the market. I just check off the items I want on a list. My order is delivered to the doorstep.”

Using a corkscrew, Roman opened the bottle. “Before you stock up on food, I suggest you try the lunch and dinner buffets in the mansion. The chef is cordon bleu.”

“Are you saying he’s a better cook than I am?”

He grinned. “I’ve had your spaghetti, Anya.”

She remembered a disastrous dinner she prepared while Roman was in Denver after the funeral. Thinking that it would be good for her to return to her regular routine, she put together the ingredients for homemade spaghetti sauce. Then her brain shut down. The sauce bubbled too long on high flame, and the result was charred. “Dinner isn’t only about food,” she said. “It’s a time for talk and catching up on the day.”

“A private time for you and Charlie,” he said.

“We’re going to need some space and privacy,” she said, accepting the wineglass he held toward her. “This educational program is so packed with activity that he’ll need a chance to wind down.”

He peered across the rim of his glass, making eye contact. “Be careful, Anya.”

She tried to match his steady gaze, but she wasn’t that bold. Her glance slipped to the floor. “Why should I be careful?”

“Don’t spend so much time worrying about Charlie that you ignore your own needs.”

She took a sip. The light merlot slid easily down her throat, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. “My own needs, eh? Well, that’s all I’ve been thinking about tonight. I’m afraid I’ll feel trapped here. That I won’t have…”

“Won’t have what?” he asked.

“Fun. That I won’t have any fun.” She rolled her eyes and tasted her wine again. “It sounds foolish when I say it out loud. I’m an adult. A widow. Why should I be concerned with fun and games?”

“Let me guess,” he said. “Because you never had much fun when you were growing up.”

“My mother did a good job raising me.” She automatically defended Claudette. Her mother had been a single parent with a demanding job. “She didn’t have a lot of time for me. Her skills were in demand, and we traveled all over the place. East Coast, West Coast and in between. Plus we lived abroad. Pacific Rim. Africa. Europe.”

“Was it fun?” he asked.

“Not for me,” she admitted.

It seemed odd that they’d never really talked about her early life before. During the days she spent with Roman after the funeral, they talked about Jeremy. Or about Charlie. Or they just sat together, staring into the middistance between real life and tragedy.

She took another deep sip. “It’s bad enough being the new girl in town. When everybody else speaks a foreign tongue, it’s even worse.”

“You felt isolated,” he said. “Trapped.”

His snap analysis hit close to the truth. Being at Legate felt very much like her childhood when she had no control over what happened and was dragged along like an inconvenient piece of luggage. “Am I so transparent?”

“Hell, no. You’re an intelligent, complex woman.”

“I don’t want to be complex.” She carried her wine to the oak table in the dining area between the kitchen and living room and sat. Usually, Anya didn’t drink alcoholic beverages, and the wine was already having an agreeable, relaxing effect. “All I ever really wanted was a normal life. A normal family. A nice little house. A pleasant, low-pressure job. A garden. Maybe a golden retriever named Rover.”

“And when Jeremy died, you feel like you lost that chance.”

“I miss him,” she said.

“So do I.”

When he sat beside her at the round table, she felt warm and settled, as if this were the way things ought to be. A man, a woman and her son upstairs asleep. Normal. “Thanks for rushing over here.”

“Whenever you need me, I’ll be around.”

She couldn’t believe that promise. He might have the best intentions, but he also had a life. “Baby-sitting me would cut into your social action.”

He shrugged.

“I’ve heard all about your infamous bachelor pad,” she said. “A chamber of seduction?”

“You can see for yourself. Come to dinner on Friday night.”

“I don’t think so,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to leave Charlie with a baby-sitter so soon.”

“Bring him,” Roman said.

Dubious, she toyed with her merlot, swirling the rose-colored liquid in her glass. “I’m not going to have to explain to him about mirrors over the bed or anything, am I?”

“It’s not the Playboy mansion,” he assured her.

Part of her wished that his place really was a splendid, sensual pleasure palace. What would it be like to have this very good-looking man sweep her off her feet and into his bedroom?

This time, her sip of wine was a huge, sloshing gulp. She needed liquid to douse these inappropriate flickers of desire. Once again, her gaze came to rest upon his lips, moistened with sweet merlot.

Why on earth would she think that a notorious bachelor like Roman Alexander would be interested in her? Here she sat in her ancient flannel robe and fuzzy slippers. No makeup. Her hair hung uncombed around her cheeks. She certainly wasn’t the picture of desirability.

Yet he communicated a sexual energy. She felt it in the way he looked at her, the arch of his eyebrow, the way he lifted his wineglass to his lips. When he spoke, his rich baritone struck a trembling chord within her. Likewise, his silences were full of portent and promise.

She blurted, “Do you think I’ll ever get married again?”

He reached across the table and placed his large hand atop hers. His flesh was warm. His touch? Pure sensuality. “Yes, Anya. You’ll find love again.”

It was the answer she wanted to hear. Earlier, she dared not even ask herself that question, but that was exactly what had been bothering her. Not the armed guard outside the door. Not a lack of fun. She wanted to know if love was an option in her future.

“Friday night,” she said. “We’ll be there. Me and Charlie.”

“It’s a date.”

Maybe not a date in the single woman’s sense of the word, but it was enough for right now.