Читать книгу Secret Contract - Dana Marton - Страница 7

Her mother was there, visiting.

“I’m sorry, honey.” She wore her Easter hat. Seemed odd for September. Must have cut her hair short again—she did that from time to time on a whim—not a single chestnut curl showed.

She was as slim as ever but her face had aged. Too much so, Carly thought. How long had it been since they’d seen each other?

“It’s okay,” she told her. “I’m sorry, too.” I missed you. She didn’t say that or, Where have you been?

“Visitation over. All inmates, please line up for exit inspection,” the overhead loudspeaker demanded.

No. Not yet. She grabbed the edge of the table. She still had so much to say and no words to say it. She wasn’t good with words. Did her mother understand that?

“Bomb in building! Sixty seconds to explosion!” A real person yelled that, not the loudspeaker this time.

She turned back to the guards who watched over the visiting room, but they were disappearing into the darkness.

The next second she was pulled awake, in the middle of the night, in her cell, alone. Her mother had been gone for years, lost to cancer, was the realization the first split second brought. But the emotions that came with the thought were abruptly interrupted when the door slammed open and banged against the wall.

Her brain, heavy with sleep, struggled to catch up, her muscles tense from the unholy noise. She could barely make out the silhouette of the man advancing on her. She pulled her neck in on reflex, brought her hands up.

“Get out! Get out! Sixty seconds to explosion!”

This time, she finally comprehended the words and lunged away from the bed, heart racing, blood rushing. Get out! Get out! The order screamed in her brain now, her body propelled forward by stark terror.

The man stepped in front of her before she could reach the door. He shoved her back.

“Let me go!” She pushed forward and thrust her arm out to slap him aside.

He didn’t budge.

“Why are you doing this?” Who was it? Burge? He had hated her from the get-go. Didn’t he realize that if they didn’t get moving they were both going to die?

She kicked and went for his face with a fist at the same time. To hell with him. To hell with what she was going to get for attacking a guard. Somehow she squeezed past him and ran down the hall, realized a few steps out that it wasn’t the hall outside her cell. Where was she? Why weren’t the emergency lights on?

She could still be dreaming, she thought and slowed, then the man gripped her shoulder to pull her back—definitely real. She turned back to fight.

“Stop it, Burge! What are you doing?”

He said nothing, but slammed her against the wall and blocked her way. He was holding something in his left hand, his fist closed around a small object she couldn’t make out. A hand grenade? Was he crazy?

She ducked under his arm, kicked sideways at his knee then ran for all she was worth, fully awake now, the memory of where she was coming back to her. She turned right at the end of the hall, boots falling heavily on the tile floor somewhere close.

She slammed through the door to the staircase and leaped her way down. Then she was at the exit, throwing her body against the metal door, tumbling out into the wet night and away from the building. The man was right behind her.

She could see his face now in the light of the lamp-posts and stopped running, braced her hands on her knees as she gasped for air. She cursed the man who stood before her wearing a black T-shirt with black cargo pants, and an even blacker scowl on his face.

“Sixty-one seconds.” Stopwatch in hand, Nick Tarasov stepped forward until his combat boots were toe-to-toe with her bare feet. “You’re dead.” His voice dripped with contempt, his gaze as hard as the steel door she’d slammed her shoulder into moments ago.

Screw you. Her heart still beat like crazy. She was shaking inside, but she straightened and looked him in the eyes without reaching up to massage her aching shoulder. She didn’t want him to know how badly he’d messed her up.

A slow rain drizzled on her head, her body wishing for the warmth of her blankets. “If you’ve had your fun, can I go back to bed?”

He leaned forward, until he was in her face, his expression hard. “Night training,” he said, then shouted at the top of his lungs, “Obstacle course. Get moving, soldier!”

Now? The course was nothing but a mud hole. “I don’t have my shoes on.”

He nodded toward the sidewalk by the building. Her boots and socks lay scattered on the concrete. He must have tossed them out the window after he’d chased her from her room. “Move! Move! Move!”

She collected and yanked on her footwear then turned toward the track and the obstacle course behind it, got going on the double, running on the slippery grass.

“Faster.” Nick passed her and turned around, jogging backward with ease.

Drop dead. She pushed harder.

Why had she ever thought that it was some awesome good luck being the first of the women to be let out? David Moretti had advised her lawyer to appeal her case. The appeal had been speedily accepted. Anita was left to serve out her sentence. She was expected here, at the FBI’s training course at Quantico, Virginia, tomorrow. Gina and Sam were getting out on parole next week within days of each other.

Carly had gotten out two weeks before anyone else. It hadn’t turned out to be two weeks of freedom. She was locked up at Quantico as tightly as she’d been locked up in prison. And each day, Nick Tarasov, the cold bastard, did his level best to kill her.

She tripped but caught herself, ran on.

“Let’s just focus on the first step and make sure that’s executed to the best of our abilities,” he said. That seemed to have become his mantra since she’d gotten here. Was he under the illusion that he was teaching her life skills as well as pushups?

The first obstacle course began with the old tire trap. She stepped into the first and moved forward, lifting her feet high as she ran across the tires, squishing into the mud in the middle.

“Again. Faster,” Tarasov yelled when she reached the end. He did the exercise himself, as he had done everything he expected her to do, always, from the very beginning.

She ran back to the start, her mud-crusted boots adding extra pounds. Her muscles were stiff, still aching from their work the day before.

“Again. Faster!” He was right behind her.

That much yelling couldn’t be good for a person. His blood pressure was bound to go up. Maybe he would have a stroke. There was a thought. She pressed her hand to her side and tried to hide that she was already starting to gasp for air.

He made her run the tires a half-dozen times before he let her move on to the rope. She lunged and caught on with her hands, but her muddy boots were too slippery to find purchase.

She needed long pants. The wet rope scratched her thighs where the shorts she had used in lieu of pajamas left her skin bare—a place she would just as soon not bring to his attention.

He was watching her closely. “Don’t use your feet. Use your arms. Go!”

She glared at him but put one hand over the other, made some progress, wiped her forehead on the rope when sweat rolled into her eyes. She’d worked out in prison. It had been something to do in solitude, passing the time. She’d been in far better shape when she’d gotten out than when she’d gone in. Decent shape, she’d thought. It had taken Tarasov less than half a day to prove otherwise.

“Another ten feet and you’re there,” he called up to her.

Might as well be a hundred. It seemed impossible that her arms would support her that long. She was still tired from her training the day before. She’d had two, maybe three hours of sleep. She had nothing left to give.

In her brief moments of rest, she’d been considering finding a way to break out of the compound, but each time she had pushed the impulse aside. Patience. Training wouldn’t last forever. Getting away would be much easier once she was out of here, in a normal, civilian environment. And whatever she learned in the meanwhile would aid her in escape and evasion later on.

She glanced at the man standing at the bottom of the rope. What would it take to get by Tarasov?

He grabbed the rope next to hers, went up, paused for a second at the top, then effortlessly eased himself down.

He was a damn machine. He was never tired, hungry or upset. If necessary, he’d show her the same self-defense move twenty times in a row.

Getting away from him might prove harder than she had thought—he was even tougher than he looked.

She had always been a sucker for a good challenge.

She looked up, fixed her gaze on the steel bar above and moved forward. Eight more feet to go. Six. Three. By the time she finally touched the cold metal, her arms were shaking.

Now the way down. She lowered herself slowly, one handhold at a time. She was about halfway when she slipped. Still, she caught herself, tried to grab with her slippery boots onto the wet rope, but that didn’t work. She slipped again, this time for good, the rope burning across her palm. She let go in response to the sudden, sharp pain.

She was falling, falling free, bracing for impact.

Then she was caught in Nick Tarasov’s arms. The landing was soft—compared to the hard slam into the ground she had expected, but still it stole her breath for a second or two. She looked up at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to yell.

He swayed for a moment then steadied, and set her on her feet. His light brown hair looked blond in the moonlight. His brush cut hadn’t grown a millimeter since she’d first met him at the prison. He must have found time in between her torture sessions to get away for a cut. Everything about him screamed “commando.” He was raw power and confidence wrapped in black.

“Let me see your hand,” he said, his voice gruff. He was removing a small flashlight from his belt.

“First-aid station?” There was one on the ground floor of one of the buildings. Thank God, she was done for the night.

One eyebrow slid up his forehead. “There is no first-aid station. You’re in the woods. Your team has been taken out.” His voice was cold, matter-of-fact. “A dozen of the enemy are coming up about a hundred yards behind you with machine guns. What do you do?”

Was he for real?

Looked like she had hesitated for too long, because he reached for the hem of the FBI T-shirt she’d slept in and ripped it a few inches up, then around.

“Don’t—” By the time she pulled back, wishing she’d slept in her bra, he was done, leaving her midriff bare. The night air felt cold against the sheen of sweat on her back.

He ripped the ribbon of material in half. “Bandages. You have to learn to think on your feet. Come on, up the wall.”

The plastic “rocks” screwed into the boards were as slippery as the rope had been under her muddy boots. He was coming up behind her, but didn’t pass her this time. Maybe he was hanging out to catch her again if she fell. She gritted her teeth and refused to slip. Her shirt was damp with sweat by the time she made it all the way up and straddled the top.

He sat next to her—wasn’t even breathing hard. “That was good. You’re getting the hang of how to distribute your weight when you reach.”

She’d followed the instructions he’d given her last time. A miracle that she’d remembered under the circumstances.

He was a first-rate hard-ass, a government man, so she disliked him on principle—a sentiment common in the hacker community—but he was a hell of a trainer. She admired skill and knowledge in any form. This guy had it in spades. The bad news was most of the time she hated his guts. The good news was she was getting stronger and better every day.

Thunder clapped overhead.

She looked up, then at him. “Did you know men are six times more likely to be struck by lightning than women?”

One eyebrow slid up his forehead. She could have sworn his upper lip twitched. “Hop into your harness. Down we go,” he said and pulled on a rope that hung down the wall on the other side, putting some muscles into play.

He wasn’t hard to look at. If she had to seduce him to get away from him…She had promised herself to do absolutely anything.

Deep breath.

Maybe not that.

After years of abstinence, the thought of seducing anyone should have felt a lot more exciting. But Tarasov—She would find another path to freedom. The thought of cozying up to the man left her feeling jumpy. He was a live wire. Her sense of self-preservation said to stay away from him.

He probably wasn’t as hot as she was beginning to think, anyway. Most likely, it was a case of even stale bread looking tasty to a starving woman.

It ticked her off that she would find him attractive even while thoroughly disliking him. Wasn’t that abnormal? Weren’t women supposed to be attracted to men to whom they felt an emotional connection? Men were supposed to be the ones who jumped at hormones and visuals.

There wasn’t a micron of a connection between the two of them, that was for sure. They were as different as two people could be. She was a loner, a hacker—antiregulation and therefore antigovernment by definition, one hundred percent intellectual. He was on some kind of commando team, a soldier who jumped to decisions made by politicians, a breed that hadn’t got a single thing right since the Declaration of Independence, and he was a muscle man through and through.

She clipped on her harness and stepped away from the wall. Her thigh muscles were trembling, but she held steady, envying Nick’s graceful ease. A flick of her thumb released the catch, allowing her to slide fast enough to catch up with him halfway down. He hadn’t been going full speed.

They finished the rest side by side, unhooked the harnesses and let them drop. Sometimes, when they worked in sync like this, it almost felt as if she were catching up to him in skill. Then he would pull ahead and leave her in the dust—mud tonight—and she would realize how wide the gap between them really was.

“Why pick me for this mission? Everything I know about information-technology security is outdated.” She spit out the question she’d fallen asleep thinking about.

He stopped to look at her. “It wasn’t factual knowledge we were after, it was a way of thinking. You’re good both at logic and creative problem solving. You have outstanding intuition when it comes to complex systems. As far as what you’ve missed—” He shrugged. “You’re a quick learner. It won’t take you long to get up to speed.”

The compliments—although, he probably meant them as simple evaluation—felt nice. And they wanted her to get up to speed, which implied longterm access to computers and the Internet and free time to spend on them. She was out of prison, years early, and what they were asking in exchange was the one thing that had been on top of her do-once-I’m-out list. Visions of computer code danced before her eyes.

“Barbed-wire crawl.” He moved toward the next obstacle. “Let’s go. On the double.”

She recited a colorful string of swear words under her breath—stuff she’d learned in the can—as she followed.

The sun wasn’t exactly breaching the horizon, but the sky was beginning to lighten. He looked like a life-sized action figure in the odd light. His body was hard, carved with muscles, his biceps stretching the black T-shirt that seemed to be part of his uniform. He wasn’t tall, five foot ten maybe, just an inch or so taller than Carly, but you wouldn’t notice until you were right up close. His intense presence and attitude made him seem larger than life.

She dropped to the ground when they reached the barbed-wire grid and crawled through the mud on her stomach, made it without losing any skin off her back. They moved on to the next obstacle, Jacob’s ladder—two poles reaching to the sky with boards between them, which she had to climb, the trick being that the distance between the boards grew the higher up you went, until the last one was wider than anyone could reach so you had to jump to get a hold of it. She gripped the wood with the tips of her fingers, pulled herself up, went over then started her descent.

The inverted platforms came next, an exercise where they had to help each other up a structure that looked similar to an upside down pyramid—square platforms in increasing sizes on top of each other, the gap farther and farther once again. It was an obstacle that couldn’t be conquered alone except for the first level or two. When she reached the critical point, Nick was there, with his hands on her waist to push her up. Then it was her turn to pull him to the next level. As lean as he looked, the man was damned heavy.

By the time they got to the rope bridge, she was beginning to have serious doubts about whether or not she would be able to complete the course tonight. She’d worked too hard the day before, and the day before that. Each day since she’d arrived at Quantico, he’d pushed her to the limit. This time, he was pushing her beyond. Didn’t he understand that her body needed time to recover? She was unsteady with exhaustion, every part aching, pain pulsating through her muscles in protest.

He walked a few feet in front of her, the coarse ropes swaying under them.

“Wait—” Her feet slipped and she reached out on instinct, her fist closing around the back of his shirt instead of the rope that served for railing.

He turned to catch her, but she was flailing with her other arm and shifting her weight too rapidly. The rope bridge swung wide. She fell forward, onto him, bringing down the both of them.

He was splayed on the bottom, as hard as a prison mattress. She lay on top of him, dueling instincts warring inside her, one pushing for her to get up and away, the other to hang on until the bridge stopped swaying.

When he shifted, she was startled by the sudden, sharp awareness that ran along the length of her.

“If you ever find yourself on a rope bridge, trying to bring down an enemy, remember this move,” he said, deadpan.

He was probably laughing his butt off at what a klutz she was. She hoped he couldn’t see her cheeks burning and if he did, he didn’t realize the reaction wasn’t purely the effect of acute embarrassment.

They’d been body-to-body pressed together during self-defense training, but this was different. On the mat, she was too focused on figuring what his next move would be, anticipating the pain when he flipped her and slammed her to the ground. He had told her she had to learn how to fall, how to roll, how to come up and fight even if she was hurt.

This time, as he waited for her to get her bearings and stand up, her focus switched too easily from the exercise to the hard body beneath her. Oh, God. She shouldn’t be noticing him like that. She pushed away and scrambled off him, scooting across the bridge as if she were chased by a full platoon with machine guns.

By the time she made it through the entire obstacle course, the rain had stopped and the sun had cleared the horizon. She dropped where she was, breathing hard and staring at the sky, not caring what he thought.

He stood over her with a shuttered expression. “When you recover, I have a surprise for you.”

“As soon as I can get up, I’m going to bed.”

She was so tired, death would have been a relief. Then slowly, another sensation came seeping up through the fatigue. She was feeling kind of…pumped, she realized. She’d done it. Even in the wet night with no sleep, she’d conquered the course. As much as she dreaded the pain and exhaustion of her training each day, a part of her reveled in the challenge of it all, in pushing herself to the limit and discovering new reserves. She found unexpected joy in conquering physical obstacles and she liked the feeling of satisfaction that came with that.

In prison, all they had wanted of her was to keep quiet and out of trouble. But once again, after a long, long time, something was expected of her. That part felt pretty good, actually.

“Ever wonder where the computer labs are?” he asked.

He got her attention. She sat up, hating how effortlessly he was reeling her in. “Am I going to be allowed to go near a PC finally?”

Her stomach growled over the last words. Ever since she’d gotten here, she’d been eating like a pig. She didn’t even want to think about the number of calories she had consumed in doughnuts alone. It was a testament to the grueling training that she hadn’t gained an ounce.

“After target practice.”

“You’re kidding.” After the training she’d just had?

“Seven a.m. every day. The schedule didn’t change. Two straight clips into the bull’s-eye and the PC lab is yours. I’ll make sure your ID is authorized for 24/7 access.”

“Wow, a major vote of trust,” she said with a dose of sarcasm. About time. Up until now, she could only get into buildings, even the dorms where she slept, if he was with her and let her in. And she desperately needed to spend some time with a computer. Alone.

“Deal?” he was asking.

She was half regretting the first deal she’d made with him, with Law and Moretti. Agreeing to their mission hadn’t bought her freedom. She was still locked up, still couldn’t do what she wanted. All she’d accomplished had been trading the prison guards for Tarasov. For the most part, that didn’t feel like much of an improvement.

“I can do it,” she warned him and was surprised when it hit her that she meant it. So far, target practice was turning out to be something she was naturally good at. Looked like all those video games she’d played in her younger years left her with pretty good hand-eye coordination.

The past two weeks had been slowly building up the self-confidence that had eroded to nothing in prison. She had conquered whatever he’d thrown her way. And Nick Tarasov didn’t pull his punches.

He held her gaze. “I never had a doubt.”

“What time is it now?”

“Six-thirty,” he said without glancing at his wristwatch.

She knew him well enough by now to know that pleading or arguing with him would change nothing. She gave him a loathing look and dragged herself to standing, then off into the direction of her room for a five-minute shower and clean clothes, cursing Nick Tarasov all the way.

Four FBI trainees, all men, were starting their dawn run on the track, coming toward her. They all wore the agency logo T-shirt, and had the same haircut.

She looked them over and tried to be objective. Okay, so even in comparison to other fab examples of the male of the species, Nick looked pretty fine. In a lion-safari kind of way—a thrill to look at as long as you stayed in the safety of your vehicle.

She glanced back at him and realized he’d caught her watching the men. He had an amused smirk on his face.

He probably thought she was lusting after those guys. Not that it would have been any of his business if she did. She was an adult. Lust was a valid emotion.

She looked away and tried to picture the kind of woman he would go out with. The song “Bikini Girls with Machine Guns” came to mind.

TSERNYAKOV SCROLLED THROUGH the new e-mail messages on his cell phone as the helicopter banked to the left, circling the Moscow high-rise in front of them in preparation for landing.

The background check on Cal was in, a monster attachment. That would have to wait until he had his laptop from the bag in the back. If it all checked out, he could tell Mamuska to put Anna at ease. He would help her son. He glanced out the window at the people who were waiting for him by the chopper pad, all trusted men.

“Ready for landing, sir?” The pilot asked for his final decision.

Tsernyakov paused. Everything looked okay, which didn’t amount to anything. Everything felt okay, and that was important. He trusted his instincts, so he nodded to the man to authorize landing.

He traveled often and changed direction without warning, scheduled as many as a dozen meetings at the same time, deciding only at the last second which one he was going to attend. If his instincts prickled, he pulled out without hesitation.

The chopper touched down, and he was jumping to the roof the next minute, heading for the elevator entry under heavy guard. His office, one of many, was on the forty-second floor, on the top, overlooking the city. He passed by it and headed straight to the boardroom.

Dmitry waited outside, wearing an expensive suit and a Rolex, his tie pin glinting with a good-sized diamond in it. By the looks of him, he could have been the president of a small republic. Joseph waited with him. The same age and height as Tsernyakov, Joseph was dressed without flair but with precision in a suit that had gone out of style years before, cheap glasses, stack of papers in hand, giving the impression of a lesser clerk or secretary, the same unassuming look that Tsernyakov strove to project.

“Zdrastvuite,” they greeted him and inclined their heads.

His cell phone rang and after glancing at the displayed number, he took the call, listened to the man on the other side of the line. When he hung up, he dialed his broker, sold his stocks in a certain foreign-owned mine in Africa, bought double the stock in another.

“Let’s go,” he said when he was finished, then opened the door to let Dmitry go in first, then Joseph.

“I’m glad we could meet in person.” Dmitry walked to the leader of the group who waited inside and shook hands with a smile, greeted the others before sitting down. There were no introductions. No one offered their names.

The visitors wore ill-fitted suits, the businessman image they sought to project further impeded by their long, scraggly beards that looked out of place in the boardroom. A bunch of fanatics trying to look presentable for the sake of the deal. Who did they think they were fooling?

Joseph and Tsernyakov welcomed the men respectfully, Joseph sitting farther down at the table and putting his papers and pen in front of him, ready to take notes if asked. Tsernyakov went to the server and prepared the refreshments.

“Are you able to deliver the goods we need in the requested volume?” The director of the School Board addressed his question to Dmitry.

A more polite man would have complimented the impressive office building, waited for the tea and coffee being offered before jumping into business.

“The order is unusual in its size,” Dmitry said with a winning smile. “Would you be acquiring it for resale?”

“For personal use,” the director said, taking Dmitry’s measure. He paid no attention to those he considered lesser men.

Tsernyakov brought a tray of tea and offered it around, set the sugar bowl and plate of sliced lemons where everyone could reach them, then went back for coffee. He’d wanted to see the man in person. The School Board and its director had checked out okay. But it was too big a deal, perhaps bigger than anything he’d ever done before, to agree to without seeing the man face-to-face.

“I’m assuming the order is for worldwide distribution within your organization.” Dmitry dropped a sugar cube into his cup. He was tall and wide-shouldered, as charismatic as a TV star when he turned on the charm. People found it hard to notice anyone else when he was in the room—the perfect decoy.

Tsernyakov worked with a couple of men like him. Certain meetings required personal contact, and he’d much rather show someone else’s face than his own. He preferred to remain in the background and pretend to be a lowly clerk. This way, he could still see face-to-face the people he did business with and get a feel for them, but they wouldn’t remember him. Who paid any attention to servants? If ever questioned, they would give a description of Dmitry or one of his other stand-ins. Besides his inner circle, there were a few dozen associates around the world who could boast having negotiated with him in person. If ever questioned, they’d all give different descriptions.

“Correct.” The director sipped his tea.

“I also have worldwide interests,” Dmitry said. “What is my guarantee that our activities won’t interfere with each other?”

A few moments of silence passed in which Tsernyakov offered coffee to those who’d declined tea.

“You will get one day’s notice and the name of the country,” the director spoke with measure.

“One month’s notice and exact location,” Dmitry responded so cordially that no one would have guessed they were bargaining over the fate of millions.

A few moments of silence passed as the director squeezed more lemon into his tea. “I might not know a month ahead. Plans change. I can give you two weeks and the name of the town.”

Tsernyakov took the tray back toward the server and nodded slightly behind the delegation’s back.

“Let’s talk about delivery,” Dmitry said.

“The sooner the better,” was the director’s enthusiastic answer.

It was business. Good business. Big business. That was all. Tsernyakov hung back. He didn’t feel responsible for the astounding number of deaths that would result. That was the School Board’s problem, their deal.

He had killed when it was necessary, in the beginning. Now he had people who took care of that kind of unpleasantness in his life. Large-scale murder, however, held no appeal for him. It brought no money and got everyone in law enforcement after you. The concept of killing hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people for esoteric principles, without an ounce of profit, seemed plain stupid.

He looked at the men, but was thinking of his next meeting already. Business was exhilarating, and he took it very seriously. But the spice of life was seducing beautiful women.

What these idiots did had nothing to do with him. His role was to get the virus and collect the money. He took a last look at the men then walked out of the room, leaving Dmitry to finish up.

The two bodyguards outside the door followed him to the private elevator that worked with a key, one floor up to the very top where his private office and apartment were.

He walked to the apartment, nodded to the men to stay outside the door. He punched in the security code and walked in.

“Alexandra.”

The young woman flew into his arms—all grace and loveliness already at twenty. She’d lost a little weight, but even so…Grief looked good on her. It gave her fresh beauty a haunting quality that hadn’t been there before. Like good art, she was becoming multidimensional.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, still pressed against him.

She thought of him as an uncle. He would work to change that. He didn’t want to take her by force, although he would if she frustrated him too much. He preferred seduction. He was a romantic at heart. He enjoyed making women fall in love with him, the power of that, specifically because it was different from the power he held over his men, over his business associates.

“How are you? What can I do to make you happy?” he asked.

“When will I go home?”

“You are not comfortable here?” He made a point to look hurt.

“I don’t want to be a burden. I should arrange…I should take care of…” She didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence.

“I’m handling your father’s affairs. Peter was my friend. It’s the least I can do.” He ran his hand down her back, glad that he had sent a man to pull her at the last second. She’d been told to go see the new puppies in the back of the factory yard while her parents discussed business. Then she was whisked to safety after the terrible accident.

“Thank you.” Her luminous violet eyes teared up. “I would love to stay a few more days.”

“Maybe you should stay longer.” He schooled his features into a somber look.

“What is it?” She watched him, catching his change of mood.

If she was this quick a study as a lover, he was going to be very happy with her.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t—You don’t need any more worries right now.”

“Please,” she pleaded. “Is this about my parents?”

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “That accident at the factory…”

“Yes?” She waited breathless, her lips slightly parted.

His body stirred. “I’m starting to think it might not have been an accident.”

She watched him with big round eyes and swayed a little. He was happy to support her.

“Somebody meant to kill them?” she asked finally.

“I’m not sure. Either them or me.” He stopped for a meaningful pause. “The pressure valve blew too early maybe. I was supposed to join them in a few minutes.” He shook his head then shrugged as if the possible threat to his own life was of no consequence. “In any case. I want to keep you safe until I figure out what’s going on.” His voice implied that he had the investigation well in hand.

She nodded, looking stunned and numb, but ethereally beautiful. He maneuvered her to the sprawling leather sofa with ease.