Читать книгу Bodyguard Rescue - Donna Young - Страница 12

Isla de El León (Island of the Lion), Gulf of Mexico.

Poised at the edge of the diving board, the ebony-haired beauty smiled up at Nigel Threader. Her classic features softened with feline pleasure before she sliced cleanly into the kidney-shaped pool. From the private balcony, he watched in fascination as the blue glow of the underwater lights cloaked her dancer’s body with ethereal radiance beneath the rippling water. Exquisite.

It was an illusion, of course, but nonetheless magnificent because it hid the imperfections he knew existed. Like a brilliant but flawed diamond.

Pity.

Marina Alexandrov’s pedigree as the prima ballerina of the Paris Ballet was above reproach. With Russian royalists for parents, her upbringing was exemplary, her social status assured. She reached the end of the pool, planted both hands on the edge of the tile and hauled herself upward in a cascade of water, her nude body arching gracefully in the night air.

He returned her seductive smile before walking back into his office. Yes, it certainly was a shame. Even her baser needs matched his. They could have shared a future together full of limitless possibilities.

Unfortunately, with her great beauty and ancestry came a lack of intellect. Marina was a woman of average intelligence, an intolerable flaw his employee had overlooked and which Nigel hadn’t discovered until it had been far too late. A disappointing situation indeed.

The man paid for his incompetence, of course. What little pleasure Nigel gleaned from the kill was still too small a compensation for the time he’d wasted on seducing Marina.

He frowned and felt the familiar stiffness pull at his right eye. Resisting the urge to touch the cause, he tugged at his sleeves instead, automatically running his fingers over the yellow diamond cufflinks as he entered his office. Naturally he would enjoy her tonight. After all, it would be their last evening together. Loose ends were untidy.

Sitting behind the massive, seventeenth-century ebony baroque desk, he reached for the bottle of cognac that sat at the corner. Nigel glanced at the label, pleased to see that Quamar had brought him his favorite French vintage, and then poured a healthy dose into the snifter.

A red light flashed across the room, drawing his attention to the bank of closed-circuit televisions on the opposite wall. He warmed the cognac, swirling the amber liquid against his palm. Their guest had arrived. Leaning back into his plush throne chair, he studied the silver Jaguar while it followed the winding curves of the sleekly paved drive to the villa.

The estate itself was more than fifty acres of enclosed land overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The three-story villa, originally designed by a French architect, was built of adobe, mosaic tile and imported marble. A masterpiece of French-Mexican culture. As he watched, the car came to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates set in the twelve-foot wall surrounding the villa.

He pushed a button under his desk activating the automatic gates and then swung around in the chair to press the intercom on his desk. “Quamar. Our guest has arrived, please escort him to my office.”

Several moments later the oak doors opened. Nigel glanced up from his glass when Quamar entered.

“Mr. Hiram Alcott, sir.”

Nigel nodded at the huge man who stepped aside to allow their guest through the doorway.

“You may stay, Quamar.” The bodyguard bowed but said nothing, closing the doors behind him.

“Has Pheonix reported in yet?” Nigel spared only a flickering glance at Alcott.

“No, sir.”

“When she does, tell her I need to see her.”

Again Quamar bowed.

Only then did Nigel turn his attention to his guest.

“A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Threader.” The wiry little man crossed the room, set his briefcase down, then leaned over the desk to offer his hand. The scent of cheap cologne saturated the air. “Nice place you got here.” His watery eyes scanned the elegant room before returning to Nigel, hesitating only slightly on the puckering scar tissue that pulled at Nigel’s right eye. “Very nice place.”

Dirt caked the underside of the man’s overgrown fingernails. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Nigel placed his drink on the desk and gestured to the chair beside his guest. “Have a seat.”

Alcott cleared his throat, bringing his hand back to smooth his tie, then slid into the high-backed leather chair.

“You disappoint me, Mr. Alcott.” Nigel rose slowly from behind the desk, well aware of the effect his deliberate movement had on the man across from him. “I’ve paid you a great deal of money to perform a mediocre task and, so far you’ve failed to live up to your end of the deal.”

Alcott didn’t flinch. Instead the man sat back and crossed his legs. The casual pose didn’t quite mask the tension in his body.

“Finding a woman on the run isn’t a mediocre task, believe me.”

Nigel picked up the Buddha from the desk corner. The size of his fist and carved from pure white jade, the statue symbolized enlightenment.

“I believe you claimed expediency, accuracy and complete confidentiality. I have yet to witness either of the first two.” Nigel observed his guest’s face muscles tighten with apprehension at the statement. “And I have my suspicions about the third.”

Carefully, he set the statue back in its place, then continued. “But since my time is limited and your tracking skills came highly recommended by our mutual business acquaintances, I’ve decided to allow you to continue with your efforts. Provided, of course, you start showing me results.”

Alcott’s expression eased a little as he ran a hand over his lacquered gray hair then wiped his palm on the chair. Nigel’s eyes narrowed in disgust.

“I promise you, I won’t require much more time, Mr. Threader. A week on the outside. Dr. MacAlister has proven to be an unexpected challenge, but I’m closing in.” He shifted his position, his hair leaving a grease mark on the back of the chair. “These things can be tricky, if you know what I mean.”

“I see.” Nigel kept his expression noncommittal as he leaned against the desk pretending to consider Alcott’s excuses.

After a significant pause, he said, “I believe you, Mr. Alcott.”

Alcott visibly relaxed. “I appreciate that. After all, we aim to please. But it’s nice when a customer understands the difficulties of the job, if you know what I mean.”

“Hmm,” Nigel murmured while brushing a blond hair from the arm of his silk suit. Over the years, the natives on the island began calling Nigel “El León,” or the lion, because of his thick, tawny mane of hair.

“I trust you had a pleasant trip to my island.”

“Oh, yeah, slept like a baby through most of the plane ride.” The investigator reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette, obviously taking the change of subject as a good sign. “That Jag you left for me at the airport was one impressive number.”

He waved the cigarette in the air as if it were a baton. “It’s quite a setup you got here, Mr. Threader.” Alcott grinned, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Owning your own island and all,” he added, before lighting his cigarette.

“Yep, one sweet setup.” Leaning back into the chair, Alcott tucked his lighter back into his jacket pocket. “One a man like me could appreciate.” He exhaled a stream of smoke that turned into a low whistle when he noticed the Renoir on the wall. “Classy.”

Nigel’s gaze followed his to the painting. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “We aim to please, also.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” Alcott flicked his ashes off to the side and onto the Persian rug.

Irritation scraped against Nigel’s nerves, but he forced the emotion down. “Did you bring the dossier on Dr. MacAlister?”

“Got it right here.” Leaving the cigarette dangling from his mouth, Alcott grabbed the case and pulled out a manila folder. “You know at first I couldn’t understand why you wanted a profile on the dame. I got the impression you already knew who she was.” He slid a color glossy of Kate MacAlister out of the folder and took a long, appreciative look. “Once I got this, I figured it out real quick.”

He shoved the picture into Nigel’s hand. “Now, there’s a good-looking broad. It doesn’t hurt that her daddy’s an international tycoon. Or that he manufactures the best damn scotch known to mankind. Money, brains, looks and an unlimited supply of booze. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better myself. If you know what I mean.”

Nigel studied the photograph, ignoring Alcott’s suggestive laugh. No matter how abhorrent the man appeared, as an investigator he did excellent work. The woman in the picture was dressed in a light T-shirt and jeans but the casualness of the dress didn’t detract from her natural beauty. A perfect oval face, the elegantly defined nose complemented her classically high cheekbones. Her black hair, tied back into a long, silken tail, accented her flawless skin. Nigel resisted the urge to run his finger over the image. Her pale gray eyes flashed brightly with amused intelligence, taunting him, daring him, with an impudence reflected in the generous curve of her mouth and delicate arch of her eyebrows.

Oh, yes, even the great Michelangelo himself would’ve been in awe.

“Interesting.” He maintained a noncommittal coolness as he placed the folder onto the desk, preferring to peruse the rest at his leisure where he could analyze this new development alone.

After taking a linen handkerchief from his pants pocket, he wiped his hands. “Now about your timetable, Mr. Alcott. More than twenty-four hours is unacceptable.” He meticulously folded the material and tossed it into the wastebasket.

The other man blustered. “Look here, Mr. Threader. I thought we had an agreement. It’s like I told you. I’m close, but a job this sensitive takes time.”

Nigel sighed and nodded to Quamar, who immediately came over and grabbed Alcott from behind, pinning him to the chair with one arm braced against the little man’s throat. The bodyguard ignored Alcott’s shriek of surprise and slammed the man’s left arm down on the desk, exposing his palm. The investigator struggled briefly but was no match for the well-muscled giant.

“What the hell is going on?” Alcott’s eyes widened in alarm, his face etched in desperation. “Listen, we can discuss this like civilized gentlemen. There’s no need to get heavy-handed.”

Nigel responded in a bored voice. “You are an ill-mannered cretin, Mr. Alcott. Please do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me otherwise.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked behind the desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves.

Alcott watched, his face reflecting a numb horror as Nigel snapped on the gloves. The sound ricocheted through the room. Out of sheer desperation, the small man fought against his captor. “What the hell is this? You can’t do this.”

“This, Mr. Alcott is a warning.” His dark blue eyes turned arctic. “And make no mistake— I do as I please. I make it a point never to deal personally with brutish, ignorant people such as yourself.” Nigel withdrew a cigar from the rosewood humidor beside the desk and rolled it between his fingers. It was his own personal blend, handmade on his plantation in Cuba. “But time and circumstances have forced otherwise.” He picked up the guillotine cigar cutter lying beside the humidor. Its silver blades flashed in the light.

Alcott whimpered.

“I believe you are aware of my reputation,” Nigel said while he placed the end of the cigar into the guillotine circle and squeezed. The twin blades sliced together, deftly cutting the tip of the cigar off.

He studied the decapitated end for a moment, pleased with the clean edge. “You have until midnight tomorrow to locate her and notify me.” His voice took on a hard edge. “Or I will kill you.” He placed the cigar on the desk beside him. “I consider myself a fair man. Moreover, to prove it, I will loan you some of my staff to help with the search. Remember, Mr. Alcott, expediency, accuracy and confidentiality.” Nigel leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “After all, we would not want to put a permanent black mark on your reputation, would we?” Leaning back, he tossed the cutting instrument in his hand, like a child would a coin. “If you know what I mean.”

The sweat poured off Alcott’s face soaking the grimy, white collar of his shirt while his gaze fixated on the blade in Nigel’s hands.

Nigel glanced at Quamar and nodded toward the desk. The bodyguard grunted in approval before he grabbed Alcott’s neck from behind and slammed his face onto the desktop, leaving it pinned there.

Nigel stood to the side, a small, inhuman smile creasing his lips. “Think of it this way, Mr. Alcott,” he said softly as he inserted the pinkie into the cutter. “You might be leaving here with a whole new perspective on the phrase ‘Close but no cigar,’ but at least you’ll be leaving.” Nigel squeezed the cutter. “If you know what I mean.”

THE UNMISTAKABLE HUM of helicopter blades woke Roman. The sound, out of place in the quiet mountain wilderness, had him off the couch. Within seconds he grabbed a pair of binoculars from the peg beside the back door, his senses instantly alert. Damn. Whoever it was, was circling low and easy. After unstrapping the 9 mm Heckler & Koch from his ankle, he stepped barefoot onto the porch, staying hidden in the midmorning shadows of the eave.

A slight turn of the lens’s dial placed the helicopter in focus. It was a civilian bird, brand-new with no call numbers and definitely high tech with its sleek lines and stealth capabilities. Roman’s grip tightened reflexively around the binoculars as he released a soft whistle between his teeth. Big bucks.

The helicopter banked left, hovering for a split second before it increased its speed and headed west. Through the lenses, he caught a glimpse of two men dressed in outdoor gear, viewing the area through their own scopes before the helicopter disappeared beyond the farthest ridge.

Helicopters were a common enough sight in the Rockies, but not one hovering so close to the treetops. Since the cabin was located in prime terrain for hiking and rappelling, a logical explanation could be that these boys were outdoor enthusiasts with more money than brains, scouting the area for new trails.

Roman’s lips twisted back in a feral grin. Sure, and he’d just bought some swampland in Florida to start a Putt-Putt business.

It was more likely Threader’s people were mapping the cabins in the area for a ground-level search. Not hard to do when the pilot doesn’t file a flight plan.

He stuck his head through the doorway, listening for any movement upstairs. Silence greeted him, which meant the doc was still asleep, undisturbed by the helicopter.

Over ten hours now. The mild sedative he’d slipped into her soup the night before had done its job.

He ignored the twinge of guilt over drugging her. It had been necessary. Obviously, Kate had been living on raw nerves for quite a while. The paleness in her face, the hunted look in her eyes, but most of all the fact she’d attacked him instead of running, told him that she wasn’t thinking straight.

At first he’d been enraged, knowing how foolish it was for her to stand and fight anyone Threader sent. Damn it, she knew better. The thought that he might have been one of Threader’s thugs and what they could have done to her—what they could still do to her if they found her—scared the hell out of him. He’d regretted it almost immediately, though, when his fear had turned to anger and caused what little control she had left to snap.

Suddenly feeling a need to check on her, Roman tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, its coolness reassuring against his naked back, then took the loft steps two at a time, stopping short at the top.

The bedroom was dim in the midmorning light. Faint streaks of sunlight sliced through the partially open slats of the wooden blinds. Kate lay sideways on the rustic pine bed. The tartan flannel sheet lay tangled across her chest while Cain’s faded football jersey rode high around her rib cage, leaving her stomach and legs exposed. The comforter he had wrapped snugly around her the night before lay in a heap at the side of the bed. Even the drug-induced sleep couldn’t stop her habit of wreaking havoc on the bed linen during the night. Sharing space with the doc was like going ten rounds with a steroid-enhanced octopus.

He smiled at the memory.

Assured she would sleep a few more hours, he started to turn away then caught sight of a wisp of peach lace. His mouth went dry.

The fluff of underwear, while accenting her slim hips and long, supple thighs, did nothing to protect her from his gaze. Roman’s throat tightened. He’d forgotten her fondness for sexy lingerie.

His conscience nudged him to turn away, but he ignored it. In the diffused light her skin reminded him of some fresh cream he’d gotten once from a Slavic farmer, warm and rich with the texture of liquid velvet. He feasted like a starving man.

Then he swallowed, willing his glands to work again while he devoured her with his eyes. They traveled down her sleek, smooth legs, stopping briefly on the gentle curves of her calves, before finally resting on her toes—each nail painted a deep, decadent red.

He held his body tense, anticipating the heavy blow of desire. And it came—like a wrecking ball catching him in the solar plexus.

She muttered something, drawing his attention to her face. Her brows furrowed, then smoothed, but she didn’t open her eyes.

Her midnight hair fell in shimmering waves around her face, mussed by the pillow. Her ivory complexion had an elusive pink hue, like the flush of sunset on snow. She looked warm and feminine and so damn inviting he wanted to submerge himself in her softness and not come out, ever.

Years of need and longing twined tightly within him, forcing him to fight his urges. He remembered the way she felt in his arms, the gentleness of her touch, her sweet shyness that always gave way to an even sweeter surrender. He could still feel her lying in his arms that last night, her cheek resting against his heart when she whispered she loved him.

Swearing under his breath, he jerked around and went downstairs. His desire for her was as strong as ever.

He slipped out the front door, too agitated to stay within the confines of the cabin. He was here to do a job, damn it. The situation was complicated enough without allowing his emotions to overrule his mind.

He wrenched his gun from his waistband and circled the cabin, moving silently through the aspen and pine.

Cain, never one to leave anything to chance, had designed his little vacation getaway out of native rock, using little pine, making the structure impervious to most guns and nearly impossible for anyone to burn down.

The rear of the cabin butted up to shale, with two propane tanks that provided the fuel for heat off to one side. The rock wasn’t impassable, but if someone rappelled from the top of the mountain, it would be damn difficult to remain undetected.

Roman patrolled the perimeter twice, assuring himself they weren’t under surveillance. Not because he sensed anything unusual—the normal sounds of the forest had already told him they were safe—but because he wasn’t ready to face what waited for him inside.

Last, he checked the rented SUV, parked a few yards away. It, too, rested undisturbed and well hidden beneath the thicket of trees.

After sliding his gun back into his back waistband, Roman sat down on the front porch steps and lit a cigarette. He glanced briefly at his lighter. To the untrained eye, it looked like an ordinary disposable lighter. To Roman the homing device hidden in the plastic cylinder was a lifeline connecting him to the one person who might be able to liberate them if the situation became too explosive. Cain.

Roman tucked the lighter into his pocket. They would be safer lying low in the cabin for the day before he moved Kate. If he was right about that helicopter, Threader’s men would hit town late tomorrow. He could get Kate out and keep her relatively safe before the search reached the cabin.

That would also give him a chance to break down her defenses and gain her trust.

Last night hadn’t been the time to tell her the true reason for his appearance. She’d been in no condition to handle any more shocks to her system, and finding out her ex-lover was a government operative ranked high on the emotional Richter scale.

Even as the lesser of two evils, lying to her had been a calculated risk, one that could quite easily blow up in his face.

Unless he controlled the explosion.

Roman leaned back against the pine railing, occasionally taking a drag on his cigarette.

With Kate it might work.

She had a hidden sensitive side, but she definitely possessed her father’s volatile temper, too. Making her angry was easy, but could he convince her to turn that anger toward Threader long enough for her to forget about their past and to trust him? Long enough for him to keep her alive?

“D’Amato!”