by Cassie Miles
There was a moment’s silence while Vincent considered Quint’s idea. Like any government agency, Chicago Confidential didn’t like to involve civilians. “I don’t know Natalie the way my wife does. How’s she taking all this?”
“Like she was born and raised in Beirut,” Quint said. “She might look like a spoiled city gal, but she’s tough.”
“Let me ask you something, Quint. Is your bodyguard assignment turning personal? Are you developing feelings for Natalie?”
To be sure, he cared about Natalie. A man would have to be inhuman not to feel compassion for the targeted victim. But he knew Vincent was asking about deeper emotions. Love? Not likely. Quint had already experienced the one true love in his life, and Paula had died. He always believed his heart would stay buried with her…but that was before he met Natalie.
Quint drawled, “I reckon that’s none of your business.”
“Be careful,” Vincent warned. “But, yes, you can bring Natalie in to look at the computer imaging for Nick Beaumont.”
“We’ll be there this afternoon.”
Quint disconnected the call, glad to have some kind of plan. As soon as he could drag Natalie free, he’d take her to Solutions, then he’d get her to go home where he would watch over her in a safe, self-contained setting. Nothing would harm her. He’d make damn sure of that.
THOUGH NATALIE HAD HOPED to deflect all questions from the press with a simple written statement, the media were not so easily appeased. In the heightened atmosphere of vigilance surrounding possible terrorism, they demanded more. And so, Natalie found herself standing before a podium in the hotel banquet room where a dozen reporters had gathered. Assorted microphones decorated the edge of the podium like a grotesque bouquet.
She glanced over at Quint. Though it wasn’t strictly appropriate for him to be here with her, she was glad he’d insisted on staying by her side. Having him close made her feel safe.
Facing the glare of television lights, she was glad she’d combed her hair and applied fresh lipstick. Public speaking had never before frightened her, but right now, her stomach fluttered. She felt strangely vulnerable.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said calmly, “thank you for your concern. After a thorough investigation, we have determined that the fire in the Quantum Building was due to an electrical problem, possibly caused by new security measures being installed in our facility. We ordered an evacuation in case the problems were more widespread. I’m very pleased to announce that the Quantum Building has been deemed safe, and we will be returning to our offices within the hour.”
“Who did the investigating?” came the first question.
“The Chicago Fire Department, the police department’s arson division and other experts.”
“Did they consider the possibility of a bomb?”
“The possibility has been considered.” Natalie was careful not to use the word bomb, which could easily be turned into a sound bite on the evening news. Her focus was to downplay suspicions of terrorism without telling any direct lies.
“Has Quantum received bomb threats?”
“As you are all aware, Quantum is a powerful international corporation. As such, we receive our fair share of hate mail.” Damn! She hadn’t meant to refer to the messages. Hoping to avoid more questions along this line, she smiled and joked, “I guess I ought to be grateful for negative publicity. It’s job security for somebody like me in public relations.”
“Who have you received hate mail from?”
“Generally, the author is anonymous.”
“Have you received threats from the Middle East?”
Natalie was confident on this score. “No.”
“Prince Zahir Haji Haleem is in town,” said a reporter. “Has he been in contact with Quantum?”
Though she was glad the questions had moved away from the bombing in her office, this topic was no less delicate. “We welcomed Prince Zahir at an impromptu reception last night.”
“Does this mean Quantum will be buying oil from Nurul?”
“That decision will be left to our board of directors.”
“On Monday, you’re travelling to Washington, D.C.,” said the reporter from the Tribune. “Can you tell us about your—”
“When I return from that trip,” she interrupted, “I’ll have more information. Again, thank you for your interest in Quantum. Now, it’s time for us to get back to work.”
She stepped away from the podium, deftly grabbing the briefcase at her feet. Immediately, Quint touched her elbow. They’d planned her exit ahead of time. One of the keys to a successful press conference was a speedy escape.
“Hey!”
At the loud shout from the Tribune reporter, Natalie turned.
The reporter demanded, “Who’s the cowboy?”
Quint leaned toward the microphone. “My name is Quintin Crawford. I’m the owner of Crawford Oil, and I hail from Midland, Texas.”
“What’s your opinion on the Quantum fire?”
Natalie stiffened. Quint could blow her carefully worded statements with one offhand comment.
Quint leaned toward the microphones and drawled, “I’m here as a tourist, seeing the sights in your fair city.”
“You must have an opinion,” the reporter demanded.
“Yesterday at the Art Institute,” Quint said, “I surely did like that picture called American Gothic. The old fella with the pitchfork reminded me of Uncle Jody, who always told me that if I wanted to stay out of trouble I should keep my nose clean and my mouth shut. I reckon, that’s what I ought to do. But thanks all the same for asking.”
He tipped his hat, stepped away from the podium and guided Natalie through the exit into the hotel kitchen. Though she appreciated his refusal to comment, she didn’t quite believe his cornpone story. “You don’t really have an Uncle Jody, do you?”
“Sure do. But he wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a farmer.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a rancher,” Quint said. “That’s a whole different breed.”
“Like you?” she asked, as he led her through the back door and into an alley. “What makes ranchers so different?”
“A farmer is ruled by the weather and the soil—like a city man runs his day by the clock. There’s nothing that tells a cowboy what to do. He lives by his own wits, goes his own way.”
Though she thought his description was highly romanticized, Natalie recognized a grain of truth. She couldn’t imagine Quint taking orders or following rules. He was a law unto himself, whether he was riding the open range or taking long, aggressive strides through a dirty brick alley where the sun never shone. He was so tall that the top of his Stetson almost touched the lower rungs of the iron fire escape scaffolding.
She hurried to keep up with him, but the uneven pavement between Dumpsters snagged her heels. “Slow down, Quint.”
“Sorry.” He paused beside her and held out his arm. Transferring her briefcase to her opposite hand, she laced her arm through his. Leaning on him might become a habit.
As they emerged from the alley, he hailed a cab and hustled her inside.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Solutions, Inc.” He gave the driver the address. “I talked to Whitney on the phone on account of she’s worried about your safety. And she has a computer program that might be useful.”
“No way!” A hundred objections raced through Natalie’s mind—not the least of which was annoyance at being whisked away without so much as a decent explanation. “I have work to do.”
“Not in your office,” he pointed out.
“True, but—”
“Settle down,” he said. “You’ve been racing around since six o’clock in the morning. Let me handle things for the next few hours.”
“But I have to talk to Jerome Harris in Accounting about the Washington trip. And I should help Maria Luisa construct a list of what was lost in my office.”
“It’ll wait,” Quint said. “If I we
re you, I’d give Mary Lou the rest of the day off. The Feds aren’t likely to give her access to the office, anyway.”
He was right. Natalie flipped open her briefcase and took out her cell phone. Everything could be rescheduled for Monday during the day. Monday night, of course, she and Maria Luisa would be on the corporate jet, winging their way to the meetings in Washington, D.C. Thank goodness, Natalie hadn’t lost the important documents and information she needed for that trip. Papers that weren’t in her briefcase were backed up on her laptop at home.
After leaving a phone message for Jerome Harris to call her on the weekend, Natalie locked the cell phone back in her briefcase.
“Done?” Quint asked.
“For now.” She relaxed, leaning back. The plastic taxi upholstery was probably filthy, coated with germs from hundreds of other passengers. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have touched it, but she already felt dirty. Her nostrils still stung from the burned stench of her office. All morning long, she’d felt herself perspiring—not from exertion but tension. Panic? Fear?
Natalie allowed her heavy eyelids to close, longing for the wonderful, mindless release of sleep, though it was the late afternoon—there was still too much daylight left.
When she felt Quint take her limp hand in his, she didn’t resist. His quiet gesture pleased her. Without speaking, he indicated his uncomplicated, ever-present support. So simple. So gentle.
“You’re a good man, Quint Crawford.”
“I try.”
No other man she’d ever known gave her such a deep sense of security. Instinctively, she trusted him. He asked no questions and made no demands. He was simply…here. At this moment, when she needed a shoulder to lean on, he was here.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” He gave her hand a little squeeze, and settled back on the seat beside her.
As the cab jostled through traffic snags, Quint kept one eye out for other vehicles that might be following, but mostly he concentrated on Natalie. He was worried about her. Though her face in repose was lovely, there were signs of exhaustion even more obvious than her closed eyelids. Dark circles beneath her eyes were outlined by the black crescents of her lashes. Her smooth rosy cheeks had faded into a tired pallor. Even her thick chestnut hair seemed limp.
His gaze slipped lower, exploring the vee of her neckline that showed the slightest hint of cleavage from the swell of her breasts. Very nice. Her well-toned body showed the results of her workouts at the gym. He peeked at her stocking-clad legs, neatly crossed. Her calves were firm. Her ankles, trim. Beautiful legs.
She exhaled a deep sigh, drawing his attention back to her face.
When her small pink tongue crept out to moisten her lips, Quint felt an emotion other than concern. He wanted to revive her with a kiss. No words. Just the pressure of his mouth against hers. He wanted to take her into his arms and feel her body come to vibrant life. She’d kiss him back. He knew she would. There was a passion in Natalie that couldn’t be hidden by perfect makeup and designer clothes. He knew she’d be a remarkable lover. Her sexy legs would wrap tightly around him and—
Whoa there, cowboy! Quint had no right to slide his fantasies in that direction. It was his job to guard Natalie, not to bed her. He reined in his desire as the cab came to a screeching halt outside the Langston Building.
“Here we are,” Quint said as he paid the cab driver. “Solutions, Inc. is up on the penthouse floor.”
Natalie peered at him through drowsy half-lidded eyes. “I wanna go home.”
“Next stop,” he promised. “Right after we try out this new computer program.”
“Why?” She dragged herself out of the cab. “I still don’t know why we’re here.”
“I’ll let Whitney explain.”
When they entered the elegant outer offices of Solutions, Inc., the first sound they heard was a woman’s shriek. Alert to possible danger, Quint stepped in front of Natalie, shielding her. His right hand went to his belt buckle, but before he could palm his modified Derringer, Quint heard a male voice muttering, “Look here, Kathy. I didn’t mean to—”
“How could you!” Kathy Renk, the receptionist, stormed into the outer office brandishing a stuffed leprechaun as if she intended to strangle the hapless little toy. The front of her white sweater was stained with a huge, wet splotch of kelly green.
As soon as she spied Quint and Natalie, her round face slipped into a chagrined smile. “You’ve caught me at a bad time. I was putting together a Saint Patrick’s Day display and it spilled.”
“Saint Patrick’s Day isn’t until tomorrow,” Quint said.
“I know.” Kathy gestured to the green decorating her large breasts. “Green food coloring. I was celebrating early.”
A very handsome young man in a maintenance uniform strode into the office. He, too, was stained with green. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Oh, no?” Kathy’s eyebrows raised so high that they disappeared under her bangs. “Weren’t you supposed to hold the vase? Weren’t you?”
“You arrange flowers like you’re chucking spears,” he said.
“If I were you, Liam Wallace, I wouldn’t tempt me to start throwing things.”
Whitney appeared behind them. Though her eyes twinkled with amusement, her tone was cool. “Perhaps we could try for a more professional image, Kathy.”
“Sorry.” She shot a glare of pure hatred at Liam. “This won’t happen again.”
After Whitney sorted out all the introductions and sent the maintenance man on his way, she escorted Quint and Natalie into her office. Seated behind her cherry-wood desk, she studied Natalie. “Are you all right?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m dead tired. It’s been one hell of a day at Quantum Industries.”
“I heard about the…fire.” Whitney glanced toward Quint, and he readily picked up the cue.
“Whitney,” he said, “you already know about the threatening notes. So, I reckon you might be drawing some fairly logical conclusions about the cause of—”
“Quint!” Natalie interrupted. “I’d prefer not to burden Whitney. This is my problem.”
“And I’m sure you’ll handle it beautifully,” Whitney said. “But let’s not pretend that I’m an idiot. You’ve been getting threats. Then your office catches fire. I’m assuming it’s sabotage.”
“Might even have been a bomb,” Quint said.
Natalie glared ferociously at him, then turned to her friend. “If you asked me directly, I would deny the presence of any explosive device. And so would Quint.”
“But there’s nothing to keep me from my assumptions,” Whitney said. “And I assure you that my lips are sealed, and I have a computer program that might be useful in identifying the man you met on the street this morning.”
“The man from Apex Electronics,” Quint added.
“Nick Beaumont from Little Rock,” she said. “Except that’s an alias, isn’t it? My father said they didn’t have a real identification for him.”
“Yep,” Quint said. He knew they were on the verge of breaking cover, but he counted on Natalie’s longtime trust of, and friendship with, Whitney to keep her from guessing that he and Whitney were part of an investigating force.
With her green eyes narrowing suspiciously, Natalie said, “I think this sort of thing is better left to professional investigators.”
“With all due respect to the pros,” Whitney said drily, “Solutions, Inc. technology is way beyond state-of-the-art.”
She wasn’t exaggerating, Quint thought. The Feds had turned to Chicago Confidential for backup on this investigation. He guided a reluctant Natalie into the prototype computer room, presided over by Andy Dexter. With his wild blond hair sticking up like a cockscomb, his enthusiasm for his work was palpable as he explained, “Identification by facial features is nowhere near as accurate as fingerprints or DNA, but there are coordinates that don’t vary. The distance between the eyes. Triangulation between eyes and center of the mouth and n
ose and ears.” He rubbed his hands together excitedly. “The ears are real important.”
“Don’t you need a photograph?” Natalie said.
“Got one,” Andy said.
He sat behind the computer and punched a button. The face of Nick Beaumont from Little Rock appeared.
Before Natalie could voice a question, Quint said, “I told your father about this computer, and he arranged for a photo from the security cam to be sent.”
Though Natalie’s mouth pursed doubtfully, she didn’t object. “If you already have a photograph, I don’t see how we can help.”
“Think about a disguise like cosmetics,” Quint said. “You and me saw this guy up close in the direct sunlight. Maybe you noticed something weird.”
“Maybe you did,” she shot back.
He grinned. “I’m not real good at noticing another person’s makeup, especially not when that person is another man.”
Natalie turned toward the computer and stared at the photo. There was quiet in the room but not silence. The faint whir and buzz of the computers created an ever-present electronic noise. No wonder city folks were so tense, Quint thought. Their ears could never rest. They were always separated from nature by artificial sound and light.
If he could take Natalie to his ranch for a month, even for a week, he could put the roses back in her cheeks, and he’d see a real smile on her beautiful lips. She needed a rest. Like so many totally self-sufficient women, she needed somebody to take care of her.
Pointing at the computer photograph, she started giving Andy information about possible makeup and prosthetics that could widen the cheeks and adjust the shape of a nose. “His complexion is probably lighter than in this photo. He’d darken his whole face to blend the seams between his skin and the prosthetics.”
“How do you know so much about makeup?” Quint asked.
“I volunteer at the Lyric Opera once a week.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “In fact, that’s usually where I am right now. Believe me, those dramatic divas look just like regular women before they put on their stage faces.”
