Not on His Watch

by Cassie Miles

  Had she mentioned the threat notes to Caroline? Probably not. And even if she had, her little sister was too preoccupied with her scientific research to notice anything else.

  Natalie quickly typed a response, telling Caroline that the Solar Sons were creepy and she should plan to come back home as soon as possible.

  She signed off, ran to the other room and grabbed Quint’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  As they left her building and stepped into the sunlit morning, she inhaled a deep breath of city air. Nothing in Texas could possibly compete with the mingled scents from hundreds of restaurants, the wind off Lake Michigan and sun-baked brick and concrete.

  Natalie flung her arms wide to embrace the morning. For the next few hours, she’d try to forget her identity as a corporate executive and simply enjoy Saint Patrick’s Day. Grabbing Quint’s hand, she pulled him along Lake Shore Drive.

  “Hurry up. We want to get a good spot for watching the parade.”

  He balked, staring across the street at three men wearing green derbies and leprechaun masks. “Is this a big parade?” Quint asked.

  “Huge!” She grinned up at him. “With floats and bands and horses and Irish wolfhounds. And step dancers, probably two thousand step dancers.”

  “Maybe we should avoid the crowd,” he suggested.

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “Considering that you had your office blown up yesterday,” he said, “dancing around in a huge mob with no special security might not be a good plan.”

  “It’s the only plan,” she said. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life locked up in my condo. If they scared me into hiding, they’ve won.”

  “This isn’t a contest, Natalie.”

  “But it is. This is a battle of wills. And I’m going to win.”

  She did, however, agree to take a taxi to the ornately sculpted Tribune Tower. They got out of the cab and walked over the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Halfway across, she came to a halt. “Now,” she said to Quint. “Look down.”

  The water below was green—bright and beautiful and green as the hills of Ireland.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Does the whole city go crazy on Saint Patrick’s Day?”

  “Everything turns upside down,” she said. “The Chicago River is green. People who walk with a shuffle are dancing jigs. It’s a giant party. And did I mention the green beer?”

  “And corned beef,” he said. “That’s an Irish dish, right?”

  “Everything with you comes back to meat.”

  “I’m starving,” he said. “Not to disparage your cooking, which is mighty fine, but I need something solid in my belly.”

  She guided him to a sit-down delicatessen where the celebrating had already begun. All the waiters wore huge shamrocks and green vests. Finally, Quint got his preferred daily portion of beef in a massive corned beef on rye. Though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, Natalie ordered a green beer.

  Between bites, he studied her. “I haven’t seen you like this before.”

  “You really don’t know me well,” she reminded. “But you’re right. This isn’t my typical behavior. I’m usually much more focused.”

  “Competent and efficient,” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a party girl.”

  “I’m not, but Saint Patrick’s Day is different,” she explained. “When I was a little girl, Quantum used to sponsor a float in the parade. One year, I got to ride on it and wave to the crowds. I felt like a princess.”

  Natalie took another swig of her beer. Though she generally preferred a more sophisticated beverage, there was nothing like green beer on Saint Patrick’s Day.

  “For me,” she said, “celebration is required. My mother’s maiden name was Murphy.”

  “But you got your green eyes from your father,” Quint said.

  “In his case, green is the color of money.”

  “Interesting comparison.” It was the first time Quint had heard her say anything remotely critical of her father.

  “Henry was born to be a CEO. He took over the family business when he was in his thirties, and it’s the center of his life. There’s nothing more important to him than Quantum.”

  Quint didn’t exactly agree. In his opinion, Henry Van Buren’s greatest concerns were twofold: doing the right thing, and taking care of his family, especially Natalie. It was tearing Henry apart to do the right thing—keeping their undercover operation secret until the root of the terrorist threat was destroyed—while his daughter was in danger.

  “Your daddy is a good man.”

  “Of course, he is,” she said, affronted that he thought she thought otherwise. “I’m a lot like him.”

  “That reminds me,” Quint said. “Yesterday, you told Whitney that she ought to know you aren’t somebody who runs away from her problems. What did that mean?”

  Natalie shrugged. “When Whitney and I were in school together, one of the older girls accused me of trying to steal her boyfriend. A total lie. But I wasn’t going to let myself get bullied. I confronted her. It wasn’t much of a fight. My sister and I used to have way more vicious battles.”

  “But nobody else at school ever again tried to push you around,” Quint concluded.

  She nodded. “I think it’s best to face your problems head-on. Don’t you?”

  “In theory, I agree. But in practice, it isn’t always so. When my wife was killed, I ran away like a scared rabbit. It took months for me to face what happened.”

  Then he’d gone to the opposite extreme, joining up with Texas Confidential to battle against people who hurt and terrorized innocent citizens.

  “And now?” Natalie asked. “Have you accepted your wife’s death?”

  “I’ve made my peace,” he said.

  “But you still think of her. That’s why you still wear your wedding ring.”

  “She was part of me.” One of the best parts. He would never forget their love, the magic they had shared.

  “Do you think there will ever be another woman for you?”

  “Hell, Natalie. I’m not a monk.”

  “I wasn’t asking about sex.”

  What was she asking about? He wondered if there was a coded feminine message in her questions. Then he decided that Natalie was more direct than most females. If she wanted to make love, she’d look him straight in the eye and tell him. He tried to be equally truthful.

  “I’m moving on with my life,” he said with more honesty than he’d felt in a very long time. “I’ve got to admit, Natalie, spending time with you is giving me a whole new outlook.”

  “How so?”

  Because you’re different from the other women who pitied me or tried to console me. There isn’t a lot of flirting or game playing. You are brave and smart and tough. He smiled at her. “You give me hope.”

  Her green eyes brightened as she reached across the table and touched his hand. “And now, I’m going to give you a couple of hours of incredible fun.”

  As they left their table and joined the throngs on the street, Quint was plunged into a bodyguard’s nightmare. No matter how often he turned his head and looked around, it was impossible to discover whether someone was tailing them. At any given moment, he and Natalie could be shoulder-to-shoulder with the man who’d bombed her office. Glancing at faces in the crowd, he thought he recognized the man named Greely who ran the Solar Sons’ eco-cult. Another man’s rectangular shoulders reminded him of Gordon Doeller. What about the so-called Nick Beaumont? Was he here?

  Earlier that morning, Quint had used his cell phone to check in with Andy at Chicago Confidential headquarters. From all indications, the current theory with the many agencies involved in this investigation was that Natalie was in no immediate danger. If anything, the opposite was true. The profile and behavior of the bomber had been to protect her.

  And if the experts were wrong? Quint knew that her safety came down to him. He couldn’t fail. Damn it, all these people! He hoped the crowds would provide their ow
n protection, making it difficult for the terrorists to get close to her.

  At Congress Parkway, they crossed over to Grant Park, where the parade down Columbus was already under way. Everything was green, from the twenty-five-foot shamrocks to the blimp overhead. In addition to the fife and drums, there were bagpipers and high school marching bands. Everywhere, the Irish step dancers in colorful dresses or tartan plaids performed their fleet-footed tapping.

  “I used to take step-dance lessons,” Natalie confided.

  “Looks a lot like clog dancing,” he said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” she scoffed.

  “Sure does.”

  She stepped back on the sidewalk and struck a pose with arms straight down at her sides. In her loafers, she performed a quick series of intricate steps, then turned to him. “Show me your stuff, cowboy.”

  This was one challenge he didn’t need to back down from. He settled his Stetson firmly on the crown of his head, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and started up stomping in his cowboy boots.

  The crowd around them took notice of their small contest and formed a circle as Quint ended with a whoop. “Top that, lady.”

  “No problem,” she said. Natalie leaped high with toes pointed in a graceful jig. She tossed back her head, sending ripples through her hair. Her green eyes flashed.

  He responded with a heel-and-a-toe and a do-si-do. The crowd applauded, and he tipped his hat.

  A vendor in the crowd presented Natalie with a bumper sticker that read: Kiss Me, I’m Irish. She tossed him a dollar, peeled off the backing on the sticker and slapped it across her chest before she returned to her jig.

  With her hair and makeup mussed, she was just about the cutest thing Quint had ever seen. He admired Natalie for her courage and decisiveness, but this giggling, dancing woman was purely adorable. “Excuse me,” he said, coming closer to her. “Does that sign say, Kiss Me?”

  “It says, I’m Irish.”

  “I’d better take a closer look.”

  She puffed out her chest. “Irish!”

  “Kiss me.” He grabbed her around the waist and twirled her around so fast that her feet left the ground. Around them, the crowd was laughing. Quint felt as if he had their blessing. Not that he needed approval from anybody else to kiss this vivacious lass.

  He gazed into her upturned face and gently nuzzled her cheek. A harmless little peck.

  But Natalie had other ideas. She held his face between her two hands and pressed her lips against his for a real kiss that sent an electric jolt through his body.

  He could do better than that. A lot better.

  Quint removed his Stetson. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, molding her body against his, crushing her breasts against his chest.

  His mouth claimed hers with a hard, fierce possessiveness. Her mouth opened to him, and his tongue sought the slick sweetness within. His body came alive as she pressed against him, arching her back. Her legs tangled with his. This was more than a kiss; it was a prelude to something amazing, the dawn of a brand-new day. Excitement crackled through his veins. He was aroused.

  The kiss continued, longer and deeper than he’d intended. His breath backed up in his lungs, and he felt he was going to explode, but he didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want this moment to end.

  As if from a distance, he heard the crowd applauding and cheering them on. Far from sharing a private moment, he was making a public spectacle of himself and a corporate vice president of Quantum Industries. He ought to be ashamed. But nothing in his life had ever felt so right.

  He ended their kiss with a sheepish smile, glad to see the bedazzled look in her eyes when she gazed up at him. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Is that what you wanted, Irish?”

  “Oh, yes.” She leaned away from him and waved to her new fan club. “Happy Saint Patty’s Day!”

  In Quint’s eyes, the whole world was a beautiful green blur. The spring buds had begun to leaf on the trees in Grant Park. The streets and the rivers were green—the color of new life.

  He watched with a grin as another troop of Irish step dancers paraded past them on Columbus Street. The music of marching bagpipers vibrated in time with his thrumming heart. He felt like singing.

  Natalie held tightly to his hand, pointing at the revelers. “Look!”

  Before them on the street were a lovely group of long-haired, flower-draped Celtic maidens leading a handsome white steed with a horn fastened to his forehead like a unicorn. The horse stepped high and graceful, showing off dressage training.

  Others in the crowd had started their own jigs, and Natalie was pulled away from him in an energetic polka. Quint didn’t mind the intrusion. He enjoyed watching her as she danced and swirled, holding hands with one young man, then another.

  They darted into the street with the costumed dancers, then emerged on the other side. Natalie’s head was thrown back, and he heard her laughter above all the noise.

  But they were moving farther away from him—

  Sudden alarm streaked through him. He couldn’t see Natalie.

  Then he spied her green sweater. Between the thick tree trunks on the opposite side of the parade, two men were pulling her. A kidnapping!

  Chapter Seven

  From the parade route, the pipers’ music played on. Natalie’s Irish jig became a life-and-death struggle. She fought to break free from the two men who flanked her. Each of them clamped her upper arm in a tight grip. She couldn’t move! There was a painful jab in her rib cage. She looked down and saw the gleam of a handgun.

  “Come quietly,” said the man on her right, “and no one will be hurt.”

  “If you scream,” warned the other, “others will be killed.”

  My God! Is this really happening? Her frantic gaze took in the scene at Grant Park. Thousands of people—innocent men, women and children—celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day. If the gunmen fired into the crowd, there would be panic. Death from their bullets. Death and injuries from the stampeding crowd.

  Natalie couldn’t allow herself to be responsible for these murders. “I’ll do as you say.”

  “Very smart.”

  Her heart hammered wildly, driven by the surge of adrenaline through her veins. She felt light-headed and weak. No good! She had to be strong, to use her self-defense training. How could she? Her arms were helpless against the combined force of her captors. Her legs staggered. She couldn’t remember a single move. Everything was a blur. Focus, damn it!

  She’d always known something like this might happen. She’d prepared herself physically and mentally, but the brutal reality was far different from the safety of the gym with mats cushioning the hard floor. This was real life—and ultimately dangerous.

  She willed herself to concentrate, to clear her mind of terror and visualize the techniques required to free herself. Her muscles tensed.

  “Calm yourself,” one of the men ordered.

  Resolve flowed through her. She would escape. These men would be apprehended. The threats against her and against Quantum would cease.

  Natalie studied her captor. Memorizing his features, she carefully searched for possible signs of a disguise. His hair was sandy brown and curly. Eyes, gray. His nose was crooked. Average height, average weight. He seemed to be in his late twenties and didn’t look at all like a terrorist. The same was true for his companion, who had an olive complexion and a neatly trimmed mustache. Neither of them resembled Nick Beaumont from Little Rock. Was he the mastermind? The commander?

  A technique she recalled from self-defense classes was negotiation. She should try to talk herself out of the situation. “Who are you?” she asked.

  They said nothing. The fact that neither of the men was hiding his face did not bode well for her continued survival. If she could pick them out of a lineup, how could they release her? Oh God, I don’t want to die. Fear crashed around her, shattering her tenuous grasp on clarity.

  Suddenly clumsy, her feet stumbled over the root of a tree, and the
men roughly yanked her upright, propelling her toward the booths that would be used for the celebration at the end of the parade route. They were headed across the park toward Lake Shore Drive. Most likely, a car would be waiting.

  Again, she tried to talk to them. “If you let me go, I’ll pay you. I’ll forget this ever happened.”

  Again, no response.

  “Tell me what you want,” she said. “Please. Please tell me.”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” said the man with the mustache.

  “Shut up,” his companion snapped.

  They were in an open area less than a hundred yards from the street where traffic streaked past. With her legs turned to rubber, it seemed like an impossible distance. At the same time, she might be taking her last steps and so she wanted the field to go on forever.

  A sob caught in her throat. “Why me? What have I done to you?”

  No answer.

  The farther they got from the parade, the more the crowd thinned. Natalie and her captors were only fifty yards from the street, half a football field. If they got her into a car, she’d have no chance for escape. She needed to act now!

  She gave vent to frightened tears that weren’t entirely an act. “Please, stop! I can’t take another step.”

  The gun poked against her side. “Keep walking.”

  “I can’t,” she wailed. “I’m afraid.”

  As her body sagged, she kicked hard. Her feet connected with the shins of the man on her right. As he went down, she used her leverage to pull the second man off balance. Linked together, they fell to the ground in a heap.

  Her right arm was free. She flung her body back and forth, separating from the second man. Then she was standing, facing the man with the mustache. He was on his knees. He held a gun, aimed at her midsection.

  Coldly and menacingly, he whispered, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  If he fired a shot, the sound would attract attention. There was a battalion of Irish cops marching in the parade. On the other hand, if shot at point-blank range, she’d be dead.