STOLEN MOMENTS

by Michelle Martin

  "And when is that?"

  "You ever hear the odds on Hell freezing over? I work for Duncan and he's not exactly the favorite son around here."

  "So you're tainted."

  "Like I had Mad Cow disease."

  "That's rough."

  "It's not so bad. Duncan makes sticking around worthwhile. Speaking of which, there's no need for you to spend two hours lounging against my desk. The suspect is in, and trust me," Emma said with a grin, "he's not going anywhere any time soon. Make yourself at home."

  "Thanks." More than anxious, Harley walked into Duncan's office, closing the door behind her. How did one talk to an object of lust? Boyd had not covered that subject during her tenure in his personal finishing school.

  Duncan sat at a desk awash in papers as he studied some sort of report that left him oblivious to everything else. This was a relief, because it gave Harley a chance to regain some of her equilibrium. He was dressed all in black today, black shirtsleeves rolled up past muscular forearms, black slacks draped sensuously against his legs, black hair a bit rumpled, as if he had run his hands through the short curls repeatedly. With his dark tan, he looked like a Latin lover who could give Antonio Banderas a good run for his money.

  "So," Harley said into the silence, "with all of this leaping out of harm's way, did you letter in track and field in high school?"

  He jumped a little, looked up, and smiled right at her. The effect was dazzling. "Are you kidding? I steadfastly refused to participate in any form of organized sports, just to drive my dad nuts. It worked. Still, I think I must have covered the mile in under four minutes last night."

  Harley took a step forward. "God, Duncan, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine. I promise. But you—"

  "I'm fine too. They like me."

  He started to say something, stopped, and then visibly relaxed. "Who can blame them? But still, don't you think you should lie low—"

  "No."

  He sighed. "I understand now. You've been sent by the gods to test me."

  Harley wanted to make a quip about what kind of tests he had in mind, but it didn't seem wise considering how acutely aware she was of every centimeter of his body and how much her body was responding to that awareness. She sat down in the green office armchair in front of his desk, crossing her legs and wishing she hadn't decided to wear the red dress. It had felt fun and sexy all day long, but now it made her feel way too vulnerable.

  Duncan pulled open a desk drawer. "At least carry this on you," he said, handing her a small cellular phone. "This way, if anything does happen, you might actually be able to call for help."

  "Okay," Harley said, slipping the phone into her purse. "What exactly happened last night?" She blushed crimson. "I mean, with Desmond and Louis."

  "Nothing much," Duncan said with a shrug. "We chatted about the diamonds."

  "Uh-huh. Desmond has a limp and Louis's jaw is bruised. That didn't just happen from chatting."

  "Well," Duncan said uncomfortably, "they pulled a gun on me and—"

  "A gun?"

  "It's okay! They asked for the diamonds, I said I didn't have them, they disagreed, and I managed to turn the tables on them."

  "How?" Harley demanded grimly.

  He grinned at her. Dazzling. "Turns out I acquired a few street-fighting tactics from all my years of world travel. Much to my surprise, they actually worked. Now, if it had been broad daylight, I wouldn't have left Desmond and Louis bruised and limping. All I'd have done is sit down."

  "Uh-huh."

  "No, really. It's the best thing going to protect yourself from street crime. Oh, I know someone like my father would choose to slug it out if he found himself in a precarious situation—not that he ever would, of course—but I prefer using brains over brawn. Sitting down is one of the best street safety tactics in the book. It's unexpected, so it disconcerts your attacker, it's unusual, so it draws attention to you—something your attacker does not want—and it makes it hard for your attacker to carry through on any dire threats. Oh, and be sure to raise your voice to attract a crowd, but never with words like 'Help! Police!' They're a surefire method of chasing everyone away except your attacker. Use something innocuous. I once sang 'Buttons and Bows' almost on key in a rather nasty situation and it worked like a charm. So remember that if Desmond and Louis ever accost you again."

  "Sit down and sing."

  "Right."

  "Got it. You didn't mind looking like a fool singing 'Buttons and Bows'?"

  "I'd have minded being disemboweled by a jealous husband more. Anyway, the reason I asked you to come in is that Emma and I have dredged up every financial document and account Boyd Monroe has ever touched," Duncan said, leaning back in his chair, "and we've come up empty. Zilch. Nada. Nothing."

  "You think whatever Boyd's involved in has to do with money?" Harley asked, disappointed to have the conversation suddenly take such a professional turn.

  "Any time someone is as stressed as Mr. Monroe, it either has to be about money or about a body buried in the basement. I figure your manager for the former."

  "Well, that's a relief."

  His wry smile made the strings of her heart go zing! "I'm glad you think so," he replied, "but it leaves us with a problem. If Boyd is stressed about something, anything, having to do with money, and if the money isn't in his legitimate accounts, then he's got it buried somewhere, probably offshore. Any clues where he might hide his secret bank accounts?"

  "Sure, ask me the easy stuff, watch me fall flat on my face."

  "Sorry," Duncan said with a grin, "but Emma and I have run out of leads. It's up to you."

  "Criminy," Harley said with a sigh. "Mind if I pace?"

  "Have at it."

  Harley shoved herself out of her chair and began to ramble Duncan's office. Where would Boyd hide ill-gotten gains? And how had he gotten them in the first place? And when was she ever going to learn to ignore Duncan's black gaze burning over her body? "My world tour schedule was no help?"

  "Nope. Boyd did not make any secret trips to visit a Swiss bank account, or an Australian bank account for that matter."

  "So, he had to have been with me," Harley murmured, studying the carpet pattern as she slowly paced around the floor, "when he made a deposit, or a withdrawal, if he made a deposit or withdrawal on the tour." She paced silently for eight more minutes. "Criminy, Bermuda!"

  "What?"

  "Bermuda," Harley said eagerly, lunging at Duncan's desk and gripping it hard to keep from shaking with excitement. "I've been begging Boyd for a holiday for months now and he kept insisting that I would get my holiday when we go to Bermuda in October. We always go to Bermuda on our holidays. Always. I want to go to France, he says Bermuda. I want to go to Disney World and he says Bermuda! He even goes there once or twice a year on his own whenever I go home to visit my mother."

  Duncan stood up, clasped her shoulders, and kissed her forehead. "You," he said, "are a genius. Oh, Emma!"

  Emma walked in and was quickly briefed, which gave Harley a chance to recover her equilibrium. Her forehead. He had just kissed her forehead and her knees were still wobbly.

  "Okay," Emma said, "Bermuda's a start. But he'd be a fool to use his real name on the account, and from what we've found so far, Boyd Monroe is nobody's fool."

  "An alias," Duncan said, turning back to Harley. "What kind of an alias would he use?"

  It took only a moment's thought. Harley began to chuckle. "That's easy," she said. "Travis Garnett."

  "The rock star?" Emma said in disbelief.

  "The very same."

  "But why?" Duncan demanded.

  "Because Boyd hates Travis Garnett with a passion. If the offshore money ever got found and was proved to be illegally obtained, Travis would be the one in trouble—at least at first—and that would suit Boyd to a tee."

  "Why?" Duncan reiterated.

  "Because he discovered Travis singing in a San Antonio bar a few years back and wanted to make him the next Garth Bro
oks. Travis declined. Country was not where he was at. Nor was micromanagement. Gene Farlow became his manager last year and Travis has already made him a millionaire. Boyd starts kicking furniture whenever he hears Travis Garnett's name."

  "Worth a shot," Emma said.

  For the next hour, Emma and Duncan huddled over his computer, tapping into bank after Bermuda bank. Harley sat back down in her chair and watched them with all the intensity of a rabid Yankees fan watching her team play the seventh game of the World Series.

  "Bingo!" Emma chimed.

  "I love breaking and entering," Duncan murmured, staring at the computer screen. He nudged Emma aside and quickly tapped some commands on the keyboard. A low whistle emanated from his pursed lips. "I love it when I'm right."

  The printer began printing out the screen information.

  "What did you find?" Harley demanded, standing up and leaning over the desk as she strained to read the computer screen.

  "Nearly fifteen million dollars," Duncan replied.

  Harley's mouth went dry. "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  "It isn't a typo?"

  "Nope," Duncan said, pulling several pages from the printer and handing them to her.

  She stared in disbelief at years of deposits, none less than $200,000 and several over the $1 million mark. "Holy shit," she murmured.

  "Embezzlement?" Emma inquired, still staring at the bank information on the computer screen.

  Duncan shook his head. "We've gone through Harley's accounts with a fine-tooth comb. They're fine. Mr. Monroe's funds are coming from elsewhere. There are a lot of wire transfers here. See if you can trace them, Em. They're coming from somewhere and someone."

  "Drugs?" Emma asked, typing furiously.

  "That's my first thought. Harley's tours would be the perfect cover for a smuggling operation."

  "I dunno," Harley said, still a bit stunned. "Boyd has always been violently anti-drug. He screens everyone who works for me twice a year."

  "Sounds like a good cover to me," Duncan said.

  "True," Harley said miserably. If Boyd had tied her into drug trafficking…! She shuddered a little.

  "I've got us a Swiss bank account," Emma said with growing excitement.

  "Now there's a surprise," Duncan said, leaning over her shoulder.

  The computer beeped.

  "We've tripped a security program," Emma said in an urgent voice. "They're tracing us!"

  "Bail!" Duncan yelled.

  Emma's fingers scrambled over the keyboard and the computer went dead.

  Duncan heaved a sigh of relief. "That was close. Good work, Emma."

  "You're going to buy me a rest cure somewhere warm and peaceful when this job is finished, boss," she informed him.

  "Done," he said with a grin. "Try again later, Em. If we can figure out the source of Boyd's ill-gotten gains, we'll—"

  His phone rang. All three stared at it. So it rang again. Duncan answered it. "Colangco International, Duncan Lang. Oh, hello, Agent Sullivan. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well … I see. Well, it's kind of a long story. Oh, you do. Well, I'd be happy to come by in, say, an hour? Oh yes, I know where your office is. Right. Goodbye." He hung up the phone.

  "Well?" Emma demanded.

  Duncan grimaced. "FBI. They wanted to know why I was trying to access one of Angelo Maurizio's Swiss bank accounts."

  The blood drained from Harley's face. "Maurizio? The Mafia leader?"

  "The same."

  "Sheesh," Emma said. "What's Boyd Monroe doing associating with him?"

  "I don't think I want to know," Harley said.

  "Sorry," Duncan said. "In for a penny, in for a pound. I meet with Agent Alan Sullivan, who's heading the FBI's Maurizio family task force, in an hour. In the meantime, I'd better figure out exactly what to tell him. May I?" Duncan asked, turning to Harley.

  "Oh, sure," she said numbly, handing him the Bermuda bank printout. Had Boyd tied her to the mob?

  The office was silent except for the occasional rustle of paper as Duncan turned a page of the bank printout.

  She studied him as he studied the account information. He might still think of himself as the Playboy of the Western World, but he was wrong. His focus was almost frightening; the intensity with which he scanned the pages was like a tangible force. He was the furthest thing from fluff.

  "Now this is interesting," he murmured.

  "What?" Harley and Emma said as one.

  His intense gaze was suddenly directed at Harley. She nearly took a step back. "How long has Boyd been going to Bermuda?" he asked.

  "Ever since he signed me, nine years ago," she replied.

  "This account has been open nearly twelve years. Whatever he's up to, Harley, it didn't start with you."

  "Well, that's something, at least."

  "He's been making two and three deposits a year, some of them directly in cash, probably at the end of each of your tours. I need you to provide the paper trail, Emma," he said with a glance at his assistant. "Let's be careful to document Boyd Monroe's every breath on this one."

  "You got it," she replied.

  "So, it's drug smuggling?" Harley said miserably.

  "Probably," Duncan replied. "The Maurizios are known for their heroin supply. Or it might be arms. Maybe something else. Whatever it is, he has involved you, and for that alone he should go to jail for life."

  Harley looked up and realized that Duncan was angry. It was a very controlled, very lethal anger that made him seem more than dangerous as he stood by his desk.

  "I'll get to work," Emma murmured, walking back to her office, closing the door behind her.

  The intensity Duncan had focused on Boyd's bank information was now directed at Harley. She couldn't feel the floor beneath her feet. "Sorry about the lousy start to your day," he said.

  "It was different," Harley wryly replied. "But I'll take Desmond and Louis over a visit from Boyd any time. He never was a morning person."

  "What are you talking about?" Duncan grimly demanded as he walked around the desk. He was standing one foot in front of her.

  She held up a hand as if she could actually fend him off. "It's nothing, really. Boyd came to see me at my hotel this morning and—"

  "He what? How the hell did he know where you're staying?"

  "I don't know," Harley said with a shrug. "I just figured your dad told him."

  "What did he want?" Duncan demanded.

  Harley's smile was wry. "He wanted me to go back to the Ritz with him."

  "Why?"

  "He said he was worried about me. Naturally, I said no, we had some words, so I pretty much threw my independence in his face and threw him out. End of story."

  Duncan raked both hands through his black hair. She could feel the tension radiating from his taut body. "First Giscard's men and now Boyd. You are going to stay in one of the company's safe houses until all this is over."

  "No," Harley replied, feeling as if she were standing off to one side, watching and listening to them both. "I won't be caged again."

  "And I won't have you endangered by Giscard's men or your loving manager! He's connected to Angelo Maurizio, Harley. You're going into a safe house and that's final."

  "Like hell it is," she retorted. "You have no right to tell me what to do."

  "You are my client. I am responsible for your safety. I—"

  "The only thing you are responsible for, Duncan Lang, is finding out what Boyd is up to. That's it."

  "Dammit, Harley," Duncan said as he grabbed her, "this isn't a Hitchcock film. This is real life and these men are dangerous."

  "What you have failed to take in," Harley retorted, jerking herself free, "is that I handled all three men just fine today. I don't need your help or your protection. I am fully capable of taking care of myself."

  Duncan swore and turned away from her to pace in a small circle. He stopped and glared at her. "At least let me assign some bodyguards to look after you."

  "No."

  Duncan
uttered a sound that was halfway between a groan and a strangled roar of fury. "You are the most stubborn, unreasonable, infuriating woman I have ever met in my life!"

  "Thank you."

  With a groan, Duncan reached out to cup her face with both hands. "Don't you understand that you're special and precious and I don't want anything to happen to you?"

  He'd done it again. He'd shifted her emotional gears, catching her completely by surprise. "Thank you," she whispered, feeling as if she were shining with happiness. He must feel it too, this hunger that knew no mercy, this connection that throbbed between them and in them.

  Duncan's hands fell from her face as if they'd suddenly been burned. He turned abruptly away from her. "This is all my fault," he muttered. "I should have found out what Boyd is up to long before this. Then he wouldn't be a threat. And Giscard's men wouldn't be accosting you, because they wouldn't have seen you in my company, because you wouldn't have been in my company."

  "Duncan," she said quietly, "Desmond and Louis have been perfect gentlemen with me. They won't do anything to hurt or even scare me, I promise."

  "Harley," Duncan said as he swung around to face her, his black gaze stormy, "would you please give me some excuse to start avoiding you?"

  Her breath caught on a little gasp. "Why?"

  He stood, hands clenched in fists at his sides, face taut. "Because if I stop seeing you, then maybe, just maybe, I can stop thinking about you every damn minute of the day!"

  "Oh," she said, happiness surging through her.

  Duncan groaned as he reached for her. His kiss was hungry and sweet at the same time. Oh, yes! She wrapped her arms around him and returned the kiss, her own hunger and a joy she had never thought possible arching her against him.

  "God," Duncan gasped when he finally ended their kiss. But his arms held her tight against him. Her cheek rested against his broad chest. She could hear the galloping beat of his heart. She closed her eyes, hoping to stay like this forever. "This has never happened to me before," he said, a hint of wonder in his voice. "You are absolutely dangerous to every belief I've ever had about myself. I don't know what to do."

  "This works for me," Harley murmured, her body drinking in his warmth and strength. "All I've been doing is thinking about you, when I'm on a bus, or in a museum, or looking at a bad painting of John Wayne."