by Julie Miller
He wished he had his computer with him or at least access to some of his information contacts. He hated not knowing more about a man he had to work with than what he’d read in the papers. While Jerome complained and Winston looked bored, Cade ran through what he did know about their employer.
In recent years Rademacher had served as a personal advisor to Prince Markus of Korosol. Markus was the only child of King Easton’s eldest son, Byrum. Since Byrum and his wife had died in a tragic accident while on African safari over a year ago, Markus was next in line to become king. But King Easton, declaring the right of royal privilege, had decided to travel to America and meet his extended family there before officially naming his heir. Cade wondered if Rademacher was working for Markus, if this kidnapping could somehow be used as leverage to ensure Easton named Markus as his successor.
“Hell. We don’t even have decent plumbing here.” Jerome’s whine interrupted Cade’s thoughts. “What kind of house puts a pump in the kitchen and makes you shower outside?”
“Mr. Smython, is there a point to all this?”
Rademacher also had ties with a political group in Korosol that wanted to end the monarchy system altogether and establish an independent republic. His one-time business partner, Remy Sandoval, was the self-proclaimed leader of the Korosolan Democratic Front. For the right price, as Jerome claimed every man had, would Rademacher sell out king and country?
Or was Winston Rademacher’s motive something more personal? Perhaps kidnapping Princess Lucia and demanding a ransom was simply a new type of profit-making business deal the man had put together.
“I don’t care how you dispose of the body, so long as it isn’t found. I thought I’d made it clear that my client didn’t want any casualties.”
Client? Cade tuned back in to the conversation.
“The kid put up a fight.” That was the extent of Jerome’s defense for murdering the chauffeur. “I should have given him a bigger dose of the serum.”
“Yes, indeed.” Rademacher stood, rebuttoned his jacket and smoothed his lapels.
One thing was certain. The man revealed no hint of motive or emotion in the perpetual squint of his dark-brown eyes. He was cold. Clever. Unreadable.
The faintly accented tone of his voice revealed nothing more than irritation with Jerome’s incessant banter. “I have a backup plan in place should you choose to deviate from my instructions again.”
Cade’s self-preservation radar kicked in at the matter-of-fact warning. “Whoa. What do you mean, backup? What else aren’t you telling us?”
Winston looked at Cade and blinked, as if he’d forgotten his presence in the room. Fat chance. Cade didn’t buy the eyebrow arched in aristocratic surprise for one instant.
“I’ve told you everything you need to know…Your Grace.”
Cade had borne the brunt of enough condescending gossip from snobs like Rademacher to let the smirk in his voice bounce off his toughened hide. He’d suffered far worse than mock pity and survived. He walked right up to Winston and used his slight height advantage to look down on the man. “You’ve told us everything except this new backup plan. And who we’re doing this baby-sitting job for.”
Rademacher folded his handkerchief and tucked it into his jacket before responding. He laughed. It was a controlled, low-pitched sound that held no trace of humor. “You’re as persistent a dog as your father was, aren’t you.”
Other than the fist he buried inside his pocket, Cade held himself perfectly still. He let the angry resentment slam through him, then trapped it in the spot where his soul used to be. “I don’t make the same mistakes my father did.”
Winston acknowledged the assertion with a slight nod. “I hope not. Bretford died owing me money. I consider your cooperation on this job as payment in trade. Your services in exchange for your father’s debt.” He splayed his manicured fingers in the air like a magician casting a spell. “It all seems so karmalike, don’t you think?”
“Hey, we were talking about my money.” Jerome waved his pudgy paw at Cade and Winston, intruding on the duel of unbending wills.
Rademacher’s eyelids moved an infinitesimal distance and shut. He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared, as if an annoying gnat had buzzed into his ear. With the standoff broken, Cade stalked to the far end of the room, silently cursing himself for letting wounded pride and old hurts get in the way of finding out what he needed to know.
“I grow tired of this, Smython.” Winston moved only his eyes to look at Jerome.
Cade closed his ears to the conversation and watched their employer make short work of Fire-man. He’d never play cards with a control freak like Rademacher. But his father had.
Cade leaned against the archway, uncomfortable with thoughts of his father even now. Bretford St. John had lost nearly as much money at the tables as he had making bad investments. His addiction to gambling had cost him the family fortune, his son’s respect and ultimately his life.
Their guest wasn’t directly responsible for Bretford St. John’s suicide, of course. His father had been the only one at the house to pull the trigger that night.
But Rademacher’s trade-off burned like salt in an open wound. Cade had yet to meet a man who mourned his father’s death. As a grieving young man, he’d turned to what he thought were family friends and business associates, looking for comfort and understanding. Instead, he’d been greeted with invoices and IOU’s, and branded as the heir to his family’s scandalous past.
“If you’re not satisfied with the arrangements I’ve made, you can easily be replaced on this project.” Winston’s warning was clear, even to Jerome.
Maybe. Jerome tossed his cigarette butt into the stone fireplace that heated the house in the winter. “Is that a threat?”
Winston wasn’t impressed with the flash of anger. “Do I need to make a threat?” He silenced Jerome by refusing to hear any more. He turned his attention to Lenny. “Mr. Gratfield.”
The big man unfolded himself from the couch, rising as if he’d been summoned by a superior officer. “Yes, sir?”
“Get the jewelry and put the items in my attaché case. I’ll use them as a token of the princess’s well-being.” He inclined his head toward the leather briefcase at his feet. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
Lenny took the case and slipped out. As Winston moved to follow him, Cade stepped out and blocked his path. He wasn’t done pressing for answers yet.
“Why the hush-hush about your client?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and demanded a response.
“This may be too complex for you to understand, Sinjun.” Like Jerome and Lenny, Winston slurred Cade’s last name with a trace of their native accent, giving St. John an almost British pronunciation. “I’m a man who makes things happen. I connect the right people so that they can become something greater than themselves. Understandably my client doesn’t wish to be linked to a kidnapping—or the likes of you and your comrades.”
Winston never so much as blinked. He hadn’t even revealed if his client was a he or a she.
“And while you’re making these connections, what do you expect us to do with Princess Lucia? I signed on for a kidnapping, not a double murder.”
Winston laughed. It was an imperious sound, and the smile on his lips never reached the squint in his eyes. “Careful, Sinjun. It almost sounds like you’ve developed a fondness for this girl. You wouldn’t want me to think you’re changing loyalties, would you?”
“I’m loyal to myself. Period.” He shrugged, pretending his mounting frustration over Rademacher’s evasion of his questions was no big deal. “I was just curious as to where your loyalties lay. Mentioning a backup plan makes me think you’d leave us hanging if something went wrong.”
“My loyalties are to the project. I intend it to be a success. Lucia is a means to an end. Surely you can handle a twenty-six-year-old girl so that nothing goes wrong.”
Cade’s fingertips suddenly itched with the memory of handling that twenty
-six-year-old girl’s hair. It had been long and wavy, soft in color and touch. Cade curled his fingers into fists, damning himself for getting distracted from his purpose.
“The girl’s not who I’m worried about,” he lied. “How do we know we can trust the man you’re working for?”
“You don’t.” Winston adjusted the already impeccable knot on his French-silk tie. “You don’t even have to trust me. Just do your job and have that girl prepped for her return Monday night.”
A rheumy laugh reminded Cade there was another person in the room. Jerome sauntered up to them and asked, “Do we have to bring the princess back in the same condition we found her?”
Winston’s expression never changed. “Smython, you disgust me.”
Jerome cursed in French and Spanish, intimating he wasn’t the only one who had considered getting to know their prisoner better. “I’m headin’ outside.” He waved off both Winston and Cade, and stormed out of the house.
Lenny returned, giving Jerome’s huffy exit a curious glance before handing the briefcase to Winston. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered.
Winston nodded a curt acceptance. He butted his shoulder against Cade’s as he passed. Then he stopped and turned, daring him to challenge his authority. Cade nailed him with a glance that acknowledged the conflict between them.
But wisdom prevailed over male posturing. Cade stepped aside and let Winston pass. He had too much at stake to risk alienating his employer now.
When the screen door had slammed behind them, Cade raked all ten fingers through his hair, venting his frustration and fanning his bangs into a spiky mess.
This whole setup felt wrong, from the unplanned murder of the Carradignes’ chauffeur to the mystery employer to the wrong victim. He’d been on enough missions as a soldier and on his own to trust his instincts about the failure or success of a plan. His gut was screaming at him now, warning him this one was going to go very, very wrong before it was over.
Cool, clever and unreadable. Rademacher hadn’t revealed a damn thing.
Cade noted that he’d never said no to Jerome’s last request, either.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Cade dropped the keys into his front right pocket and closed the basement door behind him. He pulled the scratchy stocking cap down over his face and scanned the shadows as he descended the stairs and tried to pinpoint what felt out of place.
The soft glow from the lantern made this damp hellhole look almost hospitable. A chain rattled, reminding him that his hospitality left a lot to be desired.
“Is that you, Sinjun?”
God, he hated that nickname. That slurring together of syllables as if his own name wasn’t important enough to pronounce correctly. But under the circumstances, he could hardly correct her.
He stepped into the circle of light and let her identify him by body shape. The woman on the sleeping bag sat up, pushing a long fall of toffee-colored hair off her face. She adjusted her shoulders beneath the blanket and clutched it securely around her as she stood.
“Did I pass the test with your boss?”
Her big blue eyes blinked rapidly as he walked closer. Her eyes looked raw with suffering. Guilt warred with pity inside him, but both were ultimately defeated by admiration for her courage and perseverance. Finally he answered her expectant look with a nod and she smiled.
Barely. The flash of teeth and curve of her wide mouth lasted only a split second before she dropped her gaze to the floor. But the image stayed with him. The woman was really rather pretty when she smiled, he thought. But he got the impression she didn’t smile very often, and that observation got him to wondering why.
“Good,” she continued while he removed the bucket and replaced her canteen with a fresh one. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, or if you’re really helping me at all. But since I’m still alive, I figured that’s a good thing, right? I’ve never been kidnapped before, and I don’t know the proper etiquette. But my goal should be to stay alive, and I should be grateful to you for helping me, and it shouldn’t matter why you’re doing it.”
The talking. That was different. She hadn’t put so many words together at one time in the entire twenty-four hours she’d been here. But he wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t have foretold her nervous rambling from the top of the steps. Something else had to be out of place to keep nagging at his subconscious mind.
The meeting with Winston Rademacher had made him edgy, that was all. He didn’t quite buy that excuse, but he was already busy making other observations.
She backed away when he knelt in front of her to pick up her discarded ration packets, and the movement gave him a glimpse of her torn gown and petticoats. Maybe that was why he hadn’t really noticed her looks before. Other than the size of her eyes, her features had seemed unremarkable. But the fire-engine red of that gown was so overwhelming it would make all but the most striking of women look drab in comparison.
Cade imagined this woman would look pretty in softer colors. Soft like her. Yeah. He allowed himself a smile beneath his mask. If her hair was any indication, this woman was soft. Really, really…
Wham!
He didn’t see it coming until the claw was right on him. The force of the blow rang through his skull and knocked him off his feet. The sharp metal hook that she’d anchored in her fist snagged in the knit of his cap and plowed through the top layer of skin on his cheek as she ripped the mask right off his head.
In the moments it took him to recover—to shake his head and clear the dizziness from his vision—he felt her hand at his waist. Butting against his hipbone. Diving into his pocket. Moving dangerously close to…
He heard the jingle of keys and knew her intention.
Adrenaline cleared his head with a soldier’s clarity of instinct and purpose.
He clamped his hand around her wrist and knew that she knew this sneak attack had failed.
Her split second of hesitation gave him an advantage he didn’t intend to surrender again. She jerked back with a grunt, but Cade held fast, using her momentum to pull himself to his knees. He felt her shift, saw the metal hook flying toward his face again. He snagged that wrist, too, and rolled his shoulder into her thighs, toppling her onto her back.
He dodged the knee that rose to strike him and dropped his body weight onto hers, pinning her to the sleeping bag beneath him. For an instant she went still and Cade damned himself, thinking she’d hit her head on the concrete floor.
Instead, she’d paused to stare.
“Cade St. John?” She squeezed his name out in a mix of accusation and shock. “The Duke of Raleigh?”
The recognition caught him off guard. She’d seemed familiar, but he still hadn’t placed her. “How do you know me?” he demanded, pushing himself up onto his elbows at either side of her, giving her room to breathe without completely freeing her.
Her teeth bared with determined fury. “You traitor!” She pried a hand loose and slapped his face. She twisted her hips, shimmying along the floor beneath him. “King Easton invited you to be part of his American entourage. How could you betray that kind—” Cade thrust his arm beyond her rolling shoulder “—sweet—” he bent his elbow, twisting her flying arm to the floor “—man?”
Her cry of pain was more of a strangled moan. But whether her inspiration came from patriotism or her own personal fear, she still writhed beneath him. Kicking at his calves and shins. Pushing the hook toward his face with fury-charged strength. She was wild. Out of control.
Cade mentally stripped himself of any kid gloves, any guilt. He had to defend himself and keep her from hurting herself. He wound his left leg around both of hers and stilled her kicking. He pulled his hips over hers, damning propriety and letting his weight crush her diaphragm, robbing her of the ability to breathe deeply.
And then he tackled the damn hook. He stretched her right hand up over her head and shifted his grip around her wrist. It wasn’t a matter of overpowering her so much as finding that particular bundle
of nerves near the base of her palm. He pressed the spot with his thumb and her fingers popped open. He shook the hand once. Twice. The curved piece of metal flew out and clanged against the concrete floor. It was the handle from the lantern. Somehow she’d managed to pry it off and arm herself with a weapon.
The muted wince of pain he heard in her throat was her final protest. For several moments all was silent, all was still, except for the sounds of heavy breathing. His, measured and deep. Hers, quick and shallow.
Cade refused to ease his grip on her. The little spitfire had surprised him. Unmasked him. Drawn his blood.
Now that she’d recognized him, judged him to be a traitor to her beloved king, he suspected she’d do it again, given the chance.
And that was when Cade became aware of something else altogether.
Somewhere in their struggle, that gown with the broken straps—the gown that didn’t quite fit—had ripped down the front. And there, pressing against his chest, teasing him again and again with each fevered breath she took, was a naked breast.
He raised himself ever so slightly. Seeking oxygen, her chest heaved for a deep breath. Cade watched in shameless fascination as the breast pillowed between the shreds of torn silk and came free of the black lace bra that couldn’t contain its bounty. The chilled basement air—or maybe his own heated wish—coaxed the peachy circle at its tip to pucker and the nipple to strain to attention.
Cade became aware of other things, too. The cradle of her hips flaring with generous proportions beneath his. The gentle nip of her waist. The rounded, full, glorious splendor of her unintended display. His own body’s immediate, healthy male response to such unexpected feminine treasures.
And the frightened, doe-eyed wonder of those big blue eyes desperately seeking to make contact with him.
“Who are you?” he whispered on a curiously husky plea.
She stared at him, one arm pinned above her head, one pinned at her side, completely vulnerable to him. Somehow she found the strength to answer.
“Ellie.” She swallowed hard and Cade followed the movement down the length of her throat. “I’m called Ellie.”
