"Go past it."
"What?"
"Drive past it. Then turn around and come back."
With a shrug she complied, going to the top of the small hill behind the building before she adeptly executed a turn in the narrow roadway.
"Kill the engine and coast in." He was checking the gun he'd taken from Moose, tucking it into his waistband. She did as he said.
"Park up here." He nodded to a spot just above the building. She didn't argue; he obviously wasn't taking anything for granted, and she couldn't fault him for that, no matter how unlikely she thought it was that anyone would find this place or connect it to him.
When she came to a halt by the side of the building, he opened his door. "If you hear anything that sounds wrong, start it up. If I'm not back here two minutes after that, get out of here." His face was harshly shadowed in the early morning light. "I mean it, Shiloh. I don't want you on my conscience."
"Just get back here and it won't be a problem."
She heard a low sound that could have been a chuckle; then he was gone. She rolled down her window, barely daring to breathe for fear she would miss some sound. Nothing broke the early morning silence except the occasional whir of tires on the Coast Highway
three blocks away.
Twice her hand went to the door handle, and twice she made herself pull it away. She'd heard nothing; surely there would have been some sound? All she could hear was the hammering of her heartbeat and the distant passing cars. The irregular pace of the Sunday morning traffic seemed irritating, awkward, an out of step counterpoint to the steady trip-hammer in her chest.
Control, she repeated to herself, trying to slow the escalating pace of her pulse by using the order that had been her watchword since she'd been old enough to realize what the lack of control could do. She waited.
She caught movement from the corner of her eye and froze. The roof. God, there was someone on the roof.
Her hand hung in midair, stopped in the act of reaching for the .45. The glimpse she had gotten had played back in her mind like a recording, and she saw now the lithe movements, the lethal, coiled grace. Her sense of surprise that she had so easily recognized him was lost in relief as he reappeared at the edge of the building, levered himself over the side and dropped to the ground as easily as if it had been mere inches. He was back at the Blazer in seconds.
"All clear." She nodded and started the engine. "The loading dock door is on an opener?"
"In the glove box," she said, and he dug it out while she drove the Blazer into the narrow driveway and backed it up to the big, metal roll-up door. Moments later they were inside, the big door sliding down smoothly as Con hit the button on the remote control. The solid thump it made as it hit bottom gave her a comforting feeling of security.
Con slid out of the Blazer and looked around with interest. He'd never seen anything quite like this room, open and uncluttered by walls, full only of vast tables, open floor space, equipment that resembled some kind of medieval torture device, and roll upon roll of what he presumed was canvas. Or whatever they used for sails these days, he amended. Canvas was probably as outdated as the biplane.
Shiloh grabbed one of the bags of food and headed for the small kitchen alcove; Con followed. It was compact, carefully arranged, and looked highly efficient.
"Jimmy likes things shipshape," she said when she saw him inspect the facilities. "Sometimes he gets a rush job and ends up working twenty-four-hour days for a week. He eats and sleeps here."
She nodded at the worn but comfortable-looking couch next to the small table that sat against the wall under a poster for a past America's Cup race.
"Sounds rough."
"It is." She grinned suddenly. "But then he takes off for two weeks of sailing. How about some breakfast? I'm starved."
She refused his offer to help, and Con began to wander around the spacious building. For his purpose it was ideal; no windows, and the only way in except the heavy, metal door and one tightly bolted back door was the roof, which had several skylights.
He supposed it was ideal for its real purpose, as well, although he knew next to nothing about sailing or sails. Even so, he could see the efficiency of this operation. And the place was spotless. Shipshape, he thought, and wondered about this Jimmy who was Shiloh's boss.
He worked his way around to a corner near the kitchen—or galley, he supposed—which seemed somehow different. Here the fabrics were in riotous colors, roll after roll of brilliant reds, blues, yellows and greens. There was a drafting table in addition to one of the huge platforms he'd gathered were cutting tables, and on it was a large book bound in bright red.
He flipped it open, finding the cover of a national sailing magazine encased in protective plastic. It was a beautiful color photograph of a sailboat, its bow sending water up in a spray of white. But what drew the eye was not the boat itself, or even the sensation of speed engendered by that flying water; it was the huge, flying sail that billowed out in front of it.
It was a sunburst of vivid color, each spoke pulling the eye unrelentingly inward to a stark white center made pristine by the riot of color around it, where the unmistakable corporate logo of one of the largest airlines in the world was nestled. It was striking, effective, a powerful piece of advertising. He turned the page.
This time not a cover but just a photo, equally vivid, and again of a billowing sail. This one was a parrot, feathered in red and blue with such detail that it seemed as if the fabric had the iridescent sheen of the real creature. He saw the name of a popular southern California restaurant for which the bird was a symbol below the picture.
The next was an eagle, majestic wings spread, powerful talons outstretched, so beautifully rendered it seemed as if the magnificent bird was actually in flight. The name below that shot was immediately recognizable to anyone who ever read the financial section of a newspaper.
The next page was so different, it took him a moment to make the jump. It was a dragon, a whimsical, wide-eyed creature straight out of a child's vision. Brightly, cheerfully yellow, looking with pure astonishment at the puffs of smoke that issued from its somehow gentle mouth, it was a joyous salute to innocence. The caption read simply, "A dragon lover." He'd been smiling down at it for a long time before he realized it.
The rest of the book was more of the same: dazzling crayon colors or more subtle shading; designs that were dramatically impressive, or teasingly fanciful. He knew with certainty who was responsible for this corner of the loft, and knew he'd been right in guessing how she channeled all the emotion she seemed to keep so tightly under control.
"Should be ready in a minute. Toast and eggs okay?"
He looked up sharply; he'd been so engrossed that he hadn't heard her. He didn't like it. It made him nervous, as if he'd lost some of his edge.
"Uh … fine," he said, realizing she was waiting for an answer to her question. "You brought eggs?"
"I figured they'd just go bad if I left them. There were only four left, anyway."
"Oh." He glanced down at the photo album. "This is yours, isn't it." It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer. "When you said sail, I thought…" He shrugged, not sure what he'd thought.
"Jimmy does those. He's pretty well known for his racing sails. Locally, anyway. And the word's spreading."
He flipped back to the first page, to the magazine cover. "I can see that."
She grinned. "Jimmy hates it. Well, maybe not hates it, but he's a traditionalist. Sails serve a purpose, and that's making the boat achieve as many knots as the hull can take. He'll go along if somebody wants the upper panels dark, the theory being that the color absorbs heat and warms the air under it, helping to lift it in light air, but anything else is superfluous."
"But these are—"
"Frivolous. Cotton candy. Egotistical." She shrugged good-naturedly as she quoted her boss's words.
"They're beautiful!" His protest rang with a fervency that took her aback.
"Thank you," she said
after a moment.
"If he hates them, why do you keep working for him?"
He sounds almost angry, Shiloh thought in amazement. "He gave me my start. And as much as he hates to admit it, they sell. And they're not cheap."
"They shouldn't be. But still—"
"I didn't say he didn't appreciate them. He just takes sailing a little more seriously than life. Besides," she added with a sudden grin, "he knows they're paying the bills and letting him play around with a lot of new stuff like Mylar polyester film and a few other things I can't even pronounce."
"Then he ought to have a little more respect," Con grumbled, not quite ready to be mollified.
Shiloh couldn't help laughing. "Oh, he's learning." She gestured to a framed photograph on the closest wall. "He even went to the unveiling of the dragon. It was for a friend of his father, who has a little girl who loves dragons."
Con smiled, remembering the caption below the dragon. There, in front of the sail, which fell in limp folds on the dock, stood an older man whom he assumed was the father she'd mentioned, with a clearly excited child of about five or six on his shoulders. Next to him, looking windblown and nearly as excited herself, was Shiloh.
His eyes lingered on her for a moment, his heart twisting inside him at the pure exuberance on that lovely face, his body surging to life at the sight of long, lovely, golden legs bared by a pair of silky nylon shorts. But then his smile faded as he looked at the man on her other side, the Jimmy he'd already decided he didn't like much. He liked him even less now.
The guy was perfect. The image of the California boy, blond, tanned, carefree, good looking, with that damned cocky grin that seemed indigenous to this part of the country. And he was standing too damned close to her, practically falling all over her.
"Actually," she was saying, "he only went because Jennifer—that's the little girl—begged him to. I think she had a crush on him."
"Great," he muttered, unsettled by the seemingly causeless anger that had boiled up in him. "I'm sure he's used to girls having crushes on him."
Shiloh laughed, and somehow it irritated him even more. "Just the little ones," she said lightly. "Mandy keeps him on a pretty short leash."
"Mandy?"
"His wife."
"His… He's married?"
"To my best friend. I introduced them. Oops." She lifted her head and sniffed. "I'd better get the eggs."
Con followed a little numbly, as unsure why his anger had so abruptly drained away as he had been about why it had risen in the first place. It must be lack of sleep, he told himself. And maybe the last of the fever, or flu, or whatever it had been that had knocked him for a loop.
He sat across from her at the small table, eating the eggs she'd scooped onto paper plates—"Jimmy hates dishes," she explained—and asked her more about her work.
"I'm strictly a landlubber," he said. "What do you call these?"
"They're spinnakers," she said, explaining between bites. "Supposedly the name came from an old racing boat in the 1800s. It was called the Sphinx, and they broke out this huge sail for running—that's sailing with the wind at your back," she put in at his look. "Anyway, they called it 'Sphinx's Acre' because it was so big, and somehow it ended up as spinnaker."
He kept asking questions, enjoying just listening to her. She obviously loved what she did; it showed in her voice, in her eyes, but most of all in the work itself. And she loved to sail.
"Inevitable, I suppose," she sighed. "Navy family and all that. Linc taught me to sail that summer after he came home from Vietnam." Her voice went soft, quiet. "He came a long way that summer. I didn't realize it then, what he was fighting. I only knew that the only time he didn't look … haunted, was when we were out on the water."
She smiled, a soft, reminiscent smile that began a hollow ache somewhere inside him. "I knew the Santa Barbara Channel inside out by the time I went back to school."
She glanced up then, as if she'd only now realized she'd been talking for so long. "I'm sorry. I don't usually run on like that."
"Don't apologize. I enjoyed it."
"You look tired, though. Why don't you get some sleep?"
"I've had more than you have. Why don't you rest?"
"I haven't been sick." She wrinkled her nose at him. "Nor did I get sat on by a Moose."
He laughed, but then glanced around the warehouse, and she knew what he was thinking.
"Even if they do find us, what are the chances they'll move before dark? Better get it now, just in case."
He knew she was right, but it was still with reluctance that he stretched out on the couch. He heard her tossing the used plates in the trash, then cleaning the skillet she'd used. He should have done that, he thought sleepily, but he was more tired than he thought.
"Con?"
"Hmm."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
His eyes opened. She was crouched beside the sofa, looking at him intently. He knew what she meant; she still wanted an answer to the question she'd asked that morning. He sighed inwardly. She deserved an answer, didn't she? An honest one?
"I didn't want you to think you owed me."
It came out more bitterly than he'd intended, but her expression didn't change.
"I … use people, Shiloh. Everyone, for whatever they can do to help me get the job done. Nothing else matters." His voice was tense, strained. "If they think they owe me, all the better. It just makes it easier. But it doesn't make it any prettier."
He picked at a thread on his sweater, a nervous motion that seemed incongruous coming from him. "You deserve better than that." He stared at that thread as if it were gold. "I didn't want it that way, not with you."
"Because of Linc?"
His head came up. He seemed about to say something else, then shrugged. "Yeah. Because of Linc."
Shiloh felt that odd sensation again, that letdown, as if she'd been hoping he would say something else. Like what? she asked herself scathingly as he turned his head away and closed his eyes. That he didn't want to use you personally? That it mattered not because of Linc, but because of you? Right, Reese. You left dreamland behind a long time ago. She got up and walked to her drawing board, where she sat staring at nothing for a long time.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Con opened his eyes as he felt the presence beside him. She was there, in that green robe that made her eyes shimmer with matching color. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought it odd that she'd brought it, but she was so beautiful as she stood there that he couldn't ask her why. He wondered why everything was so foggy, so blurred. Everything except her. She was crystal clear and glowing, and she made his blood begin to pulse in hot, heavy beats.
He levered himself up onto his elbows, wondering what had happened to the couch he'd fallen asleep on. And when the hell had he undressed? He looked up at her, the question on his lips, but she raised a finger to her own soft, sweet mouth and hushed him.
With slender, graceful hands that never hesitated, she reached for the zipper of the robe and drew it down with agonizing slowness. His eyes were riveted on the movement, on every inch of silken skin that was revealed as the fabric parted.
It stopped over the smooth, flat plane of her stomach, and her hands left the tab of the zipper. He could see the soft, full, inner curves of her breasts in the gap of the opening, and her nipples were thrusting tautly against the green silk. A small groan escaped him. God, what was she doing? His body tightened, throbbed, began to ache in time with the pounding of his blood in his ears.
Her hands went to the top of the robe, and without a word she slipped it off her slender shoulders. It fell to the floor in a lustrous puddle, and his breath stopped in his throat as she stood before him. He moaned, reaching for her, his body hard and demanding.
She was gone the instant he touched her. He felt a brief, burning sensation, as if he had touched steam, and he sat up with a jerk. Reality came crashing in, the mist of his dream vanishin
g in a rush.
"Are you all right?"
Her voice came from one side, and he looked over to see her sitting at her drafting table, sketches spread out in front of her.
"Yes," he said tightly. "Fine."
Just stay there, he thought desperately. It might have been a dream, but his body was still as aroused as if it had been truth. Damn, what was wrong with him? If that vision had lasted another minute he would have…
He shook his head sharply. He'd left that kind of thing behind when he was fifteen. He stole another glance at her as she gathered up what she'd been working on. She looked so innocent, so unaware of her own appeal.
She is, he told himself savagely. It's you who's got the problem. Just because your libido picked now to come out of hiding, don't try to blame it on her.
He almost convinced himself it was only that, a case of too long in cold storage, too long in that wintry, arid solitude. Almost.
From that moment on he was as edgy as a caged tiger, pacing, prowling. While she napped on the couch, he stayed carefully away, not trusting himself to watch her sleep, not with the image of that dream too fresh and real in his head.
He made himself go through it all again, from the day Sam had told him what was happening at WestAir and sent him in to find out how. Step by step he walked through it in his mind, sometimes pausing to close his eyes as he rebuilt a scene in his head, trying to remember every word, every thing that was left unsaid, every nuance that might provide a clue, any clue, to how some of WestAir's most innovative designs were winding up in the hands of the competition.
He couldn't shake the feeling that the answer was right in front of him and he was too dumb to see it. The black hats, Shiloh had called them. He knew who the big one at WestAir was, but he wasn't the end of the chain. He could feel it, knew it as surely as he knew they would eventually find him again. And he knew how. He just didn't know who. Who was helping them.
COOL UNDER FIRE Page 7
