My Bodyguard

by Dana Marton

  She punched the security code into the system. “It’s okay now.”

  “Why doesn’t it arm as soon as the door is open?” he asked.

  She pointed to the corner of the ceiling. “It’s set to a motion detector. You don’t quite come within its range until you’re about two steps into the room.”

  He closed the door behind them so if someone did come up, their presence here wouldn’t be immediately obvious.

  The bedroom was spacious, twice as large as the office, with a round bed sprawling by the far wall. Cavanaugh kept quite a collection of art here, abstract nudes for the most part. He zeroed in on the laptop on the nightstand.

  Of course, it was password protected.

  “We need to get Carly in here,” Sam said.

  “Would be nice. Or get the laptop out to her.” Both options seemed impossible.

  “We could take it right now and leave the estate.”

  He thought about that for a second. “And if there’s nothing useful on it about the planned attack? Our covers would be blown, the one chance anyone has to get close to Tsernyakov. We can’t risk everything on odds this long.”

  She paced the room. “Okay. You’re right. What if I called Carly? Could she walk us through it?”

  A little light began to blink on the bottom of the sign-in screen.

  “We’d better hurry,” he said. “Looks like the battery is dying.”

  And it seemed that wasn’t their only problem.

  There was some noise downstairs—a door slamming, footsteps coming up. Then Cavanaugh’s voice on the stairs.

  Chapter Ten

  “What are you two doing here?” Philippe watched them from the door with cold calculation.

  “David won’t leave me alone.” Sam rushed to him. “I came in here to get away from him and he followed me. He’s being a complete bastard about this.” She threw a loathing look at Reese while pressing her body to Cavanaugh’s. “I know you would never be rude to a guest, but can’t you make him understand that he’s worn out his welcome?” She was giving an award-worthy performance.

  Reese watched Cavanaugh. His features didn’t soften. His right hand was fisted. The cold feeling in Reese’s stomach said this was it. The jig was up. But it wasn’t in him to give up without trying to salvage the situation.

  “You shut your mouth,” he yelled at Sam like a man at the end of his rope. “You came with me, you’ll leave with me. That’s the way it’s done. I love you.” His heart skipped a beat as he said those words. “What do you think he wants from you?” He glared accusingly at Cavanaugh. “How long do you think he’ll play with you before he casts you aside?”

  “Don’t you tell me to shut up!” Sam grabbed a cast-iron candleholder from the shelf next to her and hurled it at him.

  He caught it handily. Now he had a weapon.

  He looked at Cavanaugh. “Listen—”

  “How did you disable the alarm?” Cavanaugh cut him off.

  “What alarm?” Sam’s eyes widened with innocence. “Nothing beeped when I came in.”

  Philippe stepped away from her, reached to his lower back and came up with a gun.

  Where had he gone that had required a weapon? Had Brant or Nick been able to follow him? The two men had begun watching the estate 24/7.

  “Who are you?” The man motioned her toward Reese, standing between them and the door. “You,” he said to Reese. “Put that down.”

  Faced with the gun, he had no other choice but to do as he’d been told. He put the candleholder on the floor by his feet, within easy reach. Not that a piece of scrap metal was a lot of help against a bullet.

  Cavanaugh didn’t miss anything. “Kick it over.”

  Reese kicked, but not too hard. The cast iron was pretty heavy in any case. The candleholder stopped halfway between the two of them.

  “Philippe?” Sam kept up the charade. “Did something happen? What’s going on?”

  The man shook his head. “Game’s up. Who do you work for?”

  Reese measured the distance between them, swore silently and wished he hadn’t let himself be talked out of the Beretta he had argued to bring. But Law and Tarasov thought it wasn’t worth the risk, that their belongings might be searched, so in the end he had given in.

  Man, he hated this mission. Give him an open confrontation with some guerilla group on the hillside any day of the week. He didn’t like the idea of facing danger with a woman he cared for by his side. Give him his team and his weapons. Instead, he was here unarmed, worrying that any move he might make could put Sam’s life in danger.

  He needed to get Cavanaugh’s gun away from him. But even if he had the man’s gun, he couldn’t shoot to kill. He couldn’t shoot at all. They couldn’t mess up with Philippe, their only link to Tsernyakov.

  They would figure out what to do with Philippe later. Right now, they had to stabilize the situation. Step one, he needed to distract the man. He glanced around the room and his gaze settled on the picture that, according to Sam, hid the room’s safe. “We are here for the diadem,” he said.

  Cavanaugh narrowed his eyes.

  If he called out to his goons downstairs it would be all over in minutes. But he seemed to believe that he had the situation well in hand. He paused for a long moment, looking from one to the other. “A lawyer and his jailbird friend—Yes, I know about that.” He glanced at Sam. “Turning into cat burglars?” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Tried this before, or am I the first unfortunate that you took for an idiot?”

  The story did sound somewhat plausible, didn’t it? Reese gave him an easy grin. “Everybody needs excitement and challenge in their lives.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Philippe. The piece is insured. You are the richest man in the universe. It’s just that we needed money.” She did a good job making it look like she was about to cry. “When we came up with this stupid plan, I didn’t know you. But it’s been hard. Everything is different now.”

  Philippe laughed. “I didn’t give you credit for the full extent of your talents. Very nice, Sam. But I’m not a casting agent. You can put the role-playing away.” He shook his head. “How did you find out about the diadem? I bid through an agent.”

  “A client of mine bid on it, too,” Reese improvised. “He was upset enough when he didn’t win to investigate who did. He happened to mention it.”

  Cavanaugh took a few seconds to digest his words. “I thought we kept bumping into each other because you hunted affluent clients,” he told Sam. “So the whole Savall business is bogus?” He sounded more fascinated than appalled. “All the women are in on this?”

  “They think they are.” Sam took over with a smile. She was quick on the uptake. She moved back toward Cavanaugh. “Hey, no harm done. You were smarter than us. You caught us. No hard feelings? Let’s be friends. You might need us yet. Never know.”

  Reese let her handle the man. She had a better chance at charming Cavanaugh than he did.

  “Shut up and don’t move another centimeter.” Cavanaugh turned the gun from Reese and pointed it at her, looking decidedly disinclined to be charmed.

  He took a step toward Sam, taking his attention from Reese for a split second.

  It was the break Reese had been waiting for.

  Make it quick, make it quiet.

  He launched himself at the man and brought him down as Sam flew for the door to close it, to make sure that the sound of the two men crashing to the floor wouldn’t bring attention from downstairs.

  Cavanaugh held the gun firmly. Reese gripped his wrist, trying to stop him from aiming the weapon. He had to get it away from him. If the gun went off, Cavanaugh’s men would be up here in seconds.

  They rolled on the floor, grunting. Cavanaugh was in damn good shape.

  Reese could see Sam in his peripheral vision, then she disappeared. Soon, he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom. Good—anything to mask the noise helped.

  He kept pushing forward, pressing his body weight into
Cavanaugh, not allowing him to take enough of a breath to call out. They were at an impasse, pretty well matched for strength.

  He almost had the gun, but Philippe heaved. Reese’s grip slipped. Hang on. Hang on. It wasn’t enough to stop the man from shooting him or Sam. If the weapon was discharged at all, the sound would bring Philippe’s goons running.

  Reese brought his other hand up, which exposed his side. Cavanaugh immediately took advantage of that with a vicious stab of his elbow into Reese’s ribs. He swallowed the pain.

  Then Sam came out of nowhere and clunked Philippe in the back of the head with the candle-stick. The man reeled enough from the blow so Reese could bring the heel of his hand hard into his chin, smack his head back and knock him out.

  He rolled to the side and gobbled some air.

  “Thanks,” he told Sam without taking his attention off the man next to him. He grabbed the gun away from Philippe and tucked it behind his back then looked up at her, grinning.

  Sam grinned back, but didn’t stop to bask in their success. She snatched a pillow off the bed, stripped it and ripped the cover. “Let’s secure him before he wakes.”

  “Good thinking.”

  He lifted Cavanaugh’s head from the floor so she could gag him. He was already coming to. Reese grabbed the leftover fabric, made two strips and bound his hands and feet.

  Philippe looked from Reese to Sam with a clouded expression at first, then his gaze widened as the events of the past few minutes came back to him and his eyes began to burn with hate. He was growling from behind the gag.

  “Quiet.” Reese pointed the gun at him.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Sam glanced toward the door.

  Good question. Their undercover mission was over as they knew it, their cover blown and the rules of the game completely changed from here on out. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Whatever came next, Cavanaugh could not be allowed to establish contact with Tsernyakov. “We’ll have to kidnap him.”

  Except that his sudden disappearance would make Tsernyakov suspicious. They still needed to get close enough to T to figure out where exactly the attack was going down and how. They needed that information to stop whatever evildoing was in the making.

  Reese gave the gun to Sam then went into the bathroom. He took out his phone, dialed Brant and told him what had just transpired at the mansion.

  Brant swore. “Maybe we can turn him.” He paused.

  They both knew how unlikely that was.

  “We’ll come up with a solution,” he went on. “I have an idea, but I can’t come to you. One of you have to come in.”

  He was about to respond, when a knock sounded on the suite’s door. He clicked off the phone.

  “Sir?” one of Cavanaugh’s men was saying.

  Sam gave an exaggerated squeal.

  “Sir?”

  “He’s in the bathtub.” Sam giggled.

  Reese made some splashing sounds with his hand, in case it could be heard over the running water.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb,” the voice apologized.

  Reese walked out of the bathroom and looked at Sam. They held their breath and each other’s gazes for a few endless seconds.

  “I think he’s gone. You can turn off the water,” she whispered. “What did Brant say?”

  Nothing good, he thought. He didn’t want to be separated from her just now. The situation was too dangerous. But he had to trust that she could handle herself.

  He walked over to her and kissed her gently on the mouth. How could anyone be this sweet and this tough at the same time? She was going to be his undoing for sure.

  “You’re wanted at the office,” he said.

  SAM SKIPPED down the stairs and flashed a smile—the kind Eva usually doled out—at the two men in the front foyer.

  “Could someone bring around my car?”

  They just looked at her. One of them glanced up the stairs. Were they waiting for Cavanaugh’s permission that she could leave?

  “Philippe got some superimportant call.” She rolled her eyes. “Since it looks like he’ll be a while, he told me to go get something special…” She looked away bashfully for effect. “That we’ve been talking about.”

  The taller of the two men walked out the door. She flashed another smile at the one who was staying, then followed.

  Her car was up in the front driveway in another minute or two. She kept an eye on the rearview mirror as she pulled the Celica through the gate. Roberto was getting into one of the black BMWs that always stood at the ready. Was it too much to hope that he was just going to the grocery store? A couple of turns confirmed her suspicions. She was being followed.

  Time to get rid of the man.

  She ran a red light. So did he.

  She had to get rid of the man without him realizing that she was trying to get rid of him. If he got suspicious that something was up, he might call back to the mansion to warn Philippe about her. And Philippe definitely couldn’t come to the phone right now.

  She skipped in and out of traffic, but apparently Roberto had plenty of experience at shadowing people because he stuck behind her. Traffic being what it was, she couldn’t outrace him. She turned down an alley behind a row of restaurants and dodged garbage containers. A truck was coming off a loading dock. That could be just the break she needed. She timed it, stepped on the gas just as they were next to each other. The next second, the truck rolled out into the alley and blocked the way behind her.

  “See you later, Roberto.” She grinned.

  Her sense of accomplishment lasted for about half a mile. At the next major intersection, by some major bad stroke of luck, she found herself side by side with the man at the red light.

  She didn’t have time for this. Sam clenched her teeth and considered her options. Then the solution popped into her head.

  She drove to a large shopping center that was only a few blocks from Savall’s office and weaved through the three-story parking garage. Roberto kept right behind her. Fine. She got out of the car and headed for the elevator. He couldn’t very well get on it with her. He would know that she would recognize him and realize that she was being followed. At least, she hoped he had as much logic as that.

  She got off on the main level and found herself in a light-filled atrium that buzzed with shoppers. She plunged into the crowd. Getting lost here shouldn’t be hard. She’d spent plenty of cold winter days at malls in her youth, dodging mall security with the inventiveness of a desperate teenager.

  She was going through the food court when she glanced back and saw Roberto get off the elevator. He looked around, annoyed. She stepped behind a pretzel stand before he could spot her. Then, when he was looking in the other direction, she took off toward the entrance of a major department store, glass cases stocked with perfume and cosmetics. So much for Roberto. She grinned. Never try to outrace a woman at a mall.

  She crossed the department store and took the escalator to the next level where she left the store and went back to the main bank of elevators. In less than five minutes she was back in her car. In ten more, she was parking in front of the office.

  “Nobody followed you?” Gina asked when she walked through the door.

  “Lost him,” she said as if it were no big deal.

  “Knew you could.” Gina grinned.

  “Is everything okay?” Anita was walking toward her.

  “Will be if you have a solution for me.”

  Brant was coming out of his office with a small paper bag in his hand and held it out. “Here it is.”

  She took it and glanced in. A syringe and a vial. “What is it?”

  “A drug used by diabetics. When used improperly it causes hypoglycemia that mimics the symptoms of a stroke.”

  “Will it kill him?”

  Could she do it? Could she shove a needle into a man’s arm and watch him die, even if he was a criminal? She had thought about what would happen if things got rough, considered the possibilities when she had signed
on to the mission. But back then it seemed a far-off possibility. Faced with it now, she was drowning in self-doubt.

  Shooting back at someone who was shooting at you was a different matter. But to inject Cavanaugh with poison while he was tied and gagged…“I’m not sure—”

  But Brant shook his head. “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I want him to stand trial for all the dirty business he’s been conducting on the island.”

  “But if Tsernyakov talks to Philippe before we get to Tsernyakov, the whole operation will be ruined. If T thinks we are on to him—The deal could be canceled. Or worse, the date of the attack could be brought up, leaving us no time to stop it.”

  “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll run through this,” Brant said and told her about the plan.

  “I’M GLAD YOU can come.” Tsernyakov scanned a handful of printouts as he talked on the phone.

  His office looked like a hurricane had swept through it. Files lay on the floor, waiting to be sorted into boxes; three giant garbage cans spilled over with what he had selected for his secretary to shred. He was packing up, getting ready to move out.

  Too bad. He liked this office in Saint Petersburg with the view of the river in the distance. The big windows let the sunshine through in the morning, putting him into an instant good mood as soon as he plopped into his bloodred executive leather chair, a gift from a friend. He liked how high up he was, how he could look over most of the buildings, watch the people and the cars on the street. His empire.

  He was going to miss this view.

  “You are my most important client,” Cal said on the other end of the line. “And family comes first, anyway. I’m not going to forget what you’ve done for me.”

  Cal Spencer, his second cousin who lived in England and owned a slew of strategically placed warehouses, was, indeed, indebted to him. His connections had saved Cal from some nasty insider-trading charges not long ago.

  Now most of Cal’s warehouses stored Tsernyakov’s bootie, plus basic essentials he was stockpiling for after the virus had been released. He was determined to come out on top once all was said and done.