Whirlpool

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Cruz snorted. “Open your eyes, honey. I look like the south end of a northbound aardvark.”

  “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Why lady aardvarks walk two steps behind their men.”

  Chuckling, smiling, Cruz looked into the amber eyes that were watching him with open pleasure.

  “I can’t remember when I’ve laughed so much,” he said.

  “With your job, it’s no wonder. You use yourself too hard.”

  “If I wasn’t doing this, I’d be doing something else that was physically demanding,” he said, stroking her dark, tangled hair. “It’s just the way I am. Hell, a professional athlete has a shorter career span than I do.”

  “What do they do when their playing days are over?”

  “Is that what happened to your father?”

  Laurel stiffened.

  It was the first direct mention of Jamie Swann since she’d arrived at Risk Ltd.

  Cruz’s hand never paused, stroking her hair, silently reminding her just how close they had become. She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and relaxed against him again.

  But not quite as much.

  She knew the dream was over. Reality had returned with a vengeance. Now the choices she faced were even more cruel.

  Her father or her lover.

  “I guess so,” Laurel said. “I know he’s getting old and he’s frightened of getting old. He even apologizes for wearing reading glasses.”

  “It happens to everyone who doesn’t die first.”

  She winced. “Cold comfort.”

  “He’s an adult. What does he expect? A vodka-and-cocaine tit to suck on for sweet excitement everlasting?”

  “What is Dad supposed to do?” she asked sharply. “Shuffle off to the old folks’ home with a smile and an apology for having been born in the first place?”

  “He might try yoga or lawn bowling, or swimming or bird-watching, or fishing or growing orchids or hiking or breeding dogs or the senior triathlon or bridge or billiards,” Cruz said impatiently. “Hell, he might even go back to school or fall in love or—”

  “He might get a life, is that it?” she cut in.

  “It’s that or get dead.”

  “You really don’t like my father. Why? Because you think he’s working for himself rather than for his country?”

  “The son of a bitch used you,” Cruz said in a soft, deadly voice. “He set you up with that egg and then got in the wind, leaving you to face two assassins alone.”

  “He didn’t know that they—”

  “Bullshit, honey,” Cruz interrupted impatiently. “He’s a pro. He had to know what could go wrong, and where, and who would pay the piper—you.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t want to believe it.”

  “Do you know what you’re asking?”

  “I’m asking you to trust me,” Cruz said.

  “No,” she said, pushing away from his powerful arms. “You’re asking me to betray my father.”

  “Use your head, not your heart. You’re in danger.”

  “Not from Dad.”

  “Just from your daddy’s nasty playmates.”

  “Not anymore,” she retorted. “I’m out of the game. He took the egg. It’s over.”

  “Wrong. It’s just beginning.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked bitterly. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  “You don’t want to know what I know.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “You’re all woman in my arms, but in your mind you’re still Daddy’s little girl. Well, little girl, let me tell you about your dear old daddy.”

  Laurel stiffened and tried to get out of bed. Cruz held her where she was with an offhanded ease that reminded her of just how strong he was.

  “There are fat files on Jamie Swann in the archives of both the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Cruz said.

  “I know.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “No.”

  “I have. Your daddy is a legend among field agents at the CIA. He’s been in on the most dangerous covert operations for the past twenty-five years. He’s been decorated three times for bravery and twice for exemplary initiative.”

  “Sounds like a career to be proud of.”

  Cruz smiled. It wasn’t comforting. “To be that good, your father needed the skills of a professional assassin, the inventiveness of a gifted practical joker, and the scruples of a mink. As a result, Jamie Swann is brave, tough, smart, and has total contempt for any authority but his own.”

  “Is that why you’re worried?”

  “No. I’m worried because sometime in the past few years your daddy went sour.”

  Laurel became very still except for her heartbeat, which doubled. This was what she’d feared.

  This was what she didn’t want to hear.

  “Maybe the world changed and he couldn’t,” Cruz said. “Maybe he just grew old. Maybe it was inevitable that a man of his temperament would jump the fence, crossing over from gifted field operative to gifted criminal.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” Cruz said flatly. “I know a lot of men like your father. Even the spit-and-polish FBI has its cowboys, its rogue warriors, its corner cutters, its black-bag experts. They’re damned valuable when the time comes to get down and dirty. But all too often their virtues are exactly the same as their vices.”

  “Dad wouldn’t—”

  “He did,” Cruz cut in ruthlessly. “In the past few years he’s been involved in at least three illegal schemes to divert heavy arms or combat aircraft to Third World nations. Enemies, Laurel. We went to war with one of them and damn near burned down the Gulf.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he interrupted again. “You asked about your father. I’m telling you, and I’ve got the files to back up everything I say.”

  The chill in her increased as she looked at Cruz. His words were relentless, as hard as the pale, crystalline blue of his eyes.

  “Swann is suspected of delivering high explosives to a South American terrorist organization,” Cruz said. “He’s known to have supplied chemical precursors for nerve gas to the government of a small nation in Asia.”

  She made a low sound.

  Cruz’s eyelids flinched in a sympathy she didn’t see, for her own eyes had closed, shutting him out.

  “The nerve gas didn’t involve a direct violation of law,” he said. “And Swann redeemed himself to some extent by destroying the cache of gas.”

  “Why?” she asked raggedly.

  Cruz didn’t know if Laurel was asking him about her father’s motives in destroying the gas or simply asking why Swann had gone rogue.

  “Swann destroyed the gas when he learned that it was going to be used to wipe out stone-age tribes who stood in the way of exploiting the hardwood forests. But he found out too late for one clan. The youngest victim was four hours old. Swann killed the man who’d released the gas, but it didn’t bring back the dead.”

  Laurel tried to breathe, to force air past the sickness rising in her throat.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Cruz said, seeing her stark pallor. “Your dad didn’t mean for any innocents to die. He just didn’t check his buyers well enough. It’s a common problem when you go rogue. You have to deal with the biggest chunks floating in the global cesspools. Heard enough, or do you want me to go on?”

  Numbly she shook her head. She’d heard enough.

  Letting out a breath that hissed through his teeth, Cruz released his hold on her. He wanted very much to gather her closer in his arms and hold her, but he was afraid he would have to fight her to do it. He didn’t want that for either of them.

  He didn’t want any of this, but it was his to do just the same.

  “Something went wrong in one of those cesspools,” he said, trying to make his voice gentle, failing. “Now your dad is on
the run, and all the hounds of hell are baying at his heels.”

  Slowly she opened her eyes. They were huge with pain and horror and tears that hurt too much to shed. With a bitter inner rage at what he knew must happen, Cruz did what he’d avoided doing for too long.

  He pushed her right into a corner.

  “Your dad needs our help as much as you do,” Cruz said. “If they catch him, he’s dead meat.”

  “I—” Her voice broke. “I warned him.”

  “Yeah. Three, two, six, four, three, seven. danger.”

  “You knew?”

  “Hell, yes, of course we knew. But Swann already knew his ass was on the line. That’s why he dropped the egg on you.”

  “I’m his daughter. He’s entitled to look to me for help.”

  Cruz bit off a vicious curse. His temper had never been more uncertain, and never had he needed it to be so steady.

  “You don’t invite innocents into a game played only by assassins,” he said finally.

  “Good for our side,” she said in a strained voice. “I’m out of the game now. No harm, no foul, isn’t that what they say?”

  “But you’re not out of the game. Your home telephone has a message on it from your father.”

  “How did you—” she began.

  “Christ,” Cruz snarled. “We’ve got hackers who can get into Department of Defense computers. Your answering machine spilled its guts to us in four seconds flat. Then we erased it so that no one else could do the same thing.”

  With unnatural calm Laurel asked, “What was the message?”

  “‘Hi, baby. Let’s get together at our special place. Soon. Oh, and bring your leather valise. We might take a little trip.’”

  The words sank into her like razors made of ice, chilling her even as they made her bleed. Her father had never asked for her company. Not even once.

  Ever.

  “Don’t you get it yet?” Cruz asked. “Your father is using you.”

  “And I suppose you aren’t?”

  Even as he started to deny it, Gillespie’s cynical order echoed in his mind: Get her trust the old-fashioned way.

  Cruz lost the battle with his temper. “At least I made you scream with pleasure. Your father only made you scream with fear.”

  With that, Cruz snapped back the sheet and shot out of bed, heading for the bathroom, calling himself every kind of fool there was. He slammed the door. He did the same thing to the door on the opposite side of the bathroom, the one that led to his own bedroom. A vicious twist on the shower faucet started the water.

  Laurel lay in bed and listened to the drumming of water against tile until she could breathe without feeling like she was breathing fire.

  I can’t choose between them.

  I simply can’t. Choosing Cruz means believing my father is so selfish—or so desperate—that he’s willing to risk my life for retirement pay. But choosing Dad means believing that Cruz seduced me in cold blood, using me to get to my father.

  Dad might be that desperate.

  Cruz isn’t that cold.

  She would never forget when he’d told her that he wasn’t as gentle as he wanted to be, not until the last time they made love. Those weren’t the words of a man who only wants to use a woman to get to someone else. And there were other words.

  My job is to protect you in every way I can.

  A chill went over Laurel as she realized that Cruz’s job also meant protecting her from her own father.

  No, she denied instantly. Dad wouldn’t put me in danger. That’s why he took the egg.

  But then why did he tell me to take the “valuable stuff” with me, and to check for phone messages?

  “He was worried about me,” she said quietly, as if hearing the words spoken aloud would make them true. “He wanted to keep in touch.”

  The fierce drumming of the water stopped. She tensed, expecting Cruz to reappear. When he didn’t, she knew that he’d gone to his own room to dress.

  Slowly she got out of bed and walked to the closet. She picked up her leather valise, opened it, and pulled out the box that held the “valuable stuff.” Swiftly she went through the small packets. An inch from the end of the second row was exactly what she had prayed she wouldn’t find.

  For a long time she simply stood and looked at the evidence that damned her father more thoroughly than anything in the government files.

  43

  Malibu

  Wednesday morning

  The crashing, rhythmic thunder of surf met Claire Toth as she stepped from the back of Hudson’s limousine. Thickened by smog and salt air, the sunlight was a rich orange. Stretching lazily to conceal her unease, she looked out at the cold blue Pacific.

  Huge rollers generated by a storm thousands of miles away turned over and exploded on the deserted beach. The combers moved with an inevitable, overwhelming power that fascinated her even as it chilled her. Unlike men, the ocean would never be controlled by a desirable woman.

  “Nice beach,” she said to the driver. “What happened to the tourists?”

  “Mr. Hudson doesn’t have any of them,” Bill Cahill said. “They mess up his sand.”

  At the moment Cahill wasn’t a happy employee. He was a security expert and a bodyguard, not a chauffeur and errand boy. Yet for the past two days, Hudson had been running him around like a minimum-wage jerk.

  “How much sand is his?” she asked.

  “A quarter mile in either direction.”

  “One-half mile of Malibu beach frontage. Land so valuable it’s sold by the inch. Thousands of dollars a foot.” She shook off a feeling of unreality. “How often does he come here?”

  “Often enough. He keeps his women here,” Cahill said, baiting Toth. “This is only one of his love nests.”

  She laughed and licked her lips. “He’s really a randy old bastard, isn’t he?”

  “A regular he-goat. He keeps a stable of trained whores like other rich men keep a string of top polo ponies.”

  Black eyes flashed in a sideways glance at Cahill. She guessed he was about fifty, relatively fit, but fully aware of the cold breath of old age on the back of his neck.

  “Jealous?” she asked in a throaty voice.

  Cahill gave her a long, cool look from top to bottom and back again. “Not since I saw what he goes through to keep it up. This way, Ms. Toth.”

  The beach house was cold, hard-edged, and austere. There was a formal Japanese rock garden in the front yard. Massive wooden doors bound in brass opened into the house.

  Wood, tile, stone, filtered light…Toth felt like she was entering a secular cathedral. The huge doors closed softly behind her, shutting out the inhuman power of the sea. The air inside the house was cool and still.

  “Down there,” Cahill said, pointing. “Just follow the noise. He’s expecting you.”

  The “noise” was some kind of New Age music that came from a room at the far end of a long tiled hallway.

  Without another glance at her chauffeur, Toth set off toward the source of the music. Eventually she came to a solarium where Hudson lay nude, facedown, on a massage table made of chrome and butter-soft leather. A sturdy woman with straight black hair pulled back in a bun was methodically working on the knotted muscles at the base of Hudson’s neck.

  A wheeled chrome stand that would have been at home in a hospital was posted next to the table like a sentry. A bag of clear yellow fluid hung from the arm of the stand. A transparent plastic tube ran directly from the bag to a catheter in the back of Hudson’s right leg.

  “Come in,” he said, without lifting his head. “Forgive my informality, but the past few days have been rather trying. The next few promise to be even more so. A little revitalizing seemed in order.”

  Uneasily Toth walked into the room. The late-afternoon sun made the damp beach air inside the solarium unpleasantly warm. She looked with distaste at the sack of fluid and the tube bleeding stuff into the needle in Hudson’s thigh. Needles brought back too many memories of pov
erty and rape and drugs.

  “You, uh, do this often?” Toth asked, looking at the catheter that was expertly cut into a vein in Hudson’s leg.

  “Once a month,” he said, his voice somewhat muffled by his position. “It’s possible to take the treatment more often without risk, but with repetition it eventually loses effectiveness. I try to stay on a fairly strict regimen.”

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked. “It looks like piss.”

  He lifted his head and gave her a glance of almost fatherly tolerance. “It has some long and unpronounceable Romanian name. There’s no equivalent word in English, since no one has yet synthesized the material here.”

  “What is it, monkey glands?”

  “My dear child,” he said, laughing. “Do you believe everything you read in print?”

  She laughed in return, feeling at ease with him. There had been desire and approval in his eyes when he looked at her.

  “I just believe the interesting stuff,” she said.

  “Such as eternal youth?”

  “I’m too young for that to matter.”

  It was a lie, but she was accustomed to lying. Like sex, it was something she did very well.

  “Someday you’ll look in the mirror and your tits will be halfway to your navel,” Hudson said, “and your magnificent ass will be halfway to your knees.”

  She smiled and ran her hands over the ass in question.

  “Then you’ll go under some smiling surgeon’s knife,” he continued. “He’ll nip and tuck and cut and stitch, and when he’s done you’ll have scars, and your tits and ass will still sag again.”

  Hudson lowered his head to the table, but still he watched Toth, telling her what life would be like in the future.

  She didn’t like hearing it.

  “A few years later you’ll be back under the knife,” he said calmly, “and then again and again, until you lose track. But by then your skin is thin and spotted and you’ve had so many lifts your navel has a goatee. You don’t get eternal youth under some glad-hander’s scalpel. You just get scars hidden in the wrinkles.”

  A shudder ran over Toth. Like the sea, old age was one of the few things that frightened her without exciting her sexually. There was no winning with old age. You simply got older and uglier and then you died.