by Trisha Telep
“I’m just saying, what you’re proposing? It’s overkill.”
“It’s also an order.”
“At least wait until after the surgery – see how it goes.”
When he spoke again, Derek’s words were still heavy with intent, but more personal. “You think I want this? Going under and not knowing if I’ll wake up with the intelligence of a cabbage or, worse yet, not be in control of information that – if it fell into the wrong hands – would put all of the Raven Force at risk?” A pause. “I’d prefer not to wake up at all.”
“There has to be another way.”
“There’s no other way,” Joe said. “Let me know when Cross will arrive at Heathrow. My daughter will see that he is picked up. I’ve told her I’m expecting a replacement on my personal security team. That’s all she knows – make sure you keep it that way. The surgery is Thursday.”
“Can I ask you this: why Tanner Cross?”
“Because he’s a lot like me. He thinks, but he doesn’t blink.”
He was right about that. Tanner was stone-cold effective working in the field, Raven’s best operative. But he was also unpredictable and insubordinate when it suited him. “I think—”
“Don’t think, Holister. Just do.” A beat of silence. “And don’t let me down. Please.”
Derek hung up, leaving Holister with no other option than to deploy his killer. He got up from his desk, paced for ten minutes, cursed the room blue, then picked up the satellite phone.
“This is a joke, right?” Tanner Cross sat on a cheap bed in an even cheaper hotel in Loubomo in the Congo Republic. He was counting money. He was also naked, tired and, as of two minutes ago, when he’d stepped out of his first shower in two weeks, actually clean. A month of sleep, a haircut, and he’d be human again, although last he heard humans weren’t called on to kill their superiors. Holister had to be smoking something. Either that or he was speaking in code.
“No joke. Book a flight. Laine Derek will have you picked up and taken straight to the Dereks’ home in Mayfair. Security knows you’re coming in as a guest. And it’s best you stay clear of Laine. She’ll ask questions. The woman is a tiger when it comes to her father’s security.”
“No problem. I prefer my tigers in my gas tank or, better yet, my bed.”
“Funny.”
“I take it she doesn’t know what her father does when he isn’t making billions for Derek Industries.”
“No. And it’s your job to keep it that way.”
Jesus! He tossed a wad of hundreds on the “counted” side of the bed, and ran a hand through his wet, tangled hair.
He’d been with Raven Force for eight years, run ops from the seething East-bloc to war-infested Africa, but he’d never received an assassination order before. Abort mega weapons deals and kill the bad guys, sure . . . and get their money – that was the best part. But terminate the man who masterminded Raven Force? A man whose brilliant, Byzantine plots had saved thousands of lives – and taken down dozens of murdering warlords?
This order had to be bullshit. Had to be. “You sure about this, Holister?”
Tanner heard a hard breath come down the line. “He specifically asked for you – says you ‘don’t blink’. So get your ass to London ASAP.” Pause. “And clean up before arrival, OK? Suit. Tie. The works. The Dereks don’t do casual.”
“Oh goody, a shopping spree.”
Holister ignored the joke. “And remember this is what Derek wants. This is his plan. And whatever that man wants, he gets.”
“Even to choosing his own time and place to die.” Tanner rubbed his jumpy gut.
Silence, a full five seconds of it, then a hard exhale. “Yeah, even that.”
Tanner took just as long to answer. “Shit,” he said, because there was nothing else to say. But a lot to think about. Like why in hell Derek asked for him. You owe the man, Cross, maybe this is his way of calling in the debt. And like it or not, this was an order.
When Holister hung up, Tanner stared at the phone, working to get his thoughts in a line that made sense.
He didn’t know what was worse, being ordered to kill Joe Derek, or seeing Laine again.
He picked up his beer from the floor beside the bed and took a long pull. Hell, chances were good she wouldn’t even remember him. He didn’t know how he felt about that either.
Laine Derek waited in the stretch limo outside Heathrow, her legs crossed, the index finger on her left hand making slow circles on the leather armrest. Her right held a chilled bottle of Perrier.
Tanner Cross – after all these years.
The last time she’d set eyes on him was at their home in Chicago. Back then she was an achievement-obsessed A student destined for Harvard; Tanner was a badass troublemaker destined for Cook County Jail – until her father stepped in, muttering something about not letting potential go to waste. How he’d seen potential in Tanner Cross escaped her.
Not much evidence of that potential at school unless you considered the wishes and dreams of the girls who ogled him, the ones with a taste for fun – and trouble. Tanner offered plenty of both. Or so she’d heard. Given she wasn’t exactly the fun-and-trouble type, he’d barely shot her a glance. Whenever he did, she’d skittered away like a frightened cat then, two minutes later, berated herself for being an idiot.
He was damn fine to look at . . .
A couple of times, he’d come to the house to talk to her father, but their conversations came through the study door as an indecipherable mumble. She should know, having had her nosey nose pressed against it. The memory made her wince, then smile. Maybe she wasn’t as immune to Tanner Cross as she pretended.
The last time he was there, he’d bulleted out of her dad’s study with a face like thunder, almost knocking her over. He’d grasped her upper arms to steady her. She remembered his strong fingers digging in so hard they’d hurt.
Her father yelled from inside the study, “Your decision, Cross. A chance to do something good in this world or . . . not.”
Tanner ignored her father, instead looking first at his hands gripping her arms, then at her. His blue gaze, framed by thick dark lashes, was laser intense. He made a backwards gesture with his head and asked, “That old man of yours . . . filled with crap or on the level?”
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she did know her dad was not full of crap. Adoring her father was what she did back then – and what she did now. Which made her the tiniest bit defensive when she replied. “On the level. Crap’s your thing, Tanner.”
What she’d said didn’t seem to bother him. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” Then he’d slowly ran his hands down her arms to her elbows, tugged her closer and – shockingly – kissed her on the forehead, just above her stupid glasses. When he stepped back, he straightened her glasses on her nose, then tapped the kissed spot with his finger and smiled. “See you around, Laine.” With that he was gone; she hadn’t seen or heard a word about him since. Her father said he’d joined the army.
Strange though it was, she’d never quite forgotten him.
Tanner barely made his connecting flight to Heathrow, let alone found time for shopping. And damn it he was already freezing his ass off. Transitioning to London from the Congo was like stepping into a meat locker.
Wearing khaki shorts, a cotton shirt with a passion-flower pattern bright enough to fry eyeballs and a pair of sneakers, he was conspicuously underdressed for London’s November weather. And for a supposed guest of a family hot-wired into mega money, big business and high society, the outfit was a definite fail.
He’d snagged the threads from a street vendor outside the women’s clinic where he’d dropped off a cash donation before heading for his flight; his way of making some dirty gun money do something good for a change.
Spotting a guy in a neat blue blazer holding a sign that said CROSS, Tanner flagged him, and headed out of the arrivals area.
“I’m Cross,” he said, standing in front of him.
�
��Collier. The Dereks’ driver.” Not a smile. Not a facial tic. Nothing. Just a slow detail-grabbing body scan. A driver maybe, but a whole lot more. “May I see your passport, please?”
“Sure.” Tanner dug his passport out of the pocket on the leg of his shorts. Smart move, asking for ID. But then everyone working around the Dereks and their fortune was paid to be smart.
Collier gave the document a thorough once-over, handed it back, and said, “This way.” He headed for an exit.
Tanner slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked in lockstep. “Mind if we make a stop before hitting Mayfair?” He plucked at the bilious shirt. “I need to get some clothes. Take me fifteen minutes tops.”
Collier eyed him, raised a brow. “Fifteen hours more like it. Another two in the barber’s chair.”
“You’re American.”
He didn’t answer. “Over here.” He stepped up to a sleek grey limo. “And re that shopping stop, you’ll have to ask Miss Derek.” Collier opened the rear passenger door.
“Yeah, well I’d like to clean up before I meet the lady, if it’s all the same to you.” This guy was starting to piss him off.
Collier smirked.
“I think a short stop at Harrods can be arranged.” The words came from inside the car, seconds before the woman who said them leaned into the light offered by the terminal’s halogen. She smiled. “Nice to see you again, Tanner. It’s been what? Twelve, fifteen years?”
The voice stopped him cold. “Yeah. Something like that,” he managed to mutter, while his oxygen supply turned to sludge in his lungs. And what was with that deafening alarm going off in his head? Damn thing sounded eerily similar to the one that had, on more than one occasion, stopped him from driving over an Iraqi road bomb. Now it had him hesitating outside Laine’s limo like a damn schoolboy.
Jesus, she looked good! If he’d been wearing socks, she’d have knocked them off. And that perfume she was wearing, wafting out from the car’s warm interior – if it was perfume – hit him like nerve gas. Too long in the jungle, Cross. Way, way, too long.
“Get in,” she urged. “You must be freezing.”
Collier, still standing beside the open door, coughed discreetly. Tanner, sucking in some bracing, cold night air, slid into the dimly lit limo and the privileged life of Laine Derek.
When the car was underway, Laine asked, “Would you like a drink?” She pushed the button that closed the privacy panel between them and Collier, then the one that opened the built-in bar. “We only keep a limited selection, but it’s decent enough. I’m sure there’s something you’d like.” And I have to do something so I can stop staring at you.
His face mesmerized her, had ever since he’d got in the car. His expression, one of speculation and strange deliberation, seemed to immobilize her. His gaze was fixed on her now when he answered, “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Indeed you are! Very fine. The years had been monstrously good to Tanner Cross. He had the same shiny dark hair she remembered, thick and straight – and at present, rakishly long – the same potently blue eyes, the same stubborn jawline. The scar on his neck, which appeared drawn by a fine blade, was new, as was his sub-Saharan tan. And he was harder looking, deeply self-contained. Somewhat intimidating. And utterly compelling.
He took her breath away.
She got herself another Perrier to occupy her fidgety hands and leaned back in the seat. Laine Derek didn’t fidget; she oversaw her father’s vast empire, hired and fired the best in the corporate world, and hop-skipped across the globe managing her own investments. She straightened her shoulders. You, Laine Derek, are focused, determined, and successful — you do not faint and swoon over a good-looking man. At least you haven’t so far.
And today she had a job to do: ensure her father’s security remained steel-plated. Tanner Cross might be sinfully handsome, but that didn’t mean he was the right man to protect her father. And with the surgery now imminent – her stomach clenched, as it always did when she thought about her father being ill. God, stop thinking about it, Laine. It will be fine. All the doctors say so.
“So . . . I’m told you’ve been in the Congo,” she said, adopting a warm and casual tone. “It shows – you picked up a great tan.” She took a sip of her water and managed another smile. This was all about being professional, and God knows she was expert at that. “Where were you exactly?”
“Wherever my employer wanted me to be.” He shifted his gaze from her face and glanced out the window.
“And who exactly was your employer?” She was feeling more comfortable now.
Again he fixed his blue gaze on her. “Are you looking for references?”
“I usually do.”
“I thought Holister filled you in on my background.”
“He did.”
“And his word isn’t enough?”
“Of course it is. He’s been a friend of my father’s for over twenty years.”
“So why the questions?”
Laine frowned, not sure how she’d become the answer-woman rather than the questioning one. She didn’t like it. “Just looking to fill in some blanks.”
“If there are blanks, there’s a reason for them.” He shifted in the seat, faced her more directly. “Look, I’ve been hired as additional personal security for your father, posing as a guest.” He went on, “I’ve been told the job is 24/7 until after the surgery. Simple enough.” His gaze raked over her face. “And if it makes you feel any better. I’m good at my job. Nothing will happen to your father on my watch.”
She damn near spilled her drink. “What do you know about the surgery?” Her father’s health and the planned operation were top-secret. If word got out, Derek stock would plunge on markets from London to Tokyo. They’d lose millions. She couldn’t imagine Holister being this indiscreet.
“Nothing.” Again he glanced out the window, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
“Have you mentioned the surgery – to anyone?” OK, so she sounded the tiniest bit strident.
He scowled at her, but said nothing, looking for all the world as if she’d insulted him.
“I’ll prepare a confidentiality agreement,” she said. “You’ll have to sign it immediately.”
He nodded, indifferently, looking as if something a lot more important than legalese had caught his interest. Tilting his head slightly, he said, “You got your law degree then – along with your MBA.”
“Yes.” The abrupt change in subject from his work to hers took her mind off the document she’d already started composing in her head.
He half smiled, and said in a low voice, “Hell . . . That’s really something. You’re something. Beautiful and brainy. That’s what I call a killer combination.” There was a trace of awe in his tone.
Laine should call his comments out of line – she was his boss after all – but instead, caught in the lingering warmth of his curved lips and warm eyes, she reddened. She was suddenly very, very curious. “And you, Tanner? What have you been doing all these years?”
The smile left his face, like a ghost turning from the light. Rapping on his side window with his knuckle, he said, “Looks like we’re here.”
He was right. There was no mistaking Harrods’ green canopies. Collier pulled the car to the kerb.
When Tanner put his hand on the door handle, Laine put her hand on his bare arm.
Heat. A fine spray of hair. Hard muscle.
Swallowing, her fingers tingling, she pulled her hand back.
“My question wasn’t an interrogation. Just . . . friendly interest.”
He smiled again, but this time it was fuller and, when paired with his eyes, bordered on mockery. “‘Friendly interest?’ I don’t think so.” He looked down to where her hand had briefly rested on his arm then lifted his gaze to her. A gaze both seductive and impenetrable. A gaze that offered and took away. A gaze that made her heart pound and her brain soften. A gaze that saw a dangerous road ahead and . . . didn’t give a damn. “You and I will
never be friends, Laine.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, as stuffy as a parson’s wife. She knew exactly what he meant, but some obscure instinct said the game had to be played, surface words spread like a cool cloth on a fevered brow.
But the words were useless against Tanner’s hot blue eyes. “Yes, you do.”
“I—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not putting a move on you. And I won’t. You’re the boss, so we do things your way.” His stare speculative, he added, “If we do them at all.”
With that he was out of the limo and striding into Harrods.
Breathing deeply, she watched his broad back disappear, her normally logical mind numbed by possibilities.
Tanner Cross as a lover. After all these years . . .
That thought ended her efforts at deep breathing and set off heart palpitations. Dear goddess, where were the smelling salts when she needed them!
His words echoed. “You’re the boss . . .”
Tanner cursed himself and then he cursed Laine Derek. Himself for losing his grip on whatever cool he’d managed to salvage from the jungle and panting after a woman he hadn’t seen in years, and her for turning out to be exactly what he’d expected – the woman who’d starred in his adolescent fantasies, and quite a few since then.
Not that she knew it, nor would he tell her, but it hadn’t been fifteen years since he’d seen her. No. He’d clapped eyes on her twice in the last six years: Cairo first, then Madrid last year. She’d made his knees weak then, and she did the same now. Not good, considering his current job description, and the fact that he was as far from being Laine’s type as a lion was from a Siamese cat.
So shut the fuck up, Cross, and quit with the sex signals. Get yourself some working clothes and get away from her as fast as your ass will move.
The menswear department was on the ground floor, so he headed straight for it.
He pulled a half-dozen white shirts off the rack, found a clerk, told him his sizes, and asked him to bring him three suits, one navy and two black, whatever ties would work, and some dress shoes – his feet hurt just thinking about them – and to toss in some jeans and underwear while he was at it.
