by Dana Marton
“It’s okay.”
“Anita.”
She had to look up at him. “Let’s take turns. I got it last time.”
He just stood there, looking ridiculously strong and maddeningly unmovable.
“Your hip—”
“Will be fine. You don’t need to mother me like you do the others at the office.”
Nothing could have been further from her thoughts than mothering him as she took in his naked chest and the drops of water that glistened on the sparse smattering of hair. She pulled up her gaze to his.
Did the heat she saw there come from her own wishful thinking?
She needed to put distance between them before she said or did something stupid. And since he wasn’t moving, she had to. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up, meaning to make a bee-line for the bed, but her legs didn’t seem to obey her once they were standing toe to toe.
He dropped the damp towel on the carpet at the foot of the chair. His hands, warm and strong, came up to her face and cupped her with tenderness.
He smelled clean fresh, the citrus scent of the hotel soap on his skin, the minty scent of toothpaste, the man himself. He was the kind of man a woman could lose herself to, heart and soul. The thought scared her and thrilled her at the same time.
She let her eyes drift closed and gave herself up to the kiss she knew was inevitably coming.
He let her go abruptly and stepped away, put some four feet of distance between them.
“I apologize. I was out of line.” His voice sounded rusty.
“It’s fine,” she said, cringing, as she walked to the bed and escaped under the covers.
“And we have some breaking news coming in. Acting on an anonymous tip in connection with Wednesday’s shooting, island police swarmed a condominium complex on Sunset Parkway today.” The television drew her attention.
“They arrived just hours after an apparent shoot-out that left two men dead. They were identified as police officer Richard Mayen and Louis Marceau, a French citizen with a previous arrest record in Haiti. Documents as well as a considerable amount of cash and drugs in the apartment indicate that the shooting was most likely drug related. An official statement from the chief of police will be released at 6:00 a.m. We will, of course, cover the event live. It is expected, however, that this will end the investigation into the Wednesday shooting that had drawn attention because of its proximity to the governor.” The anchorwoman went on, but the rest of what she was saying was little more than an advertising for their early morning forecast.
“So Mayen was a dirty cop. The fish-market shooting case will be closed.”
“He could have worked for anyone. Anonymous call, incriminating documents—Case sounds a little too pat, doesn’t it?” His eyes narrowed as he considered. “It has cover-up stamped all over it.”
She sat up. “We did the shooting. I mean, William. Why would anybody on the island want to cover for him?”
“Who even knows that he was involved?” He tapped his feet.
“Had William been allowed any contact after you took him?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We figured he’d have plenty of time to lawyer up once we got him back to the States.”
“You don’t think this was done by your people?” She gestured toward the television. According to Nick, even the U.S. government sometimes worked with assassins.
“No.” He sounded very sure of himself.
With good reason, she supposed. On this operation, he was the boss. He would know. “So, it’s good news, right?” she asked, considering all the obvious implications. “At least the police won’t be sniffing around after us.”
“I would have preferred the police. I don’t like the idea of some unknown entity who seems to know our business,” he said.
Chapter Seven
Brant opened the door for her. She liked that, his old-fashioned manners. Common courtesy was all too rare these days.
“We got Ian McGraw.” Carly greeted them as they stepped into the office.
“So where is he?” Anita asked.
“In rehab.”
Brant’s eyebrows slid up his face. “For how long?”
“No way to tell. He’s got a nasty meth addiction going. He checked in a month ago.”
About the time the women had arrived on the island.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not our man,” Anita said.
“But makes it unlikely. Tsernyakov is not stupid. He has his associates checked out. He wouldn’t trust his business to someone who is unstable.”
That sounded logical. “So we are down to three: Marquez, Cavanaugh and Lin.”
“Can’t do anything about Lin until he returns to the island. Let’s get working on the double on eliminating or confirming the other two.”
“I forwarded you some more financial records, Anita,” Carly said.
“Thanks.” She walked toward her office. “I’ll get right on it.”
She tossed down her bag and turned on her PC, ready to work.
Brant stopped by her office, his wide shoulders nearly filling the doorway. Anita turned to her computer screen. She was not going to notice any more things like that about him.
“Let me know as soon as you have anything,” he said before he walked away.
I have something, all right, she thought—an impossible crush on an FBI agent who probably sees me as nothing more than a means to get to Tsernyakov.
She couldn’t think about him like that, just couldn’t. She had people trying to kill her while she was going after one of the most dangerous criminals on the planet. She had a life to rebuild. She couldn’t afford to waste time on flights of fancy. Brant Law fell into the realm of the unreachable and impossible as far as she was concerned. She would do herself a favor to remember that.
“HOW SOON do you need the space?” Cal was asking.
Tsernyakov looked at the cousin whose warehousing business in England he’d just saved with his connections. “Maybe as soon as next week. Can you help?”
“Whatever it takes, I’m going to make it happen. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you’ve done for me.”
His straight patrician nose reminded Tsernyakov of his aunt, Irina. So far he liked the boy. “It was nothing,” he said modestly. “We are family.”
“If there is anything I can do for you, now or anytime in the future, consider it done.”
“I appreciate that, but I really wouldn’t want to take advantage. It’s just that this thing has come up suddenly and it’s good business. I don’t want to miss out. You know how it can be sometimes.”
“You find a good deal, you need to grab it before somebody else does.”
“Right. You’re a businessman, yourself. You would understand.”
The deal was that The School Board would notify him in advance of the date they were releasing the virus and give the exact locations. At that point, he would move all his business interests out of the area, ahead of the disaster that would follow.
He figured it would take the world’s governments about a year to come up with the antivirus, produce the vaccine and put a stop to the outbreak—he had already invested in the drug companies he deemed most likely to get that contract. No sense in passing up on an opportunity like that.
He bought canned food and water in immense quantities, for his own needs and for resale once panic erupted. He figured the United Kingdom as a perfect place for storage, not only because he conveniently had a cousin there with a slew of warehouses, but because he figured the British were just too damn polite to loot.
When the time came, he could sell his supplies through an agent and turn a tidy profit.
He planned to spend the year on his private island under complete quarantine and contemplate the power shifts that would occur when five to ten percent of the population of the industrial countries was lost. Obviously, the outbreak wouldn’t be as bad in isolated communities in off-the-track areas as it would be in the big cities.
There would be chaos and panic, even a power vacuum in a country or two. And he needed to figure out the best way to make sure that it would be his men who filled them.
WHEN HE SAW the lab’s number on the display, Brant picked up his buzzing phone, but kept his attention on the street. “Hey, Chris. What’s up?”
“Ballistics are in on the bullet you sent. No match in the database. Looks like we have no previous crime on record that was committed with the same gun.”
“Damn,” he said without heat. Chris and him went way back. “You think you could call me with some good news just once?”
“Hey, the Stetson case wasn’t my fault. Stop hassling me. I should’ve gone home hours ago. You know what I’m gonna get from the wife when I sneak in in the middle of the night?”
“The rolling pin on the head?”
“Nothing. That’s what I’m going to get. Nothing.”
“My heart bleeds. It’s not the middle of the night, anyway. It’s 10:00 p.m.”
“I get home after eight, it’s the middle of the night to her.”
“I guess you better think hard all the way home about how to make it up to her. Need some pointers on how to woo a woman?”
“You’re a real joker, you know that?”
“I am known for my excellent sense of humor, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Anyway, thanks for the info. Much appreciated.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“And don’t tell your wife I’m the reason you’re late. I don’t want her to drop me from the Christmas list.”
“Kiss goodbye to the homemade eggnog,” Chris said before he disconnected.
Brant put down the phone and looked up to Anita’s window where her silhouette moved back and forth between her dresser and her bed. She was putting away her laundry.
The fingerprint kit he’d asked for had been FedExed to him by midmorning. He’d wasted no time putting it to use. Then, when he was sure he’d gotten all he could, he went through Anita’s place with a fine-toothed comb.
She was a neat and orderly woman, and warm, which on the surface of things reminded him a little of his across-the-street neighbor, Eileen, except that, really, they were nothing alike. Anita had exotic foods in her cupboards and dresses in her closet that he was extremely uncomfortable sifting through. Anita’s cinnamon-colored eyes danced with life, her generous lips were never too far from a smile. Her body inspired thoughts that were as far as you could get from neighborly.
He didn’t want to think about what part that might have played in him being here tonight, protecting her from afar—in addition to the sturdy new dead bolt he’d put on her door. Because this all should have been strictly about the mission. But since Brant Law wasn’t the type of man who ran from trouble, he pulled the thing right out into the open and admitted it—at least, to himself.
He had a problem with Anita Caballo.
The way he saw it, he had two choices. Leave the island and order Nick back. Or suck it up, lock up whatever insanity was trying to get a hold of him and stay here.
He had almost kissed her in his hotel room last night, dammit.
That kind of thing couldn’t happen. He was the badge. He was held to a certain code of conduct. He held himself to it. He had broken that once, gotten involved with Lynette. The price had been enormous.
Brant looked away from the silhouette that danced on the sheer curtains of her window. He should be back at his hotel in bed. Except the bed she’d spent the night in twice now was giving him trouble, making it hard to rest. You got a woman like that in your bed and the pictures of what could have been were impossible to chase away.
And it wasn’t even his bed. It was a hotel bed dressed in wild colors, used by God knew how many travelers, impersonal. His bed was a four-poster monster at home. He’d made it himself six years ago from hundred-year-old knotty pine when he’d been off duty recovering from a gunshot injury.
He’d signed up for a woodworking class in the evenings at the local high school to keep from going stir-crazy. It turned out to be one of those things where people went just to use the tools, with no more than a passing glance from the instructor. There was no lecture, no homework, no structure of any kind. He’d glanced through the blueprints someone was handing around—printed straight off the Internet—and for some reason the bed spoke to him. Another guy was making a blanket chest for his wife. And old, ornery fellow crafted a coffin. He’d been incensed by the prices and had the mind to save his family the hassle. The old geezer had seemed too stubborn to ever die.
Brant had waited for his leg to heal and made the bed that, in the end, had turned out to be way too big for his bedroom, filling it nearly from wall to wall. He shook his head. Why was he sitting in front of Anita Caballo’s apartment at midnight, thinking about her one second and about his bed at home, the next?
He should go back to the hotel and get some sleep.
She paused at the window. What was she thinking about? Was she scared?
She hadn’t shown it, but she had to be. She’d been attacked twice in the last couple days and the danger wasn’t over yet. William hadn’t worked alone. Whoever he’d partnered with knew where Anita lived and had been inside her place while she’d been out.
Brant pushed the seat back and stretched his legs as much as was possible. He was getting used to sleeping sitting up. Might as well stay here.
He expected to get word on the fingerprints sometime in the morning. Once he had a name and a face, he could track whoever it was—check credit-card records, figure out hotel, rental-car license plate, whatever—take the guy out. As soon as he was sure that Anita was safe, he would take off, go back home. Nick was coming back anyway.
The women hadn’t turned out as he had expected. They’d surprised him. That didn’t happen often.
To start with, they had grown into a team that worked pretty well together. And they were committed to the cause. He was beginning to think that they just might stand a chance at getting to Tsernyakov.
He could not compromise the mission by starting anything with Anita. And on a personal level, getting involved with her would be the shortest way to end his career in disgrace.
Think Eileen. Think safe and steady. Think oatmeal cookies. His old comfortable life in his old comfortable neighborhood. Eileen was already part of that picture. That was what he wanted. He was old enough to know what was good for him.
WHY WAS THE MAN watching Anita? Who was he, a bodyguard? But why would she have one? Was she even aware that he was watching?
The woman hiding in her rented van observed the guy in the car, how he took turns between watching the street and Anita’s window.
How long would he stay?
The idiot was ruining her plans for the night.
She wanted Anita, wanted answers then wanted to watch her die. She’d waited a long time for this. She had suffered enough because of the bitch. Now it was time to make her pay. Wasn’t she going to be surprised?
The woman in the van flashed a self-satisfied grin at the thought. Anita wouldn’t suspect her, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t think she was capable. Anita had always been patronizing, thinking everyone needed her help.
But all they needed was the money and for her to take the fall for it.
And now Anita was out and too smart to let live. It had taken her a while to convince William of that. William who was still nowhere to be found. What had Anita done to him?
To Anita, he was an old boyfriend to be discarded.
To her, William was the love of her life.
She had to get to the bitch to get answers. And Anita would talk, she would make sure of that. And then she would kill her.
She had a plan: shoot her in the knees, making sure she couldn’t get away, then work on her for as long as it took to get all the answers she needed, show her who was boss. But first she had to get to her and the man in the car was in her way.
It didn’t matter. She was patient. Hadn’t she waited years set
ting up the job? Hadn’t she seduced William glance by glance, smile by smile, one word at a time until he was hers?
She was looking forward to seeing the look on Anita’s face when she told her that.
“William.” She mumbled the word and felt the fear and pain of not being able to find him. “Where are you?”
The bitch had done something to him. She was unwilling to consider that William would abandon or betray her. He loved her. She was sure of that. William was the real thing, the only man who mattered now in her life. She would find him, save him from Anita if needed. Then he would love her even more.
“I’m coming, my love,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”
ANITA SAT ON HER BED, picked up her nightgown, then tossed it aside again.
He was outside, guarding her.
Gina would have been ticked that Brant didn’t trust her abilities if he’d done the same thing to her. Gina would have gone down to challenge him, to send him away. Probably Carly, too. She had a fierce independent streak. Sam, whom Anita called to make sure she was okay with that nasty cold, would have pretended not to care. Anita was strangely touched by the fact that he would come.
It was unnecessary. She had the gun nearby and she knew how to use it.
But would she?
The thought pushed her to her feet again.
If whoever William had schemed with was someone in her family, what would she do?
Who had been in her apartment? The thought that it could have been someone she knew and loved drove her crazy. Why? The company was theirs, it was for all of them. If someone had financial problems, why not come clean to the others? They were brothers and sisters for heaven’s sake.
The possibility of such betrayal hurt more than the last four miserable years in prison.
Questions knocked together in her head like bumper cars, bruising her brain. She wished there was someone she could talk them over with. Then she realized she did have someone, and nearby at that, whose judgment she trusted.
She tucked the handgun into the back of her capri pants and pulled her T-shirt over it then headed out the door. The hallway was deserted, the staircase empty. She waited for the lone car that sped down her street in an obvious hurry to get somewhere, then crossed over to Brant.
