by Diana Duncan
He concentrated on the task at hand as he drove to Montoya’s estate. He’d spent five years learning about and tracking his quarry, then another five circling closer, step by calculated step. Building his reputation as a top security consultant, all the while compiling intel about Montoya’s business deals and insinuating himself into the same circles.
After Dallas had arranged an assassination attempt on Montoya late last month—designed to miss—Esteban had finally hired him.
The second, recent too-close-for-comfort attack in the forest near Esteban’s ski lodge had caught Dallas with his Levi’s down. He hadn’t arranged that one. But he should’ve expected it. Although Montoya acted the part of a successful, philanthropic CEO, he was a cold-blooded killer. An international terrorist who financed his vast network by trafficking cocaine.
The FBI, DEA, and customs had been surveilling the Montoya cartel for years, but failed to discover his import methods, or link him to related murders … now in the hundreds. A few informants from whom the officials had managed to coerce scant information had “mysteriously” died.
On the inside now, Dallas was going to find out.
His interest in Montoya wasn’t just professional. Dallas twisted the ruby in his ear. He had a score to settle.
He found Esteban working in his office at the estate. “Back from Vegas and reporting for duty, Señor Esteban.”
Montoya looked up from the papers strewn over the desktop. “Señor Dallas, what are you doing here? I did not expect you until next week.” He guiltily extinguished a nearby cigar. “Don’t tell my daughter you saw me smoking. She and my doctor are in a conspiracy to guilt me into quitting.”
“Your secret is safe with me, sir.” This particular secret, anyway. “With the big party happening tonight, I belong here.”
“Zane and Carlos are more than capable of managing the details.”
“I’m the one in charge of security.” Dallas hooked a thumb in his belt loop. “I wish you’d reconsider canceling all together. As I’ve said before, a party is a huge risk right now.” And Dallas sure as hell didn’t want Esteban’s other enemies cheating him out of his overdue payback.
Montoya’s silver brows furrowed. “My daughter’s birthday is a joyous celebration. I won’t bow to uncivilized dogs who would wish me holed up in my home, afraid of my own shadow. I trust your team to ensure no problems arise.” He began to stack files into his briefcase. “Your delightful bride will also be attending, sí?”
“I’m afraid not.” He feigned regret. “With the baby coming and all, Mama wanted to get her hands on my wife and coddle her. I put her on a plane before I left Vegas to enjoy an extended visit with my family.”
“Ah yes, the doting abuela.” Esteban smiled. “You and your wife are blessed to have much family. My poor Soledad lost hers when she was so young. She only has her cousin and her papa. And I do try to make it up to her.” He chuckled. “Since you are here, I shall need you to accompany me to my solicitor today, meet the party guests arriving at the airport, and then pick up Soledad’s gift. I’d like to leave in ninety minutes.”
Exactly what he’d been aiming for—the opportunity to accompany Esteban to the law firm of Grayson and Associates. “I’ll be ready, Señor.”
Dallas strode upstairs to the office Montoya had provided for him in the mansion. Harper Grayson and his law firm were suspected of laundering Montoya’s dirty money and stashing millions in hidden, tax-free bank accounts. Mia had likely stumbled across the connection when she worked there.
He shouldered the door open. Grayson must not realize she knew, or she’d be dead. Only last week, a hunter had stumbled across a car half-submerged in a Mexican swamp. The man inside had been brutally garroted, his head nearly severed. Identified through intelligence photos, the victim belonged to a cartel competing with Montoya’s business. Over the years, too many similar bodies had turned up. Even more vics simply disappeared without a trace.
Thank the Lord he’d intercepted Mia before Grayson or Montoya figured out she was investigating. Their marriage had not only saved his job, it had given Dallas the authority to shield her from the ruthless butchers.
With her safely in exile, he could concentrate on nailing Montoya.
Dallas set the timer on his cell phone, then shrugged off his leather blazer and hung it in the closet. He dropped into the desk chair to boot up his computer so he could scan the house and grounds on the closed-circuit system. He simultaneously ran a detailed a security analysis on a program he’d developed himself, searching for the weakness that had allowed Mia to sneak onto the property.
He reconfirmed the limo driver and bodyguards were on standby for arriving guests, then spoke individually to each of the other thirty bodyguards he’d hired for tonight’s party. There couldn’t be any clusterfucks.
Esteban couldn’t die before he’d paid in full.
Dallas used his secure encrypted phone, routed through an untraceable blind number, to remind Cal about Mia’s flight arrival info. After the short conversation, he hung up, frowning. Severe thunderstorms combined with a tornado watch had shut down DFW airport and diverted all air traffic to St. Louis. He tried Zane’s cell. No answer. Either they were still in-flight or the weather was screwing with the signal.
Damn, it sucked to be Zane today. Trapped between misbehaving Mother Nature and pissed-off Mia Linden. He suspected hell had no fury like Mia in a snit. Dallas would make sure Zane got a bonus for this one.
The computer security analysis finished and data flashed on the screen. So that’s how she’d done it. Shaking his head, he phoned to arrange to have razor wire attached to the estate’s wall, and then called a tree service with instructions to limb the oak at the back of the mansion nice and high.
His cell alarm jangled. The punctual Esteban would be ready to leave. Dallas shrugged on his jacket to cover his weapon as he headed for the front door to escort Esteban to the law firm.
Today might finally be Esteban’s unlucky day.
Montoya’s Mercedes was in the shop acquiring bulletproof glass and steel panels per Dallas’s instructions, so they took one of the limos, all of which had already been upgraded.
When they reached Grayson’s law office, the driver stayed with the car and Dallas accompanied Esteban inside. The slender, red-haired receptionist notified Harper Grayson, who immediately rushed out.
Medium height with a stocky build and sharply-angled features, Harper’s out-of-season tan complemented his abundant salt-and-pepper hair. He welcomed Montoya with a vigorous handshake and obsequious ass-kissing.
Esteban turned to Dallas. “You will wait here for me.”
“Yes, sir.” Fuck. Looked like he wasn’t horning in on the meeting. Yet.
Esteban and Grayson disappeared into the inner sanctum. The receptionist offered him a shy smile. “Would you like coffee or a cold drink sir?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.” She returned to her computer and began to type.
He chose a seat on a charcoal upholstered sectional in the corner behind a trio of potted palms where he could keep his back to the wall and watch every door.
All gray, black, and cold slashes of chrome and glass, the hushed office reflected an almost funeral atmosphere. He had a tough time picturing the vibrant Mia working here. She would have enlivened this stuffy mausoleum like the promise of pink tulips springing up through dead February grass.
Keeping one eye on the empty waiting area from his private alcove behind the palms, he leafed through a Wall Street Journal. Before long, a younger carbon copy of the elder Grayson, but with sandy hair, emerged from one of the offices and approached the receptionist.
Dallas pegged him as Paul Grayson, Harper’s son and junior partner. From his too-deliberately styled hairdo to his long aristocratic nose, thin lips, designer suit and obscenely expensive loafers, Grayson Lite appeared every inch the powerful, successful corporate shark.
; Dallas watched over the top of the paper as Paul rested his hand on the receptionist’s shoulder and peered down at her computer screen. Instant animosity tightened Dallas’ scalp.
“I didn’t get a list of my appointments this morning, Janet.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m a little behind. This is my first day back since my son had chicken pox, and the temp didn’t update the schedules. I’ll get one to you ASAP.”
Paul chuckled. “That’s all right. I can do it.” He leaned over her, trapping her between his arms to access the keyboard.
Janet shifted uneasily in her chair. But with Paul’s arms fencing her in, she had nowhere to go.
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” Grayson leaned closer and nuzzled her hair. “You smell delicious.”
Dallas’ fingers crushed the newsprint.
Janet’s cheeks reddened. “Just my shampoo. Please, Mr. Grayson, I can print your schedule and bring it to your office.”
“I don’t want to add to your stress, honey. You get too stressed out and you won’t perform at peak efficiency.” So casually the contact might have been an accident, and so subtle the movement would have been missed by anyone not watching closely, his arm brushed her breast. “Then we’d have to let you go.”
She jumped, her color deepening. “You know how much I need this job. I always give one hundred percent.”
“Sometimes …” Paul gave her a toothy smile as his arm grazed her breast again. “Giving one-ten, or better yet, one-fifty is called for.”
The young woman’s face crumpled, then she pulled herself together. “I do my best, Mr. Grayson,” she shakily replied.
Dallas gritted his teeth. The slimy son of a— He leapt to his feet, reached the desk in three strides. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
Paul jerked upright, the fox caught in the hen house. “I didn’t see you there.”
The young woman’s humiliation was evident in the way she refused to meet Dallas’s gaze. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I’ve decided I would like some coffee after all, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Absolutely no trouble.” Janet gave him a tremulous smile. “I’ll get it right away.” She practically ran down the hallway.
Paul turned to him with a frown. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He thrust out his hand. Fighting the urge to slam his fist into Grayson’s nose, Dallas accepted the handshake. Paul’s grip squeezed much harder than necessary. “Paul Grayson, the third, Esquire.”
So, Junior wanted a pissing contest? Dallas applied pressure to the sensitive nerve bundle at the juncture of the wrist. Grayson flinched and snatched his now-limp fingers away. Dallas bared his teeth. “Dallas McQuade, the first. Head of security for Esteban Montoya.”
Paul visibly paled.
Interesting. Esteban had a public reputation for gallantry toward women, a trait Dallas reluctantly acknowledged they shared. Montoya obviously had clout here. So Dallas would use the weapon at hand. “You seem real chummy with the little lady.”
“She’s only a receptionist.” Paul shrugged. “They’re a dime a dozen. You know how it is.”
“Afraid I don’t.” Dallas stared into the other man’s shrewd hazel eyes until Grayson shuffled from foot to foot. “Looked to me like she didn’t share your enthusiasm. I believe the law calls what you were doing sexual harassment.”
Paul stiffened. “Janet has a young son to support all by herself. She doesn’t want any problems with her job.”
“Is that right? Even more reason for her not to have any, then.” Dallas moved in, crowding the other man. “I believe I’ll be having a chat with Janet whenever I visit the office here with Señor Montoya. If she’s happy with her job, I’ll be happy. Montoya will be happy. In fact, since she has a little boy to support, I’ll bet a nice fat raise would make her downright ecstatic.” He arched a brow. “Is my message coming through?”
“Crystal,” Paul snapped. “Now I have clients to see.” He pivoted and strode down the corridor, passing Janet on the way. “Send my schedule to my office, and make it snappy.”
Dallas cleared his throat. Loudly.
“Please,” Paul gritted, before stalking into an office and slamming the door.
A wide-eyed Janet handed Dallas his coffee before returning to her chair.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He took a sip. “I have a feeling your working conditions are about to improve.”
She blanched. “You didn’t say anything to Mr. Grayson? He’ll fire me. I have a little boy and—”
“Don’t worry. Grayson’s not gonna fire you. In fact, he’s giving you a raise.” He set down the cup, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a business card. “If he causes trouble for you, call me, you hear? Any time.”
She studied his card. When she looked up, tears glistened her lashes. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. McQuade, or what you just did … but if you ever need anything—” She fumbled a tissue out of the box on her desk.
He smiled. “Buy your little man something special with the extra money.”
Before he could return to The Wall Street Journal, Esteban exited Harper’s office. Dallas concealed his frustration. He’d missed his chance—for today.
The limo whisked them to the airport, where the chartered plane from Central America arrived on schedule. Montoya introduced Dallas to Soledad’s birthday guests, including Soledad’s bombshell look-alike cousin, Isabel. “My niece Isabel manages our main Costa Rican outlet.”
“Hola, Señor Dallas,” Isabel cooed. “A pleasure to meet you.” Her dark, liquid gaze devoured him like he was the last double-fudge brownie at a PMS support group.
He knew that look, and it only meant one thing. PITA supreme.
As they traversed the concourse, she squeezed his ass. Frowning, he turned to see her mouth curled in a come-and-get-me smile.
He inclined his head at the automatic doors. “Let’s get y’all to the cars. I’ve already arranged to have the luggage sent to the house.”
The guests departed for the mansion in their limos. Dallas called an additional armed guard to meet him and Montoya at the jewelry store where Esteban picked up Soledad’s gift, then kept one hand on his gun while shepherding Esteban back to the car. The elegant silver and white package in Montoya’s hand contained half a million dollars in emerald jewelry.
They arrived back at the mansion without incident, where Isabel immediately cornered Dallas in a hallway. “The window in my room seems to be stuck. Surely a virile hombre such as yourself could raise my sash?”
Yeah, she wanted her sash raised all right. But the exotic, model-perfect beauty didn’t turn his crank. Unlike a certain impish lawyer who managed to stagger him with one alluring whiskey glance. “Certainly, Señorita. I’ll send someone at once. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do before the party.” He strode away before she could comment.
Five hours later, his shouldered G19 disguised under a tuxedo jacket, his backup G26 tucked beneath the pant hem, and his knife sheathed in his dress boot, Dallas arrived at the Riverview Country Club. Ninety minutes until kick-off. He inserted an earpiece with the miniature mic that would keep him in constant contact with the platoon of bodyguards.
He performed a final sweep of the grounds and then searched every room, checking every detail. From a security standpoint, this shindig was a nightmare. His gut was seldom wrong.
And he had a bad feeling about tonight.
At nine p.m., the band surged into an energetic Latin number and glamorously dressed party-goers began to filter in.
By ten-thirty, the place was packed, and Dallas was sweating like he’d run a hundred yards for a touchdown with four seconds on the clock.
He stood with his back to the wall, watching Soledad and Esteban chat-up their guests. Begrudgingly, he admitted the man had charisma. Everywhere Esteban went, ladies flocked around him, and men hung on every word.
Isabel slinked toward Dallas on red beaded four-inch heels that matched her cut-to-
barely-legal gown. He rolled his eyes. Not again. He’d spent the whole evening dodging her.
“Would you like a drink, Dallas?”
“No thanks, I’m on the job.”
She sashayed closer, the musk of her cloying perfume making his eyes sting. “Perhaps afterwards, sí?”
“I’m a married man, Señorita.”
“Of no concern to me.” She leaned in, giving him a panorama of her impressive cleavage all the way to Central America. “A grande hombre such as yourself must have mucho stamina for many ladies. Like a bull, no?”
Compared to Mia’s fresh, fair beauty, Isabel was a gaudy bouquet of hothouse lilies. “I don’t cheat.”
“You’ve been neglecting me all evening.” Her lips pursed in a pout. “When I am upset, Tío Esteban is upset. Dance with me.”
Maybe if he paid attention to her for a few minutes, she’d quit pestering him. Besides, he couldn’t afford to irritate Esteban by being rude to his niece. He could keep an eye on the party from the dance floor. “One dance, that’s all.”
He led her to the crowded floor and she plastered her body to his like his tux was made of Velcro. He ignored her undulating against him while he scanned the room. The back of his neck prickled. Something felt off.
Dallas steered Isabel toward the perimeter where he had a clearer field of vision. She gasped and stumbled in his arms, only his quick reflexes saving her from falling. “Isabel?”
“Oh, I feel faint.”
“I’ll have someone escort you to the Ladies’ Lounge.”
“No. No. I need air, now. Outdoors. You take me.”
He’d seen better acting in a Jessica Simpson movie trailer. But he’d use the opportunity to make another sweep of the grounds. “I can spare five minutes.”
He alerted his men to his change of locale. Isabel clung to him as he led her to the splashing fountain in the center of the moonlit garden. A full moon spotlighted a sky wheeling with stars, and the fragrance of blooming roses overshadowed her perfume. The scent immediately reminded him of Mia. They’d been apart barely twelve hours, and although he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, he already missed her.
