by Diana Duncan
“It’s all right, Janet, I’ll do it. Nobody touches my lucky putter but me.”
“Golf, great game,” Dallas said. “Maybe we could go out and play a round sometime.”
“Perhaps,” Harper replied.
“What’s your handicap?”
“Sorry I don’t have time to chat, I’m quite late. Nice to see you again, Mr. McQuade. Give Esteban my regards.”
The download bar finally tracked all the way to the right, and Mia disconnected the drive, shut down the computer.
Harper’s footsteps shuffled toward her as she exited the office.
Not going to make it out in time! Her gaze spun wildly down the corridor. The men’s executive bathroom wasn’t kept locked. She slipped inside. Seemed like she was spending an inordinate amount of time in men’s rooms lately.
Scurrying into a stall, she locked the black lacquered door behind her and hopped up to stand on the toilet, sneakers balanced precariously on the slippery seat.
Clutching the flash drive, she counted silently to herself. How long should she wait for the all-clear?
Then outer door swooshed open, and Harper’s measured tread crossed the tiles.
Oh, no.
Mia didn’t even want to think about the actions that accompanied the following noises. Attempting to play a chorus of la-la’s inside her head to drown them out, she focused on trying to breathe quietly, not drop the flash drive, and not fall in.
After what seemed like forever, the faucet hissed on. Splashing, then paper towels scraped from the dispenser. Harper’s footsteps again stalked across the tiles. The door swung shut, leaving her in silence.
She counted to two hundred before creeping down the quiet hallway. She’d never jogged ten flights of stairs faster in her life.
When she climbed into the Jeep, Dallas heaved a relieved sigh. “I was just about to come looking for you. Where in tarnation have you been?”
“You don’t even want to know.” Grinning, she shook her head at him. “Step on the gas in this ‘Black Beauty-mobile,’ and let’s haul ass out of the criminal underworld.”
* * *
Back at home, Dallas plugged the flash drive into his laptop on the kitchen island and started the program running to break the encryption.
Mia watched with interest. “How long will it take?”
“Depends on how complicated the code is. Could be a few hours, could be a few days, could be as much as a week. When it finishes, it’ll beep. Then I’ll input the print command with my password, and the remote printer in my office will spit out the intel. Grayson can afford the best, so we might have a bit of a wait on our hands.” He straightened. “Now, I need to convince Esteban I’ve had enough of a ‘honeymoon,’ and it’s high time I got back to work.”
It’s what they both wanted, yet regret chilled her. The more time she spent with Dallas, the more she wanted to.
And their time was running out.
Mia’s phone rang from her purse in the other room, startling her. She hurried in to answer it.
“Mia, it is Soledad. Papa asked me to call you and tell you he will escort you on a tour of the factory two days hence, at ten a.m. He would be very pleased if you would join him for lunch afterward.”
Mia’s pulse spiked. “Okay, thanks. I’ll be there.”
Hanging up, she hurried back to the kitchen. “Looks like you’re about to get your chance to crack Esteban’s safe.”
* * *
Dallas decided to postpone returning to work until the morning of the factory tour, claiming another few dozen hours, give or take, wouldn’t be critical. Mia wondered whether he’d stayed home with the desire to bodyguard her, or to keep an eye on her in case she decided to do anything he might think impudent. Either way, she was grateful for the reprieve.
Because after all was said and done, they’d both be returning to their own lives, going their separate ways.
The goal she’d been striving toward for so long was finally within sight. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she felt confused … and a little bit lost.
Dallas must’ve sensed her melancholy mood, or maybe he was eager to burn off extra energy himself, because he kept her occupied every daylight hour of the following forty-eight.
The time passed in briefing and preparations, including another shooting lesson—which didn’t improve her aim any—and a seriously arousing sweaty, grappling sparring session in Dallas’ workout room.
In the evenings, they cooked together and then, to his disgusted amusement, she beat the pants off him two times out every three of their competitive poker tournament. Unfortunately, not literally. Strip poker would’ve been so much more interesting than betting fudge-filled Oreos … but far more dangerous.
He got even by annihilating her at chess. Her cowboy excelled at thinking five moves ahead.
The peaceful interlude was a poignant peek into what could be.
If only …
Which, Mia reminded herself sternly, was futile, useless conjecture.
Dallas’ computer continued to churn, attempting to break the encryption on the Grayson’s files, so far without success.
The morning of the tour dawned slightly overcast, but dry. Dallas was quiet as he drove them toward Montoya’s mansion, his handsome profile somber.
He parked in the wide driveway beside Esteban’s idling limo, and she waited for him to open her door.
Taking her hand, he helped her out of the Jeep and leaned close. “Watch your back today, darlin’, just in case. Stay away from where you’re told not to go.” Cupping her face, he kissed her breathless. “Take care of yourself.”
When she could speak again, she whispered. “I always do. Take care of you, too, Dallas.”
“Always do,” he replied, gesturing to the chauffeur to stay put and opening the limo door for her himself.
The limo was empty except for the driver. From the roomy backseat, Mia watched Dallas stride to the front door of the mansion, which opened just as he reached it.
Esteban, Soledad, and Zane stepped outside. Soledad and Zane headed for the car, while Esteban stopped to confer with Dallas for a moment.
After Montoya joined them, they rode through the vibrant green city, a stone-faced Zane watching Mia’s every move way more intently than his job required. Soledad concentrated on her Blackberry as Esteban enthusiastically told Mia about his community projects and the scholarship fund he’d established for poor village children.
Mia had a tough time reconciling this courtly, soft-spoken, seemingly Good Samaritan with the same ruthless man who was armpit deep in corruption and violence. Montoya was an incredible actor … or he sincerely believed he was doing nothing wrong.
Either choice was scary as hell.
Finally, the limo pulled up in front of a huge modern building located blocks from the riverfront. Soledad went to the main office to review a new marketing proposal while Esteban, shadowed by Zane, showed Mia through noisy bustling rooms teeming with recyclable paper products and blue-jumpsuited workers operating complicated machinery.
She saw nothing suspicious, but as she’d pointed out to Dallas, Montoya would hardly advertise any illegal activity. Hopefully, Dallas would have more success back at the house.
Esteban had to step out to deal with an urgent phone call, which left Mia standing in the hallway guard-dogged by a glowering, silent Zane for an uncomfortable twenty-plus minutes. She thought about telling him she needed a bathroom break just to escape the thick tension, but after what had happened in Phoenix, she figured he’d shoot first, ask questions later.
Montoya eventually returned, apologized profusely for the delay, then continued the tour. Almost two hours after they’d first entered the building, Montoya opened the last door at the factory’s end, and ushered Mia inside an echoing, two-story glass-walled enclosure. Valiant sunbeams fractured the clouds, streaming in to bounce off an aluminum catwalk encircling the entire perimeter halfway to the ceiling. The room wasn’t in use at the moment a
nd empty of workers, the platoon of huge, hungry steel cardboard-balers sitting at the far end blessedly silent.
Like he had during the entire tour, Zane stayed warily on his boss’ heels. Geez, did he think she might suddenly decide to shove Esteban into a baler?
“This is my pride and joy, Señora, Mia.” With obvious delight, Esteban reached into a nearby baler and held up a familiar-looking blue and white box embossed with iridescent angels. She’d seen them in all the trendy stores. “Angélico products, named after my dearly departed Angelina.”
“Wait, what? The hot, trendy Angélico home decorating line is yours, too? I saw the debut unveiled on TV! I thought you were into recycling, not design and manufacturing.”
He reverently placed the box back in the stack. “You have heard the proverb, ‘give a man a fish and you have fed him for today, but teach a man to fish, and you have fed him for a lifetime?’”
“Yes.”
“Five years ago, I established a cultural crafts program for our village. They weave fabrics and make pottery and sculptures from local natural resources. After that famous talk show hostess featured our handcrafted items on her program, they became, as you say, ‘hot and trendy.’ Hollywood actors and actresses were seen using our products, and now we can barely keep up with demand. The villagers are very proud of their work. We make the handicrafts, and even the boxes in Costa Rica, and then recycle the used boxes here in our own plant. All our own operation, from beginning to end.”
Mind whirling, she closed her eyes. Montoya appeared completely aboveboard. On top of supporting an entire village, his businesses employed thousands of workers and paid them good wages plus health benefits.
When she and Dallas brought him down, they’d be destroying so many innocent men, women and children along with him. Mia felt sick. Were the ends worth the means? No matter how righteous those ends might seem?
In her own way, was she as ruthless and coldblooded as Esteban?
And where did Grayson and the list of drug users and suppliers connected with the Montoya name fit in? Or did they? Her forehead began to throb.
“Señora Mia? You are feeling ill again?” Esteban questioned softly, his voice genuinely concerned.
Her eyes popped open. “Only a slight headache, no big deal.”
“We will leave immediately so you may return home and rest.”
“That’s not necessary, I’m—” A chill skated down her spine as her scalp prickled with the sensation of being watched. Uneasiness fisted in her stomach. She jerked her gaze upward.
Over Zane and Esteban’s shoulders, she spotted a man on the catwalk, half hidden behind a support beam. He wore the standard blue employee jumpsuit. But his stance appeared too taut, too aware, his body language furtive. Mia raised her hand to shade her eyes from the glare and squinted to get a better look.
He eased out from behind the beam, and she got a clear look at a square, swarthy face. Then sunlight glinted off the long metal object in his hand. Numb with disbelief, she watched him lift a scope-fitted rifle to his shoulder and point the barrel at the back of Esteban’s head. His muscles tensed as he locked Esteban in his sights.
His finger eased onto the trigger.
Mia didn’t stop to think, just reacted. As the rifle’s sharp retort split the air, she leapt at Esteban and knocked him to the ground. The bullet whizzed overhead, ricocheting off the steel balers with ear-splitting clangs.
Zane dropped into a crouch, shielded them with his body and returned fire. The cannon blasts from his gun pounded her eardrums.
“Get behind the machines!” Zane shouted.
Esteban lay immobile beneath her, blood trickling from his head onto the floor. “He’s hit!” she shouted back. “Too heavy for me to carry!”
“Move your ass to cover and stay put! I’ll get him!” He fired off another staccato round, then pivoted toward her. He scooped up Esteban, flung him over his shoulder and zigzagged across the floor to the exit, shooting in rapid bursts.
Mia started crawling toward the balers … and then the world erupted in a deafening explosion of searing light and flying glass.
The concussion slammed into her, lifted her partially from the floor. She landed flat on her back, stunned. Roaring flames surrounded her with sweltering heat as smoke billowed toward the ceiling.
“Mia!” Zane’s indistinct hail sounded very far away. “Where are you?”
“Over here!”
“Mia? I can’t hear you! Can’t get to you—”
Another explosion roared through the room, cutting Zane off.
Galloping heartbeats thundered in Mia’s ears as she scrambled to her knees. She had no way out. The balers were her only hope.
She hurriedly crawled behind them, desperately praying they would shelter her from the flames. Acrid smoke stung her eyes, clogged her lungs. Who knew what kind of chemicals were in here?
Huddled behind the increasingly hot metal machines, she coughed and gagged, pressed her face to the floor trying to find clear air.
Fierce heat prickled her skin, and she peered through her hands shielding her face. Terror-driven adrenaline spurted through her bloodstream.
A roiling wall of fire blocked her vision.
She was going to die, burned alive.
Then like an avenging angel, Dallas burst through the haze of flames and smoke. “Mia!” he shouted. “Mia!”
“Dallas?” Her heart leapt. “Here!” She crawled toward him. “Dallas, over here!”
“Thank you, Jesus,” he croaked, grabbing her up. Pressing her face against his shirt, his coat lapels and arms wrapped around her to shield her, his agile body dodged and dashed, jolting with frequent changes of direction as he carried them both through the nightmare.
Blessedly cool air swept along her overheated skin, and then Mia found herself on hands and knees on the rough asphalt of the parking lot, coughing and retching.
“Breathe, darlin’,” Dallas commanded hoarsely. His big strong hands supported her, stroked her back. “Slow and easy. Take some nice deep breaths for me.”
Shaking, she fought to comply.
Blue and red lights strobing, emergency vehicles shrieked to the scene, vomiting out cops, EMTs and firemen who waded through the sea of screaming, crying people. Water streams gushed from fire hoses into the inferno behind her, inciting hissing clouds of steam.
“Let me look at you.” Squatting beside her, Dallas sat her up, his stricken gaze searching her face. “Are you burned anywhere?”
“No.” She coughed, battling the urge to throw herself into his arms and sob with gratitude. “I’m … I’m all right. You saved my life, Dallas.”
“Just barely,” he gritted. “Five more minutes, and—” He choked.
Cowboy was barely hanging on. He needed her to hold it together right now, and dammit, she’d be strong for him. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“What are you doing here? How did you …” She coughed again. “You’re supposed to be back at the house.”
“Esteban invited me to meet y’all for lunch. When nobody showed at the restaurant, I decided to swing by the factory and make sure you were all right.” He shuddered. “Thank God.”
“Montoya got a phone call that delayed us. If he hadn’t … and if you hadn’t come …” Her shaking intensified.
Dallas hugged her tight and they clung to each other while both coughed up smoke. “But I did, sweetheart. And you’re okay.”
An efficient sandy-haired paramedic appeared out of the melee, took Mia’s vitals and pronounced her unhurt, but with slight smoke inhalation. He triaged her, hanging a green tag around her neck proclaiming her low medical priority. For which she was profoundly grateful.
Against Dallas’ objections, she made him get checked out as well, and the paramedic pronounced him good to go. Which, considering that he’d charged through a savage wall of fire to save her life, she considered a miracle from heaven.
“M
ia?” She looked up to see Zane jogging toward them, a water bottle in each hand. Black smudges streaked his hard-planed features, and shallow cuts oozed blood from his forehead and left cheekbone. “You’re okay! I tried … I couldn’t … I couldn’t reach you. I don’t know how the fuck Dallas did.”
Dallas’ soot-streaked face was pale, his eyes haunted. “I almost didn’t.”
Mia ran her tongue around her dry mouth in a futile attempt to banish the taste of ashes. Coughed again. “How’s Esteban? And ohmigod—Soledad—did you see her anywhere? Do you know if she made it out?”
Zane leaned down, handed her and Dallas each a water bottle. She gulped eagerly, the cool liquid soothing her burning throat.
“Whoa, go easy there, sweetheart.” Dallas rubbed her back in slow circles. “Drink that too fast, and we’ll both be sorry.”
“Montoya’s in an ambulance on the way to Mercy Hospital.” Zane thrust a not-quite-steady hand through his hair. “Looked like the bullet just grazed his thick skull, thanks to you. Soledad is with him, she’s shaken but unhurt. That end of the factory didn’t get hit as bad.” His upper lip curled. “Not a dull moment when you’re around. That shooter another of your fans?”
“Not funny, Wolfe,” Dallas warned through clenched teeth.
“It’s maybe a little bit funny,” Mia said. “And the disaster was so not my fault this time. The sniper was after Esteban, and you know it.”
“The cops want statements from both of you,” Zane said.
“They can damned well wait.” Dallas gently grasped Mia’s arms and lifted her to her feet. “We need to stop jawing and get you to the hospital for a look-see.”
Nausea curdled her stomach. “No!” she croaked. “No hospital! I’m fine.” She clutched his shirtfront. “The paramedic said I was okay. Please, Dallas, please don’t make me go to the hospital.”
He embraced her. “Had enough of that as a kid, didn’t you?”
Far too much. Strapped down, prodded, hurting and helpless, forced to fib about falling off her bike or tripping down the stairs.
