Immovable Objects

by Marie Ferrarella

  He had enough going on in his life right now without borrowing trouble.

  “Yeah,” he told her, taking a long step back. “Won’t be easy for me, either.” Turning on his heel, he walked away. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  And I’ll see you in my dreams, she thought, knowing that there would be no rest for her, one way or another, tonight.

  But if she made love with him, she’d be imprisoning her soul and she couldn’t risk that. Not when freedom was so new.

  “Sure you don’t want to back out?”

  Her nerves, newly polished and at their most alert, chafed at his question. Why didn’t he give it a rest already? Instead of looking at him, Elizabeth stared at the scenery as it went by. Like Williams, MacFarland lived outside of Philadelphia, in the suburbs, where people pretended cities, with their grit and crowds, didn’t exist.

  “You’ve asked me that twice already,” Elizabeth pointed out.

  He had to concentrate to keep from gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles hurt. “Just want to make sure you have plenty of opportunity to change your mind.”

  She was dressed to kill and wired, mentally not physically. She didn’t need anything negative getting in her way.

  “You’re not paying me to change my mind, you’re paying me for results? All we have now is my gut feeling that MacFarland took the statue, and time’s growing short, remember?” She didn’t bother keeping the impatience out of her voice. He was beginning to treat her like a girl instead of a capable partner.

  “I remember,” he bit off. He didn’t like feeling this degree of concern over getting something done. But what she was about to do fell outside the lines that he was accustomed to. Gray areas were for people like MacFarland, not him, and he damned the man’s soul for putting him in this kind of position. “I don’t need you to remind me.”

  “No, you need me to get the sculpture back for you,” she told him cheerfully. She was warming to her task, if not to the idea of spending the evening with MacFarland. “Step one: ascertain location of target.”

  They were swiftly approaching the man’s elaborate mansion. As the distance grew shorter, Cole’s misgivings about the entire venture loomed larger. He didn’t like putting anyone in harm’s way, and the risk factor was something he was unsure of. What would MacFarland do if he discovered that Elizabeth wasn’t his lady of the moment, but that she actually worked for him? That she was here to find out if he’d stolen his own statue? Just how ugly could MacFarland get?

  For her sake, Cole didn’t want to find out. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “No, you don’t,” she informed him cheerfully. When she saw him scowling at her, she clarified, “You’ve got a nervous feeling about it. They’re two very different things. Now let me do my work.”

  She had an annoying habit of making it sound as if he got in her way. The woman, he decided, was definitely getting under his skin and that wasn’t good. “You keep saying that.”

  She slanted him a look. “Because you keep interfering.”

  He was almost at the front door. Nerves, blunt and jagged, were making themselves known. “You have your phone open?”

  In response, she lifted the tiny instrument out of her purse. The instant she touched it, the light went on its display, showing him that it was on. Cole nodded his approval.

  Elizabeth redeposited the phone in her clutch. Hidden beneath the cell were the three cameras she was to plant. “May I go now?”

  “Yeah.” But as she began to leave the vehicle, Cole caught her arm. Elizabeth looked back at him quizzically, patiently, the way a parent might look at a child. When had their positions gotten reversed? “Be careful.”

  Anthony had said the same words to her a million times. More. Growled them usually, like a warning. But there was something in Cole’s eyes that made the words sound entirely different. Elizabeth paused, a smile slipping along her lips. She leaned back inside the car and lightly brushed them against his. “Don’t worry so much. I’ll find the statue.”

  “It’s not the statue I’m worried about,” Cole muttered more to himself than to her.

  Elizabeth was already out of the car and hurrying up to the entrance of the mansion. He had no choice but to appear to be driving away.

  Circling around to the right, Cole turned off the main path and doubled back. Driving to a more secluded area of the estate, he hid the small vehicle behind some tall, wispy shrubbery he vaguely recognized. Mr. Lei, his gardener, took great pride in his work and tried, whenever possible, to educate him about the names of the various greenery planted around his property. It appeared that Mr. Lei and MacFarland shared an affinity for Leylandi cypress.

  He just hoped he and MacFarland didn’t share an affinity for something else. Too late for that, he thought. Anyone with eyes could see that MacFarland was attracted to Elizabeth.

  He took out the cell phone that was connected to Elizabeth’s, made sure that the Mute function was on and placed it on the passenger seat.

  Settling back in the car, Cole did something he wasn’t very good at. He waited.

  MacFarland greeted Elizabeth personally at the door instead of having his housekeeper bring her to him. Clasping her hand in both of his, he kissed it soundly, then tucked her arm through his as he brought her into the foyer.

  The only word that came to mind as she looked around was magnificent. It was the kind of house that had required the expert talents of an army of decorators all working in perfect harmony. They had done it and it showed.

  Everywhere she looked, there were precious works of art, either hanging on the walls or placed lovingly on pedestals. What a shame she loathed the man. She truly loved the house, Elizabeth thought.

  “Would you like to see my collection before or after?”

  At MacFarland’s question, she raised one delicate eyebrow and turned her attention to him. “Before or after what?”

  His eyes became lost in the depth of his smile. “Before or after I give you a tour of my bedroom suite.”

  Well, that hadn’t taken any time, she remarked to herself. “You certainly are direct.”

  His broad shoulders rose and fell beneath the perfectly tailored suit. “There’s no point in beating around the bush.” His eyes met hers. “Unless it’s for enhancement of the moment.”

  Her stomach was definitely in danger of rising up into her throat and gagging her. She forced herself to playfully run the tip of her finger along his lips, which required a measure of charity to be called beefy. “But there is a point in prolonging the moment.”

  He drew himself up to his full six foot four. “If you’re talking about stamina—”

  “No,” she said softly, her voice melodious, though she wanted to gag. “I’m talking about anticipation.” She indicated the decanter placed strategically on the bar beside two balloon glasses. “Take Napoleon brandy, for instance. Surely you’d rather sniff a beguiling bouquet, anticipating the way it will taste on your palate, than just throw it back like it was a cheap whiskey.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Taking the liberty, she poured him a glass, then one for herself. It was going to be a shame to dispose of her brandy, but she wasn’t about to chance a head that was in the slightest bit unclear.

  “Think of me as Napoleon brandy,” she prompted, handing him his glass. “Something far too rare to be tossed back quickly.” Placing her lips on the glass, she pretended to take a sip, her eyes never leaving MacFarland’s. She could see his desire growing. “You have to build up to it.” With a heartfelt, pleased sigh, she shifted the glass to her other hand, slipped her arm through his and smiled up into his face. “Now, I would just love to see your collection before dinner.”

  She was good, Cole thought as he listened to Elizabeth on the other end. Again, he glanced down at the Mute button to make sure it was depressed. They couldn’t afford to chance having a stray sound from his end filtering through and alerting MacFarland that she had the cell on. Jonat
han MacFarland had more than his share of suspicious bones in his body and surely he’d think there was something going on.

  Images that went along with their voices began to ricochet through his mind as he listened. Elizabeth grew lovelier, more desirable by the moment, and MacFarland took on the stature of a rutting pig before the tour was even half completed.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Cole sat in the dark, listening, growing edgier by the moment.

  Now she knew exactly what it felt like to be a scarlet cape, the kind that the matador swung majestically before a charging bull, waving it in front of the beast, pulling it back at the last possible moment to avoid having the fabric caught on one of the deadly horns and shredded. That was the dance that she and MacFarland were performing. She was the cape, he was the bull.

  She had managed to elude him skillfully all through the intimate dinner. It required drawing on the vast education Jeremy had drummed into her head to make endless distracting conversation. She never rejected the man’s advances outright, just kept him at bay. But not so far as to make him grow angry and either send her home before she was finished, or to take what he so obviously felt was his due.

  Cleverly, she kept herself out of confining corners, never allowing him to cut off her route of escape. During the course of the evening, she’d excused herself once to use the bathroom. The winding path there had allowed her to plant two of the three cameras she’d brought with her.

  Dinner was over and they had done justice to the bottle of wine he’d served with it. The potted plant to her right should have been humming old drinking songs, she mused. By morning, it was going to be in serious danger of rotting. She knew it was time to beat a retreat or be served as dessert. But she still had one camera to go.

  She was running out of time. MacFarland gave all the indications of a man who wanted to cap off his evening and she was the designated nightcap.

  He leaned over to lightly brush her lips with his, but when he reached out to pull her against him, she managed to elude his grasp and rise to her feet.

  Glancing over her shoulder at him seductively, she drifted over to the wall where one of his oldest acquisitions, a late Picasso, hung. He rose to his feet and crossed to her.

  “I have heard that you have a, shall we say, more ‘private’ collection.”

  She couldn’t tell by his expression if she had unnerved him, or if he’d expected her to know. “Oh, that. I only show those to my very special friends.”

  Meaning he wanted her to go to bed with him before she got to see anything. No dice, fella, she silently remarked.

  “I see.” With deliberate strokes, she flattened the skirt of her dress against her thighs, then looked up at him. MacFarland was all but salivating like a starving dog over a soup bone. “Well, then, how do I become one of those special—”

  Elizabeth abruptly broke off her question, suddenly clutching at her stomach. Her eyes widened, registering surprise coupled with pain.

  Staring at her uncertainly, MacFarland grasped her arm. “What’s the matter?”

  “Bathroom,” was all she managed to get out.

  Yanking her arm out of his hold, keeping one hand over her mouth, the other still pressed against her stomach, Elizabeth raced out of the room.

  “What’s the matter?” MacFarland repeated.

  He saw her stop in the hallway, her hand splayed out on a table for support. But by the time he rushed over, she was back to making her way to the bathroom, her path zigzagging from one wall to the other.

  “Are you ill?” he called after her.

  His question was answered with the slamming of the bathroom door.

  Alone in the bathroom, Elizabeth doubled over the toilet bowl, just in case he burst in, and made the appropriate retching noises. After a sufficient amount of time had lapsed, she rose to her feet again and flushed. She looked at herself in the mirror, assumed a haggard expression and threw cold water in her face to make it appear as if she was perspiring.

  Satisfied that she’d achieved the look she was after, Elizabeth opened the door, then sank against the door-jamb as she looked at MacFarland.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to show me your private collection some other time.” Her voice was weak, reedy. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “You don’t look all that good, either,” he told her tersely, no doubt disgusted that the evening was going to end like this. MacFarland’s germ phobia was well known, so she knew he wouldn’t chance touching her. He picked up a phone and summoned his driver. “I’ll have someone drive you home.”

  “As long as I don’t die first.” Making a weak stab at humor, Elizabeth walked out to the limo that seemed to instantly appear. For effect she closed her eyes and pretended to nestle into the back seat.

  If she expected any pity from MacFarland, she had a long wait before her. He appeared to be focused on his own disappointment.

  “See that you don’t,” he told her brusquely. “You owe me an evening.”

  She knew he wasn’t talking about the pleasure of her company. In his opinion, he had paid for her entertainment via his art collection and he meant to collect one way or another.

  It was enough to make her really ill.

  “Yes,” she murmured as he shut the door. “I know.”

  A shower, she thought as the car pulled away from the main house. She needed a shower. Badly.

  Chapter 10

  The light from the foyer pooled out onto the front walk. Cole was standing in the doorway, waiting for her when MacFarland’s limousine pulled up. He didn’t bother with an aloof facade. The second the vehicle stopped, Cole was beside it, opening the rear door and helping her out. With one curt nod at the chauffeur, he dismissed the man.

  Slipping an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders, he ushered her into the house and closed the door.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, angry with himself for allowing this whole scenario to play out. Angry with her for making him care this much.

  She bloomed before his eyes like a flower with its first taste of sweet water after a drought. All traces of the green-around-the-gills woman was gone.

  Straightening, Elizabeth stared at him incredulously. “How did you get here ahead of me?”

  “Never mind about that.” Normally calm in any crisis, this scrambling and running in all directions at once sensation inside Cole was new and entirely unwelcome. He didn’t know what to do first—carry her to her room or take her back outside to his car. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  She laughed lightly, abandoning the shelter of his arms more reluctantly than she was happy about. It was getting late and she was tired. She began heading for her room. “Facing MacFarland wasn’t that bad, although on a scale of one to ten—”

  Grabbing her by the shoulder, Cole swung her around to face him. What the hell was going on here? Half an hour ago, she’d sounded as if she was at death’s door. “Aren’t you sick?”

  “Well, figuratively speaking—”

  “I mean physically, damn it. Back there, at MacFarland’s house, you made it sound as if—” His own key words penetrated. Made it sound. Cole felt like an idiot. “It was an act, wasn’t it?”

  “Pretty convincing if I do say so myself.” Elizabeth grinned and made her way up the stairs.

  He knew his annoyance was way out of proportion, but he couldn’t seem to harness it, couldn’t seem to make it go away. All sorts of things had gone through his head on the drive back. “Yeah. You might have warned me.”

  She stopped by her door and looked at him quizzically. Everything had gone well. Why did he sound so irritated? “Why? Have you got a doctor on call, waiting to whisk me off to surgery?”

  He realized that he disliked the high-handed way she spoke. And hated the fact that he felt so uptight, so shaken when he thought of her at that bastard’s mercy. But then, he was beginning to get the feeling that Elizabeth would never be at anyone’s mercy.

  “No,
but—”

  Opening the door, she turned around to face him. “I didn’t know I was going to do it myself until I saw those beefy lips of his coming straight at me.”

  The image was enough to make him shudder. Restraint kept him from doing it. “He didn’t—”

  She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. But it was touch and go there for a few minutes.” Pulling the pins out of her hair, she placed them on the bureau. “I’m sure that if he hadn’t heard me throwing up, he might not have been so willing to let me go home.”

  He watched, mesmerized, as her hair floated down about her shoulders. The urge to lose his fingers in the feel of velvet was strong.

  “You threw up.” Then she really was sick, Cole thought.

  “No, but he thinks I did.” She combed her fingers through her hair. “Illusion is everything. He thought I was sick, heard the right sounds. That’s all it took to convince him that having sex with me tonight might not be the smartest thing he’d ever do.”

  He blew out a breath. He should have thought this through. It just wasn’t worth the risk. “And going over there alone might not have been the smartest thing you’d ever done.”

  “Why?” Her brows narrowed. Was he going to get all Neanderthal on her the way Anthony always did? “I got the cameras planted. Now all we need to do is get them hooked up into the main cameras in his own system and we’ve got a bird’s-eye view of the entire place.”

  Try as he might, Cole couldn’t get past the thought that he’d left her open to physical harm for his own benefit. “You know, he might not have bought into that act of yours.”

  Now she was getting annoyed. Why wasn’t he letting go of this? “The man is germophobic. He did.”

  “But he might not have,” Cole insisted.

  How could she be so calm about it? Didn’t she comprehend the consequences if something had gone wrong? Sure he was out there in his car, listening to every word. But what if he couldn’t have gotten to her in time? His own ego had blinded him to that. “Damn it, Gypsy, can’t you get it through your thick head that he could have easily raped you?”