by Nancy Gideon
“I’m done here.”
Her announcement brought his eyes open and the coiled readiness back into his partially recumbent form. He was on his feet by the time she came around the desk and they met at the foot of the lounger. Both pulled up short, startled by their sudden close proximity. And by the amazingly sharp recall of another moment so like this one, where awareness of one another took them by surprise and a blind-siding desire came close to overwhelming reason.
Neither moved as the unintentional happenstance built into a storm-charged intensity. Unguarded stares locked. As Toni gazed up into Zach’s eyes, the mercurial green-gold flared with passionate possibilities. Possibilities she’s once wanted to explore more than anything she could dream of. And perhaps, still wanted despite all that had happened between that first blush of innocent desire and now. All she had to do was reach out for the feel of his rock hard chest. All she had to do was stretch up for a sample of his unyielding lips. And in this brief instant with defenses down, he might have allowed it. He might have enjoyed it.
But he’d had his chance.
“Excuse me.”
The intrusion of her rough-edged words brought sensibility snapping back into his cloudy stare. He took a quick step back and the moment was gone. Toni moved past him as if the encounter was already forgotten.
But all through dinner, at a table with a now distant Zach, her father and Veta and assorted business associates, her distracted thoughts quivered with tease of one what if.
What if she had kissed him ten years ago? How different, then, might her life have been.
Chapter 4
Her birthday. Her ascension to the top of Aletta. The house swarmed with the rich and powerful come to pay homage to both events. It was her night to shine, but Toni would have felt more comfortable had that light been under a basket. Because she was very aware that someone in the glittery crowd might have an agenda other than celebration, one that involved a blood-stained blouse and a ransom unpaid.
Her mother had trained her practically since birth to work a room, to make the most of her looks, her smile, her smarts. She did so on a gracious autopilot while her gaze scanned the shadowed corners and her system jumped at every unexpected sound. She searched for Zach, finding instead a host of unfamiliar faces he’d brought in for the occasion to police the room. The sight of those innocuous strangers brought no sense of comfort, though she was sure they were very good at their jobs. They had nothing at stake, no reason to go an extra mile, to make that extraordinary promise to secure her peace of mind. Only Zach Russell had done that.
Where was he?
She snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray just to have something to do with her hands. She wouldn’t drink. She needed her senses sharp.
Where the hell was he?
Every room of the house was designed for ease of entertainment and traffic flow. Each was crowded with guests intent upon sampling all they could from the elegant appetizers, abundant spirits and undercurrent of classical music served up to them with an unobtrusive style. She moved through the ground floor chatting with friends and business associates while her gaze never stopped its restless journeys and her nerves pulled ever tighter.
Even the stairs were lined with company who lifted their glasses in salute as she climbed past them. Her father was in the huge upstairs room that served as theater, boardroom and, as it did tonight, ballroom. The oriental rugs had been rolled back to expose the gleaming floor. An alcove at the far end hosted a five piece band playing an infectious ragtime. Through the bank of glass to the left was the dynamic view of the lake and to the right an equally impressive sea of imported luxury cars overflowing the drive and extra lot. And her father stood at the massive fireplace, leaning casually against the Danish tiles as he talked business. Even on this night, he was hard at work.
“Antonia, you know Servando Fuentes.”
She took the cold, limp fingers offered by Angel Premiero’s right-hand man. Premiero, who’d grown up with Victor Castillo, had partnered with her father in many of his past ventures. Now he was spearheading the company move to Mexico.
“Señor Fuentes, always a pleasure.” She waited just long enough to be polite before withdrawing her hand, fighting the urge to scrub her palm to restore its warmth.
“Señor Premiero most anxiously awaits your visit and the opportunity to link your families in business.”
She smiled thinly. As long as that was all Premiero thought to link. “I look forward to our meeting.”
“Happy birthday. This is from Señor Premiero. A small token.”
Under the unbridled avarice of her father’s stare, she took the heavy velvet box and opened it with a hint more apprehension than anticipation. Gifts from Premiero didn’t come unencumbered by strings.
It was a weighty necklace of silver fashioned into entwined calla lilies. The bell of each flower was filled with a piece of deep blue lapis.
Fuentes waited with a smug smile for her reaction. When it was slow to come, he prompted, “Señor Premiero remembered those exquisite eyes you inherited from your mother, may she rest with the saints.”
“Put it on, Antonia,” her father urged, but Toni was reluctant to wear Premiero’s controlling collar quite this soon. She shut the box and offered, instead, a pretty thank you.
“Tell Señor Premiero his gift is as lovely as it is extravagant. I will wear it with something more appropriate when we meet.”
Her lack of enthusiasm over the gift clearly annoyed her father, but she spotted Veta by the hall and took the opportunity to slip away with a nod and a wish for them to enjoy the evening.
Veta looked stunning in a full-length tank dress that skimmed her knockout figure with an explosion of grand scale red Impressionist roses upon a dark background. With her vivid makeup and black hair piled high, she looked like an exotic, hothouse species. But Toni knew she carried a .44 in her chic beaded bag. This rose had deadly thorns.
“Here.” Toni thrust the box at her once they were in the hall. “Put this somewhere.”
Veta opened the lid and expressed a low whistle. “Who’s the admirer?”
“Premiero.”
Veta closed the lid and regarded her friend solemnly. “Toni, how are you going to work with his man if you despise him so?”
“My father has worked with despicable characters all his life. It’s part of doing business.” That’s what he’d always told her.
“But at what cost? Promise me you’ll be careful. Premiero is no junior league executive to be easily controlled.”
“As he thinks to control me with his gifts and his oily embassador? I know what Premiero is and what he’s capable of.”
“Do you?”
To lighten that dour warning, Toni placed her hand upon her friend’s shoulder. “That’s why I have you to run interference. One look at you in that dress and he’ll be blinded by more than ambition.”
Veta gave a derisive snort. “One uses what one has to its best advantage as your father would say.”
“Yes, he would.” Toni glanced about restlessly. “Have you seen Russell?”
“He asked me to stick close to you while he handled the perimeter. I guess he’s not much of a social animal. Perhaps his tuxedo is at the cleaners.”
That he would hand her off into the care of others rankled unexpectedly. Just as his intentional absence chilled her. “I’m not paying him to shake the bushes. He’s supposed to be with me.”
Veta raised a speculative brow, but offered no comment. “Last I saw him he was headed back toward the kitchen.”
“I guess it’s time I stirred something up with our Mr. Russell.”
The kitchen, a gleaming bank of stainless steel and oiled butcher block, was a hive of activity with waiters rushing in and out, heat pulsing out from the big industrial oven and flames jetting from the multi-burnered stoves. Six cooks performed under the exacting maestro’s baton of Henri Galliteau, a master chef stolen from one of the pricy Windy City restau
rants her father favored. Henri conducted the chaos in his kitchen with a loud and often profane gusto, comparing the qualities of his underling chefs to the nether regions of a suckling pig while brandishing a cleaver as his instructional wand. No one was allowed in his kitchen during an event. Those performances were always closed to an audience. Which was why the sight of Zach Russell sampling a Bearnaise sauce at his side gave her a jolt of surprise.
He did own a tuxedo. And he looked fabulous in it.
“It’s nice to know you’ll have a skill to fall back on when this career is pulled out from under you.”
Russell finished stirring the bubbling cheese mixture, then glanced up without a trace of surprise or chagrin. He’d known she was there. His gaze was cool in the sweltering kitchen.
“It’s been tried before without success. A stellar reputation can survive a few dings and scratches.”
“How about a head on collision?”
Henri murmured something to him in French and Zach smiled faintly, his gaze never leaving the challenge of Toni’s.
He’d been ignoring her and now he was laughing at her. Her temper came to a hot, rolling boil.
“You’re not being paid to entertain yourself playing Julia Child in my kitchen.”
Unmoved by her harsh tone, Zach’s reply was as nonchalant as his manner. “Not enjoying the party? Is that what’s got your panties in a twist?”
All movement ceased in the room. Her fury escaped like steam from a pressure cooker, with a fierce hiss.
“Not so much as you, apparently. And, if my panties were a topic of discussion in front of the staff, be advised that I’m not wearing any.”
As Toni stormed from the kitchen, every male eye was drawn to ascertain the truth of her parting statement, Zach’s included, until the swinging door closed behind her.
“Excuse me, monsieur, I fear I’ve left something burning.” Zach handed the ladle to Henri, who shook it at him with a knowing smirk.
“A few careful stirs will prevent scorching, mon ami.”
She stalked down the hall, heading for the escalating noise of the party. With a quick movement she bolted down the contents of the flute she still carried. It wasn’t enough to extinguish her ire.
“You were in no danger.” He spoke softly and suddenly from just over her shoulder.
“Not as much as you are at this moment.” She refused to look at him.
“I thought you preferred head-on, but you seem to be enjoying these nasty sideswipes.”
She stopped then to confront him directly. “What happened to your Rule Two? Or do you just impose them then break them at your discretion?”
He touched the almost invisible earpiece he was wearing. “I don’t have to be right next to you to be right next to you.”
“So you thought you’d play Iron Chef at my expense?”
Again, the slight quirk of a smile. “I was doing intel work.”
“You think the kitchen staff is going to try to poison me?”
He grinned then, a quick startling flash of white. “The only thing venomous around here tonight seems to be your tongue.” Then before she could parry that remark, he was all business once more. “Who notices the goings on in a big house better than those you never see?”
She took a breath. And another. He’d been working the staff for information. “Did you find out anything interesting?”
His gaze did a quick downward dip. “That you’re not wearing any panties.”
With a huff of aggravation, she spun away and marched back toward her celebration, which was now in raucous full swing. She didn’t have to see Russell’s grin. She could feel it.
Zach watched as she cut through the room like a social heat seeker. To appease her, he remained in plain sight just on the edge of the party while she controlled it.
The crowd loved her just as the camera loved her. How could they help it? She dazzled, with her beauty, with her rapier-sharp wit, with her flair for doing the unexpected.
In a sea of slinky evening gowns, she was the only woman who didn’t feel the need to make a statement by showing lots of bare shoulders, cleavage and leg. Her heavy dark hair was pulled up severely into a knot at the crown of her head then hung in a thick braided tail. She wore an evening suit that revealed nothing yet still managed to be sexy and exotic. Her mandarin-style jacket covered her from neck to fingertips in black silk heavily embroidered and beaded with Oriental florals and banded at collar, cuffs and hem with swatches of stiff peridot brocade. Beneath the weighty jacket that extended just below her hips, she wore loose-fitting black trousers over flat black slippers.
And apparently no panties.
She was still angry with him. She let him know it with her occasional stabbing glances. He wasn’t sure why he deserved it for just doing his job. But, having given up trying to decipher female logic—especially this female’s logic—he accepted it and stayed out of range. To distract himself from the panty issue, he thought ahead, to the trip to Mexico, to the potential difficulties of protecting her in a foreign country while she dealt with a man whose questionable background paralleled her father’s. Would she follow in their business footsteps, shunning integrity for a bigger bottom line? He wanted to think not. He didn’t want to believe “like father, like daughter.”
But she had let him take the fall to protect her father’s reputation. He had never believed it was to save her own. For all her defiant bluster, Toni Castillo wanted to make her daddy proud.
Whether Victor Castillo was worth the effort or not.
As the hour grew later and the party wilder, Zach watched Toni loosen up as the number of drinks consumed overcame her concerns. She danced with the male guests, making each one of them from eighteen to eighty-five fall in love or lust with her. But while she’d do a sexy bump and grind, she refused to be drawn in close for the occasional slow song. What man wouldn’t want to have her pressed into him for a languid, sensual sway? But she shook off their invitations with a laugh and a request for another champagne. Most took her evasion with a good-natured disappointment. But not all.
Jerry Middleton, son of the founder of Middleton Transport. Zach had done his homework on the guest list provided. A punk, a freeloader skating by on his father’s money and depending upon his pull to keep him from doing serious time for any of his frequent tangles with law enforcement. Several of them included burying the complaints of former girlfriends who said Jerry liked to play rough.
And, apparently, Jerry didn’t like to be told no. Especially in front of a crowd.
The first time he tried to push the issue, Toni simply walked out of his clumsy embrace and Veta stepped in to fill her place. Veta distracted him from his intentions and managed to whisper a warning for him not to cause a scene. The warning took, for all of fifteen minutes. Then he was back, cornering his hostess and trying to charm his way back into her good graces. Not wanting to offend him, Toni endured his attention but kept up the physical distance by placing her hand on his chest each time he tried to lean in closer.
He should have gotten the message, but some guys just needed a special delivery.
Jerry Middleton was becoming a rude bore.
Toni knew how to handle men. She did it with humor, with firmness and, if necessary, with force. But Jerry just wasn’t getting it. He wasn’t getting anything from her on this night or any other.
“Happy birthday, Antonia.”
Toni turned gratefully toward one of her father’s bankers and accepted a quick buss upon her cheek. But when he moved away and she looked back to confront her annoying pursuer, Jerry breeched her personal space with a husky, “I haven’t given you a birthday kiss yet.”
Alarm leapt inside her as he crushed her back against a credenza with the wall of his chest. Struggling to control the sudden acceleration of her heart and the instinctive surge of panic, she angled her head to present her cheek, but his hand forked beneath her chin, his fingers clamping tight. Fear, harsh and black, rose to choke her, wadding
in her throat, suffocating the need to scream out in protest. Her brain shouted for her limbs to move, to shove him, to hit him, to knee him into submission, but her muscles locked into frozen acquiescence. And Jerry Middleton knew how to take swift advantage of a moment’s weakness.
Her ability to think, to breathe was gone. As his features filled her field of vision, a familiar cold darkness seeped up to steal her sight away. A roar began in her ears, threatening to consume her until quiet words sliced through it with an edge of steel.
“Take a step back or I’ll take you out like a sack of trash.”
Middleton may have been drunk, but he wasn’t stupid enough to miss the menace in that simple claim. He stepped back and found himself pinned by a dismembering stare.
“Mr. Middleton is ready to leave.”
His arms taken on either side by two large uncompromising fellows, Jerry made his first smart choice of the evening. He didn’t argue.
With the direct threat removed, Zach confronted the damage done. Toni looked through him with eyes blank and glassy. Her breaths came in shallow little gasps of fast approaching shock. There was no way to gracefully extricate her from the overcrowded room.
“Antonia, look at me.” No response. “Toni, can you hear me? Nod if you hear me.”
A short up-and-down jerk of her head. Good.
He pitched his voice low, the words soothingly smooth. “You wanted me to dance with you once upon a time. I think I’d like that dance now. What do you say? Will you dance with me, love?”
Very slowly he gathered her in his arms. She snapped rigid and for a moment he feared she would bolt. Her resistance held for several frantic beats and then she gave, just slightly at first but enough for him to ease her away from the wall and toward the offer of shelter in his embrace. When he felt the tentative touch of one hand at his waist, he lifted the other in his. Her fingers were deathly cold and still.
