Guarding Raine (Security Ops)

by Brant, Kylie

  His mouth quirked in sympathy. Then he shocked her by saying, “What time do we have to leave?”

  “We? You don’t have to go, Macauley. I wouldn’t put you through it, believe me. It’s going to be dreadfully dull. Since I don’t have a car anymore—” that thought made her frown “—I can call André and he’ll pick me up.”

  “I told you that you’ll go nowhere without me.”

  “I just thought,” she said, her voice dwindling, “since André would be with me . . .”

  Rather than tell her that André Klassen was one of the last people he’d leave Raine alone with right now, Mac merely said, “I can’t protect you if I’m not by your side. So what time do we have to be there?”

  “We’re due at Clancy’s Restaurant at seven,” she murmured.

  He inclined his head. “I’ll have to stop by my place to get some suitable clothes, so we’ll need to leave early.” He consulted his wristwatch. “Can you be ready in an hour? Or, better yet, just gather up what you’ll need and bring it along. That way we can change at the same time.”

  The thought of being in his apartment, both of them getting ready to go out, together, was filled with an alluring intimacy. Her throat dry, she managed to nod.

  When she turned to go upstairs he headed to the office. Reaching the desk, he picked up the radio he used to communicate with the men in charge of patrolling the grounds. He told them his plans for the evening and arranged to call ahead to warn them of his and Raine’s return. He didn’t want any mix-ups.

  He’d barely finished when Raine entered the room. She was carrying a small suitcase and a garment bag. It occurred to Mac that tonight would be the first time he’d seen her in a dress. He was enough of a chauvinist to look forward to the sight with anticipation.

  Raine finished dressing in record time, and left the spare bedroom. She freely admitted to being curious about where Mac lived. Wandering through the scantily furnished rooms, she looked around for hints of the man who lived there. There were few to be found.

  Nothing hung on the walls; there were no plants to soften the austerity of the bare essential furniture. Three photographs stood atop a television set, and she crossed the room to study them. One showed Mac with an older couple she guessed to be his parents. She thought she recognized the same hints of stubbornness lurking around both men’s jaws. Another picture showed the couple together, and yet another was of the woman alone. And that was all there was. She peeked into the kitchen, but it was as bare as the rest of the rooms. It was like being in a stranger’s home, one who put nothing of himself on display.

  She didn’t know why the Spartan-like apartment should surprise her. Mac gave little of himself away at any time. But she had expected there would be something of him in his home. The fact that it was as unreadable as he usually appeared made her want to cry. Did he spend so little time here that he didn’t think it worthwhile to make it more comfortable, more of a home? Or was the emptiness of the apartment supposed to be a mirror of the man?

  She didn’t want to believe that, although she guessed that he did. There were enough times when she’d caught the bleakness in Mac’s eyes to know he was capable of feeling far more emotion than he gave himself credit for. Maybe that was the whole problem. For some reason Macauley O’Neill had decided he didn’t deserve any positive emotions. Whatever it was that rode him so hard at times wouldn’t let him forget for long enough to experience anything besides guilt. She wondered if it ever would.

  Mac stepped into the room and stopped as if he’d hit an invisible wall. He’d been tortured the whole time he dressed by teasing fantasies of what it would have been like to dress with Raine in the same room. There would have been something inherently sexy in watching her ready herself. He’d driven himself crazy with images of her struggling into her dress, asking him to clasp a necklace at the nape of her neck. He’d even fantasized watching her spray herself with a delicate scent of perfume.

  His eyes traveled over her small form slowly, taking in the turquoise dress that hugged her delicate curves. It was very nearly backless, with the kind of defiance for gravity that drove a man crazy wondering just what kept it on. She turned then to face him, and he saw that dainty silver sandals were on her feet, and she carried a matching purse. He dragged the direction of his gaze to her face and said the first thing he could think of. “You did something to your hair.”

  He almost grimaced at the inane comment that had slipped out in an effort to cover what he’d really been thinking. But it was true. Her hair was a mass of curls, and added to the picture of utter femininity.

  “So did you,” she said teasingly. Very little, but he’d at least made an attempt to brush the waves back. They still glistened wetly from his attempt. He’d shaved, and she was peculiarly touched by this variation in his usual routine. His smooth jaw tantalized her, tempted her to drag the tip of her tongue across it. His suit was dark, his shirt cream and his tie a muted gold. He looked even more dangerous than he had the first time she’d seen him, and no less uncivilized.

  “Do you keep that suit as a disguise?” she joked in a shaky voice.

  “It’s my bank suit,” he explained disgruntledly. “Trey insists we dress like this when we have an appointment with the banker. Never could figure out why. The banker should be looking at our assets, not our clothes.”

  “Believe it or not, Mr. O’Neill,” she said, strolling toward him and hooking her arm through his, “those clothes show your assets off to great advantage.”

  His eyebrows climbed. “So do yours, honey. Especially,” he added, his tone wicked as he led her out the door, “when you turn around.”

  He frowned as he helped her into the truck. He went to the other side and climbed in. She looked incongruous in the cab, like a delicate splash of color. “I should have taken the time to go by the company to get my car.”

  She turned startled eyes to his. “What for?”

  “Well, it’s nothing special, but it would have been a little more comfortable riding. And it would have been a much classier way to arrive at the restaurant.”

  She shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

  He looked at her. She really seemed to mean it. Appearance didn’t count much with Raine Michaels. He changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell me what to expect tonight?”

  The sigh she gave told him how little she was looking forward to the evening ahead. “Well, the food is always good at Clancy’s. I’m afraid that will be the highlight. This will really be nothing more than an advertisement for the exhibit I have coming up. André will have invited several people he’d like to have attend the show.” She grimaced. “Don’t be surprised if he’s arranged for a photographer to be there. He’s great at dropping hints at newspapers to get some free publicity. That’s usually my least favorite part of these affairs.”

  He wondered all of a sudden how his own presence at the restaurant was going to play out. How would Raine explain him to André? He could imagine the look on Klassen’s face when he saw Mac tonight, and something inside him curled in satisfaction. It wouldn’t break his heart to put Klassen’s too perfect nose out of joint.

  They arrived at the restaurant, and a valet took the truck to park it. Mac spotted Klassen standing in the courtyard near the door, apparently entertaining the dozen or so people surrounding him. All seemed to be hanging on his every word.

  André looked up, a practiced, polished smile of welcome when he saw Raine. “Well, at last! Here’s our guest of honor!” The smile abruptly froze when his gaze passed her and clashed with Mac’s amused one. For one instant the careful mask slipped and the loathing he felt was apparent.

  Then Mac’s attention was diverted by the flashbulbs going off. Four reporters left André’s side and scurried toward Raine, tossing questions like grenades. And when Mac heard their words, anger turned the blood in his veins to molten lava.

  “Miss Michaels, what has your reaction been to these threats that have been made against you
?”

  “How has the danger surrounding you affected your current work?

  “Do you trust the police to keep you safe?”

  Chapter 11

  Raine stopped short, blinded by the glare of flashbulbs. Mac put his arm around her and guided her through the journalists who were waiting with notebooks in their hands and pencils poised.

  “Miss Michaels has no comment,” he said tersely, attempting to get her to the door.

  “Mr. Klassen reports that he’s been quite worried about your safety recently. Is it true you’ve been receiving threats in the mail for several weeks?”

  “Don’t say a word,” Mac muttered in her ear. They reached André’s side and could go no further, as the man was half-blocking the entrance of the restaurant. “Step aside, now,” Mac ordered the man through clenched teeth. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to smash his fist into Klassen’s gleaming capped teeth. He had little doubt that the man had engineered the whole thing, part of a media blitz that would bring more interest to his client and, in turn, line his own pockets.

  “Raine, what in God’s name possessed you to bring him?” Klassen whispered urgently.

  Raine turned her head to address him sharply, but Mac cut in. “What’s the matter, Klassen? Upset because I stopped you from turning this into a media circus?”

  “That’s enough, both of you!” she said under her breath. Turning to face the press, she gave a warm smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m all right. Yes, there have been some anonymous letters, and the police have been called in to deal with them. I trust that they will have something to report shortly. And none of this is affecting my work. I can be quite single-minded when I’m painting. I hope to see you all at the exhibit.” Giving a friendly wave, she sidled by André and entered the restaurant.

  Mac started to follow her, and André had to move aside or be run over. He stayed behind, and his urbane voice could be heard answering more questions. Mac caught up with Raine and muttered, “I thought I told you not to say anything.”

  “I was not interested in helping you make a scene out there,” she informed him, her eyes flashing.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” he answered grimly. “It was Klassen who was making the scene. And arranged it, too, if I don’t miss my guess. Why he would pull such an asinine stunt is another matter.”

  She sighed and raised her hand to her right temple. It was already beginning to throb with a headache. “It’s typical for André to have a reporter or two around, I told you that.”

  His mouth tightened. What was even more typical for Klassen, he imagined, was to milk every event in his path for the resulting publicity. He didn’t seem to care overmuch about the possible effects it could have on Raine. For someone who’d convinced her earlier that the threats weren’t to be taken seriously, he was sure taking advantage of them in a big way today.

  André came in then, followed by two couples who’d been outside. “Raine, dear, shall we go in? Several people have arrived already and are waiting to meet you.”

  Raine smiled at him, but turned to Mac. “Macauley?”

  He moved to her side, noting the way Klassen’s mouth twisted with displeasure at the sight. Then they entered the private room where they were to dine.

  It was already filled with twenty or so people, and all heads turned when André announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Miss Raine Michaels?” In an aside to Mac he said smoothly, “You’ll excuse us, I hope?” He took Raine by the elbow and guided her toward the guests, making introductions.

  Mac was content to hang back and observe the crowd. It was a moneyed bunch, that was apparent. The glitter from the jewelry on these people rivaled the glare from the flashbulbs outside. Decked out in outfits ranging from sequined short dresses to nonchalantly tattered jeans, all the women wore the confidence that beauty and wealth can bring. As for the men . . . His gaze narrowed as he observed one man on the wrong side of sixty slide his hand up Raine’s bare arm as he was talking to her. The man seemed more interested in the artist than in the work she did.

  Reaching out with two fingers, he snared a glass from a white-jacketed waiter’s tray. He made a face as he tasted its contents. Champagne was a taste he’d never acquired.

  As he set the glass down on a table behind him, a voice at his side said, “You don’t strike me as the champagne type.”

  Turning his head, Mac looked down into the faded blue eyes of a man who appeared to be in his seventies. He was a full head shorter than Mac, and there was nothing left of his hair except for a fringe of white that ran from ear to ear. He would have looked as if he could make a living impersonating one of Santa’s elves at Christmas time, if it hadn’t been for his bearing. If the others in this room shone with wealth, this man radiated power.

  “You’re right,” Mac answered finally. “Champagne’s not my drink.”

  “Whiskey, Scotch?”

  “Scotch, neat.”

  The stranger nodded in approval. “A man after my own heart,” he said. He raised a finger, which brought a waiter immediately to his side. “Two Scotches,” he ordered. The waiter hurried away. “I’m Harold Bonzer, by the way.”

  Raine’s benefactor. He hadn’t known the man was going to be here tonight. Mac took the hand held out to him. “Mac O’Neill.”

  Shaking his hand, Harold eyed him intently. “I saw you come in with Raine. I’ve never seen her with an escort before. Have you known her long?”

  “Not long, no,” Mac answered shortly, reaching out to take one of the glasses the waiter had silently come back with.

  When it became clear that he wasn’t going to say more, Harold chuckled. “A man who keeps his own counsel, eh? That’s a rarity in a crowd like this.”

  Mac looked at him speculatively. “Raine has mentioned you. She gives you a great deal of credit for her success.”

  Real pleasure lit the man’s face at the compliment, although he shook his head. “Raine Michaels was going somewhere. I just happened to be the one who recognized it and promoted her talent a little.”

  “I understand you’ve also helped launch Sarah Jennings’s career.”

  “Ah, Sarah, yes. That’s how I met Raine, you know. It was at a showing I arranged for Sarah.”

  Mac took a drink from the glass he was holding, his eyes skimming the crowd. “She and Raine seem very close.”

  “An unlikelier pair I’ve never met,” Harold murmured.

  The remark captured Mac’s attention. “I’m surprised you’d say that. After all, they both have similar interests, as well as talents.”

  Harold shrugged. “But they have very different personalities. Raine’s content to let her talent speak for itself, while Sarah is much more ambitious. It’s to be expected, I suppose. She’s had a rather tough time, losing her parents at a young age and taking on her brother to raise. An experience like that leaves a mark on a person.”

  “Every experience leaves a mark on a person,” Mac said bluntly.

  The man’s eyebrows rose. “Quite so.” He surveyed Mac shrewdly for a moment. “What line of work did you say you were in?”

  Mac took another drink from his glass. “I didn’t.”

  Harold Bonzer’s face was wreathed in a beatific smile. “You’re a careful man, Mac O’Neill. You don’t happen to need a job, do you?”

  Mac shook his head, bemused. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the art world.”

  The man looked surprised. “The art world? I have an interest in it, of course. I enjoy surrounding myself with beautiful things. But I’m in finance. And I’m always on the lookout for a man who listens more than he talks.”

  “I’m afraid I know less about finance than I do about art,” admitted Mac. “I’m in the security business.”

  “That explains it,” murmured Bonzer, eyeing him keenly.

  “Harold, it’s so good to see you again.” Raine came up and greeted him with a hug. “And you’ve obviously met Mac.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, I have, and I approve,” he told her. “It’s about time you started spending time with someone, away from your paintbrushes.”

  Raine cast an uncertain eye toward Mac. Harold was jumping to the same conclusion Sarah had, but Mac seemed unconcerned. He merely cocked an eyebrow at her look. Then Harold claimed her attention, for the better part of twenty minutes, until seating began for dinner.

  André motioned for Raine to sit beside him,

  “Harold, why don’t you sit at Raine’s other side? That way you can continue your conversation,” André invited. But Bonzer waved the suggestion away. “Raine’s already spent enough of her time entertaining old men. Put Mac next to Raine. I’ll sit on his other side.”

  The suggestion obviously didn’t sit well with André, but he did as Harold suggested. After the guests were seated, steaming platters of seafood and steak were placed before each of them.

  “Meal choice number three,” Raine murmured into Mac’s ear. He turned his head at the teasing remark, and she didn’t pull away. Her lips were scant inches from his own.

  “Not quite the same ambience I’m used to,” he answered, his eyes on her mouth.

  Raine caught her breath at the sizzling look in his ice blue gaze. The heat that infused her veins owed nothing to the steam rising from her food. When he raised his eyes to meet hers the conversations around her faded away. Her focus narrowed to his mouth, the well-formed thin upper lip, the fuller bottom one. Memories of that mouth on her own surged through her.

  “Raine.” André’s impatient voice startled her, and she turned toward him.

  He indicated her plate. “Try some of the scallops. They’re really quite good here.”

  Raine looked at him blankly for a moment, then at her plate. She couldn’t help feeling that André’s innocuous remark was intended to draw her attention from Macauley, and she wondered at the petty ploy. He had seemed very put out ever since he’d seen Mac with her tonight. However, he was used to arranging things to suit himself and to having her fall in with his plans. Perhaps that would explain his pique at Mac’s appearance tonight. He simply didn’t like surprises of any kind.