by Cindy Dees
It was Aleesha who answered him, her eyes clear and level. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Why are you asking me?” he snapped.
“You’re the one who’s been with her for the past several days.”
“You’re saying I drove her to screw up this mission?”
The woman didn’t answer. She just studied him dispassionately.
Swearing under his breath, he headed for his bedroom to change clothes and get ready for lunch. Damned women! Always peeling back the onion, looking for layers of emotions and reasons. Couldn’t they just leave it alone? He took satisfaction in slamming the bedroom door on the lot of them.
But he was only granted a few moments’ reprieve before Gretchen knocked. “Sir, there’s a possible change to your itinerary.”
“What?” he grumbled from inside a new undershirt.
“Mimi Ando is going to give a press conference in ten minutes and she asked that you be there.”
“What the hell for?”
“Moral support.”
He yanked the bedroom door open to stare at Gretchen. “She said that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a load of bull. She’s got something up her sleeve.”
“Shall I tell her assistant you’ll be there or not?”
He weighed the pros and cons of it. Being seen with her so soon after her husband’s death could start rumors about the two of them. But, on the other hand, if he didn’t show up, he might look callous and uncaring. If nothing else, it might be interesting to see what Mimi had cooking. She was a world-class schemer. He yanked on a shirt and buttoned it jerkily.
“Fine. I’ll go. But I can’t stay for long. I don’t want to be late to lunch.”
“You’ll have ten minutes at the press conference before you need to meet the British Finance Minister.”
Tom tied his tie and brushed a speck of lint off his suit. “All right. That should be long enough to convey my sympathy without making it look like I’m moving in on the bereaved widow.”
He strode out into the living room. “You Amazon princesses ready to go?”
There were grins all around as his security team took their places. It felt weird to be in the middle of such a phalanx. He was used to being on the perimeter, gaze roving, brain always assessing possible threats.
As he’d expected, the press conference was a zoo. Knowing Mimi, a lot of the chaos was her doing. Aleesha and company maneuvered him along the wall to one side of the room, conveniently next to a large pillar that cast him in deep shadow but where Mimi could spot him from the podium—if she actually needed him for moral support. Frankly, he doubted that. More likely, she’d just wanted him here to see the show. She’d always loved having an audience. This was a perfect spot from which to watch the show.
Three minutes before the press conference was scheduled to begin, he started at the sudden jolt of awareness flooding through him. She had just walked into the room.
He looked up and spotted a pair of brilliant blue eyes framed by wavy strawberry hair. Her curvaceous figure was shown off to perfection in a closely tailored suit, and confidence oozed from every pore of her flawless skin. He swore at himself. Why couldn’t he have that reaction to some other woman? Why the one woman who drove him completely crazy and frustrated the living hell out of him?
If Paige spotted his presence, she didn’t deign to glance his way. As for him, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He watched her every move as she jockeyed through the crowd with her cameraman in tow, angling for the best shot of the podium. She was very good. She used a combination of feminine charm and old-fashioned sharp elbows to get just the spot she wanted.
Mimi was late. Not that it was any surprise to him. It had always been a source of contention between them. He was military trained to believe that punctuality was next to godliness. And Mimi was a firm believer that the world could wait for her.
Finally, the French model made her way into the room, dressed in a stunning black suit and large hat that matched her long, black hair and framed her tragically pale face. He’d lay odds she’d had to put on makeup to achieve that wan shade of ivory. She wouldn’t be caught dead without a St. Tropez tan year-round.
Mimi swayed dramatically, but then a man moved forward on the dais to support her elbow. Who was he? Tom leaned over to Aleesha and murmured, “Do you know the guy holding her arm?”
“No.”
“Get an ID on him, will you?”
The Medusa team leader was savvy enough not to question his request but merely nodded and murmured to one of her team members. A camera came out of a pocket, several pictures were snapped, and the tall, elegant Medusa called Monica slipped out of the room.
Mimi’s assistant read a short statement expressing Mrs. Ando’s deep grief and suffering at the loss of her husband and asked the press to please respect her privacy in this period of mourning.
Tom snorted mentally. Right. And that was why the bereaved widow was standing at a press conference in front of a hundred avid reporters. Because she wanted privacy.
Mimi moved up to the podium and answered a few predictable questions. When did her husband die? What were the police saying to her about it? Did she know the circumstances of his death? Tom was glad to see that Mimi genuinely didn’t seem to know a thing about how Takashi’s body was found or in what condition.
She wasn’t a bad actress, but she wasn’t great, either. To someone like Tom, who knew her very well, her grief was transparent. Sure, she was sad the old man had kicked off, but she fairly glowed when someone asked her if she was familiar with the contents of Takashi Ando’s will. Of course, Mimi denied knowing what would happen to all of her late husband’s billions. But Tom wasn’t fooled. She must stand to inherit a ton of money from Takashi-san.
The tall, blond Medusa slipped past him and back into place as the press conference droned on. She murmured to him and Aleesha, “Harold Pinter. He’s an African tycoon. Owns, among other things, a bunch of precious materials mines in East Africa, a ton of real estate in Dubai, a bank in Singapore. All but owns Meringa.”
Bingo. Meringa was a small nation born out of a regional civil war a few years back. Loaded with natural resources, but thin on government and rife with corruption.
Monica continued, “Naraya says he’s also her number one guess as to who’s selling the private empire.”
And he and Mimi were cozying up together? Didn’t that just open up a whole new world of possibilities?
Aleesha went rigid beside him. “The seller is sucking up to the widow of one of the buyers? Ladies, the plot has just thickened.”
Tom was still pondering the implications of that little twist when the Medusas whisked him out of the press conference a few minutes later. The British Finance Minister had a suite down the hall from his, and it was an easy matter for the Medusas to deliver him there on time. But the security guard who answered the door balked at the bevy of women accompanying him.
Tom explained, “They’re my bodyguards.”
“Right, mate. And I’m the Easter Bunny. We’ve got plenty of real security. You don’t need your playmates in here.”
Aleesha stepped forward and said silkily, “You seem like a nice boy. So I’m not going to break your nose right away. I hear Tim Smith is on this detail. Is he about?”
The guard looked bemused, but nodded. “One moment.”
Another man returned with the first one. He took one look at Aleesha and stepped forward to wrap her in a bear hug with an exclamation of welcome. “Mamba! Your husband didn’t tell me you were coming out here! Next time I see Michael, I’m gonna have to break his arm.”
The Medusa laughed. “Your man here seems to think we’re not real bodyguards, Tim. He doesn’t want to let us in.”
Tim turned to the first guard. “Didn’t you ever hear of the Medusas when you were in the SAS? They’re the American government’s all-girl Special Forces team.”
The first guard gaped at Tom’s
escorts. “No kidding? You’re them?”
“In the flesh,” Aleesha answered pleasantly.
“Son of a—come in!”
Tom grinned. Good thing he was secure enough not to be offended by his bodyguards being bigger rock stars than he was. Aleesha and Monica stepped into the suite first, had a good look around, and then waved him in. Alex and the quiet Chinese woman, Cho, brought up the rear.
“Tom! Good to see you again!” The British Finance Minister was in his forties and still as brilliant as his early rise to such a position indicated.
They shook hands, and in a matter of minutes were engrossed deep in conversation about future global economic prospects. Like good bodyguards, the Medusas faded into the background, practically becoming part of the furniture.
But then, near the end of the meal, a disturbance broke out in the corner. Tim Smith exclaimed in surprise and pulled a cell phone away from his ear. The security man stepped forward. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I have news.”
Tom looked up in alarm. Clearly it was bad.
“Jeremy Smythe is dead.”
Chapter 13
Paige all but fell into her chair when Greer Carson broke the news to her. Smythe had been found in his suite about fifteen minutes ago and ambulances had been called to the scene. But rumor had it the aged billionaire was dead. Cause of death unknown.
Except she thought she might know the cause of death. Her. She’d killed the poor, sweet old man. She’d had to be stubborn and do that report, and it had gotten an innocent man killed.
She’d done it again.
First Jerry Sprague. And now Jeremy Smythe.
She’d gotten so caught up in her work, in proving a point to someone, that she’d failed to stop and consider the possible consequences of her actions. She’d thought that by becoming a Medusa she’d fixed that fatal flaw in herself. That tendency to leap before she looked. To hurt others in her selfishness and ambition. Or in this case, in her pique at Tom Rowe.
“You okay, Paige? We need to tape a segment ASAP. All the networks will be breaking this one in the next two minutes.”
Tape. Right. Something inside her curled up in a little ball and shut down. Good thing Tom had dumped her before she got him hurt, too. Or worse.
Greer sat down at the computer and typed furiously. He called over his shoulder, “Get your face on while I throw together some copy. We’ll go on as soon as you’re ready.”
She’d never be ready to tell this story. To put on a straight face and pretend she didn’t know exactly how Jeremy Smythe had died. How in the hell was she going to look into the camera and not completely lose it?
“Paige!” Greer barked. “Let’s go! We’ve got a story to break.”
She was afraid this one might break her.
But it didn’t. Somehow she got through reading the report. Woodenly, perhaps. And maybe with a strange undertone of shock. But viewers would probably put it down to the fact that she’d just met with the dead man a few days ago—a fact that Greer had seen fit to include in the story.
She dug deep and set everything aside but the words scrolling across the screen in front of her. She didn’t try to comprehend their meaning. She just read them aloud. At least her Medusa training had turned out to be good for something in the journalism business. She made it through the report and sagged in relief when the red light over the camera blinked off.
“I’ve got to go, Carson.”
She didn’t wait for his permission. She just burst up from of her chair and rushed out of the bureau. Out of the hotel. Out of her mind.
Tom paced his suite restlessly, waiting for news to come in regarding how Smythe had died. He’d been waiting all afternoon. The place was crowded. Aleesha had all the Medusas on duty and on high alert around him at the moment. Personally, he figured the killer would take the rest of the day off after killing Smythe and come after him tomorrow. But he wasn’t in charge of the security detail and it wasn’t his call.
Aleesha had been on the phone continuously to H.O.T. Watch, which was apparently the Medusas’ operational headquarters, since the news of Smythe’s death had come in. But, the intelligence gathering unit had no information for them yet. He watched the senior Medusa hang up her phone yet again and send him a negative shake of the head. She dialed another number and he turned away.
For the next half hour, it was more of the same. Call to H.O.T. Watch. Nothing. Call to some other number that didn’t seem to be answering. Nothing. Frustrated look on Aleesha’s face. Lather, rinse and repeat.
Finally, as he stood well back from the big windows staring out at the deep, unfathomable blue of the ocean, Aleesha’s reflection in the glass approached him from behind. Without turning, he murmured, “What can I do for you, Mamba?”
“Tell me what on God’s little green earth is going on between thee and me girlie.” The Jamaican accent was thick, which he’d already deduced meant she was either joking or defusing stress. He’d bet it was the latter at the moment.
He glanced over at her as she parked beside him, staring out at the ocean. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve known Paige Ellis for two years, and not once have I ever known her to do something irresponsible.”
“And?”
“And she has disappeared. She’s not at the news bureau, she’s not in the building according to hotel security, and she’s not answering her phone.”
That made him turn his head fully to stare at the woman beside him. No special operator would dream of ignoring the phone. Ever. Soldiers like them served at the pleasure of the United States government, and their lives were not their own to pick and choose when they went to work. Theirs was a 24/7/365 profession.
“She’s not answering her phone?” he echoed.
“Nope. And me’tinks you be de reason, boyo.”
“Me? Why?”
The Jamaican accent abruptly disappeared. Aleesha answered him dead seriously. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
He sighed. He’d forgotten about this part of being a special operator—the complete and utter lack of privacy. Every aspect of your life, even the most embarrassing and intimate bits of it, were on display for all your teammates to see.
Reluctantly, he replied, murmuring low enough so the other women couldn’t hear, “Paige and I, we have a bit of thing between us. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it’s something. Or at least it was. I don’t know where in the hell her head is at now. After that report she made about me, your guess is as good as mine.”
Aleesha stared out at the ocean for a long time, clearly thinking hard. Finally she said quietly, “Paige got hurt bad last time around with a guy. She’s steered clear of men for a couple of years, now. I’m thinking maybe she fell hard for a smart, pretty boy like you. I’m guessing you charmed her socks off and she fell like a ton of bricks.”
“I didn’t set out to charm her,” he protested. “I was a royal jerk to her when we officially met, in fact. She was trying to do an interview with me and I wouldn’t cooperate.”
“Were there sparks?” Aleesha asked.
He thought back. Hell, yes, there had been sparks. He couldn’t tear his gaze off those eyes of hers, and when he did, his gaze landed on her legs and wouldn’t budge. They might have argued, but there’d been real passion in it. He grumbled. “Affirmative on the sparks.”
Aleesha nodded wisely. “And she fell for you. Fast forward to now. You’ve pushed the relationship quite a bit further than sparks if I read you right, yes?”
He winced. “Yeah.”
“Okay. And was there a lover’s spat?”
He wanted to blurt out that they weren’t lovers. That it had been a onetime thing. A night of passion fueled by adrenaline and fear and the need to be with someone else. But not lovers. Except…the morning after, when they’d eaten breakfast and talked and laughed together…that hadn’t been a “thanks for the hot sex, have a nice life” kind of conversation. For better or worse,
they were lovers. And then she went and stabbed him in the back. “We didn’t have a fight,” he mumbled.
Aleesha continued her line of reasoning. “But you did something to upset her or she wouldn’t have made that report she knew would make you mad. I know Paige, and she’s not vindictive for the random hell of it. You did or said something to piss her off. So, what was it?”
“Do we really have to get into this?”
“I’ve got a missing operator. A rookie who’s potentially in way over her head. I’ve got compromised security at a global summit, and I’ve got billionaires dropping like flies. Yes, we have to get into this.”
He sighed. Aleesha was right. Dammit. “I have no idea what I said or did to make her mad.”
“Men. You never think about how we’ll react to the things you say. You just blurt out the first words that pop into your heads. You need filters on your mouths.” She shook her head, and then added, “And sensitivity transplants.”
“I don’t walk around trying to be a jerk—” he started.
Aleesha glared at him from under lowered eyebrows. “Single, handsome, rich boy like you? Surrounded by beautiful women fishing for a ring? Sure, you walk around being a jerk all the time. Either you’re getting rid of the groupies, or you’re taking advantage of them. Either way, you’re being a jerk.”
He pressed his lips shut. How was a person supposed to argue against logic like that? It was the “have you stopped beating your wife yet” question.
Thankfully, Aleesha moved on in her reasoning. “Was there a moment or several minutes in which Paige’s behavior changed toward you? Markedly? Like a one-hundred-eighty-degree change of attitude?”
He frowned. “She was cheerful at breakfast. Then she stuffed me in that ridiculous little car of hers and drove me over here. We laughed and joked for most of the ride. Then we walked into the hotel lobby and the press assaulted us. Then she left and made that damned report.”
“What did you say to her during the press conference?” Aleesha prodded.
“Nothing. I only spoke to the reporters. Hell, I tried to fend them off of her. They were starting after her for biased journalism if she was dating me. I did my level best to protect her reputation!”
