by Dee Davis
She tried to brace her hands on the brick wall, but couldn't quite manage the task and ended up falling against it, then sliding down, her head pounding, dry heaves shaking her body with the force of a jackhammer.
She struggled for breath, the still-coherent bit of her mind struggling to decipher what was happening. She'd had food poisoning once in Istanbul, and although it had been horrible, she didn't remember it being this bad.
Maybe there were different kinds.
Frankly, she didn't care. All she wanted was for the pain to stop. She tried to push to her knees, but the effort was simply too much, instead she rolled over onto her side, with the hysterical thought that sitting amidst her own puke she'd easily be mistaken for a street person.
Hell, they probably smelled better.
Darkness edged forward from the corners of her vision, stealthily wrenching control from her conscious mind. She wanted to fight it, but the effort, it seemed, was beyond her control.
♥ Scanned by Coral ♥
CHAPTER SIX
NIGEL STOOD AT the window of his hotel room looking out onto Park Avenue. Its placid tranquility was a relief after the turmoil of the reception. Despite the fact that he'd spent the better part of his youth attending the bloody things, he'd never gotten the hang of them.
Maybe it was a character defect, or maybe it was because it had all been so damn important to his father, but either way he just wasn't up to anything requiring pomp and circumstance, whatever the hell that was.
If only he'd been a second son.
But that was Andrew's role, and he'd managed it quite nicely, keeping the family name in the newspapers on a regular basis. Not always in the best of lights, mind you, but front and center nevertheless.
Nigel blew out a breath, pushing thoughts of his wayward brother aside. They'd both made their beds ages ago, and there was no point in rehashing it now. Besides, the truth of the matter was that his wakefukiess was no more the product of his family's peculiarities than it was the product of his dislike of social engagements. No, the fact was his nocturnal restlessness had everything to do with an auburn-headed siren by the name of Melissa.
She was the reason he was standing here in the wee hours of the morning staring out the window counting taxis, and the idea didn't sit well. Not because of anything she'd done. More because of what he hadn't done. He'd let her slip away. Just like last time. And despite the fact that it had probably all been for the best, he couldn't help wondering if maybe he'd been wrong—if they'd been wrong.
He shook his head, smiling at his own flight of fancy. The fact that both Payton and Gabriel had found happiness in their respective marriages was apparently getting to him, the idea of a life of normalcy seductive. But Nigel had found that seductive things were rarely as advertised, in most cases turning out to be nothing more than disappointment.
No, it was better that she was gone. If any further contact was warranted, he'd send Payton. His mind made up, Nigel heaved a sigh and turned from the window. If he wasn't going to sleep, he might as well get some work done.
Pulling out the desk chair, he had a seat and picked up the folded paper Melissa had given him. He'd already gone over her list twice and nothing had jumped out at him, but sometimes it took repetition to recognize a pattern. So he read through it again.
She'd been thorough in her work so far, investigating each person with the meticulous care of a professional. Unfortunately, she'd spoken the truth when she said she'd only just begun and nothing she'd found so far pointed to a traitor. He threw the list down in frustration. Melissa hadn't known what exactly they were looking for, and she'd told him herself that she'd only had a short time to prepare. Maybe there was something more.
He smiled at the thought, not entirely certain if he was motivated by the thought of gaining further insight into UN trading practices or by the chance to see Melissa again. Considering his current physical state, it was probably the latter.
Angry at his ability to control neither body nor mind, he pushed back from the desk, half-inclined to pay a call on Pay-ton. His suite was just down the hall, across from Harrison's. Cullen as usual had provided nothing but the best. But a quick glance at the clock stopped all forward motion.
It was too damn late for calling on anyone. Besides, Pay-ton would suss out the reality of the situation in a heartbeat, and, at the moment, Nigel wasn't up to his friend's caustic comments. Which left the minibar. There was something disgusting about the little rows of bottles, as if they were play-pretend drinks, but it was way past time for room service, so baby bottles it was.
He pulled out two rounds of Maker's Mark and poured them in a glass. It still wasn't quite half-full, so he pulled out a third and added it to the mix. Probably ten quid a pop, but hell, Cullen was paying.
He sipped the fiery liquid. He loved a good bourbon. It was an American taste he'd picked up, much to his father's disdain, hanging out with Payton and Gabe. And he'd never given it up. It was exactly the medicine he needed. Enough little bottles and he'd be able to forget all about Melissa Pope—at least for tonight.
IT WAS COLD. Bone-shattering cold. And something was making a god-awful racket. Melissa worked to open her eyes, but neither of them seemed to be cooperating. She concentrated on her body, trying to assess what the problem was. She remembered waiting for Ed in the crappy diner and not a whole hell of a lot else.
Finally, through sheer force of will, her eyes opened, and she immediately shut them again to blot out the horrible spinning. Bile rose in her throat, and with it more memory. She'd felt ill and gone into an alley to throw up.
Carefully she opened her eyes again, this time steeling herself to wait out the spinning. Slowly the revolutions stopped and her vision cleared. The noise she was hearing finally took form and she realized it was her teeth chattering. Again marshaling her determination, she clamped her mouth shut and then relaxed slowly, the noise ceasing.
The alley was silent, the light dim. Because of the overhanging buildings it was hard to tell the time of day, but she'd guess early morning. Pushing carefully to her feet, she was relieved to find that, despite the cold and her shivering, her muscles were still responding to her brain.
She tried to conjure up a memory of something happening, but there was nothing. She clearly remembered the coffee shop. The pie and waiting for Ed. And more vaguely the walk toward the subway ending with her incapacitation in the alley. She must have passed out.
Looking down, she visually verified her story with the remnants of last night's bout with her stomach. Overall it was a pretty disgusting sight. She supposed she should consider herself lucky that the worst thing to have happened was a night spent passed out in an alley. Although, based on the pounding in her head, that wasn't exactly a good thing, at least the spinning and nausea seemed to have abated.
She searched the area for her handbag but turned up nothing. Add that to the cost of bad coffee. At least she hadn't had much money. And credit cards could be canceled. Still, it was not the best of situations.
She closed her eyes, her mind replaying the events of the previous night, and she laughed thinking about the difference between where she'd started the night—mixing with high society in French couture—and where she'd ended it—apparently sleeping it off in a garbage-strewn alley. Great.
The instant replay brought something else to mind. She'd dropped her cell phone. Maybe it hadn't been stolen. She knelt on the ground and felt around in the shadows, trying not to be squeamish, but when something rattled off to her left, she swallowed a curse, certain she'd seen two beady eyes watching her.
Blowing out a breath, she determinedly continued her search, her hand finally closing on hard, cold plastic. Her cell. Pulling back to a standing position, she flipped it open, grateful to see that there was still life in the battery.
She'd opened her caller directory and was thumbing down for her sister's number when a shudder of cold ripped through her. Automatically she pulled her coat tighter around her,
and in the process touched something sticky.
Instinctively, she dropped the phone and jerked back, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She lifted a hand, not certain exactly what she was going to do, but the motion stopped midway as her eyes locked on her ringers, revulsion turning to alarm as she realized her hand was covered not with vomit but with blood.
She looked down at her coat, astonished to find that it was soaked in the stuff. Her heartbeat accelerated as she searched her body for signs of injury. There was nothing. No laceration or puncture, not even a scratch.
Rubbing her eyes, she tried to make sense of this newest development. Someone had practically bled out on her. Not a good thing. And not something one walked away from. She forced her breathing to slow, concentrating now on the scene. Pacing from one end of the alley to the other, she searched for a body. But there was no one there. Disappointment warred with relief—relief winning out in the end. Whatever had happened here, she was delighted not to be faced with an injured or dying stranger.
She searched the shadows of the alley again, this time looking for evidence of an altercation of some kind. Again there was nothing. No sign of struggle at all. Everything was coated with a thick layer of dust—if there'd been a fight, surely it would have dislodged something. She rubbed her temples, trying to think. Except for a bit where she'd passed out, there was no evidence of blood on the ground, either.
She stopped by the cell phone and reached down to pick it up, but hesitated once it was in her hand. Something was off here. Something beyond the fact that she was standing in the cold, covered with blood in an alley that had yielded neither a victim nor signs of a fight. The pieces just didn't fit. If she'd been attacked, then why wasn't she hurt? She certainly felt weak, but in an I've-just-thrown-up-my-guts kind of way as opposed to an Fve-recently-been-in-a-knife-fight-with-a-street-person kind of way.
Then there was the whole call-from-Ed-who-didn't-show-up thing. She chewed the side of her lip, shivering again. Ed. She'd call Ed. Obviously her brain wasn't firing with all its synapses. Opening the phone again, she dialed with trembling fingers, and waited for the connection. The phone rang three times and was picked up by an automated voice requesting a message.
She waited impatiently for the beep, tersely explained the situation and clicked off the phone. Ahead of her, on the street, she heard the wail of a siren, and suddenly she felt the need to do something—anything—preferably as far away from here as possible.
She started for the street, and then looked down at her clothes again. She was a mess, and a noticeable one at that. Just walking down the street was bound to bring questions. Questions she didn't want to have to answer. She thought again about calling her sister but rejected the idea. She didn't want to involve Alicia until she knew what the hell was going on.
Turning away from the street, she noticed a courtyard behind a chain-link fence. Courtyard was an exaggeration, actually; it was more of a dingy space between buildings, but it was clear that someone considered it an amenity. There were a couple of stone benches, the browning remnants of summertime flowers, and a clothesline. It was the latter that interested Melissa, since it was strung with clothes.
She moved cautiously to the fence and peered through. There was no one around and, in the face of the frigid morning air, no windows open. That didn't mean there wasn't someone to see, but from this angle she could just make out the orange wash of dawn.
It was early. Hopefully everyone was snug in their beds.
She glanced down at her bloody clothes again and knew it was worth the risk. The fence was topped with the obligatory run of curling barbed wire, but she'd grown up in the Southwest and wasn't a bit afraid of the stuff.
Without giving herself time to consider the possible downside, she climbed the fence and gingerly straddled the wire. In less than two minutes she was up and over. So far so good.
The clothes on the line obviously belonged to a man— work pants and, thank God, a flannel shirt. After searching the tiny enclosure again for signs of life, she grabbed them both, along with an undershirt, and stepped back into the shadows. Thanks to the cold, she changed in record time, rolling her bloody shirt and pants into the coat.
It was tempting to abandon them, but she knew better than to leave anything traceable behind. With a granny shot, she tossed the soiled clothing back over the fence and climbed up, this time snagging her newly acquired pants on the barbed wire. Fortunately, they were made to be tough, and with a little maneuvering she managed to free herself without tearing them.
Back on the ground, she grabbed the ball of clothing and made her way out of the alley. She wasn't exactly a fashion plate, but the clothes fit more or less, and in this outfit she blended in with the crowd more than she would have in her bloodstained Burberry coat.
Not having money limited her mobility, but she was used to walking and, with a determination born of fear and cold, she made the hike to her Battery Park apartment in something less than half an hour, all the way trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in some kind of logical order.
Not that she'd come up with much of anything. The facts were that she'd gone to meet Ed. He hadn't shown. The pie and/or the coffee had upset her stomach—actually that was an understatement—but the point was she'd lost her lunch in a rather big way.
From there, she'd apparently passed out, slept it off and been robbed. Conceivably, she'd fought off her attacker and been covered with his blood. The problem with the last bit was that she had absolutely no memory of anything like that at all, and logic told her that it wasn't the kind of thing she could have pulled off in her sleep.
Add to that the fact that her handler had gone AWOL, and that she was in the middle of an investigation concerning some potentially dangerous folks, and she was left with a less-than-appeahng scenario.
She rounded the corner of State Street and skidded to a stop. There were two unmarked cars in front of her building. There was no way to be certain which agency the cars belonged to—but they were definitely law enforcement of some kind.
It wasn't that big a building—eight apartments, and she knew for a fact that two of them were empty. Of course that left five other possibilities besides herself, but considering the night's events, she didn't feel up to rolling the dice.
She stepped back into the shadowed opening of a building and tried to think what to do. Logic demanded she present herself at the door and let whoever was inside handle things. But years working undercover had taught her that assuming anything could leave you dead. So she held her ground.
She had no idea where Ed lived. It was better if they kept then- relationship limited to the occasional meet, supplemented with phone calls. And since he wasn't answering the latter, that seemed to leave him out of the equation. Alarmingly so.
She'd worked with the man for a hell of a long time and nothing like this had ever happened. Sure there'd been some close calls along the way, but never involving him directly. And none that she couldn't sort out—eventually.
So that's just what she needed to do now. Sort things out. But first off she needed a bath, new clothes and a warm place to think. She carefully unrolled the coat she still carried, and felt in the pockets of her jeans, hoping for cash.
Nothing.
StiE, trying to keep an optimistic thought, she reached into the pockets of her coat, perseverance paying off in the form of a five-dollar bill and a wadded-up piece of paper. The money was like manna from heaven, and she resisted the urge to march straight into Starbucks for a grande mocha.
Not the wisest use of her very limited funds.
Biting her lip again, she clenched her fists and blew out a breath. Considering that last night had started out with an amazing kiss, it had certainly taken a decided turn for the worse.
If only Nigel were here. He'd know what to do.
The thought took a moment to crystallize, but when it did, she frowned and opened up the scrap of paper, staring down at the handwriting on it. Nigel's phone numb
er.
She wasn't the sort to go running to a man for help, but at the moment she had to admit the idea was awfully seductive. And really, she had nowhere else to turn. Ed wasn't returning calls, and she couldn't risk getting her sister involved. But Nigel—well, in a way he was already part of this.
And no matter what lay between them, she'd trust him with her life. The decision then was simple. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"IS EVERYTHING ALL right?" Payton asked. "You seem distracted."
"Just jet lag," Nigel said, stirring his eggs unenthusiastically. Truth was, it had been a spectacularly long night, and despite a shower and a couple of hours' sleep, he still felt as though he'd been run down by a lorry.
"And here I thought it was about a woman." Payton's mouth twitched as he ate his waffle.
"Gabe talks too bloody much."
"It wasn't Gabe," Payton was quick to reassure him. "It was Madison. And she only told me because she was worried about you."
"Well, there isn't anything to worry about. I ran into an old friend—who happens to be our contact in the UN investigation. It was a bit of a surprise, I'll grant you that. But anything remotely personal died a long time ago. So despite Madison's certainty that there is something more going on, I promise you there isn't."
Payton nodded, wisely refraining from further comment.
"Where's Harrison? Doesn't he like breakfast?"
"Up and gone," Payton said. "He's already at Cullen's offices. Something about bis laptop not having the connections he needed. You know how Harrison is."
He did, actually, and despite his foul mood, he smiled. "Totally obsessed with anything involving seemingly inaccessible data."
"Exactly." Payton finished the last of his waffle, sitting back with a satisfied sigh. "Anyway, he couldn't wait to start digging."
