by Lora Leigh
He watched the light play against her satin-textured, cinnamon brown skin, wishing for a moment that there weren’t thirty-eight other people on the plane. His palm ached to reach out and touch her face; his fingers tingled with the need to trace the delicate line of her jaw. Stupidity made him fantasize about watching her turn her lush mouth against the palm of his hand when he cradled her cheek. But in reality all he could do at the moment was keep a professional distance and hope that his eyes conveyed nothing but respect.
“I should probably get back to the other men,” he said after a moment. “And, uh, you know . . . nail down logistics.”
“Do you have to?” she said quietly, totally catching him off guard.
Anita bit her lip and looked down for a moment. Her face burned. That didn’t come out right at all. She didn’t want him to think of her like that, somebody playing him fast and loose. But the fact was, for some reason, this guy had her wide open and she wanted to be with him in the worst way. They shared a common bond, a common hollow in their hearts, and this man clearly had honor— which was the sexiest thing about him . . . something she hadn’t seen in a long time, if ever. And she definitely wasn’t big on trusting the male species, but for some reason Zachary Mitchell gave her hope.
“I mean . . .” she stammered, trying to recover her dignity. “Talking to you has really been chilling me out . . . takes my mind off the gig and problems, just joking around like we used to back home on the stoop, you know?”
He nodded. He did know. That was the one thing he couldn’t share with Monica. Everything with his ex had to be about appearances, what people thought, mingling with the right social set, advancing his military career with Pentagon soirees. Hooking up with a Washington socialite had been a nightmare. But as he looked at Anita Brown he admonished himself for even going there . . . the societal gap between him and Anita Brown, aka Queen B, was leagues apart.
That reality tempered his libido and crushed his ego. The thought was sobering, no matter how forlorn her expression was. Right now she was just reeling from what was obviously a recent breakup, trying to cope with being stalked, maybe had performance jitters, and was possibly just playing with the hired help. He had to go back and sit where he was supposed to, away from her.
“I really enjoy talking to you, too,” he finally said, choosing his words with care. “We’ll be able to do that more over the next ten days, I hope. But right now you’ve got some music you’re working on . . . I’ve gotta be alert when we touch down, and have to make sure we’re all in sync . . . so, maybe I should go find Megan to bring you something to eat and you know . . .”
He stood before he changed his mind and made a fool of himself. Seventeen hours next to Anita and wanting her as badly as he did was more than a distraction, it was possibly something that could send him to the hospital.
“Okay,” she murmured, and then looked out the window. “I understand.”
No. It was clear in her bereft expression that she didn’t get it at all.
CHAPTER 7
ZACH HAD IGNORED the knowing smiles the other security personnel gave him as he returned to his seat, and he was thankful that they were seasoned enough to not say a word. It was all in their eyes when he’d returned to their section, and innuendo about him being one lucky mofo was interspersed through dealing decks of cards and supposedly talking about the mission. But sleep eventually took them all, until their synchronized watch alarms sounded.
Thankful for the few hours of shut-eye, he still had awakened tortured. Sleep hadn’t given him the respite he’d hoped for. Two international stops later and Anita Brown still invaded his dreams just like she’d invaded every cell in his body. But he had a job to do.
It was sheer pandemonium on the plane as they got close to touching down in Baghdad. Stylists were flitting between the wide aisles, dancers and singers were changing into costumes. The band members trudged to the bathroom, waking up and drumming on seats as they passed them.
He’d never seen the backstage commotion that took place before a show, much less seen it happening on a private jet. No one had the least bit of modesty as they stripped and got into their performance gear. Anita just turned her back to the aisle, stripped down to her underwear, no bra, and allowed her stylists to dress her— he and the security squad tried their best to seem nonchalant . . . like they were looking at anything but her. But that was impossible. Zachary finally forced his gaze to the floor as the captain announced that everyone had to take their seats and buckle up.
This job was in and out. Baghdad was too dangerous, so the brief show would be held right at the airport for military personnel in a hangar. While they did the show, the plane would be refueled, half of his team would stay with it to be sure there were no issues or anything suspicious loaded onto it, then they’d all get back on board and head to Kuwait— a much less hostile location.
The moment the flight crew opened the hatch, Zach was out, surveying the steps and then held out a hand for Anita. He watched her transform into Queen B for the swarm of paparazzi who had been allowed on the tarmac. She now wore a red, silver, and blue metallic halter that looked like a flag, red stilettos, and a tiny sequined white skirt. He kept his eyes forward, gaze roving behind his shades, but had he not been in front of a crowd, he would have been tempted to salute her . . . red, white, and blue never looked so good.
Backing her up were three burly guards, and the four of them cut a swath through the cameras after the plane exit photo op. The USO had rolled out a red carpet for her; he kept his gaze sweeping, moving her forward, and getting her through perfunctory security and into the hangar to the applause and cheering of hundreds of appreciative soldiers. The others had been escorted in by the balance of his men, and they rimmed the stage in dark suits, taking strategic positions.
Zach was in a backstage position, on post closest to the hangar’s rear entrance— but in this environment, Anita Brown was probably the safest woman in the world. With more than two hundred arms-bearing servicemen and servicewomen who adored her, the biggest worry was getting her out of there on time, because he could tell the moment she hit the stage that she was going to sign an autograph for every enlisted person there . . . which only endeared her to him more.
Her voice was down-home, warm, and welcoming, and he listened to her thank the men and women in uniform for all that they did. Her compliments of their ser vice and the real respect that filled her voice made him and all the others stand up taller. There was no fraud in this woman, she was the genuine article. Then she broke out into her dance routines that put soldiers on the feet.
Taking the opportunity to connect with Lowell, he switched on his satellite phone to let him know the first leg of the job was going well. As he waited for the connection to go through, he also turned on his BlackBerry and watched it boot up— glad that he and his squad also had gone through the necessary measures to allow for international access. Several voicemail messages came up on the touch screen. No one was answering the satellite phone, which was odd. Anne Marie should have picked up. He went into his voicemail and listened hard. Anne Marie’s voice was ragged.
Words that made no sense poured into Zachary’s ear. Lowell had gone into a convulsion and they’d found benzene hexachloride in his system?
Immediately he dialed the cell phone number that Anne Marie had left in the message. Eight rings and she picked up the telephone, sounding groggy.
“Anne Marie, it’s Zach— what happened?”
“Somebody poisoned him, Zach,” Anne Marie said, her voice gaining strength as she woke up. “I’m in the hospital now. That’s why he was so swollen and looked jaundiced . . . this stuff is what they use for flea-and-tick powder and it affects the liver and kidneys— but looks like the flu. Vomiting, diarrhea, the same as the bug, but it takes like three to six hours before symptoms hit.”
“How is he now?” Zach clutched the phone, almost unable to hear with the loud music behind him.
“He’s in th
e cardiac ward— my mother has the boys; I’m in a family lounge, because I can’t take my cell phone up on the ward where they’re working on him and I have to stay in touch with Mom, if anything changes.” Anne Marie’s voice hitched. “He went into a mild convulsion, Zach . . . they said he could get pulmonary edema from this so they’re trying to get the toxin out of him now. If I hadn’t come in, he could have died at home and it would have looked like a heart attack— and the poison would have been un-traceable . . . totally gone from his system before anyone knew.”
“You hold on, all right, honey.” Zach closed his eyes and raked his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “When you can, I want you to give me a list of who he was with three to six hours before he started coming down with the so-called flu. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah . . . I can look in his appointment book, and check his BlackBerry, too.”
“Good. Call the police and give them everything you know, and call me any time, day or night. I want you to keep the boys with your mother— don’t you go home alone, either. Make sure you take somebody trustworthy in there to get some things and then stay away from the house until I can get back there, all right?”
“Okay.”
He heard Anne Marie sniff and anger imploded within him. Someone had gone after his family and he was sure it was related to the contract.
HOURS PASSED LIKE minutes; they always did when she was performing and working with a crowd. This gig, unlike many of the others she’d been on recently, felt like it gave her more than it gave the adoring fans. She’d signed every black-and-white glossy photo that her PA had passed out, as well as took pictures with everyone who’d presented a digital camera, even the brass.
On a natural high, she and her entourage tumbled back onto the plane, exhausted, giddy, and without a care in the world. If this was how the rest of the tour was going to go, then she couldn’t wait. But Zachary Mitchell seemed more aloof than usual; all she could chalk that up to was he and his men having their game faces on.
“So, how did I do?” she said happily, accepting a shrimp salad platter from Megan.
“You killed!” Megan said, beaming, and gaining whoops from the rest of the plane. But Megan’s smile only widened as she glanced over her shoulder. “Terminator is on the way, girl— might want to ask him what he thought of the performance, hmmmm?”
“Sssssh,” Anita said, shooing Megan away. She looked up but her smile instantly faded as she stared up at Zachary’s expression.
“May I sit down?”
“Sure,” she said carefully, worry lacing her brow. She dabbed her throat and forehead with a towel. “What’s wrong?”
“Earlier . . . when I came for the job, I heard you arguing with a man named Ron.”
“Oh, that,” Anita said, with a dismissive wave and then began eating her salad.
“I need to understand what that full argument was about . . . what is going on with your brothers, who used to be your security, the ins and outs of your contracts regarding that with Jonathan Evans—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, soldier— fall back.”
Zachary leaned forward and his intense gaze paralyzed her.
“My partner didn’t have the flu. You were right. May is a little late in the season for the flu. He was poisoned.”
Anita started choking on the salad she’d been chewing and Zach pounded her back, handing her a bottle of water that he’d taken from her tray.
“I need a food taster now?” She wheezed. “Oh, shit.”
“I don’t think you’ll be harmed directly from whomever you have beef with, but this was clearly designed to make the firm I’m working for void the contract. I’m also suspicious now of an inside job, as far as this stalker is concerned . . . how the hell did the guy always know where you were? Think about it.”
“You actually think they’d try to get out of their contract with me by putting a hit on me?” Anita’s voice came out as a strangled whisper.
Zachary kept his voice low and spoke calmly, needing to convey the severity of his point without causing panic.
“No. You’re a revenue source for them, Anita. But I don’t put it past them to scare you to try to make you think that no other security can keep you safe but theirs. From what I gathered from the parts of the argument I heard, we’re simply competition, thus expendable.”
“There are a few people I can think of who are thug enough to do something like that . . . for one, my ex. He’s as foul as they come.” Anita closed her eyes. “And as much as I hate to say it, my brothers and father are certainly capable, too.”
Zachary let out a long, weary breath. “I’m sorry to hear that . . . but it means that we’re going to have to really tighten our ring around you. If these guys want to discredit SWAT International, what better way than to have an incident happen on the road, where you would naturally fire us? The label paying for this has our entire itinerary.”
Anita stared at him, hugging herself. “Jesus . . . I never thought about that. Never thought Jonathan would be so stupid.”
“We don’t know who’s behind the poisoning . . . Lowell Johnson is in the hospital as we speak, and we’ll be trying to find out who he met with as soon as possible. We’ll need hard facts before we go accusing somebody— you better than anybody know that’s a recipe for a lawsuit. Meanwhile, when we get to the hotel in Kuwait, I want to move your rooms around, make some changes on the fly, all right? I know it might not be as comfortable as you’re used to, but I don’t want anybody knowing where you are. Go with me on this. My gut is rarely wrong.”
SHE WAS NEVER so glad to get to the Hilton Kuwait Resort in all her life. After a harrowing flight pocked by extreme turbulence and the horrifying news she’d received, all she wanted was a hot shower and to hide from the world for a little while.
As instructed, she didn’t even let Megan know what room she was in. Her bags were stashed in the huge suite, along with Zachary Mitchell— who was taking up residence on her sofa.
Anita slowly lathered on the creamy suds as the hot water pelted her body. Some hot tea for her throat with lemon and, despite it all, she would sleep good tonight. Her bones were weary, just like her heart. She turned around in the spray, wondering how her life had gone so terribly wrong. Jonathan was a real bastard, but she’d never really thought he would hurt someone— break them or her financially, yes . . . try to murder someone with poison? Never in her wildest dreams. But that just went to prove what her mother always told her; you never really knew what a person was capable of.
Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped her hair in a towel, dried and lotioned her body, and then pulled on a thick terry robe. Exhaustion claimed her as she padded across the bathroom floor and out through the bedroom in search of tea.
Zachary was standing in front of the tray, scrutinizing the hot water, and just seeing him do that made her smile.
“I can toss that pot out and brew some in the room,” she said, motioning toward the coffeemaker.
“I’d feel more comfortable if you did.”
He set down the porcelain teapot and then looked up. He was glad that he’d set down the china first, for he surely would have dropped it. He remembered so vividly how she looked without makeup, her face fresh scrubbed and damp. She was breathtaking. It brought back the flood of emotion and desire that had been bottled-up since their first kiss. Momentarily at a loss, he went to the glass coffeemaker and then headed to the sink behind the dining area.
“I’ll just fill this up with water.”
“You don’t think they would have poisoned my honey, do you?”
He held the pot midair. “Do you need honey?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Maybe not. Just some lemon is fine.”
Zachary paused, staring at her forlorn expression and then glanced at the glass coffeepot in his hand. He had to get a grip. They were not going to poison their money-maker, and his nerves had been so bad since he’d spoken to Anne Marie that he was losing perspectiv
e. The only meeting that his play sister-in-law had been able to uncover was the initial meeting Lowell had had with Anita over a month ago, and he’d have to wait until he got state-side to see Lowell to learn more. In the meantime, he needed to be cautious, but unnecessary paranoia served no purpose.
Anita walked over to the massive glass windows and stared out at the white sand and turquoise sea. Zachary set down the coffeepot and went over to the tea ser vice and poured her a cup, adding in some honey and lemon.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, causing her to turn. “I guess I’m not doing a very good job as your bodyguard . . . I let it get personal, and I have definitely lost perspective.” He came up to her and offered her the tea, which she slowly accepted.
“You’re trying to keep them from harming me, and got a tip . . . I’d say that was doing a good job . . . and for what it’s worth, I’ve definitely lost perspective, too.”
He shook his head. “No . . . I’m also supposed to guard your head— I assess the threat levels, make them go away, and keep you safe while you can continue to do what you’re used to doing.”
She took a delicate sip of tea but never took her eyes from his. “I’ve never had anyone guard my head . . . or ever want to. It feels good.” She rolled the warm teacup between her palms and then reached out and touched his face. “I bet you’ve never had anyone guard your head either.”
He stood very still, barely breathing, almost closing his eyes to the sensation of warmth that she’d sent through his cheek. “Never in my life,” he said in a hoarse murmur.
“Why don’t you go take a shower?”
They both stood together quietly, her hand on his cheek, the other balancing her cup of green tea. For a moment all he could do was swallow hard.
She inclined her head toward his duffel bag and suit bag on the floor. “It’s late, all the rest of the guards are in their rooms, catching some Zs . . . that’s what you’d be doing now, if the unfortunate incident hadn’t occurred.” Her fingers found the edge of his jaw and then traced his eyebrow. “You have to unwind and go to sleep, even if it’s on the couch . . . and get out of that suit you’ve been wearing for two days . . . and take off the gun.”
