Warrior Without Rules
Nancy Gideon
RULE #1: I'M IN CHARGEWorking in covert intelligence, Zach Russell knew that three basic rules could be the difference between life and death. There was no room for deviation–especially not the Antonia Castillo kind.RULE #2: WHERE YOU GO, I GOHe'd ignored his strict policy once–and the heiress had been kidnapped as a result. So why, after ten years, was he her bodyguard?RULE #3: NOTHING PERSONALAntonia was no longer a timid beauty–and her new no-holds-barred approach to life made their attraction sizzle. How many rules would Zach have to break to keep the headstrong temptress safe?
“Are you asking me to take you to bed?”
Controlling her frustration and embarrassment with obvious difficulty, she told him, “To bed, to the couch, to the shower, on the floor. I don’t care. Just take me away from this dark place I’m in. Unless there’s someone else.”
He was motionless for a long, agonizing moment. His features seemed set in stone.
“No.”
“No, what?” The raw hurting in her voice forced his answer.
“Hell.” He spoke the curse with a soft reverence, the words as gentle as the touch he brushed along the side of her cheek. “No one else.”
She closed her eyes on a sigh and turned her head slightly to press her lips against his palm.
And he was lost. Damn the rules.
Warrior Without Rules
Nancy Gideon
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NANCY GIDEON
Portage, Michigan, author Nancy Gideon’s writing career is as versatile as the romance market itself. Her books encompass genres from historicals and regencies to contemporaries and the paranormal. She’s a Romantic Times “Career Achievement in Historical Adventure” and HOLT Medallion winner and has been on the Top Ten Waldenbooks series bestseller list. When not working on her latest plot twist at 4:00 a.m. when her writing day starts or setting depositions at her full-time job as a legal assistant, she’s cheerleading her almost-independent sons’ interests in filmmaking and R/C flying, or following NASCAR and picking out color schemes for the work-in-progress restoration of their 1938 Plymouth Coupe with her husband. And there’s always time for a hot tub soak under the stars.
To my sister, Linda Dunn, for dragging me from Michigan’s cold winter to soak up the Ixtapa sun, and for Terry and Marsha for help devising outlandish plots, and Mike, with the romantic soul for having tattoos worth their own story.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Prologue
She couldn’t breathe.
The darkness was complete, shutting her away from the world. And from those who’d brought her to the damp, uncomfortable prison. How long? How long had she been in this void of sight, sound and sensation? When had she last heard movement above her?
Had they forgotten her? Had they left her here to die?
Daddy? Daddy, where are you? I want to go home.
Terror clawed up her throat to strangle in a soundless sob. Duct tape sealed out the air just as it sealed in her screams. She tried to grab for precious oxygen only to gag on the cloth they’d shoved into her mouth. Like a swimmer going under, she thrashed against the ropes, against the cloth, frantically, futilely. She was drowning in the darkness. Panic beat inside her as she struggled to escape but the harder she fought, the more desperate her situation became.
There’s plenty of air. Relax. Take it in slowly.
Gradually the fear subsided into a small whimper crouched in the back of her consciousness. She drew in thin streams of dank, life-giving oxygen through her nose.
He wouldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t leave her here to die. All she had to do was be strong and stay alive.
She took another weak breath and the fright retreated once more. But for how long? How long could she hold on to the fragile hope that rescue would come?
Tears dampened the rough cloth they’d taped across her eyes. She fought them back as fiercely as she fought the hands that snatched her into the panel truck…how many hours, days ago?
Remember. Try to remember. Remember everything so they can catch these criminals and her father could bring them to an ugly justice.
The truck was green. The logo on the sliding doors had been rubbed out, leaving a smear of faded undercoating. She’d paid it no more attention than any of the other vehicles that had passed by until it had slowed and the cargo door had slid open. One minute she’d been standing in line outside the trendy London club, moving with the techno beat, excited to be using her of-age ID for the first time, and the next she’d been jerked off her feet too quickly to cry out in alarm. She’d never seen their faces. Something rough had been pulled over her head. Her flailing hands and feet had quickly been bound. She had lain on the uncarpeted floor of the vehicle, smelling gas and soil and tasting her own fear.
How long had they driven? She couldn’t tell. Terror had robbed her of time and place and nearly of sanity. The roads had gone from smooth and straight to bumpy and full of twists and turns. And finally, they’d stopped. She’d had to pee. The pressure had built into an agony almost greater than her alarm. They’d sat her up, two sets of hard, hurtful hands. The sack had then been yanked off her head. As she’d blinked blindly against the sear of brightness, she’d heard the rasp of duct tape. She’d opened her mouth to scream for help, hoping there would be someone who might hear her?
Help me!
A wadding of cloth had choked back her plea. She’d bitten down, grabbing flesh and bone, grinding until the taste of blood had brought a savage satisfaction. A startled shout and a stunning dazzle of pain had burst inside her head ending that fleeting sense of victory.
The rest had been a blur. Her mouth and eyes had been taped shut, stifling her cries, stealing her sight, sending her into a emptiness so complete, an isolation so deep, it was like death. She’d been carried down, down. The temperature had dropped to a chill against her skin and after an hour or so it had seeped up from the dirt beneath her to permeate her very bones.
They’d left her.
For the longest time, she’d wept in soundless, nearly mindless anguish. Her fear had finally grabbed on to a narrow ledge of clear thought. Then anger.
How could they do this to her? Didn’t they know who her father was?
Of course they did. Why else would she be here?
She dragged herself up off the hard-packed earth to lean back against rough stones, quaking with cold. Even as thirst and hunger and desolation chiseled away at her composure, one truth still held them at bay.
They didn’t really know her father or they wouldn’t have dared take her.
She dozed in brief snatches. In the total blackness, sometimes it was hard to tell if she was awake or asleep. Sleep was better, providing a respite from her misery. The dull ache in her bladder became a merciless roar and finally, awfully, she stopped fighting against it. She wept again, stopping only when her body had no more fluids to spare. She could hear her father’s voice.
Crying about it never solved anything.
Daddy, help me! I won’t cry anymore.
The simple act of drawing a breath scratched along the raw lining of her throat. She could no longer swallow and the very real threat of choking on her gag kept her fighting for that tenuous hold on reality. Take slow, shallow breaths. Just enough to survive until her father came for her.
And when he did, they would be sorry.
She sat up away from the wall. Her cramped muscles shrieked in protest.
What was that?
She strained to catch the sound again.
There. Footsteps overhead. Friend or foe? Rescuer or executioner?
Whimpers pushed against the gag.
A door opened. Footsteps, one set, started down, coming for her. Slow, heavy steps. Not the hurried sound of liberation.
She pressed back against the cut of stone, her body jerking in uncontrolled spasms as she waited helplessly to learn her fate.
She heard breathing, almost as harsh as her own. Then pacing, agitated movements that kindled her own massing fear. A curse. Another. Guttural explosions of fury and frustration.
And then he spoke to her. None of them had spoken to her before.
“That son of a bitch. His own daughter. Can you believe he wouldn’t pay a penny to save his own kid?”
A terror like nothing before it rose in a wave. Powering the surging fright was a tidal force of truth. A truth too terrible to contain.
He wasn’t going to pay her ransom.
His money was worth more than her life.
Chapter 1
Alone figure moved down the hallway, slipping instinctively from shadow to shadow. He made no sound. It was late. Those in the old building slept contentedly, unaware of his passing. He might well have been a cloud drifting across the cool gleam of the moon.
He paused, glancing behind him. He would have to retrace his steps to make sure he hadn’t left a blood trail. Later. For the moment he had only one goal, one destination, and it consumed him.
The key turned smoothly in the lock, admitting him into the darkened room. The scent of furniture wax and fresh herbs almost disguised the overall impression of emptiness. No one was home. No one had been home for a long while.
He crossed the spacious living room without the benefit of light, heading with purpose toward the back of the large third floor apartment. He moved like smoke, like predawn fog, light, almost without substance, even as the toll of the past few months caught at him, threatening to drag him down. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Not yet.
He turned on one small light. It illuminated the mirror over a pedestal sink and the ghastly reflection it held, of hard features garishly detailed with traces of black and olive green paint. And smears of crimson. He wasted no time reacquainting himself with that grim mask. His attention turned to his right hand and the hasty wrap he’d bound about it. Slowly, he undid the saturated cloth and let it drop into the basin where it rapidly discolored the delicate porcelain. He moved his fingers, allowing a grimace. He’d need stitches.
Moving more gingerly now, with obvious difficulty, he undressed, letting his stale and stained garments remain where they hit the marble tiles. He’d pick them up later. Right now only one thing interested him. He reached to turn the water on full blast. When steam started to billow behind the circling curtain, he stepped over the high lip of the claw footed tub and into the merciless spray. A sigh escaped him.
He stood for countless seconds, letting the heat and force of the water beat the tension and achiness of abuse from his body as it washed the remaining face paint and blood—some of it his, some of it not—down the drain. Finally, because he knew if he didn’t move, he’d be sleeping on his feet, he reached for the fine milled French soap and began to scrub away the layers of jungle soil and sweat. The pleasure was indescribable. At last, when he felt close to human again, he rinsed off in an icy sluice.
Even though he was physically ready to collapse on his wonderfully forgiving Egyptian cotton sheets, he wasn’t finished yet. He had calls to make, a report to write. Mental miles to go before he could sleep. And then he would sleep for days.
Standing naked in the kind glow of the bathroom light, he carefully attended his wounded hand. After the biting sting of antiseptic, he stuck on a couple of butterfly adhesives to hold the edges of the gash together, applied a sterile pad and mummified the damage with gauze. Tomorrow it would hurt as if the teeth of hell were chewing on it but he was philosophical about the pain. Better his palm than his throat. He dry swallowed several pain killers, purposefully not meeting the eyes in the mirror.
It had been a bad past few months. He’d almost forgotten the delights of becoming civilized once again. He pulled on his silk pajama bottoms, enjoying the feel of them against his skin after wearing the same rough, filthy fatigues until they obtained enough personality of their own to demand a seat next to him on the aircraft home. Home, where civilization and the finer things of life awaited him. Where he would decompress and forget the past weeks as if they never happened. No one really wanted the details anyway, just the results. His success rate was nearly untarnished. Which was why his phone wouldn’t remain silent for long. He’d soak up as many pampering luxuries as he could before the next call would send him who knows where, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant or remotely civilized. Terrorists were bloody inconvenient that way.
Switching off the light, he padded barefooted back toward his front room via the kitchen, hauling his weariness behind him like Jacob Marley’s chains. Scrooge that he was, he’d managed to miss Christmas again. One of the calls he had to make was to his mother, who knew better than to expect him but did, anyway. She wouldn’t complain. She’d tell him he could make it up to her. She already held more markers than a loan shark. But she wouldn’t complain. She knew why he did what he did. Sometimes that made her graciousness all the harder to bear.
Lights from the surrounding city created a soft pallet of colors upon his parquet floor. He loved the view at night, when mankind slept and the solid, unchanging history of the place seemed to come alive. Maybe he’d just sit awhile and soak up the peaceful ambiance. Maybe—
His gaze narrowed and flashed about the dark front room even as he deftly snagged a thin-bladed boning knife. Without breaking his stride, he continued toward the living room, his step light and now lethal, his body becoming a coil of deadly force.
“Tough night?”
Recognizing the voice from the shadows, Zachary Russell let the air rush from his lungs in a puff of relief. “Tough decade.” He set the knife on the counter. “You took a chance popping up unexpected. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I know people who know people.”
Zach advanced into the cavernous room. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out the figure of his friend, Jack Chaney, seated in the deepest shadows near the window. That Jack had been inside his rooms without him sensing it was a testimony to his exhaustion. Of course, he could count the number of men on one hand with skills of his friend’s caliber. He was one of them.
“Come all the way from the States for some of my coffee, did you?” Zach asked.
“If you were making some. Just black. None of that steamed milk or fancy flavored stuff, Russ.”
“You Yanks are so plebeian in your tastes,” he said, quirking his lip at Jack’s nickname.
“We’re just simple folks.”
Zach switched on the light in his huge gourmet kitchen. It was the reason he kept the massively overpriced rooms he so seldom saw. He replaced the knife in the block and set about brewing a fresh grind of beans. The routine gestures and familiar smells were a salve to his battered soul.
It was always good to see Jack. They’d been best mates since his early days in British Intelligence. Jack was a straight shooter in their knife-in-the-back, cloak and dagger world. He’d secretly cheered when he heard of his friend’s retirement. Not many of them actually got the chance to walk away from what they did, from what they were. Jack had a marvelous little wife back in the Midwest, a toughly independent lawyer he’d met while protecting her life, and together they were reforging a future that, frankly, Zach envied. Together, they’d started their own business, an elite bodyguard training center called Personal Protection Professionals. Jack had presented a card to him with a flourish and an open invitation. Any time he wanted to pick up some freelance work. Zach had the card tacked up on his board and smiled whenever he looked at it. Good for you, Jacky Boy.
As good as it was to see Jack Chaney, he didn’t think for a moment that it was a social call. Jack wouldn’t have come across an ocean just to say he’d been in the neighborhood and thought he’d drop by. And after the brutal toll his last mission had taken, he wasn’t sure he was up for whatever Jack had in mind.
He carried the cups into the living room, knowing he’d soon find out.
“Coffee. Black and simple.”
“There’s nothing simple about anything you do, Russ.”
Taking that as a compliment, he settled into one of the lavishly padded chairs he preferred over the strictly Old World continental theme he retained for the rest of his rooms. This was where he came to relax, where he came to sink down deep and rest for a long, healing while. But Jack was here this time to disturb that process.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Occupational hazard. Perhaps I could impose on you to do some needlework for me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’d do it meself but I’m vain about having the seams even. It’s a bugger to do left handed.”
Jack nodded. “Whose blood were you wearing when you came in?”
“No one you know or would want to know.”
“You look like twenty miles of extremely bad road.”
“Forty, and I feel every kilometer.”
“Ready to retire and start that restaurant?”
“Giving it serious thought.” He grimaced, shifting his cup to his uninjured hand. “So, to what do I owe this visit?”
Bless him, Chaney was always one to cut to the chase.
“Victor Castillo.”
Zach straightened, all vestiges of weariness erased by that bit of the past he preferred not to dwell upon. Victor Castillo was his one professional blemish.
Castillo. A man one didn’t mess with. A harsh, uncompromising figure in the global marketplace. Born in a small, poverty-ridden Mexican village, he’d parlayed street smarts into a personal dynasty worth millions in the States where they tended to ignore the gray areas of his business dealings. He’d repaid the debt by passing sensitive information to whatever agency would benefit…and would pay the most. He had no allegiance, no conscience, no scruples. And he’d collected a rogue’s gallery of enemies who wanted revenge in the nastiest ways possible.
“And how is Victor?” He worked to keep his voice neutral but Jack saw right through him. His expression was half empathy, half regret.
“He sent me to call in a favor.”
Instead of slumbering in his own bed, Zach spent the early-morning hours napping on an international flight. It was first class but it wasn’t Egyptian cotton.
Chicago O’Hare was the expected press of humanity. Weary travelers shuffled from one terminal to the next, jumping out of the way for the beeping transport carts and nervously listening to warnings not to leave bags unattended. To Zach, it could have been any international airport in any city in any country. He’d spent so much time in the majority of them, he felt he’d earned a VIP spot at the baggage carousel.
As he stood scowling at the new scuff in the leather of his always packed bag, a hand reached down to take the handle.
“I’ll get that for you, Mr. Russell.”
He straightened, allowing the young Hispanic man to hoist his suitcase and garment bag.
“My name is Tomas. If you’ll follow me, sir, transportation is waiting.”
If the young man hadn’t turned away so quickly, Zach would have been warned by his small smile.
The Chicago chill cut to the bone as he stepped outside the terminal. But there was no cushy limo waiting in the passenger pick up area to carry him in style to the Castillo estate on Lake Shore Drive.
A late-model sedan sat parked on the far side of the multiple traffic lanes. The trunk lifted expectantly in answer to Tomas’s signal. As his driver started across the road ahead of him, the deep throated roar of a high-performance engine distracted Zach. He dodged back for the safety of the sidewalk as a motorcycle cut between him and Tomas. The young man never looked back, flinging the luggage into the trunk before starting around toward the driver’s door. Only then did he grin, a brief flash of brilliant amusement, before ducking into the vehicle.
The rev of the bike’s motor drew Zach’s attention from his rapidly disappearing wardrobe. He hadn’t even gotten the plate number. Swallowing down the indignity of falling such easy prey to an airport scam, he glared at the leather-clad rider who stood balancing the big growling machine between the spraddle of long, long legs.
Unforgettably gorgeous long legs skinned in black, tapering down to silver-tipped boots with three-inch heels.
The dark full-face visor was pushed up. Bold blue eyes regarded him with a challenging fierceness.
Ten years ago she’d been a vivaciously pretty seventeen-year-old and already modeling for her mother’s athletic wear company. Now Antonia Castillo was heart-stopping. The recent picture in the dossier he’d studied on the plane was from the latest running shoe campaign, depicting Antonia crouching low as she exploded from starting blocks on a cinder track. Her body was an inspiration to would-be wearers of the shoes, long, lean, strong and bronze. The skimpy swatches of silk she wore left sleek legs bare and clung to her stupendous breasts. The photographer caught the essence of competition in her intensely focused expression. Thick dark hair was twisted back in a heavy braid revealing the bold angles of her face glorified in a sheen of healthy sweat. Those startling blue eyes against a deep skin tone gleamed with the spirit of personal challenge. Full, lusty lips peeled back from white teeth bared in a high-energy smile. Hell, it made him want to buy shoes.
And then he’d remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her. Stripped of power, bereft of pride.
That was the face that haunted his nights.
Promise me. Promise me you won’t say anything.
There was no trace of that vulnerable girl in the assessing gaze that swept over him now.
“You’re looking well, Russell.”
“A sight for sore eyes?”
Those dazzling eyes narrowed. Her tone chilled. “Once, perhaps.”
Still, that greedy detailing had already told him.
Things were going to get complicated.
“Your father sent you alone to pick me up?”
The chin guard on the helmet hoisted an arrogant notch. “I pick up whom I please these days.”
“To the delight of the tabloids, I might add.”
“You’ve been keeping track of me.” It was hard to tell by her voice if that notion annoyed or flattered her.
“You’re hard to miss. Safaris, mountain climbing, sky diving, bunji jumping, a true media darling. A poster child for daredevils.”
And she made fine posters. He didn’t have a lot of time to keep up with current events, let alone the social swirl, but Antonia Castillo was news. She wasn’t found on the society pages at glittering events but rather in the pits at a race track, hanging with bikers or fight promoters, tossing back brews with the boys. One would never guess there were shadows hidden behind that brilliant smile. A courageous woman or one with something desperate to prove? It didn’t matter. Both were dangerous and made him nervous because of their unpredictability.
“I take on each day as if it was my last, Russell. You disapprove?”
“It’s your life.”
“Yes, it is, and I live it as I choose.” She flung that at him like a challenge, but he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t dare.
“Good for you, Ms. Castillo,” was his cool, distancing reply.
He couldn’t see her face, just those expressive eyes. They blazed hotly. With passionate feeling. Those kind of emotions, whether anger or insult or something more, were the last things he meant to inspire in either of them. But they were there, simmering now as they had then, just below the surface. Dangerous and unpredictable.
He’d been naive to think this would be just another job.
“Your father’s waiting for me. Should I start walking?”
His dismissing prompt dashed the heat from her stare. Her reply was equal in its disinterest. “Climb on. Or take a cab if you’re afraid the ride might be too much for you.”
He snagged the spare helmet off the sissy bar and drawled, “I can handle anything with wheels or estrogen.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. He could imagine her sassy smile. “Ummm. We’ll see.” She snapped down her visor and goosed the throttle impatiently.
Slipping on his sunglasses and the open fronted helmet, Zach swung a leg over the seat. Even as he touched the saddle, the bike lunged forward, forcing him to grab on or get thrown. With one hand clenched in the back of her jacket and the other working the helmet strap, Zach managed to find the foot pegs as Antonia Castillo slalomed between slower vehicles, leaning and weaving like a downhill racer.
He wasn’t dressed for a winter ride. His wool pea coat didn’t shed the cut of the wind the way her leathers did. His bare hands and face burned as they headed out into the open air of the freeway southbound toward the lakeshore. Behind dark glasses, his eyes watered and blurred. But even as he grimaced into the brunt of the elements, a part of him enjoyed the fierce whip of the February air and the freedom of flying down the road unencumbered by convictions. Antonia’s laughter filtered back to him as if she felt his exhilaration and mocked him because of it. With hands resting firm and wide spread atop the curve of her hips, Zach leaned back to appreciate the irony of the trip.
What was he doing here, on his way to meet with a man who’d tried to destroy him, with his hands enjoying the feel of a woman who, even when little more than a child, had turned him inside out?
His simple intentions were about to go straight to a chaotic hell.
Once they left the open highway for more sheltered suburban streets, neighborhoods went from large homes crowding the manicured boulevards to massive family compounds hidden behind high walls. He observed, not as a casual visitor, but as a potential protector, noting side streets, surveillance opportunities, and possible danger spots until they reached the Castillo’s residence.
The walls and iron gates were a newer addition, as were the video cameras. Nothing like being proven vulnerable to encourage an escalation in security. They idled outside the gates for less than eight seconds before the way parted, so obviously someone was on the job.
The house wasn’t visible from the street. A long drive made of brick and cobblestone wound through a thick stand of oaks and firs shielding the residence from view. Not a good scenario. It provided too many places for an undesirable to conceal himself. Zach liked wide open spaces. He liked to see an enemy coming.
And that’s how he felt as they took the final turn and he saw Victor Castillo, himself, standing on the front steps of his palatial kingdom.
The house was magnificent. Set on a bluff overlooking the slated waters of Lake Michigan, the sprawling three story stone and timber structure with its turrets, leaded glass and steeply pitched tiled roof reminded him of the estates that dotted the English North country. Though quaint in comparison to the true palaces of Europe, it made a statement of comfortable wealth and American arrogance. Much like its owner.
The last and only time he’d been here, he’d arrived in an unmarked panel truck with a cluster of other highly trained, highly motivated fellows. He went unnoticed, like the invisible working class meant to serve without intrusion. His job was to not garner individual attention from those in residence. This time, he’d been invited. So why was he wishing for that anonymity again?
He climbed off the back of the bike, moving cautiously until he was certain he had proper circulation in his legs. Antonia swung off and strode up and into the house without a word to him or her father. Why had she come to meet him herself if she was angry he was here? The number of questions piling up made him uneasy.
“Mr. Russell, you’re prompt.”
Unfastening the helmet straps with frozen fingers gave Zach an opportunity to observe his host. Castillo was a bit greyer at the temples, a bit thicker at the middle but he cut no less an impressive and inherently dangerous figure. He looked more like a drug lord thug than an international businessman. Or maybe that’s because Zach knew his history. Blunt workingman’s fingers tapped impatiently upon the weave of his Italian made slacks but Castillo was more than merely restless with the wait. Zach could sense his uncertainty and nervousness. Not much worried someone of Castillo’s stature, a man who had an entourage paid to fret over details for him. So that meant whatever reason he had for summoning someone for whom he had no respect was personal and threatening enough to want someone outside his organization. Why else would he be standing outside in the cold to greet the man he’d once tried to crush?
“I pride myself on punctuality. Shall we get to the point of your invitation?”
He saw it then, the intense dislike Castillo harbored for him. It passed briefly across his expression before he gestured to the front door.
Step into my parlor.
What was he up to?
The foyer of the Castillo estate was meant to impress with its massive scale. The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, revealing heavy beams and an impressive chandelier. The tiled floor, ornately carved woodwork and plastered walls all aspired to an Old World feel, but to Zach, who’d grown up steeped in that Old World tradition, the setting was like Castillo, an artificial facade of respectability imitating something it wasn’t.
What was impressive was the vista spread out before him. From the foyer, several steps led down into the living room and a wall of windows capped by fanciful stained glass designs. The breathtaking view of the lake was un-obstructed except for a sight even more amazing. The lithe, leather-clad figure of Antonia Castillo where she stood looking out upon that bleak winterscape. The four color photos hadn’t done her justice. As a connoisseur of fine things, he knew a masterpiece when he beheld one. And she was a work of art.
Her dark hair hung down in a heavy braid, leaving her chiseled profile unencumbered. Hers was a lush, savage beauty like the lake beyond, all strong facial angles, slanting cat’s eyes and those pillowy lips that pouted and provoked a man beyond reason. The leather glazed her long legs and fit her tight backside the way a man’s palms itched to. She’d taken off the jacket. Beneath it, she wore a snug white top with thin spaghetti straps. Atop her sleek, willowy build, the bold, gravity-defying fullness of her breasts within that thin stretch of cotton knit was another marvel to behold. When she turned toward him, her chin notched up and her shoulders back, thrusting out her chest with all the challenge of twin nuclear warheads. Fascinating yet deadly.
Of course, she meant for him to look. What man could help himself? So he did, staring at that awe-inspiring bounty with a cool detachment of someone in an art gallery.
“Antonia,” her father barked. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I meant to, Father.”
At least she was honest in her intentions.
“Put on something decent.”
“Why?” she challenged with a higher tip of her chin. “Mr. Russell is hardly a guest. And it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.”
“Antonia!” Red-faced, Castillo turned to Zach. “I apologize for my daughter. She has no manners.”
Zach remained carefully stoic. It wasn’t his job to teach them to her.
Castillo glared at the defiant young woman. His tone was soft and furious. “Go make yourself presentable then join us in the study.”
Realizing she had taken her point as far as she dared, Antonia pivoted on those high, high heels and swiftly stalked from the room.
“She forgets herself,” came Castillo’s almost weary apology. “She’s had no one to control her since her mother died.”
Zach waited impassively. Castillo wasn’t interested in any comment he might make on his domestic situation. Finally, when the older man continued to gaze distractedly through the doorway his daughter had taken, Zach cleared his throat.
“Why am I here? Jack Chaney said you asked for me specifically. Why? I wasn’t aware you held any particular fondness for me or my talents.”
Castillo’s stare cut through him like a surgeon’s blade. “I don’t. But unfortunately, my daughter does. She’s the reason you’re here. She seems to think you’re the only one who can keep her alive.”
Chapter 2
“There have been threats.”
“To the family or to the business?” Zach asked as he settled into a stiff brocaded chair on the opposite side of Castillo’s cluttered office desk. He noticed a photo of his wife and daughter, a nice black and white showing mother with preschool-aged child as well as a glamorous color portrait of Mercedes Castillo, but no recent picture of Antonia.
“Both.”
“Any particular reason?”
Castillo frowned, taking Zach’s nonchalant tone to mean there were so many, he could take his pick. “We’re in negotiations to move Aletta’s manufacturing and distribution plants to Mexico. The Union is trying to block the move, but what can they do?”
“Make threats?”
“Perhaps.”
“How many workers will lose their jobs?”
“Among the five plants, about seven thousand. But they’ll be given severance packages. It’s not as if they’re being thrown out onto the streets without warning.”
“That’s generous of you.”
Castillo’s expression tightened at the drawled sarcasm. “It’s business. It’s more than I’m required to do for them. I can’t expect someone like you to understand the economic difficulties of staying competitive in the United States. The only feasible way to continue at a profit is to move production below the border.”
“I’m sure the thought of a few million more a year for their summer homes motivated the board of directors to make that decision.”
“It is my decision, at least until tomorrow night.”
“And then?”
“And then,” intruded a low female voice, “it becomes Antonia’s.”
Zach rose to greet the stunning woman who entered. Dressed in a severely tailored suit, she was tall, voluptuous and cold as ice, from her chilly tone to her glacial stare. He recognized but couldn’t place her.
“Mr. Russell, do you remember Veta Chavez, Antonia’s companion?”
The term companion threw him for a moment, then he recalled. “Your father was in charge of security.”
“Yes. He’s retired. I’m in charge of Antonia now.”
He lifted a brow. “Not an enviable task.”
She rebuked him with a haughty sniff. “Toni and I have been best friends since we were children. She’s only difficult if she’s provoked. Since your name was mentioned she’s become increasingly difficult, so I must assume she finds you most provoking.”
Zach merely smiled as he pulled out a chair for her. She settled gracefully, like a female panther. “So what happens tomorrow?”
“Toni turns twenty-eight and inherits controlling interest in Aletta.”
“It was my wife’s company,” Castillo explained. “Her father established it, and she made it successful beyond his wildest expectations. She was an incredible businesswoman. I had hoped Antonia…” He let that sentiment drift off on a sigh. “The company is hers tomorrow whether she is ready to assume control or not. I still retain a substantial holding, so she won’t have full rein.”
“And you fear someone might try to intimidate your daughter into keeping her company here in the States.”
“That’s a bit simplistic, Mr. Russell. No one can bully my daughter. She is absolutely fearless except for the one small vulnerability I had hoped would never be discovered beyond those in this room.”
“But someone found out.”
“Exactly, and they’ve been terrorizing her,” Veta told him crisply. “She’ll deny it, of course, and it may be nothing. I’ve given every assurance that I can handle things.”
“But I won’t take that risk,” Castillo concluded. “I will not have my business jeopardized.”
Zach’s dislike for the man hardened into a disgust he could keep from his carefully schooled expression, but not from his wry comment. “And here I thought your concern was purely fatherly.”
“Aletta is family, Mr. Russell.”
Zach stood to offer Antonia Castillo his chair as she returned to the room. She’d changed from a liquid spill of leather to the soft, no less revealing drape of a sleeveless tunic over wide-leg pants of some fluid butter-colored material. Her braid was now secured to the back of her head in an elegant coronet and thin gold chains swung from her ears. The effect was as sensually feminine as the earlier had been in-your-face sexual. And he was not unaffected.
“What concerns Aletta impacts all of us,” she continued, dropping carelessly into his seat.
Zach remained standing, leaning back against a bank of wooden file cabinets with arms crossed casually across his chest.
“Contrary to my father’s opinion, I plan to do whatever necessary to assure its continued prosperity. I will not be swayed from that plan by someone playing cruel tricks in hopes that I’ll fall to pieces.”
“What kind of tricks?”
Though her features never lost their smooth hint of disdain, something flickered in her eyes.
“I can give you the details later if you decide to take the job. Or can I assume you already have since you’re here?” Her tone was resigned and annoyed, but something in those eyes beseeched him on an unspoken and perhaps an unconscious level.
“I’m here because Jack Chaney asked me to come. As a favor to him, I’ll listen to what you have to say, then I’ll decide. I don’t do civilian contract work as a rule.”
He could see that unsettled her. She thought he’d come because she and her father had demanded it. His priorities took her arrogance down a notch. And then he again caught a glimmer of that raw vulnerability, of the frightened girl she’d been ten years ago when he’d first thrown back that door. He refused to let himself soften to that memory. She was not that girl anymore. He’d done his job then, and they’d almost cut the legs out from under his career by way of gratitude. This time, he’d be more cautious in his approach.
“Tomorrow night, I celebrate my business coming of age. The next, I fly to Mexico to go over the contracts transferring Aletta’s production hub outside our borders. There’ll be meetings and publicity and media. And protesters. I need someone to protect me,” Antonia stated at last. How difficult that must have been for her.
“What you need is a team of about five men so that you’re covered 24/7. You need a coordinated effort that one man can’t provide. Surely, Chaney told you that. He has men available for that kind of thing.”
“We don’t want high-profile protection. We need discreet.” She paused, looking uncomfortable with her next admission. “We asked for you because you know my past, and there’ll be fewer explanations to be made. Mr. Chaney assured us that you were the very best available.”
“I haven’t said yet whether I was available. You haven’t specified exactly what you want me to do.”
“Become my shadow, and if needs be, a wall that will stand between me and any harm someone might think to do.”
He said it before her father could. “You’re very trusting, considering I failed you once before.”
He hadn’t expected her to take any responsibility for that and she didn’t.
“I see you as a man who takes failure very personally. I believe you’ll be motivated to make certain it never happens again.” She threw it down as a challenge, daring him to pick it up. Knowing he would. But on his terms.
“How very right you are there, Ms. Castillo, which is why, if I take this job, it will be with your explicit agreement to follow my rules.”
Her stunning blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Rules? My employees usually don’t get to make the rules.”
“This one does and if you fail to follow them to the letter, I will walk away without a second’s hesitation regardless of the situation. Understood?”
Oh, yes. He could see she understood, his insistence and his reasoning. And she wanted to fling his demands back in his face with a shove it up your arse. Because she didn’t, he began to see just how scared she really was.
“What are your rules?”
“Just three and they’re very simple. Even a child can follow them.” She bristled at that but said nothing. “Rule number one, I’m in charge. Everything concerning you goes through me and must be cleared by me.”
Veta spoke up. “Victor, I can’t allow that.”
But Castillo put up his hand to halt her objection, allowing Zach to continue.
“Everything,” he emphasized, his gaze never leaving Antonia’s. “Nothing happens without my knowledge and consent. Clear?”
“Crystal” she replied frigidly.
“No interference. Not from your father, not from Ms. Chavez, not even from the police.”
“Victor,” Veta protested more vehemently. “Surely you can’t agree to this nonsense.”
Zach held the icy blue glare of the woman seated below him and very clearly summarized, “There’s me and there’s God.” Jack had been fond of that particular saying, and Zach found it suitably dramatic to make his point. “You will only listen to me. And you will do exactly as I say. No questions, no arguments.”
She was having trouble swallowing that one down but she did so long enough to ask, “And Rule Two?”
“Rule Two, where you go, I go. No exceptions. To the hairdresser, to your girls’ night out, to your gynaecologist appointment. I’m right there.”
“And when I shower, will you scrub my back?”
He allowed a faint smile at that brittle retort. “If you like. Privacy will be strictly at my discretion. And I can be very discreet.” At that last assertion, he lowered his tone ever so slightly so she would catch the reference. She knew he could be and would be again.
“And Three?”
“Rule Three, nothing personal. This is strictly a business arrangement. I will not be played. I will not be drawn into your affairs, private, professional or otherwise. I won’t allow anything to distract me from my job, so don’t expect more than that.”
“Heaven forbid that you be distracted.” Her stare glittered like shards of glass.
“Those are the rules. No exceptions and no deviations. If you’ll follow them, I’ll keep you safe. Agreed?”
She stared up at him, pride warring with necessity. Each rule was a deeper intrusion, a sharper cut into her independence, a tighter rein of control into the intimate details of her life. But he hadn’t created the situation she found herself in. If she wanted his help, this time she’d do it his way.
“I will follow your rules,” she acquiesced at last. “No matter how overbearing and obnoxious I consider them to be.”
He did smile then, a wide appreciative grin. “You’re entitled to your opinion as long as I have your guarantee of cooperation.”
“Would you like it written in blood or would a handshake do?”
She put out her hand in a forthright gesture that took him off guard. This spirit of acceptance was not what he expected. He took her hand gingerly. Her handshake was firm, assertive but gentle, too, because of the binding across his palm. She glanced at the wrapping, her brow furrowing, but she didn’t ask questions. He liked that and the fact that with the confidence of her grip came the soft silken feel of her skin. And the moment he became aware of it, he pulled back.
Looking relieved that all had been concluded without verbal bloodshed, Castillo asked, “How much do you want?”
“To keep your daughter alive?” His jaw clenched tight to keep the rest unsaid. Would the son of a bitch come up with the cash this time or haggle for the best price?
“Name it. Whatever you want.”
Castillo’s money was the last thing Zach wanted. “Whatever Chaney charges is fine with me. He’ll see I’m remunerated.”
“I didn’t think you worked for Chaney.”
“You’ve just subcontracted my services through Personal Protection Professionals. They’ll send the bill. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had back-to-back transatlantic flights and would very much like to freshen up a bit before going over the particulars with Miss Castillo.”
Antonia rose immediately. “I’ll show you to your room. I’m sure Veta plans to launch quite an argument with my father once we’re out of earshot.”
Nodding to his host and the lovely Ms. Chavez, Zach followed Antonia into the hall, noting the Salome sway of fabric she put in motion with her brisk step. She walked like a prize fighter, with an arrogant strut, leading with her chin held high. And he found it more alluring than any practiced swivel.
“And will she win any points?”
Antonia glanced back at him. “Who?”
“Ms. Chavez.”
“No.” Sure, not smug. A woman who recognized her power but didn’t gloat about it. “What did you do to your hand?”
The shift in subjects had him off balance again. He didn’t like that, the feeling of having to catch himself to stop a fall. He’d always been that way around her. Just her. He made a quick note to widen his literal and his mental stance.
“Worried that it will handicap my efforts?”
Again, the curt, “No. Just curious. Or is that against the rules, too?”
“Just a cut. Nothing serious. How about you tell me how serious your trouble is?”
They’d reached the stairs, a massive column of heavily carved wood that rose up with two separate landings to an open rail above. The wall behind it was stained and leaded glass. He’d bet it was spectacular with the summer sun shining through it. But in the weak winter light there was barely enough illumination to see beyond the first turn of the deep red runner. He didn’t like it—the dark paneled halls, the shadowed stairs.
“It’s no secret that moving Aletta out of the country made a lot of influential people very angry. They’d be thrilled to see negotiations fall through—or at least be delayed if for some reason I was unable to competently handle them. A delay would give them more time to mount a legal defense or find attractive incentives to keep production in the States.”
What was attractive was the way the supple knit clung to her hips and buttocks as she mounted the steps ahead of him.
Rule Three, Russell. Rule Three.
“What have they done to discourage you?”
She paused on the landing as if to catch her breath then started up once more. “Just basic intimidation at first, you know, rocks through windows, delightfully graphic graffiti, a chicken nailed to the front door.”
“Of this house?” That shocked him. To get inside the perimeter implied a breach of security beyond the capabilities of a few disgruntled Union workers. It meant he was dealing with a professional. Or someone on the inside.
“That was about two months ago.”
She fell silent, prompting him to conclude, “But it got worse.”
“Do you know what a virtual kidnapping is?” She’d reached the hall and turned to face him. He stopped a few steps below and had to look up at her. Her features were taut as carved marble.
“It’s a con. The scammer gathers information on a victim, waits until they’re temporarily out of reach then calls their families to say their loved one has been snatched. If they’re good and quick, they can have the money before the family realizes they never had their loved one at all. It’s a nonviolent but emotionally brutal trick.” His expression stilled. “Someone called your father.”
“I was coming back from skiing in Colorado. I was involved in a minor car accident and missed my flight. Weather took out communications. Because of the holidays, there were no seats available on anything with wings. By the time I managed to charter a flight, they’d already made contact to say they had me. They demanded one point five million.”
“Did he pay?” His question sounded as soft as a prayer in the cavernous stairwell.
“He said he wouldn’t pay without proof that they had me.”
Mesmerized by the fierce intensity in her face, Zach held back his curse.
“They sent him a ring I’d been wearing. I’d lost it several nights earlier. I thought I’d misplaced it. He sent them two hundred and fifty thousand and told them he wouldn’t send a penny more. I arrived two days after the exchange. Imagine my surprise to find out what I’d missed.”
Yeah, the fact that her father treated her like the blue light special at a discount store.
“Coincidence, do you think?” he asked at last.
“The kidnapping? Perhaps. If someone knew the details of the first, they’d know there wasn’t a very good chance that they’d come out of it rich men.” Her tone was remarkably free of bitterness.
“Unless it wasn’t about the money.”
“What, then?”
“Terror. Simple, stark terror. The quickest way to bring an enemy to its knees is with the idea of what could happen.”
She had to be thinking about it. It had to be tearing at her, undercutting her sense of safety. For a moment, he was blind-sided by the memory of what he’d found in that room. But she betrayed none of that inner fright with her next bold words.
“My father’s knees won’t bend and neither will mine, not before empty threats and scare tactics.”
“And if they become more than that?”
“Keep them from becoming more than that, Russell. That’s why I hired you. My only rule—don’t let them get close. Don’t ever let them get close enough to touch me.”
The briefest tremor shook through her voice, just a ripple to disturb the smooth surface calm.
Before he gave thought to it, he started to reach out to take her hand, thinking to extend a reassuring press. But when she caught the movement toward her, she took a rapid step back to place herself out of range. He let his hand fall back to his side and sought to console her with his sincerity instead.
“They will not get by me. My word on it.”
She stood for a moment, gauging him for his ability to keep that solemn vow, strung tight as the piano wire that had nearly taken off his hand a few days earlier instead of his head. And gradually, she began to uncoil.
“Tomas put your bags on the third floor.”
“Is that where you sleep?”
“No. My room’s down there.” She gestured toward the right, but her stare was still locked into his.
“And where do you want me?”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “I’d have you sleeping inside my pajamas with me if it didn’t compromise Rule Three.”
Visuals, hot and embarrassingly graphic, ran wild through his imagination, but he managed a thin smile. “There’ll be none of that. What are your plans for the next two hours?”
“I’ve got a photographer waiting for me. We’re going to do some publicity stills.”
“And who else will be there?”
“About a dozen hair, wardrobe and makeup artists, not to mention lighting specialists, the assistant and the assistant to the assistant and Veta. Just a few close personal friends. I don’t leave home without them.”
“Don’t leave the house.”
“I won’t. Where will you be?”
“Unconscious for the next two hours. And then I’ll be on the job.”
Why hadn’t she told him the significance of the ring?
Toni sat in the styling chair letting her thoughts free flow as she made herself malleable to those whose job it was to make her into a priceless marketing tool. On the magazine page, at least, her value was immeasurable.
She glanced down at the unique twist of precious metals she wore on her little finger. Would he remember it? More important, would he understand the implication of someone else knowing what it symbolized?
She should have told him. It was foolish to keep secrets from the one man who knew the worst of them.
His word. He’d given it to her ten years ago and hadn’t broken it, not even at the risk of losing his job and his credibility. She would hold to his promise like a lifeline, for that’s what it was. The one fragile strand tethering her at the precipice of panic and indecision. She could cling to his word as the one certainty in the chaos her world had become.
She stared at the illusion they’d created in the mirror. Strong, vital, fearless, feminine, the epitome of woman power. A sham. A mask she wore to hide the frightened little girl inside. She wore her reputation as a wild child like armor, deflecting those who would get close while keeping herself safe and yet a prisoner inside. Zachary Russell had freed her ten years ago, but in many ways, she was still a hostage.
Resentment for the situation created a lump of anger and anxiety wedging solidly in her throat, refusing to go up or down. She loathed having to call him, to beg through his friend that he return. Because seeing him was a reminder of what she was constantly trying to overcome. The fact that it had been her fault. The fact that despite all she had done, she was still vulnerable. His presence, his rules, the way he looked at her were all unspoken reminders of what he knew, of what he’d seen. Having him here was her private heaven and hell. He was the only one who could strip off the mask she wore and leave her naked and exposed. And he was the only one who could make her feel safe enough to do the things that lay ahead. So forge ahead, she would. Business as usual.
“Any time you’re ready, Ms. Castillo.”
Under the hot lights and strict direction of her photographer, Toni lost herself in her work for the next two hours. She allowed herself to become a posable mannequin, for her mask to be manipulated so she became any woman they wanted her to be—strong and dynamic, feminine and free-spirited, an aggressive warrior pursuing victory at any cost. It was easy to pretend to be someone else when there was nothing else inside her. Until she glanced up to see him standing in the shadows and, momentarily, the pretense fell away.
“Hold that look, Toni. That’s perfect,” her photographer cooed. “Now, give me more. Work with it. You’re a woman yearning for something just out of reach. Let me see that longing. Let me feel it. Great, baby. That’s it.”
He’d changed into a pair of dark slacks and a cabled sweater, but there was nothing casual about his stance or his ever moving gaze. Ten years had passed and he still made her heart beat with a crazy, out-of-sync rhythm. She’d seen better looking men, men with the features of an Adonis who had feet of clay. It wasn’t about perfection. That wasn’t what made Zachary Russell so compelling.
To a critical eye, he was average in appearance, average height, average looks, nothing, at least outwardly, to set him apart. He wore his brown hair buzzed nearly to the scalp, perhaps in defiance of a receding hairline or maybe in indifference to it. His nose was crooked, his mouth too thin except when he unleashed an occasional and always surprisingly wide and white smile. He had nice eyes, intelligent, kind, she’d thought at first, and changeable the way hazel eyes had a tendency to be. And he had a jaw like granite, stubborn, often stubbled, squared and fitting a face on Mount Rushmore.
No, there was nothing spectacular about his features, just a pleasant arrangement that was not unappealing. What set Zachary Russell apart, what made her pulse skip and leap like a child’s game of hopscotch, was the total package.
The man reeked of charisma. He had a way, with his direct gaze, of conveying an intensity, a strength, a confidence that both overwhelmed and reassured. His silky, accented voice held just the right amount of authority backed with reasonableness. His body language was all bold, male assertiveness with nothing to prove, no one to impress. But by heaven, he impressed her. Right from the start.
Ten years had passed. Time had been both kind and cruel. He still wore the same sleek air of sophistication the way he donned his expensive wardrobe. Casually, comfortably. There was still compassion in his gaze but also a ruthlessness that could suppress other more forgiving emotions. There was now a harshness in the angles of his face, making him more formidable than magnetic. And scars, she’d noticed, beneath his right eye and on his chin. To match the one he’d have on his hand. He’d been a consummate professional ten years ago. Whatever had transpired in that interim decade had made him into a deadly and decisive force. She wondered a bit guiltily how much of that change had been her fault. Now he was a man of narrow smiles that never reached his eyes, one of strict rules and unforgiving principles. One who’d allow no harmless flirtations.
The camera whirled, happily capturing her wistful expression. That look stiffened when she noticed Veta sizing up her security competition. Her friend crossed over to Russell, her movements contrived to seduce and conquer. Many a man had made the mistake of underestimating Veta Chavez. They saw only the lush body and alluring features and not the steel of the woman within. Zach gave her a brief glance, but true to his word, refused to be distracted. They spoke, whether of the job or of the past, Toni could only guess. All she knew was when Veta’s red-tipped finger drew a line down the center of Zach’s chest to gain his attention, she was drawing a different sort of battle boundary, one Toni couldn’t cross. She could compete with her older companion in realms of business and social situations, but when the stakes took a turn toward the intimate, Toni was quick to cash in and back out.
“Toni, you lost it there.”
Sensitivity to her moods was what made Bryce Tavish extraordinary behind the lens. He was temperamental but a genius at the same time, and Toni enjoyed working with him. They were friends as well as business professionals. “Shall we take a quick break? Rufus, there’s enough glare off her skin to give me a sunburn.”
While one of the makeup people touched up a shiny spot on her forehead, another one of the assistants approached with a flat mailer envelope. Without a second thought, she took it and tore open the end. Anything to distract her from the cozy conversation going on back in the shadows. There was a garment inside the envelope. A pullover top made of an electric blue spandex. Something from advertising, perhaps. But the sleeve was torn and there were rust stains on it. With a puzzled frown, she began to examine it more closely. Somehow, it looked familiar, like something she might have worn. There was a piece of paper tucked inside the neck line. She unfolded it and with the block printed words upon it, all else crumpled.
WHERE’S THE MONEY?
A sudden suffocating tightness closed about her throat. Her hands convulsed about the bright stretchy fabric.
She had worn it.
Those weren’t rust stains.
She tried to draw a breath. The sound strangled in her chest. Over the engulfing roar in her ears she heard Zach Russell’s harsh command.
“Get the bloody hell out of my way.”
She tried to swallow and felt herself choke as if something was wedged in her airway. The package fell from her hands, the note fluttering from numbed fingers. An odor of dank earth and the sensation of cold preceded a swelling blackness so complete, she never felt Zach catch her on her way to the floor.
Chapter 3
Antonia Castillo sat on the windswept terrace oblivious to the outward temperature as she watched the white-capped waves below. The elements paralleled her mood, cold, agitated and forbidding. She didn’t turn at the sound of familiar footsteps approaching from behind. For a long moment, Veta stood at her side without speaking. Finally, she asked the expected.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure, fine, peachy. I need a cigarette.”
Veta passed over the contraband with a pack of matches and waited for Toni to struggle with the cutting wind to light it. After a deep draw, Toni stared in disgust at the shaky state of her hand. She wasn’t fine. Nowhere close.
“Do you want one of your pills?”
That was Veta. No time wasted on sympathy or sentiment. Right to the practical solution.
“No, I do not want a pill,” she snapped, denying the lure of that blanking peace of mind and spirit. “I need to be able to think. Where’s Russell?”
“Reading the staff the riot act, I believe. A little late for that now, don’t you think? Toni, we don’t need him here. We can handle this in house.”
That was her father talking. Don’t involve outsiders. Take out your own trash. Family business is family business. She took another drag on the cigarette, letting its harshness distract from the bitter taste of those edicts.
Her voice was low and strung with steel. “I need him here, Veta. I don’t expect you to understand or agree but I need to know that you’re with me, too.”
Veta was her strength. The role model she’d looked up to since she was a child, the savior who’d ended part of her nightmare with a single shot, the cooler head and constant support she’d needed to assume her mother’s place. She was more than an assistant, more than her security, more than a friend, more than her advisor. If Toni had pressed her to put a name to their relationship, she would say with typical brevity, family.
Veta bent to loop her arms about Toni’s shoulders in an uncharacteristic outward show of solidarity. The gesture wound about Toni’s heart with equal warmth. “You know I am. Just the way it’s always been. Whatever you want, Toni. I’ll play nice. It’s a big sandbox.”
That coaxed a smile. And released a huge pent-up load of anxiety. She was not alone. Toni patted her friend’s arm. “Thanks.”
“Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on Russell to make sure he’s doing his job. I can’t say that I’m impressed so far.”
Toni chuckled reluctantly. “Leave Russell to me. You watch my back.”
She straightened and stepped to an impersonal distance. “He’s all yours.”
From the sudden chill in Veta’s tone, Antonia guessed her companion’s nemesis had finished dressing down her entourage and was coming to lecture her on the facts of life as dictated by Zachary Russell. She took another puff from Veta’s imported cigarette and shot a fierce jet of smoke full steam ahead.
“So, what did you find out?” she demanded as Russell replaced Veta on her left.
He delivered the news in a flat monotone. “Prestamped and addressed from drop-off box downtown. No way to trace it. I’ll have it checked for fingerprints just in case our friend was careless.”
“He won’t be.”
Zach’s silence said he didn’t think so either. He didn’t ask how she was doing, coming even more quickly to the point than Veta. It would have been nice to know he cared.
“In the future, you accept nothing yourself. Not packages, not phone calls, not visitors. Everything goes through me.”
“Rule One.”
“Exactly. Your employees have been advised of that, as well.” A pause then right to the heart of it. “Tell me about the blouse.”
Toni sucked a deep gulp of frigid air to help maintain her calm front. “I was wearing it when I was kidnapped.”
His voice softened imperceptibly. “And the bloodstains on it?”
“Mine, I think.” She closed her eyes, mentally flinching as she recalled the harsh slap in the van and the coppery taste that filled her mouth.
“I’ll have it tested.” He put up his hand to ward off her protest. “No worries. Strictly off the records and low key. A favor from a friend.” Then his look grew more serious. “Who took it off you?”
“That’s a dead end. Literally.” She took another pull off the cigarette. The palsied tremor in her hand belied her cool summation.
“So, who would have kept it for ten years? And why? Where would it have been?”
“A souvenir? A trophy? I don’t know.” Frustration built in her tone as she considered the possibilities. “The other man was never caught. Maybe he was just biding his time until I came into money since he couldn’t get any from my father the first time around.” A patient premeditation. Where’s the money? Her worst nightmare come true. “If only I knew what he wanted.”
“You need to cancel tomorrow night’s party.”
Her reply was automatic. “No.”
“So many people coming and going and in the house makes you more vulnerable.”
She twisted in the chair to look up at him. He was staring out over the lake, his expression as inviting as those cold waters. “No. Hire more guards. Increase security. That’s your job. My job is business as usual. I will not hide from this man. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.”
But she was. And no matter how much bravado she flung up between them, he had to know it.
“We’ll compromise. Throw your shindig tomorrow but no press conferences, no public appearances thereafter. Low profile, just like you said. I can’t cover all bases if you’re the center of attention in a crowd.”
Her acceptance was purely practical. “All right.”
Zach squinted at her, doubting her sincerity. “No public PR things in Mexico, no opportunities for the bad guys to get close to you.”
She shivered slightly. “Deal.”
“In. Out. Back to business.”
When she lifted the cigarette for another pull, Zach intercepted the movement, plucking the half smoked filter tip from her hand. He took one last long draw from it himself before flicking it away.
“Those are bad for you.”
His bland pronouncement was the last straw for this already broken camel. “Bad for me? Having someone stalk and terrorize me is bad for me.”
“But you can’t control that. You can control what you choose to do to yourself. Like taking unnecessary risks with people who don’t really matter.”
“Thank you Dr. Freud. And I’ll thank you to remember your own Rule Three. My personal habits are none of your concern, Russell, so back the hell off.”
His level gaze never flickered. “They are if they make my job more difficult.”
“Deal with it.”
“My rules. My way.”
Their stares battled for supremacy, then she finally relented with a stiff “Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Good girl. Now, what’s on your plate for the rest of the day?”
With her thoughts and emotions so embroiled in the past, it was hard to focus on the hours of the day that remained. She took a deep breath to clear her mental slate. “About three hours worth of business calls. Nothing that you’d care to sit through.”
“Your agenda is my agenda. Don’t feel you have to entertain me.”
“That was nowhere near the top of my list of concerns.”
A faint smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You don’t have to hurt my feelings.”
Because she was thinking how seriously sexy that small smile made him, Toni’s reply cracked with irritation. “As if that could happen.”
His features settled back into their impassive lines.
Sighing with aggravation, she pushed up out of the chair. “Well, come on, then. Time to get back to work.”
And work she did. Tirelessly. Aggressively. With a level of determination and energy that exhausted him as he watched and said nothing.
She had an office on the second floor that capped one end of the house. Three sides were glass. Instead of conventional heavy wood, the furniture was a light, airy wicker and the cushions splashed with bold colors. He stretched out on a surprisingly comfortable chaise while she made her calls to everyone from distributors, trucking companies and printers to talk show hosts, sport and fashion magazine editors discussing the move, the new spring merchandise and her succession to the throne of power. With her calendar and Rolodex flipping, she set up appointments in L.A., New York, and Dallas in the upcoming months and, true to her word, canceled those in Mexico. She treated each individual with charm, respect and an underlying authority. She was very good at her job. Zach had to wonder why her father worried. The company was obviously in loving and capable hands.
Because the sight of her against the backdrop of the setting sun made a picture too achingly beautiful to behold for long, Zach closed his eyes, letting the crisp cadence of her voice become music to his weary soul. He stirred restlessly on the lounge, shifting to find a level of comfort that escaped him. His hand throbbed meanly. His eyes ached with the gritty burn of too little sleep but real slumber was a distant luxury he couldn’t afford. Instead, he eased into the twilight state that served him while in the field when the ability to hear an enemy coming was the only thing that kept him alive. Dozing lightly on the edge of awareness, he considered the puzzle of his situation.
Why had Castillo requested his return? The man had done everything within his considerable power to have Zach dismissed from his position. Dereliction of duty and gross incompetence. The shame of it still burned like the sting of Jack’s neat stitches. Ten years ago. He’d been so green. His first big assignment. And nearly his last. If it hadn’t been for the respect his superiors had held for his father, he might have ended up selling those shoes the lovely Ms. Castillo manufactured.
And yet Castillo had sought out Jack, asking him to use his connections to find him in whatever hell hole he’d buried himself for the sake of Queen and country. He wasn’t an easy man to find. He’d left above board intelligence work behind shortly after the fiasco with Antonia Castillo, sinking deeper and deeper into the covert mire until he was no longer sure which agency pulled the strings. But he never once wavered from his course. His were no longer the slick, debonair James Bond-type assignments, but he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty for a good cause. As long as that cause allowed him a measure of justice. He was realistic enough to know that was all he would ever get.
Jack’s offer of a job had taken him by surprise. Jack Chaney was one of the very few who understood Zach’s true motives and knew they had nothing to do with the Royals or the Union Jack or duty or politics. It was something much closer, more personal than that. He touched the diamond stud he wore in his earlobe, twisting it the way he did when he needed a reminder of why he lived on a dangerous razor’s edge for weeks, sometimes months, coming back to the only place he could vaguely call home to stay long enough to wash the grime and gore down the drain. Where he’d pretend for whatever hours that he could snatch away that he really was the urbane sophisticate his neighbors believed him to be. They’d never believe the truth. It was an illusion he protected zealously, a part of his heritage he couldn’t surrender.
He’d agreed to Jack’s request. The why was a complex issue. The easy answer, the one that would ride comfortably upon his conscience, was because Jack had asked him. There was precious little he wouldn’t do in the name of their rare friendship. But it wasn’t Jack. And it wasn’t whatever Victor Castillo might think he was owed. It was for the girl with the shell-shocked eyes and victimized body who now wore the mask of normalcy as well as he did.
And for her, he would put aside his own agenda, if only for a little while, if only to give ease to that trauma he’d witnessed, but she’d had to survive.
It was hard to concentrate with him in the room.
Toni’s glance touched upon his relaxed features. She knew he wasn’t sleeping. Behind the closed eyelids spun a busy mind, probably calculating the security avenues he’d have to take to put a lock down on the nightmare of tomorrow’s party. All business, all the time. That was Zach Russell. Even then.
The next number she needed to call was on the card before her, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking back.
She remembered the first time she’d seen him in the foyer below. He’d been young, mid-twenties, but already with such a foundation of control and potential. Polite, reserved yet capable of charming with a flash of that rare smile. He’d been so different from the other stoic automatons, she couldn’t help being drawn to him. They were there to escort father and daughter to a business meeting in London. She didn’t know what her father’s business there entailed. She never asked. She’d grown up surrounded by his secrets and his security in one form or another so she didn’t question the reasons why.
Glad for the distraction on what she considered a dreary trip, she insisted that the young and fiercely dedicated agent be assigned to her. She’d flirted with Russell mercilessly, determinedly, and though he retained a careful distance, he’d never made her feel foolish in her infatuation. He hadn’t encouraged her, but she hadn’t needed any. Despite what her father would later claim, he’d done nothing inappropriate. He just done…nothing. He hadn’t provoked her dangerous response to his horribly proper rebuff. It wasn’t his fault that he’d broken her heart, damn him and that stiff British civility.
“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 restaurants 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.
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