Alpha Bravo Seal
Carol Ericson
When members of her film crew start being killed off, documentarian Nicole Hastings is relieved to find the man following her is Slade Gallagher— a Navy SEAL sniper who once saved Nicole from Somali kidnappers. Now he's shadowing her to trap the terrorists behind the killings and find out just what they want.Nicole couldn't be more different from the women Slade usually fell for. But he quickly learns that there's a lot more to this socialite than he first thought. And as Slade’s admiration for her courage and resilience grows, so does his yearning. Protecting Nicole is an assignment, but can he let her go when it's all over?
Navy SEAL Protector
When members of her film crew start being killed off, documentarian Nicole Hastings is relieved to find the man following her is Slade Gallagher—a navy SEAL sniper who once saved Nicole from Somali kidnappers. Now he’s shadowing her to trap the terrorists behind the killings and find out just what they want.
Nicole couldn’t be more different from the women Slade usually falls for. But he quickly learns that there’s a lot more to this socialite than he first thought. And as Slade’s admiration for her courage and resilience grows, so does his yearning. Protecting Nicole is an assignment, but can he let her go when it’s all over?
Red, White and Built
“You do not have to carry me upstairs.”
Looking into Nicole’s green eyes, Slade narrowed his gaze. “Because you don’t want this?”
“Oh, I want whatever this is, but you don’t have to lug me up the staircase to get it.”
He chuckled. Yep, like no other high-maintenance society girl he’d ever met.
“No lugging required. You’re as light as a feather.”
“That may be, but I just survived a sniper’s bullet and an attack on the train. I’m not going to risk tumbling down the stairs, even if I do end up on top of a hot navy SEAL.”
“You don’t have to take a fall down the stairs to wind up on top of this navy SEAL.”
Alpha Bravo SEAL
Carol Ericson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CAROL ERICSON is a bestselling, award-winning author of more than forty books. She has an eerie fascination for true-crime stories, a love of film noir and a weakness for reality TV, all of which fuel her imagination to create her own tales of murder, mayhem and mystery. To find out more about Carol and her current projects, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com (http://www.carolericson.com/), “where romance flirts with danger.”
To Joanne, my trusty treasurer
Contents
Cover (#u5f6ae93c-6118-588e-bef8-a1b54681db40)
Back Cover Text (#u69aa7a2b-a987-59e3-970b-68e8497a50e7)
Introduction (#ud68dc6ba-7ea5-542b-be44-ae7350f0ac13)
Title Page (#u5be751af-bff0-50c6-ad5c-f24b906e361c)
About the Author (#uc1dd6a2a-10da-5d19-bdf0-5b52b564a929)
Dedication (#u825b9f04-be25-5fd8-89c5-087678aaaa87)
Prologue (#u29ae6f1d-1897-50b3-aed5-108819b12139)
Chapter One (#uba37d5e3-928b-5b90-9ea6-cacc104f1a6c)
Chapter Two (#u93a0e209-c1f8-5b2f-96a4-c0bb7cda8e6d)
Chapter Three (#u23e80159-da32-59fb-8c31-2ece114f0fd1)
Chapter Four (#ud58e1749-a71a-5b77-b75b-ff35efabf3e1)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u1a21a816-af7f-52e8-a208-eaf58e897ced)
Slade Gallagher sucked in a salty breath of air and got ready for the kill.
Oblivious to the sniper rifles pointed at their heads from the yacht bobbing on the water just over three hundred feet away from them, four Somali pirates held their hostages at gunpoint as they communicated their demands to the two men who’d boarded their rickety craft. The two were US Navy seamen, but the pirates didn’t know that—didn’t need to.
The relatively calm seas made tracking his target easy—and safe for the hostage.
Slade zeroed in on his target, his dark skin glistening in the sun, one skinny arm wrapped around the hostage’s throat, gun nestled beneath her ear. Slade’s focus shifted to the hostage, a young woman with light brown hair blowing across her face and a tall, thin body, taut and ready.
What the hell was a woman doing out here in the Gulf of Aden? The orders for this assignment had made clear that this rescue didn’t involve a cargo ship. This time the Somali pirates had captured a documentary film crew. Idiots.
Not that Slade couldn’t understand the thrill of risk taking, but he preferred risks that pitted him against a big wave or a cave on the ocean floor, not desperate men in desperate situations.
The negotiator waved his arm once and shifted his body to the right, giving the SEAL snipers their first signal and a clear view of all four pirates. Slade licked the salt from his lips and coiled his muscles. He adjusted the aim on his M107.
The snipers had to drop their targets at the same time—or risk the lives of the hostages. He tracked back to the pretty brunette, now scooping her hair into a ponytail with one hand and tilting her head away from her captor. Good girl.
Had the negotiators been able to hint to the hostages that a team of Navy SEAL snipers was on the boat drifting off their starboard and watching their every move? It didn’t matter. The men on deck would make their best assessment and the snipers would take action.
It wouldn’t be pretty. That tall drink of water would suffer some blood spatter—but at least it wouldn’t be her own. He’d make sure of that.
The other negotiator held both hands out in supplication, the final signal, and Slade set his timer to five seconds. He murmured along for the count. “Five, four, three, two...”
He took the shot. All four pirates jerked at once in a macabre dance and fell to the deck.
Slade inched his scope to the woman he’d just saved. She hadn’t fainted dead away, screamed or jumped up and down. She formed an X over her chest with her blood-spattered arms, looked down at the dead pirate and spit on his body.
Hauling back his sniper rifle, Slade shook his head.
That was one crazy chick—just his type.
Chapter One (#u1a21a816-af7f-52e8-a208-eaf58e897ced)
Eighteen months later
A sick feeling rose in Nicole’s gut as she skimmed the online article. The rumor was true. She hunched forward, reading aloud. “‘Freelance cameraman Lars Rasmussen was found dead of an apparent suicide in his parents’ home in the Hellerup district of Copenhagen.’”
She stopped reading and slumped in her chair. “No way.”
Lars, with his sunny smile and scruffy goatee, wasn’t even acquainted with the word depression.
Nicole grabbed her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts. Lars had picked his brother, Ove, as his emergency contact, and she’d kept all of those numbers. Maybe she’d had a premonition.
She squinted at the time on her computer screen, hoping Ove was an early riser. She tapped his number, which already contained the international calling code for Denmark, and placed the call.
He picked up after two rings. “Hej.”
“Hello. Is this Ove Rasmussen?”
“Yes. Who’s this, please?” He’d switched to English seamlessly.
“This is Nicole Hastings. I worked with your brother, Lars, on a couple of projects.”
“Of course, Nicole. My brother mentioned you often.”
“I heard the news about his death, and I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.” And to give you the third degree.
“Yes, yes. Thank you. It was a shock.”
“Was he? I mean, what...?” She closed her eyes and shoved a hand through her tangled hair. “What I mean to say is, I can’t believe Lars would take his own life.”
Ove drew in a sharp breath. “Yes, well, some girl trouble, a failed project.”
Ove didn’t know his brother very well if he thought a woman could send Lars over the edge, but she couldn’t argue with a bereaved family member.
She loosened her death grip on the phone. “I’m so sorry. He was a good guy and a helluva cameraman.”
“That’s how I know he must’ve been depressed.”
“How?” Her pulse ticked up a notch.
“When we...discovered his body, we couldn’t find any of his cameras in the house. He’d been staying with our parents after his last project, the one after the debacle in Somalia. He had been working on a local story about the Syrian refugees in Denmark.”
“His cameras? Why would he get rid of his cameras?”
Ove sighed across the miles. “I don’t know, Nicole. He mentioned you, though, a few weeks before he died. You were with him when you all got kidnapped in Somalia, right?”
“Yes.” Her pounding heart rattled her rib cage. “What did he say?”
“Just that he was sorry the film never got released, because he’d captured some amazing footage. He was thinking about contacting you about the project, reviving it, turning the film over to you.”
“He never did.” She tapped one fingernail on the edge of her laptop. “Did he happen to mention Giles Wentworth, too? He was another member of our film crew.”
“Giles. English guy, right?”
“That’s right.” Nicole held her breath.
“Not lately. I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”
“I was just wondering because... Giles passed away a few months ago.”
Ove spewed out a Danish word that sounded like an expletive. “Not suicide?”
“A car accident in Scotland.”
“That’s a shame. It would seem that story you were trying to capture in Somalia was bad luck.”
“It would seem so.” She bit her lip, toying with the phrasing of her next question. “D-did Lars—was he worried about anything before his death?”
“Just that woman.” He released a noisy breath. “I have to go to work now, Nicole. Thank you for calling.”
“Of course. My condolences again on your loss.”
“And, Nicole?”
“Yes?”
“It sounds like you need to be careful.”
When she ended the call, she folded her arms over her stomach, gripping her elbows. Ove had been referring to the coincidence of two of the film crew dying within months of each other, but Nicole wasn’t so sure it was a coincidence.
She pushed back from the desk and sauntered to the window overlooking the street below. Even at 2:00 a.m., taxis zipped to and fro, and the occasional pedestrian ambled along the sidewalk, two blocks up from Central Park.
Nicole caught her breath when she spied a figure under the green awning of the brownstone across the street, his pale face tilted toward her window. Twitching the drape, she stepped back and peered from the edge of its heavy folds.
She’d dimmed the lights in the apartment earlier, only the glow of her computer screen illuminating her workspace. Someone ten floors down wouldn’t be able to see her at the window.
Then why was her heart racing and her palms sweating? This was the first time she’d noticed a suspicious person outside her building, but not the first time in the past few months she’d felt watched, followed, spied upon.
Her fear had started, not just with news of Giles’s accident, but with his death along with her inability to reach Dahir, the Somali translator who’d been a part of their film crew. She still hadn’t located Dahir, and rumors swirling around Lars had sent her into a panic. Now that she’d confirmed Lars’s passing, a strange calm had settled about her shoulders like a heavy cape.
Four people on that film crew, four people held hostage by Somali pirates, four people rescued by the Navy SEALs, two of those people dead eighteen months later, one missing and...her. Was this just some bizarre twist of fate, claiming the lives of people who should’ve died a year and a half ago? That sort of stuff only happened in horror movies.
The man across the street made a move, and she peered into the darkness as he emerged from beneath the awning and loped down the sidewalk. Her eyes followed him until the night swallowed him whole at the end of the block.
She huffed out a breath and drew the drapes. She’d planned an extended stay in New York while her mother hit Europe for the fashion shows—starting with Paris in March and winding up with Rome in July. Maybe she should get a bodyguard.
Nicole turned and surveyed the office of the lavishly furnished Upper East Side apartment where her mother had lived for years. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford a 24/7 bodyguard.
A bodyguard for what? Who could possibly have it in for a documentary film crew that hadn’t even managed to release the movie about the underground feminist movement in Somalia? The women they’d met had reason to fear for their lives, but after the kidnapping their translator had gone into hiding and the rest of them had scattered, abandoning the project.
Nicole hadn’t even seen the footage Lars had shot—and it must’ve been good if he’d mentioned it to his brother. As talented as he was, Lars wasn’t one to puff out his chest.
She planted herself in front of her computer again, and her fingers flew across the keyboard in a desperate search for Dahir Musse. She’d lobbied to get Dahir out of Somalia after the kidnapping incident, but even her mother’s political connections hadn’t been able to get the job done.
If they had, would Dahir be alive today instead of missing in action? Or would he be just as dead as Giles and Lars? Just as dead as she might be?
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, heavy eyed and yawning, Nicole sucked down the rest of her smoothie and tossed the cup in the trash can on her way back to the counter.
Skye raised her eyebrows. “Ready for another?”
“Just a shot of wheatgrass. If I hope to get in even two miles today, I need a little energy.”
“You look tired. Late night at the clubs?”
“I wish.” She swept up the little paper cup Skye had placed before her and downed the foul-tasting liquid in one gulp. Then she crushed the cup in her hand. “See ya.”
Skye waved as Nicole pushed out the door of the shop. Leaning forward, she braced her foot on the side of the building to tie the loose laces of her running shoe. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye—a man walking on the sidewalk across the street.
She bent over farther but slid her gaze sideways to watch the tall, lean guy lope down the block—lope. He had a distinctive rangy, loose-limbed gait, one she’d seen in the wee hours of the morning across the street from her building.
Narrowing her eyes, she watched his back, the sun gleaming off his blond hair. Now that she’d confirmed Lars’s death, her paranoia was going into overdrive. The man hadn’t looked at her once, and he certainly wasn’t following her.
She straightened up and rolled back her shoulders. She needed that run more than ever, and the fresh greenery of the park beckoned. She launched forward with one last glance over her shoulder, then tripped to a stop.
He wasn’t following her because he was heading for her apartment. To lie in wait? To break in?
She abandoned her run and made a U-turn in the street. She didn’t want to confront the man, but two could play the stalking game. Veering to the left, she cut in one street ahead of her own. If she came into the building’s lobby through the back way, she might catch him trying to get through the front door. Leo, the doorman, might have something to say about that.
Nicole tightened her ponytail and turned down the alley that led to the back of her building. She might be way off here, but something about that man had seemed familiar. If he wasn’t hanging around trying to get into the building, she’d go for her run with a clear mind—at least as clear as it could be while worrying about the mysterious deaths of her colleagues.
When she got to the apartment, she pulled her key ring from the little pocket in the back of her running shirt and plucked out the building key.
She slid it into the lock and eased open the door. Flattening herself against the wall, she sidled along toward the mailboxes. If she peered around the corner of the hallway where the mailboxes stretched out in three rows, she’d have a clear view of the lobby and the front door.
She crept around the corner and jerked back, dropping her keys with a clatter.
The tall stranger, his gleaming hair covered with the hood of his sweatshirt, glanced up, the mail from her box clutched in his hands.
She should’ve turned and run away, but a whip of fury lashed her body and she lunged forward.
“What the hell are you doing going through my mail?”
Then her stalker did the most amazing thing.
A smile broke across his tanned face, and he lifted a pair of broad shoulders. “Guess you caught me red-handed, Nicole.”
Chapter Two (#u1a21a816-af7f-52e8-a208-eaf58e897ced)
The color drained from her face as fast as it had flared red in her cheeks. “Do I know you? And even if I do, I’m about two seconds from screaming bloody murder for the doorman and getting the cops out here.”
He believed her. A woman who would risk sailing the dangerous Gulf of Aden just to get a story wouldn’t fear some creeper in New York City—not that he was a creeper.
“Sorry about the mail.” He fanned out some bills and a few ads. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Good at what?” She inched past him and the row of mailboxes until she had one foot in the lobby.
“Skulking, I guess.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing, or am I going to call the NYPD?” She jabbed her cell phone into the space between them.
“You see? I suck at this.” He bundled her mail, which he hadn’t had a chance to look at, and held it out to her. “I’m Slade Gallagher, the US Navy SEAL sniper who saved your life eighteen months ago off the coast of Somalia.”
She blinked, licked her lips and edged closer to him. “Is this some kind of trick?”
Trick? What kind of trick would that be? He stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open with one hand, his other still gripping the mail she’d refused to take from him.
“Take it and look at the card behind my driver’s license. It’s my military ID. Hell, look at my driver’s license, too.”
She reached forward to take the wallet from him between two fingers, as if stealing something from a snake ready to strike.
“And if my ID isn’t good enough for you, I can tell you what you were wearing that day.” He closed his eyes as if picturing the scene all over again through his scope. “You had on army-green cargo pants, a loose red shirt and a khaki jacket, with a red scarf wrapped around your neck.”
His lids flew open, and Nicole was staring at him through wide green eyes. She might be surprised, but he’d pictured the woman on the boat—Nicole Hastings—many times over the past year and a half. Some nights he couldn’t get the picture of her out of his head.
“We never knew your names. The Navy wouldn’t tell us.” She traced a finger over his driver’s license picture behind the plastic, and his face tingled as if she’d brushed it. “But while we were in the infirmary getting checked out, we saw you walking toward the helicopter before you boarded it and left the boat. I do recognize you.”
Her sculpted eyebrows collided over her nose. “But what are you doing here? Why have you been following me?”
“Following you?” A pulse hummed in his throat. “I just got here two days ago.”
“Last night?”
“I was watching your building.” He shook his head. “Damn, you noticed me out there?”
“Yes. Why are you watching me?”
“I hadn’t planned on having this discussion with you so early, but it works out better for me if we do.” He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “Can we continue this conversation in your apartment?”
Her gaze shifted toward the lobby and back to his face.
“You can introduce me to the doorman and tell him we’re going up to your place. In fact, that’s the smart thing to do.”
She snapped his wallet closed and thrust it at him, and then spun on her heel. He followed her, still clutching the mail.
The doorman leaped into action and swung the door open for her before she reached it. “I didn’t see you come in, Nicole.”
“Came in through the back door.” She leveled a finger at Slade. “This is a...my friend. He’s coming up to my place, Leo, in case you see him wandering around the building.”
Leo tilted his head. “Okay. Nice to meet you. Any friend of the Hastings women has gotta be good people.”
Slade swept the hood from his head and held out his free hand. “Slade Gallagher.”
“Leo Veneto.”
Slade glanced at the tattoo on Leo’s forearm. “Marine?”
“Yes, sir. Tenth Marine regiment, artillery force. Served in the first Gulf War.”
Slade pumped his hand. “Hoorah.”
“Hoorah.” Leo gave Slade the once-over. “Navy, right?”
“You got it—SEAL sniper.”
“You boys saved our asses more than a few times.”
Nicole broke up the handshake and the mutual admiration. “We’re going to go up now.”
Leo grinned. “I’ll be right here.”
Slade followed her to the elevator where she stabbed the call button and turned to him suddenly. “I never knew Leo was in the Marines.”
“Has Semper Fi tattooed right on his arm.”
She finally snatched the mail from his hands as the doors of the elevator whisked open. “See anything interesting in my mail?”
“You didn’t give me a chance to go through all of it, but it looks like Harvard’s hitting you up for a donation.”
“They wouldn’t dare. I’m not even an alumna, and my father already funded a library for them.”
“So why’d you go to NYU instead of Harvard, where I’m sure they would’ve found a spot for you?”
“Film school.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s not all family connections, you know.”
“Doesn’t hurt.” He should know.
They rode up to the tenth floor in silence, but he could practically hear all the gears shifting in her head, forming questions. He didn’t blame her. He just didn’t know if he’d have any answers that would satisfy her—rather than scare the spit out of her.
The elevator jolted to a stop on the tenth floor, and he held the door as she stepped out. “No penthouse suite, huh?”
“My mom didn’t want to be too ostentatious.” Her lips twisted. “And I’m being serious.”
Still, there seemed to be just two apartments on this floor. The size and location of this place must’ve run her mother, Mimi Hastings, more than five mil.
Nicole swung open the door with a flourish and watched him out of the corner of her eye as she stepped aside.
His gaze swept from one side of the opulently furnished room to the other, taking in the gold brocade sofas, the marble tables, the blindingly white carpet, the curved staircase to another floor and the artwork he could guarantee was worth a fortune. “Impressive.”
“This is my mother’s place. I’m here watching the...”
Before she could finish the sentence, a ball of white fur shot out from somewhere in the back of the apartment and did a couple of somersaults before landing at Slade’s feet, paws scrabbling for purchase against the legs of his jeans.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s a dog, believe it or not, and I’m taking care of her for my mother.”
Slade crouched and tickled the excited Shih Tzu beneath the chin. “Hey, little guy.”
“It’s a girl, and her name is Chanel.”
“Let me guess.” He straightened up. “She has a diamond collar.”
“You pretty much have my mom all figured out.”
“Where is she, your mother?”
“Are we discussing my mother or why a Navy SEAL is spying on me in Manhattan?” She crossed her arms and tapped the toe of her running shoe.
He waved his arm at a deep-cushioned chair. “Can I sit down first? Maybe something to drink? This spying is tough business.”
Her lips formed a thin line, and for a minute he thought she was going to refuse. “All right.”
“Water is fine, and I’ll even get it myself if you show me the way.”
She crooked her finger. “Follow me, but no more stalling.”
Was that what he was doing? He had to admit, he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news—and he had bad news for Nicole Hastings.
The little dog jumped into the chair he was eyeing, so he followed Nicole’s swaying hips, the Lycra of her leggings hugging every gentle line of her body. She was thin, but curved in and out in all the right places.
As she passed a granite island in the center of the kitchen, she kicked the leg of a stool tucked beneath the counter. “Have a seat.”
She yanked open the door of the fridge. “I have water, sparkling water, iced tea, juice, soda, beer and a 2008 Didier Dagueneau sauvignon blanc—a very good year.”
Was she trying to show off, or did that stuff just roll from her lips naturally? “Sparkling water, please.”
She filled two glasses with ice and then set them down in the middle of the island. The bottle with a green and yellow label hissed as she twisted off its lid, and the liquid fizzed and bubbled when it hit the ice.
She shoved a glass toward him. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s get to the main event.”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“I didn’t think you’d be one to mess around, either, the way you dropped that pirate who had me at gunpoint.”
“This is different.” He took a sip of the water, the bubbles tickling his nose. “You know that Giles Wentworth died in a car accident last February?”
“Went off the road in Scotland.”
“A few weeks ago, Lars Rasmussen committed suicide—took an overdose of pills.”
“I know that.” She hunched over the counter, drilling him with her green eyes. “What I want to know is the location and general health of Dahir Musse.”
He took a bigger gulp of his drink than he’d intended, and it fizzed in his nose. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’ve already connected the dots.”
“I don’t know if I’ve connected any dots, but Giles has driven on some incredibly dangerous roads without getting one scratch on the car, and Lars was about the least depressed person I know. Girl trouble?” She snorted, her delicate nostrils flaring. “He had a woman in every port, literally.”
Had she been one of those women?
The thought had come out of left field, and Slade took a careful sip of his water. “So, you already have a suspicion the deaths of your friends weren’t coincidental.”
“It’s not just that.” She caught a drip of condensation on the outside of her glass with the tip of her finger and dragged it back to the rim. “You said you’ve been here in New York just a few days?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve had a feeling of being watched and followed for about two weeks now, ever since I heard rumors about Lars.”
“Anything concrete?”
“Until I caught you going through my mailbox? No.”
Heat crawled up his face to the roots of his hair. He’d tried to tell the brass he’d be no good at spying.
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here and why you were going through my mail.”
“Someone who monitors these things—our rescues, I mean—noticed the deaths. This guy raised a red flag because there was a hit stateside on another person our team had rescued—a doctor who’d helped us out in Pakistan. That proved to be related to terrorist activity in the region.”
She’d folded her hands around the glass, her white knuckles the only sign of tension. “You’re telling me that someone is after the four of us? Do you know where Dahir Musse is?”
“We don’t know where he is, and I can’t tell you for sure that someone is out to get your film crew, but I’m here to find out.”
“A Navy SEAL operating in the US? Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“Not exactly, but it is top secret. I’m not really here.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “I am sorry about the loss of your friends.”
“Thanks.” Her chest rose and fell as the corner of her mouth twitched. “Giles’s mother called to tell me about the accident. At the time, I figured it was just that—an accident. Then a few weeks ago, I started hearing rumors that Lars had killed himself. That’s about the time I started feeling watched. I put it down to paranoia at first, but the feelings got stronger. Then I verified Lars’s death last night with his brother and seriously freaked out, especially since I saw you lurking across the street at two in the morning.”
“Sorry about that. What were you doing up at two o’clock?”
“Working.”
“Did you ever release that documentary? I looked for it but never saw anything about the movie.”
Her eyes widened. “We never finished the film. We were all shaken up after the kidnapping and moved on to other projects—with other people.”
“The film was about Somali women, right?”
“About Somali women and the underground feminist movement there—dangerous stuff.”
He scratched the stubble on his chin. “That might be enough to get you killed.”
“Maybe, but why now? We never finished the film, never discussed finishing it. I never even got my hands on the footage.” She swirled her glass, and the ice tinkled against the side. “Are you here to figure out what’s going on?”
“I’m here to...make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“To me.”
“To you.”
“I have no idea why someone would be after us now. Why weren’t we killed in Somalia if someone wanted to stop the film?”
“Our team of snipers stopped that from happening.”
“Do you think that’s why the pirates kidnapped us? I thought they were going for ransom. That’s what they told us, anyway.”
“The pirates patrolling those waters are usually working for someone else. They could’ve been hired to stop you and then once they were successful decided to go rogue and trade you for ransom money instead.”
She waved her arms out to her sides. “We’re in the middle of New York City. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“As crazy as it sounds in the middle of some Scottish highland road or in some posh district of Copenhagen.”
“Do you have people looking for Dahir?”
“We do, but there’s also the possibility that Dahir is working with the other side.”
She landed a fist on the granite. “Never. I tried to get him and his family out of Somalia. His life wasn’t going to be worth much there after that rescue on the high seas. He’d become a target in Mogadishu even before Giles and Lars died.”
“Tell me more about your feelings of being followed. Do you have any proof? Any evidence?” He watched her over the edge of his glass as he drained it.
Her instincts had been right about him following her, so she could be onto something. She might be a pampered rich girl, but she’d spent time in some of the most dangerous places in the world—and had survived.
“No hard evidence—a man on the subway who seemed to be following me, a persistent guy at a club one night, a jogger who kept turning up on the same trails in the park.”
He studied her face with its high cheekbones, patrician nose and full lips and found it hard to believe she hadn’t experienced persistent guys in clubs before. “These were all different men?”
“All different. I can’t explain it. It’s a general creep factor. I know you think because I come from a privileged background I don’t have any street smarts, but I’ve been in some rough areas around the world. We do have to keep our wits about us or wind up in hot water.”
“I believe you. I looked you up online.” He wouldn’t tell her that he’d researched Nicole Hastings long before he’d gotten this unusual assignment. She might start feeling a general creep factor about him.
“Who sent you here? The Navy?”
“I’m reporting directly to my superior officer in the Navy, but it goes beyond that. I’m also reporting to someone from the intelligence community—someone named Ariel.”
“Why would the intelligence community be interested in a couple of documentary filmmakers getting into trouble with some Somali pirates?”
“I doubt a bunch of ragtag pirates have the reach and connections to commit two murders in Europe and make them look like accidents.”
“So, the CIA or the FBI or whoever thinks our situation is linked to something or someone else?”
“Could be.”
She tapped a manicured fingernail on his glass. “Do you want more water?”
“No, thanks.”
As she tipped a bit more in her own glass, she said, “What did you hope to find in my mail, anyway?”
“I’m not sure. I’m a sniper, not a spook. I was just checking out what I could.”
“And what did you discover other than a request from Harvard?” She moved out of the kitchen with the grace of a gazelle and swept the mail from a table where she’d dropped it.
Hunching forward on his stool, he said, “Nothing. I wasn’t lying when I told you I didn’t have a chance to look through it all.”
She returned, shuffling through the large stack of envelopes and mailers. “Bills, junk, junk, bills, postcard from my mom, who’s the only one I know who still sends them instead of texting pictures. More bills...”
Her face paled as she plucked an envelope from the fanned-out pieces of mail.
“What is it?”
“It’s a letter from Lars—from beyond the grave.”
Chapter Three (#u1a21a816-af7f-52e8-a208-eaf58e897ced)
Nicole held the thin envelope between two fingers, fear pulsing through every fiber of her being, her mouth suddenly dry.
Slade launched from his stool and hovered over her shoulder. “How do you know it’s from Lars? There’s no return address, and it definitely wasn’t sent from Denmark.”
“I’d recognize his chicken scratch anywhere.” She flicked the postmark with her fingernail. “New York, not Denmark.”
“Was he in the city?”
“Not that I know of, but then, I haven’t even been here a month.”
“Are you going to open it or stare at it for a while?”
He was practically breathing down her neck, so she took a few steps to her left. She ripped into the envelope, and a single sheet of white paper fluttered to the counter.
As Slade reached for it, she snatched it up and squinted at it. “His handwriting always was atrocious.”
“Do you want me to try?”
“It says—” she plastered the note against the granite and ran her finger beneath the squiggle of words “—‘I instructed my friend to mail this letter to you if anything happens to me.’”
She gasped and covered her mouth. “He knew.”
“Go on.” Slade rapped his knuckle on the counter next to the paper, clearly impatient for her to continue.
She wanted to read this in private, shed tears in her own way. But Slade was here to help. He’d saved her once, from a ramshackle boat in the Gulf of Aden, and she’d trust him in a heartbeat to do it again.
She took a deep breath and started reading. “‘It’s the film, Nic. Somebody wants that film we shot in Somalia. I gave it to my friend in New York and told him where to hide it, and I’m putting out the word that the footage was damaged during the hijacking of our boat. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. Maybe they’ll leave us alone. If nothing happens and you never get this note, I’ll put it down to paranoia and we’ll retrieve that footage and make a hell of a documentary. If I die, don’t look for it, and watch your back. Whatever happens, it was great working with you, Nic.’”
A spasm of pain crumpled her face, and one hot tear dripped from her eye, hitting the back of her hand and rolling off to create a splotch on the paper. “Oh, my God. He must’ve known someone was after him, too.”
“Who’s this friend?” With his middle finger, Slade slid Lars’s note toward his side of the counter. He studied the words on the page as if they could tell him more than what she’d just read.
“He didn’t mention the friend’s name.” She flipped the envelope back over and ran her thumb across the postmark again. “It was mailed two days ago, so his friend must’ve waited to send it, unless he just learned of Lars’s death.”
“Do you know Lars’s friends in New York?”
“I met a few of them, but just casually at a dinner once and then at a party in SoHo.”
“Was the party given by one of his friends?”
“I think it was, but this was a few years ago. These were people I didn’t know, so they must’ve been his friends.”
“We need to find this guy.” He smacked the note on the counter and drilled his knuckle into the middle of it.
“Maybe we shouldn’t.” She threaded her fingers in front of her and then couldn’t stop twisting them. “Maybe I should keep spreading the story that the footage was damaged and unusable.”
“Because that story worked so well for Lars?”
“If they hear it from both me and Lars and they didn’t find the film when they...killed Lars or Giles, maybe they’ll believe it this time.”
“If someone is looking for that footage, it must be important.”
“Important?” She pressed the sweating glass against her cheek, hoping the cold moisture would bring her out of this nightmare. “It was footage of interviews with Somali women discussing education and property rights. I understand how that might mean something to the men in Mogadishu and the towns and villages where these women live, but I can’t see those men traveling to Denmark or Scotland to carry out a hit to retrieve the footage.”
“It must be something else, something one of the women said. Lars and Giles were murdered for a specific reason, not just because a few men were upset about the women’s rights movement in Somalia.”
She turned her back on Lars’s note and put the bottled water back in the fridge. “I can’t imagine what our interview subjects could’ve said that would get us in trouble—or how anyone would even know what they said.”
“You conducted the interviews in private?”
“Of course we did. Those women were risking their lives talking to us.”
“Who arranged the meetings?”
“Dahir. He was our translator as well as our facilitator. I tried to get him out.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her tingling nose. “But the US government was uncooperative.”
“The Navy has a hard time resettling people who help us out. I’m sure it’s even more difficult for journalists to get their people out.” He picked up the note and waved it at her. “We need to find out who sent this note for Lars and get him to turn over the film.”
“I don’t have any contact info for his friends here.”
“What about that party? Do you remember where it was? Do you have any pictures? C’mon, people take pictures of their food. There must be something online. Social media sites?”
She snapped her fingers. “Lars was always filming at parties. It got pretty annoying, actually. He might’ve shared some video with me.”
“That’s a start.”
“Follow me.” She scooted past him out of the kitchen and crossed the living room to the small office she used when staying with Mom. Chanel woke up and trotted after them.
Leaning over the desk, Nicole shifted her mouse to wake up her computer and launched a social media site.
“How long ago was this party?” Slade crouched in front of the desk so the monitor was at his eye level.
“About two years ago, six months before we left for Somalia.” She scrolled through the pictures on the left-hand side of her page, hoping Slade wasn’t paying attention to all the pics of her and her exes—and she had a bunch. “Video, video.”
“Wow, someone could follow your whole life on here. You should be careful.”
The hair on the back of her neck quivered. Anyone would know she ran in Central Park, hung out with two of her best friends in Chelsea, visited a former professor at NYU. She’d opened up her life for any stranger to track her. It hadn’t seemed to matter...before.
Her heart skipped a beat. “Here! This is it.”
As Slade scooted in closer to the monitor, Nicole clicked on the video Lars had sent her of the party. She turned up the volume on her computer, and party sounds filtered from the speakers—voices, laughter, music, clinking glasses.
Slade poked at the screen. “That’s you. Giles is behind you, right?”
She nodded and sniffled when she saw Giles’s wife wrap her arms around him from behind. “That’s his wife, Mila.”
The camera shifted to three people crowded together on a love seat. “Do you know them? The man? Lars referred to his friend with a masculine pronoun, so we know it’s a guy.”
“He and the two women are Lars’s friends. He’s not the owner of the loft, though. That would be...” The camera swung wide, taking in two women and a man dancing and giggling with drinks in their hands. “This guy. Paul something. He’s Danish, also.”
“Paul something, Danish guy who lives in a loft in SoHo. We can start there.”
She ripped a piece of paper from a pad and grabbed a pen. “Paul, Dane, SoHo.”
“Shh.” He covered her writing hand with his. “Can you go back? Someone’s shouting out names.”
She clicked and dragged back the status bar on the video and released. In a singsong voice with slightly accented English, a man called out. “Go, Trudy, go, Teresa, go, Lundy.”
Closing her eyes, Nicole said, “That’s Lars.”
“I’m assuming those are the dancers. Is his name Paul or Lundy? Or is Lundy his last name?”
Her lids flew open. “It’s Lund. It’s Paul Lund. I remember now. He’s an artist, a photographer.”
Slade aimed the pen at her. “Write that down. What about the other guys? The guy on the sofa with the two women? The guy behind the bar?”
“I don’t remember, but if we listen to the sound we might be able to pick up more names.”
They kept so quiet, Nicole could hear Slade breathing beside her. She tilted her head to concentrate on the individual voices amid the chatter. She heard her own name several times, but that was natural.
Slade grabbed her wrist. “Davey. Did you hear that?”
She replayed the previous several seconds of the video and heard Lars’s voice. “Davey, Davey, make it strong.”
“You’re right. That could be Dave or David. Lars always had a nickname for everyone, and I think he’s talking to the guy pouring drinks.”
“Okay, so we have Lars, Giles, Paul Lund and Davey.” He took up the pen and scribbled the new name on the piece of paper. “There are two more men at the party—the black guy and the short one with the long hair. Do you remember them?”
“I don’t remember their names. The white guy has an English accent. Can you hear him? That’s not Giles.” She played more of the video for him.
“Guy with English accent.” Slade wrote it down. “And the other man?”
“The African-American could be an artist—sculptor, maybe. It was a very artsy bunch.” She made a noise in the back of her throat when the video ended. “That’s it.”
“I think we went from nothing to something pretty fast, and it should be easy to locate Paul Lund.”
“Then what?” She slumped in the chair and massaged the back of her neck.
“We’ll find out what Lars did with that film. You know—” he’d been crouching beside her all this time and now he stood up, rolling his broad shoulders forward and back “—we keep calling this film or footage, but what physical form does it take?”
“I’m not sure. Lars used a digital camera, so he could’ve copied it to any storage device. It’s not online, though, or he would’ve mentioned that.”
“Then it’s small enough to be hidden anywhere.” He gestured to the computer. “Can you find Paul Lund now?”
She scooched to the edge of her chair and flexed her fingers. A few keystrokes later, Paul Lund’s website filled the screen, displaying photos of nude people—in groups.
Slade whistled. “Interesting. That’s not what you all did at the party, is it?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “How could I forget he took pictures of naked people? Maybe he was doing something different two years ago.”
“Yeah, these are—unforgettable. Is there an address for a gallery or contact information?”
“It doesn’t look like he’s big enough for a whole gallery, but there’s an email address and telephone number at the bottom of the page.”
“Call him.”
“Me? What should I say? I haven’t seen him in two years.”
“Start with the truth. Ask him if he heard about Lars and see if he’ll talk to you.”
As she reached for the cell phone she’d brought with her into the office, Slade tapped her forearm. “Put it on speaker so I can hear, too.”
She entered the number in her phone and listened to it ring. She shrugged at Slade when Lund’s voice mail picked up.
“You’ve reached Paul Lund. Please leave a message with your name, number and photograph number that interests you.”
“Paul, this is Nicole Hastings. I’m a friend of Lars Rasmussen, and I wanted to talk to you about him. Please call me back as soon as possible.”
She left her number and ended the call. “I hope he’s in town.”
Slade jerked a thumb at a picture of several people holding hands in a circle—sans clothing. “I don’t think he needs to leave the city to find people willing to take their clothes off for art.”
“I suppose not.” She wrinkled her nose at the photo. “Should I contact you when he calls me back?”
“I’ll wait.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Here?”
“I’m staying at a hotel in Times Square. I’m not going all the way back there.”
“Should we—I mean, do you want something to eat? It’s after noon.”
“I can just run out and get something.”
Suddenly the thought of Slade Gallagher walking out that door and leaving her alone in this apartment gave her a jolt of terror. Someone had killed Giles, Lars and possibly Dahir. Was she next? Finding Lars’s footage and turning it over to this Navy SEAL might be the only thing to save her life.
Unless...the guys who killed her friends found the film first. Would they leave her alone then? What about the women she’d interviewed? If the film got into the wrong hands, those women could be murdered—or worse. Whether or not the people after that footage wanted it to ID the women or not, their exposure would just be an added benefit. She owed it to the women who’d trusted her with their stories to retrieve Lars’s film.
“How about it? Do you want me to get something for you, too?”
She glanced up at Slade, framed by the office door, Chanel wriggling in his arms. “We can eat here. My mom’s housekeeper, Jenny, thinks it’s her duty to keep the fridge stocked.”
“You sure?” He rubbed Chanel behind the ear. The dog immediately stopped squirming and got the most blissful look on her face. Slade must have some magic hands.
Nicole blinked. “Of course, but I don’t think Chanel’s going to ever leave you alone.”
“Not generally a little dog fan, but she’s won me over.”
“Looks like the feeling is mutual.” Nicole took a step toward the door, but her phone stopped her. She looked at the display. “It’s Paul.”
She tapped the phone to put it on speaker and answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Nicole Hastings?” He had a more pronounced accent than Lars’s, but not by much.
“Yes, Paul?”
“I got your message, and of course I’d heard about Lars. Damnedest thing. I had no idea he was suicidal. Did you? It wasn’t that whole pirate thing you went through, was it?”
She raised one eyebrow at Slade. “Absolutely not. I’m finding his suicide hard to believe. Had you talked to him recently?”
“No, but I do have something for you.”
“You do?” She placed a steadying hand over her heart. “What is it?”
“I’d rather show you. You’re in the city?”
“Yes.”
“Can you come by my studio this afternoon? It’s at my loft, where I had the party. Do you remember it?”
“I do, but not the address.”
Paul gave her the address of his loft studio, and they agreed to meet there in an hour.
When she ended the call, she cupped the phone in her hands. “That was easy. He’s just going to turn it over to me.”
“Let’s hope so, and then we have to figure out why it warranted the deaths of two, possibly three, people.” He set Chanel on the floor, and she promptly flopped over on her side.
Nicole walked up to the dog and nudged her paw with the toe of her sneaker. “You hypnotized her.”
“Yeah, we learn that in Navy SEAL training.”
She widened her eyes, and then pursed her lips. “Liar. We still have time for a quick bite to eat.”
“How far are you from SoHo?”
“It’s about a half hour in a taxi.” She plucked her neoprene running shirt from her chest. “I’m not changing. I never ran, anyway.”
“The guy takes pictures of naked people. I don’t think he’s going to care what you’re wearing.”
He hadn’t moved from the doorway, so she brushed past him and wished she hadn’t. She had to admit to herself that she’d been attracted to Slade from the minute she’d seen him pass by the door of the infirmary on that ship. She hadn’t told the guys at the time, but she’d had a feeling he’d been the SEAL sniper who’d rescued her.
They just would’ve laughed at her and accused her of falling for another adventure junkie. She’d had her share of mountain climbers, skydivers, big-wave surfers and even a Wall Street trader, but a Navy SEAL topped them all.
Once her pulse returned to normal, she called over her shoulder, “Sandwich?”
“Whatever’s easy. We need to head out of here soon.”
She slapped together a couple of sandwiches, and they finished them on the way to the lobby.
Leo jumped into action when he saw them. “Have a good one.”
“We will.” Nicole almost bounded to the taxi. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on that film and turn it over to the Navy or whoever would ultimately take control of it. Maybe they’d even return it to her one day so she could make that film and honor Lars and Giles.
The heavy traffic delayed them ten minutes, but Paul was waiting for them at his loft.
After introducing Slade as a friend and then shaking his hand, Paul gave her a long hug. “I can’t believe our Lars is gone.”
“Did he say anything to you when he left you the note for me and the footage?” She extricated herself from Paul’s bear hug.
He cocked his head to the side. “Footage? I just have the photos, Nicole.”
Her gaze darted to Slade and back to Paul. “Photos?”
“Of course. I thought you’d want them.” He crossed the large open room, his black-and-white photographs adorning the walls. He picked up a folder from a table and raised it in the air as he strolled back to her. “These.”
She flipped open the folder and bit down hard on her lip as she stared at a black-and-white photo of her and Lars, heads together, deep in conversation.
“I took those the night of the party, before we all got crazy.”
She shuffled through the remaining photos with a sharp pain piercing her heart. Hugging the pictures to her chest, she asked, “Was he in New York recently?”
“He was here a few months ago. Did you miss him, too?”
“I’ve been in the city for just about three weeks. Does that mean you didn’t see him when he was here?”
“I didn’t, and that makes me very sad, especially when I think I could’ve done something to help him.”
Slade stepped back from a collection of photos he’d been studying on the wall. “Do you know why he was in New York? Did he see any of your other friends?”
“Funding for his next project, I think.” Paul tugged on his earlobe, which had several piercings. “But he did visit Dave Pullman. You might remember him. He was at the party—dark curly hair, actor.”
“Davey. He was pouring the drinks.” A thrill ran up her spine, but she avoided looking at Slade to share her excitement. The less Paul knew about their mission, the better.
“Davey, yes. Lars and his nicknames.”
“Do you have Dave’s address and phone number?” As Paul raised his pale eyebrows at her, she stammered, “I—I have something I want to give to him, something I want to share. We didn’t have a chance to go to Lars’s funeral or a memorial for him, so it’s important for his friends to remember him.”
“Exactly why I wanted to give you those pictures.” He held up one finger. “One minute.”
He pivoted toward his desk, which must’ve doubled as his office, and scooped up his phone. He tapped it a few times and read off a phone number for Dave and an address on the Lower East Side. “I’m sure Dave will be happy to see you.”
“Thank you so much for the pictures, Paul.”
“Absolutely.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked her up and down and then turned his gaze to Slade. “Would you two be interested in doing some modeling for me?”
They both answered “no” at the same time.
Five minutes later, they stood on the sidewalk in front of Paul’s building. Nicole held out the folder of pictures to Slade. “Do you mind holding these while I call Dave? I don’t want them spilling out.”
“They’re good pictures. The guy has talent.”
“Not enough to entice you to pose for him?”
“Nope.”
A smile tugged on her lips as she selected Dave’s number from her contacts. She’d pay good money to see a nude black-and-white photo of Slade Gallagher.
The phone rang once on the other end and then rolled into a recording. She puckered her lips and puffed out a breath. “His number’s no longer in service.”
“Damn. I wonder if it has anything to do with Lars.”
“We still have his address. Should we pay him a visit?”
“We’re close, right?”
“We could walk, or it’s a ten-minute taxi ride as long as we don’t get snarled in traffic—and here’s one now.” She raised her hand at two oncoming taxis, and the second one swerved up to the curb.
Ten minutes later, the driver dumped them off at the end of Broome, where she told him to stop. “It’s easier to walk down this street.”
They found Dave’s building, an old brick structure squeezed between a bakery and a taco shop. Nicole placed one foot on the first step and gripped the iron railing. “If he’s not there, should we wait?”
“You can leave him a note. Maybe the bakery has some paper or a napkin to write on, but give it a try.”
With Slade close behind her, she stepped up on the porch and reached for the bell. Before she could press it, the door swung open and a dark-haired man carrying a bicycle on his shoulder squeezed by them.
Slade reached past her to catch the door before it closed, but something about the man’s hair had her jerking her head to the side.
He’d set the bike on the sidewalk, and his eyes met hers with a flicker of recognition.
“Dave? Davey?” She descended the step and moved beside him. “I’m Nicole...”
She didn’t get a chance to finish, because Davey Pullman threw his bike at her and took off running down the street.
Chapter Four (#u1a21a816-af7f-52e8-a208-eaf58e897ced)
Nicole stumbled backward and landed awkwardly on the bottom step at Slade’s feet with a bike on top of her.
“Are you all right?” He crouched beside her, lifting the bike from her legs.
She flailed at his arms as he tried to help her up. “Go after him. That’s Dave!”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“It’s a bike, Slade. Don’t let Dave get away.”
Slade jumped to his feet, shoved the folder of pictures into Nicole’s arms and launched down the sidewalk after the man running in the direction of the Williamsburg Bridge. Could he run across the bridge?
Dave seemed to be slowing down and probably didn’t realize he had company on his jog. Then he cranked his head over his shoulder, and his mouth dropped open. He swung back around and almost ran into the path of a taxi, whose driver laid on his horn.
Slade pumped his legs harder and caught up to Dave just as he started to enter a park. He didn’t want to hurt the guy, but he had shoved Nicole to the ground with a bike. He had to pay for that.
Slade ground his back teeth and took a flying leap at Dave. The smaller man’s body folded beneath his as Slade smashed him face-first into the grass.
Panting, Slade rolled off him, keeping a knee pressed to Dave’s midsection. “Why are you running? Nicole just wants to talk to you.”
Dave grunted, and a few seconds later his eyes bulged from their sockets.
Slade eased up on the pressure he was applying to the man’s stomach, but his knee beneath Dave’s rib cage was not the reason for his bug eyes.
Nicole rolled up beside them on Dave’s bike. She flicked the bell once before hopping off. “What is your problem?”
Dave finally found his voice. “I’m sorry I pushed you, but I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to be seen with you. I don’t know anything.”
Slade rested on his haunches next to Dave, still huffing and puffing on the ground. “Obviously you know something, or you wouldn’t have taken off like that.”
“And now we’re talking very publicly when we could’ve been having a nice conversation at your place.” Nicole waved her arms to take in the park. “Did Lars give you the Somalia footage or not?”
“I wouldn’t take it from him. If he wanted to gallivant all over the world getting himself in trouble, that’s his business, but I didn’t want any part of it.”
“Why did you think taking the film from him would be trouble for you?” Slade asked.
“Are you kidding?” Dave struggled to a sitting position and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of his pants. “Do you mind?”
Slade shrugged, and Nicole shook her head and said, “That’s why you can’t run very fast.”
Dave shook out the crushed package and retrieved a book of matches from his other pocket. He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. “Lars stopped by my place with a crazy story about someone being after him. He suspected it had something to do with the film he’d shot in Somalia, because someone had broken into a place he’d been staying with a woman in San Francisco and stolen some film he had there, but the Somalia stuff wasn’t there.”
“Why did he connect that break-in to Somalia?” Nicole swung her leg over the bike and propped it against a park bench.
“He’d just heard about Giles, and after the theft in San Francisco, he felt like he was being followed.”
Slade glanced at Nicole. She’d had the same feelings.
“Did you see the film Lars was trying to give you?” Slade held his breath as Dave released another stream of smoke into the air between puckered lips.
“You mean the actual footage?”
“No. The physical thing—was it on a disc or what?”
“A little disc, like this.” Dave held his thumb and index finger about two inches apart.
“Did you send his letter to me?”
Nicole had perched on the edge of the bench and clasped her hands between her knees. She had a bloody scrape on her right wrist from Dave’s bike, and a flare of anger surfaced in Slade’s chest. The guy was a coward in more ways than one.
Dave took a long drag from his cigarette and emitted words and smoke at the same time. “I wouldn’t take any of it. He wanted me to hide the disc and send the letter to you if anything happened to him.”
“Do you know who sent the letter for him? Because I got it today.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. When I heard Lars offed himself, I was damned glad I refused to help him. Lars kill himself? You ever hear of anything more ludicrous?” Dave shook his head and crushed out his smoke. “They really were out to get him and that footage. If you’re smart, you’ll leave it alone.”
“I can’t. Someone’s after me, too.”
Dave’s head jerked up, and he pushed to his feet. “What is it with you people? Why go looking for trouble when it finds you, anyway?”
“Well, now I’m in it, and this guy—” she aimed her finger at Slade “—is going to help me get out of it.”
Was that what she thought? The pressure was really on, especially since this was an assignment way out of his comfort zone.
Slade rose to his feet and planted himself in front of Dave, in case he got any more ideas about taking off. “Who else did Lars see when he was in the city? Who else was here? We already know Paul Lund was out of town.”
“Is that how you found me? Paul?”
“I was looking at video from that party at Paul’s place almost two years ago. Were those all of Lars’s New York friends? Are they still here? Were they here when Lars was in the city?”
“There are probably only two people from that party Lars would’ve contacted besides me—Andre Vincent and Trudy Waxman.”
Nicole sprang to her feet and pulled her phone from the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Do you have their contact info?”
“I don’t, but Andre’s a sculptor. You should be able to find him, and Trudy’s an actress. She’s in some off-off-Broadway play right now. It’s at the Gym at Judson, that church in Greenwich Village.” Dave grabbed the handlebars of his bike and plucked out the folder Nicole had stashed in his basket and dropped it on the bench beside her. “Can I go now? That’s all I know about it.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Nicole pocketed her phone. “I don’t know why you had to run like that.”
“Because I’m scared.” Dave pushed his bike and put one foot on a pedal. Rolling forward, he turned and looked over his shoulder. “And if you were smart, you’d be scared, too.”
As he rode off, Nicole plopped down on the bench again, rubbing her elbow. “Lars did a number on Dave. If he hadn’t freaked him out so much, he would’ve been able to leave the film with him.”
Slade crouched before her and took her hands. “You’re injured. Does your elbow hurt, too?”
“A little.” She rolled her wrist outward. “I didn’t even notice that blood before.”
“Let’s get you back to your place and clean that up.”
Tilting her head back, she cupped one hand over her eyes, shading them from the sun. “How’d you bring Dave down? Didn’t anyone interfere?”
“I tackled him. There weren’t that many people around. For all I know, they thought I was chasing down someone who’d lifted my wallet.” He tugged a strand of her hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “And you riding in on that bike like the cavalry.”
A big grin claimed her face, and he felt like a hundred suns had just come out. Nicole had those supermodel good looks, but with a bloody smudge on her arm, her messy ponytail and all those gleaming white teeth, she looked like a happy-go-lucky girl next door—a really hot girl next door.
“That was pretty cool, wasn’t it?” She launched herself from the bench, practically knocking him over. “Now we need to track down Andre and Trudy.”
“We’ll need a computer for that, and you still need to get that cut cleaned up.”
They took another taxi back to the apartment, and Chanel proceeded to paw Slade’s ankles. “Does this dog ever get out?”
“My mom has a dog walker.” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t ask. She comes by every morning to feed and walk Chanel and then returns at dusk.”
“That’s not one of your duties when you stay here?”
“My mother doesn’t trust me to walk Chanel. She doesn’t trust me with a lot of things.”
“Really? You seem pretty competent to me.”
“For chasing down guys on bikes, but not domestic things.”
He preferred women who could chase down guys on bikes to those who excelled at the domestic arts. Pointing to the door off the living room that led to her small office, he asked, “How about I look up Andre and Trudy while you wash and dress that scrape?”
“I’m going to take a shower and change. Is that okay?” Tucking the folder containing Lund’s photographs beneath her arm, she crossed the room to the office. “I’ll get you logged in. A sculptor and an actress—I told you Lars hung with an artsy crowd.”
“So your mom doesn’t trust you to walk the dog?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Back to that?”
“I just can’t imagine someone not trusting you to follow through. You seem incredibly capable.”
“Capable in the wrong way.” She bumped the office door open with her hip. “According to Mom.”
“Traveling to exotic and dangerous countries to expose important stories to the light of day isn’t the right way?”
She powered up her computer and entered a password. “Ah, my mother would rather have me here heading up a multitude of charitable organizations she founded with my father’s money. It’s not an unworthy endeavor—just not me.”
He pulled up a chair in front of the monitor coming to life. They had more in common than he would’ve thought. “I get that.”
“Not many people do.” She stepped back, tipping her head at the computer. “It’s all yours. I’m beginning to think even if we find their phone numbers, we’d be better off coming at these people with the element of surprise.”
“I think you’re right.” He tapped her arm above the dried blood of the cut. “You take care of that, and I’ll find our friends.”
“I won’t be long.” She swept out of the office with a flick of her fingers.
He murmured, “Capable,” at her back and then turned his attention to the computer. It didn’t take him long to find Andre Vincent. The sculptor’s work was being featured in a series of modern art exhibits around the city, with each artist rotating among the galleries.
Slade peeled a sticky note from a pad of them and jotted down the name and address of the gallery where Andre would be visiting tonight.
Trudy Waxman was almost as easy to locate. He looked up the Gym at Judson, which had a play listed on the calendar of events for tonight. When he clicked on the cast of characters, her name popped up.
Again, he reached for a sticky note and wrote down the name and address of the theater and the play times.
A gallery and a play—he hadn’t crammed this much culture into one evening since he’d been back in San Francisco and his parents had dragged him to the opera and a fund-raiser with ballet dancers after. His eye twitched at the recollection.
“Any luck?” Nicole poked her head into the office.
She’d freed her hair from its ponytail, and the strands slid over one shoulder like a smooth ribbon of caramel.
“All kinds of luck.” He gestured her into the room. “Found both of them.”
She sauntered into the office and leaned over his shoulder to peer at the monitor, engulfing him in a fresh scent that reminded him of newly mowed lawns.
She snorted softly. “Glinda Fox Gets High? That’s the name of the play?”
“That’s it, and Trudy doesn’t even play Glinda.”
“I said Lars’s friends were artists. I didn’t say they were particularly good ones.”
“Andre’s stuff doesn’t look half-bad, if you like lumps of stone with faces poking out of it.”
“Ugh. Sounds hideous. Where do we find these lumpen treasures?”
He stuck one of the notes to his fingertip and waved it at her. “It just so happens that some of his work is going to be on exhibit at Satchel’s Gallery in Chelsea, and the artist is going to be in attendance. It’s part of some revolving show for artists.”
“If we go there, are we going to have time to catch Glinda getting high?”
“According to my schedule—” he attached the second note to another finger and held them both up “—we can stop in at the gallery at seven o’clock and still have time to see the play at eight, depending on what we find out from Andre.”
“Maybe after talking to Andre, we won’t need to sit through the play.” Nicole wrinkled her nose. “We don’t really have to sit through the play, do we? We can just meet her after.”
“Do you have anything better to do?” His gaze swept from her bare feet with painted toes to her glossy hair, noting along the way her jeans encasing her long legs, topped off with a plain black T-shirt. She looked stylish without even trying.
“Nope, but I’d like to eat some dinner before we check out that art show.”
“I need to change, anyway.” He tugged on the hem of his sweatshirt. “How about we head back to my hotel in Times Square, grab a bite somewhere near there and then go to Andre’s show?”
“Works for me.”
He walked the chair back from the desk. “Do you want to shut down your computer?”
“That’s okay. It’ll go to sleep and log me out in about ten minutes. Let me put on my shoes, and I’ll be ready.”
He followed her from the office and flicked off the light on their way out. She’d already brought a pair of shoes and a jacket downstairs and she slid her feet into a pair of animal-print high heels that put her almost at his height, with no self-consciousness at all.
Nicole reminded him a lot of the young, wealthy women who populated his parents’ circles in California—confident, self-assured and accustomed to their privilege—the type of woman he usually steered clear of.
But none of the rich girls he knew would step one foot in Somalia, or any other part of Africa, or Central America, or any of the other places Nicole had been to tell a story.
She slipped into the slim black blazer that skimmed the top of her hips and ducked beneath the strap of a small black purse that hung across her body.
“All set.”
Leo was off duty, so the doorman with the second shift called a taxi for them, and Slade gave him the name of his hotel. When they got out of the taxi and made their way through the revolving door, Nicole turned to him.
“I’ll just wait for you down here at the bar. Take your time.”
“I won’t be long.” He strode toward the bank of elevators with disappointment stabbing his gut. Had he seemed too anxious to get her alone in his hotel room? He punched the button to call the car.
She had the right idea. They’d just met this morning—hardly enough time to be showering and changing in each other’s presence. At her mother’s place, a massive staircase and several rooms had been between them when Nicole had changed. He hadn’t even heard the shower. Yeah, way too intimate too quickly.
Even though he had saved her life.
He raced through the shower and mimicked her outfit with dark jeans, a black T-shirt and black motorcycle boots. He grabbed a black leather jacket on his way out of the room.
When he spotted her in the lobby bar, she was chatting with the bartender over a glass of red wine. She had one of those personalities that got people talking—necessary in her line of work, completely unnecessary in his.
He started forward, navigating through the small tables, already beginning to fill up for happy hour. He perched on the stool next to hers and tapped her wineglass. “Do you want to finish that before we find dinner?”
“I could if you’ll join me.” She drew her brows over her nose in a V. “That is if you can join me. Are you on duty or something?”
“I’m not a cop.” He nodded to the bartender, who rushed over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
She swirled the ruby liquid in her glass. “It’s just the house merlot.”
“Sounds good to me.”
As she held her glass to her lips, she studied him over the rim. “What is your function? I’ve never heard of the US military operating stateside.”
“Some do on occasion, but this is a special assignment. Off the radar, off the books.”
“So, if one of the other snipers had shot the pirate who was holding me, would he be here instead of you? Is that how the Navy made the determination?”
“I’m not exactly sure. They called. I responded.” The bartender had placed his glass of wine in front of him, and he clinked it against hers. “That’s how the military works.”
They finished their wine over casual chatter and then walked a few blocks to a small bistro, where Nicole had a second glass of red.
At the end of dinner, she pinged her fingernail against her empty glass. “I hope I’m not going to be required to hop on a bike and chase someone down this time. I’m ready for a nap.”
“Uh-oh. How are you ever going to stay awake for the play?”
“Wake me up when it’s over.”
They took another taxi to the gallery on West Twenty-Fourth Street, and Slade discovered this was Nicole’s preferred method of transportation around the city. Her mother kept a car service on call, but Nicole had confided that she didn’t like the ostentatiousness of it all, even though she seemed comfortable with most of the perks her father’s wealth provided. He supposed she had to draw the line somewhere.
Fifteen minutes later, they sauntered into the gallery, a small space crammed with sculptures. Nicole saw Andre immediately and elbowed Slade in the ribs.
They feigned interest in some god-awful piece while Andre talked to a couple. When he was done, they wandered toward him until Nicole planted herself in front of him.
“Andre Vincent, right?”
“That’s right.” His smile dimmed a fraction as he looked into Nicole’s eyes. “You’re Lars’s friend. The one he went to Somalia with to make that film.”
“Did you hear about Lars?”
“I did, yeah. Shocking news.”
“Did you see Lars when he was in the city?”
“I missed him, and now I’m sorry I did.” His gaze shifted to Slade.
“This is my friend Slade.”
They shook hands, and as far as Slade could tell, Andre wasn’t lying about not seeing Lars. At least, he hadn’t taken off in a sprint like Dave had.
Andre stroked his beard. “Was there something you wanted to ask me about Lars?”
“He left a note for me when he was in New York and gave it to someone to mail to me later.” Nicole lifted her shoulders. “I was just trying to figure out who that was.”
“You checked with Dave Pullman or that actress, Trudy? I don’t remember her last name, but I think they saw him when he was in town.”
“We checked with Dave, and we’re on our way to see Trudy Waxman.”
Andre snapped his fingers. “Waxman, that’s it. Yeah, I’m sorry. That’s crazy Lars would do that. No clue he was even depressed.”
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