Engaging Bodyguard Page 11

  She nodded toward the two guards on the screen. Let Cain think what he wanted. “Don’t hurt them.”

  He quirked his eyebrow, an action she was becoming familiar with. “They’re not the bad guys, Gypsy. I promise they won’t even know I’m there. Just keep an eye out. The guards will patrol the grounds on and off. Even if Lassiter doesn’t understand the coins’ meaning, he’s smart enough to beef up the patrol cars in the area. I’d like to avoid a run-in with a trigger-happy lawman.”

  “Watch out. He’s rigging the bombs with analogs on purpose. And the access too. If he’s planted a bomb in the warehouse, it’ll be rigged to the door as well as a clock. You can almost bet on it.”

  He tipped her chin up. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back to you.”

  Maybe it was the words he used or the stress of the day. Either way, Celeste felt her emotional barricade give. Burying her face in his neck, she breathed a kiss against his skin.

  Slowly, he pulled her to him until her face turned upward. “You pick the damnedest times to go soft on me, Gypsy.” His mouth descended to hers. “We might just be by a bed next time.” The last of his statement was smothered in a series of slow, shivery kisses.

  “Don’t be too sure,” she said, when she finally came up for air. A small lock of hair curled against his forehead. Not thinking, she brushed it back into place with trembling fingers. The gesture was familiar enough to make him pull back. Celeste masked her hurt, realizing it was okay for them to kiss, but he wouldn’t allow any thing remotely connected to caring. Heroes didn’t become involved.

  But she wasn’t a hero.

  “Be careful,” she whispered, talking to an empty car. He’d already slipped into the darkness. It unnerved her how quietly he moved, because it reminded her of who he was—and more importantly—that he couldn’t be anything else.

  Pan’s high-pitched meow broke into her thoughts. She glanced up to see him take a swipe at the windshield. “Don’t start complaining.”

  Sitting on the dashboard, Pan looked at her, his black lids half-closed, his manner superior.

  “I could let you go, but I’m not going to. So deal with it.”

  With a short, spiteful meow, Pan jumped to the back of Cain’s seat. His fur spiked into little spears of hair, while his nails dug into the leather.

  Celeste glanced at the small, puncture marks dotting the upholstery. Normally, she would’ve scolded him, but tonight she figured he was justified. “Feeling better?”

  Far from it, she decided dryly, when the cat shifted slightly and flicked his tail.

  “Gypsy.” Cain’s voice rumbled softly in her ear. “I’m in. Where are the guards?”

  She studied the screen. “They haven’t moved from their positions.” Her eyes darted once again over the white figures. “I’m not reading you, Cain. Are you wearing an implant?”

  “Yep. Otherwise, I’d be part of the crowd.”

  Celeste was familiar with the thermal diffuser chips, but never had needed to use one herself. Mostly because they were permanent, surgically inserted under the skin.

  “Just let me know when their positions change. They should be making rounds soon. Until then, stay alert.”

  “You and I both know I’m too far away to do any good,” she said while she scanned the darkness. “Wasn’t that your plan?”

  “No tantrums, Gypsy. I need you to keep up your end of the job. I don’t like surprises.”

  She glanced at Pan. The cat was just putting the finishing touches on the upholstery. Grinning, she noted several additional holes in the leather. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Definitely. “My tantrums are the least of your worries.” She scratched between the cat’s ears in reward. “You just keep your end out of danger,” she warned. “And I’ll look out for the rest.”

  Having tired of his game, Pan settled into her lap and, from the satisfied way he licked his paw, seemed content.

  “Gypsy, check camera one for me.”

  As she watched, the screen divided itself into a tic-tac-toe board. The top right block flickered then focused on one of the warehouse aisles.

  “It’s working,” she acknowledged, her eyes searching for movement among the boxes and shelves.

  “Copy that.”

  She studied the screen, then the outside. Cold fingers of fear stroked her spine and her muscles tightened against the sensation. She eased her gun from its holster and set it on the driver’s-seat cushion. Cautious, she pressed farther back into her seat and waited.

  IT TOOK one bullet from Gabriel’s silencer to shatter the floodlight, blanketing the warehouse entrance in darkness. He paused next to the building, waiting patiently, listening. After readjusting his night goggles, he glanced down. The guard’s lifeless body lay at his feet.

  With very little effort, Gabriel shoved the dead man’s back against the wall. The slap of his skull on the concrete echoed softly in the night air. Gabriel scooped up the flat-topped security hat and placed it back on the guard’s head. The dark brim covered the small, symmetrical hole that tattooed the middle of his forehead—leaving the impression that the guard was asleep.

  Swiftly, Gabriel tossed the man’s gun, phone and other items into the brush before accessing the security panel, noting the age and uselessness of the system. Why is it, he thought, most people think things will never happen to them until they do? Thousands of dollars of merchandise in storage, protected only by some floodlights, a few cameras and an antiquated infrared system—the minimum equipment required by their insurance company.

  He glanced again at the dead man. “They’re making it too easy for me.” He traced several wires, discovering someone had rerouted the main circuits. “Well, well.”

  After grabbing a small black canvas bag from the ground, he slid a six-inch blade from his arm sheath. With one swipe, he severed the wires. The interior lights blinked, then disappeared. The cameras went dead.

  He slipped through the door and crept past some larger crates, tempted by the opportunity to torment his adversary. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he whispered, finding enjoyment in a game he was never included in as a child. “Whoever you are.”

  “GYPSY, give me the guards’ positions.”

  Fifteen minutes. Celeste’s heart pounded. Cain had planted half the cameras in less than fifteen minutes. Another half dozen cameras and he should be out of there.

  “They haven’t moved—”

  The warehouse lights winked, then darkened in the distance.

  Cain swore. “Gypsy, listen to me.” She heard it, the worry. “I want you to stay—” A sharp buzz pierced her eardrum. She cried out, her hands tearing at her ear until the transmitter dropped into her lap. Someone had jammed the frequency. Her eyes locked on the screen, immediately taking in the two fading white blobs, and then a third, burning bright and moving unhurriedly toward Cain.

  Gabriel. It had to be.

  Desperately she tore apart the car, looking for a flashlight, night goggles, something to help her maneuver in the dark—only to come up empty-handed. The man had fifteen million gadgets but not one lousy flashlight.

  Gun in hand, Celeste pushed open the car door and slid out, wincing when her injured ankle tried to take her weight.

  Without a sound, Pan shot out through the open door.

  “Pan!” she whispered harshly, but she was too late. The darkness swallowed him whole. “Stupid cat,” she muttered, forcing herself not to worry. The wind flogged her, each icy lash cutting deep to the marrow of her bones. She glanced again into the night and clamped her jaw down on a frustrated scream.

  In her mind, time accelerated, devouring precious seconds before she reached the first guard in front of the warehouse doors. She squatted, tested his pulse. None. She searched him for a flashlight, frustrated when she found nothing. Didn’t anyone use one anymore?

  She saw them then, the glint of metal in the moon-light. After scooping up the coins, she shoved them into her jeans pocket, not caring about anything except Ca
in’s safety.

  Hurriedly, she stepped over the body and slipped through the open door.

  As shadows shifted—some merging, most separating into shapes—Celeste moved farther into the building, heading in the general direction of Cain’s last location.

  The size of two high-school gymnasiums, the warehouse was packed from front to back, bottom to top, with shelves, all overloaded with packaged goods. Most, she imagined, for the auction, others being held in storage for local businesses.

  Pistol raised, the grip slick against her clammy hands, Celeste crept forward. So that is what caring for a man did to a woman? It makes her stupid with nerves. Carefully using the wooden crates and boxes as a guide, she worked her way through the maze of shelves.

  A whoosh of air was her only warning.

  A hand gripped her hair, jerking her head back. Fingers dug viciously into her scalp and cold steel bit her neck, cutting off her cry of alarm. “Drop the gun, Ce leste.” The knife blade pressed harder, its blade cutting her skin. “Gently.”

  Celeste felt the sting, the warm trickle of blood over her collarbone. Her gun slipped to the floor with a quiet thud.

  “Or should I call you Lachesis?” The whisper taunted her, sending abrasive waves of fury over her.

  “It’s ironic really, don’t you think? Lachesis being the Fate who determined the length of a mortal’s life.”

  “If I had that kind of power…” she rasped, his vileness crowding her, suffocating her. “You can bet you would’ve never lived past your first breath.”

  Gabriel laughed, a grinding of vocal cords. “I must say, my night goggles certainly provide a nice advantage. I can see why Prometheus is smitten.” He pressed closer, his chest to her back until she heard his black heart beating under her ear. A clammy sheet of moisture coated her skin, but she forced her mind to focus.

  “Are you and Prometheus enjoying my game—”

  Celeste relaxed, dropping her weight into Gabriel. When he caught her, the blade shifted away. She slammed her elbow into his ribs causing him to hiss and his hand to slide.

  “Cain!” She ducked, aiming for Gabriel’s groin. Within a fraction of a second he recovered, catching her punch, twisting her arm viciously until she cried out.

  “Bitch!” He shoved her, chest first, to the floor and dug his knee into her spine. “Do that again and I’ll break your back.” The darkness disguised his features, but she’d remember the inhuman edge in his voice forever.

  The warehouse emergency light flipped on, its red glare momentarily blinding her. Gabriel swore and threw off his goggles. Celeste hoped the shock of the light had blinded him, too.

  “Looks like you got lucky. Tell your boyfriend to take better care of you. It isn’t time for you to die. Not yet.” A needle pricked the nape of her neck. He released her arm and stood. “But soon.”

  She tried to see him, tried to grab for the weapon lying only inches from her face, but a sick, malevolent numbness spread throughout her body. It was almost as if her circulation had stopped, leaving her muscles disengaged from her mind.

  Seconds later—or maybe even minutes, she couldn’t be sure—she found herself floating, cradled in massive arms. A fog, dark and thick, crept in, narrowing her peripheral vision. She tried to blink the mist away.

  It was hard to make out more than the size of the man, but Celeste knew he was huge. An accomplice?

  “No!” The word came out hoarse, so low she couldn’t be sure he’d heard her. Talons of fatigue clawed at her, dragging her into a dark abyss. Struggling against obscurity, she tried again. “Cain!”

  “Shhh. I am Quamar Bazan, Cain’s associate. He is unharmed.” The soft Mediterranean accent rumbled deep within his chest, a lullaby against her ear. “It is you we need to worry about.”

  Cain. Not harmed. With a sigh, she stopped fighting the crushing weight of fatigue, allowing her mind to drift with only one thought—if she didn’t die now, Cain would certainly kill her later.

  A SOFT, TWO-TONED WHISTLE floated to Cain. His muscles flexed but didn’t relax. Softly, he whistled his response.

  Cain heard nothing, not even the soft rub of shoes against the concrete before Quamar joined him, holding an unconscious Celeste to his chest.

  “Is she okay?” The question came out in a short, savage snarl. Celeste’s scream still echoed in his head, triggering the terror in his chest. Even as he’d hit the emergency lights, raced toward the sound—he’d known Gabriel had her, would hurt her. Known that he would be too late.

  “She is fine. I checked her pupils and her pulse.” Quamar shifted until her face tilted toward Cain. “It appears he drugged her. Fast-working, but harmless.”

  Fresh blood smeared her jaw. Cain moved the jacket collar a few inches, revealing the cut on her neck, a vivid red against her pale skin. Another reason to bring Gabriel down, he promised himself. Then he wiped some of the blood with his thumb, relieved when her pulse beat strong and steady beneath.

  His eyes lingered, stroking her cheek, until he heard his friend clear his throat.

  He jerked back, catching himself. “Get her out, Quamar,” he ordered. “Take her to the cottage. And when you get there, see if these cameras can give us an image on the portable, although I’m sure they won’t. I didn’t have time to place any in this area. Check with Roman, too. He’s monitoring from headquarters.” Cain scanned the warehouse. “Our friend is long gone. I’m going to finish with the cameras, in case he decides to come back. I’ll clear out before the law gets here or call them if they don’t. It will give me time to…” He glanced at Celeste, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed. “…think.”

  Quamar’s gaze flickered, sliding from Celeste to his friend. His broad lips widened with pleasure, his teeth gleamed, bright against his dark skin. “So you have become human after all, Prometheus.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cain ground out, not bothering to misunderstand. “I’ll get over it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Are you better, Miss Pavenic?”

  Celeste angled her head, the closest she could come to a nod without having it implode. It had been a good five minutes since she’d come around, but she still didn’t feel strong enough to move from her reclining position on an overstuffed blue-paisley couch.

  “Do you have any aspirin?” She willed the parade of cannons to stop discharging inside her skull.

  As he made his way to the bathroom, Celeste noted his tailored black slacks and black crew-neck sweater. Did everyone in this business, except her, have money?

  Neither his clothes nor the confines of the cottage minimized the size of the man. He returned and dropped some tablets into her palm. She murmured her thanks and closed her eyes out of self-preservation. If she looked up at the man, her neck would stretch and her head would probably fall off before her gaze reached his chin.

  “Is there anything else you need? Something to eat, perhaps?”

  The thought of food touched off a wave of queasiness. Quickly, she swallowed the pills with the help of some warm tea. “No, thank you…” What did he say his name was? “Quamar.” She frowned, struggling to find the whole name. “Quamar Bazan.”

  “You have a good memory, Miss Pavenic.” The words were low, the accent heavy—and surprisingly soothing.

  “Please,” she murmured, wishing the aspirin would take effect. “It’s just Celeste.” The dread she’d felt earlier tried to reassert itself. Agitated, she rubbed her temples.

  The man merely inclined his head as he poured more tea into her cup. “Then I insist you call me Quamar.”

  “All right, Quamar.” She tried to smile. “How long did you say before Cain would arrive?”

  “Soon. But there’s no need to worry, he’s in no danger.”

  Cautiously, she nodded her assent. “Cain. He’s your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  Celeste sighed, settling back against the couch. “And here I thought he didn’t have friends,” she quipped, only half-serious. She inhaled deeply
, catching the light, spicy scent of the giant. Exotic, masculine. Pleasant.

  “I never said he considered me a friend. Only that I considered him one.”

  She peered at him from beneath her lashes. “He must. He trusts you enough to bring you here. Trust doesn’t come easily to him.”

  “Nothing comes easily to him except his job.”

  She acknowledged the truth of Quamar’s statement. “You know him well.” Deliberately, she took in the room, noting Cain’s strong presence. Not his physical presence, although she caught a glimpse of his coat on the wall rack and newspapers on the table, but more of how the air was charged with him, like some sort of static electricity.

  Startled, Celeste realized she’d come to rely on his energy. “Somewhere along the line, Cain’s work became his life.”

  “Perhaps you should ask him why.” He rose, the tea-kettle in hand, and walked to a light-paneled wall. He flipped off a switch leaving the room in a soft amber glow that emanated from the kitchen.

  “Perhaps I’m afraid to hear the answer,” she murmured.

  Pine trimmed the stone-hewed fireplace, updated to burn gas, and accented the quaint cottage. Only a few feet from the couch, the muted hues of the fire mingled with the light, both complementing the cozy lines of the furnishings and the hand-cut ribs of the barrel-vaulted ceiling.

  Like many cottages, there was a small but serviceable kitchen, a booth-style table, and a bathroom on the opposite side by the bedroom. All clearly visible from her position on the couch.

  Unlike most cottages, computers and surveillance equipment took up one corner. Scattered in piles lay gear and apparatus—some under counters, more stacked on top.

  “You’ve come prepared.” Quamar’s graceful motions surprised her as he walked to the kitchen and reached into the cupboard for a small first aid kit.

  “A precaution.” Quamar shrugged, returning to where she lay and sitting down on the coffee table beside the couch. “One of many.”