Engaging Bodyguard Read online

  “You can have a piece of me later, Lassiter” Cain growled and yanked free. “Gabriel hid Celeste. She’ll die if we don’t find her soon.” He’d been running Gabriel’s last words through his mind. “Tick, tock. Tick, tock.” His little voice kept nudging him. “Time’s running out.”

  In the distance, shots ricocheted. Those who could, screamed warnings. Cain took off at a run, followed by the others.

  It took only moments to reach the grave, but by then it was too late. Bowden had escaped. “Damn it,” Cain roared. His eyes met Jordan’s. “Go!”

  Lassiter started running, directing those who were left to follow. Several agents and troopers had taken off through the woods, but none were capable of an aggressive pursuit.

  Jordan shook his head, his features determined. “The way I figure, I owe Diana one, Yank. I’ll get her.”

  “Her name’s Celeste, damn it.” Cain paused for only a moment, then looked at Ian. “Ian! You and Lara, go after Bowden.”

  Ian paused, “You need our help to find Celeste. Alone, you—”

  “No. Do what I say!” Cain snapped, his fear palpable. “Nail the bastard, then come back and help me.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Tick tock.” Jordan frowned as he watched Lara and Ian take off running. “A bomb?”

  “Maybe,” Cain bit out, not letting the fear take control. “He used one on her store.”

  “Too conventional,” Jordan considered, his eyes narrowing on Cain’s reactions. “Not clever enough.”

  “Clever?” Cain commented, then rushed back to Gabriel’s body. Quickly, he searched his pockets, finding the coins in the coat. “Maine.

  “The lighthouse,” Cain yelled, shoving the quarters in his pocket, already running. “It operates with a clock mechanism.”

  THE GLOOM, chillingly eerie, darkened the interior of the tower, leaving only the lever in its limited light.

  A queer calmness filled her. The weight, now little more than a foot above the nitroglycerin, told Celeste she had no choice. Her ankle no longer throbbed, nor did the raw wounds of her wrists burn.

  Sweat drenched the T-shirt stuck to her back.

  In the distance, beyond the walls of the tower, she heard the muffled burst of orders. Cain!

  A sickness, dark and terror-filled, roiled within her belly, when she caught the fear that underlined his commands.

  The noose tightened, biting into her neck, and she tried to still the trembling in her legs. Moments. They were only moments away.

  She heard him brush against the door, heard his words through the pine. “Celeste, we’re here, honey. Hold on!”

  “No!” Celeste screamed, realizing even as she did that duct tape would stifle her warning.

  And warning Cain would be useless.

  Tears ran unchecked as she tightened her muscles. Her thoughts focused on the lever, and she shifted her hips, putting her feet in a front-kick position. She would only have one shot.

  No regrets, she thought, her heart pounding. With her last thought of Cain, she launched forward.

  Time slowed. In the back of her mind, she heard the crates crash, felt the rope tighten. Her foot hit the lever and the splintering snap of the wood ricocheted through her leg.

  She swung back, self-preservation driving her to search for stability though she knew she wouldn’t find it. The rope squeezed her throat, blocking what little air she had in her lungs.

  Gabriel had sabotaged the lever.

  She understood that in the split second that followed her kick.

  Her lungs burned, her mouth parted, straining against the tape, unable to gasp. Through it all, she heard the clicking of the gears.

  They both would die.

  CAIN BRACED his foot against the door, levering to kick the pine in—when his little voice stopped him.

  “Damn it!

  “What?” Jordan came up from behind, and put his shoulder to the door, already primed to help.

  “If I’m right, he’ll use a bomb to kill her. Celeste said he’ll follow the same MO if he can.” Cain ran his hand down the crevice of the door, searching for wires. “If that’s the case this door will be rigged.”

  Cain glanced at Jordan. “Do you have your penlight?”

  Jordan nodded, already reaching for his pocket. “You want to cut through?”

  Cain snagged his own, then turned the thin dial at the base. “Set the length just past two inches. Any deeper we might cut through something other than the door.”

  Jordan copied his movements, then punched the black button.

  The twin lasers sliced through the pine like butter. Within moments, Cain yanked the four-by-four square free and threw it to the ground then scrambled through the opening.

  His heart lurched: Celeste was swinging in midair, her neck trapped in a noose.

  Jordan raced to the mechanism brake, and spotted the broken lever. “Serious trouble,” he gritted viciously.

  “See how much time we’ve got,” Cain yelled as he tossed his gun down—the laser already out and slicing the rope above Celeste’s head.

  “Celeste!” he shouted in her ear over the rush of his own pounding blood.

  The rope parted and he slid the noose from her neck. When he pulled the tape from her mouth, she whimpered in pain as the adhesive tore skin from her lips.

  “The bomb?” Her question came out raspy, sandpaper on sandpaper.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here. Hold still,” Cain said as he lasered through her cuffs.

  “Coins.” Celeste’s throat was on fire, her jaw stiff.

  “We don’t have time—”

  “No.” She shook her head, wincing as a thousand hot irons stabbed her neck. “Use…coins…in…gears.”

  Cain jerked his head, his eyes narrowing on the gearbox. “Jordan!” Hastily he set Celeste onto the ground and dug into his jeans pocket for the quarters from the cemetery.

  Jordan was already there with his penlight laser, cutting the cover off. “Got it!”

  Cain threw the quarters into the mechanism and slammed the lid shut. Time suspended for a moment as the coins rattled through. Suddenly a loud screech hit the air—the grinding of metal against metal—a high-pitched whine that threatened their eardrums.

  Then silence. Sudden, deafening silence. The weight stopped, poised mere inches from the explosive.

  Bracing himself, Cain lifted Celeste into his lap using the warmth of his body to give her strength. He smoothed away the sweaty tendrils of hair that clung to her forehead. He murmured unintelligible words against her cheek—rocked her back and forth.

  “Now isn’t this sweet?” Dan Bowden stood in the doorway, his eyes glinting with madness, his hand holding a 9mm Glock. “Can anyone join this party?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The vice president nodded toward the bomb. The cruel twist of his mouth left his lips bloodless. “Looks like Gabriel’s handiwork.”

  Cain froze, aware that his gun lay at least a foot away. And with Celeste in his lap, he wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to reach it.

  “I heard them, you know. Mercer and Olivia. She was concerned about her.” He pointed his gun at Celeste but was talking to Cain, his breath coming in ragged bursts of air. “The old bat made the mistake of discussing it at a banquet when she thought no one was listening.”

  His teeth bared, Bowden yelled at Celeste. “You were supposed to be dead. You just couldn’t leave it alone. You couldn’t let Bobby Cambridge rest in peace!”

  “She’s dead now,” Cain spat, but his eyes never wavered from Bowden. “She can’t hear you.” To prove his point he dropped her to the floor, praying she’d stay there. Then he stood, carefully placing himself between Bowden and Celeste.

  “Don’t move!” Bowden screamed, the shrill cry came from somewhere amidst his madness. He waved his gun between Jordan and Cain while his other hand, out of habit, straightened the strand of hair from his forehead. Pushing it back. Pushing it back. In a steady conti
nuous rhythm.

  “Both of you will just have to listen for her,” he insisted, spittle flying from his mouth, his pistol settling on Cain. “I’ve made deals, guarantees that would have put the United States back on the map. I would’ve gone down in history as the man who changed the world. But I couldn’t do it walking in Cambridge’s shadow.” His laughed bitterly, but his eyes darted wildly, no longer settling. Watching for inner demons.

  “You murdered a ten-year-old boy,” Cain explained as fear clawed up his back with sharp talons. He beat it back down. “How does that make you a leader?”

  Bowden sneered, his hand only stopping momentarily. “A necessary casualty. We are at war.”

  Cain heard Jordan inhale, knew the Brit was going to make a move. Cain’s muscles tightened. “But the war isn’t here.” He gauged his chances and shifted a few inches toward his Glock.

  “Of course it is. People must see it here to be impressed when I save them.”

  Celeste moaned and a cold sweat slicked Cain’s skin.

  “Look, Yank.” Jordan’s voice rose over another moan. “There’s no need—” Jordan took a step forward, one hand raised, the other reaching for his gun.

  “Don’t!” Bowden fired his pistol. Jordan fell back, hit the wall and slid to the ground, leaving a stark trail of blood on the concrete behind.

  “Damn it!” The Brit hissed with pain as his hand stifled the flow of blood at his shoulder. “What the hell happened to that ninety percent effective rate of this bloody material?”

  “Don’t worry,” Bowden pointed his gun toward the nitroglycerin. “We’re all going to die anyway—”

  “No!” Cain barked, trying to draw Bowden’s fire. He dove for Jordan’s weapon, rolled and came to his knees, his finger compressing the trigger.

  But he was too late.

  The shot seemed to come from nowhere, but it caught Bowden right in the heart. He jerked once, dropping his gun, the dark eyes no longer glazed with insanity, only murky with confusion. Slowly, he crumpled onto the granite. Dead.

  “No,” Celeste whispered, Cain’s pistol slipping from her fingers. “Not us, just you.” Then her eyelids fluttered shut.

  “THEY’RE going to be fine.”

  By the time the paramedics arrived, the firefighters had contained the nitro and Cain had gotten Celeste and Jordan out safely.

  Celeste’s wrists were bloody, the skin that wasn’t torn already bruising. She’d fought hard to break free, fought hard to save Cain.

  The handcuffs dangled from Cain’s hand, while he watched the paramedics strap her to the stretcher. They’d made one attempt to treat Cain’s injury, but the steel in his eyes drove them away.

  Ian stood next to his brother, studying the play of emo tion on Cain’s features. “I like the change.” He slapped Cain on the shoulder, but the tone of his voice softened. “It’s nice to see you’ve got your soul back, big brother.”

  Celeste lay still, pale as death. Cain brushed her cheek, the only skin exposed. It had been so close. Too close.

  Outside, while they waited for the helicopter to arrive, the paramedic had commented on the two things that had saved her life—the thick rope Gabriel had used and her petite frame. If not for those, she’d have broken her neck. As it was, she’d been only moments from unconsciousness and then strangulation.

  It was too soon to tell if there’d be permanent damage to her vocal chords or scarring to her neck.

  Yep, the paramedic had said, Miss Pavenic sure was lucky.

  Cain disagreed. It was Celeste’s strength that had saved her, not luck.

  “Jordan?” Celeste rasped the question.

  Cain pointed to the other stretcher where Jordan lay. “The bullet glanced off the collar bone. The hospital’s going to keep him a few days, I’m sure, but it looks like he’ll make it.”

  Celeste’s eyes flickered. With relief, Cain eased over, placing his ear next to her lips. Her breath brushed against his cheek, tightening his gut, reminding him how close she’d come to dying.

  “Cain.”

  He tucked a stray end of the blanket around her shoulder. “Don’t talk, Gypsy, you could be damaging your voice.”

  She ignored the order. “Lighthouse…how?”

  “Gabriel had the last set of quarters in his pocket. Maine. Once the president was dead, he would’ve left them for me, I’m sure.”

  Celeste’s eyes fluttered closed on the tears starting to gather. “Why didn’t you…tell me…about Mercer?”

  “At the time, I wasn’t sure he’d survive. It wasn’t important to the mission.”

  “Like…Quamar…at warehouse?” Her voice, now grits of sandpaper, bit into him. “Like…Lassiter’s…interrogation?”

  Her tone was filled with more than pain from the injury, more than fatigue or sorrow. Underlying both, Cain heard accusation, defeat.

  “I had my reasons, Celeste. Good reasons.”

  “No.”

  He should’ve welcomed the finality in her answer. He’d gotten his answers, his pound of flesh. That’s what he’d wanted only the day before. Instead, bitterness rose up in him, savage and mean. In spite of it, he kept his voice gentle. “I did it to protect you, Gypsy. The more you became involved, the more chance—”

  “I…protect…me,” Celeste protested weakly. “You…me…” she rasped. “Never…us.” She turned her head away, tears flowing unchecked. “Never…trust.”

  Vulnerability welled in him, unexpected, riding shotgun to his anger. “Damn it, this isn’t the place—”

  “No…done,” she argued. “You…agreed…stay…away.”

  The loud whop of the helicopter could be heard in the distance. “Sir,” one of the paramedics, a gray-haired man, his face lined with experience, insisted. His eyes were sympathetic but determined. “We need to take her up to the road.”

  “All right,” Cain agreed, knowing it wasn’t the time to settle things between them.

  “Sir, you really need to get yourself treated.” The paramedic pointed to Cain’s side where dried blood kept the shirt sealed to the wound. “I can have someone take you to the nearest hospital.”

  Cain nodded to the man, not recognizing him from the fire the night before.

  God, had it been that recent? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed, but it had taken them a little less than twenty-four hours to stop Gabriel.

  Still, he couldn’t stop the whispers of his little voice.

  They’d won against Gabriel, but what had he lost in the process?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Everything was white outside. Not a stark, hurt-your-eyes kind of white, Celeste mused absently, but the soft-focus white that soothed and tempted most to be lazy. Just the kind of weather that made kids wish for a day off from school.

  For the hundredth time that week, she forced the heartache away. After all, she thought stubbornly, how many people get to spend an evening visiting—

  “Miss Pavenic?”

  Startled, Celeste swung around from the window overlooking the snowy White House lawn.

  “Miss Pavenic?” A female voice questioned again.

  “Yes.” Celeste cleared her throat, embarrassed still over its unnatural huskiness. A permanent reminder of her heroism, the specialist had said. “I’m sorry, I’m a little jet-lagged.”

  “I understand.” The woman appeared to be in her mid-forties, a short, stylish brunette in an efficient dark burgundy business suit. In one hand she carried a day planner, with the other she gestured toward a long hall. “I’m Martha Fisher. President Cambridge’s personal assistant. The president is ready to see you now.”

  Celeste followed the older woman through a door into a narrow hall.

  “I apologize for the delay. Our schedule is a little bit off this evening.”

  “I understand.” Celeste smoothed a hand over the V-neck of her simple navy-blue suit, trying not to let her fingers touch her bandaged neck self-consciously.

  Turned out Gabriel had been nothing mor
e than an ex-mercenary named André Bovic. A man who’d advanced his career by refining his talents and education.

  It had been two weeks since he had died. Two weeks of interviews, flash bulbs, crowds and the paparazzi’s attention that had turned her into an overnight celebrity—something she didn’t want, but suspected Jon Mercer had triggered.

  Once Mercer’s resurrection became public, the frenzy was unimaginable. After all, it wasn’t every day the vice president was involved in a scandal. The media sensed blood, and, like piranhas after prey, they demanded details.

  And they’d gotten them. The vice president had left detailed notes of his plot, maybe hoping one day to publish it. Bowden had revealed his desire for an almost Hitleresque world. In order to have it, he needed to guarantee his place as president. He’d contracted the hits and planted Bremer’s phone number on Celeste’s cell.

  Saddened, Celeste thought of all those people dead because of his madness. Bobby, Grams, Olivia Cambridge, the prostitute Joyce Raines. Bowden had manipulated the phone records, forged documents, provided Gabriel with Cain’s file and details of Mercer’s injuries that the president had entrusted him with.

  The felony counts were endless.

  As was the media’s interest.

  Celeste’s legs wobbled only a bit as she followed Ms. Fisher down the last of the wide halls.

  Martha Fisher held open a door and Celeste stepped into the Oval Office.

  Robert Cambridge turned from the large windows overlooking the famous Rose Garden and crossed the deep, navy-blue rug emblazoned with the Presidential Seal. A flutter swept through Celeste’s stomach. She couldn’t believe she was actually standing here, alone, with the President of the United States.

  And he wasn’t having her arrested.

  “Miss Pavenic.” He grasped her hand, his smile warm and reassuring. She noticed he’d taken off his suit jacket, loosened his tastefully patriotic red-and-blue pinstriped tie and rolled up the cuffs of his white Armani shirt. The casualness could’ve come from a long presidential day, but she figured that more than likely he’d dressed down to put her at ease.