Engaging Bodyguard Page 2

  Startled, Celeste frowned. “Your mother would’ve made it…difficult.” Cain’s mother, Christel MacAlister, specialized in reconstructive surgery, mostly with children born with deformities. But as an expert in her field, she ranked among the top in the world. Celeste hadn’t wanted to risk the possibility she’d find out. “Even with thousands of plastic surgeons in the world, I still didn’t want to risk the possibility that Christel—”

  “I suggest…” He hadn’t raised his voice, but the icy tone sent shivers down her spine. “…we don’t discuss my family right now.”

  “The intention was never to hurt—” She caught herself, tried to loosen the guilt that seized her chest. “Besides, Shadow Point is far enough off the beaten track, surgery didn’t seem necessary.”

  “How far off the beaten track can you be when Olivia Cambridge lives down the road?” His laugh was harsh, steel scraping stone. “Having the president’s mother within a few miles must bring a tourist or two.”

  “Some. More soon,” she admitted, suddenly unsteady with doubt. Angry that she’d been with him only a few moments and the inadequacy had returned, clutching her gut. “When the Cambridge Auction begins. I’ve been here since…for quite a while and never had a problem.”

  “Olivia Cambridge doesn’t know who you are then.” It was a statement more than a question, but she chose to answer it anyway.

  “You mean, she doesn’t know that I was the lead suspect in her grandson’s murder?” She shifted, unable to ease through the pang of regret. “Yes, she knows.”

  “And President Cambridge?” Cain straightened and studied her, his eyes flashing like finely brushed silver. “Does he realize you’re living in his home town?”

  Celeste was first to blink and hated herself for it.

  “No,” she bit out, her jaw hurting with the effort. “It’s complicated. Too complicated for me to explain.”

  “Complications I can handle. Lies…” He paused. “Not so much.”

  “The lies go with the job. Your job. And I haven’t asked you to handle anything. Not in a long time.” When his gaze caught hers this time, the arrogance flashed, then disappeared—but not before it ignited her temper. “I’m not going to start now. Go home, Cain. I don’t want you here.” When she tried to walk past, he snagged her arm. Little shots of electricity, sparked. His fingers flexed as if he’d felt the sting too.

  “Jon’s dead. What you want or don’t want doesn’t concern me.” Oh, his stance was deceptively casual and emphasized the force of his chest and the leanness of his hips. But she was no fool. Not anymore.

  She shook him off, then stepped forward, a scorch ing storm of anger driving her until they were almost toe to toe.

  “God, you haven’t changed have you?” Celeste asked rhetorically.

  He was taller than most, certainly much taller than her. Just shy of a foot, she remembered. But it took more than height to intimidate her. “I did what was necessary.”

  Surprise caught his features, if only for a millisecond. If she hadn’t been watching she’d have missed it. Diana had never taken a stand against him.

  Good, she thought, better for him to know now she’d changed.

  “Necessary for who?” Cain prodded.

  “For everyone.” Faking her death might have been drastic, but she still believed the reasons held fast.

  She had to. Or she’d have gone insane.

  “Does that include Grace, too? Or do you have her hidden somewhere?”

  The insult plunged deep at the mention of her grandmother, a mortal wound, as had been intended. Her composure slipped, but her stance didn’t. “She died in the explosion.”

  “Yet you survived.”

  She hadn’t wanted to. The high-pitched screams of terror. Her grandmother’s hands clawing the window, the sweet sickening scent of burning flesh mingling with the more rancid odor of burning hair.

  Fixing a sneer on her face, she pushed away the nightmare. She’d changed her identity in order to find Grams’ killer. Walked away from her past. Except for the ring, she admitted, feeling the metal warm and comforting against her skin, its sapphire hidden between her breasts.

  Both the ring and the name Pavenic—a surname of Romanian gypsies—had given Celeste courage. And with it, a new life.

  “Survival is a matter of perspective,” she answered, her words clipped, her control back in place. “You wouldn’t understand, Cain.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Celeste,” his voice dropped, his smile glacial enough to freeze her blood. Without warning, he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to him. “The last several years provided me with an enormous amount of perspective.”

  “WELL, WELL, what do we have here?” The man’s question slid through tightened teeth, its vicious edge lost in the shrill whistle of the wind.

  He shifted his position, leaning farther back against the boulder, leaving him a line of sight through the crowded pines. His thumb moved over the dial until the high-powered scope brought both Prometheus and the woman into view. Satisfaction rolled through him. The fact that Prometheus had appeared in Shadow Point so soon hadn’t surprised him. When an outcome is planned, there is little to be surprised over.

  He studied the woman, noting the way she stood, her back straight, her features defiant—enough to make his finger tighten on the rifle’s trigger. The cold metal urged him to apply more pressure, but he controlled the impulse with little effort.

  A bullet maimed, even killed. Both ways brought pain.

  But not the excruciating pain she would soon endure.

  Not for the money. Or his reputation.

  Merely because of the pleasure.

  For three months, he’d known she’d die. And during that time, he’d savored the taste of her death as he would have a fine merlot. His lips twisted, their slant feral. A soft, subtly sweet—blood-red—Merlot.

  For now, he’d watch, indulge his curiosity. If she and Prometheus hadn’t joined forces over Mercer’s demise, they soon would. Incentive—if the correct incentive—tempted even the most cautious. And the coins…well, that was just pure genius.

  He considered the possibilities. His plans weren’t so set that he couldn’t adjust them a bit. For the time being, he’d increase the stakes just a little. After all, he had a point to make.

  Lachesis…Prometheus…

  Even together, they were no match for him.

  “LET ME GO.” Blue eyes, now diamond-hard, met Cain’s unflinchingly. The movement turned her features into the dimming sunlight. Except for the stubborn chin, her face was a perfect oval, framed by short, disheveled wisps of honey-colored hair.

  Familiar enough to feed his rage. Feminine enough to make him resent it.

  “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for,” she insisted. “And if I did, why believe anything I’d say?” She glanced away for just a moment. Enough to tell him that dealing with the truth of that statement was still a struggle for her. “I killed the president’s son.”

  “It was never proven.”

  “That’s just semantics. Alive or dead, we both know I’ll never be truly free from suspicion.” Her tone remained cool and unattached, with no trace of self-pity. “So why trust me?”

  “Oh, I don’t trust you, sweetheart,” he said, knowing his grip must be hurting her. But he refused to care. Refused to give in to anything but the rage. “Not any farther than I could bury you.” He brought her closer until her gasp warmed his cheek, leaving no room for the wind to weaken the floral scent that clung to her hair. But it wasn’t enough. Not for the past years of hell. God, he’d almost wanted her to be maimed, scarred, half dead—anything to show she’d reason not to contact him. But instead, he’d found her running, her body trimmed with feminine muscle, sleek and compact—her skin flawless and flushed pink. Vibrant, beautiful.

  “No.” She’d whispered the word, but only after his gaze had dropped to her lips, catching their slight tremor.

  “Why?” he snarled,
more to himself because he found no satisfaction in the fear that quivered her chin, brittled the blue of her eyes. “Tell me.”

  “It wasn’t your problem.”

  The agony of the past years surged into fury and disbelief, heating his temper. Revenge was not only sweet, it was justifiable. One hand snaked out, gripped her hair while the other held her in place. He wasn’t gentle, couldn’t have been if he wanted. She slammed into him, her gasp of denial hovering just below his mouth.

  A bullet splintered the wood pane behind his shoulder, cutting off Cain’s retribution with a jerk of his head. In unison, they dove around the curve, hitting the iron walkway hard. “Go!” Cain shouted in her ear but she was already moving, crawling around the curve.

  He grabbed his gun from its holster. Holding it barrel up, he tilted his head and peered over the low wall that surrounded the lamp room. “The shot came from the trees.” His words were curt, snapped out over another burst of gunfire.

  “This isn’t your battle, Cain.” Celeste reached down, snagged the small 9mm from her back, ignoring the trembling in her hands. Damn it, she’d left him because of this. She tried not to think of how close his mouth had come to hers—the overwhelming temptation to close the distance herself.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It became mine the second those bullets hit Mercer’s stomach.” Another shot ricocheted, this time mere inches from Celeste’s ear. Cursing, Cain pressed her farther onto the iron walkway. “Keep your head down!”

  In the summer, the windows around the lighthouse were curtained during the day to eliminate the sun. Otherwise, the lens became a giant magnifying glass strong enough to start fires in the surrounding scrub. Unfortunately for her and Cain, the county’s historical society removed the curtains for the winter. The open panels of glass would make them easy targets for the sniper.

  She nodded in the general direction of the woods. “That second shot came from the top of the trail, about sixty yards. He’s got us pinned.”

  He glanced through the metal railing, judging the distance. His eyes met hers. Cold-hard slate clashed against azure hued steel. “So we jump.”

  She assessed the hundred-foot drop, only sparing a brief glimpse at the water pounding the rocks and sand below. “I see you haven’t lost your warped sense of humor.”

  “Now sweetheart, you know I prefer the term dry,” Cain answered, the sarcasm deadly.

  Simultaneously, they fired off several shots into the closest bank of trees. The glass panel exploded over their heads, Cain grunted. “Nothing humorous about this guy.” He released the empty magazine, then shoved it into his coat pocket.

  “He’s playing with us, Cain.”

  “And he’s alone. Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.” Cain shoved a new magazine into his pistol. “How many clips do you have?”

  “One more,” Celeste admitted. She fired while he reloaded, knowing twelve bullets wouldn’t give them much time.

  “Even if we had a hundred, our range is much shorter.” He snapped the buckle from his belt. “Up for a little rappelling?” Encased in the metal was a long thin wire-like cable and miniature grappling hook.

  “Is that safe?”

  “Worried?”

  Yes. “Curious.”

  He quirked his eyebrow then, she saw the twitch at his lips. She found herself wanting to see him smile and that annoyed her.

  Quickly he uncoiled the cable. “Kate’s latest project. Synthetic spider silk. Stronger than steel cable, flexible like nylon.”

  Celeste knew who Kate was of course. The female version of Cain, with raven hair and slate-gray eyes. She’d met Doctor Kate MacAlister, now D’Amato, briefly at a dinner party for some Washington senator, long before she’d met Cain actually. Damn smart, she remembered—and that from nothing more than a shake of hands, and a few polite sentences.

  A world-renowned scientist, Kate was the youngest of the over-achieving MacAlister siblings, Cain being the eldest with their brother, Ian, filling the middle.

  Celeste glanced at the ground before slipping her gun back into its holster. “You have a hundred feet worth of twine in there?”

  “Twenty,” he corrected before refastening his belt and hooking the end of the rope to the railing. “Enough to get us to the first window below.” Within seconds, he’d removed his coat and handed it to her. “The leather will protect you better against flying glass. Use your heels to kick in the window.”

  “And the stray bullets?” Keeping low, she shrugged into his jacket. She caught the scent of leather, soap and moisture—as if he’d just bathed in the icy waters of Lake Huron. An overwhelming urge to snuggle into the warmth surged through her.

  “Won’t touch us if we do it right.” Quickly, he threaded the wire into a makeshift harness between her legs before clipping it around her waist. “It’s weighted to hold me plus another two hundred pounds.”

  His gaze raked over her. “You’ve lost weight. Almost too much.”

  “But you haven’t lost that MacAlister charm,” she murmured. At five foot three, Celeste never had tipped the scales much over a hundred and fifteen pounds, but secretly, even she admitted it’d been months since she’d come close.

  “You’ll be okay.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. A second later he handed her a pair of dark leather gloves. “Once you get through the window, undo the cord and I’ll pull it up.”

  “Thanks,” she retorted, not bothering to hide her derision. Instead, she studied the width between the iron railings.

  “Don’t worry. At my count of three, throw yourself over. I’ll cover you.”

  “And who’s going to cover you?”

  The hitch in her voice caught his attention. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll take care of that, too.”

  Always the hero. And if he got hurt? What then? Annoyed by the fact that she cared, she slipped on the oversize gloves, the inside pelt still warm from his hand. Her skin tingled but not from nerves. Not this time. “I don’t—”

  He captured her chin, his fingers firm. “Gypsy, do what you’re told.”

  Her heart stumbled. She caught it in a gasp. Gypsy. She hadn’t heard the endearment since their weekend together at his cabin in Colorado, when he’d whispered it, hot and moist, against her ear.

  The same weekend he’d proposed.

  Cain turned her toward the railing, making sure she was balanced in her crouched position. “One…two…three!”

  Gunfire exploded around them. Celeste threw herself at the railing. The hard edge of metal hit just under her ribs, causing her to catch her breath. A searing pain stabbed her side, and she cried out. Suddenly, a hand curved the back of her thigh and hoisted her over the railing.

  Rapid fire struck the barrier nearby. A bullet hit Cain’s pistol, knocking it from his hand into the water below. Cursing, he curled himself around her, and flung them both over.

  The cable shuddered and then tossed them into the wall of the lighthouse. Cain grunted as he slammed into the concrete, back first.

  “Hold on.” His breath tickled the slope of her neck where her shirt had ridden down. Nerves dried her throat, nothing else, she told herself. If they weren’t hanging eighty feet from the ground she probably would’ve found the situation humorous. He gripped her waist, but Celeste wasn’t sure how strong a hold he had. She closed her eyes briefly and prayed.

  Twisting, Cain flipped them around. With his feet braced against the wall, he used his upper-body strength and tucked her into the curve of his chest.

  “Cover your face.” Cain grabbed her gun from its holster. The pistol exploded two rounds. Glass shattered.

  With one sharp kick, the window frame snapped. Seconds later, they landed inside.

  Despite the chill in the air, drops of sweat tickled the damp skin between her shoulder blades. Senses alert, her gaze scoured the inside of the lighthouse.

  Framed by the spiraled stairs hung five hundred pounds of iron. The clockwork weight-driven mechanism had been designed like a cuck
oo clock with gears, cable and a large spool. Once the keeper rewound the cable onto the spool by crank, the weight lowered inch by inch into the tower, causing the clamshell-like lens to turn.

  “This is the guy who killed Mercer.” Cain grabbed her hand and pulled her down the stairs behind him. “And who planted the C-4 explosives in your car.” When he stopped at the bottom, she nearly collided with him. “Am I right?”

  “I think so. And my guess is he’s really pissed off now that he’s found out I’m still alive.”

  Another spray of bullets had him checking out the window, her gun still in his hand. “Just for the record, he’s not the only one pissed off about that.”

  Before she could answer, Cain hit the door with his foot. Wood splintered, then slammed against concrete. Bullets strafed the lighthouse, catching them in the doorway. Celeste dove behind a nearby log, then felt the hard impact of Cain’s body beside her. Bullets sprayed the sand around them. Cain fired back, targeting the ridge. “He hasn’t moved.

  “Give me my gun,” she demanded, then took off his gloves and shoved them back into his coat pocket.

  “I’m the better shot.” He nodded toward the keeper’s cottage standing halfway between them and the edge of the woods. “Run on three. I’ll cover.” His fingers hit the air. “One…two…three!”

  Celeste flung herself over the log and hit the ground in a roll, coming up only yards from the small brick cottage. Gunfire raged around her, peppering her path. Adrenaline surged as she dug into the sand for traction. It sucked at her feet, weighing them down. Too slow. You’re running too slow. She dug harder until her calf muscles burned. Suddenly, Cain tackled her from behind, carrying them both several feet through the air. They hit the ground, a yard from the cottage wall.

  Bits of frozen sand scratched her eyes. She tried to blink the sting away, spit the grit from her mouth. “I would’ve made it,” she snapped, then tried to wiggle out of his hold. Cain’s body tightened, she felt every line, every rigid muscle. Cursing herself when her body softened in response.

  Cain hissed. In one fluid motion, he stood and positioned himself flush against the wall. “Only because he was toying with you.” Cain’s face shifted into tight lines. “Do a better job next time.” His gaze caught hers, the message clear, before returning to survey the path. “There’s a cluster of rocks ten meters ahead.”