Bodyguard Rescue Read online

  “That would explain how you opened the locked door so easily. Cain must’ve given you his key. I took the spare from under the porch.” She frowned. “When did you talk to my brother?”

  “A few days ago,” he said, then changed the subject. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  A sharp thwack sounded against the outside wall of the cabin and Kate jumped. Cautiously, Roman straightened from the hearth and lifted the curtain. Kate watched in tense silence as he studied the outside, a short prayer whispering through her mind. A second thump sent a small cry of alarm from her lips. “Roman.”

  He let the curtain drop back into place. “It’s just a tree branch, Doc.” As he spoke, he started toward her. “But this proves my point. We both know you’re more of the moonlit-beach, soft-breeze and Calypso-band type. So why choose the wilderness?”

  Because it was the safest place to hide. “Because I wanted a complete change.” Uncomfortable with his prodding, she decided to switch the subject. “What makes you an expert on my likes and dislikes?” she quipped. He was right, of course. She would’ve traded anything to be lounging dreamily on a nice, flat beach right now, free of her nightmare. Trade anything, that is, except millions of innocent lives.

  “I know you.” Leaning over, he placed one long finger under her chin and tipped her face up toward his. “Better than you know yourself.”

  There was a time when that was true, right before he’d gotten bored with their relationship. She was a different person now, mostly because of him. “Be careful, D’Amato, your arrogance is showing.” She jerked her head away and was immediately sorry when the movement made her light-headed. “You might’ve known me two years ago, but times change and so do people.”

  “Yes, people change. Just not you.”

  Another insult. Scottish pride stiffened her spine. “Don’t assume that because we were once—” She groped for the word, but her mind fumbled.

  “Lovers?” He inserted, his voice dipping huskily.

  “Close,” she corrected. At one time, the possessiveness in his voice would have liquefied her insides, now it raised her defenses. She tried to slide toward the end of the couch to put some distance between them, but her body suddenly felt denser than lead, making her movements cumbersome.

  As he watched her retreat, amusement glinted in his eyes. “‘Close’ or not, I understand you. And you wouldn’t be caught dead in the wild unless you had no other choice.”

  He sat down beside her, successfully pinning her between him and the arm of the couch. He gathered her close, ignoring the stiff resistance of her body.

  “Let me help you.”

  “Help me?” Awareness rippled through her as the warmth of his body seeped inside the quilt, increasing the lethargic haze that had settled over her. She shook her head to clear her mind, but the dizziness continued to assail her, muddling her thoughts.

  “If I did need help—which I don’t—you would be the last person I would turn to.” She emphasized each word by trying to poke her finger into his chest.

  He started to say something, then changed his mind. Abruptly he released his hold and leaned back into the cushions. “I’m not going to rehash the past with you. I admit I could have handled the situation a little better.”

  “A little better?” She bumped him with her elbow and snorted. Not very ladylike, but she didn’t care. “Even King Kong treated his woman better.”

  He responded in Italian, a habit he had when he was angry, but she ignored him. She was fluent in five languages, Italian being one, along with Spanish, Russian and two others she seemed to have forgotten for the moment. Even trying, she couldn’t focus on the translation—something about his knowing what’s best.

  Her eyes burned with fatigue, and she rubbed them with the heels of her hands, releasing a long, audible breath. Lord, dealing with a hardheaded Italian left her even more drained—something she’d considered impossible. She wrestled with the fatigue, trying to maintain her train of thought while her head continued to swim.

  “Look, Roman, you can do whatever you want,” she said, interrupting his tirade. She tugged the covers up to her chin, not quite ready to let go of their protection, and slumped toward the edge of the cushion. “Just do it away from me.” Checking first to see that the quilt sufficiently covered her legs, she struggled to stand up, praying her limbs wouldn’t give out.

  “I’m going to bed.” She looked slowly around the cabin. Where in God’s name was it? She shut her eyes briefly trying to concentrate on her surroundings, but the fog grew thicker, enveloping her mind.

  “Is something the matter, Doc?” The question sounded distant and muffled in her ears. She tried to face him, but couldn’t quite make it. Still, she could feel his gaze on her, intent while he watched her confusion.

  “I can’t seem to remember where the bedroom is…” Her voice trailed off as her tongue grew thick, taking up most of her mouth. She tried moving it to the side.

  “Upstairs.” Quiet amusement laced the word, but she barely noticed because the room blurred. Upstairs. She remembered now. Sleeping up in the loft would have left her vulnerable, that’s why she’d chosen to sleep on the sofa. She nodded, and the room began to sway. She grabbed for the couch in an effort to gain her balance, but that was a mistake. Her feet tangled with the quilt, causing her to fall back onto the cushions with a bounce.

  Kate heard a soft, masculine chuckle over her head, but her eyelids refused to open so she could glare. He would just have to wait until morning. She could feel her body floating, snug and protected. It had been so long since she’d felt safe that she gave in to the exhaustion and leaned into her warm haven. A deep voice drifted over her, its tone gentle and comforting.

  “Sweet dreams, babe.”

  Chapter Three

  Isla de El León (Island of the Lion), Gulf of Mexico.

  Poised at the edge of the diving board, the ebony-haired beauty smiled up at Nigel Threader. Her classic features softened with feline pleasure before she sliced cleanly into the kidney-shaped pool. From the private balcony, he watched in fascination as the blue glow of the underwater lights cloaked her dancer’s body with ethereal radiance beneath the rippling water. Exquisite.

  It was an illusion, of course, but nonetheless magnificent because it hid the imperfections he knew existed. Like a brilliant but flawed diamond.

  Pity.

  Marina Alexandrov’s pedigree as the prima ballerina of the Paris Ballet was above reproach. With Russian royalists for parents, her upbringing was exemplary, her social status assured. She reached the end of the pool, planted both hands on the edge of the tile and hauled herself upward in a cascade of water, her nude body arching gracefully in the night air.

  He returned her seductive smile before walking back into his office. Yes, it certainly was a shame. Even her baser needs matched his. They could have shared a future together full of limitless possibilities.

  Unfortunately, with her great beauty and ancestry came a lack of intellect. Marina was a woman of average intelligence, an intolerable flaw his employee had overlooked and which Nigel hadn’t discovered until it had been far too late. A disappointing situation indeed.

  The man paid for his incompetence, of course. What little pleasure Nigel gleaned from the kill was still too small a compensation for the time he’d wasted on seducing Marina.

  He frowned and felt the familiar stiffness pull at his right eye. Resisting the urge to touch the cause, he tugged at his sleeves instead, automatically running his fingers over the yellow diamond cufflinks as he entered his office. Naturally he would enjoy her tonight. After all, it would be their last evening together. Loose ends were untidy.

  Sitting behind the massive, seventeenth-century ebony baroque desk, he reached for the bottle of cognac that sat at the corner. Nigel glanced at the label, pleased to see that Quamar had brought him his favorite French vintage, and then poured a healthy dose into the snifter.

  A red light flashed across the room, drawi
ng his attention to the bank of closed-circuit televisions on the opposite wall. He warmed the cognac, swirling the amber liquid against his palm. Their guest had arrived. Leaning back into his plush throne chair, he studied the silver Jaguar while it followed the winding curves of the sleekly paved drive to the villa.

  The estate itself was more than fifty acres of enclosed land overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The three-story villa, originally designed by a French architect, was built of adobe, mosaic tile and imported marble. A masterpiece of French-Mexican culture. As he watched, the car came to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates set in the twelve-foot wall surrounding the villa.

  He pushed a button under his desk activating the automatic gates and then swung around in the chair to press the intercom on his desk. “Quamar. Our guest has arrived, please escort him to my office.”

  Several moments later the oak doors opened. Nigel glanced up from his glass when Quamar entered.

  “Mr. Hiram Alcott, sir.”

  Nigel nodded at the huge man who stepped aside to allow their guest through the doorway.

  “You may stay, Quamar.” The bodyguard bowed but said nothing, closing the doors behind him.

  “Has Pheonix reported in yet?” Nigel spared only a flickering glance at Alcott.

  “No, sir.”

  “When she does, tell her I need to see her.”

  Again Quamar bowed.

  Only then did Nigel turn his attention to his guest.

  “A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Threader.” The wiry little man crossed the room, set his briefcase down, then leaned over the desk to offer his hand. The scent of cheap cologne saturated the air. “Nice place you got here.” His watery eyes scanned the elegant room before returning to Nigel, hesitating only slightly on the puckering scar tissue that pulled at Nigel’s right eye. “Very nice place.”

  Dirt caked the underside of the man’s overgrown fingernails. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Nigel placed his drink on the desk and gestured to the chair beside his guest. “Have a seat.”

  Alcott cleared his throat, bringing his hand back to smooth his tie, then slid into the high-backed leather chair.

  “You disappoint me, Mr. Alcott.” Nigel rose slowly from behind the desk, well aware of the effect his deliberate movement had on the man across from him. “I’ve paid you a great deal of money to perform a mediocre task and, so far you’ve failed to live up to your end of the deal.”

  Alcott didn’t flinch. Instead the man sat back and crossed his legs. The casual pose didn’t quite mask the tension in his body.

  “Finding a woman on the run isn’t a mediocre task, believe me.”

  Nigel picked up the Buddha from the desk corner. The size of his fist and carved from pure white jade, the statue symbolized enlightenment.

  “I believe you claimed expediency, accuracy and complete confidentiality. I have yet to witness either of the first two.” Nigel observed his guest’s face muscles tighten with apprehension at the statement. “And I have my suspicions about the third.”

  Carefully, he set the statue back in its place, then continued. “But since my time is limited and your tracking skills came highly recommended by our mutual business acquaintances, I’ve decided to allow you to continue with your efforts. Provided, of course, you start showing me results.”

  Alcott’s expression eased a little as he ran a hand over his lacquered gray hair then wiped his palm on the chair. Nigel’s eyes narrowed in disgust.

  “I promise you, I won’t require much more time, Mr. Threader. A week on the outside. Dr. MacAlister has proven to be an unexpected challenge, but I’m closing in.” He shifted his position, his hair leaving a grease mark on the back of the chair. “These things can be tricky, if you know what I mean.”

  “I see.” Nigel kept his expression noncommittal as he leaned against the desk pretending to consider Alcott’s excuses.

  After a significant pause, he said, “I believe you, Mr. Alcott.”

  Alcott visibly relaxed. “I appreciate that. After all, we aim to please. But it’s nice when a customer understands the difficulties of the job, if you know what I mean.”

  “Hmm,” Nigel murmured while brushing a blond hair from the arm of his silk suit. Over the years, the natives on the island began calling Nigel “El León,” or the lion, because of his thick, tawny mane of hair.

  “I trust you had a pleasant trip to my island.”

  “Oh, yeah, slept like a baby through most of the plane ride.” The investigator reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette, obviously taking the change of subject as a good sign. “That Jag you left for me at the airport was one impressive number.”

  He waved the cigarette in the air as if it were a baton. “It’s quite a setup you got here, Mr. Threader.” Alcott grinned, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Owning your own island and all,” he added, before lighting his cigarette.

  “Yep, one sweet setup.” Leaning back into the chair, Alcott tucked his lighter back into his jacket pocket. “One a man like me could appreciate.” He exhaled a stream of smoke that turned into a low whistle when he noticed the Renoir on the wall. “Classy.”

  Nigel’s gaze followed his to the painting. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “We aim to please, also.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” Alcott flicked his ashes off to the side and onto the Persian rug.

  Irritation scraped against Nigel’s nerves, but he forced the emotion down. “Did you bring the dossier on Dr. MacAlister?”

  “Got it right here.” Leaving the cigarette dangling from his mouth, Alcott grabbed the case and pulled out a manila folder. “You know at first I couldn’t understand why you wanted a profile on the dame. I got the impression you already knew who she was.” He slid a color glossy of Kate MacAlister out of the folder and took a long, appreciative look. “Once I got this, I figured it out real quick.”

  He shoved the picture into Nigel’s hand. “Now, there’s a good-looking broad. It doesn’t hurt that her daddy’s an international tycoon. Or that he manufactures the best damn scotch known to mankind. Money, brains, looks and an unlimited supply of booze. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better myself. If you know what I mean.”

  Nigel studied the photograph, ignoring Alcott’s suggestive laugh. No matter how abhorrent the man appeared, as an investigator he did excellent work. The woman in the picture was dressed in a light T-shirt and jeans but the casualness of the dress didn’t detract from her natural beauty. A perfect oval face, the elegantly defined nose complemented her classically high cheekbones. Her black hair, tied back into a long, silken tail, accented her flawless skin. Nigel resisted the urge to run his finger over the image. Her pale gray eyes flashed brightly with amused intelligence, taunting him, daring him, with an impudence reflected in the generous curve of her mouth and delicate arch of her eyebrows.

  Oh, yes, even the great Michelangelo himself would’ve been in awe.

  “Interesting.” He maintained a noncommittal coolness as he placed the folder onto the desk, preferring to peruse the rest at his leisure where he could analyze this new development alone.

  After taking a linen handkerchief from his pants pocket, he wiped his hands. “Now about your timetable, Mr. Alcott. More than twenty-four hours is unacceptable.” He meticulously folded the material and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  The other man blustered. “Look here, Mr. Threader. I thought we had an agreement. It’s like I told you. I’m close, but a job this sensitive takes time.”

  Nigel sighed and nodded to Quamar, who immediately came over and grabbed Alcott from behind, pinning him to the chair with one arm braced against the little man’s throat. The bodyguard ignored Alcott’s shriek of surprise and slammed the man’s left arm down on the desk, exposing his palm. The investigator struggled briefly but was no match for the well-muscled giant.

  “What the hell is going on?” Alcott’s eyes widened in alarm, his face etche
d in desperation. “Listen, we can discuss this like civilized gentlemen. There’s no need to get heavy-handed.”

  Nigel responded in a bored voice. “You are an ill-mannered cretin, Mr. Alcott. Please do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me otherwise.”

  Without waiting for a response, he walked behind the desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves.

  Alcott watched, his face reflecting a numb horror as Nigel snapped on the gloves. The sound ricocheted through the room. Out of sheer desperation, the small man fought against his captor. “What the hell is this? You can’t do this.”

  “This, Mr. Alcott is a warning.” His dark blue eyes turned arctic. “And make no mistake— I do as I please. I make it a point never to deal personally with brutish, ignorant people such as yourself.” Nigel withdrew a cigar from the rosewood humidor beside the desk and rolled it between his fingers. It was his own personal blend, handmade on his plantation in Cuba. “But time and circumstances have forced otherwise.” He picked up the guillotine cigar cutter lying beside the humidor. Its silver blades flashed in the light.

  Alcott whimpered.

  “I believe you are aware of my reputation,” Nigel said while he placed the end of the cigar into the guillotine circle and squeezed. The twin blades sliced together, deftly cutting the tip of the cigar off.

  He studied the decapitated end for a moment, pleased with the clean edge. “You have until midnight tomorrow to locate her and notify me.” His voice took on a hard edge. “Or I will kill you.” He placed the cigar on the desk beside him. “I consider myself a fair man. Moreover, to prove it, I will loan you some of my staff to help with the search. Remember, Mr. Alcott, expediency, accuracy and confidentiality.” Nigel leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “After all, we would not want to put a permanent black mark on your reputation, would we?” Leaning back, he tossed the cutting instrument in his hand, like a child would a coin. “If you know what I mean.”

  The sweat poured off Alcott’s face soaking the grimy, white collar of his shirt while his gaze fixated on the blade in Nigel’s hands.