The Bodyguard Contract Page 6

  “Want that drink now?” Ian’s breathing was held with a tight, but controlled edge. “I know I could use one.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Ian draped his arm around her shoulders. After a quick squeeze—for reassurance or as a warning, she wasn’t sure—Ian led her back to the bar.

  Lara slid onto the stool. This time, not so easily, her knees were shaking that bad.

  She reached out, grabbed her empty shot glass and placed it in his face. “Buy me another?” Tears welled, her throat spasmed with her effort to hold them in check.

  “Don’t,” he whispered, his tone harsh with puzzlement. In a louder voice he said, “Sure.” Then gently took the glass from her hand. “You know, I have better upstairs.”

  “You do?” She paused, studying him. Using the brief moment to gather her wits. “Why not?” With light fingers, she patted his cheek and grabbed her purse from the bar. “Thanks, Hank.” Lara blew him a kiss.

  The bartender smiled, but Ian noted the tinge of envy that crossed the older man’s features before he pocketed the tip Ian laid on the bar.

  “You did that on purpose,” Lara murmured.

  “Did what?”

  “No games. We agreed,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “No. We agreed that I would take the lead. So that’s what I did.” He smiled, then kissed her forehead. “Now remember, there are cameras in the elevator.”

  “I remember,” Lara retorted. The ache from their kiss clawed the sides of her belly. She entwined both her arms around one of his and smiled—her expression adoring.

  “Don’t over do it,” he warned quietly through his own smile. “We don’t need to set the elevator on fire. We just need to get to our floor.”

  “Don’t tell me how to work.”

  Château Bontecou centered on Davidenko’s recreation of the River Cher. Limestone archways spanned the river, dividing the Château into two separate palaces—the casino and the hotel.

  Mindful of the cameras, they both kept their heads together, their faces shadowed. Taking their time, Lara and Ian crossed the Atrium Bridge which led from the casino to the hotel.

  “Almost there, sweetheart,” Ian coaxed.

  Laughing lightly, she pulled him into an empty elevator.

  Ian eased into her, his body hard, his hand spread at the small of her back. Heat slipped through her, warm and liquid. Lara dropped her chin and closed her eyes, willing herself not to get lost again.

  But when he shifted closer, murmured nonsense in her ear—the combination of the hard strength and moist undertone nurtured the ache in her loins. Her muscles tightened against the assault.

  “Damn it, Red, relax,” Ian growled.

  The sexy vibration sparked shock waves down her spine, amped up her ache ten decimals. She bit back a moan.

  “We’re supposed to be into some heavy petting here.”

  “Then let’s do it right,” she whispered. With a slight tug on his hair, she pulled his face mere inches from hers, felt his breath shudder out. She licked her lips, anticipating. “For the cameras.”

  Chapter Six

  Lara’s lips found Ian’s. She tasted the scotch, absorbed its bite, the hint of fruit. Her tongue dipped, teased, coaxing him to participate. She knew what he liked, used it to incite.

  “The cameras,” Ian murmured. He grabbed the back of her head, held it in place and feasted on her mouth, her neck and when she gasped, her mouth again. Her body trembled, her hand fisted his shirt, this time not taking the chance he’d stop. Not until he’d satisfied.

  The elevator doors slid open. Ian pulled back, swore again. Lara took in his hooded lids, the flash of blue heat—felt the latter’s blast against her cheeks.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered, desire keeping his words to a low, husky murmur. He grabbed her hand and tugged her behind him. Only sheer willpower kept her moving on shaky legs.

  “I’m over here.” He nodded down the hallway. “Third room on the right.” Within moments, they reached the door. Ian inserted the key, turned the lock. Laughter echoed through the hall. Lara didn’t glance up. How in the hell was she going to explain—

  “Maggie. Did you hear what I said?”

  “What?” She looked up then, caught the tempered steel in Ian’s gaze.

  “The room. We’re here.” He took her elbow and guided her through the door, then closed it. “Stay put.”

  He walked through the room, his eyes on his watch, checking for hidden transmitters.

  Father Xavier’s room wasn’t, by any means, top-of-the-line, Lara decided. It was more of an understated display of cream brocade and dark mahogany. Classic. Refined. She glanced past the love seat, desk and mini bar to the bedroom where she noted its two double beds.

  Neither Lara nor Ian expected Father Xavier to put in an appearance so soon. But now, Lara thought, would be a good time.

  “It’s clear of devices,” Ian stated from the bedroom. He walked into the suite. “I checked for transmitters earlier. And again just now. We’re set.”

  “Good.” Lara sank onto the love seat. Someone had just pulled her world from under her feet. How was she supposed to stand? She hadn’t touched anyone since Ian. Hadn’t the desire, she thought. Had decided she was done with men for a while.

  “Now what the hell happened back there, Red?”

  “I was supposed to play a role. I played it.” Lara bit the inside of her cheek, trying to absorb this new revelation. The desire had disappeared, simply because Ian had disappeared.

  “Wrong. I know when you’re acting. And lady, that was no act. A few minutes ago, you were two seconds from naked.”

  Closer than that. “You’re reading too much into it. The baby is….” Lara struggled for the right word. “The doctor warned me….”

  “Warned you what?” Ian advanced, concern etched in his features. “Is something wrong with the baby?”

  “No.” Lara paused, frustration riding every single nerve. “It’s my hormones, they’re raging.”

  Ian cocked an eyebrow. “This I have to hear.” He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms and tucked his fingers in his armpits.

  “Raging is the doctor’s word, not mine. But it definitely fits. And sometimes the hormones are hard to control, that’s all. When we were dancing…when you whispered next to my ear…I…” Lara shook her head. Annoyed, she reached for the buttons of her blouse, started undoing them one by one. “Just forget it, all right? It’s not going to happen again.”

  “What else are these hormones doing exactly?” Ian asked, but his eyes flared over her wandering hands.

  Lara swung away, took off her shirt and turned it inside out, leaving only black showing. “Nothing serious.” Ignoring the tremble in her fingers, she slipped her arms in and buttoned the blouse from top to bottom. “Where’s my backpack?”

  “At the foot of the bed,” he said, but his gaze remained fixed with hers. “Are the hormones making you nauseous?”

  “No, just queasy with certain smells. Gasoline for one, red meat…sometimes,” Lara answered. She yanked off her wig and the hair cap underneath. She tossed both on the bed, then grabbed a black knit ski mask from her pack.

  “What else?”

  “Nothing, damn it.” After pulling on the cap, she jammed the stray tendrils inside.

  “Lara, I’m not going to stop until—”

  “Fine.” She nearly shouted the word. “I cry.”

  “You? Cry?”

  She might as well have drawn her pistol and shot him, his expression was that dumbfounded. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Frankly, yes,” Ian admitted, amused. “You’re the last person on earth—”

  “Shut up, Ian.” Lara grabbed his black T-shirt from her pack and threw it at him. Insensitive jerk.

  Ian pulled his polo over his head and tossed it on the bed. Lara’s belly clenched at the play of light across the width of his shoulders. She tried not to remember the feel of them tightening beneath her
hands when he climaxed.

  “Look, Red, I’m sorry—”

  “No, you’re not.” She rolled his shirt up and shoved it into the mini backpack. “But you will be if you don’t drop this now,” she warned. The wig and its cap followed the polo into the bag.

  “Where’s the equipment?”

  “Out on the balcony with my backpack. All but the transmitter.” Ian pulled a small case from his pocket, tossed it like a coin in the air. “Didn’t want to lose it.” Suddenly, his eyes found hers in the mirror. “Raging, huh?”

  “Ian…”

  “What?”

  “Go to hell.”

  Thursday, 0300 hours

  ANTON NOVAK CONSIDERED the Château Bontecou a French architectural masterpiece surrounded by marble courtyards, award-winning gardens and an acre-wide maze of bushes and interlocking bricks.

  The Château had taken Davidenko five years to build and cost millions of dollars in financing. But Anton knew that it was worth every minute, every penny—every drop of sweat that went into its birth.

  “Good morning, Mr. Novak.”

  “Good morning, Maurice.” Anton held his hand up in greeting, but continued past the concierge to Davidenko’s private elevator. After a brief nod for two security guards, he walked onto the elevator and pressed the button for Davidenko’s suite.

  For the first time in a long time, Anton felt the snap of nerves along his spine. He frowned, imagining betrayal would do that to a man. Even if the reason was sound, the act itself, was a new experience.

  With a sigh, he understood the betrayal couldn’t be helped. But it did not ease his conscience.

  He deliberately didn’t stop at his own apartment, wanting Davidenko to see the grime-ridden suit, now ruined after the scuffle with Eos.

  The door slid open and Anton stepped out into the grand entryway. He was met by yet another man, Joseph. Davidenko’s personal enforcer.

  “Hello, Mr. Novak.”

  “Hello, Joseph.” Anton automatically raised his arms for the search. It didn’t matter if Anton was the closest thing Davidenko had to a son, Davidenko didn’t trust anyone.

  And Joseph, Anton understood, shared the same opinion. The enforcer trusted no one, least of all Anton.

  Then again, Anton couldn’t blame the man.

  Anton lost his mother at the age of five. With his father unable to care for him, he had been shuffled from foster parent to foster parent until, at the age of nine, he’d escaped to the streets. Over the years, he’d perfected a talent for pickpocketing. By twelve he’d become one of the best on the street.

  One night, he marked Davidenko, a rich man new to the Las Vegas streets. He’d performed the bump and roll to perfection. Running, as if someone had been chasing him, he bumped into Davidenko, snatched the wallet, then took off.

  Once Davidenko discovered his wallet missing, he sent Joseph after the thief with specific orders to kill.

  “Thank you, Mr. Novak,” Joseph said, forcing Anton’s thoughts to the present. The enforcer stepped back. Over six feet tall, there wasn’t a scrap of unused muscle in the two-hundred-fifty pound frame. Many times over the years Anton wondered what might have happened if Joseph had found him on that fateful day.

  “They called from downstairs. Mr. Davidenko is expecting you.”

  “Thanks, Joseph.” Anton’s smiled widened. There had been a good reason Joseph had never found Anton. On the street nothing stayed a secret. Soon, Anton knew he was marked for killing. Instead of waiting, he sought a meeting with Davidenko, returned the wallet and its contents, then offered his services.

  Davidenko had taken a liking to Anton. Pickpockets, Anton had learned, garnered much respect in the Russian world of crime. By the time Joseph returned empty-handed, Anton had become Davidenko’s personal errand boy.

  Something Joseph never forgot, Ian mused, then entered Davidenko’s private quarters.

  Dubbed the blue suite by the staff, Davidenko’s apartment was no different from the rest of the hotel. Each had the stamp of French Renaissance splendor.

  Elegant, immaculate. The coffered ceiling, if studied closely, revealed an intertwining M and D. Arrogantly inspired from past century kings. The walls dripped with French and Italian masterpieces. Veronese. Tintoretto. Monet.

  The furniture consisted mostly of fifteenth century walnut and marble. All accented in dusty blue brocade and velvet drapes.

  Only two changes disrupted the French ambience. A wall of monitors—all tapped into the different areas of the hotel and casino—and a ten-foot fish tank behind the bar.

  “Anton, come in.”

  Business did make strange bedfellows, Anton noted. “Hello, Mr. Davidenko.”

  Whimpers floated on the air. Anton glanced at the monitor already guessing what he’d see—a woman strapped to the chair, her arms bound. Behind her stood a man with a black wand twirling in his hands.

  “A Taser?”

  “Beatings have proved to be ineffective in the past.” Davidenko hit an intercom button. “Take her to her suite and leave her there. The doctor will be up shortly to take care of the rest.”

  “Auction?” Anton asked. One of the men grabbed Sophia Franco by the arm and hoisted her over his shoulder.

  “No, she’s too well-known.”

  “If you sold her body parts, you’d get more money,” Anton reasoned. Bile coated his tongue. With effort, he swallowed it back.

  Davidenko walked over to the bar and poured himself a double vodka. He didn’t offer Anton a drink but then again, Anton had worked long enough for Davidenko that he didn’t expect one.

  “No. I won’t dissect her.” Davidenko shrugged. “Call me sentimental.”

  “Did you find out what she did with the poison?”

  “She denied taking it,” Davidenko said, then set the bottle down.

  “And the chemists’ notes?”

  “That, too.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Improbable, not impossible,” Davidenko drawled in Russian. He tipped his glass toward Anton. “What happened to you?”

  “Armand is dead. So is my man, Georgy and the truck driver.”

  “The merchandise?”

  “Destroyed.”

  “I see.” Davidenko swallowed the double shot of vodka. “This is not good news, Anton.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “Worse?” Davidenko’s laugh sounded like steel grinding on vocal cords. The small hairs rose at the base of Anton’s neck. “The only thing worse is that you lost my money.”

  “Whoever killed Georgy, Armand and his men, also blew up the munitions. The money was inside.”

  “Yet you escaped.”

  “Yes,” Anton agreed evenly, knowing he was balancing on a thin edge.

  Davidenko paused. His keen black eyes studied Anton. After a moment his lips curled into an easy smile. “All right, Anton. We’ll check into this mishap. I want to know who interfered with our business.” He walked over and put his hand on Anton’s shoulder, then squeezed. “Then I want you to kill them.”

  “I had planned on it.” The relief rushed through Anton, making him light-headed for a moment. His gamble had paid off. Of course, the odds had been with him. He’d never failed Davidenko in the past, but still…

  “Good,” Davidenko said, seemingly appeased. Yet the threat was there, laced within the word.

  “I will, of course, replace the money I lost. And the merchandise.”

  “Of course,” Davidenko agreed. “But next time, Anton, should this happen again…” Davidenko’s eyes narrowed into slits of black. “It would be best you die with your comrades. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “WE HAVE TO SAVE HER. We have no choice.” Although Lara kept her words low, urgency punctuated each syllable.

  Like two bats hiding among the Château’s limestone niches, Lara and Ian hung suspended above an arched window, observing Novak’s conversation with Davidenko.

  “No. We have to insta
ll this receiver.” Ian took in their surroundings with a slow, steady gaze. “Then get the hell off of this wall. We’re too exposed hanging here.”

  “I know,” Lara whispered. “But—”

  “We’ll save the woman. After we plant the transmitter.”

  “Thanks.” Lara smiled, knowing Ian couldn’t see it through her mask. She couldn’t hear Sophia’s whimpering, her screams. But she understood the shock of pain.

  Novak and Davidenko continued to talk. Lara tilted her electronic camera farther down the window, aware that every millimeter risked discovery.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Novak’s not happy. He’s telling Davidenko that Sophia was the only one capable of stealing the biochemical.” Lara paused, waiting for Davidenko to face her more so she could read his lips. A trick she’d picked up in boarding school and had perfected over the years. “Davidenko isn’t as sure.”

  “Someone else could have lifted it out of Davidenko’s vault,” Ian murmured. “Someone else on the inside.”

  “Novak?”

  Ian grunted softly, but his eyes continued to take in the perimeter. “It wouldn’t be the first time the second in command turned. With the right backing, Novak could bring Davidenko down.”

  “Maxim is backed by the Russian mob. If Novak wanted to take over, he’d have to get more than just Davidenko.”

  “You mean Godfather style? Him at a christening, his men killing the heads of all the families? That happens only in the movies, Red.”

  “But if he promised the big guys a biochemical? I know for a fact, Davidenko isn’t being a good sharer with his new Weapon of Mass Destruction.”

  “Maybe,” Ian appeased. “But to be sure, we’re going to have to chat with Miss Franco. For some reason my muse is telling me she might just have the answer we need.”

  “If she survives.”

  Carefully, Ian drew out a specialized drill. The size of a one-inch needle, Kate had made the drill small enough to evade detection in the glass, but big enough to hold their booster. “Most monitor systems are hooked up by remote.” He inserted the receptor. “This little baby should intercept it and feed it to our computers. Go ahead and check.”