Engaging Bodyguard Page 7

“Guilty,” Cain acknowledged with practiced ease. “My father’s company.”

  “I read about it in some financial magazine. Saw your picture.” He grinned. “Caught my eye because it’s my favorite brand.”

  “I’ll tell my father you said so. He appreciates the feedback.”

  “You do that.” Lassiter tipped his hat. “And since you’re willing to provide restitution, I’ll let you off with a warning. Call it an early wedding gift. Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Thanks,” Cain said, and slid his hand into the soft curls at the base of Diana’s neck.

  With her sharp intake of breath, Lassiter glanced up.

  “Maybe you could come over some night for dinner,” Cain suggested, keeping his tone casual.

  The sheriff hesitated, then bobbed his head until his chin disappeared into the thick collar of his coat. “I’d like that. Hell, I’m getting tired of diner food—” He tipped his hat low onto his forehead. “Excuse me, Miss Pavenic.”

  Lassiter extended his hand once more to Cain. “Congratulations again on your engagement.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  Cain watched the other man leave before shutting the door.

  “You can stop now,” she snapped and tried to sidestep his hold.

  “I could,” he stated, refusing to drop his arm. “I’m just not sure I want to.” He pulled her body closer, noting when the heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up in surprise.

  “Gypsy.” He drew out her nickname, enjoying the taste of it against his tongue. Sweet, he thought, too damn sweet to handle the bitterness in him. Nonetheless, he cupped the back of her neck, urging her closer. He noted a small flicker of alarm, right before her eyes deepened into cerulean pools. He gentled his touch, no longer surprised over his concern for her.

  Unable to stop himself—not wanting to stop himself—Cain studied her clean-scrubbed features, following the graceful line of her face until his gaze rested on the slightly moist tendrils of hair that clung to her forehead and cheeks.

  “Consider this…” he challenged softly, enjoying the minklike texture of her hair against his skin. He leaned in, allowing his mouth to hover above hers. “Redefining the term we.”

  Chapter Seven

  The kiss itself was gentle. Only a butterfly dusting against her lips. Still, Celeste’s heart trembled.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice, rough, blended with the muffled roar cresting in her ears. But it was the fire in his eyes that set her trembling. His voice dipped seductively, strumming a chord deep within her long and hard, until her toes curled.

  “Satisfying your curiosity.” The warmth of his breath tickled, then excited. “And mine. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Sparks of electricity raced up her arm, leaving her skin tingling. When his thumb rubbed the pad of her hand lightly, she couldn’t control her sharp intake of breath.

  “Pretending we’re a couple…” The impulse to bury his fingers in the damp curls, to draw her face up to his, increased the hammering in Cain’s blood. He struggled to keep his expression bland. “…simplifies things.”

  “Simplifies—” The word came out in a squeak. She cleared her throat, obviously trying to gain some control over her anger. The action drew his gaze to the small, erratic pulse at the base of her neck increasing his craving for that spot—sweet and fragile—under his mouth. “Can’t you be honest with me for once?”

  “You first.”

  When Cain’s gaze caught and pinned hers, any thought Celeste had of fighting disappeared under a surge of longing. His free hand skimmed her jaw before slipping around to cup the back of her head. The small hairs on her neck stood.

  “You want honesty?” He leaned closer until his breath tickled her cheek. Without a thought, Celeste shifted her mouth to taste the warmth on her lips and he captured her in a slow, shivery kiss. There was a cautious intimacy in the way his lips caressed hers. The kiss spanned three years of yearning, of deprivation that started in her heart and grew until it overwhelmed her soul, leaving her body throbbing.

  “This is honest, Gypsy,” he whispered after his mouth broke away. He nibbled her lower lip, the curve of her jaw.

  “No,” she disagreed, but in spite of herself, Celeste waited, her breath locked in her throat, the anticipation making her heart race. “It’s a weapon.”

  Cain absorbed the insult, accepting the lie for what it was—an act of self-preservation. He stroked the soft skin of her neck with the tip of his finger. Her lips trembled and Cain’s blood raced. Enough that when her lips parted as if to say something more, he moved closer. The slight switch in positions fanned his desire, touching off a high-pitched hum throughout his body.

  Shock rippled over her features, telling him she felt it, too. But the fear remained in the widening of her eyes.

  His body tightened, every muscle rigid with awareness. The attraction was there—flash-fire hot. After everything she’d been through, everything she’d done, she still wanted him. He’d bet his sanity on it.

  “Stop it!” Her words exploded between them, a little breathless, more than a little desperate. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she stepped back, startled when Cain’s hand fell away. He let her go, using the time to bank his desire, to silence the hum.

  “I have no idea what game you’re playing.” Her hands went to her hips, though a charming flush invaded her cheeks. “But I’m not interested.”

  “This isn’t a game, Gypsy.” Regret, finely edged and razor-sharp, sliced through him. “And you are interested. But I agree, this situation is complicated enough.” When she didn’t respond, he wasn’t surprised.

  For a moment, Celeste hadn’t thought it’d be so easy. And for a moment, she didn’t want it to be.

  “I want guarantees,” she insisted, albeit weakly.

  “Go ahead,” he folded his arms, evidently unconcerned and more annoyingly, unaffected.

  “Don’t think I’m going to be like Lassiter.” Celeste glared. “He used your father’s reputation to size you up. Right about now, he’s wondering how I met you for real and how long you’ll be staying.”

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this,” he ordered. “And not go off half-cocked.”

  As usual, his features remained impassive. She’d spent her life on the fringe of society. Over the years, she’d learned to observe, to read people from their actions, voice inflections, facial expressions. But she’d never been able to read Cain MacAlister. “I’m not the one in this room who’s the self-appointed protector of mankind, Prometheus.”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Good thing, because we could definitely talk about some control issues, couldn’t we?”

  Cain sighed. “Why don’t we stick to the reason we’re here.”

  “Fine.” On stilted legs, Celeste led him to her second bedroom. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air as they entered, a by-product of the pristine white walls.

  “So tell me more about this killer,” Cain said.

  “Personality wise?” She switched on a nearby lamp. “Detached. Unaffected.”

  “Your typical antisocial type?” Cain’s eyes narrowed against the low amber light filtering the room.

  “Actually, he’s extremely sociable and very comfortable moving around in elite circles.” When Cain stepped behind her, the room seemed to close in on Celeste. She flipped on additional lights, hoping to widen the space. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have access to the people he’s targeting.”

  “Okay, so how did you hook him?” In one long sweep, Cain’s gaze took in her office. Or what she’d always thought of as her office.

  “A few months ago, the killer left the first series of coins.”

  “First series? How many all together?”

  “Including Jonathon’s, four.”

  “Nothing showed up because—”

  “At my request, Jonathon made sure it didn’t.”

  “I believe you’re beginning to impress me, Gypsy
.” His gaze skimmed over the wallpaper—only it wasn’t paper, but photographs—that covered one wall. Some were of Bobby, some were of his family and other Shadow Point residents. Others were of people who were no longer alive—their few smiling portraits framed by pictures of their corpses—some were riddled with blood and gore, others not. Spattered atop and in between lay a rainbow of Post-it notes. At one time, these people had been strangers to Celeste, but not anymore. Over the last few months, she’d become intimately familiar with these individuals and their backgrounds.

  Cain let out a low, easy whistle. “If anyone but me saw this, they might think you were a serial killer. Or at the very least, a very sick individual.”

  She had to agree. Other than the photos, the room held little more than a cheap particle-board desk, a swivel chair and a computer. Somehow, she couldn’t bring the coziness of her store into something that contained such evil. He scanned the photographs. “You’re sure this is a man?”

  “I’m sure. Men posture differently, physically as well as mentally. I’d say we’re looking for a Caucasian male in his prime. Somewhere in his forties. Any younger would make it difficult for him to mingle with that kind of crowd. Any outstanding features, like a mole or scar would’ve been surgically removed. No habitual behavior. Easier to switch identities that way.”

  Cain grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. With a decisive “Call me,” Cain snapped the phone shut.

  “Money, his reputation, that’s what drives him.” She glanced at the pictures on the wall until she came to Bobby’s. “How he kills, that’s just…a diversion.” She smoothed her hand over the photograph, absorbing the familiar ache. “Mercer believed me from the beginning, but with no proof, he wasn’t going to take it to the president. We’d already decided to continue investigating. My death made it easier.”

  “And Olivia Cambridge?”

  “After she spotted me at the cemetery she contacted Jon and insisted I move to Shadow Point or she’d blow my cover. She knew I’d continue the investigation and wanted firsthand knowledge.

  “Jonathon took a risk and I stayed here to make my dealing with her easier.”

  Cain nodded, but continued to scrutinize the other photos. “And Jonathon kept your presence here in Shadow Point a secret.”

  “Yes.”

  “President Cambridge wouldn’t have been the first leader in history to kill a family member to ensure his position. Sympathy goes a long way with the American public during election years. However, when I suggested the theory to Jonathon, he didn’t agree. If his death is connected to these others, you can be sure it’s a paid contract. I just don’t know who the client is or the why.”

  “He can’t kill all of us,” Cain argued.

  “That’s my point. He could if he wanted to. I’m betting whoever is paying him has found an access to all of our files.”

  “A government official?”

  Celeste nodded. “Or another operative.” The Labyrinth files were classified. Even the president had restricted access unless he required contact.

  “Jon wouldn’t allow the records—”

  “And as you’ve pointed out before, Cain, Jonathon’s dead. Besides, this guy doesn’t waste his time. He wouldn’t be playing with the coins if he wasn’t already getting paid to kill these people,” she replied. “He’s meticulous—pays enormous attention to detail. Everybody knew Jonathon always stepped outside alone to smoke his cigars.

  “I’m betting that the coins started showing up because he’d realized I survived the explosion.” Edgy, Celeste opened a small fridge under her desk and grabbed a bottle of water. Absently she offered it to Cain, but he shook his head. “If I had to speculate on the two highest probabilities…” She pointed the bottle in the general direction of the photos. “…when he tries to kill us, he’s going to do it in such a way that he’ll show off his skill, his cunning, or he’ll set us up for another murder.”

  “Or both.”

  “That, too,” she admitted easily. “Cain,” she warned, “don’t underestimate this guy. His reputation is everything. He doesn’t make mistakes. In his business, if he did, he’d be dead.”

  “You forget, I’m in the same business.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She started past him, but his arm came up to block her retreat. For an instant, she thought the muscle flexing against her breast might have been deliberate.

  “Still enemies?” His eyes slid over her face, questioning. But it was the purr behind the words that stroked her heart, set its tempo faster.

  “Uncomfortable allies,” she tossed back. Heavens, she’d never trusted anyone except Grams before Cain. Never really understood that trust took on a different meaning when dealing with passion—or love for that matter. Not that she had a lot of experience with either.

  Oh, she’d had the typical clichéd affair with one of her professors in college. Not because she’d found true love, but more because she thought herself sophisticated enough to deal with sex. But when that professor found another willing student to add to the notches on his bedpost, she bowed out gracefully, not caring, but not liking the bad taste the situation had left in her mouth.

  From that moment, she’d avoided any kind of involvement…until Cain. He released inhibitions in her that she’d never known existed and a love she never thought herself capable of.

  So now, when desire sharpened his granite-like features, a succession of small electric charges exploded at the base of her spine.

  In another place, another lifetime, Cain could’ve been the lover she desired, the husband she dreamed about. “Cain, I—” Celeste stopped, not knowing what to say.

  “It’s all right, Gypsy.” He dropped his arm, turned toward the photos once more. “So Gabriel works alone?”

  With a bit more steadiness than she was feeling, Celeste swung away, not sure what to think of the abrupt change in Cain. How could someone turn off emotion so quickly? Especially when her own roiled within.

  “For the most part—yes. Partners are dangerous, unreliable,” she said, setting her bottled water onto the desk. Water would only aggravate her already fluttering stomach. “Gabriel tracks his victim’s life, learns their habits then kills them. Obviously, he decided we’re important enough to study.”

  “So, like you, he profiles people.”

  “Yes, to put it simply.”

  “And the coins are just his way of keeping our attention.”

  Celeste rubbed her temples tiredly. “The coins appeared a couple of months ago—on the body of a man by the name of Doctor Alejandro Longoria.”

  “Spanish.” Cain took a moment to place the name. “Expert in plastic surgery. Spoke at a seminar here in the States just before he died. Interpol suspected he’d been killed by an unsatisfied customer.”

  “He was. I believe one of his patients, possibly a surgery gone wrong, hired Gabriel to kill Longoria.”

  “His face was shredded—his heart cut out. All with his own scalpel.”

  “And all the facial incisions were precise, as though the killer had been following a map or—”

  “Copying the same incisions made on his disgruntled customer.”

  “Five Georgia quarters were found in his coat,” Celeste explained. “Their emblem consisted of a peach, an oak tree and a banner with three words. Wisdom. Justice. Moderation. The authorities didn’t think it unusual because Dr. Longoria was known to be collecting them from Americans who passed his way.”

  “But you disagree.”

  “Do you remember when Supreme Court Justice Miles Rokeach died?”

  Cain grunted, disgusted. “Someone breached his yacht, most likely from under the water. Easy enough. Pay off a crew member, arrange for a predetermined location, then kill the contact with the rest of the crew. The authorities didn’t find the ship for several days and the crew members were gone. Most likely thrown overboard.”

  “The authorities found Justice Rokeach and his wife dead inside.” />
  “And you believe your assassin left the Georgia quarters in Longoria’s coat as a clue,” Cain prompted, unwilling to use kid gloves on Celeste. “That’s pretty vague. So far the only connection is the word justice.”

  “And the southern state of Georgia,” she countered, obviously not intimidated. “Don’t you see? After rendering them unconscious with a stun gun, the killer stripped them naked and sealed them in the cabin. But not before he’d left a canister of hydrogen cyanide gas behind. He rigged a timer to allow both of them to regain consciousness before the canister detonated. They were found dead by the door.”

  “I heard the rumors. A white supremacy group backed the murders in protest over the judge’s religion. He was Jewish.”

  “Exactly. And in their nightstand ashtray lay five state quarters. New Hampshire. The Old Man on the Mountain.”

  “Mercer?”

  “The president had nicknamed Jonathon Old Man.”

  “Again you’re stretching, Gypsy.”

  “And he’s dead.”

  Celeste caught Cain’s gaze. “I’ve tracked Gabriel back four years. Men, women, children. Diplomats, mob figures, the cartel. I can’t be one-hundred-percent positive, but all were hired hits, all were killed with Gabriel’s flair. None with coins until after Bobby’s death.”

  “Why the coins? And why now? Because of your report on the coin left in Bobby’s hand?”

  “It fits. Otherwise, why not a note, a memento, like jewelry or a flower?”

  “It’s all been done before.”

  “Exactly. Not original enough.”

  “Speaking of jewelry, Gypsy…” Cain paused, watching her face. “How about telling me the truth about my mother’s engagement ring?”

  “I told you—”

  “No more lies. I realized when Jon told me you were alive that you might have kept it. You see, I placed a homing device in it with a fifty-mile range so when I tried to find you I turned it on. I got no response. Not until this morning, that is.”

  “That’s how you found me so quickly at the lighthouse.” She took a deep breath. “You actually kept track of me with a homing device.”