Engaging Bodyguard Read online

  “All right. You’ll get your money.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he replied and slapped the prostitute’s face. There was no reaction.

  “I said, you’ll get your money.”

  “Then I agree.” The man shifted back into his seat. “You’ll do as before. Deposit the payment to the same account. Half now, the rest when the news hits the wire.”

  “It’ll be done tomorrow.”

  And moments after the deposit, the money would be transferred through several different accounts until it reached the correct one overseas. “Do not inconvenience me again.” Sharp steel edged each word. “Or the deal’s off. Understood?”

  “Yes. Yes,” the other man replied, his drawl growing thicker with his impatience. “There will be no more contact between us. Just take care of business. You understand?”

  The man in the car disconnected, tempted to take the imbecile’s money and not do the job. He drove along the Detroit River until he found an acceptable area. The snow and wind sharpened off the water. The long, bellowing gusts had left the road deserted. He leaned over the woman and pushed the door open. Not bothering to get out, he shoved her onto the roadside and watched her roll a few feet. “Au revoir, chérie,” he said, as he tossed the purse out. Seconds later, his calling cards followed. He watched the silver glint against the snow, then reached for the camera in the glove compartment. “Say cheese,” he quipped, then pressed the button.

  As he closed the door, he replayed the telephone conversation in his mind, then spoke aloud as though the man on the other end were sitting beside him. “Tomorrow afternoon, my friend, you will learn of the dead prostitute. What I wonder is how you will explain the presence of your private number on her cell phone?” He settled against the leather seat for the long trip home. “Now that will be inconvenient.”

  CAIN LAY on the couch, understanding immediately when the worn cushions gave way—comfortable, comforting—why the piece had avoided the garbage dump.

  But soon her scent clouded around him. He’d done his best to ignore it after she’d stepped out of the shower, smelling as if she’d rolled in a meadow of wild flowers.

  Another change. Diana had been upper Manhattan, her scent more stylish, classy and serene. Restless, he stood and watched Pan pad out the kitchen door, most likely to start his nightly prowl. Cain soon started stalking the apartment himself. Checking windows, doors.

  He caught sight of the weight bench and automatically loaded up the bar, although he was impressed at the sixty pounds she’d left there. Celeste Pavenic was as far from Diana as Manhattan was from the Rocky Mountains. Earthy, simple—strong. Although not as Rambo-strong as she thought she was.

  Rhythmically, he lifted the weights. Damned if she wasn’t impressing him. Scaring the hell out of him, too.

  Cain had vehemently argued with Jon over her acquisition into Labyrinth. She’d been too raw, too delicate to survive out in the field.

  But there was more to it. At Quantico, Jon and Cain had observed Diana through a two-way mirror. Dressed in a trim, navy-blue suit with a skirt just high enough to show a little too much thigh, and hair long enough to keep her femininity intact, she could’ve been a corporate poster girl.

  But surprisingly, it was the air of efficiency that drew his attention. She leaned over a desk, her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a redheaded man whose face was nothing more than an explosion of freckles. They both scanned the computer screen in front of them, pointing at data, deep in conversation.

  Then, almost as if she sensed their presence, her head tilted just enough to study the mirror. The man continued to talk while she continued to stare. After a moment, she smiled, a soft serene tilt of her lips, before allowing her associate to pull her attention back to their discussion.

  The impact of that one look, calm as a glass-covered pond, settled the frenzied storm in Cain. He’d spent years dealing with scum, mucking around in places where only the foulest creatures bred.

  She’d became his beacon, an oasis amidst the chaos.

  His decision to seduce her came at that moment, however, it had taken months for him to arrange the meeting through Roman. Then, for four months he’d courted her, leaving his seduction until the end.

  She’d surprised him. In Cain’s mind, gypsies had always been tall and sultry. After one weekend in his cabin, she had shattered that image forever. The memory of her sighs, soft and fluttering with uncertainty, still haunted him—how her heart had raced with each caress, how her moans of erotic pleasure had turned into demands for release. And when he hadn’t obeyed right away, how she’d risen to meet him, naked and passionate, her skin slick with heat, her body pliant—her heart open.

  Then he’d proposed.

  He’d offered her passion, comfort, protection—if not love. And when she’d needed the protection, the comfort…he’d had no choice about leaving her. Another operative, Jordan Beck, had been captured and left to die in the bowels of Colombia. Cain had been his only line out.

  As a satellite operative, Diana should never had been in real danger, the interrogation should’ve been routine.

  But she’d stuck to her theory after the boy’s death. Not once had she broken under the endless grilling.

  For days, they’d kept her at a table, pounding her with questions. But while her answers never changed, Diana did. Her voice hoarsened to sandpaper, her features sharpened and her cheeks hollowed. Given little sleep and even less food, she’d taken it all with dignified grace, defying their allegations. All the while, he was sure, silently grieving for the dead boy.

  Guilt twisted his gut because even knowing what he did now, he would have made the same choice.

  “Cain.”

  She’d whispered his name from across the room, but the underlining desperation smacked him square in the gut.

  Slowly, he set down the weights.

  She’d changed her clothes. A man’s plain white T-shirt hung to her knees over a dark pair of sweatpants and fleece scuffs on her feet for added warmth. No makeup, her hair in feathered disarray, she looked more like a teenager than a grown woman.

  “I know its not fair for me to ask this, but…” She stopped in mid-step, poised to turn and run. “Oh, hell.”

  Cain had been around her enough now to realize she only swore when she felt cornered or off balance.

  But he wasn’t paying attention to the words, as much as to the need reflected in her eyes. Not desire, but reassurance.

  “You see, so much has happened, and it’s been so long since…” She dragged a hand through her hair, telling him she’d been doing the same for probably the last half hour. “Damn it, I need…”

  Without a word, he scooped her up in his arms, recognizing his own restlessness as a desire to hold her. It was time to stop denying them both.

  She sighed and melted into him, but it wasn’t until her arms encircled his neck that his own body settled, for once content.

  Gently, he brought her back to the couch. Sinking in, they lay curled, her back snug against his chest, her head tucked safely under his chin. Slowly he rubbed, enjoying the texture, the smell. Needing to comfort, needing that comfort.

  The rightness seeped in, catching him off guard.

  Little by little, the layers of muscles relaxed. His, hers. Until she sighed again, then his arms tightened. “How long has it been, Gypsy, since anybody’s held you?”

  “Jon did, once. When we said goodbye. A big bear hug. It felt good. Other than that, no one since our weekend in your cabin.”

  “And Grace?”

  “You know Grams, she loved me, but she wasn’t one to…” She stopped and shook her head. “Cain, I didn’t leave you because of the choice you made. I agreed with it.”

  “I know.”

  “We would’ve never been happy. Not really. Funny thing is, Jon saw it, too. He sat me down like a father would, to ask me if I was sure about being married to you.”

  “I could see him doing that.” He
sighed, not liking the raw feeling invading his chest at the mention of Jon’s name.

  Without thinking, he started rubbing the hollow between her shoulders, where he suspected the muscles refused to unknot.

  “Mercer recruited me, you know. In fact, he recruited both Roman and me just as we were finishing our final year at the Naval Academy. Roman because of his diplomatic connections, and me—well, let’s just say I proved I could handle myself even back then. That, along with the MacAlister name, caught the government’s interest.”

  Cain breathed in her scent, no longer fighting the impulse, absorbing it easily. “When I started with Labyrinth, I began distancing myself from my family, friends. Partly because of the lifestyle and, of course, because of the risk. At first it was difficult, but over the years, with each mission, it became easier and easier until I couldn’t break free, didn’t want to. The scum of it eventually sticks to you like thick crude oil, to the point where you feel you’ll never be clean.”

  “You can’t change who you are, Cain.”

  “You did.”

  “No, I was no more than a lump of clay, molded into who I was told to be. Rather than take the risk I might be my mother, I became nobody really.”

  The carefulness of her statement, squeezed at his heart. He absorbed that too, as he did her scent, but this time, not so easily.

  “You were always Prometheus. You probably came out of the womb with fists raised,” she said.

  He felt her smile against his arm and enjoyed the humor. Her humor.

  “Jon recognized that in you, Cain.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely.” She leaned back and stared at him for a minute. Her face pale, like smooth milk glass, making the blue of her eyes softer—a rich sapphire velvet. Still, he noted the small lines of fatigue etched around her eyes and mouth. Remorse shadowed his conscious. He’d done that.

  “That’s why I let you believe I’d died, you know. It was the only way to protect you,” she whispered.

  Foolish, stupid even, but Cain still felt the slight warming beneath his heart. In her position, he would have done the same.

  “I didn’t think you’d grieve too much, because I knew you didn’t love me, not really, Cain. But your sense of duty to protect—engaged or not—would have made you stay.”

  “I understand.” And it frightened him, that he really did understand. And more importantly, forgave. “You did what you felt was necessary.”

  “I was still clutching your mother’s ring when the firefighters found me.” She turned back, snuggled in deeper. “I kept it because for a long time it was my lifeline. But now…” She took a huge, shaky breath that trembled against his chest. “If you want it back…” The courage was there more than ever in that one simple offer.

  And the love.

  It was the latter that tugged on him—the deliberate, gentle tug of the inevitable. And God help him, in that moment he slid, slow and easy, into its warmth. “No. Keep it. It’s yours.” Needing more, though not sure why, his hand eased over her arm, grasped hers, palm to palm, fingers locked. It has always been yours, he mouthed the words silently against her hair.

  She shifted her head until her cheek lay over his heart. He felt moisture dampen his shirt and recognized the tears for what they meant. The fact that she’d trusted him enough to let go humbled him, making his tumble that much more amazing, and that much more terrifying.

  He’d taken on the Mafia, drug cartels, rogue agents and terrorists. Fearlessly, systematically. But for the first time, Cain tasted uncertainty.

  After a while, the rhythmic breathing against his forearm told him she’d fallen asleep.

  Gently, he cupped the back of her head, holding her to him. He placed a soft kiss on her brow, let his thumb caress the silkiness just under her ear.

  The T-shirt’s tag had flipped, sticking out of the neckline, Cain recognized the brand as his favorite. One that was no longer manufactured.

  She’d taken his T-shirt from the cabin with her.

  “You sure pick the damnedest time to go soft on me, Gypsy.” Amused and frustrated, he closed his eyes—knowing he wouldn’t find rest so easily. What the dregs of the world hadn’t managed in over a dozen years, fate had handled in less than twenty-four hours.

  A tiny gypsy had brought Prometheus to his knees.

  A HIGH-PITCHED WHINE hit the air like a raid siren. Cain hit the deck, one arm protecting, one hand reaching for his pistol.

  “A fax?” Celeste struggled off the couch, her eyes blinking away the sleep. “Jon is the only one with this number. Not even Olivia has it.”

  By the time they reached the second bedroom, a paper lay in the machine’s slot.

  “A photograph.” Her fingers trembled, her face paled to white linen. But when she looked at Cain her eyes were ice-blue and steady. “Score one for the bad guys.”

  With a curse, Cain snagged the picture.

  It showed the clear lines of a woman lying in the snow, her eyes open, the pupils flat and lifeless.

  Cain scanned the picture until his eyes locked on the lower right corner, knowing instantly why Celeste’s hand had begun to shake.

  According to the time stamp, the picture had been taken less than three hours prior.

  “She’s dead.” Celeste leaned against the wall and looked up at the ceiling, trying to check her emotions. The soft tick, tick of a watch was the only sound echoing through the room.

  Automatically she glanced at Cain’s watch and froze. “Your watch is digital.”

  “Yes. What has that—”

  “Shhh!” Celeste swung around, her eyes searching.

  When Cain stepped closer, her hand held him back. “Bomb.” They both started searching then, but it Celeste who found it.

  “The fax machine.”

  “Get out of here, Gypsy,” he growled.

  “No!” She rounded on him, snapping fingers impatiently. “You still carry that penlight?”

  When Cain didn’t move, Celeste yelled, “Damn it, Cain. You may have handled my death by reinforcing your car against explosives, I handled it by learning how to disable them. Give me the light. Hurry!”

  Cain reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, then disconnected the penlight. He punched the red button, turning on the light. “Leave the black button alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it triggers a laser. I sure would hate like hell for it to touch an explosive.”

  “Good call,” she agreed with derision and directed the light to illuminate the underside of the fax machine.

  The bottom had been removed from the machine to allow several small squares of a clay-like substance to be tucked up underneath the casing. Celeste shifted, feeling a thin sheen of sweat form on her brow. “Get out, Cain. He’s got this thing loaded with C-4 explosives.”

  “Not on your life.”

  Hearing the hard edge on his statement, Celeste didn’t waste any more breath, and instead pointed the light into the paper feeder. She saw it then, an analog wristwatch fastened to the back inside corner. The feeder triggered the watch to start its countdown. They had a minute at most. But worse, wires ran across and down each seam. “Damn it! He’s rigged the whole thing so it can’t be opened.”

  She jerked him away. “Let’s go!”

  They both hit the apartment door, scrambling. Halfway down the outside steps, they jumped the railing.

  The store shattered, windows and frames exploded, showering them with splinters of glass. Instinctively, Celeste covered her face and sprinted blindly, held tight in Cain’s grip. Before she could think, a second explosion—its blast hot and angry—shoved her into Cain and pelted them with wicked blows of wood and cement.

  “YOU’RE LUCKY, Miss Pavenic. Just a bad sprain.” The paramedic, a thirty-something-year-old blonde who’d look more comfortable holding a surfboard in his hands than a stretcher, finished bandaging Celeste’s right ankle. “You should be as good as new if you take it easy for a few day
s and ice it every so often to keep the swelling down.”

  “Thank you.” The throbbing had eased into a dull ache with the light compression of the wrap.

  The paramedic stepped to the side and started putting his supplies away. “I understand your refusal to go to the hospital right now, but I would have it checked within the next few days.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Slowly, she slid off the back of the ambulance, testing her leg. “See?” Earlier, the paramedic had given her his jacket to stave off the biting wind. Now, she zipped it until the collar closed around her neck. She managed a tentative smile as she limped away from the ambulance, grimacing at the sharp pain only after she’d turned away.

  Cain appeared at her side, and steadied her with his hand cupped at her elbow. “Going somewhere?”

  “I’ve nowhere to go, or haven’t you noticed?” Cain had foregone a coat, still wearing only his shirt and jeans to protect him from the cold. Other than a few facial cuts, he showed little evidence of their ordeal.

  “What do you have on the woman?” she asked, knowing Cain had spent time on the phone while she’d been checked over.

  “A Detroit prostitute by the name of Joyce Raines.” Cain paused. “Age thirty-two. No relatives, no permanent address—other than her pimp’s—and no worldly possessions except a cell phone—again, paid for by her pimp. Ian’s hit a snag with the phone records.”

  “What snag?”

  “There are no records,” Cain spat. “Phone company doesn’t understand how it happened, of course. Roman’s on it now. He’s checking for back doors—it’s only a matter of time before he finds something.”

  Celeste knew Roman’s expertise lay in computer technology. “Could be our missing link. Whoever set me up used the cell phone to do it. I’m betting it’s no coincidence. Whatever happened on that phone call might have cost Joyce Raines her life.”

  “Quamar’s come up empty in Detroit. No witnesses, no leads. Other than her drug addiction, Raines led a sad, uneventful life.” He handed her his PDA to read the details herself.