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“Nothing,” she said, her voice softer, flatter.
He didn’t push. The call to Sara would clear things up. The whole phone ploy was actually pretty smart. It didn’t completely break down the barriers between them, but overhearing her chats gave him tremendous insight, which helped him do his job. Besides, she was pretty funny.
Hell, if he had to work as someone’s trained pony, he was glad it was Tate. She might be rich as Croesus, but she didn’t act like most of the trust-fund babies he’d met. He’d wondered, often, whether she’d be so nice if she didn’t live every moment in fear. Poor kid. He wished that shrink would move it along. Let Tate really live while she was still young.
“Did Elizabeth tell you about tomorrow?”
Michael nodded. “She gave me the schedule for the week.”
“Good. Okay, well….”
He glanced in the mirror, but she wasn’t looking at him. The phone call should be coming right up.
He saw an opening for the damn boat of a limo and he took it, daring the Yellow cab next to him to interfere. By the time he’d gone a half block Tate had the slim cell phone to her ear.
“Hey, it’s me.”
He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation, but at least he was privy to Tate’s voice.
“I don’t know, Sara. I think Dr. Bay’s gone over the edge this time. She gave me this article. It’s about this nutcase artist-cum-therapist here in New York. He kidnaps people for money.”
Michael’s hands gripped the steering wheel as he struggled not to turn the limo around, using a sidewalk café as a new traffic lane, and go right back to Dr. Bay’s office.
“You have? When did you hear about this?”
What in hell was Bay thinking? Maybe she’d had one too many Xanax this morning.
“She thinks that maybe if I go through the experience when I know it’s safe, I’ll finally get past it. Trial by fire, I suppose.”
Shit, Tate needed a new psychologist—and she needed one now. He could just imagine what her father would say to this crazy business. William would have a heart attack on the spot, but not before he’d had Dr. Bay’s license revoked.
When Michael had signed up for the job, he’d had a lot of questions, like why this young woman needed a level of security that would make the president feel safe. William had told him that kidnapping was a danger and that he would go to any lengths to protect Tate.
Michael had agreed that someone with her wealth was a target, but guards 24-7? Ex-CIA case officers as a cook and a secretary?
Then he’d heard bits and pieces about the basis for the paranoia. At fifteen, Tate and her cousin had been kidnapped. Tate had escaped out a small bathroom window, but her cousin had been murdered. Tate had done her best to find the kidnapper’s hideout, but she’d been so traumatized she hadn’t been much help. Then, five years after that, when Tate was in college, there had been another attempt. A couple of local idiots had taken her at gunpoint from her car, demanding two million dollars. Luckily the kidnappers had been inept fools, and the FBI had found them within hours, but the experience had scarred Tate deeply, and her father had become determined that she’d never be vulnerable again. As his fortune had grown, so had his security measures.
“I hyperventilated,” Tate said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But seriously, Sara, I promised her I’d give it some thought.”
He finally reached Carnegie Hill and turned the limo toward the entrance to her building, easing up on the gas so he wouldn’t miss out on the end of the call.
“I can’t see it, either,” Tate said. “But she asked me something just before I left. She asked what my life would be like if I wasn’t afraid. I had no answer for her.”
Michael was all for Tate getting over her fear of being kidnapped, but throwing her into the fire was ridiculous. There had to be another way.
“We’re here. I’ll call you later. We’ll talk some more, but don’t worry. I’m not saying yes.”
He pulled the car into the driveway that would take them to the underground garage. There was a spot near the elevator that was reserved for the limo, which made things easier. But he’d ride up to Tate’s place with her, make sure she got inside safely.
The garage itself was extraordinarily well lit. Not just now but day and night. That was courtesy of William Baxter, who spared no expense in keeping his only daughter safe. Elizabeth would be upstairs doing typical assistant things while maintaining her sharpshooter status and carrying a concealed but legal 9 mm Glock. Everyone who worked with Tate had a similar skill set: good at the normal stuff that helped Tate get through her days, great at the stuff that would scare the bejesus out of the most hardened criminals, if they only knew.
Hell, right now three men would be observing every inch of the penthouse via the most sophisticated cameras in the world. If Tate so much as tripped, there would be at least three trained security personnel to pick her up within sixty seconds.
He parked the limo, then got out to open the back door. Tate gave him a look before she tucked her purse under her arm and climbed out. It had amazed him when he’d first started this gig that she could maneuver herself out of the backseat with such grace. Then he’d realized she’d been doing it her whole life. This was the kind of car that had taken her to school. To the movies. It wasn’t just for prom night or a funeral. It was part and parcel of her daily existence.
She headed toward the elevator and pressed the button. There was another example of how she wasn’t like so many other overprivileged women: she pressed her own buttons. She made her own phone calls. She did her best to keep up with the lives of those on her staff, although the ex-agent types tended to be on the private side.
The elevator had one of those shiny doors that could double as a mirror, but he kept his gaze lowered. Tate, who was attractive and always kept herself looking sharp, didn’t like being watched. Which was fine. It wasn’t his job to look at her. He had to keep her safe, which meant looking at everything that surrounded her. Even this elevator. It was checked first thing every morning for bugs, for explosive devices, for anything that could possibly harm its inhabitants.
There wasn’t even a long way up—five floors. Since she owned the whole penthouse, it made security easier up there. All told, there were twelve guys who worked for him, and they rotated duty so that none of them ever got too comfortable. Some of the team had been with Tate for years, but Michael had recruited his four top men. It hadn’t taken long for all of them to become a unit he could be proud of.
The elevator door opened, and Tate glanced his way before she stepped into the hallway.
He joined her, checking the small area for anything hinky. She had her key out, and he watched as she unlocked both deadbolts. She had such delicate hands. Long, graceful. Her nails were on the short side and they were polished some creamy color that was just a little darker than her skin. No rings, no jewelry at all except for the small diamond-stud earrings. She wasn’t a flashy kind of woman. In fact, she did everything she could to blend in. But there was something she couldn’t hide—or change: she was a class act. Everything about her said she had money, background, education. She was different, exceptional. Anyone who passed her in the street would know it.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’ll be in for the rest of the night?”
“I will.”
“All right, then. I’ll wait until I hear the deadbolts click in.”
She smiled and her pale cheeks filled with a blush. He knew she wanted to ask him in. That her flirting wasn’t just about avoidance. She toyed with the idea of having an affair with him, and it made him feel good that she did. Of course, there was no way it could happen. Even if it wasn’t completely unethical and dangerous for him to be with Tate, there was no way. She was American royalty and he was a bodyguard. More than one universe apart.
He took two steps back. That was all she needed to decide that today wasn’t the day to be bold. She went inside and closed the door. True to his word, he waited until both locks clicked into place. Then he got out his two-way radio and made sure the man on duty had her safe and sound.
By the time he was halfway down to the garage he’d already decided he was going to find out everything he could about this joker who kidnapped people for money.
2
MICHAEL STRAIGHTENED his tie as he waited for Tate to come to the door. They were going to her father’s place, which never made for an easy day. William was a powerful man who’d made millions—actually, billions—in construction and real estate. He and his brother Joseph had started small, but they’d been smart and ruthless and they’d gotten some prime government contracts that had taken them from their roots in Missouri to penthouses in half the major cities in the world. Although they’d been more successful than anyone could have imagined, there were costs involved, including a daughter and heir so terrified of being kidnapped that she barely lived a life.
Michael knew there was a real threat and that measures had to be taken, but there was also a need for balance. At least some room for Tate to breathe. Unfortunately there wasn’t much an outsider could do. Especially not someone as low on the totem pole as a bodyguard.
He heard the locks slide open one after the other. The door swung open to reveal Tate dressed in a pair of beige pants, a pale yellow silky blouse and enough makeup to tell him that she’d had another crappy night.
“Michael. I’m running later than I should. Come in while I finish gathering my things.”
He stepped inside a foyer as large as his apartment. He’d grown accustomed to the world of the rich, although it never ceased to make him wonder who the hell was in command of the planet.
It wasn’t easy to like the very rich, either, although Tate was pretty decent. She never actually meant to make people feel like poor slobs. It just happened.
She went toward the kitchen, and Michael took the opportunity to do a surprise inspection. He moved his right hand in a specific signal, one that would easily be missed if his people weren’t on the ball, watching his every move on the cameras set discreetly around the penthouse. Two minutes would be all the time he needed. If E.J. wasn’t here by then, he’d be looking for a new job.
He made it in one minute and forty-two seconds. E. J. Packer was young, twenty-four, but he’d been an excellent sniper in the Delta Force when he’d been badly scarred in a shoot-out with Syrian terrorists. He hadn’t lost any of his ability, but he was distinct now, recognizable for the angry red mess that was the left half of his face. Michael didn’t give a shit about that. He wanted a crack team that not only knew what to do at the party but understood that no matter where they worked—or for whom—it was a military operation and there was no excuse, ever, for slacking off.
He nodded at E.J. “That was close.”
“I’ll do better next time, sir.”
“I know you will. Carry on.”
E.J.’s shoulders moved just enough to let Michael know he hadn’t let go of the trappings of being a soldier. Didn’t matter as long as he did the job. As long as he didn’t make Tate feel like a bug under a microscope.
The young man disappeared, melting away as silently as he’d entered. Michael thought about going into the kitchen, talking to Pilar, Tate’s personal chef. But he just walked the perimeter of the foyer, checking out the artwork.
This place had always felt more like a museum than a home. Marble floors, antiques of inestimable worth, paintings he recognized because they were masterpieces. He took in a deep breath to combat the tightening of his throat. It wasn’t that he resented her for having the money. Okay, so he resented it a little. But what really pissed him off is that this was what his life had come to. Babysitting.
“Michael?”
He turned at Tate’s voice.
“Would you like some coffee? I’m going to be another ten minutes or so. I’ve already warned Father.”
“Sure, that’d be great.” He waited until Tate disappeared back into the hallway, then he went into the kitchen.
Pilar was there pouring him the promised cup of coffee. He wasn’t one for fancy java or any of that flavored crap, but he had to admit the coffee in Tate’s kitchen was some of the best he’d ever had. He wasn’t sure what it was and he’d never asked. No chance he’d ever get those beans for his coffeemaker.
“How are you, Michael?”
Pilar was born in Brazil and moved to the U.S. when she went to college at eighteen. Her accent made her seem exotic and sophisticated. Or maybe that was just Pilar. She had trained at the CIA—the Culinary Institute of America—which was one of the reasons she was working as Tate’s chef, but she’d also trained at the other CIA, and that was why she had a chef’s coat with a custom pocket that held her Sig Sauer.
“I’m fine,” he said, taking the too-delicate cup from her hand. “How’s the new kid working out?”
She smiled at him, and he tried to remember if he’d ever seen her without her deep crimson lipstick expertly applied to her generous mouth.
“Don’t you think of anything but business?”
“No.”
She laughed. “No wonder you have no love life.”
“How do you know?”
“Michael, my dear, if you can resist me, then you can resist anyone.”
He held back his own grin. “How do you know I’m not gay? Living the wild life with my lumberjack boyfriend?”
Her laughter actually echoed in the kitchen. It was ridiculously large, like something out of Windsor Castle, all for one woman whose only guests were business associates, all of them involved with the Baxter Foundation, a charitable organization funded by Baxter, run by Tate.
“Believe me, I’d know if you were gay,” Pilar said. She picked up her own cup and took a sip, leaving no trace of her lipstick on the rim. “It’s a shame you don’t let yourself relax, though. It isn’t healthy.”
“I relax.”
“I don’t even think you know the definition of the word.”
“What word?”
Michael turned to see Tate standing at the hallway door. “Are you ready?”
“Not really, and we’re not late. I just got off the phone with a very obstinate woman at the MacArthur Foundation and I need to calm down.”
“So you’re getting coffee?” he asked as she handed Pilar another cup.
“Yes. I am.”
“Okay by me.”
She took the full cup back but didn’t drink. Instead she focused her attention on him. Her expression became pensive and she opened her mouth, but then a blush stole over her cheeks and she turned to Pilar. Two sips and five quiet minutes later they were in the elevator, on the way down to the limo. Tate looked at her shoes the whole time.
SHE STARED OUT HER tinted window, watching New York pass by, chewing once again on the idea Dr. Bay had fed her last week. It was easy to make excuses for her fears, which were, in fact, legitimate. She could be kidnapped, held for ransom, murdered. Such things had occurred, could occur again. It made sense to be wary, to keep her guard up.
On the other hand, her guard was up so high she couldn’t see the world behind it. Yes, it could all go to hell tomorrow. But it hadn’t gone to hell yesterday or the day before or many years before that. She’d put all her eggs in the fear basket, and wouldn’t she feel like the biggest idiot on earth if she went on to live to a ripe old age, completely safe and having missed the whole thing.
She sighed as she gazed at the back of Michael’s head. His dark hair was wavy and thick and she wondered if the messy-chic was on purpose or just truculence. Somehow she doubted Michael owned mousse or gave a damn about how he looked—which, in her opinion, was incredibly juicy even on his bad days. It helped that he kept himself in battle-ready shape. He even walked as if daring anyone to try anything funny.
How had she let her fear of being kidnapped morph into a fear of everything? College had started out so well. She’d finally been able to put Lisa’s death behind her, at least enough to get by, and then—whoosh!—it all had vanished on that one awful day when Ian Stark and Bruce Halliday had kidnapped her.
After that everything had gone to hell. Her relationship with Graydon, never great to begin with, had soured until she’d had to get out. She’d started spending more and more time in her apartment, only leaving to go to class or one of her self-defense classes, which, instead of making her feel more in control, had brought her terror into sharper relief.
She had given in to the panic attacks, the nightmares—and they’d taken over.And now look at her. She hadn’t even been able to ask Michael a simple question. She saw him almost every day. They talked and talked, and yet when it came to something as foolish, as personal, as the origins of the scar on his chin, she became tongue-tied and shy as a kitten. It wasn’t as if she wanted to ask him if he preferred boxers to briefs. The scar was right there for anyone to see.
Pathetic.
HE STOOD AGAINST THE wall in the executive dining room along with the two ex-Secret Service agents who protected William Baxter. One, Jim, was William’s driver, and the other, Peter, was his executive secretary. But mostly they were there to make sure no one got too close. Paranoia hadn’t hurt just Tate but her father, too.
Michael despised this part of his job. It would be different if he’d been protecting a president or prime minister, someone who was doing something for the good of the people, not just an industrialist’s daughter. He’d tried to justify his position, given that Tate ran the Baxter Foundation and that they did help people with their dollars, but that had grown as stale as the sandwich he’d been offered in the staff kitchen.
He shifted his gaze to William. The man was sixty-four but he looked a hell of a lot older. He could afford the best of everything, including plastic surgery for that turkey neck of his, but he preferred to spend his money on things that others would covet. This building, his home, his airplane. His daughter. It was hard for Michael to keep his composure when he was with William and Tate. The man treated her like a child. Like an invalid child. And she let him.
He shifted his position so that he wouldn’t get stiff. In all his years in the military he should have grown accustomed to standing, to waiting. He still hated it. He’d rather face a dozen armed men than do nothing but stand and watch.
Tate laughed, which was a damn rare, good thing. He wondered if she knew that she was pretty. That her long neck, her skin, the way her eyes lit up when she was captivated made her incredibly appealing. He didn’t think she thought of herself that way at all. She dressed in the camouflage of a woman who doesn’t want to be noticed. Beige, cream, taupe, khaki. Pale colors that blended with her pale skin.
His thoughts jumped to the information he’d downloaded about the kidnap artist. Jerry Brody was his name. Michael had read everything he’d been able to find. The guy sounded like a first-class jerk, full of himself and how he was exploring the “human condition.” Michael didn’t understand how anyone could be fooled by his shtick. Yes, he had a degree in psychology, but come on. According to the papers, he’d kidnapped dozens of people, stolen them from their homes, their cars, from movie theaters. He’d tied them up, blindfolded them, taken them to a small, barren room and kept them isolated. Feeding and communication were used as weapons to make the experience more realistic.
That Tate’s shrink proposed this idea was unbelievable. Where had William found this quack? The woman should lose her license over a stunt like this.
Michael had to make sure Tate wasn’t going to agree to it. That was all. If it came down to it, he’d talk to William. No way the old man would put up with this crap.
Tate laughed again. It was good to see her so relaxed, but Jesus. They were at the top of the Baxter Building in the middle of Manhattan, on the sixtieth floor, in the executive dining room. Every table but one was empty. None of the managers or supervisors or whoever normally used this place were allowed in when Tate came to lunch. In addition to Michael and the two Secret Service men, there were also men stationed at the door, in the kitchen and at the elevator.
Her whole goddamn life was one big maximum-security prison.
TATE SETTLED AGAINST the black leather seat of her limo, avoiding Michael’s gaze as he shut the door. She had to blink away sudden tears, swallow a lump in her throat.
The lunch had been fine. Her father was in good spirits, the food superb, the conversation productive. All had been right with the world…until she’d looked at Michael and caught the pity in his eyes.
