Tough As Nails

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Looking around, she couldn’t help wondering where the customers were. She eyed the bartender again. Mid-forties, with a touch of gray at the temples, he was a man whose deep tan contrasted sharply with a person who remained inside all day. Maybe he worked out in a health club, she decided, noticing his well-muscled forearms below his rolled-up sleeves. He had briefly looked up in response when they’d entered, yet somehow she sensed he and Mike knew each other.

For a moment, sheltered in this cozy booth, insulated from the blaring horns and hammering street noises outside, she felt protected, like a butterfly inside its cocoon. Or was it the man beside her who made her feel safe?

But she wasn’t safe. The momentary absence of fear was her brain’s natural reaction to overcoming stress. How often had she seen this in her patients? Mind games to fight off the panic gnawing within her; that is, if she’d admit to feeling afraid. But she wouldn’t give in to her feelings. Or to Mike.

She turned to look at him. He was studying her. He was sitting so close. She could see the light and dark shards of blue in those extraordinary eyes. Her throat felt powder-dry, parched from nerves. She forced herself to meet his assessing gaze. “Interesting place,” she said finally. “A private club?”

His grin hinted of dimples. “Very perceptive of you, Doctor.”

It was the first time he’d called her doctor. Had he chosen that word for its impersonal feel? Was he feeling as unsettled by her presence as she was by his?

Of course he wasn’t. And her nervousness had nothing to do with her ex-husband sitting so close to her. She forced a smile. “And you’re a member of this…private club?”

He leaned back and stretched his long legs. “Clancy’s is owned by a few ex-Special Forcers. Yes, I’m a partner. It’s a safe place to come when we’re in town.”

So, her first hunch was correct. That minor victory made her feel more at ease. “This place has a calming ambience,” she said, her gaze deliberately averted from him. God, she was making small talk as though he were a stranger standing beside her in line at the food mart.

She forced her brain to work. “Mike, what are you planning to do next?”

“Order something to help you relax.” He turned around and raised his hand at the bartender. “Ben, the usual for me and—” He turned to her, waiting for her order.

“Chablis. Domestic,” she said.

Ben nodded, unfolded himself from the stool and slipped behind the bar.

Mike leaned forward. “First, we’ll go to your apartment so you can pack a few things for the next couple of days. While you’re gone, I’ll have a sweep done—”

“A sweep?”

“An electronic sweep. Check out any bugs or video cameras. That sort of thing.”

A shudder crept up her spine. “Video cameras? How could someone install video…?” The words died in her throat. This morning she would never have believed someone could sneak into her office and plant a listening device, either.

“Just a precaution,” he said gently. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch whoever’s behind this.” As though he noticed her tension, he added, “I’ll see that you’re safe, Brianna.”

The bartender placed a frosted glass of white wine in front of her and a bottle of nonalcoholic ale by Mike.

“Thanks, Ben.”

“You’re welcome, Mike,” Ben mumbled and hurried back to his stool at the end of the bar. The front door opened and two police officers came inside. Mike nodded to them when they waved and took seats near the bartender.

Mike’s gaze met hers again. “Off-duty cops like to hang out here, too. The security is top-notch.”

“Security?” She began to see the connection. “Is Ben really a bartender or does he…wear other hats?”

“He’s what we call a freelancer.” Mike used a fingernail to whisk a stray hair from her cheek. “Ben’s ex-Special Forces, too, and a good buddy of one of my former teammates.” He took a swig of his drink, swallowed, then put the bottle down on the marble-top table. “Freelancers hire on for assorted jobs. Law enforcement, police units, and TALON-6 hires their services when a particular situation comes up.” He studied the ale left in the bottle.

“So Clancy’s Bar is an employment office, of sorts.”

He took another swig from the bottle. “Of sorts.”

She waited for him to tell her more. When he didn’t, she bit back the questions forming in her mind. Damn, she didn’t want to give the impression that she was curious about him or the life he led. But as the silence lengthened between them, it was obvious he wasn’t going to offer any more information.

It was none of her business, anyway. She took a sip of wine. Curiosity was a natural response to have toward an ex-husband, a man she hadn’t seen in over seven years, who was now protecting her, she reminded herself. For a brief moment she had forgotten about the listening device planted in her office, forgotten about the photographs, the person or persons stalking her. She was relieved for that respite, however brief.

She was curious, but not interested in Mike. And what woman wouldn’t be? He was fascinating, he lived an intriguing life. But he’d only be in her life long enough to catch whoever was stalking her, she reminded herself.

She closed her eyes and leaned her throbbing head against the leather-covered booth. “Oh, Michael. How am I going to tell my clients that their confidential information has all been compromised. It takes months to build trust between doctor and patient. With some clients, they’ll never trust me again. Or any other therapist, for that matter.”

“You’ve been through a lot, Brianna.” Mike’s voice was warm and gentle. “Try not to think about it right now.”

“Remember that young woman who came in while you were in the waiting room?”

“Hmm. The one dressed up for Halloween?”

Brianna opened one eye and shot him a chastising look. “I’m terribly worried about her, Michael. I’m not sure if I helped her today. She just might…”

His blue eyes filled with sympathy. “Is she suicidal?”

Brianna nodded. She propped her elbows on the table. How she wished she could tell Mike that the teenager had admitted that she was pregnant and the father of her unborn baby—her slimeball boyfriend—was back in town. Not only had he introduced Kristi to drugs when she was thirteen, but he had the morals of an alley cat. Kristi thought he would marry her when he found out about the baby. When he had proved unfaithful before, less than three months ago, she had slashed her wrists. Who knew what the boyfriend would do when he found out about the baby?

“If you want to talk…”

“Thanks” was all she trusted herself to say. She’d forgotten what an easy listener he was. Whenever she’d had a problem, whether it was with her father, her indecision about a career or what kind of car to buy, Mike would patiently listen until she was all talked out. How she’d missed that.

She caught herself. Surprised to find her hand wrapped in his, she drew back. She couldn’t tell Mike that Kristi was going to tell her boyfriend about the baby. She bit her lip. “I know it’s not professional to get involved with one’s clients, but there’s something about this young woman. I really think I could help her.”

“She’s lucky to have you in her life.” His voice warmed again, flowed over her. Brianna glanced into Mike’s caring expression. For a moment, she felt genuinely relieved that he had accepted her case. Nora had been right. Mike believed he could help her and his confidence was catching. Yes, she was beginning to believe he could keep her safe. And she wouldn’t fight the secure feeling he gave her. But after all, this was his job.

More than likely, his charm was part of that service, too. The bond that was forming between them was merely the security in knowing she was in expert hands. Nothing more.

She never spoke of her clients to anyone outside the office, and she felt a bit embarrassed. Glancing at her watch to break the tension, she was surprised to see how late it was. “I should be going—”

“I’ve got a call to make. This will only take a minute.” Mike reached for the black leather case beside him and clicked open the lid. “I’m going to check on one of my partners, Liam O’Shea. He’ll be running the sweep on your apartment.”

Surprised, she looked up. “You’re not going to do it?”

“Liam is the team expert on eavesdropping detection.” Mike reached for her hand. “Don’t worry. He’ll be discreet.”

His hand cupped over hers felt warm, protective and strong. A sudden memory of how those hands had felt touching her skin, how those fingers felt teasing her, seducing her, brought with it a stab of incredible yearning.

She pulled her hand away and rubbed the stem of her wineglass. When their eyes met, she thought she saw a flash of remembrance in his face. But she must be imagining it, for in the next moment he removed a boxlike phone from its case and punched in a series of numbers. She sipped her wine again and forced herself to relax.

“Hello, Bailey?” Mike said. “Page Liam this time and have him call me on the bubble machine in about an hour. I’ll be at the Crib.”

His eyes leveled on her as he hung up the receiver and tucked the phone back inside the case.

Surprised, she asked, “Bubble machine at the Crib?”

He flashed a smile. “The bubble machine is our satellite phone. And the Crib is the name of our safe house in Brooklyn. TALON-6 owns it.”

“Why can’t I stay in my apartment?”

“Until Liam runs a thorough check on your home, car and office, I want you safe with me.”

She clutched at his arm. “I can’t, Michael. I’ll stay at a hotel.”

“Very well, but you won’t have the same security. We’ll get adjoining rooms.”

She glared at him. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m extremely appreciative for what you’re doing, but I’m perfectly capable of staying by myself.”

His features settled into an unemotional mask. “When I said you’d stay with me, I didn’t mean that literally. The Crib is a secure building where our clients, those in need of top-security protection, stay. Celebrities, politicians, people in the witness-protection program, that sort of thing. You’ll be safe, comfortable, and you can relax and catch up on some needed sleep.”

“This is not where you live, right?”

He flashed a grin, a dimple deepening in his left cheek. “True, I do keep a small apartment there, but there’s plenty of room for both of us. You’ll have your own suite and you won’t know I’m there, if that’s what you want.”

She arched an eyebrow as her gaze met his. “I’ll consider going on one condition. If I don’t like it, I leave for a hotel. Okay?”

“Okay.” He gave her another devastating grin that melted her insides. “You’re the boss in this business relationship,” he added.

“I’m the boss,” she repeated. But when she looked deeply into those familiar blue eyes, she felt as if she was sitting in the front seat of an out-of-control roller coaster, holding on for the ride of her life.

ON THE WAY to the Crib, they stopped at Brianna’s apartment only long enough for her to pack an overnight bag, pick up the mail and replace the recording tape from her answering machine. Mike had suggested she not listen to her messages until she was safely ensconced in her new quarters at the Crib.

It was after four o’clock by the time their cab pulled up in front of an elegant Greek Revival building that blended right in with the picturesque Brooklyn neighborhood. The street looked deserted. From the back seat of the taxi, she craned her neck to see the three-story, brick and brownstone dwelling. A wrought-iron set of urns housed red geraniums and white petunias set on stone pedestals. “This is the Crib?” she asked, unable to hide the surprise from her voice.

“Uh-huh.” Mike peeled several bills from his wallet, then handed the cash to the driver. After the cab drove away, she glanced up at Mike.

“I was expecting something more…I don’t know, snarling pit bulls chained at the door, bars over the windows, concertina wire on the roof.” She bit back a laugh.

He grinned. Clutching his briefcase in one hand, he grabbed her suitcase with the other. “Looks can be deceiving.”

Her high heels clicked in step beside him as they strode over the cracked sidewalk toward the white door. Inside, an old-fashioned wrought-iron and brass elevator loomed a few feet from the entrance. With a trust she didn’t feel, she followed Mike into the polished cage.

The metal gates clanged shut, and the car, instead of the clattering, bone-jarring climb that she’d expected, sped smoothly to the top floor.

Mike took her arm as they stepped out of the elevator into a room the size of Yankee Stadium. Bookcases stretched to the ceiling along one wall. Opposite, bare windows overlooked the Manhattan skyline and the rosy sunset beyond.

Natural-leather sofas adorned with oversize russet and teal pillows nestled in cozy groups. A modern painting leaned against an easel. A granite egret wading in a metal lily pond shone with unseen illumination. Glass tables with black urns filled with white moth orchids flanked each side of the sofas.

“I’m very impressed,” she said, feeling a surge of admiration at his obvious success. Mike was self-made, receiving little help from his alcoholic father or the mother who had abandoned them.

He didn’t look at her when he shrugged off his leather jacket and slung it over a chair. His black T-shirt showed off his well-developed chest and biceps to perfection. “You mean it’s a far cry from those tar-paper shacks along Mill Street?”

He was reading her mind and she felt suddenly self-conscious. “I’m very pleased that you’re successful, Mike.” She walked to the windows and gazed at the Brooklyn Bridge. “I’d like the name of your decorator,” she said, half teasing.

He grinned. “What’s important is that the Crib is electronically secure. This is my apartment when I’m in the city, but I don’t think of it as home.”

She paused to study an impressionistic watercolor in the hallway. She recognized the signature of an up-and-coming artist who’d had her first showing in a leading gallery last winter. “Where do you call home?” she asked, then damned herself for the question. On the way over in the taxi, she’d vowed not to ask him any more personal questions. She’d just broken her promise in less than twenty minutes.

“I own a condo at Beaver Creek,” he said, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Colorado?”

When he nodded, she asked, “So you still ski?” She remembered that he had been captain of his high-school ski team, thanks to an anonymous contributor who had recognized Mike’s exceptional athletic talent, even as a teenager. She’d often wondered if Mike’s benefactor had been her uncle, the Judge. But Nora would never confirm nor deny it, regardless of how many times Brianna had asked.

“I bought it because I knew the owner and he wanted to sell. It was a good investment,” he said, “but my work takes up most of my time.”

Some things never change.

They had only been married two weeks when Mike insisted he work full-time tending bar evenings after working a full shift at her father’s paper mill. She’d pleaded with him to reconsider. She had wanted Mike to enroll in college with her that fall. They could have lived comfortably on the more than generous allowance her mother’s inheritance provided them.

But Mike would have none of it. He’d rather work day and night, leaving her alone in their cramped apartment, night after night, than take a penny of her money.

She had begged him to talk with her, but when he was home he was too tired. He would always find time to listen to her, yet when she asked for his thoughts, he’d shut down. She could see that he was exhausted, but Mike believed that a man didn’t ask for help. So what could she have done?

Now she realized that some personalities didn’t suit a long-term relationship. Mike would always put actions before his feelings.

She was amazed at the bitterness the memory brought back, and she quickly pushed it aside. Nothing would come from raking up the past. They’d both made good lives for themselves after the divorce. That was the important thing.

She moved to the bookcase where he stood, clicking numbers into a numeric pad on the wall. “There,” he said when he’d finished. “All doors and elevators are locked. If any movement is detected within twenty feet of the building, the action will activate the video cameras and an alarm will sound.”

“What about a dog running along the sidewalk?”

“That, too.” He picked up something that looked like a television remote control and pressed the device into her right palm. “Click the red button and watch that monitor,” he said, pointing to the walnut cabinet in front of them.

She clicked the button. The cabinet doors opened and a computer monitor swiveled into view.

She pressed the arrow keys. Views of the Crib’s street entrance, outside metal fire escape and various exterior shots of the brick building materialized with each click of her finger.

“Touch the white button,” he said, leaning toward her. He was so close she could feel his warmth and smell the lingering scent of his aftershave. He took her hand inside his large grip, and she felt a tiny quiver when their skin touched.