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“What the hell are you doing?”
Kate stiffened at the militant tone. He’d missed his calling when he’d chosen computer consulting over the Navy as a career. Well, she wasn’t a subordinate he could order about. Relaxing her features, she planted a wide smile on her stiff lips and swung around.
“Looking outside,” she said, being deliberately obtuse.
The light from the kitchen flooded the living room, allowing her to see every harsh, irritated angle of his face. Her smile almost faltered.
Up to an hour ago no one had ever seen her fall apart, not even her family. She would be damned if she let it happen again.
Roman walked toward the couch, a coffee mug in his hand, his eyes narrowing as they took in every detail. The dark brown of his irises reminded her of tarnished copper, flecked and ringed with gold she knew turned molten amber with anger or desire.
Now they glinted with suppressed annoyance.
“You look like hell, Doc.” Deftly he placed the mug on the end table, and in two strides he was standing in front of her.
She had a good idea what she looked like. She’d caught a glimpse of her image in the rearview mirror of her sports car, right before she deliberately drove it into a ravine. The dark smudges. The pale skin. “Thanks, I wish I could return the compliment,” she retorted, not trying to hide her sarcasm.
Almost forty, Roman was in better physical condition than most males half his age. The man oozed masculinity, not that it surprised her. His broad shoulders, well defined under his dark T-shirt, tapered to a lean, narrow waist. A worn pair of blue jeans sheathed his muscular thighs. Her eyes followed the snug fit, setting off a heat in Kate’s stomach. Uncomfortable, she forced her gaze back to his face.
He kept his dark, curling hair longer then she remembered, with the ends brushing casually against his shirt collar. The thick mane now showed signs of silver shimmering in its depths, but instead of detracting from his looks, it added to the rugged hardness of his features.
Distracted, she missed the determination reflected in those same features until it was too late. Before she realized his intention, she was off the floor and against his chest.
“Stupido,” he muttered over her head.
Stupid. Nobody called her stupid. She tried to escape his iron grip, but the covers acted as a cocoon, thwarting her attempts. Furious, she resorted to verbal abuse, calling him every vile name she’d learned from her brothers over the years.
“Shut up.” The words were clipped, their sting sharp enough to cause her to flinch. “I can’t believe you kiss your mother with that mouth.” He dumped her onto the couch and stood away, his hands on his hips. “When’s the last time you ate?”
She blinked. Ate? When was the last time she ate? Long before the phone call from Marcus…
“Never mind.” He let out a sigh and shoved the cup toward her, forcing Kate to drop the quilt to grab it. The warmth from the ceramic felt good against her cold hands.
“Drink.” He squatted in front of her. “It’s canned, but it’ll do.”
Irritated, she hastily sipped the warm broth, not really tasting it. “I’m—”
“All of it,” he commanded, placing his hands over hers before lifting the mug to her lips again. Inwardly seething over his high-handed approach but afraid he would notice her hand trembling beneath his, Kate drank most of the soup in one gulp.
It slid down easily. So easily in fact, she disregarded the vague, bitter taste it left behind on her tongue. Vegetable. She should have guessed. Cain was addicted to vegetable soup.
The warmth filled her stomach, then slowly mushroomed through her body, diminishing some of the hollowness and leaving her strangely comforted. She smothered a yawn.
With a soft grunt of satisfaction, Roman stepped away. He took the iron poker and stoked the fire. “What are you doing here, Doc?” he asked, glancing her way.
She paused, just a fraction. The lift of his eyebrow indicated he saw her hesitation. The man was too perceptive. With a shrug, she managed to say, “Taking a break from work.”
Roman regarded her, his gaze burrowing into hers. Seconds ticked away while Kate, refusing to fill the uncomfortable silence, waited with what she hoped was a blank look. He could wait until the next ice age as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter Cain trusted this man. It didn’t matter that her parents loved him. She wouldn’t. Ever.
“Let’s try again.” He returned the iron to its stand and leaned against the fireplace brick. “What are you doing here?”
She wasn’t fooled. His tone was friendly, even mildly pleasant, but the man was angry. Not seething, but infuriated enough to harden his jaw. Why?
“I’m on vacation,” she replied, shocked at how easily the lie slipped over her tongue. “I wanted time to myself and decided to use my brother’s cabin. When I called Cain, his secretary said he was out of town indefinitely.” She waved a hand in the air. “Some overseas business complication.”
“So you decided to come anyway, is that it?”
Kate glared down the censure in his eyes. “That’s it.”
“What about the attack?”
“What about it?” she returned, covering the defensiveness by setting her mug on the end table and gathering the covers around her. “My nerves are shot from working too hard, and I certainly didn’t expect to be scared out of my mind by you creeping around.” She eyed him shrewdly. “What’s your story?”
“The same, it appears. Cain loaned me the cabin because I wanted to relax and do some fishing, since I’m in between projects.” One shoulder rose in a negligent motion. “I thought you were some local kids trying a hand at vandalism.”
“Quite a coincidence,” she murmured. What were the odds? It went against her nature as a scientist to believe in coincidences.
“That would explain how you opened the locked door so easily. Cain must’ve given you his key. I took the spare from under the porch.” She frowned. “When did you talk to my brother?”
“A few days ago,” he said, then changed the subject. “It still doesn’t make sense.”
A sharp thwack sounded against the outside wall of the cabin and Kate jumped. Cautiously, Roman straightened from the hearth and lifted the curtain. Kate watched in tense silence as he studied the outside, a short prayer whispering through her mind. A second thump sent a small cry of alarm from her lips. “Roman.”
He let the curtain drop back into place. “It’s just a tree branch, Doc.” As he spoke, he started toward her. “But this proves my point. We both know you’re more of the moonlit-beach, soft-breeze and Calypso-band type. So why choose the wilderness?”
Because it was the safest place to hide. “Because I wanted a complete change.” Uncomfortable with his prodding, she decided to switch the subject. “What makes you an expert on my likes and dislikes?” she quipped. He was right, of course. She would’ve traded anything to be lounging dreamily on a nice, flat beach right now, free of her nightmare. Trade anything, that is, except millions of innocent lives.
“I know you.” Leaning over, he placed one long finger under her chin and tipped her face up toward his. “Better than you know yourself.”
There was a time when that was true, right before he’d gotten bored with their relationship. She was a different person now, mostly because of him. “Be careful, D’Amato, your arrogance is showing.” She jerked her head away and was immediately sorry when the movement made her light-headed. “You might’ve known me two years ago, but times change and so do people.”
“Yes, people change. Just not you.”
Another insult. Scottish pride stiffened her spine. “Don’t assume that because we were once—” She groped for the word, but her mind fumbled.
“Lovers?” He inserted, his voice dipping huskily.
“Close,” she corrected. At one time, the possessiveness in his voice would have liquefied her insides, now it raised her defenses. She tried to slide toward the end of the couch to put some distance between them, but her body suddenly felt denser than lead, making her movements cumbersome.
As he watched her retreat, amusement glinted in his eyes. “‘Close’ or not, I understand you. And you wouldn’t be caught dead in the wild unless you had no other choice.”
He sat down beside her, successfully pinning her between him and the arm of the couch. He gathered her close, ignoring the stiff resistance of her body.
“Let me help you.”
“Help me?” Awareness rippled through her as the warmth of his body seeped inside the quilt, increasing the lethargic haze that had settled over her. She shook her head to clear her mind, but the dizziness continued to assail her, muddling her thoughts.
“If I did need help—which I don’t—you would be the last person I would turn to.” She emphasized each word by trying to poke her finger into his chest.
He started to say something, then changed his mind. Abruptly he released his hold and leaned back into the cushions. “I’m not going to rehash the past with you. I admit I could have handled the situation a little better.”
“A little better?” She bumped him with her elbow and snorted. Not very ladylike, but she didn’t care. “Even King Kong treated his woman better.”
He responded in Italian, a habit he had when he was angry, but she ignored him. She was fluent in five languages, Italian being one, along with Spanish, Russian and two others she seemed to have forgotten for the moment. Even trying, she couldn’t focus on the translation—something about his knowing what’s best.
Her eyes burned with fatigue, and she rubbed them with the heels of her hands, releasing a long, audible breath. Lord, dealing with a hardheaded Italian left her even more drained—something she’d considered impossible. She wrestled with the fatigue, trying to maintain her train of thought while her head continued to swim.
“Look, Roman, you can do whatever you want,” she said, interrupting his tirade. She tugged the covers up to her chin, not quite ready to let go of their protection, and slumped toward the edge of the cushion. “Just do it away from me.” Checking first to see that the quilt sufficiently covered her legs, she struggled to stand up, praying her limbs wouldn’t give out.
“I’m going to bed.” She looked slowly around the cabin. Where in God’s name was it? She shut her eyes briefly trying to concentrate on her surroundings, but the fog grew thicker, enveloping her mind.
“Is something the matter, Doc?” The question sounded distant and muffled in her ears. She tried to face him, but couldn’t quite make it. Still, she could feel his gaze on her, intent while he watched her confusion.
“I can’t seem to remember where the bedroom is…” Her voice trailed off as her tongue grew thick, taking up most of her mouth. She tried moving it to the side.
“Upstairs.” Quiet amusement laced the word, but she barely noticed because the room blurred. Upstairs. She remembered now. Sleeping up in the loft would have left her vulnerable, that’s why she’d chosen to sleep on the sofa. She nodded, and the room began to sway. She grabbed for the couch in an effort to gain her balance, but that was a mistake. Her feet tangled with the quilt, causing her to fall back onto the cushions with a bounce.
Kate heard a soft, masculine chuckle over her head, but her eyelids refused to open so she could glare. He would just have to wait until morning. She could feel her body floating, snug and protected. It had been so long since she’d felt safe that she gave in to the exhaustion and leaned into her warm haven. A deep voice drifted over her, its tone gentle and comforting.
“Sweet dreams, babe.”
Chapter Three
Isla de El León (Island of the Lion), Gulf of Mexico.
Poised at the edge of the diving board, the ebony-haired beauty smiled up at Nigel Threader. Her classic features softened with feline pleasure before she sliced cleanly into the kidney-shaped pool. From the private balcony, he watched in fascination as the blue glow of the underwater lights cloaked her dancer’s body with ethereal radiance beneath the rippling water. Exquisite.
It was an illusion, of course, but nonetheless magnificent because it hid the imperfections he knew existed. Like a brilliant but flawed diamond.
Pity.
Marina Alexandrov’s pedigree as the prima ballerina of the Paris Ballet was above reproach. With Russian royalists for parents, her upbringing was exemplary, her social status assured. She reached the end of the pool, planted both hands on the edge of the tile and hauled herself upward in a cascade of water, her nude body arching gracefully in the night air.
He returned her seductive smile before walking back into his office. Yes, it certainly was a shame. Even her baser needs matched his. They could have shared a future together full of limitless possibilities.
Unfortunately, with her great beauty and ancestry came a lack of intellect. Marina was a woman of average intelligence, an intolerable flaw his employee had overlooked and which Nigel hadn’t discovered until it had been far too late. A disappointing situation indeed.
The man paid for his incompetence, of course. What little pleasure Nigel gleaned from the kill was still too small a compensation for the time he’d wasted on seducing Marina.
He frowned and felt the familiar stiffness pull at his right eye. Resisting the urge to touch the cause, he tugged at his sleeves instead, automatically running his fingers over the yellow diamond cufflinks as he entered his office. Naturally he would enjoy her tonight. After all, it would be their last evening together. Loose ends were untidy.
Sitting behind the massive, seventeenth-century ebony baroque desk, he reached for the bottle of cognac that sat at the corner. Nigel glanced at the label, pleased to see that Quamar had brought him his favorite French vintage, and then poured a healthy dose into the snifter.
A red light flashed across the room, drawing his attention to the bank of closed-circuit televisions on the opposite wall. He warmed the cognac, swirling the amber liquid against his palm. Their guest had arrived. Leaning back into his plush throne chair, he studied the silver Jaguar while it followed the winding curves of the sleekly paved drive to the villa.
The estate itself was more than fifty acres of enclosed land overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The three-story villa, originally designed by a French architect, was built of adobe, mosaic tile and imported marble. A masterpiece of French-Mexican culture. As he watched, the car came to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates set in the twelve-foot wall surrounding the villa.
He pushed a button under his desk activating the automatic gates and then swung around in the chair to press the intercom on his desk. “Quamar. Our guest has arrived, please escort him to my office.”
Several moments later the oak doors opened. Nigel glanced up from his glass when Quamar entered.
“Mr. Hiram Alcott, sir.”
Nigel nodded at the huge man who stepped aside to allow their guest through the doorway.
“You may stay, Quamar.” The bodyguard bowed but said nothing, closing the doors behind him.
“Has Pheonix reported in yet?” Nigel spared only a flickering glance at Alcott.
“No, sir.”
“When she does, tell her I need to see her.”
Again Quamar bowed.
Only then did Nigel turn his attention to his guest.
“A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Threader.” The wiry little man crossed the room, set his briefcase down, then leaned over the desk to offer his hand. The scent of cheap cologne saturated the air. “Nice place you got here.” His watery eyes scanned the elegant room before returning to Nigel, hesitating only slightly on the puckering scar tissue that pulled at Nigel’s right eye. “Very nice place.”
Dirt caked the underside of the man’s overgrown fingernails. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Nigel placed his drink on the desk and gestured to the chair beside his guest. “Have a seat.”
Alcott cleared his throat, bringing his hand back to smooth his tie, then slid into the high-backed leather chair.
“You disappoint me, Mr. Alcott.” Nigel rose slowly from behind the desk, well aware of the effect his deliberate movement had on the man across from him. “I’ve paid you a great deal of money to perform a mediocre task and, so far you’ve failed to live up to your end of the deal.”
Alcott didn’t flinch. Instead the man sat back and crossed his legs. The casual pose didn’t quite mask the tension in his body.
“Finding a woman on the run isn’t a mediocre task, believe me.”
Nigel picked up the Buddha from the desk corner. The size of his fist and carved from pure white jade, the statue symbolized enlightenment.
“I believe you claimed expediency, accuracy and complete confidentiality. I have yet to witness either of the first two.” Nigel observed his guest’s face muscles tighten with apprehension at the statement. “And I have my suspicions about the third.”
Carefully, he set the statue back in its place, then continued. “But since my time is limited and your tracking skills came highly recommended by our mutual business acquaintances, I’ve decided to allow you to continue with your efforts. Provided, of course, you start showing me results.”
Alcott’s expression eased a little as he ran a hand over his lacquered gray hair then wiped his palm on the chair. Nigel’s eyes narrowed in disgust.
“I promise you, I won’t require much more time, Mr. Threader. A week on the outside. Dr. MacAlister has proven to be an unexpected challenge, but I’m closing in.” He shifted his position, his hair leaving a grease mark on the back of the chair. “These things can be tricky, if you know what I mean.”
“I see.” Nigel kept his expression noncommittal as he leaned against the desk pretending to consider Alcott’s excuses.
After a significant pause, he said, “I believe you, Mr. Alcott.”
Alcott visibly relaxed. “I appreciate that. After all, we aim to please. But it’s nice when a customer understands the difficulties of the job, if you know what I mean.”
“Hmm,” Nigel murmured while brushing a blond hair from the arm of his silk suit. Over the years, the natives on the island began calling Nigel “El León,” or the lion, because of his thick, tawny mane of hair.
“I trust you had a pleasant trip to my island.”
