Clive woke at the first creak of the hardwood floor. His instincts had been honed in his years of working for MI6, and, while he’d been concerned his civilian life had dulled them, a day back on the job proved that concern wrong. He was on his feet, gun in hand, and facing a very naked, very shocked Professor Penny before his eyes were completely open.
“Oh my god. Don’t shoot me!”
Okay, instincts may be overly honed. He set the gun on the nightstand and scrambled over the bed to where she stood. “I’d never. How did you sleep, luv?”
“I…well, fine for the hour or so since we last”—her cheeks flamed in the bathroom light, telling him he’d not caught her first step since she’d obviously already been in the other room—“you know.”
“I’m sorry to frighten you.” Sorrier than he could express. “You okay?” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her to him. “It’s very late. I’d try to lure you into another round of ‘you know,’ but that would be unfair since you have to get up to work in a couple of hours.”
“I’d say we can sleep when we’re dead, but for a moment there, I thought it might be now.” Although she stiffened, she let him take her into the bed with him. She couldn’t have missed his interest level sticking straight out from him and butting her hip. “That said, I don’t think I can get back to sleep.”
“Can I take that as a yes, then?” He nuzzled the base of her throat. “Because I’m that eager, luv.”
“I—”
Kaboom! An explosion rocked the house, sending the perfume bottles and framed family pictures flying from her dresser. Crashes came from elsewhere as he leapt to his feet, dragging her with him.
Spotting her phone on the nightstand, he grabbed it and shoved it into her hand. “Get in the wardrobe and block the door with whatever you can. Mute your ringtone, and I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.” He didn’t wait for her to act, just towed her along and gave her a push inside. “Don’t make a sound.”
“Clive?” She must be so frightened. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Giving her a hard kiss, he warned her. “Just stay in there, no matter what you hear. Promise?”
“Yes.” Sobs choked her words, but she looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll be fine. Take care of yourself.” She kissed him quick and closed the door.
He had only a fraction of a second to absorb her concern for him rather than herself before he was yanking on his pants and grabbing the phone, tapping out a text.
Trent. Code Red. We just had some kind of explosion nearby.
On our way. I can’t reach my man on the ground there.
Clive glanced at the door, considering barricading it, but that would trap him inside, unable to act, and he couldn’t do that. So he dropped to his knees and crept to the window.
The garage is rubble. I hope your man got out.
I do, too. We’ll know soon enough.
Going to survey the house for damage.
In a normal neighborhood, the police would probably be outside already, but, even if her nearest neighbor had heard and called, it would take them some time to get this far out, unless they happened to be nearby. They’d need to be brought in, but if he, and with any luck Trent, had a little time to examine the damage first, it might help them to protect Penny against further attacks.
He moved through the house from room to room, phone in hand, checking windows and doors, closets, under furniture, his gun at the ready. By the time he’d made it through both floors, he heard the roar of engines outside.
We’re here. Wait until we give the word to open the front door.
Clive watched through the window as the men swarmed from the SUVs and across the property. Trent strode up to the entrance and examined it for boobytraps. In a moment, he waved, and Clive opened the door. “Thanks for coming.”
“That’s what we get paid for.” Trent came in. “Nothing wrong with the house?”
“Doesn’t look like they made it inside. Which I can’t figure, considering they were bold enough to blow up the garage. Why would they do that and then just leave?”
Trent shook his head. “I don’t have any idea yet, either. Unless something disturbed them. Scared them off. But”—he glanced at his phone screen—“hang on.” Leaning outside, he waved over a couple of men. “Sione and Bjorn, I want you to stay in the house. Close and lock the door again, and don’t open for anyone but me or Mr. Harrington here. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” The taller of the two, a dark man he thought might be Samoan or some other Pacific Islander from his large frame and appearance, stepped into the foyer, followed by a blond, leaner but no less imposing man. They both wore fitted black T-shirts emblazoned with the company logo and black camouflage pants with laden pockets, as did their boss. “You can rely on us.”
“I know I can. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and headed outdoors. Clive followed. “Let’s get over to the garage.”
With a sick feeling in his stomach, Clive rounded the house. The formerly neat garage with its mother-in-law unit above was now a pile of splintered wood and debris. “What did you learn?” He hated the thought that the security man had been blown up by those bastards. Sure, anyone taking a job in their industry knew the dangers, but too many good men lost their lives. As long as evil walked the world, they would continue their work, but that didn’t make it any easier when something bad happened.
“Well, the text I got was from Julius.”
“Julius? Was that by any chance the man stationed on the property?” A flicker of hope lit inside him.
“No, unfortunately.”
“Slim chance he’s alive, I suppose.” Damn. He hated losing a man. They knew the danger when they took on the job, but that didn’t make it any better when one went down. He’d been hired to protect her, with the thought the drug lord would get busy with other things after a while, but this attack said something different. And that changed Clive’s job description, in his mind, at least. “I want that bastard’s head on a platter.”
Trent studied his phone then looked up again. “I’ll bring the carving knife. I’ve known Frank for five years. If, as seems likely, he’s been killed, it has become my personal mission to avenge him.
“Then we have the same mission.”
They approached the detritus as sirens wailed in the distance and the first fingers of dawn brightened the horizon. “That’s Julius right up ahead.”
A dark-haired man in T-shirt and camouflage pants like the others rose from where he’d been crouching by a lumpy bundle of shredded fabric. “Over here, boss.” He dusted his hands on his pants. “Come take a look at this.”
“What do you have?” But he didn’t really need to ask. The lump was what remained of a human being after being ripped apart by an explosive that had gone off unexpectedly. Once, early on in his career, he would have been sickened by the sight. But he’d seen too many colleagues go down. Now, he only felt rage.
Penny crouched in the back of her closet, trying to remain concealed behind her jeans and shirts and wishing she had a few evening gowns that might actually hide her legs and feet. Girly clothes certainly had their advantages. Well, this one, anyway. Even the black sheath dress she wore to departmental functions—accessorized with different jackets and scarfs—was barely knee-length. Her first action had been to yank on jeans and a shirt. And a pair of her expedition boots. Underwear and socks lay in her dresser drawer in the bedroom, but, somehow, having her breasts lifted and separated or her feet safe from blisters didn’t seem important at the moment.
If her life had taken a turn for the dangerous, maybe she needed a panic room, or at least a secret door for escape purposes. With the closet door closed, the silence pressed in around her ears. She didn’t dare take her phone off mute in case any of the criminals had managed to get past Clive and into the house.
Clive! Had he gotten any backup? Surely, he’d have called Trent, or the police would be here soon? Or someone else from Phoenix? They weren’t local, though. She thought she remembered they were in Texas or somewhere. Why had she let him go out there alone, like that?
Creeping forward, she pressed her ear to the door, which she hadn’t barricaded because, as she had neglected to point out, it opened into the room. Hearing no sounds, she considered her options. With her scarf collection, she could probably tie the door closed, but what if Clive needed her? She pressed the phone to light up its screen, something she’d already done several times.
She couldn’t undo a bunch of knots fast enough. Sinking to sit on the carpeted floor, she listened to her breathing and her heart pounding in her ears. She tried listening at the door again, before cursing her rejection of a hollow door. This one, a magnificently carved, maple masterpiece, made hearing anything from the other side impossible.
Her obsession with doors should have carried over into security! Of course, she was sitting in a house outfitted with a system worthy of an embassy, worried about someone getting in.
The minutes ticked by at a snail’s pace, her phone’s glow the only light in her cell. And it felt like a cell. With no bars, and nothing keeping her in. Clive faced one of the scariest warlords it had ever been her displeasure to cross, or at least his hired guns while she huddled like a frightened mouse behind her fabulous, unlockable door.
How crazy was that?
Very.
Never in all the years she’d led teams into dangerous areas had she huddled anywhere. Never. Not once. So why, when the man who’d rocked her world and threatened to get past her emotional barricades faced danger, did she sit on her ass?
What kind of woman did that? Not her kind.
What if she did try to help him and got in the way? She was great with escape plans and intuition that gave her time to implement them, but she’d never actually had to fight those she’d fled. Why had she resisted buying a gun? Tension knotted her shoulders, and the phone screen went dim
Sure, she hadn’t changed her convictions that a person shouldn’t handle such a weapon unless they planned to use it. But right now, she understood something she hadn’t before. She could. If someone came at Clive and she held a pistol, she’d blow their head off. Maybe just shoot them in the leg? Nope. Not and give them a chance to harm him.
Wow. Unfortunate to realize that now. No gun vendor lurked in her closet. She swiped the phone screen and scanned the small space for anything she could use as a weapon. Shoes, clothes, scarves. The shelf over the racks was piled with souvenirs from her travels. Gifts from grateful villages and oddball stuff she’d picked up along the way. Penny tried to think if there was anything at all useful. Statuettes, books, pressed leaves, bullwhip. That might be good, if she knew how to make use of it.
Nothing. She’d have to go out there emptyhanded. And probably just distract him and get them both killed.
Go.
Stay.
The longer she waited, the more anxious she became.
But, still, she wavered for another minute, two…until the feeling of danger she recognized from all those journeys nearly knocked her over with its intensity. Danger. Clive. Out!
And, as she lunged for the door, her gaze lit on the one souvenir that might be helpful. Propped in the corner was a walking stick made from the South American white floss tree. The medicine man who’d given it to her had carved away enough to make a safe handhold, but the rest was covered with stiff, one- to two-inch thorns that would certainly hurt if not cause permanent damage. Her benefactor had explained its handiness when walking alone where predators lurked.
Predators.
What else would she name those who came to harm or kill her for providing water to thirsty children?
Whom they treated like prey.
Closing her fist around the grip, she twisted the knob and let herself out, hoping to surprise anyone who might have made it into her bedroom. To her relief, the room seemed clear, and she padded quietly to the door to the hallway and listened. Again…another fabulous, nearly soundproof door. She made a vow to exchange them all for beaded curtains if she survived the night. Unlocking it, she opened the door a crack and waited. Not a sound greeted her ears, so she opened it the rest of the way and stepped into the hall.
And into the steely grip of a man nearly as tall as Clive and not nearly as welcome. The swarthy man could have been on the cover of South American Drug Lords Weekly, and for good reason.
“Profesora. At last we meet.”