Body Contact (4 page)

“You have to,” Winston said. “Or I won't be able to live with myself.”

She moved into the background while Jack took over, emphasizing the research he'd done, and offering reasonable strategies for getting Dawn back. His speech was reassuring, even though Maddy knew that much of the presentation was designed to lift the man's spirits.

Jack kept up the encouraging monologue as they walked Stan Winston to the door.

The man was profuse in his thanks.

“You made him feel better,” she said when the door had closed behind him.

“I'm praying we can deliver on those promises.”

She nodded. She hadn't thought Jack Connors was the praying type. But then there was so little she knew about him.

She started to turn away. But she was so tired that when one of her stiltlike shoes caught in the rug, she stumbled.

Jack's arm shot out, catching her, and she tumbled into his arms. There was a shocked moment when her body registered the lean form and the hard muscles of him—when her breasts flattened against his chest—when her fatigue fell away, to be replaced by a sharp stab of sexual need.

She sucked in a breath, felt his large hand slide down her back. And she knew in that moment that the surge of sexual excitement wasn't one-sided. He was aroused. And as his hold shifted on her, a sudden tantalizing image swirled in her head. An image of what they had done together—and what they might do.

But the whole supercharged incident lasted only seconds. Before she could blink, he was setting her away from him, transferring her hand from his shoulder to the back of a chair.

“It's been a long day,” he said gruffly as though the only thing that had happened was that she'd tripped and he'd caught her.

She nodded wordlessly. She'd thought he was indifferent to her. That their tumble on the bed had represented only a momentary burst of pleasure for him. Now she wondered if she'd been too quick to assess his reactions.

“Go home and get some sleep. We'll start again in the morning. And change out of those shoes before you kill yourself,” he added.

She didn't have the energy to come back with a retort.
Or the courage to ask him what he was feeling. But at least she made an effort to straighten her shoulders as she marched back down the hall.

Jack wasn't in the room when she returned. She'd never thought of him as a coward. Now she wondered if he'd deliberately made himself scarce.

The speculation had a buoying effect as she rode down in the elevator. It was after ten, but there was no problem getting a ride home. Winston Industries maintained a fleet of private cars with drivers always on duty, and Maddy had no qualms about using their services tonight.

Twenty minutes later, she was saying hello to the doorman at her upper East side apartment building.

Just off Lexington Avenue, it was a small but exclusive residence for young executives. A luxury building by New York standards where rents had gone through the roof.

But she made a good enough salary to afford a two-bedroom unit—with one of the bedrooms outfitted as a home office.

Callie's meow of protest greeted her as she unlocked the door and stepped into her small foyer.

Coming down on her knees, she stroked the calico cat's silky fur.

“Sorry, sweetie,” she apologized. “I know I've been gone a long time. And I'm going to be gone even longer,” she added with a pang, thinking that the first thing she'd better do in the morning was call her friend Jan and arrange for cat-sitting.

Tail up, Callie followed her onto the Berber carpet, then leaped into her lap, purring furiously as her mistress sat down on the corduroy sofa.

Maddy leaned back, closed her eyes and stroked the cat with long sweeps of her hand that started at her head and went all the way down her tail.

Shoes off, she swung her feet onto the old ship's hatch
that she'd found at a flea market, refinished, and bolted to metal legs so she could use it as a coffee table.

Smiling, she listened to the sound of her pet's contented purring. Dogs were affectionate because it was programmed into them. If your cat sat in your lap and purred, you knew it was because she loved you. Or because she expected you were going to feed her, she added with a laugh.

After a few moments, she shifted the animal off her lap, and padded into the kitchen to fill the food bowl.

Seconds later, Callie was chomping away, and Maddy was wandering toward the window to look out at the lights of the city.

She'd lived in New York all her life—except when she was away on assignment or during summers at the Winston estate. She loved the excitement of the city and loved the homey feel of her apartment. Usually she was content here. Tonight she felt restless.

She wandered across the room to the walnut bookshelves that spanned one wall and looked at the picture of herself and her father. It had been taken when she'd first joined the Winston security force—when she'd been infused with the passion to reach the top.

She couldn't hold back a snort. She had what she'd always wanted. Only now the luster had worn off the prize. It wasn't just the fiasco with Dawn. It was Jack, she silently acknowledged. This afternoon he'd made her realize how empty her life was, and she didn't like the realization.

When the buzzer on the intercom sounded, she jumped. Then her heart began to pound as she crossed the room.

Was he downstairs now? Had he forgotten to tell her something? Or did he simply want to see her?

“Hello,” she said as she pressed the buzzer.

“Maddy.”

Her disappointment was instant. It wasn't Jack; it was Ted Burnes, who worked for her at Winston Industries.

“Ted. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I'd like to talk to you. Can I come up?”

She glanced at the clock. It was ten-thirty, an unusual time for a visit.

“It's important,” he said.

“All right. I'll buzz you in.”

Glad that she'd changed back to her work outfit before coming home, she scuffed her shoes back on and smoothed her hair in the mirror.

Seconds later, the chimes sounded, and she opened the door.

Ted surged across the threshold, then came to an abrupt stop as Callie dashed directly in front of him and bounded into the bedroom.

“What was that, the Cannonball Express?” he asked.

“My cat. She doesn't take to strangers. You won't see her again. I promise.”

He nodded, then turned in a circle, inspecting her living room. “Very nice.”

“Thank you. Uh—why did you stop by?”

As soon as she said the words, she knew she wasn't being very hospitable.

Ted shoved his hands into his pockets. He was a tall man—almost as tall as Jack. And he was muscular. But while Jack was dark, Ted was fair. With blond hair and what she thought of as Midwestern good looks. He'd tried to date her a time or two, but she'd made it clear that she didn't go out with employees.

Now, to her embarrassment, the recent episode with Jack leaped into her mind. Flustered, she turned toward the window so Ted couldn't see the flush that had crept into her cheeks.

“I guess you're tired. Maybe I shouldn't have come rushing over,” he apologized.

“No, no. That's fine. I've just had a pretty trying day,” she answered, forcing herself to turn back to him.

“I know. You brought in Jack Connors to help you get Dawn Winston back.”

“How do you know that?” she inquired, making an effort to keep her voice even.

“People have seen him in the building. They put two and two together.”

She nodded tightly.

“Maddy, I wish you weren't going with him.”

Lord, another man trying to discourage her from doing her job. Quietly, she asked, “Why not?”

Ted looked down, then brought his gaze back to hers. “I've heard stuff about him.”

“Like what?”

He sucked in a breath and let it out. “Like he's not the most reliable partner for the job.”

“I think you'd better explain that.”

Ted pressed his lips together. “Okay. You know he's ex-CIA. Do you know why he quit the agency?”

“He could make more money in the private sector, with his own company.”

“That may be true. But his leaving was the direct result of an assignment in Albania. With a female partner. He lost her.”

“You mean, she was killed?” Maddy asked tightly.

“Yeah. And it was his fault.”

“How do you know?” she pressed.

Ted hesitated. “Confidential reports.”

“Where did you get hold of something like that?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Ted, you work for me!”

“But in this case, I can't reveal my source. You're just going to have to trust me on this.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I acknowledge that someone wants to discredit Jack Connors. And if you can't tell me who it is, I can't make an evaluation of the information.”

“I can't tell you,” he repeated.

“Then I'll take it for what it's worth.”

Ted folded his arms across his chest. “You're confident that Jack Connors can protect your back?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice ringing with conviction—because she couldn't drop out of this assignment, which meant her only choice was to trust Jack with her life.

Ted stood there, staring at her as though he thought she was making a serious mistake. Desperate to change the subject, she said, “Jack and I both think that Dawn might have had help escaping from the Winston compound.”

“That makes sense,” Ted answered, his voice tight.

“Do you have any idea who might have aided her?”

“Actually, I've done some thinking about that myself,” he answered quickly. “One of the maids in the household is new. I'm redoing her background check. And there's a gardener who was friendly with Dawn. I'm having him investigated, too.”

“Thank you for getting on that.”

“I thought you'd want the information.”

“Yes,” she murmured, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Why don't we continue this discussion in my office tomorrow?”

Ted didn't take the hint. “Who's going to be in charge of security while you're gone?” he asked suddenly.

“I'm not sure,” she answered. Ted was one of her chief candidates, which he probably realized. But she wasn't
going to discuss that now. And she wasn't going to make any decisions until she had time to review the recent work records of her senior staff.

Ted took a step back. “Well, I guess I'd better go.” He looked up at her. “You won't…uh…tell Connors I spoke to you about…uh…Albania, will you?”

“Of course not,” she answered, reaching to open the door.

Ted nodded tightly, then departed as quickly as he had come, leaving her with thoughts that were even more unsettled than they had been earlier in the evening.

O
LIVER
R
EYNARD SPENT
part of the morning personally inspecting each of the villas and rooms in the guest wings. Then he toured the kitchen to make sure everything was ready.

After that he visited the guards on the target range—noting their proficiency with both machine guns and automatic pistols.

Now it was time for one last check on his visitor files.

Striding across the antique Oriental rug in his comfortable office, he stopped by the desk and ran his fingertips over the stack of folders on the wide mahogany desk.

The thicker ones held dossiers on the men who would be arriving on Orchid Island in a few hours. The thinner folders had information on the female guests.

The women hardly registered on his scale of potential threats—unless he wanted to worry about the ones who were daughters of mafia dons.

The males were his primary concern. All of them were rich. All were powerful and ruthless in their own right. And all thrilled to be visiting the home of the world's top crime boss. And all of them would murder him in his own bed if he gave them the chance.

He'd known some of them for years. Exchanged e-mails and teleconferences with others. The only ones he'd met face-to-face had come to Orchid Island. The island was an independent state. Subject to no laws but his own—which were modeled on the Napoleonic Code.
Guilty until proven innocent. And few men—or women—who crossed him got a chance to prove the latter.

Although he worked from home, he hadn't given up his U.S. operations. He'd only switched them to trusted operatives who were his legs—and his eyes and ears on the mainland. They'd brought him some of the information on his guests. The rest of it had been culled from the secret Internet databases that cost him a fortune in fees every month.

He reached for the folder on Jack Craig and opened it again. Oliver had never worked with him, but he was always interested in new moneymaking operations—particularly if they presented no risk to himself.

Like most others in his line of work, Craig had gone to considerable lengths to hide the details of his business operations from the world. But Oliver had discovered the interesting fact that Mr. Craig had recently moved into territory left vacant by the arrest of several key crime bosses.

So Jack Craig appeared to check out. And he had a couple of very well-respected mob kingpins who were willing to vouch for him. But there were some holes in his resume—some periods of time that weren't accounted for.

Stints in prison? Stretches when he had gone underground to avoid a murder rap? That was the rumor.

Which might or might not be true. If he'd been a federal prisoner, it had been under another name, although taking another identity in midcareer wasn't unusual for a man like Craig who wanted to hide some of the unfortunate incidents in his background.

Intrigued but still on his guard, he'd kept Craig on the guest list—partly for the challenge of sparring with the man. And partly because of the companion he was bringing. Maddy Griffin.

He opened her folder and looked at her picture—as he had done again and again over the past few days.

She was a looker. Blond and blue-eyed. Just the type he liked for a change of pace. She'd been with Craig over a year. Which meant that the man had some regard for her. Still, like most males, Craig would surely welcome some new diversions.

Oliver let himself slip into a little fantasy. He and Maddy Griffin alone in one of his private playrooms. He'd have to see if that could be arranged. Hopefully, with Craig's cooperation, since the man had said he was eager to do business—and lending out Maddy Griffin could be a powerful inducement to a meeting of the minds.

He lifted his head and caught sight of several gardeners pulling out begonias that had been there for a month and replacing them with kalanchoes, fresh from one of the greenhouses. A nice change of pace. He was glad he'd thought of it.

He smiled, satisfied that everything in his world was the way he wanted it. All ready for his guests. They were still in New York, but soon they'd be on his private jet where he'd start putting them in the mood for some serious partying. Then he'd give them a little jolt of anxiety in his customs area—followed by more of his generous hospitality. It was all carefully calculated to throw them a bit off balance. He smiled. Dieu, he loved manipulating people!

He was drawn back to the picture of Maddy Griffin, feeling the pleasurable response of his body as he looked down at her, wondering if she could possibly be as beautiful in person as she was in the photograph.

He looked at his watch again. They'd be in the waiting room at Kennedy Airport soon. With the others. He could catch the satellite feed from there and have a look at her.

 

“S
HOW TIME
.”

Jack's voice cut through the tangle of thoughts chasing themselves through Maddy's brain as the sleek black limo pulled up at a small terminal at JFK International Airport. It was a restricted-access section of the airport that handled international flights for wealthy businessmen.

The uniformed driver cut the engine and trotted quickly around to open her door as if serving his passengers was his primary pleasure in life. He might look like a gung-ho chauffeur, but he was actually a trained security agent—Andrew Stanford. In fact, he was the man she was leaving in charge of security at Winston Industries while she was on Orchid Island.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he set her matching designer luggage on the curb.

She could have assigned the top job to Ted Burnes. But she'd selected Andy instead. She wasn't sure exactly what prompted her to make that decision. Ted had always been perfectly competent in his job. But the late-night meeting with him two days ago had made her edgy. She kept telling herself that he was simply interested in protecting her. Yet she didn't like the seed of doubt he'd sowed in her mind about Jack. And she couldn't help wondering if his motives were tainted. Maybe he didn't like the idea of her working so intimately with another man, and had decided to undermine the relationship. That would certainly have been unprofessional on his part, and she'd have to delve into his motivation after she came home. But for now, she had too much else to worry about.

And she had given him a special assignment. He was in charge of checking out everyone who might have been in a position to help Dawn escape, and he knew he'd better have some answers for her when she came back.

She caught Jack eying her appraisingly. Probably he was wondering if she was ready.

Well, she was as ready as he was. Lifting her chin she gave him a smile that sparkled with false brilliance. “Oh, this is so exciting,” she cooed for the benefit of the uniformed attendant who had begun piling the luggage onto a rolling cart. Probably he was a trained agent, too! Trained in surveillance and assassination.

When they reached the ticket counter, Jack pulled a money clip from the pocket of his custom tailored beige slacks and peeled off a twenty, which he handed to the man.

“Thank you!”

She watched the transaction from the corner of her eye as she took out a compact and dabbed powder onto her nose.

From his expensive haircut to his blue-and-white golf shirt and on down to his Italian leather loafers, Jack looked like exactly what he was pretending to be, a man with the money to indulge his every whim.

As his girlfriend, she was decked out in a lemon-yellow sundress cut too low in the back and front for a bra, but at least the matching jacket gave her some feeling of being covered up.

The chunky gold charm bracelets circling her left wrist were an annoyance, but she knew she had to put up with them—along with the four expensive rings that adorned her hands.

Jack had vetoed panty hose, so her legs were bare and her feet were simply slipped into two-hundred-dollar sandals.

In contrast, her face felt like an oil painting—with makeup that could have been applied with a putty knife—thanks to one of the special training sessions she'd attended in which she'd learned how to “make the most” of her features. At least that's what the beautician had called it. She'd called it a waste of time. But she'd known
that the woman she was supposed to be playing would have spent twenty minutes in the morning in front of the mirror. So she'd gotten with the program.

Jack had stepped up to the counter and pulled out the voucher authorizing him and Maddy to take the Orchid Island charter flight.

“May I see your passports, please?” the attractive redhead behind the counter asked. Was she one of Reynard's operatives, too? Or was she just a civilian hired for her good looks?

Jack pulled out two small books with blue covers. It galled her that he was carrying her passport along with his own. But that was just another authentic touch, she told herself. And the real issue was whether the fake IDs passed muster.

As the woman inspected them, Maddy held her breath. When they were returned with a smile, she relaxed a fraction.

After their carry-on luggage was searched, they were ushered into a green-and-beige waiting room, where they joined six other couples. Maddy had been in many airport VIP suites with Stan Winston, but she'd never seen one quite so plush. There were comfortable couches instead of standard airport seats, thick carpeting, a wet bar and a linen-covered table with a breakfast buffet.

She'd also never seen so much heavy gold jewelry, diamonds, Italian leather, and designer watches. And that was just on the men.

Jack's one pinky ring and his Tommy Hilfiger shirt were small potatoes.

But it wasn't just the men's attire that hit her. She could sense a kind of simmering excitement in the room—part power trip and part sexual undertone. These guys were turned on.

Maddy cut Jack a quick look. Then, trying not to seem
overwhelmed, she glanced around, and realized that a number of the other women looked as nervous and shell-shocked as she felt.

She was an outgoing person, and she might have started a friendly conversation with one of the other female companions, but she noticed that they were all sticking pretty close to their guys.

Jack had somehow acquired a partial guest list, along with photographs. So she knew who a number of their fellow passengers were.

In the corner, the powerfully built, balding man with the heavy brows and the narrowed eyes was Don Fowler, a known drug dealer.

He regarded her and Jack, then leaned over to say something to his statuesque blond companion.

Another man she recognized was crime boss Jormo Kardofski. Tall and pale, he looked like he could have stepped out of a vampire movie.

Jack keyed right in to the level of excitement. “Hey babe, that looks like some spread. Let's check it out,” he suggested expansively as he started toward the food table. He grabbed a plate and heaped it with eggs Benedict, bacon and fruit. She stuck with the fruit and a carton of yogurt.

Some of the couples were sitting at small tables. She and Jack took one, where he started putting away the breakfast, and she picked at her food.

It amazed her how happy he seemed when her stomach was in knots. Partly it was the unnatural atmosphere in the room. And partly it was a sudden surge of anxiety generated by Ted's warning. It had kept her awake in the small hours of the morning, ever since Ted's visit to her apartment. And she'd lain there in bed wondering whether she should simply confront Jack with the information.
That was the straightforward way to handle the suspicions. The way she
should
have handled it, she realized now.

Yet every time she'd thought about bringing it up, she'd felt her stomach knot.

On the upside, if he'd told her that Ted's information was false, that would have instantly relieved her anxiety. But what if he gave her the wrong answer? Or worse, if he told her Ted was talking nonsense—but she wasn't sure she believed him? Then what? When the two of them had no choice but to work intimately together on this assignment.

In the end, she decided that keeping quiet was her only option, even knowing that it was going to be a source of internal tension until it was resolved. Now it was too late to reevaluate her decision.

She'd been sitting with her head bent toward her plate. Looking up, she focused on a small blond woman staring at her. The woman was dressed in skintight hot-pink pedal pushers, high-heeled sandals and a lighter pink shirt studded with rhinestones. She was with a large, solid man whose face had been scarred by teenage acne, leaving the surface uneven and pitted. He stood with his arm possessively around her shoulder, his beefy hand adorned by a chunky diamond ring. The hand hung down so that his large fingers dangled across the top of her breast. It wasn't like he'd done it by accident, Maddy thought as she watched him possessively caress the swell of flesh.

The blonde saw Maddy observing them and flushed. Maddy quickly glanced away, not wanting to intrude on what should be a private moment. But she'd seen enough to wonder if public displays of lust were considered normal in this crowd.

Come to think of it, the blonde and her guy weren't the only two behaving in ways that Maddy considered inappropriate in a waiting room full of travelers.

Another couple was tucked into a corner exchanging little kisses and caresses. And a second man was standing in back of his girlfriend, his hips pressed to her bottom. She knew his name, too. Artie Proctor. He was heavily into the numbers racket, according to the background sheets she'd gotten from Jack.

Maddy lowered her eyes to her plate again—then felt a little jolt of sensation as Jack's foot slid against her ankle. He'd slipped his right foot out of his loafer, and was running his sock-clad toes against her. Apparently he'd noticed the overheated atmosphere in the room and had decided it was important to fit in.

The problem was, he hadn't touched her in days. She didn't mean touched in the strictly sexual sense, either. Since catching her when she'd tripped in her high-heeled shoes that first night, he had gone out of his way to avoid any physical contact. In fact, he'd acted like the awareness simmering between them didn't exist. And she'd done her best to seem as unfazed as he. But the sudden touch of his foot against her leg sent tingles of electricity skittering along her nerve endings.