Dangerous to Know (28 page)

When the banquet finally ended, they made their way slowly through the crowded ballroom. Denise and her squad cleared the way, and Adam followed a step or two behind Maggie as they both greeted various guests. As much as it was possible in this
press, he kept her body between his and the agent in front of her.

She was incredible, he thought, watching her work the crowd. The people who caught her ear didn't notice that she listened far more than she spoke, or that she waited for them to drop clues about their personal agendas before she gave a noncommittal response.

His gaze traveled from the auburn curls feathering her neck, down the slender back now encased in turquoise silk, to the swell of her hips. The modest slit in the back of her long skirt parted with each step, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of shapely calf. Maintaining her role had to be a tremendous physical and emotional strain, but she didn't allow any sign of it to show in her demeanor or her carriage.

Until they reached the elevator.

When Denise turned to issue a last-minute instruction to the task force leader, Maggie slumped back against the brass rail for a second or two. Adam caught the way her shoulders sagged and her eyelids fluttered shut. With a wry inner smile, Adam abandoned his plans to feed her in erotic, exotic ways.

As it turned out, Denise Kowalski had her own plans for them for the rest of the evening. After a quick but thorough security check, she joined Maggie and Adam in the sitting room.

“We still have to do that postmortem, Mrs. Grant.”

Maggie glanced at the clock on the white-painted mantel. “It's almost 3:00 a.m., Washington time. Why don't we get together in the morning, before we leave for the cabin?”

“It's best if we go over what happened while the details are still fresh in your mind,” the agent insisted politely but firmly. “Mr. Armstrong's statement, and his subsequent polygraph, substantiate your belief that he didn't intend you bodily harm, but I need to hear exactly what happened. You could have been killed.”

“I know,” Maggie replied, with a gleam in her eyes that Adam recognized instantly. “I was the one about to add a new, indelible splash of color to the Avenue of the Stars, remember?”

She realized her mistake almost as soon as the words were
out of her mouth. The flippant tone and gallows humor were far more characteristic of Maggie Sinclair than of Taylor Grant.

Denise frowned, and Maggie recovered without missing a beat. Curving her mouth into Taylor's distinctive smile, she tossed her beaded bag down on the sofa.

“Look, I know you're just trying to do your job. I guess I'm a little tired.”

A touch of reserve entered the agent's voice. “I'm sorry to badger you this late, but I'm charged with protecting you. I can't do it without your cooperation.”

With one hand tucked casually in his pants pocket, Adam eyed the two women. Denise Kowalski was every bit as strong willed and determined as Maggie when it came to her job. She wasn't about to back down, any more than Chameleon had earlier.

Maggie gave in with good grace, recognizing a pro when she saw one. “You're right, of course. Why don't we sit down?”

“Would you join us, please?” Denise asked Adam. “I'd like your input, as well.”

“I didn't intend to leave. Mrs. Grant and I have a few matters of our own to discuss when you're though.”

Ignoring Maggie's quick sideways glance, he joined her on the buttery-soft sofa.

The Secret Service officer was too well trained to allow any expression to cross her face. But as she moved forward to take the seat opposite them, she slanted a quick look at the open connecting door.

 

The brass carriage clock on the mantel had chimed twice by the time Agent Kowalski finally called a halt to the questions.

“Well, I guess that's it.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead, then rose. “I'll tell the folks downstairs to release Armstrong. We'll keep someone on him for a while, with orders to get real nasty, real quick, if he tries to, uh, approach you again.”

“He won't,” Maggie asserted.

“No, he won't,” Adam promised.

The agent glanced from Maggie's confident face to Adam's implacable one. “I guess not. I'll see you in the morning.”

When the door closed behind her, Maggie heaved a sigh. Letting her head loll back against the leather, she plopped her stockinged feet on the brass-and-glass table.

“That's one tough woman.”

“She reminds me of someone else I know,” Adam commented dryly.

“She does, doesn't she?” Maggie's hair made a bright splash of color against the white leather as she turned to face him. “I think we should recruit her for OMEGA after this mission.”

“I may have to consider it. If you pull any more stunts like you did with Armstrong, I'll have an opening for an agent.”

A gleam of reluctant laughter entered her violet-tinted eyes. “Okay, so maybe dangling above the Avenue of the Stars was a bit extreme,” she conceded.

“It was. Even for you.”

“Even for me. But at least it convinced me that Armstrong's not our man. I don't have anything to base it on, except the fact that Stoney didn't let go—and the sixth sense you took me to task for earlier.”

“As much as it pains me to admit it, your instincts were right. Again.”

She sat up straight. “Really?”

“Jaguar called just before we went downstairs to the banquet.”

With a succinct economy of detail, Adam filled her in on the details of Jake's call.

“First Bank, huh? Stoney turned down a loan from First Bank because he thinks they might be laundering dirty money?”

“Evidently he was afraid a connection with them might…tarnish his image.”

She grinned. “There's a lot of that going around lately.”

A small silence settled between them. Reluctant to break it, Maggie slumped back against the soft leather. She and Adam still had matters left to resolve, not the least of which was exactly how she would operate for the next two weeks. But she couldn't
seem to summon up the energy or the intensity that had driven her earlier.

“If we eliminate Armstrong, that leaves only two names on the list of possible suspects,” Adam said after a moment.

“Digicon's CEO, and the president's best buddy.”

“Peter Donovan, and James Elliot.”

“Jaguar hasn't dug up anything on either?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

The clock on the mantel ticked off a few measures of companionable silence, broken only when Maggie gave a huge, hastily smothered yawn.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

Adam's gaze rested on her face for a long moment, and then he pushed himself to his feet and held out one hand to pull her up beside him.

Maggie put her hand in his. Despite the weariness that had dragged over her like a net, a sensual awareness feathered along her nerves at the firmness of his hold. She'd felt Adam's strength twice tonight. Once when he'd hauled her up to the terrace. Once when he'd hauled her up against his chest.

“You'd better get some sleep,” he told her.

She hesitated, knowing she was playing with fire. “We didn't finish what we started, out there on the terrace.”

“We'll finish tomorrow,” he said slowly. “When we get to the cabin.”

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, they'd be at Taylor's isolated mountain retreat. Tomorrow, Maggie would be rested, in control of herself once more. There wouldn't be as many people hovering around her. Only Denise and a small Secret Service team. Lillian. The caretaker who lived at the ranch. And Adam.

Tomorrow, she and Adam would sort through roles and missions. Tomorrow, they'd finish what they'd started tonight.

“Good night,” she said softly.

“Good night, Chameleon.”

 

Leaving the door open behind him, Adam walked through the sitting room of his own suite. With every step, his body issued
a fierce, unrelenting protest. But as much as he wanted to, he wouldn't allow himself to turn around, walk back through the door and tumble Maggie down onto that soft white leather.

She needed sleep. That much was obvious from the faint shadows under her eyes. From the droop of her shoulders under the beaded silk. She needed rest. A few hours' relief from the strain of her role.

And Adam needed to keep the promise of tomorrow in proper perspective. If he could.

Halfway across the sitting room, the glint of cellophane caught his eye. He halted with one hand lifted to tug at the ends of his black tie, and surveyed the towering collection of champagne, caviar, imported biscuits and cheeses. Somehow he suspected that those damned cheeses were going to figure in his dreams tonight.

Scooping up the basket, he walked back into the adjoining suite. The thick white carpet muffled his footsteps as he approached the bedroom door.

“You'd better eat something before—”

He stopped short on the threshold, transfixed by the sight of Maggie twisted sideways, struggling with the straps of her body shield.

She'd shed the beaded gown, and she wore only the thin Kevlar corset, a lacy garter belt that held up sheer nylon stockings, and the skimpiest pair of panties Adam had ever seen. No more than a thin strip of aqua silk, they brushed the tops of her full, rounded bottom and narrowed to a thin strip between her legs. In the process, they exposed far more flesh than they covered.

When she glanced up, Adam saw that she'd removed her violet-tinted contacts. Those were Maggie's brown eyes, he saw with a rush of fierce satisfaction. That was her body that beckoned to him.

Another woman might have flushed or stammered or at least acknowledged the sudden, leaping tension of the moment. Maggie gave him a wry grin.

“Remind me to tell Field Dress what I think of this blasted contraption when we get back. It was supposedly designed for easy removal, but I'm stuck.”

“So I see. Need some help?”

“Yes, I…”

She straightened, and the last Velcro fastening gave with a snicker of sound. The body shield slipped downward, exposing a half bra of aqua and lace. Maggie bit her lip.

“No, I guess I don't.”

Across the broad expanse of white carpet, their eyes met. For a long moment, neither moved. Neither spoke. Then her gaze dropped to the cellophane-covered basket in his arms, and she gave a whoop of delight.

“Adam! Is that food? Real food?”

“It is.”

Snatching up a robe, she threw it on. “Thank God! I'm starving! I didn't know how I was going to get any sleep with my stomach rumbling like this.”

Her forehead furrowed as she crossed the room, yanking at the sash of the robe.

“I got sloppy with Denise tonight, and I know it's just because I'm tired. And hungry. What's in the basket?”

“Caviar.”

“Yecch!”

“And Brie.”

Her face brightened, and she reached for the bundle of goodies. “Great! I love Brie. Especially warm, when it's so soft and creamy, you can spread it on all kinds of stuff.”

Adam's jaw clenched. He'd spent over a decade in service to his country. He'd done some things he might have been decorated for if they hadn't been cloaked in secrecy. Some things he might have been shot for if the wrong people had caught up with him. But handing that basket over to Maggie was the toughest act he'd ever had to perform in his personal or professional life.

“Eat up,” he told her, “then get some sleep. You can't afford to get sloppy. With anyone.”

“Mmm…” she mumbled, busy delving into the assorted treasures.

Tomorrow, Adam promised himself as he walked back to his suite. Tomorrow, this hard, pounding ache would ease. They'd be at the cabin. There'd be fewer people around. He could put a little distance between himself and Maggie, yet still keep her under close surveillance.

By tomorrow, he'd have himself under control.

T
he vice-presidential party arrived at the white-painted twenties-era frame house tucked high in the Sierra Nevada late the next evening.

Too late for Maggie and Adam to finish the “discussion” they'd begun on the terrace of the Century Plaza's penthouse suite. Too late for more than a cursory look around the rustic hideaway. Too late for anything other than a quick cup of hot soup in front of a low, banked fire and a weary good-night. The trip that shouldn't have taken more than a few hours had spun out for more than twelve.

The short flight from L.A. to Sacramento had gone smoothly enough. They landed in the capital city in time for a late lunch at one of Taylor's favorite restaurants. Maggie basked in the reflection of the former governor's popularity with the restaurant staff and managed a cheerful smile when she was served a glutinous green mass in the shape of a crescent with unidentifiable objects jiggling inside it. She was still too stuffed from her late-night raid on Adam's treasure trove of goodies to give his ham and cheese on sourdough more than a passing glance.

It was only after they lifted off in the specially configured twin-engine Sikorsky helicopter for the final leg of their trip that the problems began. The pilot, a veteran of the Gulf War, countered most of the sudden up-and downdrafts over the foothills with unerring skill. But when the aircraft approached the higher peaks, the ride took on a roller-coaster character.

At one violent thrust to the right, Maggie grabbed the armrests with both hands. Behind her, Denise sucked in a quick breath. Even the redoubtable Lillian gasped.

“Feels like we've run into some convective air turbulence,” Adam commented.

“We've certainly run into something,” Maggie muttered.

He stretched his long legs out beside hers, unperturbed by the violent pitch and yaw of the craft. Having seen him at the controls of various aircraft a number of times, Maggie wasn't surprised at his calm. Adam could handle a stick with the best of them. He knew what to expect. She, on the other hand, was bitterly regretting even the few bites of green stuff she'd managed to swallow at lunch.

“This kind of turbulence is common when flying at low levels over mountains.” He scanned the tilting horizon outside the window. “From the looks of those clouds up ahead, we're going to lose visibility soon.”

“Great.”

He smiled at her drawled comment. “I suspect we'll have to turn back.”

Sure enough, a few moments later the pilot came back to inform her that regulations required him to return to base. He couldn't risk flying blind, with only instruments to guide him through the mountains, while ferrying a code-level VIP.

On the ground in Sacramento, they waited over an hour for the front to clear. When the weather reports grew increasingly grim, Maggie was given the choice between remaining overnight in the capital city and driving up to the cabin in a convoy of four-wheel-drive vehicles. In blessed ignorance of the state of the roads leading to Taylor Grant's mountain retreat, she chose the drive.

At first, she thoroughly enjoyed her first journey into the High Sierras. Despite the lowering clouds, the scenery consisted of spectacular displays of light and shadow. White snow and gray, misty lakes provided dramatic backdrops for dark green ponderosa pine and blue-tinted Douglas firs.

When the convoy of vehicles turned off the interstate onto a narrow two-lane state road, Maggie spied deer tracks in the snow. Chipmunks darted along the branches arching over the road and scattered showers of white on the passing vehicles. Every so often the woods thinned, and she'd catch a glimpse of an ice-covered waterfall hanging like a silvery tassel in the distance.

As they climbed to the higher elevations, however, the two-lane highway gave way to a corkscrew gravel road that twisted and turned back on itself repeatedly. Fog and swirling snow slowed their progress even more, until the four-vehicle convoy was creeping along at barely five miles per hour.

It occurred to Maggie that one of those blind curves would make an excellent spot for an ambush. With the vehicles slowed to a crawl, a sniper perched in a nearby tree would have no difficulty picking off his target. As a result, she spent most of the endless trip alternately searching the gray snowscape ahead and wondering why in hell Taylor Grant would choose such an inaccessible spot for her personal retreat.

As soon as she saw the cabin, she understood. The small white frame structure nestled on the side of a steep slope in a Christmas-card-perfect setting. Surrounded by snow-draped pines and a split-rail fence, its windows spilled golden, welcoming light into the night. The scent of a wood fire greeted Maggie as soon as she stepped out of the Land Rover. While Adam went back to help sort and unload the bags, she stood for a moment in the crisp air. The profound quiet of the night surrounded her. Deliberately she willed the knotted muscles in the back of her neck to relax.

Boots crunched the path behind her. Lillian appeared at her elbow, looking much like a pint-size snowman in a puffy down-filled coat, with a fuzzy beret pulled over her springy curls.

“Feels good to be home,” she said, sniffing the air.

“Mmm…”

“Too bad it's too late for you to jog down to the lake.”

“Yes, isn't it?”

Maggie was
not
looking forward to running anywhere in this thin mountain air, much less down a steep mountain path to the tiny lake she knew crouched in the valley below, then back up again. Running was bad enough at sea level. At an elevation of nine thousand feet, a jog like that would be sheer torture. She had several excuses in mind to justify a change in the vice president's routine, including a desire for long,
slow
walks with a certain special envoy.

Mindful of the agents milling around behind them, Lillian shot her a look heavy with significance.

“You'll just have to wait until morning to trek down to the lake, even though you say you never feel at home until you've seen your tree. The one with the initials.”

Biting back a sigh, Maggie resigned herself to the inevitable. “I don't. If the snow doesn't obscure the path, I'll go down in the—”

“Grrr-oo-of!”

She broke off with a startled gasp as the mounded snowbank on her left suddenly erupted. In a blur of white, a shaggy creature sprang out of the snow and planted itself in front of her. Its shaggy coat hung in thick, uncombed ropes, and only the upright stub of a tail told Maggie which end was which. The thing looked like a well-used floor mop, only this mop had to weigh at least a hundred pounds and was making very unfriendly noises.

“Radizwell! Get back, you idiot!” Lillian swatted the woolly head with her purse. “It's too late to play games tonight. Go on! Shoo!”

The creature stood its ground, growling deep in its throat at the woman garbed in its mistress's clothes.

Maggie had been briefed that the livestock kept on Taylor's small ranch included several horses, a flock of sheep that grazed the high alpine meadows in spring, and a breed of sheepdog
she'd never heard of before. According to intelligence, the komondor had been introduced into Europe by the Magyars when they invaded Hungary in the ninth century. The animal was ideal for the rugged Hungarian mountains. Its huge size and thick, corded coat enabled it to withstand the harshest winter climates, and at the same time protected it from the fangs of the predators that preyed on the flocks.

Maggie could understand how the creature in front of her would intimidate a bear or a wolf or a fox. It certainly intimidated her. Unfortunately, intel had stressed that Taylor Grant never went anywhere around the ranch without this beast at her side. Maggie knew she had to win him over, and fast.

Dragging in a deep breath, she crouched down on one heel and held out a hand. “Come here, Radizwell. Come here, boy.”

Another growl issued from deep under those layers of ropelike wool.

Maggie set her jaw. If she could convince a bug-eyed iguana to respond—occasionally—to her commands, she could win over this escapee from a mattress factory.

“Here, Radizwell. Come here.”

A warning rumble sounded deep in its throat.

Despite the almost overpowering urge to draw her arm back, Maggie kept her hand extended. “Here, boy.”

One huge paw inched forward. A black nose poked out of the shaggy layers. The creature sniffed, growled again, then edged closer.

From the corner of one eye, Maggie saw the front door open and a jacketed figure step out onto the porch. She guessed it was Hank McGowan, the caretaker. Of all the dossiers she'd studied for this mission, his had fascinated her the most. An ex-con who owed Taylor both his life and his livelihood, he'd made this isolated ranch his home.

Before Maggie could give her full attention to McGowan, however, the showdown between her and Radizwell had to be decided. One way or another.

“Come here, boy.”

A cold nose nudged her palm. Understanding his confusion,
she let the dog sniff her for a few moments. When he didn't amputate any of her fingers, she lifted her hand and gave his feltlike coat a cautious pat. That proved to be a mistake.

Radizwell instantly moved forward to make a closer inspection. His massive head butted into her chest with the force of a Mack truck. Maggie lost her precarious balance and toppled backward.

Adam and the caretaker arrived at the same moment from opposite directions to find her on her back in the snow, with a hundred pounds of dog straddling her body. Thankfully, its growls had given way to a low rumble as his wet nose moved over her cheeks and chin. She managed a laughing protest to cover what she knew was the dog's uncharacteristic behavior.

“Radizwell, you idiot. Get off me!”

Shaking his head in disgust, the caretaker burrowed a hand under layers of wool to find a collar.

“I penned him up when they radioed that you were on the last mile stretch. Guess I should have put a lock on the shed.”

He bent forward to haul the dog back, and Maggie saw his face clearly for the first time. Although the dossier she'd studied had prepared her somewhat, his battered features shocked her nonetheless. They added grim emphasis to his checkered past.

Henry “Hank” McGowan. Forty-three. Divorced. Onetime foreman of a huge commercial sheep ranch outside Sacramento. Convicted murderer, whose death sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment by the then-governor, Taylor Grant.

His conviction had been overturned when new evidence proved he hadn't tracked down and shot the drunk who'd battered him senseless with a tire jack after an argument over a game of pool. McGowan had drifted after that, unable to find work despite his exoneration, until Taylor hired him to act as stockman and caretaker.

In his last security review, McGowan had stated flatly that he owed Taylor Grant his life. He'd give it willingly to shield the vice president from any hurt, any harm.

Right now, that consisted of hauling a hundred pounds of suspicious sheepdog off her prone body.

“For heaven's sake, lock him in the shearing shed tonight,” Lillian said tartly. “You know how excited the idiot gets whenever we come home. The last time he just about stripped the paint off the porch, marking his territory for the new agents who came with Mrs. Grant.”

To Maggie's relief, the dog allowed himself to be led away before he felt compelled to mark anything for this stranger in Taylor's clothes.

“There's a pot of vegetable stew on the stove,” McGowan tossed over one shoulder. “If anyone's hungry.”

If
anyone was hungry! At this point, even veggies simmering in a rich, hearty broth sounded good to Maggie. She grabbed the hand Adam extended and scrambled up. Dusting the snow from her bottom, she gave him a grin.

“I certainly seem to be taking more than my share of falls lately.”

“So I've noticed. Do you think you can make it to the cabin upright, or shall I carry you?”

Now there was an intriguing invitation.

“I can make it,” she said, regret and laughter threading her voice. “Come on, let me show you the homestead, such as it is.”

The vice president's home had been featured in a five-page spread in
Western Living
magazine, but not even that glossy layout had prepared Maggie for the stunning interior. Only a woman of Taylor Grant's style and confidence could pull off this blend of rustic and antique, polished mahogany and shining oak, plank floors and scattered floral rugs.

Most of the cabin's downstairs interior walls had been demolished, leaving only an open living-dining area, a small kitchen, and the bedroom Lillian occupied. A huge stone fireplace in the living room was the focus of a collection of comfortable dude-ranch-style furniture. A magnificent Chippendale dining room table with eight chairs dominated the dining area. Interspersed throughout were bronze pieces sculpted by Taylor's deceased husband, Oriental vases filled with dried flowers,
framed Western art, and the occasional mounted trophy, including a huge moose head beside the door that served as a hat rack.

While Maggie showed Adam around, using the impromptu tour as an excuse to familiarize herself with the downstairs, Lillian went upstairs to direct the placement of the luggage. Denise dragged off her gloves and conferred with the agent who'd been sent to the cabin several days ago as part of the advance team. After a thorough walk-through of the entire cabin, she joined Maggie and Adam at the stone fireplace. Politely declining a mug of the steaming stew, she gave a brief report.

“The cabin and the grounds are secure, Mrs. Grant. We've activated the command center in the barn.”

According to intelligence, the Secret Service had converted the barn behind the cabin into a well-equipped bunkhouse and a high-tech command-and-control center—at a cost of several million dollars. Idly Maggie wondered whether the horses were going to enjoy the central heat and exercise room when the Secret Service finally vacated the premises.