Hot Pursuit (22 page)

Jack grabbed the paper and shoved it deep into his pocket, scowling. “Forget about it. Let's get moving.”

Taylor ran a finger across his leather jacket and flipped up his collar. “What, you aren't going to leave her an answer?”

Jack caught her hand. Something flashed through his eyes as he stood beside her, his body tense, their thighs brushing. Taylor felt a sudden jolt of awareness in the pit of her stomach. To her shock, his fingers slid down, curling around her palm.

Suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted to feel his hand on her cheek. On her skin.

Everywhere.

His face was unreadable. “Just for the record, I don't jump strangers.”

“No?” Taylor's mouth got even drier as he stepped her back against the booth until they were chest to chest, glare to glare.
What a body,
she thought dimly. “Who
do
you jump?” she asked breathlessly.

Their eyes locked. Taylor had an odd sense of weightlessness, of utter buoyancy as their bodies slid together. The waitress was right. The man had one prime body, and everything was in perfect working order, as far as Taylor could tell. The fit was almost enough to give her an orgasm right there, surrounded by people eating oatmeal, muffins, and tofu-burgers.

And he was definitely having a reaction, judging by the feel of his thighs pressed against her. What if he kissed her right here?

Worse yet, what if she closed her eyes and kissed him right back, letting her fingers slide through that thick hair while their tongues did a slow, shameless dance of discovery?

Her heart was slamming when he moved away, scooping up her napkin. “Can't forget this.”

“Why not?” Taylor blinked at the crumpled paper.

“Because you were doodling. This is government evidence.”

“Of what?”

“Beats me, but someone might decide it meant something. Izzy can probably make out your life story from those scrawls.” His brow rose. “Something wrong? You're breathing a little too hard.”

Taylor took an angry step back and smoothed her sweater. “Jerk,” she muttered.

“At your service.” He smiled coolly. “And I'm
always
ready for major action.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

Not a great answer, but it was the best Taylor could manage with her knees shaking and her heart lurching around in her chest while images of hot, impersonal sex shot through her brain.

Why now? And why, God help her, with
him
?

 

“What do you mean, he blew up the lab?” Viktor Lemka strode onboard the yacht
Andromeda
, moored a mile out beyond the Oregon coast. He'd been gone for barely twenty-four hours and these dog-faced fools destroyed everything.
“Where is he?”

The nearest man, a pockmarked Albanian hired three weeks earlier in a bar in Los Angeles, took a step away from Lemka. “There is another problem, sir. You see, after the explosion burned the galley, the American—”

Lemka backhanded the frightened man, sending him right off the deck, down into the cold, choppy waves.

No one went to his aid.

“I want no problems. I want only solutions.
You
.” He jabbed a finger at the nearest man, who went pale. “Take me to Rains.”

“Of course, Mr. Lemka.” The man gestured hopefully toward the companionway.

Lemka frowned as he saw the black marks streaking the wood wall. Rains would howl with pain for this, he swore. He'd choke on his own sobs while he lost his fingers one by one. “Show me.” Lemka swung down the steps, blind with his anger and a vast need for revenge.

When he saw the devastated room covered in ash, he screamed in fury.

Because the galley was gutted, empty. His precious captive was gone.

Chapter Twenty-five

Taylor turned at her door, keys in hand. “You can go now.”

Jack didn't move.

“Did you want something else?”

“I'd like to look around.”

“You want to go through my desk, dig in my drawers? The answer is no.”

“I need to get a sense of possibilities. I can't help feeling there's something we overlooked. I want this thing finished as much as you do.”

Taylor sighed, then held open the door. “All right. But you call me before you dig in anything . . . personal.”

“Promise.”

She watched him roam past the big bookcase, running his fingers over the book covers. “I'll be in my office if you need me.”

Jack waved a hand, studying the room. “Don't let me keep you.”

Jack knew he was about to rip up at her for things that weren't her fault, like this whole misbegotten assignment. To avoid that, he'd been purposefully rude. He was relieved when she vanished and her keyboard began clicking. Slowly he wandered through the room, past the bookcases, past two framed prints of sea otters in a churning sea, wondering how she and Rains were connected.

He picked up a photo of Taylor and Annie bodysurfing in Big Sur as teenagers. Next to it was a photo of Sam and Annie McKade at their wedding, both looking happy as hell. He prowled some more, searching for anything out of place.

A scrap of paper.

A postage stamp printed wrong.

A package with no labels.

Was there something shoved into a corner or stacked out of sight where Taylor might have missed it? Slowly, methodically, he went from one bookshelf to the next, scanning every title, checking above and behind. Next he lifted all the art on the wall, looking for envelopes or papers tacked out of sight on the back of the frame.

After that, he checked under the chairs, desk, and couch, then lifted the rug.

Nothing again.

Hell, what did he expect, a capsule of toxic white powder hidden inside a flowerpot? A piece of paper with scrawled lab notes shoved beneath the blotter on her desk? Rains was immoral and unstable, but he was no fool. He'd won awards for fast-track research in plant lectins and he had a reputation for getting results when no one else could. The thing that bothered Jack was, why Taylor? She wasn't part of the scientific circles Rains moved in. She probably wouldn't have recognized the lethal yet beautifully decorative castor bean, even if she was about to bite into one.

Maybe
that
was part of the attraction. As an outsider, Taylor wouldn't realize what she had. Assuming she found it, she wouldn't even know whom to contact for answers. In a strange way, she would be the safest haven, a place where Rains could park something out of sight indefinitely—something to use as a bargaining chip if his business buddies got impatient and decided to rearrange his face.

There was a strange logic in its illogic. With Taylor and Candace friends, Rains could easily track Taylor down and reclaim whatever he'd left with her, if and when he needed it. But if this was Rains' plan, why would he threaten Taylor with the funeral flowers? And above all, why the tampering with the bolt, causing the climbing accident?

More questions Jack couldn't answer.

He gave the room another thorough sweep. Book by book, he riffled pages, then checked the window frames and blinds. He opened drawers and ran his hand inside and underneath every corner. He even checked the wallboards.

No folded papers. No computer disks taped just out of reach. Hell, in the movies, James Bond always found the hidden microchip just about now.

In the next room, the typing continued. At least someone was being productive, Jack thought grimly. On impulse, he pulled out Taylor's latest book and flipped to chapter one.

What the hell? If you wanted to understand a writer's life, maybe you had to start with what they had written. Not that Jack meant to read for long. Most stories left him cold, and he gave this one about two minutes to do the same thing. He was only searching for an angle they'd overlooked.

He listened to see if the typing continued.

It did.

Feeling uncomfortable, almost like a voyeur, he sank onto the sofa, propped her book stiffly on his chest, and began to read. After a while he put up his feet, settled back, and read some more.

After that, he kept on reading, chuckling once or twice.

Outside, clouds gathered above Russian Hill, and the sky slid from azure into lavender. Lights shimmered to life atop the Golden Gate Bridge, while out in the bay freighters from Shanghai and Singapore steamed through the first indigo mist of evening.

Book in hand, Jack didn't notice.

 

Harris Rains was frightened.

He hunched away from the light, dialing quickly inside the grimy phone booth. Every movement made him wince, and fresh blood spilled from the piece of gauze he'd wrapped around his throbbing wrist.

The explosion in the galley had been a gamble, but it had worked. Fortunately, when he'd used the distraction to slip on deck and jump into the water, he'd been only a quarter-mile from shore.

Instead of heading inland from there, he'd climbed a wall and taken cover inside a Coast Guard supply depot. Lemka's goons hadn't dared check the area closely and had lumbered off, arguing noisily.

Standing in the darkness, Harris listened to the phone ringing. He counted thirty rings before he finally hung up. Where was Candace? She hadn't said anything about leaving for a vacation or a climbing trip, damn it. Not that she and her straggly friends ever planned anything in advance.

A cold drizzle began to fall.

Down the street, a dog barked restlessly, and Rains stiffened as a police car rounded the corner. Dropping the phone, he plunged blindly into the gloom.

When the patrol car came to a stop, its lights picked up only a phone swinging by its cord and a wall of damp, forgotten garbage that had long since stopped mattering to anyone.

 

Taylor noticed the silence first. She'd expected to find Jack either gone or stretched out with the TV roaring, engrossed in a Lakers game. When she walked into the hallway, his feet were the first thing she saw, perched on the edge of her coffee table. Then she saw his long legs and his body slanted comfortably against her couch.

She went dead-still when she saw that he was reading.

And chuckling.

Holding her latest book.

Her breath skated hard and she felt a little electric jolt of desire for that long, lean body stretched out in front of her. She closed her eyes.

This was not good. Not good at all.

She started to walk quietly away, but something held her. She'd done the research, knew all the patterns. When two people were cooped up together, they got close fast, and their loyalties could shift drastically, like Patty Hearst and her bodyguard. Princess Diana and her security officer.

Taylor took a quiet step back. Out of sight, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying not to hear Jack's steady breathing and low laughter. Trying not to feel warm, insidious fingers of pleasure at the thought of him immersed in her book.

A curse word came to mind.

She mouthed it silently, her hands pressed against the wall, while her heart beat loudly, almost painfully. What was happening here? She had always been the cool one, the aloof, amused, experienced one. Her sister, Annie, kept telling her she made cynicism an art form.

So how had this one man gotten through all her defenses, making her mind fumble like a football throw gone bad?

Even with her eyes closed, she could see his strong hand curled around the cover of her book. She could see the careful way he turned the pages, the way he nodded. The way his eyes squinted into laugh lines as he read.

How could a man seduce you just by the way he held a
book
?

It wasn't happening to
her
, thank you very much. Not to Taylor O'Toole, who had tangled with more men than she liked to remember. Jack Broussard would vanish the second his work was done, and he wasn't leaving her heart in shreds when he did.

Taylor straightened her shoulders.
Forget the sadness in his eyes. Forget the way he makes your body come alive.

She wasn't looking for a prince—charming or any other sort. She knew the rules. Men didn't commit, and women didn't stop hoping they would.

She cleared her throat loudly and closed the door of her office with a loud snap, alerting Jack that she was coming. When she got to the living room, he was reading a magazine, her book nowhere to be seen.

She started to speak, then stopped. She was used to people reading her books and denying it. But this time it hurt her.

Jack looked up, frowning. He gave her a thorough scrutiny, one brow raised. “What are you, five months or six?”

Taylor straightened the loose sweater and elastic-front skirt she'd forgotten completely. “Probably about seven, but I had to take out the pillow. It made me feel like a blimp.”

“Is there a reason you're wearing maternity clothes?” he asked grimly.

“Calm down, Broussard. It's research, pure and simple. I need to know how a character thinks, how she moves.”

“So you're thinking about having someone get pregnant?”

“Possibly. When I get blocked, I spend some time doing exactly what my character would do.”

“That's got to be craziest thing I've ever heard.”

“Now you're a literary expert?”

He looked her up and down, then shook his head again. “My sister says you get used to it.”

“What?”

“Feeling like a blimp. She's on her fourth. Loves kids.” Jack tossed down the magazine and stood up. “How about some coffee?”

Taylor sighed. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Jack headed for the kitchen. “Seems I read somewhere that caffeine was out for pregnant women.”

Taylor closed her eyes, rubbing the sore muscles in her neck, and sat down. “Stuff it, Broussard.”

China clattered. A moment later she smelled the intoxicating fragrance of fresh Kona blend.

She didn't open her eyes. “Did you enjoy the magazine?”

“Not really. Nothing good on television, either.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes.” For some reason, his smooth lie hurt far more than it should have.
Distance,
she reminded herself. “Being pregnant is hard work.”

“That's another thing my sister says.” Taylor heard him move behind her. “Lean back.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” His fingers slid into her hair.

Taylor frowned as he smoothed her shoulders, kneading steadily. Her breath skimmed out in a sigh. “I'll pay you a hundred dollars an hour if you never stop.”

He did more of the same slow magic, working out every line of bad dialogue and flawed characterization that had found its way deep into her knotted muscles.

Taylor took a slow breath. Not quite a moan, but close. “Make that a million dollars.”

“You always get this tense when you work?”

“Usually. If the words come, you forget everything else. When you stand up a few hours later, the feeling is roughly like a hundred little men driving bamboo stakes into your back.”

Jack didn't answer.

She turned, one eye cracked open. “A problem?”

“Yeah.” He massaged her neck. “I lied.”

“You did?”

“About the magazine. The truth is, I was reading your book.”

Taylor opened her other eye, wary now. “Yeah?”

He rolled his shoulders. “It was pretty damned good.”

She couldn't help but smile. “Am I supposed to sing the Hallelujah Chorus now?”

“No.” He touched her cheek. “You're supposed to shut up and let me apologize. I liked the book, but I didn't want you to know. All of which puts me roughly on a par with the other unicellular organisms living in the sewer.”

Taylor laughed, oddly moved by his gruff confession. “No problem. I'm used to it.”

“It was still a slimy thing to do.” His voice was tight. “I'm sorry.”

“Forget it.”

He walked around her slowly. “I'm not sure I can. Being low and mean isn't usually my style. I'm asking myself, why now? Why with you?”

“And?” Her voice was a whisper.

“I go by the book, Taylor. Always have. But now I keep wondering what if I didn't, just once.” He caught her palm, turned it slowly. “The whole idea has got me a little frightened. A little angry.”

She heard the edge in his voice, the confusion. The need. “Throwing away the rule book can be nerve-wracking.” She managed a smile. “Which is why I try to do it at least once a week.”

He turned her other palm, his eyes hard. “I can't be what I'm not. I'd try and it would make us both unhappy.” His fingers tightened. “But you make me wish I could.”

He pulled her to her feet, his face unreadable. “I liked your damned book. I liked your damned characters. I even liked the damned dog.”