Miranda's Mate (2 page)

He jerked his head sideways. A half-open door sat about fifty yards away. He bent so his mouth was right against her ear and whispered as they walked. “You will take the stairs all the way to the bottom. There is a door there. It opens into the main terminal. I will meet you if I can. If I do not, take a taxi. Put some miles between yourself and this airport.” He made a sound midway between a snort and a grunt. “Hell, if you can get the cabbie to drive you to the next state, do it.”

She wanted to ask about perhaps flying back to Seattle, but there wasn’t time. He gave her a push, and the door snicked shut behind her. She heard it lock and understood he must have jimmied it somehow. She padded down a spiral metal staircase, grateful for her flat-soled, practical boots. Lights flashed whenever she passed a landing. She worried about what to do if the door at the bottom was locked. She wasn’t bad at picking locks, but she didn’t have her pick set with her. She’d pretty much stopped carting it around because nearly every lock she’d run into in the last few years was electronic.
Don’t borrow trouble. I’ll find out soon enough.

Adrenaline twisted her stomach into a sour knot. Her wolf wanted out. It took precious energy to keep it contained. The stairs ended, and she stared at a metal door. The same blinking light flashed overhead. Wary of alarms, she twisted the handle. It didn’t budge.
Shit!
She blew out a tense breath. Lars had managed to unlock the top one, so it couldn’t be impossible.

She bent to examine the lock. The easiest thing would be to screw the silencer onto her gun and blow it to bits.
Yeah, right. Every cop in the joint will come on a dead run.
The lock had a card hole, which meant it was electronic. Maybe her lycan magic could tease it into compliance. She hummed a note, and then another. Something whirred at the edges of her sensitive lycan hearing. The lock didn’t give, not quite, but hope slammed into her. This could work if she was patient.

Miranda let a hand hover over the mechanism and felt its resonance. She tried a couple of three-note combinations. Her fourth try worked. She tamped down elation as the door popped open. She hurried through and tried to look casual as she tugged it closed behind her. Anxious to put as much distance as she could between her and the door before some sort of siren sounded, she ran headlong into someone and muttered apologies before she realized it was Lars.

He pointed toward a glass revolving door. She stumbled after him. Questions bubbled around her tired brain, but she knew better than to talk on the cab ride. They got out in a neighborhood of stately old brownstones. Lars motioned her up several flights of steps and into an apartment furnished in Motel Six modern. He locked a series of deadbolts and turned to face her.

“Are we safe here?”

He nodded. “As safe as anywhere, fraulein, until I can get us out of the city tomorrow. I have made arrangements for a plane in Boston. We will fly to Seattle from there. Take the bedroom at the end of the hall. There is another bedroom, but I will sleep on the couch.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. He smirked. “It is closer to the door in case we have…unexpected company.”

Miranda was almost certain she knew the answer to her next question, but she asked anyway. “What happened to the other pilot?”

Lars’ lips curved into a sneer. “Dead. The bastard who killed him will be once I get my hands on him.”

Miranda walked down the hall and into the bedroom. She shut the door behind her, grateful Lars hadn’t asked who she’d taken care of in Amsterdam. Human trafficking was global, but such an instantaneous response to losing one of their own chilled her. From long habit, she checked the adjoining bath and closet. A shower would be welcome, but it could wait. She pitched face down on the bed and was asleep in seconds.

Garen LeRochefort gripped his satellite phone so hard the plastic dug into his hand. He’d been relieved when his operatives confirmed Miranda’s plane was safe in New York City, but his relief was short-lived.

“Goddammit it all to hell.” He snapped the phone shut.

People in the upscale lounge shot disapproving glances his way. Before he could scream at them that anyone who frequented a bar at six in the morning was a goddamned drunk, Garen melted out of the bar. He had no idea where Miranda was or even if she was still alive. He could call her, but her phone would likely be off. She was a good agent, and she followed protocols. One of the first was to keep communications gadgets not just off but also fully powered down since they could be used as tracking devices.

He laced his fingers together and squeezed until his hands ached. She’d been the obvious choice to send against Derek Roulan, head of the largest human trafficking ring on the globe. Roulan called his business International Success Ltd.—shortened to ISL—but the only one in the organization who succeeded was Roulan himself. Derek had an eye for ladies, and Miranda was one of the most exotic creatures Garen had ever laid eyes on. None of his male operatives would have stood a chance of getting close enough to Derek to handle him. His other females weren’t nearly as seductive.

Garen debated retreating to his hotel room on the thirty-fifth floor. Instead, he opted for a walk. It was cold and sleeting in early morning Boston, but he needed something to quell the fury racing through him. Pavement glistened in the light of a new day. Water ran down his face; he ignored it.

Garen was head of The Company. Years before he’d tried to come up with an apt name for his international security firm without much luck. After all, what euphemism would describe the dirty wet work he and his employees did? He’d actually thought it the joke of the century when much more modern spy operations had adopted
his
company name. Never mind he’d been in business under one guise or another since just before the American Revolution. Operating an undercover business was extremely useful to mask his long life—and come up with new documentation each time he faded out of one identity and into another. Nearly all his employees were lycans like him, but a few were other types of shifters. All of them were long-lived.

The bottom line was no one became a full-fledged company employee unless they had supernatural abilities. He’d tried to figure Miranda out ever since she’d hired on, with no luck. At times, he’d been close, but she was wily, that one. She always slammed up a diversion to keep him out of her secret places. Damn if he didn’t want into those secret places—all of them. He imagined her long legs locked around his hips and groaned. None of this was helping. Indulging himself with one of his employees would be just plain stupid. So why couldn’t he get her out of his mind?

Garen did his damnedest to latch onto a shred of objectivity. He wouldn’t do Miranda any good if he couldn’t think straight. He sucked in a cold, soggy breath and followed it with another. It wasn’t accidental he was in Boston. He’d wanted to be closer to the East Coast in case something happened in Amsterdam and he needed to catch a plane there. Hell, he would have staked out a presence in Europe, but he was too well-known. He didn’t want his misplaced over-protectiveness to send up red flags that might end up killing his operative. Miranda could travel unnoticed. He couldn’t.

He shook his head. After this assignment, assuming he got Miranda back in one piece, he’d have to rethink just how invisible she was. It was apparent Roulan’s gang was after her. Deep inside, his wolf growled. It wanted to kill anything that might harm Miranda. He did what he could to calm it since shifting was out of the question.

Lycans and other shifters were as close to
persona non grata
as criminals. If regular law enforcement got wind of them, they hunted them down and killed them. Garen exhaled sharply. The best part about The Company was he had a trusted inner circle of operatives: fully vetted agents he trusted with his life. All lycans except for three bear shifters and four mountain lions, they’d worked together for over a hundred years.

In keeping with the total lack of trust shifters had in everyone, many—but certainly not all of them—showed up at a yearly gathering in their shifted form, never letting on who they were as humans. Sadness for his kind made his heart ache, but he shoved it aside. Emotions were an indulgence. He had more important places to focus his energy.

By the time he walked back through the fancy lobby of his hotel with its crystal chandeliers and plush furniture, he was wet enough other patrons gave him a wide berth. He sidled to the banks of elevators at the far side of the lobby. A lissome redhead followed him into one of the cars. Garen turned away. He knew what would come next.

“Hey there, handsome. A bit on the wet side, aren’t we?”

“Drop it. I’m not interested.”

She laughed, but it had a practiced edge. “You wouldn’t need to worry about a thing, darling. Maybe just a nice massage and a hot bath—”

He glanced at the rapidly mounting numbers above the elevator door and pressed twenty-one since they weren’t there yet. The door slid open. He grabbed the hooker’s arm and pushed her into a carpeted hallway. “I said I’m not interested. Go ply your wares elsewhere.”

He stabbed the Close Door button before she could leap back to his side with yet one more argument. Garen knew her kind. She was still attractive enough to be pushy and arrogant. He got out on the thirty-fifth floor, went to his room, and inserted his key card. His mouth twisted wryly. He wished a hooker could wipe Miranda out of his mind, but no one could. Everyone he’d fucked ever since he met her reminded him of her.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. Garen stripped and dropped his wet clothes over a chair. “I want the one I can’t have.”

He started the water in the sunken tub running and left the bathroom to check his phone. Nothing. He dialed The Company’s headquarters. It didn’t take long to determine Miranda hadn’t called in. His next try was Lars’ firm in Berlin. All they could tell him—and they did it by inference—was one of their other operatives was dead, murdered at JFK and his body stuffed into a parking lot Dumpster.

Alarm fried Garen’s nerve endings. His wolf was damn near uncontrollable. Claws shot from his toes. Before they could take over his hands, he turned the door’s deadbolt and dropped the night-latch chain into its hasp. His body lengthened, fur sprouted, and he dropped to all fours. He loped around the generous suite until his tongue lolled. Garen loved the clean, unfettered animal energy. His wolf always knew what it wanted. Right now, it urged him to go after Miranda, but that wasn’t practical since he had no idea where she was. Hopefully she and Lars had gone to ground somewhere. As lethal an operative as himself, Lars was more than capable of taking care of business—assuming nothing had happened to him.

The sound of the tub filling changed. It took a moment before he understood water was pouring over the sides. In a flash, he reached for his human form and sprinted for the bathroom. He turned off the taps, pulled the plug, and sopped up the mess with a couple of thick towels. Once the water level had gone down a few inches, Garen levered himself into the tub and sat in the steaming water. It soothed his tight muscles but didn’t relieve his worry.

He clenched a fist and banged it down on the side of the tub. Damn it! He needed a clear head, but all he could think about was Miranda—his Miranda—crouched behind a concrete wall defending herself. He should be by her side, helping her…

“No.” He spoke out loud to get hold of his emotions. “She hasn’t been through her final tests yet. Maybe once she’s tenured and I know beyond a shadow of doubt I can trust her—”

Yeah, what then? Do I break every rule I ever made for The Company and mate with her—make her mine?

Hold it there, bud
, a rational part of his brain horned in.
I have no idea if she’s even lycan.

If she wasn’t, he could always bite her and solve
that
little problem, but another of his rules would shatter. He’d forbidden lycans to create more of their kind until they were truly needed. No point in making shifters only to have them gunned down.

“Fuck.” A growl shook the bathroom. He got out of the tub and toweled himself off. “I made too many fucking rules, and now I’m falling over them.”

* * * *

“I let you sleep as long as I dared,” Lars said from the doorway.

“Crap.” Miranda rolled over and groaned. Her head pounded. Her body ached. Fear flooded her mouth with a sharp, metallic taste. “Why didn’t I hear the door open?”

He grinned at her. “I can be…quiet as a cat when I need to. I ordered breakfast. It should be here by the time you have had a shower.” The door closed.

She lurched off the bed. The room spun, and she grabbed hold of a dresser until things steadied. Weak as a newborn pup, she shambled into the shower, dropping a trail of clothing as she went, and let hot jets pummel her body. Someone had outfitted the brownstone apartment.
Must be some kind of safe house,
she surmised as she used lavender shampoo and soap. Her entire right side was one huge bruise from just below her breast all the way to her hipbone. More bruising trailed down the side of her leg.

Miranda grimaced. Between being hurt and not even being able to remember when she’d last eaten, no wonder she felt so shitty. Lars stuck his head around the bathroom door. She hadn’t bothered to shut it since it opened off her bedroom. “I put fresh clothes on the bed.”

Miranda glanced at him through the glass shower doors and nodded. He could see her body, but it didn’t matter. Or did it? Why wasn’t he leaving? “Don’t you have to see to breakfast or something?” she called over the noise of the shower.

He laughed wryly. “It is here. Your side looks…serious. Would you like me to wrap it?”

“Do you have an Ace wrap that big?”

“Of course. My firm maintains this apartment.”

She pressed her tongue against her teeth. “Just leave the bandage on the bed. I’ll manage.”

“It is better if I do it, fraulein. You will not get it tight enough.”

“I’ll think about it. Now get out of here so I can finish up.”