Pilot Error (28 page)

"'Handle her?' My dear Dirk, from Gordon's account, she knows far too much and accepts far too little of our business dealings. Will she be missed by anyone in the States?"

"No, she doesn't have any family there."

"But surely she must have friends or acquaintances who will notice her absence?"

"I took care of it, sir. I took care of everything.

Van Allen smirked quietly. "Evidently you did not, or we would not be having this conversation."

Dirk's rage threatened to strangle him. "It's all because of Hardigan's interference."

Van Allen pushed to his feet and turned to the wide window behind his desk that overlooked the terrace and the gazebo workers. "Speaking of the Commander, you'll take care of that, too, won't you? Discreetly?"

"You know I will, Mr. Van Allen."

"Because if there is a threat to my business in the US then it must be eliminated before Gordon can resume operations."

Dirk shot a glance at the smirking Reynolds, then began to round the desk so he could face his boss directly. "Sir, if Gordon hadn't shot Micki down, then none of this—"

Van Allen turned, the sharpness in the movement stopping Dirk in his tracks. "I don't want excuses, I want results. I thought you would have learned your lesson about personal entanglements after what happened the last time."

"It's different with Micki, sir. I love her."

Van Allen snorted at the word. "By bringing her here against her will, you have compromised the integrity of my good name, and my home. I am most displeased with you and your conduct, Dirk. Most displeased."

Dirk fell back an uncertain step. Back lit against the huge window, Van Allen looked to be the perfect gentleman. He had never seen his boss with a hair out of place or a lapel ruffled in the entire decade he'd worked for him. Van Allen always portrayed the well-bred, well-dressed Englishman with impeccable manners, and for good reason. People reacted favorably to the clothes and the decorum, many without ever learning of the calculating and often ruthless criminal lurking just underneath. Dirk had known the truth intuitively, but now, for the first time, he came close to seeing the harsh reality.

As if sensing his consternation, Van Allen smiled. It transformed his features with genteel charm, but Dirk was all too aware it did not reach his eyes.

"Come now, Dirk, you have been a trusted employee for many years. I am not an unreasonable man." Van Allen placed an arm about his shoulders, and it was all Dirk could do not to shy away. "We can work this out. There are still some very lucrative business dealings awaiting us both." He gently guided Dirk away from the window and back past Reynolds, giving the impression that he had forgotten the seated man. "You'll resolve our little Florida Keys problem for me, yes?"

Dirk, acutely aware of Reynolds presence, nodded. "I'll take care of it."

"Very good." His employer sounded more like a pleased uncle than the implacable criminal Dirk had glimpsed moments ago. "You sound more like your old self. I knew I could count on you. You will, as always, be handsomely rewarded for a job well done."

"Thank you, Mr. Van Allen."

His grip tightened ever so slightly on Dirk's shoulders as they reached the door. "And in regard to your lady friend, I am giving you until Monday week—an extra three days—to make amends and reach an amiable solution there as well."

"I can take care of Micki, I promise you that." Sensing dismissal, Dirk reached for the door, only to be stopped by one more instruction.

"You do understand—don't you?—that unless I am convinced she is not a liability, she may not leave this island."

"Not leave?" Dirk hesitated, one hand on the polished brass door handle. "You mean... she's a prisoner?"

Van Allen's smile was thin but very urbane. "Good heavens, no! Miss Jacinto will remain here as my guest if, as you said earlier, you cannot persuade her to return to New York with you. She'll be safe here, and you have my word as a gentleman that her every comfort will be met."

Dirk's gaze flicked from his employer to the other man in the room, who was definitely no gentleman.

"Gordon and I will both watch over her, until he can return to his duties in the Keys." Van Allen rested one hand on Dirk's shoulder, exerting slight but inexorable pressure toward the door. He smiled, and a shiver unlike anything Dirk had ever felt in his employer's presence chased down his spine. "You have until Monday week."

Dismissed, Dirk said nothing, only nodded. At this point, there was nothing he could say. Micki wasn't staying there, not with Reynolds, not over Dirk's dead body. He'd bring her to her senses and he'd fix 'the little Florida Keys problem,' and then it wouldn't be Reynolds who was laughing. Not by a long shot.

Without looking back, Dirk left the room and headed toward the wine cellar. Many things needed to be done to reach his goals and he was going to attend to one of them right away.

Van Allen allowed the latch on the library door to click closed again after Dirk had gone. Crossing to the sideboard, he claimed Dirk's untouched sherry from beside the crystal cut decanter. As he moved back to his desk, he handed the glass to his other employee, who took it without hesitation.

"There's no way she's ever gonna come around," Reynolds pointed out with a grim smile. He took a sip of the sherry Dirk had poured for himself. "You know that."

"Yes," Van Allen said. Seating himself behind his desk, he leaned back and steepled his fingers across his lemon polo shirt. "Yes, I know that. But I also know Dirk, as demonstrated with—what was her name?"

"Kimberley."

"Ah, yes." He shook his head as if in regret. "Such a tragedy."

"You think he'll make the same choice again?"

"I know he will. Jurgensen's love of money will again exceed his desire for the girl, especially if she continues to defy him as I believe she shall. Thus I will retain a productive employee... and the problem of Miss Jacinto herself is easily solved once he is in New York."

Reynolds smirked knowingly. "He's going to expect her to be here when he gets back."

"Yes." Van Allen gazed thoughtfully at the door then lifted another hibiscus flower from the vase. "But it's good business never to let an unresolved problem linger too long."

Finishing the sherry in one swallow, Reynolds turned to his employer with a wolfish grin. "When he's gone, what do you really want me to do with her?"

Van Allen swiveled his chair back to the window and drew in the scent of his crimson bloom. His thoughtful gaze was directed at the view, his tone the same cultivated one he had used to assure Dirk of Micki's comfort and safety. "After you've had your fun, Gordon, do try to make it look like another accident."

***

The room looked like a tornado had ripped through it, leaving all the drawers that weren't locked open with clothes spilling from them, and a closet full of other expensive garments flung violently on top. Micki stood in the center of the chaos, hands on her hips, as she furiously surveyed the results of her efforts.

She had been through every inch of the room. Not only was there no way out except the locked and guarded door, there wasn't a single piece of clothing she would be caught dead wearing. Dirk had locked all the drawers and closets containing his shirts and trousers, not that she relished the idea of having something of his that close to her body. He had disposed of her scavenged jogging suit, and left her with bits of wispy lace and slinky silk in their stead.

"Girlie girl stuff," Micki muttered resentfully, kicking at a champagne-colored sheath dress. "Every last bit of it."

Her action revealed a negligee, tossed in a heap with others, and stopped her cold. Slowly, feeling as if the world had just reeled about her, Micki knelt to take it into her hands. It was the white silk and lace garment Dirk had given her early in their short but failed romance. She refused to wear it and he refused to take it back, so it had been sequestered in a drawer in her bedroom in Marathon. Now it was here in Bermuda.

Understanding dawning, her gaze swept the disarrayed room. Dirk had planned her future down to the last detail. It was no accident all these clothes were in her size, and no oversight that none of them fit her personal style. This was Dirk's vision for her—one that she would never allow to be, even if it took desperate measures to escape it. She was going to have to use his plans against him, and compromise her own principles to achieve a greater goal.

Hands shaking, Micki slowly got to her feet, staring at the item of slinky apparel she held as if it were a deadly viper. She and Dirk would never again be lovers—not by choice, anyway—and clearly, with all the secrets and lies, they had never really been friends either. Now she was his personal plaything, locked in a satin and silk prison.

The idea that maybe
that
was all she'd ever been to him almost made her cry.

Then it made her spitting mad.

Micki flung the hateful garment from her and turned to dig through the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. Picking up the black silk dress Dirk had thrown at her earlier, she moved briskly toward the en suite bathroom. If it took a few moments of playing the part of Sex Kitten to escape a lifetime of enduring that role, then that's what she would do. He had left her no other choice.

Feeling as if she were marching into battle, Micki strode into the luxurious marble bathroom and slammed the door with a satisfyingly loud bang. She would face this as if it were nothing more than another of life's challenges, which she had always met head on, no matter how unpleasant. The alternative was, quite possibly, death, because she would never, ever, give in to Dirk Jurgensen's plans.

Or his fantasies.

Smoothing black silk over her waist and hips, Micki examined herself critically in the vanity's mirror. She hated this. She absolutely hated this, but she supposed it would have to do. The dress with tiny spaghetti straps fit her perfectly, accenting her slim figure and leaving very little to the imagination. Although not her favorite color, she had to admit that black set off her hair and skin quite nicely.

At the thought of her hair, she frowned, and raised a speculative hand to the dark mane that flowed unchecked over her shoulders and halfway down her back. It was still slightly wet from her shower. She would have preferred to catch it back in a braid, but if she were going to do this then she was going to do it right. That meant leaving the silken mass free, at least for a while.

Full makeup was where Micki drew the line, mainly because she had no idea what to do with most of the tubes and bottles with which Dirk had stocked the vanity. Compromising, she settled for a neutral shade of eye shadow and a bit of red lipstick. Even though the mirror told her she had done well, she felt painted, pushed beyond her comfort zone.

Micki sighed. She had gone this far, she may as well finish it. Selecting a random perfume bottle from those lined up behind the silver fruit tray she had reclaimed from the floor, she helped herself to a generous spray. This was war, and if the only weapons she had at her disposal were the trappings of feminine wiles, then she would use them.

Backing up for a better view in the mirror, she regarded her reflection again, particularly the line of her leg. She had decided against hose, figuring with her tanned skin she could get away with that. The shoes available had left her less acceptable choices. Footwear normally meant sneakers, hiking boots, or nothing at all. Dirk's idea of women's shoes was those with a three-inch stiletto heel. Black and made of fine soft leather, the ones Micki settled on felt like torture devices.

Drawing a deep breath she faced her reflection and told it firmly, "You can do this, kiddo. You've done a lot harder things. This is just one more thing it takes to survive."

Resolved, she turned, teetered off-balance for a second, and sternly reprimanded herself. Trying again, Micki glided toward the door, this time moving like she had seen women at
The Sandpiper
move, night after night, as they trolled for wealthy vacationers in the lounge. When she reached the door, she lifted one hand, and just in time caught back the brisk knock she had been about to make. Grimacing, she tapped lightly, like a 'girlie girl,' and the battle began.

For a moment there was no response, so she tapped again and called, "Excuse me? Sir? Are you out there?"

"What do you want?"

The brusque cockney tones made her frown. This might be harder than she thought. Drawing on all the tactics she had ever seen used on Tex, Padre, and Tim, and remembering the reactions they had garnered, she adjusted herself to show maximum cleavage from her strapless push up bra, and tried again.

"I, um, could you open the door a teensy bit so I could talk to you?" She paused half a beat. "Please?"

Wonder of wonders, there was the sound of a key card sliding through a lock and the door knob began to turn. Noting the technology of the security, Micki stepped back a bit so the guard could get the full effect of her as he opened the door.

"Yeah?" His tone was rough, but she didn't miss how his eyes looked her up and down. She let her gaze sweep over his body in return, hoping it wasn't obvious that she was checking out how he was armed rather than his physique.