Dangerous to Know (26 page)

Ducking under the whirring rotor blades, Adam shook his head. “I'm fine. I'll wait by the plane.” Turning up the collar of his tan camel-hair overcoat, he walked to the Gulfstream jet warming up on the parking apron.

When discharging the duties of her office, the vice president usually traveled aboard Air Force Two, a huge, specially equipped 747 crammed with communications gear and fitted with several compartments for the media and assorted staff members who traveled with their boss. For this trip—a combination of party business and personal pleasure that didn't require her normal entourage—she'd fly aboard a smaller, more economical plane.

Cold wind whipped Adam's hair as he waited beside the sleek white-painted Gulfstream. Around him, crew members performed a last-minute visual check of the aircraft while a portable power cart slowly revved up the twin Rolls-Royce turbofan en
gines. Having flown jet fighters during his long-ago stint in the navy, Adam had maintained his flight proficiency over the years. At any other time, he would have observed the takeoff preparations with a keen eye, and his hands would have itched to take the stick. Today, the fists he'd shoved into the pockets of his overcoat remained tightly clenched.

During the short flight to Andrews, reality had set in. The raw male need that had surged through him when he finally admitted that he wanted Maggie had given way to an even fiercer need. The need to protect her.

She was at risk, as she'd never been before. Like a sacrificial goat staked out at the end of a tether, she was offering herself as a target for an assassin. Adam couldn't believe he'd allowed himself to consider, even for a moment, unleashing his desire. He couldn't allow himself or her to be distracted from their deadly mission during the days ahead.

But when this mission was over…

By the time he heard the distant
whump
of rotor blades, he had himself well in control again. Narrowing his eyes against the drizzle, he searched the dense gray haze. A few seconds later, a blue-and-white chopper broke through the mist and hovered above the runway. It drifted down until its skids touched lightly. Then the copilot jumped out to open the passenger-compartment door.

Maggie climbed out first. She smiled her thanks at the helmeted copilot and darted out from under the turning rotor blades. The downwash from the blades ruffled her auburn hair and whirled the skirts of her cream-colored wool coat around her calves.

Although Adam was expecting it, her likeness to Taylor Grant still generated a small shock. The resemblance didn't have anything to do with the wine-colored hair or the jawline that Field Dress had molded so exactly, he decided as he watched her cross the wet tarmac. It was a matter of style. An inner vitality. A shimmering essence that the two women had in common.

But the mischievous gleam that filled Maggie's eyes as she returned the greetings of the crew members who snapped to
attention was hers alone. She knew very well that her less-than-precise rendition of a military salute would make Adam grimace inwardly. Which it did. After this mission, he promised himself, he'd teach her just how to bend that elbow. Among other things.

“Good morning.”

Taylor's voice carried over the whine of the Gulfstream's engines and the whir of the helo's blades. This was Chameleon at her finest, Adam thought in silent admiration. No one in OMEGA could come close to matching Maggie's skill at pulling a deep-cover identity around her like an invisible cloak.

“Good morning,” he replied, taking her outstretched hands in both of his.

In the periphery of his vision, he saw the news team from the White House pool who'd braved the cold to cover the VP's departure recording their greeting.

So did Maggie. Suddenly ridiculously self-conscious, she smiled up at Adam. She felt like a teenager about to go out on a closely chaperoned date, for Pete's sake!

“Are you sure you want to exchange two weeks of Washington's cold, snowy weather for California's cold, snowy weather?” she asked, tilting her head in a coquettish gesture while the cameras whirred.

“I'm sure. Come on, let's get you aboard before your…nose freezes.”

She bit back a grin as he passed her hand to the steward who was waiting to help her aboard.

Shrugging out of her wool coat, Maggie handed it to the hovering attendant. She could get used to this pampering, she thought, if not to the idea of being constantly under surveillance. The interior of the plane was like none she'd ever seen before, all gleaming oak, polished brass and plush blue upholstery.

She had no trouble identifying her seat. A slipcover embroidered with the vice president's seal draped a huge armchair, one of two in a private forward compartment. While she strapped herself in, Adam took the seat opposite her. She shifted her feet under the smooth oak table to make room for his long legs.

Lillian and Denise settled themselves in the rear compartment,
along with several other Secret Service agents, who'd coordinated the final details of the L.A. visit. Even before the hatch had closed, Denise had bent over an outspread map and begun a review of the security along the route from the airport to the hotel.

Within moments, the pilot's voice came over the intercom, welcoming them aboard and detailing the flight times and refueling stop. After a smooth, swift roll down the runway, they were airborne. Immediately dense, impenetrable mist surrounded the plane and cut off any view of the capital. The aircraft climbed steeply, and eventually leveled out at twenty thousand feet.

“Would you care for juice, Mrs. Grant?”

Maggie repressed a shudder at the sight of the grayish liquid filling the decanter on the steward's tray. It wasn't guava juice, obviously, and that had been bad enough.

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

“And you, sir?”

“Coffee, please. Black.”

Maggie's mouth watered as the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the compartment.

“Mrs. Grant doesn't care for them, sir, but I have an assortment of rolls and Danish for the other passengers. Or I can prepare eggs and bacon in the galley, if you'd like.”

Carefully avoiding Maggie's eyes, Adam shook his head. “No, in deference to Mrs. Grant, I'll skip the bacon and eggs. Just bring me a Danish.”

Maggie kicked him under the table.

“And some rolls.”

“Very good, sir.”

As soon as the door closed behind the steward, Maggie fiddled with the intercom switch on the communications console beside her seat. The low hum of voices from the cockpit was cut off.

“Can we talk?” she asked, couching her question in a playful tone, in case the cabin contained listening systems she wasn't aware of.

“We can,” he replied, relaxing. “Joe went over the com
munications wiring diagram of the plane last night, and our people did a sweep this morning. This cabin is secure.”

Maggie sagged back against her seat. “Thank God. I never realized how nerve-racking it is to live in an electronic fishbowl every day of your life.” She eyed the steaming mug in front of him. “Are you going to drink that coffee?”

“No, you are. Go ahead. I'll listen for the steward.”

Cradling the cup in both hands, she inhaled the fragrant aroma before taking a hearty gulp. Her eyes closed in sheer delight as she savored the hot, rich brew.

“Ahh…”

“Better than guava juice?”

She opened one eye to find Adam watching her. “You heard that, did you?”

“I did.”

Maggie refused to ask what else he'd heard. Sometime during her restless night, she'd decided that if she snored, she didn't want to know about it.

His voice took on an edge. “I also heard the bus backfire this morning.”

She took another sip of coffee. “Talk about your basic motivational techniques! I wasn't sure I could get up that last hill, but after a near-miss by a killer bus, I didn't have any difficulty making it to cover.”

“I'm glad you find the incident so amusing.”

The acid in his words surprised her. “Didn't you?”

“Not particularly. It just demonstrated how vulnerable you are. How vulnerable the vice president is.”

Maggie set the mug down carefully. “So do we have anything more on our list of potential assassins?”

“Nothing on the treasury secretary. Other than his one brief fling with Mrs. Grant during a rocky period in his marriage, Elliot's squeaky-clean. Before being confirmed by the Senate, he went through a background screening that revealed everything from his personal finances to his taste in food.”

“Let's not talk about food! What about his finances?”

“He built a personal fortune speculating on the market, but over the years converted his riskier ventures to T-bonds.”

She frowned. “T-bonds? Isn't it a conflict of interest for him to hold treasury bonds in his current position?”

“It would be, if he hadn't placed them in a blind trust, administered by his lawyers and the board of directors of First Bank.”

“First Bank?” Something nagged at the back of Maggie's mind, but she couldn't quite place it. “Isn't that the one headquartered in Miami?”

“With branches all through Central and South America.”

She frowned, searching her memory. “I've heard something about First Bank recently.”

Adam waited for her to continue. When she didn't, a smile tugged at his mouth. “First Bank helped draft the president's Pan-American Monetary Stabilization Plan.”

“Oh. Right.”

She was going to have to read up on that darn plan, Maggie thought. Stretching out her legs, she leaned back in the buttery-soft leather armchair. Her feet bumped Adam's under the oak table, then found a nest between them.

“Well, so much for James Elliot. What about the others?”

“Jaguar's digging into the contract Digicon, Donovan's firm, is pressing on the Pentagon. He should have something today.”

“That leaves the gorgeous hunk of muscle-bound beefcake,” she murmured, then caught Adam's cool look. “According to Mrs. Grant. And just about every female over the age of thirty,” she added under her breath.

“Evidently Stoney Armstrong's public doesn't consider him quite as gorgeous as it used to. His last five movies were box-office bombs. The word is that he's washed-up in the industry. The exact phrasing, I believe, was that his sex appeal has gone south.”

“Did we get that from his agent?”

“His agent's en route to Poland to consult with an international starlet he's just taken on as a client.” Adam paused, his
eyes gleaming. “This information came from Armstrong's hairstylist.”

“Someone got to him already? That was quick work.”

“It took a near act of God, but Doc managed a late-evening appointment with the man.”

Maggie choked back a laugh. “Doc? Our Doc had his hair styled?”

Dr. David Jensen was one of OMEGA's most skilled agents. In his civilian cover, he headed the engineering department of a major L.A. defense firm. Brilliant, analytical and cool under fire, he was also as conservative as they came. Maggie would give anything to see him with his short brown locks dressed by an avant-garde Hollywood hair designer.

“The things we do in service to our country,” she commented, shaking her head.

“In this case, Doc's sacrifice paid off. Armstrong's stylist also let drop that the star attributes the downward spiral in his career to the fact that Taylor dumped him. As long as he was in her orbit, they shared the limelight. When she moved on, the spotlight followed her, and left him standing in the shadows.”

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the steward with more coffee and a basket of sweet rolls.

Maggie eyed the basket greedily and could barely wait for the steward to pour Adam's coffee and leave. This bundle of yummies would have to hold her until the banquet this evening. She needed all the calories she could ingest to maintain the intense concentration necessary for her various roles as vice president, former lover of an over-the-hill sex symbol, and present companion to the special envoy.

 

When Stoney Armstrong stepped out of the crowd gathered in the hotel lobby to greet the vice president a few hours later, Maggie realized immediately that Doc had received some faulty information. Whatever else had gone south, it wasn't the star's sex appeal.

Tanned, tawny-haired, and in possession of an incredible as
sortment of bulging muscles under a red knit shirt that stretched across massive shoulders, he grinned at Maggie.

“Hiya, Taylor—uh, Madam Vice President.”

Since he carried no weapon in his hands and there was no way he could conceal anything under his body-hugging knit shirt, she responded with a cautious smile.

“Hello, Stoney.”

At which point he sidestepped the ever-present Denise, brushed past Adam and swept an astonished Maggie into a back-bending, bone-crushing embrace.

A barrage of flashes exploded throughout the lobby. Dimly Maggie heard waves of astonished titters sweep through the crowd. Cameras whirred, and news crews climbed over each other for a better shot.

When he set her upright some moments later, Maggie was breathless, flushed, and almost as shaken as when the bus had backfired this morning.

A
million-dollar smile beamed down at her. “You're looking great, Taylor. Really great.”

“You too, Stoney,” Maggie returned, easing out of his hold.

“I like you with a little flesh on your bones.”

“Thanks.”

At her dry response, Stoney flashed another one of his trademark grins, all white teeth and crinkly eyes.

“What say I sneak you away from all this political hoopla for a few hours tonight? Like I used to, when you were governor?”

“What say you don't?” Adam's cool voice cut through the babble of the crowd. “The lady will be with me tonight.”

Another barrage of blinding flashes went off as the two men faced each other. Talk about your basic headline-grabber, Maggie thought wryly. The vice president's former and current romantic interests squaring off in the lobby of L.A.'s Century Plaza Hotel. The media were going to play this one for all it was worth. With a flash of insight, she realized that Adam had
once more stepped into the breach and diverted attention from her.

Stoney's sun-bleached brows lifted. “Who are you?”

“Adam Ridgeway. Who are you?”

The onetime movie idol blinked, clearly taken aback at the question. “Me? Hey, I'm—”

He caught himself, then gave a bark of laughter. “You almost got me there, Ridgeway.”

Grinning good-naturedly, he stuck out a paw the size of a catcher's mitt. Adam took it, a sardonic gleam in his blue eyes.

The media went wild.

The scene had all the drama of a daytime soap, and then some. Two men shook hands in a glare of flashing lights. When this shot hit the newspapers, Maggie thought, every woman in the country would envy Taylor Grant. Imagine being forced to choose between your basic sun-bronzed, superbly muscled Greek god and a dark-haired aristocrat whose eyes held a glint of danger.

When Stoney had milked the scene for all it was worth, Maggie knew it was time to move on.

“Will I see you at the banquet tonight?” she asked.

“Sure. But—” he glanced at Adam “—I kind of hoped we'd have a chance to talk. Privately.”

“Maybe after the banquet,” she suggested easily. “I'll be tied up until then.”

“Yeah. Okay. After dinner.”

 

Maggie spent a long afternoon listening to the California Council of Mayors present their list of grievances against the heavy-handed federal bureaucracy. Fortunately, all she was required to do was nod occasionally and, at the end of the session, promise that their complaints about programs mandated by Congress without accompanying funds to implement them would be looked into.

By the time she and Adam and the ever-vigilant Denise took the elevator to the penthouse suite, the long night, the transcontinental flight and the packed day had drained even Maggie's
considerable store of energy. Or maybe it was the lack of sustenance, she thought, collapsing onto one of the sleek white leather couches scattered about the suite.

Sunlight streamed through the two-story wall of glass that overlooked the city, for once miraculously clear of smog, and bathed Maggie in a warm glow. After Washington's snowy cold, L.A.'s balmy, unseasonable seventy degrees felt heavenly. Feeling an uncharacteristic lassitude, she slipped off her shoes, propped her stockinged feet on a glass coffee table the size of a football field and heaved a huge sigh.

“We've got an hour until the banquet,” Adam replied, his eyes on her face. “Why don't you relax for a while? I'll go next door to check in with my office, then shower and change. Shall I join you for a drink before we go downstairs?”

“That would be nice,” Maggie replied.

“The hotel left a basket of delicacies in my suite. Shall I bring it with me, and we can explore it together?”

“By all means.”

The hotel had left a basket in the vice president's suite, as well. To Maggie's infinite disappointment, it had contained only fruit and fancy glass jars of what looked and tasted like dry oats.

Buoyed by the thought of both food and time alone with Adam, Maggie pushed herself off the sofa and headed for the bedroom.

 

A half hour later, Lillian zipped up the back of a stunning flame-colored gown in floating layers of chiffon, then stood back to survey her charge. Her keen black eyes took in every detail, from the dramatic upsweep of her short hair to the tips of her strappy sandals, dyed to match the gown.

“You'll do.”

Coming from Lillian, that was high praise indeed. Maggie smiled as she peered into the mirror to make sure her matte makeup fully covered the gel-like adhesive bone on her nose and chin.

“Thanks, Lillian. I couldn't pull this off without you.”

“After twenty-four hours in your company, I'm beginning to
suspect you could pull off this or any number of other improbable capers.”

Maggie grinned. “Capers? We refer to them as missions.”

“Whatever. I'll be right across the hall. Call me when you get back from the banquet.”

“Don't wait up. I can manage. Besides,” she added to forestall the inevitable protest, “I may have a visitor after the banquet, remember?”

If things got tense when Stoney Armstrong showed up, Maggie didn't want the older woman in the line of fire.

Lillian gave one of her patented sniffs. “You're going to have more than one visitor tonight, missy. I don't imagine the special envoy is going to leave you alone with Stoney.”

Maggie lifted a brow. “We'll see how the situation develops. I'm used to operating independently on a mission, you know.”

“Who's talking about your mission?”

Lillian gave the bedroom a final inspection, then left Maggie to mull that one over. She was still thinking about it when she walked into the huge, white-carpeted living room some time later.

Denise Kowalski rose at her entry. Attired in the full-length black satin skirt that Maggie recognized as her uniform for formal functions, the sandy-haired agent was all brisk efficiency as she ran through the security arrangements for the banquet. When Denise finished, she stood and moved to the door.

“I've got to go downstairs for the final walk-though. We're using locals to help screen the guests as they arrive. I want to make sure they know how to operate the hand scanners.”

“Fine.”

“This entire floor's secure,” Denise stated earnestly, as if needing to justify her brief absence. “There are two post-standers at the elevators, and one at each of the stairwells. If you need them, just call.” She nodded toward the hot line that linked the vice president's suite with the command post across the hall. “Or hit the panic button beside the bed.”

“I know the routine,” Maggie said, smiling.

The other woman grinned sheepishly. “Yes, ma'am, I guess you do.”

Maggie studied the agent thoughtfully as she gathered her things and left. She was good. Darn good. From the moment their plane touched down at Los Angeles International, she'd been the vice president's second shadow. During the trip in from the airport, she'd directed the motorcade via the radio strapped to the inside of her wrist like a general marshaling his forces. What was more, she'd been prepared to take Stoney Armstrong down when he stepped out of the crowd in the lobby, and no doubt would have done so if Maggie hadn't acknowledged him.

According to the background brief OMEGA had prepared on Denise Kowalski, the woman had almost fifteen years with the Secret Service. She had joined the service at a time when female agents were a rarity, and had worked her way up the ranks. One divorce along the way. No children. Who could manage children and a career that demanded months on the road? Maggie wondered. Or the eighteen-hour days? Or a job that required instant willingness to take a bullet intended for someone else?

Denise would be one hell of an addition to the OMEGA team, Maggie decided. She made a mental note to speak to Adam about it when he joined her.

At the thought of their coming tête-à-tête, Maggie wrapped her arms across her chest. A shiver of anticipation whispered down her spine. They hadn't had a moment alone together since stepping off the plane. In his position as the president's special envoy, Adam commanded almost as much attention as the vice president had. Lobbyists and party hopefuls had clustered around him at every opportunity, bending his ear, asking his advice.

For the next thirty minutes, at least, Maggie would have his complete and undivided attention.

They needed to strategize, she reminded herself. To coordinate their plans for an evening that would include an intimate dinner with two hundred party faithful and a possible assassin in the person of a tanned, handsome movie star.

Although…

After her admittedly brief meeting with Stoney Armstrong this
afternoon, Maggie found it difficult to believe he was the one who'd made that call. She'd met her share of desperate men, and a few whose utter lack of remorse for their assorted crimes chilled her. But when she looked up into Stoney's eyes after that mind-bending, back-bending kiss this afternoon, she hadn't seen a killer.

Then again, she reminded herself, Stoney Armstrong was an actor. A good one.

Her brow furrowed in thought, Maggie wandered through the living room toward the wide flagstone terrace outside the glass wall. A balmy breeze warmed by the offshore Japanese currents lifted her layers of chiffon and rustled the palms scattered around the terrace. Drawn by the glow of lights, she crossed to the waist-high stone balustrade that circled the terrace.

The sight that greeted her made her gasp in stunned delight. Far below her, adorned in glittering gold diamonds, was the city of angels. Los Angeles by day might consist of palm trees and smog, towering skyscrapers and crumbling, thirties-era stucco cottages. But by night, from the perspective of the fortieth floor, it was a dreamscape of sparkling, iridescent lights. Thoroughly enchanted, Maggie leaned her elbows on the wide stone railing and drank in the incredible sight.

The buzz of the telephone sent a rush of pleasure though her veins. That had to be Adam. With his basket of goodies. She went back inside and caught the phone on the third ring.

“Yes?”

“This is Special Agent Harrison, Mrs. Grant. A Mr. Stoney Armstrong just stepped off the elevator. He'd like to speak to you.”

Maggie didn't hesitate. “Of course.”

In the blink of an eye, her excitement sharpened, changed focus. The woman whose senses had tingled at the thought of a private tête-à-tête with Adam transitioned instantly into the skilled, highly trained agent. Her mind racing with various ways to handle this unexpected contact with a prime suspect, Maggie lifted her left hand.

“Thunder? Thunder, do you read me?”

When he didn't respond, Maggie guessed Adam was still in the shower. As soon as he got out, he'd pick up on her conversation with Stoney and join her—if the circumstances required it. Actually, she thought, it might be better if Adam didn't appear on the scene. She'd be able to draw Stoney out far more easily without another man present, especially one he might consider a rival.

Quickly she dimmed the lights and retrieved the small gold lipstick Special Devices had included in her bag of tricks for this mission. As she tucked the tiny stun gun in the bodice of her gown, she wondered briefly if it was powerful enough to take down a man of Stoney Armstrong's massive proportions, as Special Devices had claimed.

If not, and if necessary, she'd bring Stoney down herself. He'd be unarmed, she knew. He couldn't have passed through the highly sophisticated security screens with a weapon on his person. She'd handled bigger men than him in the past.

When a knock sounded on the door to her suite a few moments later, she was ready, both mentally and physically, to face a possible killer.

If Stoney Armstrong harbored any deadly intent toward Taylor Grant, he didn't show it. His tanned cheeks creased in his famous studio grin that, for all its beefcake quality, was guaranteed to stir any woman's hormones. Perfect white teeth gleamed, and his Armani tux gaped open to reveal a broad expanse of muscled, white-shirted chest as he leaned one arm negligently against the doorjamb.

“Hello, Taylor.”

“Hello, Stoney.”

“I'm a little early.”

“So I noticed. Come in.”

He strolled into the penthouse, looking around with unabashed interest. The glass wall drew him like a magnet. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled out onto the terrace.

“It's something, isn't it?” he murmured, his eyes on the endless sweep of lights against a now-velvet sky.

“It is,” Maggie agreed.

His mouth twisted. “Hard to believe a thin crust is all that separates the glitter and glamour from the tar pits underneath.”

His subtle reference to the La Brea tar pit, the famous archaeological site in the center of the city, wasn't lost on Maggie.

“You sound as though a few saber-toothed tigers might have crawled out of the sludge,” she commented softly.

If OMEGA's information was correct, those predators were circling Stoney Armstrong even now, about to close in for the kill.

His broad shoulders lifted. “Hey, this is Tinseltown. Saber-toothed tigers do power lunches every Tuesday and Friday at Campanile.”

Turning his back on the dazzling vista, he leaned his hips against the rail.

“God, you look great, Taylor. Sort of sleek and well fed, like a cat or a horse or something.”

Stoney did a lot better in a tender scene when he used a script, Maggie thought sardonically.

He leaned against the railing, ankles crossed, hands in his pockets. With the breeze ruffling his gold hair and his tux gaping open to reveal a couple of acres of broad chest, he looked pretty well fed himself.

He cocked his head, studying her face. “It can't be all those raisins and sunflower seeds you put away that gave you such a glow. Is it this guy Ridgeway?”