Deadly Justice (5 page)

She tapped the Bluetooth discreetly hidden beneath her hair and spoke quietly to security, who assured her there had been no problems.

Good.  Everything was working exactly to Mr. Mitchell's specifications.  Though there wouldn't be a sit-down dinner, not with this many people, there was a full buffet stocked with just about anything the guests might desire.  In addition, the catering staff had a chef behind-the-scenes who could whip something up in a heartbeat if it wasn't readily available. 

She found herself looking around for
him
.  Though he'd said he'd come, she had her doubts.  Why would he?  He'd already made his donation.  There really wasn't a reason for him to be here.  Yet some little part of her hoped he'd show.  She'd taken extra care with her appearance tonight, adding a touch of perfume at the last minute.  She told herself she'd done it as part of her routine, but she wasn't fooling anybody.  The extra care with her make-up, her hair, had all been for Samuel Carpenter. 

There was a fluttering inside, like butterflies, a soft hint, barely there, and she pressed her hand against her stomach.  Some sixth sense had her straighten.  There he was, standing in the entrance.  The black tuxedo fit him like he'd been born wearing one.  Who knows, maybe he had.  She'd checked him out after he'd left yesterday, and found out he was richer than Midas.  He'd inherited money from his grandmother's family, hundreds of millions of dollars, speculated to possibly be in the billions. 

His gaze met hers, his gray eyes lit with a fire she could see across the room. As she watched, he lifted two champagne flutes from a nearby tray, and prowled across the space separating them, headed straight for her.  Her heartbeat sped up, a rapid-fire thump, thump, thump, and her mouth went dry. 

“Good evening, Mr. Carpenter.”  There, that was simple enough, direct and impersonal.

His lips quirked, the right side tugging up and he handed her one of the glasses.  “Good evening to you, Ms. Kirkland.”  He tipped his glass toward her before taking a drink.  She raised hers in return but barely sipped, needing to keep a clear head.  There were already bubbles dancing through her blood just standing this close to him.

“Looks like your party is a success.” 

“Yes.  We've raised a lot of money for childrens cancer research.”  This was a charity Andrea could put her support behind.  Not a pet project, because she didn't have the funds or standing for something on this scale, but cancer research was near and dear to her heart just the same.  She'd known too many people who'd suffered from the debilitating illnesses cancer wrought to stand by and do nothing.  So she gave selflessly of her time and efforts and money when she had anything extra.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his gaze raking over her.  “No repercussions from the accident, I hope?” 

“Honestly, I'm fine.  I think my pride was damaged worse than anything physical.   One small bruise on my thigh, that's the extent of my injuries.  I don't hurt at all.” 

“Good.  I'd hate to think I caused such a lovely lady any discomfort.”  His soft drawl eased across her skin like a warm caress.  There was something about him which seemed familiar and safe.  There are people you instinctually trust, and Samuel Carpenter was one of those people. 

She paused, listening to the voice chattering through her Bluetooth before turning to him.  “If you'll excuse me, I need to take care of a minor problem.  Please, enjoy your evening.” 

# # # # #

Carpenter watched her walk away, a sweet little sway to her hips, natural and real, not the fake extra wiggle women thought men wanted to see.  The gold sequined dress fit her to perfection, making her look like a golden goddess from head to toe, and it showcased her long legs.  Her light brown hair gleamed with blonde highlights under the filtered glow in the room.  She'd worn it down, probably to disguise the communication device, but it was lovely, with just a hint of a curl at the ends. 

He fingered the small disk in his pocket, contemplating exactly how he'd be able to plant the tracker on her without her knowledge.  A party like this would be the perfect opportunity for Webster to get in touch with his contact face-to-face.  Throughout the room he spotted several of his men.  Stefan Carlisle was outside, he knew, set up in the van with his barrage of equipment capturing every inch of the grand room. 

Jean-Luc walked by with a tray of drinks, and he paused long enough for Carpenter to replace his empty glass with a new one, and caught Jean-Luc's whispered “all clear.” 

Nate stood by one of the entrances, leaning against a pillar like a bored playboy, blending in with the other guests with ease.  Carpenter had sprung for a second ticket, needing another set of eyes with access to the guests.  Someone who could move freely about the room, and unlike the wait staff, could chat up the patrons without suspicion.  Nate just happened to draw the long straw.  Carpenter grinned when he saw Nate's hand tugging at his tie. 

Diamonds and other jewels sparkled at the ears and throats of the women, a smorgasbord of wealth, enough to attract the savviest of burglars, though security was so tight, only an idiot with a death wish would try anything with this crowd.

Jean-Luc strolled past again, flashing the corner of a piece of paper beneath the edge of his tray, this one filled with canapes.  Carpenter reached for a stuffed mushroom, capturing both it and the folded paper. 

Opening it, he found a brief dossier on Andrea's friend, Tami.  They'd checked her out since she and Andrea left work together the day before.  She'd been working for Mitchell Industries as long as Andrea, started the same week.  Ms. Godwin worked in Human Resources, was divorced with one child, a daughter, age eight.  Didn't look like she would be a contact for Webster, but he'd have Nate keep an eye on her just in case. 

Andrea stood a few feet away, talking to Howard Schmidt, who'd made his fortune in natural gas and oil production.  Filthy rich, and Carpenter chuckled silently at the pun, he'd been known to dabble on the fringes of legalities with his drilling operations.  He didn't trust the man, but again, Schmidt didn't seem like the kind who'd be associating with Richard Webster.

Where the hell was he anyway?  He knew the man well enough to know he'd never left the country, or if he had in the beginning he'd have found a way to come back.  There was nothing more that Webster loved than his creature comforts, and with the wealth he'd accumulated from his last dirty DEA deal, he'd have been set for life.  At least once he sold the marijuana and guns he'd snatched along with the three million dollars in cash.

Stop it.
 
Think about that later.  Right now you've got a job to do, and that involves planting a tracker on the lovely Ms. Kirkland
.  No easy feat, considering every time he got within two feet of her, she seemed to become enveloped into a crowd of party-goers, who swept her further into the room and away from him. 

“Damn it.”

“Something wrong, boss?”  Nate's tuxedo-clad frame eased up beside him, eyes still scanning the crowd. 

“Woman's darned elusive.  I can't get close enough to plant the bug.”  He watched her smile up at a dark-haired man he didn't recognize, though she treated him like an old friend, touching his arm.  He wanted to tear it off and beat him over the head with the bloody stump.    This possessive feeling was alien, like nothing he'd ever felt, and he didn't like it.  Not one damned bit.

“Want me to try?  I think I can get it on her.”  Nate's offer didn't help ease down the tension he felt watching Andrea smile at the stranger.  What was wrong with him?  He was Mr. Cool-As-Ice.  Emotions never entered the picture when he was on the job. 

“No.  Keep watching and listening.  I'll get it done.”  Carpenter started toward Andrea, determined to catch his quarry this time.  She'd avoided him long enough. 

He stalked her, trailing behind her, close enough for her to notice him but far enough away she could still mingle with the guests.  The clicking of silverware against glass caught his attention and drew it to the front of the room, where Bartholomew Simmons stood before a microphone, his big barrel chest and pot belly barely contained within his dark suit.  Apparently, he'd opted out of the tuxedo, favoring instead a black Armani with a blue and white striped tie. 

“Ladies and gentleman, if I may have your attention please.”  The crowd quieted, facing the ex-mayor of Dallas, though they shifted on their feet.  Bored socialites ready to party until the wee hours, they probably didn't like having their drinking interrupted to talk about something like cancer, especially juvenile cancer.  It took the edge off their feel-good-about-myself buzz.

“We'd like to extend our deepest appreciation to Lawrence Mitchell and Mitchell Industries for sponsoring this amazing party tonight.”  A smattering of applause followed his words.  “Lawrence was called away unexpectedly, but his lovely assistant, Ms. Andrea Kirkland, has graciously agreed to say a few words on his behalf.  Andrea.” 

She walked over to the microphone, her bearing straight and perfect.  In that moment, she owned the crowd.  The overhead lights sparkled, showing off her beautiful jade green eyes when she smiled and looked out over the assembled mass.  Only the tight grip on the piece of paper belied her nerves.  Most people probably hadn't noticed, but he did. 

“On behalf of Mitchell Industries, thank you so much for your generous support.  Research for childrens cancer is near and dear to us, and with your generosity and helpful donations, a cure may be right around the corner.”  Another smattering of applause greeted her words. 
Yeah, it's great news as long as you don't have to get your own hands dirty.  Throw some money at a problem and make it go away and feel better about yourself, all at the same time.

“Mr. Mitchell asked that I extend his thanks.  Enjoy the party, everyone.” 

She quickly exited, walking over to stand beside her friend, Tami.  They talked animatedly for several seconds, then Andrea scanned the room, nodded once, and snuck out the side door. 
Hmm, now where's my pretty little mouse fleeing? 

He nodded to Jean-Luc before he followed, sure between Nate and Jean-Luc they'd keep Andrea's friend occupied while he found out where she'd disappeared to.  He found her, leaning against the back of a limo, one shoe in her hand, the other hand rubbing at her heel.

“While those heels look fabulous on you, I bet by now your feet are killing you.”  She jerked around at the sound of his voice, then leaned back and slid the shoe onto her foot. 

“Most times they're fine, but I've been on my feet for hours getting things set up.  It's been a long day.”  She sounded tired, though she did her best to hide it. 

“Sorry I didn't get to meet your boss and thank him in person for supporting cancer research.  Was it his idea…or yours?” 

She stiffened, barely noticeable if he hadn't been watching her so closely.  Oh yeah, this was her baby.  “Mr. Mitchell has always been most generous to a variety of charities.”

“I'm sure he has, but this is personal for you, isn't it?” 

She closed her eyes and sighed, soft and low enough that he nearly didn't hear it.  “Cancer research is special to me.  I had a cousin who died from leukemia, so I try to do whatever I can to help eradicate this so others don't have to suffer the way her family suffered.”  

“I'm sorry.”  He didn't elaborate further, because really what can you say in response to another's pain?  But he had a job to do, and he'd focus on that.

He leaned around her and opened the back door of the limo.  “Come here,” he whispered, “have a seat.” 

The look she gave him was priceless, like he'd lost his mind.  He laughed out loud.  “Seriously, just sit.  I don't bite…unless you ask very nicely.”  He helped ease her onto the seat, sitting sideways with her legs outside the door and reached for her feet. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Shh, relax.”  He knelt in front of her, slid both shoes free, and placed them side by side on the blacktop of the parking area.  Taking her right foot in his firm grasp, he began rubbing his fingers along the insole of her foot, smiling when he heard her soft moan.  She had beautiful feet, small and slender, with bright red polish on her toenails.  That was a surprise—he'd have expected a delicate pink or peach.  Maybe there was a bit of fire burning beneath her professional demeanor. 

He continued the massage, digging his thumb into the tight muscles of the ball of her foot.  When he started on her toes, she jerked it back, giggling.

“No, don't do that.” 

He shrugged, reaching for her other foot, and repeated the process again.  “Close your eyes, Cinderella.  You deserve five minutes reprieve from everything.  They'll call you if there's a crisis, but you've done a marvelous job.  People are happily guzzling down expensive champagne and munching on caviar and hors d'oeuvres.  Besides, a little foot massage is the least I can do after knocking you down in the street.” 

“Okay…oh, that feels…wow.”  She wiggled her foot in his grasp, arching her ankle and he fought the urge to let his hands slide higher along her calf, past her knee to disappear beneath the tight skirt of her dress. 

“I've really got to go back inside.  Thank you for the massage.”  She smiled, and a tiny dimple appeared beside her mouth and he was captivated.  Usually people have two dimples, but she had only one, and it made her look young and innocent and he wanted to do all kinds of dirty things with her—and to her. 

“My pleasure, princess.”  With deft hands he slid her shoes back onto her feet, and helped her stand.  Damn, he wanted to throw her over his shoulder and storm off like a caveman, taking her back to his home to ravish and protect all at once. 

Damn it, stop.  She might be working with the enemy.  Pull your head out of your ass and do your job.

  “Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night?”  The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

“I don't think…”

“Nothing formal.  Just two people getting to know each other.  Say yes.” 

He read the indecision on her face.  She was going to refuse.  To stall her, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers.  Once, twice.  There was a sweet, delicate gentleness to it.  No force, no pressure, only a promise of pleasure.  A ripple of fear and excitement shot through him.  This was unexplored territory.  He didn't do sweetness and light.  For him, passion was raw and gritty and dirty—primal at its deepest recesses.