Double Dare (8 page)

Of course he knows it. He's a courier, they know where everything is
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"I'll be there in about half an hour."

There was a distinct note of interest in his voice when he replied and Abby smiled as she put down the phone, her pulse beating out a demanding rhythm.

She darted to the slim wooden locker that was neatly housed out of view behind the door. She always kept a couple of outfits and a make-over kit in there, in case an unexpected social occasion arose that she was obliged to attend with a new client or another member of the team. She had a choice, a suit in midnight blue that was a particularly flattering cut, black palazzo pants and a green shantung silk top, or a black satin dress. She picked up the satin dress, letting it run through her fingers. The material was fluid and sensuous. She pulled it out and retrieved her make up purse from the top shelf.

When she was done, she stopped at the reception post, but Suzanne wasn't there. Her laughter sounded down the corridor. Glancing at her watch, she realized she probably didn't have time to wait and say goodnight.

Outside, the sky was the color of melting honey, shimmering, marking the turn of a hot day in the city. She loved London more than ever when it was like this, when its fast moving currents began to change on the ebb of the day. The city became sexier, vibrant in a different way, as if a dark spirit lover had invaded its character. Like her own dark lover, mysterious and seductive.

She'd had a good day, and it wasn't over yet. She was high on the excitement of living and looked over the accounts with an eye for the daring, the risk that would pay off. It wasn't so much the financial gain that thrilled her, it was the ability to judge, the power to move in a certain way at the right moment. She smiled to herself. It was just like sex, and that was pacing up a notch for her, too. Several notches, in fact. She'd had trouble keeping her steamy encounter with Zac out of mind. Anticipation for more of the same had her blood racing.

Her body jolted to a halt. "Damn."

The heel of her shoe had caught in the pavement and she dropped back to rescue it. As she did, a sudden sense of unease washed over her. She felt the scrutiny of an onlooker. The thinning crowd of pedestrians moved on around her. She glanced back over her shoulder just as a car shot by with open windows pumping out a loud, bass-driven tune. The passenger whistled in her direction as the vehicle sped past.

Freeing her shoe, she shook off the notion and headed on.

* * * *

On the opposite side of the street, Nathan stepped further back into the alcove he'd chosen to wait out her departure from the building. For a split second, he thought she was going to look over and spot him watching from the shadows. It made him realize he didn't feel entirely comfortable with this task.

Life was never dull when he was working for Zac, that was for sure, but this took the biscuit. Zac had never asked him to do anything quite as dodgy as digging the dirt on his current piece of fluff. He didn't mind hunting for information by asking questions, or looking stuff up, but for a second there he wondered what the fuck he was doing. He often felt that, working for Zac. He was an edgy guy, always curious about the way stuff worked, always alert. Now he wanted to know what his latest conquest was up to behind the scenes, and he wanted Nathan to find out.

She wouldn't recognize him though. He'd made sure of that. He was wearing a black beanie hat and sunglasses, his oldest Motorhead t-shirt and jeans. Even if she had seen him, he looked entirely different to when he'd driven her home the night before.

He watched as she headed down the street. She surely was a looker. Not his type, but he could see why Zac was so keen to give her one. She looked like a great shag, but you could maybe take her home to meet the family afterwards. A lot classier than the women Zac used to hang out with, during his playboy years.

As Abby turned the corner and disappeared, he flipped open his mobile phone.

Zac answered as soon as it rang out.

"She's on her way."

"Cheers. You've got that paperwork I gave you for cover?"

"Yes, no worries." The document dispatch package rested easily in his hand. Not that he needed an excuse. He'd been prepared to wing it without one.

"Find out what you can."

"Anything I should be aware of?"

Zac took his time to reply. "The receptionist is a cute blonde."

Nathan laughed. "Heh. Nice one. I'm there already." He folded the phone into his pocket and made his way into the building.

The entrance vestibule was huge. Polished steel and mirrors, reflective surfaces everywhere. The uniformed security guard at the doorway frowned at him. Nathan saluted as he walked by, scanning for the elevators behind the cover of his sunglasses as he did so. A surge of people from a corridor to the left clued him in. They wore weary expressions and walked with a pace that showed him they were heading home at the end of a workday. He grinned to himself, popping a stick of chewing gum into his mouth as he strode round the corner and into the elevator.

During the ride up to the Robertson Corporation offices, a guy in a suit looked across at him with a wary expression. He was used to that. It was his build, mostly. The face didn't help. He had the sort of looks that invited trouble. If you look like a thug people will sure as hell treat you as one. He had the scars to prove it.

That's how he and Zac had hitched up. He'd been minding his business in a nightclub when four men looking for trouble decided he would be a good test. They invited him outside for a kicking. He declined. Things had gone downhill from there. At least three of them had gone home with broken bones, but they had the advantage in numbers.

Zac had picked him up off the street where he'd been left for dead at the back of the nightclub. He'd looked after him, phoned for an ambulance and stayed in the hospital while they stitched up his face and pumped him full of someone else's blood. When Zac had called by the next day to see how he was, Nathan had the chance to say thanks. Zac had saved his life, but he shrugged it off as if it was nothing. They'd chatted. They'd got on. Zac had offered him a job.

The elevator doors pinged open and he stepped out onto the landing. Opposite him thick glass doors were emblazoned with the Robertson Corporation logo and several official looking affiliation insignias. He walked towards the door, scanning inside as he did so, quickly homing in on a moving figure. As he got closer, he found himself looking at a shapely woman's rear end, tightly encased in shiny black pants.

He stopped at the door and observed the view through it. The figure moved, and the fabric of the pants glinted over her heart-shaped bottom. She was picking something up off the floor. He murmured approvingly under his breath, a drumming sensation at the base of his spine fast kicking in.

The figure straightened up, clutching a stack of envelopes to her chest. Dumping them on the counter top, she flipped her curly blonde hair and turned toward him. This had to be the receptionist. He gathered himself and pushed the door open.

She was tiny, barely over five feet, and Zac was right—she was cute. Nice and curvy, her breasts tightly packaged in a skinny fit top that showed them off to perfection. The shiny pants made him want to grab her hips and guide them against his own.

"Oh my God," she declared when he walked in, eyes lighting up. "Give me a twirl."

He stared at her, baffled by her remark. "I'm sorry?"

"Your T-shirt, I want to see which tour it's from."

"You're a Motorhead fan?"

She nodded then waved her hand, indicating he turn round. "Wow, you've been into them for years."

Nathan completed his turn, a bemused smile on his face. "That's right. You?"

"The first time I saw them play was the No Speak with Forked Tongue tour."

"Heh. I was there."

"Well, imagine that." She stared at him, smiling invitingly. "I was only fourteen." She gave a naughty laugh. It was a great sound.

He took off his sunglasses and offered her the document dispatch package. "I've got some papers here for a Ms. Abigail Douglas."

She stared at him then chuckled again, her eyes twinkling as she took it from him. "Damnit, another sexy courier. What are they doing, making you guys pass a sex rating before they give you the job?"

He wasn't quite sure what she meant, but it sure as hell sounded like she was giving him a come on. "You like what you see, little lady?"

She put one hand on her hip, adopted a serious expression and looked him up and down. She waved her free hand at his head. "Lose the hat."

Dutifully, he swiped the hat off, rubbing his spiky hair upright. It was bizarre, standing there, being examined by this tiny little firecracker, but what the hell?

She nodded. "I like. Are you on the market for a night on the town?"

For such a small lady she sure as hell knew what she was about. "For a Motorhead fan as cute as you? Absolutely."

She smiled up at him. "Great. I'm Suzanne."

"Nathan." That drumming sensation at the base of his spine had started up again.

"Okay, Nathan, give me two minutes to finish up here and we'll hit the pub. Oh and I'm buying the drinks, for as long as you can keep me in good Motorhead gig stories."

He laughed. He couldn't help it. She surely was a firecracker. "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for, Suzanne."

Not missing a beat she flickered her eyebrows at him. "Neither do you."

* * * *

The Banker's Draft was a narrow, oak-paneled pub crushed between the City banking buildings. Decorated in dark colors, it harnessed the feeling of old money, the brass beer pumps gleaming in the lamplight. Despite the fact it was a hot summer's evening, the subdued lighting and old world quality made it feel comfortable and inviting.

Zac leaned on the polished wood bar and glanced around, noting that the seating was all taken.

"Mr. Bordino?"

Turning, he saw a familiar face behind the bar. "Joseph, I didn't expect to see you here, you haven't left us have you?" Joseph was a cellar manager at his father's West End restaurant.

The barman chuckled, shaking his head. "No way, I'm just topping up with a couple of evening shifts here."

"My father isn't paying you well enough?"

"Very well indeed, but my wife is expecting our second child. Your father won't let me do any more hours for that reason. He's offered me an advance but I'd rather just make a bit of extra hay while the sun shines."

Zac nodded, growing thoughtful. "Do you see much of my old man?"

"Not since he's retired, but I heard a rumor he's been looking at a new bistro, somewhere out near home."

"Doesn't surprise me," Zac commented.

Joseph tipped his head at the bar. "What can I get you?"

"I'm expecting company...do they stock any good champagne here?"

Joseph leaned over the counter, scanning left and right as if he thought he might be overheard. "They keep Bollinger but you might be interested in a couple of bottles of Retsina, apparently ordered in for a party a few weeks back."

"Retsina it is then. Actually, that might be fun for my guest. I haven't told her about my Greek heritage yet."

"Is she beautiful?"

Zac smiled. "Very."

"I'll put the Retsina on ice and bring it over." He nodded over at a snug, where the current occupants were making ready to leave.

"Thank you, Joseph. I appreciate it."

As he eased into the snug, Abby emerged through the heavy oak and brass inlaid door. He waved, smiling when recognition lit her features.

She looked like a dream as she sauntered over, wearing a black dress that hung, heavily, like a pool of oil, from her shoulders. Occasional ripples in the fabric moved from the points where her breasts and hipbones disturbed the material. Her hair was pinned up, but bits of it spilled down onto her bare shoulders. He patted the seat alongside him, urging her to join him on the banquette.

"Am I late?"

"No." He rested a gentle kiss on her mouth, the touch of which was enough to make every part of his body pay attention. He breathed deep the scent from her warm skin, musky, floral, all woman.

"Mmm, are these part of your courier uniform?" she asked, her hand resting on his thigh, stroking his leather jeans.