Hot Pursuit (24 page)

He heard a
beep
behind him and turned to see her cell phone chirping on the kitchen counter. Jack scanned the screen. The number was the one Izzy had traced to a second cell phone belonging to Candace. They were still wondering why Candace needed two cell phones.

He knocked at the bathroom door, cutting off Taylor's energetic rendition of “What's Love Got to Do with It.” When she opened the door, her hair was in some kind of curlers. She was wearing tight blue jeans and holding a fuzzy pink sweater against her amazing breasts.

Would the pain never end?

Jack held out the ringing phone. With luck, she might drop the sweater.

But she worked one hand free and grabbed the phone. “Thanks.” She glanced at the screen, then punched a button. “Hello?” She moved the phone away from her ear.
“Hello?”
She waited, then shook her head, terminating the call. “Another hang-up. Probably a wrong number.”

Jack frowned. “Does that happen to you often?”

“Once yesterday.” She shrugged. “No big deal.” She tossed the phone on the vanity, between an eyelash curler and a manicure file.

Time for the truth, Jack decided. “Taylor, the call was from Candace. Izzy traced the number.”

Taylor stiffened. “You must be mistaken. I'm going to finish dressing now.” The pink sweater started to slide down over her breasts, and she made a low sound, her face pale. “You really think it was Candace? That she is definitely involved in this?”

“Let's leave that to Izzy and his people to determine. Why don't you get dressed?”

Taylor frowned at the sweater scrunched in her fingers. She took a breath, visibly fighting for control, all her normal humor and banter gone. Jack wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her not to worry. He wanted to touch her slowly, assuring her everything would be smooth sailing from now on.

But he didn't, because she needed to know this was serious, with real bullets involved and people's lives at stake.

Especially her own.

Without a word she began pulling rollers from her hair, each curl spilling down in a tumbled mass.

Her eyes met his in the mirror. “This has gone too deep for me to get out, hasn't it?” Her face was pale, her eyes wary. There was a fragility about her that hit him in the chest like a fall from a train.

“I'm here, and Izzy's on backup. No one will get past us, Taylor. That's a promise.”

She nodded, rubbing at her eyes.

Oh, hell, not tears.
Anything
but tears.

Jack started to reach for her, but she shook her head, one hand raised. “No, I'm f-fine here. But if I keep seeing a broad chest near me, I'm going to start leaning on it sooner or later. Possibly a lot of tears may be involved, which neither of us wants.” She turned, her chin rising. “Get out of here, Broussard. Go plan a takedown or fieldstrip your gun or whatever you muscle types do on your time off.”

What
time off? Jack thought irritably.

“I'll be fine,” Taylor repeated mechanically. “I've got a load of work. With any luck, in a few minutes I'll have forgotten all about this, being fully occupied by a car chase through downtown Honolulu at rush hour.”

“At rush hour?” His voice was gruff with tenderness. Jack couldn't help it.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“Not me.” He kissed her carefully, slowly. He couldn't help
that,
either. Then he took a step back. “Aloha. Enjoy Honolulu.” When he left, he had her cell phone in his pocket.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“You can't be
serious
.”

Jack glared at Izzy, who was carrying a garment bag and two boxes. Izzy smiled as he dumped everything on Jack's couch. All other available space was occupied by building plans, evacuation diagrams, and printouts with guest lists and photos.

“Been a busy guy, haven't you?” Izzy gestured at Jack's diagram of the kitchen service entrance, accompanied by his handwritten notes.

“Not busy enough. It would take three men to guarantee complete safety in a public venue like this one tonight. I finished my walk-through this morning and the layout is enough to give me gray hair. On the other hand, we're not dealing with a sniper threat or explosive devices, as far as I can see. The most likely goal would be kidnapping, which would take place in or near the rest room, based on my assessment.”

Izzy tried to hide a grin. “No problem there. Just tell Taylor she can't use the facilities after she leaves her apartment.”

Jack rubbed his neck. “I considered it, I mean,
seriously
. You don't happen to have a female agent we could borrow for a couple of hours, do you?”

Izzy shook his head. “I've wrangled myself free of HQ. Afraid that's all they'll give.”

“Fine. Taylor can loan you a dress. You'll look great in drag.”

Izzy's only answer was to throw the garment bag at Jack. “I'll be wearing a waiter's uniform, thank you very much.
You'll
be wearing the tux with full accessories.”

Jack opened the nearest box and made a choking sound. “Why don't you take Taylor? I
hate
tuxes.”

Izzy glanced at his watch. “A job's a job—wet suit or black-tie. And you'd better shake the lead out. The limo will be here at 1745 hours.” He glanced at his watch. “Which is twenty-five minutes from now.”

“Did you take care of her cell phone?”

“All set.”

“The SEAL scowled down at the items piled on his couch. “How am I supposed to run in a pair of damn monkey shoes like these?”

“Specially made, my friend. Composition rubber soles. You could finish a marathon in these babies.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and headed for the bathroom. “I hope I'm getting hazardous duty pay for this.”

“Dream on. I know a lot of people who consider a formal evening to be fun.”

“You must know a lot of seriously disturbed individuals,” Jack muttered.

 

“One comment and you're a dead man, Teague.” Jack snapped a cuff link in place, scowling. “I'll never get past the metal detector.”

“Don't worry. You have clearance. Everything's been arranged.”

Jack holstered his gun. “It better be. If I smell anything off, I'm pulling Taylor out, publicity be damned.” He snapped his other cuff link in place, caught a glance at himself in the mirror, and winced. “A monkey in a monkey suit.”

“Don't be so touchy. Taylor's going to love it.” Izzy grinned. “She's got a thing for Armani.”

Jack was ready to tell him what he could do with the Armani, when they heard banging in the hall, followed by a woman's voice. Instantly, the two men sprinted to the door, Jack in front, surveying the hall.

A woman with purple silk pants, a pink silk blouse, and purple hair was hammering on Taylor's door. Two large bags stood on the floor beside her.

“Can I help you, ma'am?”

The woman gave Jack an anxious look. “I'm trying to reach my friend, but she doesn't answer her phone or the door.”

Jack frowned. “Taylor O'Toole?”

She nodded. “I'm supposed to help her get ready for a charity event tonight.” She studied Jack's tux. “Are you Jack?”

“That's me.” He pulled out his cell phone, punching in Taylor's number while he knocked on her door.

Her phone shot right to the recorded message.

“Something's wrong.” Taylor's friend paced nervously, a burst of color in the dark hallway. “This isn't like her. She
loves
dressing up and she'd never miss an event like this. I think we should call the police.”

Behind Taylor's friend, Izzy held up a key. Jack grabbed it and went for the door, only to be halted by the security chain. She hadn't left the apartment or his monitoring equipment would have alerted him. What in the hell was wrong?

He nodded at Izzy. “Left drawer by the kitchen sink.”

Izzy vanished into Jack's apartment.

“Maybe you should stand back, ma'am.” His voice was grim, and Taylor's friend was looking more and more worried.

“What are you going to do?”

Izzy appeared carrying a small pair of wire cutters. The chain gave way after two cuts and Jack raised a finger to his lips, then drew his gun.

The apartment was quiet as he moved inside, with gun in low, ready position. There was no sign of Taylor in the living room or kitchen, and he took the corridor slowly, alert for any sounds of struggle or an intruder. Hearing nothing, he nudged open the door to her office.

Relief kicked in hard when he saw her asleep on top of her laptop, one arm dangling from the corner of her desk, the other wedged inside a forensics textbook.

No blood. No assault.

Jack holstered his gun, bringing himself out of attack-readiness mode as he listened to her faint snoring.

No doubt she'd gotten caught up in her work and forgotten the time, then dozed off. She'd probably turned off the ringer on her home phone so she could concentrate.

For a second, anger shot through him. She was blissfully asleep, oblivious to the worry she had caused her friends. She was irresponsible, undependable, and irritating as hell—and
he
was stuck with her.

Jack shook his head and moved to the hall, giving a silent thumbs-up to Izzy. As he turned around, Taylor shifted on the desk, her eyes blinking open.

She frowned in confusion, then shot upright in her chair.
“What?”

“Your friend was ready to break down your door and call the police.”

“Friend?” She rubbed her neck, wincing. “I fell asleep. Obviously.” She peered at Jack through narrowed eyes. “You're all dressed up.”

“Yeah, I got the monkey suit on. I'm all ready—except for my date, who's still dressed in a baggy Lakers T-shirt, as far as I can see. Maybe you want to do something about that.”

Taylor shot to her feet with a gasp. “What time is it?”

Jack eased up his cuff. “17:34.”

“No, no,
regular
time. I'm still half asleep.” There was a look of panic on her face.

“Five thirty-four.”

With a low cry, she headed for the door. “Where's Sunny? I'll never make it, not a chance. Full dress in less than fifteen minutes?” When she saw Sunny pacing in the living room, she gave her a quick hug. “Sorry, I was working.”

“What else is new? No, forget the explanations. There's no time. Your friend here tells me you have to be in the car in—” She looked at Izzy.

“In eleven minutes,” Izzy said.

Taylor grabbed Sunny's arm and charged toward the bedroom. “Thank you, Izzy. Sorry, good-bye, get lost. Sunny and I have work to do.”

The two vanished down the hall, and the bedroom door slammed.

“Women,” Jack muttered.

 

Taylor appeared from a two-minute shower, hair drier in hand.

Sunny took one look and glanced heavenward. “Formal dress? Full makeup? Tell me you're joking.”

“Do I look like I'm laughing?” Taylor snapped. “And I said I was sorry.” She blasted her hair with the drier, waving her arms wildly.

Sunny rolled her eyes. “Even
I
have my limits.”

Taylor vanished into the bathroom and reemerged in a sleek black lace bodysuit. “I don't have time for hysterics, Sunny. Believe me, I considered it.” She applied an eyelash curler and squeezed hard.

As a result, she nearly tore out all her eyelashes.

“Give me that before you do permanent damage. Then shut up and let me get organized.” Sunny frowned, lining up eyebrow pencils, mascara, brow wax, and three shades of eye shadow on the nearby dresser. Satisfied, she opened the inside pocket of her travel case and started arranging lotions and creams. “No more chatter.” She tossed Taylor a kitchen timer. “Read me the time in three-minute intervals.”

“You've done this before?”

“Only once. It was during a shoot with Cindy Crawford. She had to go from swimsuit to full ball gown in nineteen minutes. Everything worked fine, except . . .” Sunny shook her head. “On second thought, you don't want to know. Close your eyes so I can cleanse, exfoliate, and moisturize. And
don't
interrupt me.”

 

Taylor tried to glance over her shoulder at the mirror, but Sunny kept blocking her. Her friend was in full diva mode, dropping tissues right and left, using a beauty product, then tossing it into her bag without a second glance. She hadn't said a word in seven minutes.

But with two minutes left, Taylor's eyes were untouched and her hair was still up in hot rollers.

“What about my hair?”

“The hair can wait. And stop trying to see the clock,” Sunny snapped.

“I wasn't trying to—”

“Of course you were, and it won't help. What are you going to wear?”

Taylor pointed to her bed. “Black satin bustier dress on the right.”

Sunny shook her head. “Too Pamela Anderson. Next?”

“Beaded silk chiffon halter. Matching silk skirt.”

Sunny shoved aside the pale peach outfit. “Too blah. It doesn't go with your sexy new hair.”

Taylor tried vainly to see the mirror. “
What
sexy new hair?”

“You'll see. Next.”

“Black leather skirt. Bruno Magli slingbacks. Black off-the-shoulder evening sweater.”

“Too Goth.” Sunny rummaged through Taylor's closet, then reappeared holding a short, very fitted black dress with a plunging neckline. “Bingo.”

Taylor was already pulling on black panty hose. “Not bad.”

“Not
bad
? Honey, you'll have every man in the room panting in seconds.” Sunny smiled faintly. “Although the only man worth having will be the one who let me in to your apartment. Close your eyes while I add a coat of mascara.”

Taylor stopped talking, knowing better than to disturb her friend at work. Heated eyelash curlers sailed past. Lipstick tubes were chosen, then rejected. Sponge wedges squished against the wall, suddenly airborne, as Sunny whisked Taylor's eyes, added lip balm, lip pencil, and a rich coat of peachy-gold gloss, every movement deft.

Taylor thought of the launch scene in
Apollo 13
.

Mascara?

Go, Houston.

Foundation?

Good to go.

Lips?

We are go, Houston.

Taylor was wise enough not to ruffle Sunny with the image.

Finally her friend stood back, hands on hips. “Not half bad.” She stripped the rollers from Taylor's hair, combed her fingers through quickly. “Head down.”

When Taylor complied, Sunny sprayed the roots. “Stay down. Count to twenty.”

Taylor was slightly dizzy when she sat up. She blinked, grabbing the sheer black scarf Sunny tossed onto her lap.

“Try this while I find you an evening bag.”

“But—”

“Don't argue. You've got thirty seconds left.”

Taylor shut up and draped the scarf around her shoulders, then stepped into her favorite evening shoes. She shook her head when Sunny held up a tiny, jeweled bag. “Too small.”

Sunny dug some more. “How about this one?”

“Just right.” Smooth and curved, the bag sported a row of glittering rhinestones and a beaten silver clasp. Best of all, it was big enough for Taylor's favorite pen, a small notebook, and her cell phone.

Taylor tried to look over Sunny's shoulder at the mirror, but her friend cut her off. “No time. Izzy said the limo was already waiting. By the way, your friend Jack looks buff in that tux. It's Armani or I'm not Italian. Hand-tailored, too.” She made a fanning motion with her hand. “When he pulled out his gun, I almost wet myself. It was
too
James Bond. The eyes alone could kill you.” She sprayed Taylor lightly with perfume, then took a step back. “You're done. Now get out of here. You've got ten seconds to spare.”

Taylor took time for a quick hug. “You're amazing, Sunny.”

“Damned right I am. Don't you ever forget it.”

“I can't thank you enough.”

“Remember that tomorrow when your Green Goddess arrives in a freezer pack. You're on record. Every day for a month.”

Taylor made a strangled sound, then went out to meet Jack and Izzy, who stopped pacing when she appeared.

“Time to spare,” she announced, twirling slowly.

“Hell,” Jack whispered.