Into the Crossfire (2 page)

He knew that while he was on this mission, there was no room for anything

else, certainly not something as beautiful as Nicole Pearce, so he'd waited.

But all that was now behind him and life had just handed him a big fat

present all wrapped up in a fancy bow, to thank him for his patience.

Nicole Pearce, outside her office, looking as beautiful as ever, even with a

ferocious scowl on her face, rifling through her bag and jacket pockets, looking for

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her keys.

The keys to the flimsiest piece-of-shit lock he'd ever seen. When he'd

signed the lease on his office, he'd been happy with the space and the location

and--though he ordinarily didn't give a shit about his surroundings--the classiness

of the building. It was the kind of building that made clients relax, which was

crazy to him. What the fuck difference did mellow earth tones and fancy designer

junk make?

But to most people it made a difference. A huge one. He'd noticed that.

Noticed tense clients start unwinding after entering the building, with its liveried

doorman, elegant brass and teak fittings, slate floors, expensive floral

arrangements scattered around.

The building supervisor had given him the name of some office designer,

who'd come in, taken measurements of the huge space he'd rented and come back

a week later and outfitted the office so it looked like a spaceship. A designer

spaceship, sleek and comfortable. It all cost a fortune but it was worth it, to see his

clients' faces as they walked in.

Anyone who came to Reston Security by definition needed relaxing, and it

was good that his office did the trick because Sam wasn't good at putting people at

ease. He had no charm and no small talk in him.

When Sam came across a problem, he wanted it solved yesterday. He

became an arrow shooting straight at a solution.

That attitude had worked real well for him in the Teams, where problems

and possible solutions were clearly stated and no one's goddamned feelings ever

came into anything.

Civilian life had been a bitch, as Sam found himself tussling with clients

who were afraid to say what they wanted, who kept intel from him, who had

hidden agendas. Christ.

So the upscale, soothing premises had come in real handy.

Not to mention Nicole Pearce, right across the hallway from him, right now

scrabbling for keys that weren't there.

Well, he could do something about that. For a price.

"Need some help?" he asked, and suppressed a smile when she nearly

jumped right out of that gorgeous skin of hers.

"Need some help?" the scary lowlife who worked for the security company

across the hallway asked.

Nicole Pearce's head whipped around, heart kicking up into a hard panicky

beat in her chest. Oh God, there he was, long and broad and dark and grim. And

frightening as hell.

He hadn't been there a minute ago. Everyone on her floor came in well

before her company's opening time of 9 A.M., so she had been sure she was alone

as she scrabbled in her purse, quietly freaking out.

How could such a large man move so quietly? Granted, her head was

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completely taken up with the tragedy of no key, but still. He was huge. Surely he'd

have to have made some noise?

Come to think of it, the times she'd seen him coming and going from what

she assumed was his workplace across the hall, he'd been utterly silent.

Frightening.

She looked at him warily, hands still in her large purse that often doubled as

a briefcase.

He was standing with arms crossed, leaning back against the wall, looking

completely out of place in the elegant hallway. Tall, immensely broad-shouldered,

grim and unsmiling. Just perfect if Central Casting had sent out an urgent call. One

thug. Huge. Intimidating. Report to set.

But it hadn't. Central Casting populated the Morrison Building in

downtown San Diego with perfectly nice, perfectly tame office workers, some a

little flamboyant if they were in the advertising business, but otherwise harmless.

Lowlife had absolutely no business here, staring at her out of dark, steady

eyes, gaze still and unwavering, completely out of place in the context of the

cream and teal accents, the expensive Murano wall sconces and the faux Louis XV

Philippe Starck Plexiglas console with the very real calla lilies in the Steuben vase.

She'd chosen to pay premium rent for a tiny office in the upscale building

near Petco precisely because its classy, elegant design had appealed to her and

because, well, it shrieked success so loudly she hoped no one could hear the

crackling sound of financial distress underlying her new company.

Everyone in the building bustled in and out in morning and evening waves,

well dressed, well groomed and busy busy busy. Even after the stock market crash,

they all made an effort to look sleek and prosperous and successful, which was

why Lowlife was so out of place.

The rent took a big chunk out of the earnings of her brand-new company,

and her office was the size of a thimble, but she loved it. She'd signed the lease

half an hour after the realtor had shown it to her.

That was, of course, before Lowlife started haunting the halls. Every time

she turned around, it seemed, he was there. Enormous, dressed like a biker. Or

how she imagined a biker would dress--what would she know? Bikers had been

scarce growing up in consulates and embassies around the world.

He had a uniform of torn, filthy jeans, a formerly black tee shirt washed so

many times it was a dirty gray, and at times a black leather bomber jacket.

Overlong black hair and a heavy, scruffy black beard, nothing at all like the

chic designer stubble sported by the guys working at the ad agency two doors

down. No, this was a man with a heavy beard who didn't shave for weeks at a

time.

But beyond not following the yuppie dress and grooming code, Lowlife

was different in other ways from all the other people in the building.

She would never forget her first sight of him in the elevator, leaning onearmed against the wall, head down, looking like a warrior who had just come in

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from battle.

Only there was no war going on in downtown San Diego that she knew of.

He'd disappeared into the office across the hall, passing some pretty fancy

security, so she'd imagined he worked there.

As an enforcer?

She'd been aware of his scrutiny as she entered and exited her office. He

never overtly stared, but she could feel his attention on her like a spotlight.

Now, however, God help her, he was definitely staring, arms crossed over

that absurdly broad chest, unsmiling, gaze fierce and unwavering.

"Need some help?" he asked again. His voice matched his physique. Low,

so deep it set up vibrations in her diaphragm.

Then again, maybe the vibrations were panic.

No key.

This definitely wasn't happening. Not on top of the Ride from Hell in to

work. Of all the days to lock herself out...

"No, I'm on it." Nicole bared her teeth in what she hoped he'd take as a

smile, because she so wasn't on it.

What she didn't have--and what she so very desperately needed--was her

office key. The office key on her Hermes silver key fob that had been a birthday

present from her father, back in the days when he could work and walk on his

own. The set of keys that was always, always, in the front pocket of her purse,

except...when it wasn't.

Like now.

Nicole Pearce contemplated beating her head against the door to her office,

but much as she'd like to, she couldn't. Not under Lowlife's dark, intense gaze.

She'd save that for when he finally left.

He watched as she once more checked her linen jacket pockets, first one,

then the other, then her purse, over and over again, in a little trifecta routine from

hell.

Nothing.

It was horrible having someone see her panic and distress. Life had taken so

much from her lately. One of the few things left to her was her dignity, and that

was now circling the drain, fast.

She tried to stop herself from shaking. This was the kind of building where

you keep up appearances and you never lose your cool, ever. Otherwise they'd

raise the rent.

It was so awful, fumbling desperately in her purse, sweat beading her face

though the building's powerful air conditioners kept the temperature at a constant

62 degrees. She could feel sweat trickling down her back and had to stop, close

her eyes for a second and regain control. Breathe deeply, in and out.

Maybe Lowlife would disappear if she just kept her eyes closed long

enough. Realize that she deeply, deeply wanted him gone. Do the gentlemanly

thing and just go.

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No such luck.

When she opened her eyes again, the man was still there. Dark and tough, a

foot from the console she wanted to use.

She looked at the slate floor and the transparent console and gritted her

teeth.

Of the two horrible choices, getting close to him to dump the contents of

her purse on the console was marginally more dignified than simply squatting and

dumping everything in her purse on the floor.

Approaching him warily--she was pretty sure he wasn't dangerous, and that

he wouldn't attack her in broad daylight in a public building, but he was so very

big and looked so incredibly hard--she reached the pretty console, shifted the vase

of lilies the super had changed just yesterday, opened her purse wide and simply

upended it over the transparent surface.

The clatter was deafening in the silent corridor.

She had her home keys, car keys, a removable hard disk, a silver business

card case, a cell phone, four pens, a flash drive--all of which made a clatter. And

her leather bag of cosmetics, paperback book, checkbook, notepad, address book,

credit-card holder, all of which made a mess.

In a cold sweat of panic, Nicole pushed her way through the objects on the

console, checking carefully, over and over again, reciting each object under her

breath like a mantra. Everything that should be there was there.

Except for her office key.

What a disaster. Construction on Robinson had forced her into a long

detour, which was why she was opening the office at 9:15 instead of 9. At 9:30,

she had a vital videoconference with a very important potential client in New York

and her two best Russian translators, to negotiate a big job. A huge job. A job that

could represent more than 20 percent of her income next year. A job she

desperately needed.

Her father's medical bills kept rising, with no end in sight. She'd just added

a night nurse for weeknights and it was $2,000 a month. A new round of

radiotherapy might be necessary, Dr. Harrison had said last week. Another

$10,000. It was all money she didn't have and had to earn. Fast.

If the conference call went well, she might be able to keep ahead of her

money problems, for a while at least.

There was absolutely no time to cross all of downtown to go back home

and get the keys. Not to mention the fact that she would upset her father, who was

so ill. He'd be worried, be unsettled all day. Sleep badly that night. She absolutely

didn't want to upset him.

Nicholas Pearce had a limited number of days to his life and Nicole was

determined that they be as peaceful as possible.

She simply couldn't go back home. And she simply couldn't afford to miss

this meeting. Her translation business, Wordsmith, was too new to be able to risk

passing up this client--manager of one of the largest hedge funds in New York,

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looking to invest in Siberian gas futures and the Russian bond market, and needing

translations of the technical data sheets and market analyses.

Sweat trickled down her back. She made a fist out of her trembling hand

and beat it gently on the console, wanting to simply close her eyes in despair.

This was not happening.

"I can open your door for you." She jolted again at the words spoken in that

incredibly low, deep voice. Heavens, she'd forgotten about Lowlife in her misery.

His dark eyes were watching her carefully. "But it'll cost you."

This was not a good economic moment for her, but right now she'd be

willing to pay anything to get into her office. Snatching up her checkbook from

the clear surface of the console, she turned to him. He watched her with no

expression on his face at all. She had no reason to think he was a decent sort of

guy, but she could hope he wouldn't use her obvious desperation to make a killing.

Please, she prayed to the goddess of desperate women.

"Okay, name your price," she said, flipping back the cover, womanfully

refraining from wincing when she saw her balance. God, please let him not ask the

earth, because her checking account would go straight into the red. She steadied

her hand. Don't let him see you tremble.

She looked up at him, pen hovering over her checkbook. "How much?"

"Have dinner with me."

She'd actually started writing, then froze. "I--I beg your pardon?" She stared

for a second at the blank check where she'd started writing dinner with Lowlife on

the line with the amount.