Laws of Attraction (11 page)

“You are so dead, cowboy!”

Snickering, the enigmatic Zane led her onboard the plane.

Dallas deplaned in Portland two hours later.
Whoo, boy
. If looks could kill, his “wife’s” smoldering amber eyes would have lasered off his balls right there in McCarran International Airport.

Dallas’s brother-in-law Cal would have his hands full keeping Mia on the ranch once Zane had hauled her to Texas. Damned good thing Cal was a Texas Ranger and accustomed to hazardous duty. Mia would be safe—and stranded—on Cal and Torie’s remote spread until Dallas finished this job.

He felt no remorse about conning her. The thought of Mia ending up hurt, or worse, twisted his guts. His priorities had shifted in the last twenty-four hours.

In fact, he’d made the ultimate sacrifice—married her.

Even for a man who’d grown up protecting women, who went above and beyond to do so, marriage was a tad drastic. But he’d have done the same for any woman in imminent danger, right?

Sure you would, bucko
.

Dallas wove through the crowded concourse flexing knotted shoulders. Yeah, he wanted her … so bad he hurt. But he wasn’t about to let it get personal. Mia Linden was simply another in a long line of damsels in distress, and he’d charged to the rescue.

Like always.

She and Torie would hit it off like two feisty peas in a pod. Christie, Mama and his gaggle of nieces would love her, too. Although, by the time he went to retrieve her, Mia would undoubtedly have taught his little darlings how to wreak all sorts of horrible new torture on their Uncle Dallas. He shuddered. He now had ten ladies eager to bust his chops.

Dallas located his black Jeep in the parking lot where one of his men had delivered it, then drove home, automatically watching for a tail. He’d destroyed or falsified all incriminating records of his past, or rendered them inaccessible. His house had been purchased under a pseudonym and paid for from a dummy corporate payroll account. His mail came to anonymous post office boxes. His family had never visited him, he always went to them via circuitous detours.

After unlocking the front door, he punched in the code to deactivate the best high-tech security system available. He didn’t bother turning on the light. He was used to living in the shadows, his entire focus on his mission.

Small penance for his sins.

Upstairs in his bedroom, he went to the gun safe in his closet and strapped on the shoulder harness that held his Glock 19. He wanted more firepower. Especially considering recent developments.

He’d been packing a compact Glock 26 in an ankle rig attached to his right boot, and a new KA-Bar knife inside the boot to replace the one that had been confiscated and turned on him during the fight in the woods after the attempted hit on Esteban. He’d had to check those for the commercial flight. He retrieved the weapons from his padded airline case and rearmed, then collected extra clips from the safe and stuck them in his jacket pockets.

Dallas paused to touch the handmade green, rust and ivory quilt covering the bed. His finger tracked the leaf pattern of his mother’s precise stitches in the soft cotton, and nostalgia speared him. Sometimes, he wished for a normal life, with a wife and children. A future.

But that wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.

He’d have to make do with Mama’s quilts and knickknacks from his sisters and nieces displayed throughout his house to ease the solitude between too-infrequent visits.

He shook off the sentimentality. No time to wallow.

He concentrated on the task at hand as he drove to Montoya’s estate. He’d spent five years learning about and tracking his quarry, then another five circling closer, step by calculated step. Building his reputation as a top security consultant, all the while compiling intel about Montoya’s business deals and insinuating himself into the same circles.

After Dallas had arranged an assassination attempt on Montoya late last month—designed to miss—Esteban had finally hired him.

The second, recent too-close-for-comfort attack in the forest near Esteban’s ski lodge had caught Dallas with his Levi’s down. He hadn’t arranged that one. But he should’ve expected it. Although Montoya acted the part of a successful, philanthropic CEO, he was a cold-blooded killer. An international terrorist who financed his vast network by trafficking cocaine.

The FBI, DEA, and customs had been surveilling the Montoya cartel for years, but failed to discover his import methods, or link him to related murders … now in the hundreds. A few informants from whom the officials had managed to coerce scant information had “mysteriously” died.

On the inside now, Dallas was going to find out.

His interest in Montoya wasn’t just professional. Dallas twisted the ruby in his ear. He had a score to settle.

He found Esteban working in his office at the estate. “Back from Vegas and reporting for duty,
Señor
Esteban.”

Montoya looked up from the papers strewn over the desktop. “
Señor
Dallas, what are you doing here? I did not expect you until next week.” He guiltily extinguished a nearby cigar. “Don’t tell my daughter you saw me smoking. She and my doctor are in a conspiracy to guilt me into quitting.”

“Your secret is safe with me, sir.” This particular secret, anyway. “With the big party happening tonight, I belong here.”

“Zane and Carlos are more than capable of managing the details.”

“I’m the one in charge of security.” Dallas hooked a thumb in his belt loop. “I wish you’d reconsider canceling all together. As I’ve said before, a party is a huge risk right now.” And Dallas sure as hell didn’t want Esteban’s other enemies cheating him out of his overdue payback.

Montoya’s silver brows furrowed. “My daughter’s birthday is a joyous celebration. I won’t bow to uncivilized dogs who would wish me holed up in my home, afraid of my own shadow. I trust your team to ensure no problems arise.” He began to stack files into his briefcase. “Your delightful bride will also be attending,
sí
?”

“I’m afraid not.” He feigned regret. “With the baby coming and all, Mama wanted to get her hands on my wife and coddle her. I put her on a plane before I left Vegas to enjoy an extended visit with my family.”

“Ah yes, the doting
abuela
.” Esteban smiled. “You and your wife are blessed to have much family. My poor Soledad lost hers when she was so young. She only has her cousin and her
papa
. And I do try to make it up to her.” He chuckled. “Since you are here, I shall need you to accompany me to my solicitor today, meet the party guests arriving at the airport, and then pick up Soledad’s gift. I’d like to leave in ninety minutes.”

Exactly what he’d been aiming for—the opportunity to accompany Esteban to the law firm of Grayson and Associates. “I’ll be ready,
Señor
.”

Dallas strode upstairs to the office Montoya had provided for him in the mansion. Harper Grayson and his law firm were suspected of laundering Montoya’s dirty money and stashing millions in hidden, tax-free bank accounts. Mia had likely stumbled across the connection when she worked there.

He shouldered the door open. Grayson must not realize she knew, or she’d be dead. Only last week, a hunter had stumbled across a car half-submerged in a Mexican swamp. The man inside had been brutally garroted, his head nearly severed. Identified through intelligence photos, the victim belonged to a cartel competing with Montoya’s business. Over the years, too many similar bodies had turned up. Even more vics simply disappeared without a trace.

Thank the Lord he’d intercepted Mia before Grayson or Montoya figured out she was investigating. Their marriage had not only saved his job, it had given Dallas the authority to shield her from the ruthless butchers.

With her safely in exile, he could concentrate on nailing Montoya.

Dallas set the timer on his cell phone, then shrugged off his leather blazer and hung it in the closet. He dropped into the desk chair to boot up his computer so he could scan the house and grounds on the closed-circuit system. He simultaneously ran a detailed a security analysis on a program he’d developed himself, searching for the weakness that had allowed Mia to sneak onto the property.

He reconfirmed the limo driver and bodyguards were on standby for arriving guests, then spoke individually to each of the other thirty bodyguards he’d hired for tonight’s party. There couldn’t be any clusterfucks.

Esteban couldn’t die before he’d paid in full.

Dallas used his secure encrypted phone, routed through an untraceable blind number, to remind Cal about Mia’s flight arrival info. After the short conversation, he hung up, frowning. Severe thunderstorms combined with a tornado watch had shut down DFW airport and diverted all air traffic to St. Louis. He tried Zane’s cell. No answer. Either they were still in-flight or the weather was screwing with the signal.

Damn, it sucked to be Zane today. Trapped between misbehaving Mother Nature and pissed-off Mia Linden. He suspected hell had no fury like Mia in a snit. Dallas would make sure Zane got a bonus for this one.

The computer security analysis finished and data flashed on the screen. So
that’s
how she’d done it. Shaking his head, he phoned to arrange to have razor wire attached to the estate’s wall, and then called a tree service with instructions to limb the oak at the back of the mansion nice and high.

His cell alarm jangled. The punctual Esteban would be ready to leave. Dallas shrugged on his jacket to cover his weapon as he headed for the front door to escort Esteban to the law firm.

Today might finally be Esteban’s unlucky day.

Montoya’s Mercedes was in the shop acquiring bulletproof glass and steel panels per Dallas’s instructions, so they took one of the limos, all of which had already been upgraded.

When they reached Grayson’s law office, the driver stayed with the car and Dallas accompanied Esteban inside. The slender, red-haired receptionist notified Harper Grayson, who immediately rushed out.

Medium height with a stocky build and sharply-angled features, Harper’s out-of-season tan complemented his abundant salt-and-pepper hair. He welcomed Montoya with a vigorous handshake and obsequious ass-kissing.

Esteban turned to Dallas. “You will wait here for me.”

“Yes, sir.”
Fuck
. Looked like he wasn’t horning in on the meeting. Yet.

Esteban and Grayson disappeared into the inner sanctum. The receptionist offered him a shy smile. “Would you like coffee or a cold drink sir?”

“No thank you, ma’am.”

“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.” She returned to her computer and began to type.

He chose a seat on a charcoal upholstered sectional in the corner behind a trio of potted palms where he could keep his back to the wall and watch every door.

All gray, black, and cold slashes of chrome and glass, the hushed office reflected an almost funeral atmosphere. He had a tough time picturing the vibrant Mia working here. She would have enlivened this stuffy mausoleum like the promise of pink tulips springing up through dead February grass.

Keeping one eye on the empty waiting area from his private alcove behind the palms, he leafed through a Wall Street Journal. Before long, a younger carbon copy of the elder Grayson, but with sandy hair, emerged from one of the offices and approached the receptionist.

Dallas pegged him as Paul Grayson, Harper’s son and junior partner. From his too-deliberately styled hairdo to his long aristocratic nose, thin lips, designer suit and obscenely expensive loafers, Grayson Lite appeared every inch the powerful, successful corporate shark.

Dallas watched over the top of the paper as Paul rested his hand on the receptionist’s shoulder and peered down at her computer screen. Instant animosity tightened Dallas’ scalp.

“I didn’t get a list of my appointments this morning, Janet.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m a little behind. This is my first day back since my son had chicken pox, and the temp didn’t update the schedules. I’ll get one to you ASAP.”

Paul chuckled. “That’s all right. I can do it.” He leaned over her, trapping her between his arms to access the keyboard.

Janet shifted uneasily in her chair. But with Paul’s arms fencing her in, she had nowhere to go.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” Grayson leaned closer and nuzzled her hair. “You smell delicious.”

Dallas’ fingers crushed the newsprint.

Janet’s cheeks reddened. “Just my shampoo. Please, Mr. Grayson, I can print your schedule and bring it to your office.”

“I don’t want to add to your stress, honey. You get too stressed out and you won’t perform at peak efficiency.” So casually the contact might have been an accident, and so subtle the movement would have been missed by anyone not watching closely, his arm brushed her breast. “Then we’d have to let you go.”

She jumped, her color deepening. “You know how much I need this job. I always give one hundred percent.”

“Sometimes …” Paul gave her a toothy smile as his arm grazed her breast again. “Giving one-ten, or better yet, one-fifty is called for.”

The young woman’s face crumpled, then she pulled herself together. “I do my best, Mr. Grayson,” she shakily replied.

Dallas gritted his teeth. The slimy son of a— He leapt to his feet, reached the desk in three strides. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Paul jerked upright, the fox caught in the hen house. “I didn’t see you there.”

The young woman’s humiliation was evident in the way she refused to meet Dallas’s gaze. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I’ve decided I would like some coffee after all, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Absolutely no trouble.” Janet gave him a tremulous smile. “I’ll get it right away.” She practically ran down the hallway.

Paul turned to him with a frown. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He thrust out his hand. Fighting the urge to slam his fist into Grayson’s nose, Dallas accepted the handshake. Paul’s grip squeezed much harder than necessary. “Paul Grayson, the third, Esquire.”

So, Junior wanted a pissing contest? Dallas applied pressure to the sensitive nerve bundle at the juncture of the wrist. Grayson flinched and snatched his now-limp fingers away. Dallas bared his teeth. “Dallas McQuade, the first. Head of security for Esteban Montoya.”