To the Edge (14 page)

The deep, draping V in the front of the gown showcased— there was no other word for it—the creamy rounds of her breasts. Even more dangerous than the front was the rear view. The
dress fell away from her pale, bare back, dipped low at her hips, and hugged her firm, high ass.
 
For all its high-class sophistication, it was a
fuck-me
dress - no if, ands, or buts about it—and the moment he'd seen her in it, he'd been flashing in and out of an erotic visual image of his hands gripping her hips, lifting her, shifting her until he was buried to the hilt in all that cool, haughty elegance.

It pissed him off that she'd known damn well when she'd put it on what it would do to a man's libido. And it was small consolation that he wasn't the only one affected by her blatant, if classy, sexuality. Judging by the bug-eyed reaction of one particularly red-faced octogenarian, he'd bet the old geezer was sporting his first non-pharmaceutical-induced hard-on in years.

He rolled a shoulder and sucked it up... but as she turned to say hello to a matron covered in gold and black sequins and diamonds mammoth enough to choke a herd of mastodons, his gaze arrowed back to the slim line of Jillian's body. He followed it downward. And into more trouble.

A floor-skimming hemline separated at her ankle and ascended to midthigh, exposing a damn fine leg covered in filmy, shimmering silk. Her slim high heels sent the same message as the dress. Glittering silver straps crisscrossed over her arch—and the image of those small feet arched in passion against a mattress shot him from semierect to full arousal right there in Donald Trump's monument to wealth and power.

And wasn't that special?

When she turned and, as she had been doing all night coolly introduced him as her associate, he gave her a final. thorough once-over—just to prove to himself he could keep it all together. He was on the clock here and a slip on his part could mean the difference between life and death for her.

He moved in closer, feeling the reassuring pressure of his shoulder piece beneath his tux jacket.

"Back off," she said between clenched teeth, attempting to mask her anger behind a brittle smile when they were alone again—at least relatively speaking in a crowd this size. "Protection is one thing. Invading my personal space is another. Give me some breathing room."

"You mean you can actually breathe in that thing?" The rise and fall of her breasts above the dipping neckline indicated that yes, she could. So could he—just barely— when every breath he took was laced with her perfume. Like the dress. there was nothing subtle about the scent. No tropical
forest tonight. Tonight she smelled like midnight and musk and mindless, marathon sex. Like the damn dress, it had been screwing with his head from the moment he'd set eyes on
her. Hell. He'd almost dragged her to the floor back at the penthouse and all she'd had to do to provoke it was tie his damn tie. And
breathe. Gezus
save him.

"There are too many people here," he growled, but could just as well have been talking to a wall. She was on the move again, glad-handing and dazzling this huge contingent of the lucky sperm club. And watching her, he finally got it. "It's part of your strategy, isn't it?"

"What is part of my strategy?" she asked, still smiling across the room.

"The dress. The whole package. You're working it."

She looked at him with renewed interest, then shrugged.

"It's for a good cause."

"But maybe not without a cost to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

With a hand on her elbow, he steered her toward the massive fireplace on the far side of the room.

"Mrs. Billionaire can't help but notice Mr. Billionaire ogling you. Take it times a hundred or so. Doesn't take a nuclear biologist to figure out there will be resentment among the ranks of the rich and the richer. Enough resentment to, oh, say ... level a death threat? "

"That's
ridiculous. I don't play with other women's ... portfolios." she informed him with a dry look.

"So how do you explain Steven Fowler?"

His shot hit the mark
like an RPG.

Her face drained to pale. And something even stronger than pain
glazed her eyes. Humiliation. He felt like he'd just kicked a puppy.

Great.

Good going, Garrett. Fowler was a raw nerve. He'd figured that out this afternoon. She'd closed up like a safe when he'd questioned her about him. He'd like to think his curiosity about Fowler was purely professional. That it didn't bug the hell out of him that she'd been involved with a married man, which in his estimation placed her somewhere beneath a pit viper in his game book.

"I don't have to explain anything to you." She moved remarkably fast in her heels. So fast, he had to scramble to catch up with her.

She'd woven her way through the crowd, exited the salon and was well into an open hallway before he finally snagged her arm. With more discretion than he'd thought he had in him, he gripped her upper arm and turned her slowly around to face him.

"I was out of line," he said, watching the top of her head while she looked anywhere but at him.

"Damn right you were."

"Look...." Involuntarily he rubbed his thumb along the silky skin of her upper arm. "I'm sorry."

"Go to hell."

"Right. Look, Jillian—"

"Just stick to your job, Garrett." When her gaze met his. her composure was back, but anger flashed in her green eyes like mortar fire through night vision goggles. "And save the judgmental commentary for someone who appreciates it Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the ladies' room."

10

THERE WASN'T MUCH
 
NOLAN COULD DO BUT watch her walk away.

He dragged a hand over his face. Sonofabitch. Hitting her with a dig about Fowler had been a low blow. A sucker punch. And at the moment, he hated himself almost as much as she hated him for delivering it.

Since he wasn't exactly martyr material himself, he was in no position to judge someone else's actions. She didn't deserve this crap from him... and maybe that was why, at every turn, he still found himself sniping at her. He wanted to believe the worst of her, but as more time passed, he was running out of reasons. Which meant he was running out of barriers.

She impressed him and he goddamn didn't want to be impressed. She didn't want him here, yet she was enduring. She hadn't wanted to help him with his list, but she had. She was tough and she was credible when he kept wanting her to be fallible and spoiled.

And
he wanted her to give him a plausible reason for Steven Fowler. Right. Like he gave a damn. And there was the rub, wasn't it? He
did
give a damn and he didn't want to.

He cupped a hand over the back of his neck. Rolled his head on his shoulders. And swore under his breath. She was nothing
like he'd expected. He was actually starting to like the woman.

Worse, he wanted to nail her so bad he'd turned into a perpetual hammer. And it royally pissed him off, to the point where if he didn't get his head back in the game, he wasn't going to be able to protect her.
Just stick to your job, Garrett.

Yeah. That rankled, too. She knew better than he did what he needed to do.

Settling himself with a deep breath, he folded his hands in front of him, braced his legs wide apart, and fully engaged with the task at hand while he waited for Jillian in the corridor that led to the ladies' room.

Couldn't be more than, oh, say, a flicking boatload of trouble spots, he decided with a sour scowl. To his left, a spiral staircase ascended to what appeared to be an empty loft. To his right was an arched doorway flanked by a pair of tables. Italian maybe. Old absolutely. And undoubtedly word more than his miserable hide.

OK—worth one hundred times his miserable hide, he conceded grimly.

Farther along the wall, an angular hallway led to what he knew from Dallas's recon was a bar, complete with a portrait of Donald Trump in his tennis shorts and white V-neck sweater. In the center of what he'd come to think of as the meet and greet room—but in fact had once been the formal living room for the Post family—was a huge table set up with highbrow floral arrangements that showcased a conch ice sculpture and silver platters of everything from mussels to shrimp, to sushi and many exotic ports in between.

He nodded grimly at several guests who were filing by the table and exiting the room through the arched doorway, then milling in the general direction of the outside terra and the lawn where a party tent was set up to the left of a huge rectangular pool.

"Where the hell is she?" he muttered just before Jillian walked out of the restroom. Finally. She dropped a lipstick tube into a glitzy beaded purse, snapped it shut, and without a word or a look his way fell into the line leading outside.

Despite the chill he felt when she shouldered past him, the night air
was warm on his face. So was her scent. It shot an arrow of lust straight to his loins. The wind that had buffeted Palm Beach all day had finally laid down to a pleasant breeze that
fussed with her hair and played hell with his imagination.

He forced it all out of his mind—her scent, her hair, her dress - and concentrated on the setup as they walked across a marbled-tiled veranda, then hung a left and descended mosaic-tiled steps to yet another level leading to the pool area.

The place was laid out right, security wise, he noted with a quick scan of the sweeping lawn. While lushly landscaped—pots of greenery, lots of grass—the surgically manicured grounds were subtly but well lit. No bushes or dark corners the bad guys to hide in.

Jamaican palms rustled in the balmy ocean breeze as he and Jillian
entered the tent set up to seat all 250 attendees. Lots of crystal. Lots of sterling. Lots of class.

A plastic-faced dowager, well preserved—in fact, close to mummified—touched frail, birdlike fingers to Jillian's shoulders and pulled her into a pseudoembrace. "Jillian, darling. How marvelous to see you."

"Hannah. You look wonderful."

"Thank you, darling. And you ... well. You're stunning, as usual
.
Not to mention you're sporting some incredible accessories tonight. Please.
Do
introduce us."

Nolan held himself in check like a good dog.

Now he was a freaking accessory?

"Hannah Baylor, Nolan Garrett. Mrs. Baylor is the sponsor of tonight's event."

"It's a pleasure," he said, hiding his irritation behind a benign smile as Jillian did the honors.

Eyes as predatory as a hawk's gleamed at him from beneath heavily made-up lids. "You are a welcome addition to our darling Jillian's arm. Do tell me you're madly in love with her. "

"A man would be hard pressed not to be. " From the corner of his eye he saw Jillian roll hers. "My relationship with Ms. Kincaid, however, is strictly professional. "

"How interesting. " The hawkish Mrs. Baylor's gaze darted between the two of them. "Professional how?"

While Jillian had made vague references to him as an associate in her previous introductions, he saw no reason to hedge. In fact, he preferred to make it known up front that anyone wanting to get to her had to get past him.

"I'm providing security for Ms. Kincaid, " he explained, then felt his skin crawl beneath his dress shirt when the woman sidled closer and gave him a blatant come-hither look.

If he wasn't mistaken, Jillian was working hard at hiding a smirk.

"Security? My dear, is there a problem?" While the question was directed at Jillian, the bird eyes never left his face; the smile never cracked. "And did you have to disable some horrible person in the process of getting this colorful bruise, you poor thing?" she cooed, touching a perfectly manicured hand to his cheek.

'There's no problem, " Nolan assured her while making an unsuccessful attempt to remove himself from Mrs. Baylor's clawlike grip on his arm. "Doorknob, " he added, pointing to his cheek. "Surveillance can be a bitch. "

"Hannah, " Jillian interjected smoothly, "I believe Blanche Winston is trying to get your attention. "

He was too grateful to be irritated that Jillian had had to come to his rescue.

After a long, lingering look—swear to God, the woman was trying to seduce him—the sexually charged Mrs. Baylor sighed longingly and finally followed the direction of Jillian's gaze.

"I suppose I've avoided her for as long as I can tonight. One of the newly rich. The woman is such a bore, " Mrs. Baylor confided with weary forbearance. "And the company here is so... titillating. "

She winked at him.
Winked
for God's sake.

"We'll talk later, " the woman promised, and with a final squeeze to his arm walked away.

"I do believe, " Jillian said, sounding way too amused, as they made their way to a table beside a podium at the front of the room, "you've got an admirer. "

He snorted. "Be still, my heart. " He couldn't help it; he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Mrs. Baylor was moving toward the other side of the room. "Was she for real?"

"Oh yeah. " Jillian, smiling openly now, was very obviously enjoying his discomfort. "Widowed four times. Rumor has it Arthur died in bed... and not in his sleep. "