To the Limit (9 page)

"Mr. McClain," Edwards said, and Eve realized she'd tuned out of the conversation, "your purpose here is to be apprised of Mr. Clayborne's vehement objection to any contact between Ms. Garrett and Tiffany. You are not, in any way, to confer, collaborate, or conspire with Ms. Garrett should you encounter her during your search for Tiffany. Additionally, should you choose to disregard Mr. Clayborne's wishes, your contract will be terminated immediately. Is that understood?"

She didn't have to look to know that McClain gave Edwards a sober nod.

"All right then," Edwards continued. "Then we're finished here. Good day to both of you. And Ms. Garrett—I truly anticipate that this will be the last we see or hear of you."

He depressed a button on his phone. "Jazelle. Please show Ms. Garrett and Mr. McClain out."

Jazelle appeared with the same cool, calm elan and held the door open for them.

Eve had little she could do but leave.

"Good day, Ms. Garrett," Jazelle said with a nod as Eve walked past her through the open door.

Eve could have sworn the woman was gloating.

Eve was hot. Sizzle hot, Mac realized as they walked together toward the bank of elevators. He couldn't help but wonder what she'd been thinking. Showing up here, asking for an audience.

A part of him admired the hell out of her for having the guts to confront the Clayborne machine after the way it had rolled over her three years ago. She was pretty cheeky about the explosion Saturday night, too—Mac didn't know whether to admire her or lecture her about watching her back. And though her safety wasn't his concern, along with digging up dirt on her background last night, he'd also found himself keeping an eye out for anything that raised warning flags— like who, from her past, might want her dead.

Secret Service. Hell. Sweet little Eve Garrett—single Eve Garrett, he was happy to find out—was also ex-Secret Service agent Eve Garrett. Now she was a security specialist, a partner with her brothers—three tough, forceful men who had, frankly, scared the hell out of him back in school.

When the elevator doors opened, he pushed the button and they entered it together. Beside him, her face was flame red, her nostrils flared, and if she crossed her arms any tighter over her breasts, they were gonna pop right out from under that sexy little white camisole thingy she was wearing under a blue silk jacket the color of her eyes. Not that he'd mind the prospect all that much.

It was a damn shame, though, that she was expending all that energy on anger. He could think of a much more pleasurable way to let off steam. Actually, he could think of several. Some involved Jell-O. Not that he'd suggest it. He may be horny, but he wasn't stupid.

Hadn't stopped him from spending a lot of time thinking about her during the last couple of days, though—or from finding out what he could about where she'd been and what she'd been doing the past fourteen years. It hadn't taken much digging to get the goods on Eve or her connection with Tiffany. And as long as he'd been digging, he'd dug a little deeper into Clayborne's closet.

Not that long ago—before he'd gone Howard Hughes the hermit on everyone—Jeremy Clayborne had been tight with the Oval Office. Real tight. He'd been working for the administration in some capacity, and the work sometimes took him out of the country. When the shit had hit the fan with Tiffany, Clayborne had been in Europe negotiating a contract for his own firearms company. Or so the story went.

If Mac had read between the lines correctly, however, Clayborne hadn't been there on
private
business. He'd been on
government
business—covert government business. Otherwise, why would a Secret Service agent be providing protection for Clayborne's daughter? The only way that happened was for the president himself to request it. So, no, Mac didn't buy the cover story for a second.

Anyway, whether Eve deserved it or not, Clayborne blamed her for subjecting his daughter—who by all accounts he'd given over to a nanny to raise anyway—to the danger and the trauma of the abduction attempt. Blamed Eve for the death of his chauffeur as well. Like she was supposed to know there were two men lying in wait for the limo when they arrived at Orlando for an equestrian competition.

Hell. Eve had done her job. Everything he'd read said she'd done it with bravery and skill. She'd protected the kid. Killed the bad guys even though they'd taken two of the good guys down in the process. But her heroism hadn't been good enough for Clayborne.

Clayborne had done some leaning. And his weight had toppled fences. Eve had been forced to resign from a career that, by all indications, had been the stuff that commendations were made of.

Mac looked at her across the elevator.

"I'm curious," he said as the cab hit the ground floor. "Other than pissing him off, what, exactly, did you hope to gain by meeting with Edwards?"

He'd probably have been wise to keep his mouth shut. But then, something told him she'd never accuse him of being the sharpest knife in the drawer.

The elevator doors opened and she walked out ahead of him. "The big question is: what are
you
going to do?"

He pressed a hand to his chest. "What am
I
going to do? What am I going to do about what?"

"About helping me find her."

"Cupcake," he said, stopping her with a hand on her arm and turning her to face him. "You heard the man. I'm out on my ass if I so much as smile at you."

Mac experienced the full measure of her accusatory glare. He exhaled wearily. "Look, if it were up to me, and you wanted to put in the time, hell, I'd say go for it. We'd work together. But it's not up to me. I've got to follow the rules according to Clayborne."

"Since when did you ever play by anybody's rules but your own?"

She had him there. "OK. Fine. Let's make them
my
rules. I need the job. I need the money. I'm not gonna blow this account because you've got a feeling that the girl's in trouble."

The money from this job—damn good money—was going to keep him afloat for several months. No way was he going to indulge a few lust-induced urgings to team up with her and blow it. This gig would more than pay off his divorce settlement. More important, it would ensure that Angie would have to stop making noises about terminating his visitation rights with Ali. He was damn tired of ducking the ax that his ex enjoyed the hell out of swinging on that count.

And maybe, just maybe, he could even eke out a down payment on that sweet little fishing boat he'd been dreaming about. Ali would love it. As long as she could bring her Barbies.

So yeah. Solvency sounded sweet. Frankly, though, so did the notion of going head-to-head with Eve Garrett. God, she was a looker. Maybe when this was over, he'd look her up. See if he could knock the hard edges off her grudge. Maybe get a little friendly again.

When she caught him staring at her breasts, she made one of those noises that only women could make. The kind that leveled volumes of accusation, denigrated his pedigree back a millennium or so, and put his IQ somewhere around a baker's dozen. Someday he had to find out how they did that. Today he really didn't care. In fact, he was feeling pretty damn fine.

"Why do you really care about Tiffany so much?" he asked, deciding to risk Eve's wrath. "Seems to me, she's been nothing but a thorn in your side since the beginning."

She tossed back that beautiful mane of silky blond hair. "It's something you wouldn't understand, since apparently it's all about the money to you."

He could be pissed but chose not to be. She didn't know what motivated him. Let her think what she wanted. It was no skin off his nose.

"Well, hell yeah," he said with a cheery smile. "It's
always
all about the money. Keeps it simple."

Another sound of disgust. "There's nothing simple about it if Tiffany is in trouble."

"Look. Tiffany Clayborne is a party girl on a party run and she doesn't give a damn who she puts out in the process."

Eve shoved open the double glass and chrome doors and walked outside. The Florida sun was brilliant and hot. A stiff easterly wind shuttled in the scent of salt and brine from the Atlantic.

"I hope you're right. And I hope you find her. In the meantime, you won't mind if I conduct my own search."

The woman just wouldn't quit. "You're kidding, right?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

What she looked like was a woman on a mission.

"With or without help from Edwards or Clayborne or
you,
I'm going to find her. As a matter of fact, I'll probably find her before you do."

He snorted. "Like that's going to happen."

"Like yeah. It is. Wonder how much money Edwards will pony up for you then."

One thing you could count on with women: the outside packaging varied, but inside they were pretty much all the same. This woman in particular hated being bested by men. His gender may have the physical equipment theirs lacked, but the woman standing beside him had her own equivalent set of balls. And he'd bet the farm that estrogen packed a helluva lot more punch in the mean department than testosterone any day. He ought to know. He still bore the scars from his divorce. And the deeper scars of losing Ali.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to make this into a little competition."

She tucked her chin, looked him up and down. When she met his eyes again she was smirking. "There's competition?"

He laughed. OK, so he looked like something a very indiscriminate cat wouldn't bother to drag in. "I remember you as being so much sweeter."

"You ought to see someone about that memory problem. See you around, McClain."

"Hey, Eve."

She stopped when he said her name. Turned slowly. Gave him a long-suffering look.

The wind caught her long hair and lifted it back and away from a face that was an intriguing mix of classic girl next door and wear-your-wrist-out porn star with her wide blue eyes and full, generous lips. The stout ocean breeze folded back her jacket lapels and molded that filmy little white top against her magnificent breasts—and some of his body parts started changing size and shape.

At this very moment, life was good. Life was sweet. He had a high-profile case, could almost see his ship coming in on the horizon and the prospect of a little competition from a hot woman to keep things interesting.

Pretty much in love with the moment and the fact that Eve Garrett was as much fun to needle as she was to look at, he dug into his pocket, pulled out a bag of M&M's, and tossed them to her. "Here you go, cupcake. These are for you."

She was too surprised to stop herself from snagging them out of the air.

"A little affirmation that my memory's just fine," he said when she looked from him to the bag of candy.

She smiled. Tight and brittle. Clearly remembering the last time—the
only
time—he'd bought her M&M's.

"If you think you're going to beat me to Tiffany," he said, unable to resist, "you underestimate me."

"No. I think I've pretty much got you pegged. You're a self-serving, self-absorbed rat-bastard."

He chuckled, as impressed with her mouth as he was with her mind. OK, as impressed with her mouth as he was with her
body.

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about self-serving, self-absorbed rat-bastards. We try harder."

"Try this," she said, and flipped him the bird as she turned and walked away.

Chapter 6

Key West

He hadn't always been a rat-bastard,
Mac thought candidly as he drove down Duval Street the next day, squinting against the late-afternoon sun, searching the row of shop fronts for the address he'd scrawled on his notepad this morning. At least he hadn't
consistently
been one, he amended as his stomach growled, reminding him that the Big Mac he'd downed for "brunch" around nine had been several miles and several hours back on U.S. 1 just south of Miami.

No, he hadn't always been a rat-bastard, just like he hadn't always been as lucky as he'd been last night when he'd connected with the big "D", Dave Johnson, in Atlantic City. Cops stuck tight with cops. Even ex-cops who had turned to private security or PI work to pay the bills.

"Got something for ya," Dave had said in his no-nonsense tone when he called Mac back early this morning.

Mac and Dave had been rookie uniforms together on the Chicago PD. They'd shared many a gut-searing morning cup of coffee at a little diner just off Calumet before heading out to their beat after roll call at division headquarters at Wentworth Station. For two years they'd patrolled the 213 together. Watched each other's backs. Saved each other's asses from the bad guys and even from the brass on a few occasions.