Silence. The only sound was the wind in the trees, muffled by the snow and her own thundering heart.
Fuck!
Jack didn’t dare go after Caroline. He could barely see her, behind a big round bandstand, hunkered down. But he didn’t have to see her face to know that she was crying, the tears had been in her voice.
She was scared and disoriented, her head filled with Deaver’s lies. None of it made any difference, what was important now was keeping her away from Deaver. If he was here, it was to use Caroline as bait for the diamonds.
Jack had no idea how Deaver had escaped from the UN soldiers and tracked Caroline down, or known enough about her to know that he’d travel to her, but here he was. Ready, willing and able to hurt Caroline or—God!—kill her.
He wouldn’t kill her right away, he was too smart for that. He’d put a bullet through her kneecap or through an elbow, make her suffer.
If Jack had thought it through, he’d never have taken the fucking diamonds. He didn’t want them. The diamonds weren’t worth one hair on Caroline’s head. If he could, he’d go straight to the bank, open the safe-deposit box and hurl them at Deaver’s head. He couldn’t though. If he didn’t play this right, Caroline would get hurt. Maybe killed.
Jack grew cold and detached in combat. His heart rate actually slowed during firefights. He could strategize with bullets flying overhead. Not now, though. Right now he was sweaty and panicked and terrorized. Caroline was forty feet away from him and just might flee into the hands of a stone killer.
How could he think? How could he plan, make the right moves, when his head was filled with horrific visions of Caroline shot, her lifeblood seeping away into the snow? Screaming in pain with a bullet in her gut.
Jack had seen Deaver take careful aim and blow a woman’s arm off at the shoulder. If he closed his eyes, he could see that on the inside of his lids, only it was Caroline in the line of fire, and it drove him crazy. His heart beat high and wild in his chest, and his weapon slipped in his fist. His hands were sweating. He was sweating all over.
What could he do? If he ran toward Caroline, she would bolt, straight into Deaver. If he didn’t make a move, Deaver would. Either way he was fucked.
“Ms. Lake!” Deaver called. “Run now, before it’s too late! I’ve got agents coming, we’ll keep you safe. We’ve got to get you back to your shop. Make a run for it, and I’ll cover you!”
Deaver’s voice was stronger. He was edging closer to Caroline. Soon, he’d be able to take a bead on her even if she didn’t bolt.
“Don’t believe him, honey.” Jack kept his voice low, hoping it wasn’t carrying to Deaver. “He’s lying.”
“How—how can he be lying?” Caroline’s voice quavered. “He’s an FBI agent.”
“No, he’s not.” In two long strides, Jack came several feet closer to Caroline, finding cover behind another big oak. “He’s not an FBI agent. He’s a war criminal. He’s responsible for a—”
“Massacre in an African village. Stealing diamonds. I know.” Caroline was keeping her voice low. “He told me. Only he said it was you. That you were a war criminal with a fortune in stolen diamonds. And he showed me a photograph of you, Jack. You said you came from Afghanistan, but the snapshot showed you in Africa. The time stamp said it was taken on the twenty-first of December. And Jenna Johnson said that you deposited eight million dollars in a bank account. How can I believe you?”
Oh, Jesus.
He didn’t have time to explain, convince. Deaver was going to pounce any minute. Jack would gladly take a bullet for her, but she wouldn’t let him get close enough.
The sweat was pouring down his back, falling into his eyes. He felt sick with fear.
He could see the lampposts along the street—the snowstorm was easing up slightly. Deaver was out there, moving from cover to cover, and inside a few minutes, he’d reach Caroline. Deaver didn’t need for her to bolt. All he had to do was sneak up behind her, snake an arm around her neck, and call for Jack to put down his weapon.
Jack would do it, too. Even knowing that certain death would follow, he’d do it to save Caroline. Only he wouldn’t save her. She’d be next.
Jack swallowed the surge of bile in his throat, the taste of defeat.
There! Something flitted between the trees, a ghost of movement. Deaver. Coming closer.
Caroline couldn’t stay there, she’d be dead inside of five minutes. And Deaver had filled her head with so many lies, she wouldn’t run to him.
She had to get away, now!
Jack dug into his jeans pocket and tossed a mass of metal toward Caroline. Even in the dusk and in the snow, he had an excellent aim. It fell at her feet, sinking instantly into the snow.
She bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. He could see her clearly now. She raised her eyes and saw him. His heart clenched at the expression on her face—sorrow and fear and grief.
“Caroline,” he said urgently. “Those are the keys to the Explorer. It’s parked on Harrison. Get in and drive, just as fast as you can. Head for Seattle or Spokane. There’s a couple of thousand dollars in the glove compartment, use that. Just get yourself away from here. If something—if something happens to me, get in contact with Philip Napier. He’s an estate lawyer on Hewitt. I’ve left my will with him. You’ll inherit everything I own. Have him wire you the money and disappear. Don’t ever come back here. Deaver will kill you if you do.”
She stared into his eyes. “Where did the money come from?” she whispered.
Another glimpse of a shape, barely visible, taking refuge behind the concrete walls of the public toilets before Jack could aim. He was moving toward the bandstand. Jack could see the barrel of Deaver’s gun jutting out from the right-hand corner of the wall. Caroline was on the other side of the bandstand. He’d figure it out in a moment and rush her. She had only minutes left.
“Listen carefully, sweetheart. The money didn’t come from the diamonds, I swear. I sold my father’s company and my house. Use it and stay far away from here. Promise me you’ll go. I need to know you’re safe.”
“You had photographs of me.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “You know Greenbriars inside out. Who are you?”
He had to get her away, now. Only the truth would work.
“Ben.”
“What?”
“I’m Ben, sweetheart. Do you remember the boy in the homeless shelter? Twelve years ago? You brought me food and books.”
Her eyes were wide, fixed on his. He could see her very clearly. The snow had almost stopped. Fifty feet away, Deaver stepped out from behind the concrete wall and assumed the stance.
“Ben? You’re Ben?”
Jack brought his weapon up, aimed. Time had run out.
“Run, Caroline! Run!” he screamed.
Caroline bolted and ran. But not toward his vehicle. She ran straight toward him.
Deaver stepped out from behind the concrete wall, tracking her…finger on the trigger…
Jack caught Caroline with one arm, lifting his weapon with his other, going for the one shot certain to kill instantly—putting a round right on the bridge of Deaver’s nose. Deaver fell backwards, the spray of blood bright on the pristine white snow.
And that was all Jack saw as he wrapped his arms around Caroline, safe now, safe forever, and buried his face in her hair, tears bright and cold on his face.
Headquarters of The Children’s Shelter
Chicago
Two weeks later
Sister Mary Michael smiled at the envelope on her desk. Over the course of the past ten years, there had been many of them—all the same. They had all been addressed to her, care of the nondenominational charity she headed. The Children’s Shelter, dedicated to providing an education to the lost children in homeless shelters.
Each envelope was written in black ink in a bold, strong hand. Each envelope held the same return address—a foundation incorporated in the Bahamas. The JP Foundation, Box 1341, Freeport, Grand Bahama. E
ach envelope had held a check.
There was no way to know whether the person writing was a man or a woman, but Sister Mary Michael just knew it was a man. Something about the strong strokes of the pen, the spacing, the evenness of the letters…over the years she’d even built up an image in her mind. A tall, strong man, who didn’t want gratitude.
She’d tried to thank him. Oh, how she’d tried. After the first few checks had arrived, she’d asked Tom Pinto for help. Tom had learned to read at the age of twelve thanks to the Shelter, and he had become one of the finest private investigators in the country. She asked him to track down the person or persons behind the JP Foundation. Tom was very good at his job, but he never managed to crack the infinite layers of protection screening the Foundation’s backers. Finally, Tom had told her gently to let it be, and she had.
The Foundation was clearly an example of God’s will, shining through.
Sister Mary Michael laid the envelope down on the desk before her, touching it with the tips of her fingers and said a prayer for the immortal soul of the sender, knowing that God’s grace shone particularly strong in him. The Shelter would have long since had to close its doors if it hadn’t been for her mysterious and generous benefactor.
Sister Mary Michael picked up a wooden letter opener that had been carved for her by one of her lost children, lost no more, now a second-year surgical resident in Boston, and slit the envelope open.
The checks had started out small. A thousand dollars, a couple of times a year, at first. As the years went by, the checks increased in size as her benefactor, bless his soul, grew wealthy.
The last check had been for thirty thousand dollars.
Smiling, Sister Mary Michael slid the check out and looked at the figures. Two thousand dollars. Well, maybe business hadn’t been…
No, she’d read it wrong. Twenty thousand—no. Sister Mary Michael caught her breath and blinked, staring at the words written in black ink in that familiar strong hand.
Twenty million dollars.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg,
and to my editor, May Chen.
About the Author
LISA MARIE RICE is eternally thirty years old and will never age. She is tall and willowy and beautiful. Men drop at her feet like ripe pears. She has won every major book prize in the world. She is a black belt with advanced degrees in archaeology, nuclear physics and Tibetan literature. She is a concert pianist. Did I mention the Nobel?
Of course, Lisa Marie Rice is a virtual woman and exists only at the keyboard when writing erotic romance. She disappears when the monitor winks off.
Lisa Marie welcomes reader fan mail at
[email protected].
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Credits
Cover Photograph by Digital Vision/Getty Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author?s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DANGEROUS LOVER. Copyright © 2007 by Lisa Marie Rice. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Microsoft Reader June 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-146777-6
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Lisa Marie Rice, Dangerous Lover
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