The Executive's Valentine Seduction / Valente Must Marry: The Executive's Valentine Seduction. Merline Lovelace
could only describe as a seriously warped sense of humor.
Intrigued by roars of laughter emanating from his session, she slipped into the back of the room in time to hear him describe attempts by pirates to hijack a luxury, oceangoing yacht owned by a GSI client.
“They came in under our radar during the night and got close enough to fire their rocket-propelled grenades. Lucky for us the buggers didn’t know how to activate the built-in lock-and-launch radar. Bloody grenades came close enough to tighten my knickers, though.”
One of the men in the room gave a loud hoot. “Since when do you wear knickers, Basil?”
“It was merely a figure of speech, old chap. Back to our nocturnal visitors…I sincerely wish I could have seen their faces when we whipped the cover off the M61 mounted in the stern, but it was too bloody dark.”
Caroline had no idea what an M61 was, but she gathered from the murmurs of approval that it was a powerful weapon. The speaker confirmed that a moment later with his cheerful claim to have blown the buggers right out of the water.
Amazed all over again by the danger Rory’s people apparently faced on a daily basis, she slipped out to check on preparations for lunch and finalize transportation to the policía nacional armory in Girona.
She had two buses lined up and waiting when the conferees broke after lunch. A truck loaded with sealed crates idled patiently behind the buses. Two of Rory’s men had accompanied the crates from the airport and stayed with them for the short trip to Girona.
Caroline had prepped as best she could for the excursion and knew that the ancient city of Girona had been inhabited in turn by Iberians, Romans, Visigoths, Moors and the armies of Napoleon. It had also served as a major center for Kabbalah studies until the Jews were driven out of Spain in 1492. In recent years, Girona had once again become a center of learning for the Jewish faith.
Following directions faxed by Captain Medina, Caroline directed their small convoy to the police armory on the outskirts of town. Antonio Medina strolled out to meet them on their arrival and greeted Caroline in English heavily flavored by his native Catalan roots.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Walters.”
“Good afternoon, Captain. Allow me to introduce Rory Burke, president and CEO of Global Security, Incorporated.”
Medina thrust out his hand. “I have heard much of you, Mr. Burke. You took part in the international task force that investigated 3/11, yes?”
“I did.”
It took Caroline a few moments to make the connection. Nine-eleven was indelibly ingrained on the consciousness of all Americans. Similar horrific attacks had occurred in Spain on March 11, 2004. Close to two hundred people had died in coordinated commuter train bombings. Almost two thousand more were injured.
She’d had no idea Rory had been part of the multinational task force investigating the bombings. It certainly hadn’t been mentioned in his company profile. Then again, maybe that was the kind of expertise you didn’t want the bad guys to know you possessed.
It did explain, however, Captain Medina’s patience while Caroline had slogged through the reams of paperwork to permit GSI access to his outdoor firing range.
The range was situated in an open field several kilometers from the armory buildings. Medina invited Rory to ride out with him in his vehicle. The rest of the team followed in the buses. Once on the range, the captain, Rory and Harry Martin conferred with the range supervisor. A sense of unreality gripped Caroline as she listened to them discussing laser-directed smallarms fire, armor-piercing bullets and high-impact detonations while swallows chirped merrily in the trees and the bright Catalonian sun warmed the earth.
The first crack of a high-powered, laser-guided sniper rifle sent the swallows flapping. Caro stood well back from the firing line, her ears shielded by cushioned protectors, and felt her jaw drop when a spotter more than a mile and a half downrange signaled back a direct hit.
Even more astonishing was the so-called ice shield. Caro never did grasp the physics involved. Somehow the device activated an intense negative ion field around the target. The hyperactive ions sucked the velocity from most of the bullets fired at the target from various distances. Enough got through, however, for Rory to admit with a wry grin that the device required further testing before being fielded.
After Harry demonstrated the paraclete vest, the GSI agents took turns at the firing line testing an assortment of handguns and ammo. Caroline had no idea she would be included in the live fire exercise until they took a break and Rory beckoned her forward.
“Ever fired one of these?”
She glanced at the blue-steel subcompact nestled in his palm and shook her head. “Nothing that small. I went quail hunting with my father a few times. His double-barrel shotgun just about knocked me flat.”
“Given the high-profile clients your firm caters to, a working knowledge of handguns might come in handy.”
“I sincerely hope not!”
“We’ll start with the basics,” he said, calmly brushing aside her objections. “This is the safety. Always check to make sure it’s on before handling your weapon.”
Fifteen minutes later, Caroline found herself standing between Sondra and Abdul-Hamid on the firing line, peering through shatterproof goggles at a paper target strung from a wire twenty yards away. A borrowed ball cap blocked the sun’s glare. Heavyduty protectors shielded her ears.
Rory stood directly behind her, his body leaning into hers as he corrected her stance. “Don’t square off and face the target like that. You won’t get good front-to-back balance. You want to form a pyramid, with your power leg forward.”
“Which one is my power leg?”
“You’re right-handed. You’ll naturally favor your right leg. Now angle your pelvis at forty-five degrees to the target. A little more.”
Oh, sure! Like she could think pyramids and angles with his hands on her hips and her rear jammed against the fly of his jeans.
“With an automatic, you want to use what we call a ‘crush’ grip. The harder you hold the weapon, the less it will kick.”
“A tight grip also lessens the chance some sleazebag can knock it out of your hand,” Sondra volunteered.
Caroline diverted her attention long enough to see that a circle of interested observers had gathered to watch the lesson. Then Rory reached around her to steady her arms, and every nerve in her body snapped back to the task at hand.
“Use your thumb to release the safety. That’s it. Now tuck your thumb and focus on the front sight. You want to pull the trigger straight back. Squeeze it or roll it. Don’t jerk it. All set?”
“I think so.”
He dropped his arms and stepped back. “Fire when ready.”
Her first shot went wide of the target and kicked her arms up. The second wasn’t much better. With cordite stinging her nostrils, Caroline scowled, tightened her grip and squinted through the front sight.
The next three shots peppered the edges of the target silhouette. The sixth and seventh hit dead center. Cheers and hoots erupted from the observers as Caro lowered the weapon and engaged the safety.
“You’re a natural,” Rory said after he’d taken charge of the automatic.
“Beginner’s luck.”
“Trust me. Not all beginners can find a target.”
His smile of approval stayed with Caro all the way back to the resort. She felt it almost as much as the disturbing aftereffects of her close encounter with his zipper.
It took Caroline the rest of the evening and most of the night to comprehend her inexplicable reaction every time Rory got within striking distance. When she padded into the bathroom just before seven the next morning and braced