Not on His Watch. Cassie Miles
on the explosion. An accident. What else?”
“I’ve heard that someone is buying oil from Imad.”
“There’s no law against it,” he said. “What does that have to do with Quantum?”
“We’re not dealing with Imad?”
“Hell, no. Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed can take a flying leap, as far as I’m concerned. In my opinion, the man is a murderous terrorist.”
“I’m glad.” The moral center at Quantum always made her proud. Though they were a megacorporation in a sometimes dirty business, her father kept them on the high road. The suspected human rights abuses in Imad truly disgusted him. “What’s our position on Nurul?”
“I’ve agreed to meet with Prince Zahir next week. Though he’s not officially part of their new government, he’s acting as emissary. But I don’t intend to buy from Nurul until their politics have stabilized.”
“What’s the story with Zahir?”
“Even though he’s supposedly engaged, he has the reputation of being a ladies’ man. Which makes me glad that you’re going to be out of town meeting with the energy consortium while he’s here.”
Though her sense of being deceived lingered, she had to smile. Her father didn’t want her getting involved with a renegade prince from the Middle East. “Do you really think I’d fall for Zahir?”
“You never know.” He scooted a stack of papers to the center of his desk and eyed the top sheet, apparently anxious to start work. “Are we finished with your questions and ready to start your new assignment?”
“I’m not quite finished,” she said. “About my speech to the consortium, the legal department has compiled proof against the allegation that Quantum is a monopoly. Our contracts are clearly nonexclusive. According to—”
“Hold it! This job assignment will give you a new perspective on contracts. I want you to spend the next couple of days with one of our oldest suppliers, the owner of Crawford Oil. His name is Quintin Crawford. He’s up here from Texas and would like to be shown around the town.”
“You’re joking!” She had tons of work to do before she left town. “You want me to waste my time babysitting some minor-league supplier?”
“Watch your attitude, Natalie. The loyalty of men like Quint is what keeps us in business.” He pressed a button on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. “Please show Mr. Crawford in here.”
“No, Henry, my schedule is full. I can’t… I don’t want to…”
Her objections faded to helpless sputtering when the door to her father’s office swung wide and an extremely tall man swaggered into the office. From the top of his black Stetson that almost scraped the upper edge of the door frame to the toes of his brushed-leather cowboy boots, he was every inch a Texan. He was not—definitely not—the type of sophisticated escort Natalie preferred.
Though his denim jeans and suede jacket might pass for an eccentric fashion statement, the rest of his outfit was over the top. At the throat of his white cotton shirt was a bolo tie with a silver concha that matched the blindingly polished silver in his gigantic belt buckle.
“Howdy, Miss Natalie,” he drawled. “Your daddy tells me you’re going to show me the town. I am much obliged.”
“Hello, Mr. Crawford.” Her brain raced, trying to figure out ways she could dump this assignment. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Call me Quint.” He removed his ridiculous cowboy hat, strode toward her and stuck out his hand. “And the pleasure is all mine.”
When she accepted his handshake, Natalie looked up at him. His brown hair was a little too long and untamed. A dark tan bronzed his features. His startling blue eyes, surrounded by crinkles from the sun, held her gaze. Strangely mesmerized, she saw wide-open skies, unlimited vistas and wildflowers—a breath of fresh air through her sterile corporate existence. His handshake was firm. His large hand engulfed her soft palm, but his touch was gentle and controlled.
She swallowed hard. No way would she allow herself to be interested in a shaggy-haired cowboy.
Her father came out from behind the desk and rested his hand on each of their shoulders. His gesture startled her. It felt as if he was giving them his blessing.
“You two have fun today. All day. That’s an order, Natalie.”
She didn’t mistake his meaning. Natalie would not be allowed to assign the task of sightseeing with Quint to an assistant. According to her father—the CEO of Quantum—this Texan was her problem.
Chapter Two
Before leaving Confidential headquarters, Quint had checked out the blueprints Andy had for the Quantum Building, a post-World War II skyscraper that had been upgraded and renovated several times, creating a security man’s nightmare. If a terrorist planned to hide a bomb within these walls, the options were endless. Thousands of square feet of cubicles, offices, boardrooms, bathrooms, cafeterias, mail rooms, exercise facilities and a parking garage made this structure into a thirty-two-story labyrinth of danger.
Therefore, Quint had decided before he got here that he’d feel safer protecting Natalie on the streets of Chicago—far away from potential threats at Quantum. The way he figured, randomly selected destinations would lessen the opportunity for a planned assault, if, in fact, she was a target for these unnamed terrorists.
After he and Natalie left her father’s office, he trailed her into the elevator. His gaze flicked to the ceiling. The center panel could be easily removed to gain access to the elevator shaft. In spite of security cameras, any of the eight elevators could be considered a possible bomb location.
Disembarking on the twenty-fourth floor where her office was located, she asked, “Is there something special you’d like to see while you’re in Chicago? The stockyards, perhaps?”
“We got steer in Texas, Miss Natalie. While I’m here, I got a hankering to see the sights of your fine city. If you don’t mind.”
“The Art Institute?” she suggested.
Her smooth alto voice held a challenge, as if she wouldn’t expect a cowboy to be interested in an outstanding art collection, but he didn’t take offense. He was undercover. His exaggerated “good old boy” routine was meant to be disarming; nobody would suspect him of being a bodyguard.
Reinforcing her impression that his idea of culture was the local hoedown, he asked, “At the Art Institute, do you suppose they’ve got any of the cows?”
“Cows?” Her eyebrows lifted.
“Y’all had painted cows on the streets for a while. Isn’t that right?”
“Oh yes, the Chicago Cows. Dozens of life-size cow statues with designs by contemporary artists. It was a very successful public display.” She strode down the hall toward her corner office. “But I’m afraid the herd has gone back to the barn.”
Though her tone was professionally cordial, Quint had the impression that she’d be thrilled if he, too, would retire to the hayloft and leave her alone. “Too bad,” he said.
“After I check in with my secretary,” she said, “I have a lunch date with an old friend from boarding school. I should make other arrangements for you. I’m sure you’d be bored to death with our girl talk.”
“Don’t inconvenience yourself.” Quint already knew about the lunch date. Natalie’s school friend was none other than Whitney MacNair Romeo. “I’ll tag along with you ladies.”
When she hesitated, probably trying to come up with another excuse to dump him, Quint added, “Your daddy told me you got real good steak in Chicago.”
Her father was the only person at Quantum who knew the nature of Quint’s assignment, and Henry Van Buren was