Hero Under Cover. Suzanne Brockmann
Morrow,” came the thick Texas drawl. “My secretary tells me you’ve been trying to reach me?”
“Yes, Mr. Marshall,” Annie said. “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. We’re having a little problem.”
Briefly she described both the threatening phone call and the follow-up note that had come through her window.
“I don’t think there’s any real danger,” Annie said. “But I felt I had to notify you and give you the opportunity to have the artifact authenticated by an establishment with higher security.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Marshall said, “But…you’re the best, aren’t you, darlin’?”
“Well, yes, I like to think so,” Annie said.
“I’m more concerned with your personal safety,” he said. “Are you frightened? Do you want to get out of this contract?”
“Not at all. It’s just that I may not be set up to provide security at the level necessary to protect the piece,” she explained.
“Oh, that’s just a little bitty problem,” Marshall said with the easy nonchalance of the very wealthy. “We can solve that, no sweat. I’ll provide the security, darlin’. I’ll send a man over later this afternoon. He’ll be responsible for the safety of the death mask. He’ll also act as your bodyguard.”
Oh, great, just what she needed. A pair of biceps following her around. She took a deep, calming breath. “Mr. Marshall, that’s not necessary—”
“No, no, darlin’, I insist.”
“But I’m backlogged,” Annie protested. “It’s going to be weeks before I even get a chance to look at the artifact. And the tests I need to perform will take that much time again. My contract states an estimated completion date of mid-December. That’s over two months—”
“I’ll tell the guy to be prepared to stay for a while.”
“But—”
“I gotta get back to work now,” Marshall said. “Nice talking to you, darlin’. I’ll be in touch.”
“But—”
He hung up.
“But I don’t want a bodyguard!” Annie wailed to the buzz of the disconnected line.
“A what?” Cara asked.
Annie hung up the phone with a muttered curse. “I’m going to take a nap,” she said, stalking toward the door. “Maybe when I wake up, this nightmare will be over.”
“Did you say bodyguard?” Cara’s voice trailed after her.
Annie didn’t answer.
Cara’s face broke into a wide grin. A bodyguard. For Annie. This was going to be an awful lot of fun to watch.
CHAPTER THREE
ANNIE STRETCHED, LUXURIATING, enjoying having spent the day in bed. It was a real self-indulgence, particularly since she had so much to do in the lab.
But she wouldn’t have gotten a whole heck of a lot done if she’d tried to work. Her concentration would’ve been way off because of her fatigue, and she would have ended up having to do everything over again. So instead she’d slept hard, and now felt much better. And hungry. Boy, was she hungry.
She pushed back the covers and went into her bathroom to wash her face, deciding against a shower. Why bother? Cara would be leaving for home in an hour or so. And the artifacts Annie had to run tests on didn’t care if she worked in her pajamas. She brushed the tangles out of her hair and put some moisturizer on her face.
The sky outside the window was dark, she realized suddenly. It must be later than she thought.
She went down the stairs barefoot, calling, “MacLeish! Are you still here?”
“No, she went home.”
Annie stopped short at the sight of the stranger standing in the shadows of the foyer. How did he get in? What was he doing here? Fear released adrenaline into her system and, heart pounding, she stood on the stairs, poised to turn and run back up and slam the door behind her.
He must have realized that he had frightened her, because he spoke quickly and stepped into the light. “Steven Marshall sent me,” he said, his voice a rich baritone with a slight west-of-the-Mississippi cowboy drawl. “My name’s Pete Taylor. I’m a security specialist. Your assistant let me in. She didn’t want to wake you….”
He was not quite six feet tall, with the tough, wiry build of a long-distance runner. His hair was black, and cut almost military short. His face was exotically handsome, with wide, angular cheekbones that seemed to accentuate his dark eyes—eyes of such deep brown, it was impossible to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. His lips were exquisitely shaped, despite the fact that he wasn’t smiling. Somehow Annie knew that this was not a man who smiled often.
He held out his wallet to her, opened to reveal an ID card encased in plastic.
Annie couldn’t keep her hand from shaking as she took the smooth leather folder from him, and she saw a flash of amusement in his dark eyes. He thought it was funny that he scared her. What a jerk.
She sat down on the steps as she looked at the ID. Peter Taylor. Age 38. Licensed private investigator and security specialist. The card gave him a New York City address, in a rather pricey section of Greenwich Village. Across from the ID card was a New York State driver’s license. She lifted the plastic flaps and found an American Express Gold Card for Peter Taylor, member since 1980, a MasterCard, a Visa and a Sears credit card. He was carrying over five hundred dollars cash in the main compartment, along with several of his own business cards.
She tossed the wallet back to him and, as their eyes met, she saw another glint of humor on his otherwise stern face.
“Do I pass?” he said. As he tucked the wallet into the inside left pocket of his tweed jacket, she caught a glimpse of a handgun in a shoulder holster.
Annie nodded. “For now,” she said, working hard to keep her tone formal, polite. “But just so that it’s out in the open, I think you should know that I don’t want you here. I consider your presence an imposition, and I intend to speak to Marshall about it tomorrow. So don’t bother unpacking—you’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“When I spoke to Mr. Marshall this afternoon, he was adamant that I remain,” he said. “Apparently he’s concerned for your safety. Somehow I don’t see him changing his mind so quickly.”
Annie stared at him. His feet were planted on the tile floor, legs slightly spread, arms crossed in front of his chest. His jeans were tight across the big muscles in his thighs. His belt buckle was large and silver and obviously Navaho in origin. Annie couldn’t see it clearly, but there was a silver ring on his right hand that also looked Navaho. He wore a necklace, but it was tucked into his shirt. She would bet big money that he was at least half Native American, and probably Navaho.
“Where did you grow up?” she asked.
He blinked at the sudden change in subject. “Colorado,” he said. “Mostly.”
His shoulders stiffened slightly. So very slightly, he probably didn’t even realize it. But Annie noticed. Something about the question had made him feel defensive, wary. Was it that she’d asked a personal question, or did his wariness have something to do specifically with Colorado, or the “mostly” that followed it?
She was instantly fascinated. It wasn’t because he was outrageously handsome, she tried to convince herself. Her attraction toward him—and she was attracted, she couldn’t deny that—was more a result of his quiet watchfulness, spiced with a little mystery. He had something to be defensive or at least wary about. What was it?
“You ride horses, don’t you, Taylor?”