Czytaj książkę: «Trust Me»
Trust Me
Caroline Cross
MILLS & BOON
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This is a book about second chances.
I owe mine to two terrific editors, Julie Barrett and
Melissa Jeglinski. Thanks for giving me the chance to
write this book and for always making me look better.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
One
The shriek of the bolt being drawn in the cell block door shattered the sultry afternoon silence.
Lilah jerked her head up. For a second, she remained frozen. Then she scrambled upright, scooted to the far edge of the thin mat that served as her bed and pressed herself back against the rough concrete wall. She braced herself as the door at the end of the corridor crashed open.
Against a dim spill of light, a pair of jail guards staggered into sight. A man hung limply between them. His head lolled. His feet trailed in the dust. As the guards dragged him forward, Lilah stared at tanned, muscular arms, the hard biceps stretching the sleeves of a faded olive T-shirt. At inky hair that gleamed even in the murky illumination. At the trickle of blood beading at the edge of a determined mouth.
With a long-suffering grunt, the jailers hoisted their burden a little higher. The prisoner’s head tilted sideways, allowing her a quick view of a straight blade of a nose and the strong clean line of a cheekbone.
All of which abruptly seemed familiar.
Her heart leapt even as her mind reeled. No. It can’t be. What would the love of her reckless youth, the masculine yardstick against whom she’d once measured all others, the man who at times still invaded her sleep and hijacked her dreams—what would he be doing here, in the farthest reaches of the Caribbean, in remote San Timoteo, at one of El Presidente’s private jails?
Her mind must’ve snapped. It was the only explanation that made sense, Lilah decided. She’d tried to be brave, to hold on and be strong, but finally she’d lost it. What’s worse, she was hallucinating.
And yet….
The guards dumped the newcomer onto the adjoining cell’s concrete floor. One of them lingered long enough to give their newest captive a vicious kick to the ribs, then exited, slamming first the cell door and then the corridor door behind him.
Every nerve in Lilah’s body screamed for action. Yet the harsh lessons of the past month had reinforced her innate sense of caution. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she forced herself to stay where she was, to wait for the sounds of the bolt slamming home and her captors’ footsteps receding. Then, unable to remain still another instant, she launched herself off the bed and across the cell.
She reached the unyielding metal bars, her gaze locked on her fellow prisoner’s face as she slid to her knees. Her pulse thrummed wildly in her ears as she studied the straight eyebrows, the strong chin and the killer cheekbones.
This close, there could be no doubt. The years may have added width to his shoulders, heft to his muscles, a few character lines to his handsome face, but it was him.
Dominic Devlin Steele.
Stunned, she tried to think. What on earth could he be doing here? Was it sheer coincidence? An incredible twist of fate?
That hardly seemed probable. Yet the only other explanation was that he was here deliberately, and the only person likely to orchestrate that would be her grandmother. Try as she might, Lilah couldn’t imagine a world where Abigail Anson Clarke Cantrell Trayburne Sommers’s path would cross Dominic Steele’s.
Much less why he’d agree to put himself in harm’s way for her.
Then she realized none of it mattered. After a month of fear, loneliness and growing desperation, it was simply wonderful to see a familiar face. Even his.
Especially his.
She reached through the bars. “Dominic? It’s me. Lilah. Lilah Cantrell.” Fingers trembling, she touched her hand to his cheek.
On some marginal level, she registered that his skin was reassuringly warm. That the faint prickle of his beard against her palm tickled. And that nearly a decade had done nothing to dim the hot little thrill of pleasure that touching him brought her.
But mostly her focus was all on the fact that he was far, far too still. “I can’t believe it’s really you. That you’re here, of all places. The thing is, you need to wake up. Wake up and talk to me. Or at least stop being so still. Please?”
He didn’t stir. Biting her bottom lip, she tried to decide what to do now, only to have panic flood her when she realized she didn’t have a clue. Her fright gave birth to a lump in her throat and the next thing she knew, she had to press her lips together to muffle a sudden sob.
Her weakness shamed her. So what if seeing someone—anything—familiar emphasized how demoralizing the past month’s incarceration had been? So what if she’d begun to lose hope that she’d ever see home again? Or that, as hard as she’d tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, she’d started to wonder whether she’d even be missed?
She was a Cantrell. Ever since she could remember she’d been warned against the dangers of self-indulgence, the perils of losing control.
More to the point, you aren’t the one lying bruised and unconscious on a dirty floor. She should be focused on how to aid Dominic, not kneeling and wringing her hands like a vapid heroine in a B movie. She could just imagine what Gran would say. “For heaven’s sake, child!” the familiar, autocratic voice declared impatiently in her head. “Quit your sniveling and at least try to live up to your family name!”
Like a dash of cold water, imagining her grandmother’s disdain steadied her. Swallowing hard, Lilah took a deep breath to force back the tidal wave of emotion that had so nearly swamped her. To her relief, the tightness in her throat eased and her hands quit shaking. Heartened, she wasted no time turning her attention back to Dominic.
First things first, she decided. She’d do her best to see if she could pinpoint where he was injured; then she’d worry about what to do about it.
She set about examining him. Careful to keep her touch as light as a kiss of sunlight, she skimmed her fingertips over those areas of his head and face that she could reach through the bars, checking for knots or blood or anything else that seemed out of place. Next came his neck and throat. Then she cautiously probed the side of him nearest to her, checking each rib, the long valley of his spine, the solid curves of arm and shoulder.
Nothing. Except for the heart-stopping discovery that he was all taut skin and steely muscle, exactly the way she remembered, she remained as clueless as she’d been minutes earlier about his possible injuries.
She fought the return of despair. “Come on, Nicky,” she whispered, her old pet name for him inadvertently slipping off her tongue as she rubbed the skin-warmed cotton of his shirt beneath her fingertips. “Quit playing around. I need you. I really, really need you. Wake up. Please please please wake up—”
“Jeez, Li. Chill.”
“Oh!” Her gaze jerked to Dominic’s face and she found herself staring into a pair of familiar grass-green eyes. “You’re awake!”
“Yeah.” He remained motionless, simply staring at her for several long seconds. Then he gingerly lifted his head an inch off the ground, gave it a slight, tentative shake and winced. “Lucky me.” He squeezed his eyes shut again, as if even the cell’s shadowy light was more than he could tolerate.
Lilah felt a fresh stab of alarm. What if he had a concussion or a skull fracture? Or—she recalled the boot to the side he’d taken and shuddered—broken ribs or a fractured spleen? Heaven help them both, he could have internal bleeding and not even know it. Her throat dry, she swallowed. “Where does it hurt?”
“Where doesn’t it?” he muttered. “Still—” he lifted an admonishing finger “—I’ve survived worse, so don’t go getting your panties in a twist, okay?” With a resigned-sounding sigh, he opened his eyes, raised himself up on his elbow and reached out to lay one large, warm hand over hers where it clutched the bars. “Trust me. I’m all right. I just need a minute.”
Trust me. The words washed over her, an echo from their past. How many times had he said just that, after daring her to do something dangerous, forbidden, but oh so tantalizing? How many times had she gazed into those fabulous eyes and lost a battle with temptation?
How many times had his touch made her brain fog while her body had come alive with desire?
Enough to remember him forever.
He released her hand unexpectedly to roll onto his side, breaking her wild thoughts. Grimacing, he flexed his jaw and touched an exploratory fingertip to his cut lip. He scrubbed the blood away with the back of his hand. Then, in one lithe move, he climbed to his feet.
Frozen in place, fighting to appear calm, she watched him take stock. His big muscular body bunched and flexed as he swiveled his head, rolled his shoulders, bounced lightly to test thighs, calves and knees. He rubbed briefly at a spot above his left pectoral and then sent her a pleased look. “Good news, princess. I think I’m gonna live.”
Princess. The intimate nickname, uttered in that casual, coolly amused tone of voice, felt like a slap to the face. Suddenly aware that she was still kneeling at his feet like some obedient harem girl, she scrambled up.
Oblivious to her, he took a slow look around, making a complete revolution as he took note of the solitary barred window set high in the far wall, the worn, wafer-thin woven pads atop the concrete slab ledges that passed for beds, the grate-covered holes that comprised the Third World bathroom facilities.
He gave a soundless whistle. “Man. You really must’ve pissed off the wrong person. I’ve seen prisons more cheerful than this.” His gaze swung back to her. For a second, something almost dangerous gleamed in his eyes and then his teeth flashed white, destroying that impression. “Wait. My mistake. This is a prison.”
He was making a joke. A joke. Here she’d been terrified out of her wits, afraid he might be irreparably injured, utterly overcome at seeing him again—and he was poking fun at their surroundings.
She stiffened. Humiliation warred with indignation, and indignation won. Not that she intended to let on. No way would she risk what little dignity she still possessed by letting on that he could still get to her.
Besides, she had bigger fish to fry, since his little inventory of his working body parts, coupled with his critique of the accommodations, had given her time to think.
“Your being here isn’t a coincidence, is it?” she said, recalling his first words to her and his utter lack of surprise at her presence in a desolate jail cell in an obscure little island country a million miles from home. “As a matter of fact,” she went on, ignoring his penetrating eyes to glance pointedly at the bruise starting to darken one strong cheekbone and the lip still oozing blood, “you deliberately did something to get yourself thrown in here because you knew this was where I was being held.”
Silence. Then his battered mouth quirked. “Score one for the rich girl.”
For a second, she had a powerful urge to hit him. Not that she had a hope of reaching him, but still….
Horrified, she took a firm grip on the bars that separated them, reminding herself yet again that she was a Cantrell and as such she would not, could not, lose her temper. Especially not now, when there was so much she burned to know. “How did you find me? How did you even know I was here in the first place? Did my grandmother send you? And why would you come? Why would you put yourself at risk like this?”
Logic insisted his presence simply couldn’t be a coincidence, but she still couldn’t seem to make sense of it.
After all, even ignoring the astronomical odds against him and her grandmother connecting, it had been ten years since his and Lilah’s last encounter. Ten years since she’d told him he’d better go and he’d looked at her with the same sort of nonchalant expression that currently graced his face. Ten years since he’d crushed her heart with a careless shrug and the comment that it was “her loss” before stalking out of her life forever.
Even now, the memory hurt. It made the past seem not so very long ago. As did the infuriating way he was currently considering her, so unruffled, so superior, so—so male. “Explain what you’re doing here. Now.”
“Tell you what, Li.” As cool as a wolf in winter, he padded over, braced his big hands above hers on the bars and leaned forward, his sheer size and proximity making her stomach tumble. “Do us both a favor, sweetheart. Take a deep breath, shut your pretty mouth and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Two
Denver, Colorado
Five days earlier
“Hey.” Dominic ducked his head into his older brother’s spacious office at Steele Security headquarters. “You got a minute?”
Gabriel, who was seated at his granite-topped desk, glanced up, then resumed sorting through a stack of paperwork. “Sure. Come on in.”
Dom strolled across the flagstone floor. Like all the offices in the ultramodern, low-slung building tucked away in the city’s warehouse district, this one boasted a wall of glass that looked out on an interior courtyard. Today, as befitted January in the Rockies, the outside world was a brilliant sea of white, courtesy of the foot of fresh snow that had fallen overnight. “Taggart says we’re turning down a case.” After Gabe, Taggart was number two in the Steele brothers birth order hierarchy.
“That’s right.” Gabe’s tone was matter-of-fact. “The client’s coming in at two. I’m going to recommend she contact Allied.”
He stopped, rocking back on the heels of his Italian leather boots. “Why?”
“We don’t have the manpower.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Gabe made a quick notation on a page and set it to one side. “Taggart thinks he may finally have a lead on the elusive Ms. Bowen. Josh is going to be tied up with the Romero trial in Seattle for at least two weeks, and everyone else is either hip deep in the Dallas industrial espionage case or working the economic summit in London. That leaves me, and as much as I wouldn’t mind some field work, I’m needed here at the moment.”
Dominic studied his brother. To an outsider, Gabe would no doubt appear calm and dispassionate, an image deliberately encouraged by his choice of attire—a starched white shirt, rep tie and severe charcoal suit that just happened to be polar opposites of Dom’s own laid-back black slacks and green linen shirt. Only someone who knew him well—like a brother—would be likely to notice the sudden tension lining his mouth and shadowing his eyes.
But then, both Gabe and Taggart were wound pretty tight; Dom had long ago concluded that his two older brothers had spent way too much time in the line of duty—no doubt at the old man’s command—and had missed out on hanging loose and living a little.
Not him. Dom had decided early on that life was too short to spend his time all stressed out worrying about things that might never happen and bracing for every possible disaster. Besides, somebody had to keep Steele One and Steele Two from imploding, and while Taggart was most likely a lost cause, Dom still had hopes for Gabe.
His esteemed older brother just needed an occasional reminder that the world wouldn’t end if he enjoyed himself once in a while. Or—he thought as he planted himself in one of the luxe leather chairs facing Gabe’s desk—didn’t try to stand in the way of somebody else enjoying himself.
“Okay, so everybody’s busy,” Dom said, stretching out his long legs. “What’s that make me? The invisible man?”
Gabe frowned down at the paper before him. “You’re still recovering. It’s only been two months since the shooting. You need more time.”
“No, I don’t. I feel fine. Hell, I feel more than fine. What with physical therapy, working on my house and all the time I’ve spent out on the course at Fort Carson, I’m in the best shape of my life. For sure I’m in better shape than some desk-riding cowboys I know.”
Gabe stoically ignored the insult. “Forget it.”
Dom considered his brother’s dismissive tone and reminded himself he was no longer the brash, hell-raising teenager who’d once felt compelled to challenge Gabe’s “I’m-four-years-older-than-you” authority.
Okay, so his big brother had founded Steele Security and been the driving force in establishing its reputation as a top-notch organization that could handle anything from high-profile protection to undercover investigations to locating missing persons. But Dom, along with Gabe, Taggart and two more of the nine Steele brothers, had since contributed to the company’s growing prestige and were now full partners in the enterprise.
As such, he got a say in things, whether Gabe liked it or not. “I don’t think I want to forget about it,” he said evenly.
Gabe slowly set down his pen. Raising his head, he met Dom’s direct gaze with one of his own. “Let me guess. You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Dom grinned. “Not a chance. So you might as well tell me what’s going on and get it over with.”
For a very long moment, Gabe continued to stare at him. Then he gave an exaggerated sigh. “Aw, hell. You always have been pigheaded.” Reaching over, he snagged a file folder off the top of a stack to his left, speaking even as he thumbed it open. “The client is Abigail Sommers. I did protection work for her when I was first getting started. She was born an Anson, as in the Anson Mining Group, and over the course of eighty-odd years she’s single-handedly increased what was already a pretty sizable family fortune. Along the way, she’s outlived four husbands and both of her children.
“According to the message she left on my voice mail, her only grandchild is being detained in San Timoteo, an island nation—”
“—in the southern Caribbean. Run for the past dozen years by a corrupt ex-army general, Manolo Condesta, who insists on being called El Presidente.” With a chiding look, Dom tipped back his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve been living in London the past few years, Gabe, not on the moon. I’m up to speed on all the banana republics. I don’t need a lesson in geography or world politics.”
Gabe’s stern mouth tipped up the faintest fraction. “Got it. Sorry.”
Dom shrugged it off. “So what’s the grandkid accused of?”
His brother glanced down at the file, even though Dom knew very well all the information was already securely lodged in his encyclopedic memory. “Rioting, assaulting a policeman, resisting arrest.”
He gave a nod of understanding. It was an old story—spoiled rich kid takes a trip to a foreign country, gets drunk or stoned and does something obnoxious that pisses off the local officials.
“I’m surprised I haven’t heard a word about it in the press. Usually they love this stuff.”
Gabe nodded. “True. But Condesta’s got an iron grip on info going out of San Timoteo. And due to some bad tabloid press decades ago, Abigail is rabid about protecting her privacy. Everyone who works for her in any capacity signs a nondisclosure contract.”
“Okay, but from what I’ve heard about El Presidente, he’ll let people go for the right dollar amount. With all the money Mrs. Sommers has, she must have government contacts who can help?”
“Officially, the U.S. government has no relations with San Tim since it’s been added to the terrorist watch list. Unofficially, they’ve done what they could.
“Problem is, Condesta keeps upping the ante. Abigail said that twice he’s set a price, twice she’s agreed to pay it. And twice he’s changed his mind just hours before the scheduled exchange and demanded more. The asking price is now at one million, with no end in sight, and in the meantime her granddaughter’s been held for over four weeks.”
“Not good,” Dom repeated. While young Miss Sommers most likely was being confined someplace that more closely resembled a country club than Alcatraz, the hard truth was that women were vulnerable in ways men were not. “So what does the client want from us? More negotiations? An extraction?”
“I don’t know. All she said in her message was that the situation was untenable and something had to be done.”
“She’s right about that. And as of now, I’m the guy to do it.”
“No.” The eldest Steele closed the file as if that settled the matter.
“Yes.” His voice for once not the least bit amused, Dom straightened, bringing his chair down with a thump. “I don’t need a babysitter, Gabe. What I need is some action. Because if I have to spend another week sitting on my ass doing nothing but counting snowflakes, I’m likely to go tear up some Third World country myself.”
“Dammit, Dom—”
“Give it up, big brother. You did a hell of a job taking care of us after Mom died, but we’re all big boys now. We can take care of ourselves. Besides—” he forced himself to ease up and summoned an ironic smile “—as has been previously established, you are not, as the kids say these days, the boss of me. I’m going to San Timoteo, and that’s all there is to it.
“That being the case,” he went on without missing a beat as he picked up the file and climbed to his feet, “it appears I’ve got some reading to do, so I’ll let you get back to your paperwork. But I’ll see you and Mrs. Sommers in the conference room in—” he glanced at his watch “—an hour. Don’t be late.”
Just for a second, Gabriel’s green eyes narrowed dangerously. Then his expression unexpectedly relaxed and he unbent enough to murmur a caustic two-word epithet that started with an F and ended with a U.
Laughing, Dom headed for the door.
Abigail Anson Sommers didn’t look like anyone’s dear old grandma, Dom decided, observing her as Gabriel ushered her into the conference room. Tall and slim, she had finely modeled features, thick, upswept white hair, impeccable posture and the aloof expression of an absolute monarch.
He stepped around the large, glossy table to pull out her chair.
“Thank you, young man,” she said as she took her seat, her manner pure queen to commoner as he and Gabriel also sat.
“My pleasure,” he replied, secretly amused by her not-so-subtle effort to put him in his place.
Foregoing formal introductions, she got straight to the point. “According to your brother, you had something to do with that Grobane incident,” she said crisply. “The one that was in all the papers.”
“Something,” he agreed, settling back. He met her probing gaze with an unflinching one of his own. She could pry all she wanted, but he had no intention of discussing his last protection detail with her. And not just because it would be a breach of client confidentiality, even though that concern might be considered by some to be gone with the wind due to all the media attention the incident had received.
But because, unlike the press and the public, he didn’t consider taking a bullet for a client heroic. Nope, he’d screwed up, failed to follow his gut and was just damn lucky the bad guy had been a lousy shot. He still had nights when he would lie awake in a cold sweat thinking how close Carolina Grobane had come to being injured or killed.
He didn’t think he could’ve lived with that. And he sure as hell didn’t intend to rehash it—or court praise for something he considered to be far from his most shining hour, popular opinion be damned.
Evidently mistaking his silence for modesty, something approaching approval registered on Mrs. Sommers’ autocratic face. “Gabriel also mentioned you served our country as a Navy SEAL. And that you received numerous medals and commendations.”
This time, he sent his brother a reproachful look, which was met with a slight, live-with-it shrug. A little ruefully—apparently St. Gabe wasn’t above some minor payback—he returned his gaze to the client. “Yes, ma’am, that’s true.”
She pursed her lips. “He also assures me that if anyone can get my Delilah out of this mess she’s in, it’s you.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?” Her arctic-blue eyes drilled into him. “And what exactly do you mean by that, pray tell?”
“It means I have a general idea of your granddaughter’s situation, but I’d be doing us both a disservice if I made any promises until I know more,” he said easily.
There was a prolonged silence as once again she considered him, then she abruptly murmured, “Hmmph.” Leaning sideways, she reached into her large handbag and pulled out a fat document-sized manila envelope.
“I anticipated this,” she said brusquely. “It’s all here. Delilah’s original itinerary. A list of the people she met with. Transcripts of my conversations with that detestable Condesta’s representatives. Photos of and information about the compound in Santa Marita where she’s being held. Oh, and a photo of her, of course.”
“This should be very helpful.” Dom took the proffered envelope and set it down in front of him. “First, however, I think we’d better establish what, exactly, you want me to do. Take over negotiations? Handle the exchange?”
To his immense gratification, she snorted and said briskly, “Certainly not. I have lawyers to do those things. Lawyers and advisers and business managers, whom I allowed, against my better judgment, to convince me that dealing with Delilah’s captors was the right thing to do…” She trailed off, then squared her shoulders and ratcheted up her already ramrod posture. “I may be old, Mr. Steele, but I’m not stupid, at least not often, and I don’t care for extortion. I want you to go to San Timoteo and bring Delilah home where she belongs.”
He did his best to squelch an inner cheer. “Okay. But there are still things we need to discuss.”
Her mouth curved in a moue of annoyance. “If this is about your fee—”
“No, ma’am,” he assured her. “I’m sure you’re good for it.” He swallowed a grin at her huff of indignation, then got down to business. “What I want is some insight into your granddaughter. Is she a leader or a follower? Easygoing or high-strung? Quick off the mark or more of a deep thinker?”
“Why on earth do you need to know all that?” she snapped.
“Well, let’s see.” He lazily drummed his fingertips against the tabletop. “I guess because it would be helpful to know what to expect. Is she likely to scream or faint when I show up? Will she feel compelled to offer her opinion about every move I make, or will she do what she’s told? Is she going to get hysterical if we have to make a run for it and she breaks a nail?”
Abigail’s icy blue eyes glinted. “You may count on Delilah to behave sensibly, Mr. Steele. I didn’t raise her to indulge in histrionics. She’s a level-headed, responsible young woman as befits her station, and I can assure you she understands that sometimes duty—or circumstance—requires one to subvert one’s emotions and do what needs to be done.”
“Okay,” he said mildly. “But if she’s such a paragon of virtue, then how’d she wind up enjoying Condesta’s enforced hospitality?”
“I never claimed my granddaughter was perfect,” she said stiffly, raising her already elevated chin another fraction. “For all her many sterling qualities, once in a while, on exceedingly rare occasions, Delilah can be unexpectedly…stubborn.
“This trip was a perfect example. Although it could easily have been handled by one of the staff, whom we pay to do this sort of thing, and despite the fact that she has countless obligations that require her attention at home, she insisted on personally going to San Timoteo to inspect a school that had applied to the Anson Foundation, a nonprofit organization my late father started, for funding.
“As I understand it, once her business was completed she decided to attend some sort of local celebration. It got out of hand, the police were called in and when the young man she was with was threatened with arrest—” her lips tightened “—Delilah foolishly objected.”
Dominic nodded. The granddaughter might be a few years older and a little less flaky than he’d initially envisioned, but the rest of the story was still pretty much what he’d expected—a classic case of Rich Person Behaving Badly. “So how do you think she’s holding up?”
“I’m sure she’s managing. The Anson blood runs in her veins,” the old lady said coolly, as if that said it all.
And maybe it did, Dom decided. At least it didn’t sound as if the granddaughter was likely to wilt like a hothouse flower at her first sight of him. Or complain endlessly about his choices and methods, or because he hadn’t brought her champagne and caviar or her own private masseuse.
Not that he’d ever intended not to rescue her if given the opportunity. Even if Mrs. Sommers had revealed that her darling Delilah had all the charm of a polecat on steroids, he’d planned all along to go to San Timoteo to relieve El Presidente of his unwilling guest.
But he wasn’t a fool. For all his no-sweat approach to life, he believed in doing things right. And in the security business, that meant careful planning and meticulous preparation, which meant obtaining all the information you could.
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