Czytaj książkę: «Take It Down»
“I told you I’d be watching.”
His voice sounded gravelly, filled with craving as he stared at her from the shore.
“Are you stupid or just suicidal?” he asked.
“Neither.” She shot him a taunting grin.
“You have to be one or the other to walk into the jungle alone.”
“You managed to find me, Officer Edwards.”
“Special agent.”
Her smile grew.
He waded into the water and grasped her ankle. She thrashed and rolled.
“Let me go!”
“Not a chance.”
With his free hand he reached down to grab her arm. Instead, he got a palmful of silk-covered breast.
She stilled. Her face was blank, but her eyes burned as she watched him. They’d both been fighting this for days.
His lips pulled down into a frown. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Shut up and kiss me,” she whispered.
Dear Reader,
I have to admit that the ideas for my ISLAND NIGHTS trilogy didn’t exactly come in order. In fact, Elle in Take It Down appeared to me first and really sparked off the entire series.
Sometimes characters just take over, and that was the case with my little firecracker. Elle is daring and impulsive, and I had so much fun finding her an equally strong hero in Zane—a man who could not only go toe-to-toe with her, but also balance out that impetuous nature.
Elle first appeared in my head breaking in to hotel rooms, although she was quick to point out that she didn’t actually take anything. That brought up so many questions. What was she looking for? Why hotel rooms? And who would be the worst possible man for her to fall for in the middle of all this? The rest of the story just sort of snowballed from there.
I had so much fun writing Elle and Zane’s story. They struck sparks off each other from the first moment and it was a joy to put them into precarious situations that fought against their idea of what they should/could want.
I hope you enjoy Take It Down as much as I do! I’d love to hear what you think. You can contact me at Kira@KiraSinclair.com or visit me at www.KiraSinclair.com.
Best wishes,
Kira Sinclair
About the Author
When not working as an office manager for a project management firm or juggling plot lines, KIRA SINCLAIR spends her time on a small farm in north Alabama with her wonderful husband, two amazing daughters and a menagerie of animals. It’s amazing to see how this self-proclaimed city girl has (or has not, depending on who you ask) adapted to country life. Kira enjoys hearing from her readers at her website, www.kirasinclair.com. Or stop by writingplayground.blogspot.com and join in the fight to stop the acquisition of an alpaca.
Take It Down
Kira Sinclair
MILLS & BOON
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I’d like to dedicate this book to three strong, savvy
and supportive women—Vicki Lewis Thompson,
Rhonda Nelson and Andrea Laurence. You guys
are not only a font of information, but also a well of
support that I’m so lucky to have in my life.
I couldn’t do this without y’all!
Prologue
“WHY THE HELL ARE THESE people in my bedroom?”
Zane Edwards leaned back into a dark corner—the only spot in the place that wasn’t buzzing with activity—and prepared for an excellent show. Between the photographer shouting instructions, his assistants moving furniture, light stands and anything else that got in their way, and Marcy constantly flipping through a clipboard of papers she hugged to her chest like a lifeline, the normally large space suddenly felt pretty small.
And Simon Reeves, his boss and longtime friend, was about to make it smaller.
Even from his melt-into-the-background location, Zane could see Marcy, the resort’s manager, grind her teeth. Her skin paled before flushing an angry pink. Oh, goody, the fireworks were about to start. Up until now, his day had been pretty damn boring.
Marcy had asked him to shadow the production team there to take marketing and publicity photographs. Not exciting, although not much about his job as head of security for Escape, an adults-only Caribbean resort on Île du Coeur—an island just off the coast of St. Lucia—was.
He knew how important this shoot was to Marcy, though, so he’d do his part. She needed these photographs for a magazine ad campaign, and the deadline was fast approaching. They’d intended to feature a couple, but the pair they’d had an agreement with backed out at the last minute—after the photographs had already been taken.
The couple, Colt and Lena, had paid for the photographs and compensated the resort for the cost of production, so Escape wasn’t out any money. But they’d definitely lost time. Marcy’d had to regroup and brainstorm an entirely new concept, since she didn’t have time to hire more talent.
Apparently, Simon had forgotten he’d given Marcy permission to shoot in his private space. Not unusual when the man had his nose buried in that computer—which was always.
With a cutting tone of voice that reminded Zane of his high school calculus teacher, Marcy said, “This marketing campaign is going to bring us the kind of exposure that draws guests, Simon.”
“We don’t need more guests,” was Simon’s rather predictable response. It was entirely possible that Zane was the only person on the island who understood why the man had no desire to fill the resort to the rafters.
Fewer guests meant fewer disruptions, giving Simon the space and time he needed to write. Simon had his reasons for keeping his career as an author a secret—even from Marcy. Betrayal by someone you trusted could make you rather…reluctant to let people in. And Simon had definitely been betrayed. Courtney, his ex-girlfriend, had really done a number on him, stealing his work and passing it off as her own.
The only reason Zane knew the truth was because he and Simon had been friends since their fraternity days. They might have gone their separate ways after college, but they’d always had each other’s backs. When Zane’s life had imploded, Simon had been the first to offer him somewhere to stay, and when Zane had refused the handout, Simon had given him a job. Hence his position at Simon’s resort.
Not everyone knew Simon had bought Île du Coeur not as a business investment but as a secluded place to come and lick his wounds. Apparently, the island was good for that. Marcy didn’t know the truth, so she didn’t understand. All she saw was a man who’d bought a resort and then didn’t give a damn about actually making it run. Which was actually far from the truth. Zane knew Simon needed the place to support itself. The man had some money, but the upkeep for Escape was unbelievable and he needed to cover operating expenses.
“We have empty rooms, Simon. We need more guests. Especially during the off season.”
Simon leaned languidly against the door frame, completely uncaring that every person in the room had stopped moving to turn and stare. “I like the off season just fine. I enjoy the peace and quiet.”
Zane figured he had exactly thirty seconds to step in or Marcy was going to lose it. Her blue eyes flashed a warning that Zane knew Simon would ignore. A smile played at the corners of Simon’s lips, almost as if he were looking forward to the fallout of whatever was going to come next.
And if there hadn’t been an audience, Zane might have slipped quietly out of the room and let it happen. The two of them had been striking enough sparks off each other lately to light the bonfire they held on the beach. But they weren’t alone, so …
On silent feet, Zane moved between Marcy’s glaring gaze and Simon’s impish grin and said quietly, “Not the time or place, guys,” tipping his head to the spectators.
Simon looked over Marcy’s shoulder at the people staring, and his lips tightened into a straight line. Oh, that was worse. Marcy pissed he could handle. Simon angry was unusual and therefore infinitely more volatile. Even though Zane was an ex-CIA agent trained in fifty ways to kill with household objects, he tried to avoid Simon when the man’s temper flared.
Simon’s eyes narrowed as he looked around Zane to Marcy. “I don’t want strangers in my space. I need to work.”
Marcy snorted. Probably not the smartest thing she’d ever done. Zane widened his stance and braced for the consequences.
“Well, you’re going to have to wait. The marketing director for the campaign specifically asked to photograph your private rooms, Simon. And you agreed.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You’re on the highest floor, with the best view. From this vantage point, we can show a luxurious room with the jungle behind surrounded by deep blue water.”
It was uncomfortable, being at the center of their angry standoff. They stared at each other, through him, but Zane figured this way at least he wouldn’t have to witness a murder.
“You’re not going to go away until I let them do this, are you?” Simon finally asked.
“Nope,” Marcy responded.
“Fine,” Simon said, whirling around on his heels and heading for the door. “But I start throwing people out the window if you’re not done in an hour.”
Most people might think Simon was kidding. It was hard to take a man who dressed like a surfer seriously. But Zane knew firsthand that surf-god exterior hid a spine of steel and a drive to succeed. Hell, even he forgot sometimes. It was easy when Simon smiled that crooked grin.
With a huff, Marcy prowled over to his former corner and stood there, glaring at the production crew. They quickly found something to do and somewhere else to look.
Crossing his arms and returning to the piece of wall he’d been holding up, Zane didn’t look at her, either, when he asked, “Want to talk about it?”
“Some days I want to kill him,” she grumbled.
“I know.”
“How do you stand him? How can you still be his friend after all these years?”
“Because he’d give me the shirt off his back if I needed it. Practically did. He’s loyal to the people he cares about, Marcy. Trust me when I say you don’t know the whole story.”
She shot him a pointed look. “No one will tell me.”
Zane raised his hands in an unarmed gesture. “Not my story to tell.”
“He just…drives me insane. He knows how important this photo shoot is. And he knows what I went through to get this set up in time. If Colt and Lena were here, I might be tempted to wring their necks.…”
“You know that’s not true.” Zane bumped her hip with his own, hoping to jar a smile from her. “You liked those two. And you could have refused to sell the photographs back to Colt. But you didn’t. Admit it, you have a romantic soft spot beneath that drill-sergeant exterior.”
The ghost of a smile played at the edges of her lips. “If you breathe a word of that to Simon, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m shaking in my shoes.”
1
ZANE STARED OUT THE CLOSED window to the panoramic picture of tropical beauty and sighed. It was perfect and he was bored.
He shouldn’t be. This laid-back, no pressure lifestyle was exactly what he’d signed up for—the complete opposite of the life he’d left behind.
For good reason.
He swiveled in his desk chair until his full attention returned to the bank of security screens that occupied the wall in front of him. He should probably run back the tapes to check those sixty seconds he’d been distracted. But he wouldn’t. In the eighteen months he’d been on the island, not a single exciting thing had ever shown up on those screens.
And why would it? The resort—the only thing on Île du Coeur—might have plenty to take, but there was only one way off the island. The chances of a thief being caught before the ferry arrived were pretty damn good. Especially with him on the job. None of their guests had ever had so much as a candy wrapper taken. The worst thing he’d had to deal with since he’d set foot on the island was a drunk who’d fallen through one of the thatched huts along the beach.
The only thing hurt had been the hut.
Zane looked at the timer in the bottom right corner of one of the screens and registered that Tom, his replacement, would be there in about twenty minutes. So far the boy was working out, and Zane was happy he’d hired him.
After Tom arrived, Zane planned on walking the grounds, checking that no guests from the couples side of the resort had left their cabana doors standing open in their romance-fueled haze.
The resort specialized in adult vacations. Singles came not only to relax but to also meet other successful singles. They tended to stay in the main building of the resort. Couples came for the romantic, secluded atmosphere Escape excelled at creating. And since they usually wanted more privacy, they occupied the bungalows on the far side of the resort. In between were various buildings and shared amenities—a bar, five-star restaurant, gym and spa, water sports equipment and instructors, tennis courts, a large pool complex and, of course, the beach and jungle. Somehow the entire resort managed to maintain an untouched, romantic feel, while still offering the latest in modern amenities.
Part of that could be attributed to the remnants of the French plantation house, the face of the entire complex. The house itself had been expanded and updated over the years, but it still retained the air of gentility and mystery. The public rooms were more than two hundred years old, keeping their period pine floors and rich interiors. The guest rooms had been added on to the back of the existing house at least fifty years ago when it had first been converted to a resort. Since then, the structures had been updated and modernized several times over, the latest when Simon purchased the place.
After Zane had verified that everything and everyone was locked up tight, he was going to head to his own quarters at the back of the resort to see if there was anything interesting on TV.
That was his plan.
Until sirens began blaring overhead. Zane jackknifed in his chair, his eyes immediately sharpening and scanning the bank of monitors before him.
The information screen blinked fire zone six just as the telephone at his elbow rang. He punched a command into the system, his screens filling with every camera they had in zone six. Nothing. No flames. No smoke. All he saw was panicked guests running around. He shook his head at the pandemonium. Picking up the ringing line, he spoke to the nice woman from the alarm company on the other end.
Insurance required they maintain the service, although he had no idea why. No one from St. Lucia could get here in time to be of any help. Even with boats, it would take the fire department forty minutes to reach the island.
However, they were prepared. Even now, the head of the grounds crew was mobilizing the pump truck that they painstakingly tested once every month.
Not that Zane thought they’d need it.
Dropping the phone into the cradle, he immediately snatched it back up.
“Marcy, I don’t see an actual fire. Evacuate the guests just in case, but I’m thinking this was either a short in the system or a drunken guest playing a prank.”
“Zane, you know better than that. Our guests don’t get drunk…they get happy.”
“Yeah, yeah, feed me the line tomorrow, when I’m not dealing with a crisis.”
The grumble in his voice belied the rush of adrenaline flowing through his veins…the first zing of electricity he’d felt in months. He’d missed it, this flurry of activity that meant he had a purpose.
“The staff is already implementing fire procedures. I’ll let you know when all guests are accounted for,” Marcy said.
“Let me know if anyone finds sign of a fire while you’re at it.”
Marcy chuckled.
Slamming down the receiver, Zane began to furiously type in commands, systematically scanning each zone, starting with five and seven before backtracking to one.
He didn’t get much further.
Halfway through scanning the fourth-floor hallway, he watched a woman disappear inside one of the guest rooms.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. She’d obviously heard the fire alarm. Hell, it was practically spiking into his brain and making his eyes throb. God only knew what she thought was more important than meeting a fiery death.
He was halfway out of his chair when she reappeared…and went to the door immediately to the right. Ten seconds flat and she was inside that room, too. Because the main guest rooms were housed in the old French plantation house, they didn’t have modern keycard technology.
He’d argued with Simon about the need to upgrade to that sort of system but the other man had grumbled something about old-world charm and authenticity, tacking on a statement about cost and headaches. Zane had managed to talk Simon into adding security cards to the restricted areas and the executive suite on the top floor, but that was as far as he’d been able to push. He wondered if the man would listen to him now.
He watched the woman on his screen appear and disappear one more time. Alarm bells—the ones inside his head—started clanging. Something wasn’t right.
Picking up the two-way radio beside him, he yelled into it for Tom. “Get your ass up to the Crow’s Nest,” he said, using their nickname for the security hub. “I’ve got a situation, but I want eyes up here in thirty seconds.”
A crackle of static floated up from his hand as he raced into the stairwell. “But …”
“Now,” he yelled again. Whatever the other man was doing could wait.
Zane’s mind raced just as fast as his feet, putting the pieces together as he flew down the two flights of stairs.
The fire alarm had been a diversion.
He burst through the door just in time to see the red-haired woman slip into yet another room. He’d barely gotten three doors down when she reappeared.
“Hey! Stop! What are you doing?”
Zane reached automatically to his hip, searching for a piece of his past that was no longer there. He hadn’t felt the need for a sidearm in almost two years.
His body tensed for the chase. He expected her to run—they always did. Instead, she stopped in her tracks and turned to face him.
“Thank God.” He could see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she took a step toward him. Warily, he slowed.
“What are you doing?”
“I was looking for my room, but I couldn’t find it and the alarm is making my head hurt and I started to panic and …”
Her rambling words trailed off as one of those tears slipped free and rolled down her cheek.
He might have bought it, if he hadn’t seen her go in and out of several locked rooms with his own eyes. With a speed that would make his trainer at The Farm weep.
He went to step behind her and she spun, her eyes going wide and her mouth opening in a silent protest.
“Turn around.”
“Wait. Why? What are you doing?”
He took out his badge—nothing like the one he used to carry, this one was white plastic with his picture and title as head of security for the resort in big, bold letters—and held it in her face so she could get a good look at it. “Turn around before I put your face in the wall.”
Reluctantly, she took a half step sideways, presenting him with just enough of her arm to grasp and spin. Snatching the other one, he had her wrists locked into one hand and his other pressed between her shoulder blades, just enough to keep her uncomfortable and cooperative but not enough to damage.
“Now, we’re going to take a little walk. And you’re going to tell me exactly what you stole from those rooms—” he couldn’t help himself, he really wanted to know her secret “—and how you got in and out so fast.”
“I swear, I didn’t steal anything.”
“We’ll see about that.”
WELL, SHE OBVIOUSLY HADN’T gotten away clean. Giselle Monroe wanted desperately to rub the throbbing pain centered right between her eye sockets, but she couldn’t. Her wrists were currently locked together behind her and tethered to a rickety chair. Her mind flashed back to the one other time she’d felt the cold steel of handcuffs against her skin. Not her finest hour.
She’d been sixteen, rebelling against her overprotective father and brothers—all three of whom were cops—and had been caught, breaking into the school gymnasium with her friends. They’d honestly been doing it for a lark, nothing else. The fact that the cop hadn’t found any spray paint or drugs or anything else had gone a long way in getting them community service and two weeks suspension instead of a stiffer sentence from the courts and the school.
Well, that and the pull of her family’s name.
For a teenager, community service had been bad enough. When her father had found out she was the one who’d picked the lock, he’d tacked on six months’ house arrest. Sneaking in and out of the house had become a skill she learned for survival during those months.
Her father would be so proud to see how she’d put those old skills to new use. The sarcasm and cold metal cut into her skin, reminding her she was far away from home, with no father or brothers to save her this time. But she wasn’t about to show the tight-jawed giant who’d unceremoniously dumped her here any weakness, especially the fear snaking through her belly.
Okay, so her assessment of him might be a bit unfair, considering the guy was just doing his job, but he’d locked her inside a closet-size room with stale air and the permeating smell of industrial-grade cleaners. And then left her here. Alone.
She had no doubt that she was being watched. She could practically feel his eyes on her. Waiting for her story to crumble.
The beauty was that it wouldn’t.
By now, he’d probably questioned the guests of the rooms she’d been in and discovered that nothing had been taken…because she hadn’t been lying. She hadn’t broken into the rooms because she’d wanted to steal anything, and certainly not from the guests. Recover what was rightfully hers? Absolutely. Steal? She wasn’t a criminal. There was a difference, not that the Wall of Silence was likely to understand that.
The door squeaked open.
Without turning around, she asked, “Are you going to let me out of here?”
“Probably not.”
“Wha—” she squeaked, craning around in the chair as far as the handcuffs at her wrists would let her. “What do you mean ‘probably not’? I didn’t steal anything. You have no right to hold me!”
Elle rattled the metal rings against the wooden slats of the chair, using their noise to punctuate her protests. “The minute you let me out of here, I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll own this place when I’m done.”
Which would actually make her search measurably easier. For a brief moment, she indulged the vision of booting everyone off the island so that she could run from one room to the other until she found the painting of her grandmother that her sleazy ex-boyfriend had stolen from her four years ago.
The piece was far from priceless, at least in art circles. It had been semivaluable. The man who’d painted it, a lover from her grandmother’s own misspent youth, had achieved a moderate amount of success after their time together. The painting had gone up in value somewhat over the years, but the emotion behind it had always meant more to Elle.
The colors were lush. Burgundy, gold, black, green. Her grandmother, a young woman just beginning to taste the world, was looking over her bare shoulder, caught in the act of dropping her robe to the ground. The mischief and passion in her bright gray eyes, so familiar and yet so different, had always called to Elle. Nana had never married the man. In fact, she’d gone on to devote her life to someone else. Very happily, to hear her tell it, although Elle had never met her grandfather. But caught in that one moment of time, there was no mistaking that the young woman her grandmother once was desperately desired the man staring at her with a brush in his hand.
The painting was the one and only possession of her grandmother’s that she’d had, but it was also so much more. The skill of the painter was evident in the layering of color, the shadow and light. The way he’d captured the hint of daring in the sparkle of her grandmother’s eyes. That image had been evidence to a struggling teenage girl that the world didn’t revolve solely around strict rules and unbreakable laws. It had been proof that there was a world outside her father’s house, one she’d someday get to experience, just as her grandmother had.
Nana had been the only female influence in Elle’s life after her mother had died when she was very young. She’d also been the only one to understand Elle’s reckless artistic bent and had encouraged her to explore her talents. She wished Nana could see the success she’d found in the past few years—the sale of her paintings finally supporting her.
Nana had understood her. And for Elle, the painting represented that bond of understanding, as well.
She’d been heartbroken when, disgruntled over the fact that she’d kicked his sorry, mooching, jobless ass to the curb, Mac had ransacked her place, taking anything in her apartment worth more than a dime. Her computer, TV, DVD player…everything.
Although, all she’d cared about was the painting. It was the only thing that couldn’t be replaced.
Mac had disappeared along with all of her stuff. She’d filed a police report, but she had enough cops in her family to realize her possessions had vanished right along with him. She’d wanted to protest as the officer who’d taken her statement had written down miscellaneous wall art when she’d listed her Nana’s painting.
She’d cried herself to sleep that night, knowing it was gone forever.
But then eight weeks ago, she’d opened Worldwide Travel and seen the glossy picture of a resort and the painting of her seminude grandmother against the backdrop of lush green walls and sparkling ocean. She’d known she needed to get it back.
Her father and brothers had told her the foreign location of the resort made recovery next to impossible. The lawyer she’d consulted had said the same thing. Foreign courts were complicated enough, but she couldn’t even prove the painting was hers. It had been gifted to her grandmother, who’d gifted it to her. There was no paper trail. She could prove that the painting was of her grandmother, but that didn’t mean she’d ever owned it.
She’d thought to reason with the owner of the island. If he’d bothered to return any of her letters, emails or phone calls, she might not have had to resort to treachery in order to recover what was rightfully hers.
She had to assume that the owner knew the piece was stolen and had no intention of returning it to her.
That freed up her moral obligations to the commandment about stealing rather nicely. While Sister Mary Theresa wouldn’t approve, Elle’s conscience was clean.
A picture slammed onto the surface of the rickety table before her, pulling her from her self-righteous anger and making her jump. The handcuffs rattled again, only this time it wasn’t for effect and the jarring sensation jolted up her arms and into her shoulders, making her want to double over—if she’d had the freedom of movement to do so.
It took her a moment to focus her attention on just what was sitting in front of her. Her eyes squinted at the grainy black-and-white image as a coil of unease began to tighten in her chest.
“I do have the right to hold you, considering this photo proves that you were the source of a false fire alarm. The same one you claimed made you disoriented and unable to find your own room.”
Yeah. This was not good.
Elle fought the urge to open her mouth and let words start spilling out. She had no doubt the hard-ass who’d delighted in clamping her to this chair wouldn’t understand why she was here or believe her without the proof her lawyer had pointed out she didn’t have.
He rounded the table to stare across the scored and dirty surface and placed his palms flat onto the center, leaning forward into her space. Her only thought was damn, the man is tall. He was big, too, with broad shoulders and the kind of muscles that clothes couldn’t disguise. Any other time, she’d have enjoyed staring at him.
At this precise moment, not so much.
“Feel free to call your lawyer. You won’t get a damn thing.”
His eyes bored into her and, for the first time since she’d come to the island, she began to squirm. They were a mix of green and gold and gray that shouldn’t have been mesmerizing but somehow was. The expression in them was hard, disconnected almost. She’d seen that expression before, in her dad’s eyes on the nights he’d come home late after working a particularly horrendous murder.
She licked her lips, fighting the urge to reach out to him in the same way she’d always tried to bring the light back into her dad’s face. But this wasn’t the time. And he wasn’t her problem.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the loud bang of the door as it slammed into the wall.
“Zane, what are you doing?”
His mouth pinched before his focus switched to the man who’d just entered.
“Questioning a thief.”
“That’s not what Marcy said. According to her, this woman didn’t take a damn thing and we have no right to hold her.”
“She pulled the fire alarm.”
“I don’t care if she put on a rabbit suit and paraded up and down the halls, pretending she was the Easter bunny. Let her go.”
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