Gabriel West Still the One Read online

  West studied the photograph, which had beer taken in Tyler's hospital room. Satisfaction curled through him when he saw that he'd been identified as Tyler's husband. That was useful because it would broadcast to the guy who'd been stalking Tyler that she was no longer alone. The stalker already knew that Tyler had a man around, but if he understood that he was her husband, he should back off altogether. Men who preyed on women and children weren't brave, they were just calculating. West was willing to bet that the stalker would think twice before he walked into a situation where he could be at risk.

  The article also carried information about his days on the street, his SAS career, and the fact that he was now in partnership with Lombard's designing weapons and communication equipment for special forces. "How in hell did they find out that last part? I thought that was classified."

  Blade shrugged. "Ever since that fiasco last year with Ben and Roma, the press has been on our tail. If they don't have an earthquake or a war to report,

  they want to know what we're doing, who with, and for how long."

  He prowled restlessly around West's almost empty lounge, and stopped in front of the terrace doors, staring out at the deepening gloom that signaled another overcast night, with the promise of rain. "Where's Tyler?"

  "Having a shower." West handed the paper to Ben. The fiasco Blade was referring to had happened just months ago, and had involved the contract hit man who'd executed the oldest Lombard brother, Jake. The hit man had appeared on the scene years after the event to stalk Roma Lombard who was now Roma McCabe, Ben's wife. They'd caught Linden in the end, but not before there had been a storm of publicity.

  Blade continued to pad restlessly around the lounge and finally perched on the arm of the couch.

  Ben passed the paper to Carter. "The article says you've reconciled."

  "For that he can live." West fastened a knife sheath to his ankle. He had a cold, edgy feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he'd gotten used to when he'd gone on SAS ops. His instinct was to go for the spine sheath as well, but that was a little too anarchistic for Auckland—even on a Saturday night.

  West noticed that Ben was openly carrying, using a shoulder rig that faded almost to invisibility against his black T-shirt; the holstered Glock as straightforward and uncomplicated as McCabe was himself.

  When West straightened, Ben pulled several folded sheets of paper from his pocket. "Sign that."

  West knew what it was before he looked at it. A protection contract that enabled Ben to carry his firearm on the street—strictly in the line of duty. He looked into McCabe's cold, blue gaze and knew what he was offering. If he had to shoot someone to keep both him and Tyler safe, he would do it. "I don't have time to read the fine print."

  Ben handed him a pen. "You don't need to. That's the part that says if you or Tyler get hit, it's not my fault."

  West scribbled his signature and handed the sheets back. "What kind of protection is that?"

  Ben grinned and pocketed the contract. "The only kind you can get Outside of a war zone."

  Carter tossed the newspaper, down on the coffee table. He looked as restless and edgy as "West felt.

  "So...are you and Tyler back together?"

  The tension in the room ratcheted up a couple of notches. Each one of them had steadfastly refrained from asking West what he was doing in an apartment in his wife's building when he owned a perfectly good house just minutes away. The answer had to be obvious, if a little extreme, but when it came to extremes he wasn't alone. West knew the lengths that Gray and Blade and Ben had gone to get their wives and keep them safe. West met Carter's blue gaze. "Not exactly, but I'm working on it."

  Carter didn't bother to hide his irritation. West knew that Carter considered that he was as forthcoming as a sphinx when it came to talking about his relationship with Tyler, but West wasn't about to bare his soul. He'd spent a lot of time with these guys—they'd lived in each other's pockets for years. When they were on patrol it had gotten even more intimate than that because they'd had to survive in such close quarters and depend on each other to stay alive. There wasn't much about any of them that they all didn't already know, but for West, Tyler and his sex life—or lack of it—had always been off-limits as a topic of conversation.

  "And?"

  "And I think it's working, but she's driving me crazy. Is that what you want to hear?"

  West checked the glittering edge of a blade, then slid the knife into the ankle sheath. He would pick up a handgun and a shoulder holster from his house. Going armed at all was a risk because he wasn't licensed to carry like McCabe, but in this instance it was a risk he was prepared to take.

  "Jeez, I knew you couldn't forget her, but after all this time..." Carter shook his head. "That's why you've been—"

  West shot him a warning glance. "Don't say it."

  Blade rose from his perch on the arm of the couch. "Celibate."

  So much for his sexuality being sacrosanct.

  There was a moment of hushed silence. The kind of complete silence that falls when somebody gets seriously injured or dies. West supposed that something had died; it had been his libido, although it had never completely given up. He just hadn't wanted to have sex with anyone but Tyler.

  Richard looked up from his computer. "Celibacy," he murmured. "That's hard to grasp."

  Gray perched himself on the other end of the couch from Blade. "Don't even try, mate. Don't even try."

  The sound of a door closing, and feminine footsteps, broke the faint tension, the male closing of ranks on a conversation that had prodded into the holy of holies—a man's sex life—abrupt and complete. A woman was coming.

  West's relief was short-lived. He let out a breath when he saw Tyler. She was dressed in black jeans, a V-necked T-shirt that did bad things to his pulse, and black boots. Her hair was swept back in a pony-tail, revealing the sculpted planes of her face. She looked more like a secret agent than any of them— the only mercy was that it was night and she couldn't wear sunglasses. West smothered a grin.

  Oh yeah, he could see her in the sunglasses. Maybe he'd get her to wear them after this was all wrapped up and they were alone.

  Her green gaze fastened on his. "You're not leaving me behind."

  His grin faded. There was no question in her tone; it was a flat, hard-ass statement of intent. He didn't want her to come with them—it was too dangerous— and he didn't want to leave her behind. In his view that was even more dangerous. The guy who was stalking her wasn't on the level. If Tyler was with him, at least he could keep an eye on her. "You can come, but you'd better obey orders."

  Tyler grinned, suddenly looking more like a teenager than a twenty-eight-year-old doctor of anthropology. "Always."

  West tried to look grim, and failed. They were on the edge of nailing the thief, recovering the jade and, if his suspicions were correct, catching the guy who'd attacked and stalked Tyler. Every time he thought about the mugging and the break-in—that damned night-vision gear—his stomach clenched and his jaw locked. He should be settling into battle mode—becoming distant, self-contained. That was what usually happened, but suddenly this whole thing was taking on the aspect of a school picnic.

  Blade whistled approvingly. "Hey. Like the boots."

  Tyler slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The bag matched the boots, naturally. "Kick-ass, huh? I got them at the September sales. If you give me your size, I'll look out for a pair for you."

  Carter rose to his feet and shook his head. He'd been ready for the past half hour, but it was obvious he was out on a limb all by himself here. "While you're at it, look for a handbag for him."

  Blade lifted a brow. "Ease up, Carter. Just because you've got a phobia about handbags."

  * * *

  As soon as West stepped inside his house, he became aware that something was different. Wrong.

  He paced through the airy, high-ceilinged rooms. The house was a Victorian villa he'd bought as a doer-upper, an expensive old lady of a
house that was all hard work and no fun without someone to share all the big empty rooms with. He'd sanded and poly-urethaned the floors until the Matai timber shone with a high gloss. He'd scraped paint and replaced weatherboards, spent weekends building decks and making and fitting bifold doors to the lounge, family room and main bedroom. He'd built a large garage and workroom, put in a pool and dug gardens. He knew every inch of the house, every inch of the property. He knew how it felt.

  The sense of wrongness persisted. There was no one here now, but someone had been in the house.

  He strode into the large open-plan family room, his gaze skimming coldly over the television, video and stereo system. Everything was in place, nothing appeared to have been touched. He moved systematically through the rooms, then came to a stop at the cupboard under the stairs which he used as a gun safe.

  As a registered collector of guns, he had to comply with strict security regulations with the storing and security of the firearms. When he'd remodeled the under-stairs room, he'd more than complied: he'd built a fortress. The room itself was lined with heavy timber and sheets of steel. The door was made of reinforced steel and had a computerized security lock as well as a heavy steel bolt The bolt was still in place, but the padlock was missing.

  Grimly, he retraced his steps to his bedroom, pulled on a pair of thin-skinned black leather gloves and returned to the gun safe. Carefully, to minimize damaging any fingerprints that might be on the bolt, he slid it back, then punched in his PIN to deactivate the lock.

  The door swung open, he flicked on a light. The small storage room was lined with locked gun racks, cabinets for handguns, shelving for ammunition and his reloading equipment. All it took was one sweeping glance to see what was missing. The Bernadelli.

  The bastard had stolen his favorite handgun.

  Chapter 16

  Cornell ducked out of the rain into the lighted portico of the town house, pushed the bell and waited. He had a search warrant in his pocket, two detectives from Central flanking him, and another four he'd pulled in from South Auckland who had closed in on the back of the property, covering all exits in case their boy tried to do a runner.

  The door swung open.

  Montgomery's gaze slid to the two uniforms behind Cornell. "What the hell—"

  Kyle Montgomery was dressed for an evening out. Cornell decided it was an easy bet he was headed for the casino. He held the warrant in front of Montgomery's face and recited chapter and verse.

  Montgomery continued to bar the doorway.

  Cornell gauged the set of his jaw. "We can do this easy," he said flatly, "or we can do it hard."

  Montgomery swore, and stepped back. "I'm calling my lawyer,"

  "You do that, Mr. Montgomery." Cornell motioned his men inside, keeping tabs on Montgomery in case he decided to bolt. "Just don't try to leave."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  Cornell stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Not yet."

  The motel was brightly lit, both flashy and anonymous. It was one of a popular nationwide chain, which suited his purposes; he didn't want a nosey private motel owner checking up on what was and wasn't happening with the rooms. It had the added advantage that it was within walking distance of his apartment, which meant he didn't have to use his car. The risk that the people he was dealing with might obtain his car registration and trace him was slight, but why expose himself needlessly?

  He strolled across the car park, avoiding the well-lit areas, and turned in the direction of unit 31 D, which he'd rented two days ago for the initial meeting with the team who were brokering the sale of the jade.

  The men he was dealing with were an unknown quantity, but he'd picked them rather than deal with the recognized brokers of black-market gems and artifacts for the simple reason that he didn't want to deal with professionals and risk a trail that would lead back to him. Black-market brokers were solid to deal with; they had to be, otherwise they would end up in the bottom of a lake somewhere, but in this case, the pressure generated by the notoriety of the jade was too much of a variable to discount. Someone would talk. His primary concern now was to get rid of the jade as quickly as possible. The money was secondary. Reed was adequate, and if he fumbled the deal, he would simply write it off with the rest of this debacle.

  He walked on to the attractive patio of the unit, turned the key in the lock and walked inside, flicking on lights as he went. He'd tossed up whether or not to go to the expense of securing the unit by paying for an entire week, or taking his chances that one would be available when he needed it—and had decided that that was one variable he wasn't going to mess with. It was summer and the peak of the tourist season. He was damned if he'd have to ring all over town looking for a motel with vacancies because he'd been too tight to pay the extra bucks. The rooms were stock standard, as Joe-average as the rest of the place, with the usual overkill of air fresheners and cleaners, but the units were very private, each enclosed by thick plantings of subtropical shrubs and tall, arching palms. They also had the additional advantage of three exits: front, back, and sliding doors in the bedroom.

  He wasn't planning on having to make a quick exit, but neither was he discounting that possibility. His plans had gone so badly awry since he'd first executed the robbery that he had to consider the possibility that more could go wrong.

  His jaw tightened as he removed a framed print of a pastel still life from the wall, and accessed the wall safe—the other reason that had made this particular motel a desirable location for the transaction. He placed the taped box in the wall safe, returned the picture to the wall, then walked back out onto the patio, leaving the door ajar.

  Glancing at his watch, he strolled across the graveled drive and unlocked the front door of the second unit he'd secured, directly opposite the first.

  Gently, he closed the door behind him and locked it. Leaving the lights off, he walked through to the rear of the unit and unlocked and opened the rear door, leaving it very slightly ajar.

  Returning to the lounge, he set his briefcase down on the dining table, flipped the lid and extracted the Bernadelli handgun nestled in beside the jade. He hefted the pistol and sighted down the barrel. The Bernadelli was primarily a sporting weapon, but this one had been customized for street use; the barrel shortened, and an ultra-sensitive trigger added along with a two-chamber muzzlebrake to allow exhaust gases to escape. In terms of street use, it cut down on flash and curtailed the kickback when fired.

  He checked the clip. If he had to shoot one or more people he would. He had too much at stake to lose everything now. If the deal went sour on him, he would use the weapon to implicate West in the theft of the jade, and the murder of a person or persons involved in the sale of the artifacts. The charges probably wouldn't stick—West had powerful contacts—but they would muddy the situation enough to take any heat off his disappearance.

  The way he felt right now, he was pissed enough that he would shoot someone anyway.

  He parted the drapes just enough that he could see the warmly lit unit just metres away across the gravel drive, and sat down to wait.

  West dialed Cornell's cell phone as he drove.

  "Damn." He terminated the call. It was Saturday night—crime-wise, the busiest night in town. Cornell was probably tied down breaking up nightclub brawls and booking drunks.

  He pressed Redial and handed the phone to Tyler. "Get Cornell or Farrell. Keep trying until one of them picks up."

  He parked the car a small distance from the motel, which was located on a pleasant, mainly residential street just off a busy intersection. Blade and Gray, Carter and McCabe were already parked, waiting for them. Richard had volunteered to stake out the police station and grab the first detective available.

  Tyler sat in the car and kept dialing Cornell while McCabe checked lip mikes and handed them out. Within seconds the five men had merged into darkness, and it had started to rain, moisture drifting down in slow motion, wetting the pavements and putting a glistening sheen o
n the palms. The low pattering of rain hitting the car roof and windscreen created a hypnotic, somnolent feel to the night.

  Tyler absently watched the blinking neon sign that marked the motel entrance as she waited for Cornell to answer his phone. When his answering service came on line, she hung up and decided to call every two minutes. She checked her watch beneath the yellowish light of the streetlamp. It had only been five minutes since West and the others had melted into the darkness, but it felt like longer.

  The rain intensified, drumming loudly on the metal roof of the car, muffling all exterior sound. The windows had fogged, making the luxurious interior seem smaller, claustrophobic, and making her feel even more cut off from West and what was happening at the motel unit.

  She checked her watch again and let out a breath. The second hand was crawling.

  Cornell's jaw set as he listened to the croupier at Lombard's give her statement that not only had Kyle been at the casino on the night in question, but she'd gone home with him when her shift had finished.

  It seemed that Kyle's evident gambling obsession was a front for an affair. The pretty croupier had been seeing Kyle for the past month, and since she was married and was frightened her husband might use the evidence of the affair to contest custody of their child, they'd kept it quiet until she could get herself and the child out of the house and into the inner-city flat she'd just secured.

  Cornell had already sent a detective over to Lombard's to impound the tapes, but he knew what he was going to find. Sweet nothing.

  It wasn't the first time it had happened, and it wouldn't be the last.

  He said a short, succinct word beneath his breath.

  They had the wrong guy.

  The air-conditioning unit in the darkened motel room hummed, pushing back the humidity of the rain-filled night, the low-level noise breaking the silence.

  The man standing at the edge of the long drapes shrouding the front window shifted uneasily. He was shielded from the gaze of anyone who happened to peer out of the unit opposite, but he still wasn't happy.