HEART OF MIDNIGHT Page 5

  He smiled blandly as the woman strode past him – incredibly, at her age and in the centre of a bustling city, wearing jeans and hiking boots, and with a knapsack slung over one shoulder. His heart beat a savage tattoo as the door swung closed behind him. The high sent his mood soaring, until he felt as light and buoyant as an iridescent bubble bouncing on the scintillating curve of a fountain, but he managed to hold his glee in check.

  Lombard was here. Ahead of schedule.

  The shock and delight of that knowledge pooled in his stomach, sent delicious tendrils snaking to his groin, almost closing out the grinding fury. Never in his wildest fantasies had he imagined that Lombard would make this so easy.

  He acknowledged that he was perhaps even a tad disappointed. He had expected more from Lombard; after all, the man had come close to destroying him once and was trying to destroy him still.

  He allowed himself a moment of disbelief and pure, distilled rage. It was almost inconceivable that a wealthy businessman playing soldier had once not only decimated his network but had dismantled his family and made him look like a fool. In the months after the debacle of that disastrous operation, he had lost his wife and son. Jacinta had run back to her rich Peruvian family and their pure Portuguese bloodline, taking Manuel with her. Not that he was now even remotely interested in that bovine creature or his weak, cowering son, but the desertion had stung at the time, because it had been the final humiliation.

  It had taken years to regain the power and respect that should have been his by right. A power originally denied him by his wealthy English family for the inconsequential fact of his bastardy. That power was what he craved. To rewrite an old cliché, it was dog-eat-dog in his adopted world, and he had a truly terrible hunger.

  Now that Lombard was in the open, the outcome was in no doubt. It had taken seven years to reach this point – years of sweat and poverty and bowing to the demands of that cultured pig, Delgado. Years in which Lombard had been cloistered in his beloved seclusion, sitting in rich comfort behind a desk, surrounded by bodyguards and administrators and the unearned fruits of his legitimacy – growing richer, growing soft, while he, Egan Harper, grew ever more powerful.

  This time there would be no mistakes, no distractions. Soon he would have access to technology he could sell to a stable of wealthy bidders.

  Soon there would be no more Gray Lombard.

  He smiled at his own punch line, once more reaching for that effervescent high, but this time the power didn't flow, the warmth didn't enfold him, and the faint tremor in his hands transferred itself to his belly. It was as if that glorious burst of feeling had burned him out, like a fire-work exploding in a shower of flaming sparks, then plummeting to earth in darkness.

  He strode quickly across the road. The demeanour of a gentleman dropped from him like the cloak sliding off an illusionist as he became what he was: a cold predator on the prowl.

  A Polynesian with tattoos and a gang insignia emblazoned on his black leather jacket made fleeting eye contact, then walked on by, granting a gratifying width of pavement.

  Harper barely noticed. The subtleties of predator and prey were second nature to him. The young thug had acted on instinct, and it had been the correct one: Harper would have killed him in the blink of an eye, and barely broken his stride into the bargain.

  The shaking in his belly was deep-seated now, insistent. Sweat trickled down the side of his face as he turned a corner and found his car. He shoved his key into the lock.

  An alarm screamed. Harper sprang back, spun into a crouch. A knife appeared in his right hand as if it had grown from his very flesh.

  He moved in a rapid, crouching circle, his blade a silvery arc slicing shadows. His pulse hammered; fresh sweat broke out on his skin.

  He stumbled backward, ran a hand over his face, pinching his burning nostrils. His stomach dipped nauseously. His left arm was throbbing where the knotted flesh pulled at tortured nerve-endings; the badly healed wound on his thigh twinged, protesting the sudden violent grace of his movements. His head swivelled, and for a dizzying second he thought he might go spinning into the night.

  He whirled, almost failing on the fender of another car. His gaze fastened on the briefcase that sat at an angle on the rear seat, the coat draped next to it.

  This was his car.

  He glanced back at the almost identical model that was still wailing into the night and forced himself to be calm as he unlocked the door, folded himself behind the wheel and pulled away from the kerb.

  He had made a mistake. An understandable mistake. The sedan he had rented was very common, as was its dark blue colour. That was why he had chosen it. He had been the victim of his own caution. There was no danger; he'd simply tried to unlock the wrong car.

  Minutes later, he pulled into the parking space beside his motel room. With tense, jerky movements he locked the car and entered the perfectly average motel room, heading directly for the bathroom, drawn by its only remarkable feature, the shiny, deep green surface of the vanity unit.

  The two white lines of powder he carefully constructed looked pristine, almost innocent, against the pseudojade, and he paused for a moment to admire his handywork before bending down and applying the straw.

  The power surge, when it came, wasn't impressive, certainly not enough to blot out that momentary loss of control, the mistake he had made, but Harper wouldn't allow himself any more. He was meticulous with his dosage of the drug, had been ever since he'd had to resort to using it in the months he'd been on the run, tending his wounds, trying to save the wreck Lombard had made of his arm and the bullet wound that had festered in his thigh.

  The mistake with the cars had occurred because he had hung on too long, drunk with the glory of strolling through enemy territory and discovering that Lombard was already here. Awaiting his pleasure. He had let himself get too needy.

  His cocaine habit was measured, just as he measured everything, and he wouldn't allow it to rule him. Cocaine was as beautiful as it was deadly, a drug that only the rich could afford, and Harper was now very rich indeed. But it was also something else, his own sweet guardian angel. It had literally saved his life by helping stop the bleeding from his wounds and staving off the pain while he healed.

  He would make certain he adhered to his schedule in future.

  He strolled out into the lounge, carefully stripping his jacket from his still aching arm, and idly contemplated his next move. He had made a useful contact in the bar of the Royal Pacific Hotel. A pretty, talkative young man – a hairdresser with the rather unlikely name of Leroy Deville.

  *

  Gray stepped from the shower when he heard the first knock. Methodically he blotted moisture from his face and hair and wrapped the towel around his hips. Before he answered the door, he picked up a hand-gun, a Glock 9mm, which he had placed on the bathroom vanity.

  He knew who was knocking, but caution was so ingrained that it would have been an unnatural act for him to answer a door unarmed.

  Ben replied to his terse enquiry. Gray opened up and stood back while the guys filed in.

  Carter set a stack of pizzas down on the small dining table that occupied one corner of the lounge, then pulled off his soaked black T-shirt and draped it over the back of a chair. He shot Gray a rueful glance. "I thought you were gonna get us a job out of the rain. I'm starting to get webbed feet."

  Ben grinned. "That's just your big farm-boy toes."

  "It's his socks," Gray murmured. "He forgot to take 'em off about two months back in the jungle."

  West shoved a hand through his hair, grimacing when a wet stream tracked down his spine. He dumped a couple of six-packs of beer by the pizza. "Great," he muttered. "No wonder Harper got away clean. He could probably smell us coming."

  Carter folded his arms across his bare chest. "It wasn't my socks he could smell, it was Ben's soap. The little pink heart-shaped number he packs with his toothbrush."

  Gray paused in the doorway to his bedroom. "Holding out on
us, McCabe? Which lady friend sent that?"

  Ben grinned as he dispensed pizza and beer. "Who else but the love of my life?"

  Gray pulled on fresh jeans and padded back out into the main room, where West and Ben had also removed their wet shirts. He placed the Glock on the table, sprawled back in his chair and snagged a slice of the rapidly disappearing pizza. "And how is my sweet little darlin'?"

  "Waiting for her uncle Gray to make good on his promise about the tea party."

  Gray tore the tab off his can of beer and felt the tension begin to drain from him. It was hard to do anything but smile when Ben started talking about his daughter. "Beats me how a sweet little girl like that ended up with a big, bad daddy like you, McCabe."

  Ben took a swallow of his beer and grinned as he wandered over to the long black gear bags that were lined up against the wall. He began unzipping them, briefly checking that the surveillance equipment they needed had arrived. "The usual way, mate," he said lazily. "The usual way."

  An ache started somewhere in Gray's chest when he thought about having a daughter of his own, of what it would be like to set violence and cold necessity aside and hold an armful of sweet smelling little girl like Bunny McCabe. Of what it would be like to get Sam pregnant, to see her grow big with his child.

  The thought was like a kick in the solar plexus. Sam pregnant.

  He was glad he was sitting down, because right now he didn't think his legs would hold him. A wave of longing rolled over him, so deep, so complete, his head spun with it.

  He wanted to make love with Sam. He wanted her wrapped around him while he sank deep inside her, and he didn't want to use protection. He wanted to watch her face while she came apart in his arms, and he wanted to stay locked inside her while they made a baby.

  He'd been in a state of constant semi-arousal for days. The heavy ache of desire had been riding him hard, making him as edgy and irritable as a frustrated stallion. He couldn't ignore the fact that she had run from him all those years ago.

  He wasn't good at seduction. He knew how to touch a woman, to give her pleasure before he took his, but he had no background of techniques and strategies, no easy lines that would coax a reluctant woman to his bed. Having to coax a woman at all was an alien concept; women had always come easily to him.

  Maybe too easily, he decided. The only thing he possessed was the raw, sexual instinct of a healthy male. He knew when he wanted a woman, and he knew when she wanted him. Now he needed more. He needed to know how to reach past Sam's reserve, needed the words, the gentle touches, that would allow her to trust him before he took her to bed.

  He needed a strategy.

  He would have to plan this as carefully as he planned a military operation. Nothing could be left to chance; there was too much at stake. "I need a strategy."

  "Thought we had one," Ben mumbled around a mouthful of pizza.

  Gray cast him a brooding look. "I need a strategy for getting Sam back."

  Ben choked. Carter whacked him on the back. West abandoned his perusal of the bags of equipment and opened another box of pizza. "Ever try having a conversation with the lady?"

  Amusement took the edge off Gray's grim mood. "Yeah. She didn't like it."

  "Did you ever try asking her stuff instead of telling it to her?"

  Three pairs of eyes turned on West like curious spotlights.

  Gray's eyes narrowed. "What kind of stuff?"

  West shrugged, looking momentarily perplexed. "Ah, like what she's been doing since she, ah—"

  "Walked out on me seven years ago," Gray supplied.

  West's brows jerked together. "If you don't want me to go on, just say so."

  Gray's fingers tightened around his beer can, his grip threatening to crumple the light metal. "Go on," he muttered, shoving his chair back and going to stand at the window.

  "Women are different."

  There was a moment of profound silence while they all pondered the differences.

  Carter ripped the tab off another beer and settled back in his chair. "Keep talking dirty, West. We're all ears."

  West glared at Carter. "I'm not talking about physical differences, I'm talking about the way they think. Their minds are different. There's a lot going on in their heads that we have no idea about. I mean, have you ever wondered why women always carry handbags with them? Or what's in them? A guy? He'll just stroll on down the street with his wallet in his pocket, but a woman has to get a lot of stuff together before she'll even consider stepping out the door. How can you expect someone with a mentality like that to just jump into a relationship? She's going to need to know more about you. She's going to need to know a lot."

  There was a rumble of assent. Every one of them had noticed the handbag phenomenon.

  West kicked back in his chair, warming to his subject. "You have to be aware of the way women think. They don't take their orders from what's locked beneath their zipper, they're a lot more … emotional. If you want a relationship with a woman you have to approach things differently. It's not like a pick-up in a bar, followed by a little healthy wrestling. They need to know you're interested in them. You should probably do some talking, too." He nodded his head in emphasis. "You've got to open up to her."

  Ben gave West a brooding look. "Open up to her? Did you try this stuff out on your wife, West?"

  West went blank. He hadn't seen his wife for a couple of years, ever since they had separated.

  "Thought not." Ben fixed Gray with a direct look. "You have got something to offer her."

  Carter grinned. "Yeah. Women are generally agreed on one thing you're good at."

  Three sets of eyes locked on a part of Gray's anatomy that had not been discussed, yet was crucial to the process of male/female bonding.

  West came to a decision. "The hell with conversation," he growled. "You've got to play to your strengths. Take her to bed. Let's face it, sex is probably the best interactive skill you've got."

  There was a knock on the door. Silence descended except for the sounds of weapons being palmed and clips shoved into magazine housings.

  West picked up the case of his current favourite all-purpose sniper rifle, a bolt-action Remington, and carried it through to the second bedroom of the suite, where it would be out of sight, before taking up a position in the doorway.

  Carter automatically took up a position on one side of the front door to the suite.

  Ben flattened himself on the other side, his hand on the ornate brass knob. "We expecting company?"

  Gray hefted one of the bags of miniaturised communications equipment that he had helped design and that his company manufactured strictly for special forces use. He set it down on the table, using its bulk to conceal the Glock. "Yep." He picked up a street map of the area surrounding the hotel and opened it.

  Ben raised his voice, "Who is it?"

  The reply was high and thin and wavered slightly. "Leroy from Hair Trends."

  West and Carter snickered.

  Ben's gaze narrowed on Gray. "Are we expecting 'Lee-roy' from…" He raised his voice. "Where did you say you were from, Leroy?"

  "Hair Trends."

  Ben grinned. "Looks like your makeover's here, boss."

  Gray allowed himself the pleasure of a slow smile as his gaze touched on each one of the tanned, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped warriors lounging in various states of battle readiness against walls and doors. There was no disguising the fluid grace of bodies used to constant hard physical exercise, the big callused hands more at home holding weapons than calculators, or the dangerous go-to-hell glitter in their eyes, but there were superficial things that could be done to make his dangerous bunch of renegades fit in on a city street.

  Carter shifted uneasily. "I don't like the look of this." West fingered his hair, which was so shaggy it brushed his collar. "Don't tell me, it's bath day?"

  Ben gloomily removed the clip from his gun and shoved both items into one of the gear bags. "This is all Carter's fault. He should have changed those d
amn socks."

  "Line up, boys," Gray drawled. "It's your lucky day. Lee-roy is gonna do each and every one of you."

  Ben groaned. West looked resigned.

  Carter's voice was a low, flat rumble that didn't require actual words to convey his discontent. "Just as long as the hair is all he does."

  When the door was finally opened, Leroy stepped briskly into the crumbling grandeur of the Governor's suite and faltered. The room was filled with men. Big, rough, half-naked men with hair on their chests. Clothes were tossed over the backs of chairs, and several large black bags, the kind in which sporting equipment might conceivably be transported, littered the room. It resembled nothing so much as what he imagined the locker room of a football team might look like after the big game, except for the electronic gadgetry that was visible in the opened bags.

  The big man at the table lifted his black wolf's head, and the messy details of the room faded as midnight dark eyes settled on him. Leroy had never thought of black as a cold colour. He did now. His spine jerked straight, and he came as close to standing to attention as he was capable of doing. There was a cold bite of command about this man that left him in no doubt as to who controlled the other men in the room. He also had no doubt that the other men required controlling; there was something wild and untamed about the lot of them. The word "mercenaries" flashed into his mind, and a chill skittered down his already stiffened spine as if the temperature in the room had just taken an abrupt plunge.

  He swallowed the melodramatic notion and lifted his chin, fingers automatically tightening their damp grip on his bag of hairdressing equipment.

  That was it, he decided a little wildly. He'd had it with the Pacific Royal and all its eccentric clients. Last week he had been attacked by old Jeremiah Holden's moth-eaten cockatiel. The evil creature had taken exception to his new Gucci loafers and dropped a load of loathsome guano on the expensive, supple leather. To top off what had already been a trying week, the Carson sisters had almost killed him with one of their potted ficuses when the heavy container had tumbled from a spindly Victorian plant stand and missed him by inches.