Hot Contract (3 page)

Abruptly, she smashed her face to his
shoulder, holding him back for the briefest second. Keegan winced
through his surprise, and she pulled away, eyes dark.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, hoarsely.
“Someone shot you.”

Jen pulled away as far as she could get,
trapped in the circle of his arms. “The bandage,” she muttered.
“It’s soaked through.”

“I didn't mean to get blood on your
face.”

She refused to look at him. “Blood bothers
me.”

“Then it must have bothered the hell out of
you when your friend went splat.”

“Yes,” she said tightly. Ice spread out like
a cancer, freezing her in place. “It did.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

He hesitated. “Want me to stop talking?" He
used his shirt tail to wipe her face. “I’m not good at talking. I
can do orders, but talking?”

He brushed at her lips and her eyelids
lowered, lips parting. How could a man with such big hands be so
gentle? Rain spattered the stoop and jolted her to life. She didn’t
want to die, and in that one thing she was her father’s daughter.
As much as she hated to admit it, Keegan was right. Hesitation was
fatal.

“I don't mind talking to you.”

Whatever he saw in her eyes made him nod.
“I’ll work on it,” he said quietly.

He opened the door for her and followed her
up the stairs. The space-heaters weren't on. She was cold right
down to her bones. Jen pulled the bundled jackets up tight around
her throat as they entered her living room.

Keegan left his boots on. She’d almost puked
on him. Thank God he wasn't going to mention it. Her father said
she had a weak stomach. Maybe she did or maybe it was just fear
exploding upward in a tangible rush.

“That chair is good,” he said, pointing to
her favorite recliner. “Back it up to the wall and stay away from
the window.”

He pulled a gun from a holster behind his
hip, and disappeared down the short hallway that led to the rest of
the house.

Jen pushed the chair into position and sat.
She must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes, Keegan
was back.

“I put your stuff in the bathroom,” he
said.

“My stuff?”

“I started a bath and laid out your
clothes.”

“You went through my things?”

“Anyone else would be grateful.”

She stared at him. “I’m a Stalling,” she told
him. “That’s as grateful as I get.”

He held the door for her. She stepped inside
and leaned against the wall, covering her face with her hands. He
must have thrown some bath salts in the tub because the tiny room
smelled like roses. She was so tired, if she could just sit down in
the warm water and not get up again. He helped her out of the
jacket and did the same with her windbreaker.

The room got smaller as he pulled at her
shirt; fingers paused on the thin cotton, clearly asking her
permission to take it off. She knew what she looked like and
wondered why he didn't ignore her and continue with the business of
undressing her, but obviously he had some vestige of decency. She
held her arms out and he pulled the shirt up and over her head.

He was close, right up against her as he
dropped to his knees and undid her button. The slow rasp of her
zipper made her shudder and she stopped him, one hand tightly
curled around his wrist. Her pants sagged down on one hip.

“I'll get the rest,” she said, all too aware
of everything about him. His size, his scent, his very presence in
her home. She could feel his heart pounding under her fingers and
his breath on the sensitive flesh of her stomach. She released him
quickly. “I have bandages in my medicine cabinet. Antibiotics. My
cousin is a doctor. I could call him—”

Keegan stood, rubbing the back of his wrist.
His eyes were dark and lingered on her slowly slipping khakis.
“It’s a gunshot wound. He’d have to report it and I don’t need
complications right now.”

Her entire life was a complication. What was
one more? She didn't realize she said it out-loud until Keegan gave
her a sharp look.

“Whoever killed your friend is trying to
create buy-in for a series of accidents. Killing you now would be a
bad move on their part. Take your time. We’ll move when you’re
ready.”

****

Keegan rubbed at his eyes, too tired to do
more than stand in one place and sway.

Jen had curled up against the living room’s
central wall, using the cushions he’d arranged for her. Apparently
houses in Hawaii didn’t come with central heat. He’d asked her
where the controls were and she’d pointed out a space heater doing
the usual crappy space-heater job before going belly down on the
cushions, one arm up over her head.

He pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.
She was exhausted and he was out of time. Things were starting to
strobe.

DalCon Security was a small firm with less
than thirty operatives and support staff, but their rescue ops were
the stuff of legend. They’d dealt with the Samoy before, knew what
to expect. The People’s Army of the Samoy Independent States called
it protective custody, but Keegan knew it for a hostage situation.
The Samoy wanted two million in ten days. Less than half the time
they’d allotted Sung Kai for the return of his boy. It was a
nuisance fee and Keegan was expected to swallow it, because if he
didn’t they would all die, beginning with Connor, and ending with
the rest of them when Keegan went crazy and tried to take out the
Samoy stronghold.

Jen rolled over and hit the wall with a soft
grunt. Long black hair spilled out over her shoulders and puddled
at his feet. Keegan re-adjusted her blanket and found himself
holding the plaid fabric while his world spun out of control. He
couldn’t crash yet. The blanket’s orange and black pattern reminded
him of Halloween. A sliver of pale green silk peeked up over the
waist of her pajama bottoms. She was so pretty and he didn’t want
any pumpkins.

“
Padraic!
Catch him, quick—”

A blur of motion and camouflage, hard arms
dragging him away from Jen and pushing him over on the floor.
Keegan flopped on his back, arms outstretched.

Plain black sneakers stopped next to his head
and tapped impatiently. “How do you feel?”

“Shoulder,” he muttered.

Corlis checked his dressing with long cool
fingers. “Minimal damage. You can change it later. We have a
problem.”

Fallon dropped beside her and jerked a pair
of night vision goggles down around his throat. He didn’t look any
better than Keegan felt, but he was mobile, which put him in the
one up position.

Corlis sat and circled her knees with one
arm. “Abort. Bunch of whack-job Greens called the Aina say the girl
is a material witness—and, big surprise—they don’t like it.”

Keegan frowned, thoughts circling his rapidly
crumbling fort. “Eco-terrorists? That shit went out with the
nineties. Why didn't Stalling call the cops?”

Corlis tipped her head to the side. “Think
about it—a Stalling on the open market? His indifference is the
only thing keeping her safe. Anything he does for her has got to be
internal, and apparently his security is shot to hell. If he cares
for her at all it’s got to be driving him insane.”

“Terrorists, potential kidnappers, everyone
and their uncle want this woman. How the hell has she managed to
stay out of the family compound this long?”

“She never left,” said Corlis. “Stalling
backs the Project in a major way. Apparently her job has the
potential to go high-profile and her dad is
obsessive-compulsive.”

The room was silent for a minute.

“She’s a heavy sleeper,” Corlis said.

Fallon laughed sharply. “Maybe she’s
dead.”

Corlis got up and paced out the perimeter,
going around and round, wound up tight, sneakers silent on the
hardwood floor.

“She’s been multitasking for months. Part of
the final team. Once those deep water cables are laid, the Pele
Project will become the biggest geothermal power plant in the
world—large enough to take Hawaii from tourist trap to major player
overnight.”

Keegan rolled up on one hand and got to his
feet. “And the Aina want to snap a cover down on it, shit—we need
this contract.”

Corlis stopped, balanced on the balls of her
feet. “The contract is a joke. Connor’s window is too small. Call
Nick. Get the teams in. We’ll—”

“No games.” Keegan shook off the all too
familiar rush of guilt. “I want an ironclad guarantee they won’t
kill Connor the second we insert.”

“You’re getting too involved with the
problem,” said Fallon.

“The problem?” Keegan rubbed a hand over his
face. “Which problem? The one where the Samoy kill Connor or the
one where the Aina kill Jen?”

Fallon went dead silent and finally said,
“The minute we bail there'll be a goddamned army in here. Everyone
knows the Stallings take care of their own.”

Keegan pulled the blanket back up over her
shoulders. “We don’t bail.”

Fallon pushed the blanket down and took a
good look. “C’mon, K—we’re one hell of a team, but we can’t fix
this.”

“I think we can.”

“Yeah, when you thought it was an easily
defined threat, not a bunch of asshole terrorist wannabes. One call
to StallingCo Security and this op is history.”

Corlis wound her fist in Fallon’s sleeve and
pulled him back, her voice hushed and urgent. “Let it go.”

“Look at his face. He wants to nail her.”

“And your point?”

“Jesus God Almighty, you don’t fuck the
client!”

Corlis gave Keegan a considering look. “Think
it’ll control her?”

The expression on Fallon’s face crossed the
line from furious to ugly. “If it didn’t control you, what makes
you think it’ll control her?”

“Past events have no bearing on this.”

“Is that all it was to you, babe? A past
event?”

“Drop the subject, Fallon.”

“Go ahead, call me Fallon. You only call me
Padraic when you want something. That’s right, ain’t it? We shared
everything until four days ago when you decided you wanted more. We
did the dirty-nasty. Now I got to pay? Well, fuck that. You’ve
screwed me for the last time.”

He tore his sleeve out of her hand and
clattered down the stairs to the front door, his heavy camouflage
jacket swinging out behind him.

Corlis followed him to the landing, hand
clenched around the rail. “Fallon!” They locked eyes. “Check the
perimeter and be back in five.”

“Take a fucking number.” The door opened fast
and slammed faster.

Corlis hung her head, eyes closed. “We didn’t
use protection.”

“Shit.” Keegan’s already sour stomach went
septic. He moved to stand beside her.

Corlis brushed at her face and blinked as if
surprised to see her fingers were dry.

Keegan caught her wrist. “I’ll reassign him,”
he said. “Get Nick in here with us. He can take the next flight
out, be here in less than a day.”

She jerked her arm back. “No!”

“Fallon is broken. That time in Peru did
something to his head.”

“That may be, but Padraic is mine.”

His eyes felt like sandpaper. “God,
Corlis—get a grip. If we can't fix this, Connor will die. We have
to work together.”

“I can work with Padraic.”

“I hope you can,” said Keegan. He looked at
Jen, still sleeping like his life hadn’t just taken a huge turn for
the worse. “Let’s get her upstairs.”

****

Corlis leaned in a corner near one of the
front windows watching rain spatter the glass in thick, syrup-like
drops. If the Aina were out in the woods, they were idiots. She
needed to sleep, but thanks to Papa Stalling, they’d flown from
Hong Kong to Hawaii in a jet so luxurious she couldn’t sit down
without worrying she’d smudge the butternut leather.

With their Seattle office out in the field,
DalCon was short-staffed, which made Stalling’s offer a studied
insult. He was playing them with the chance to ransom Connor. He
knew a full frontal would destroy them.

Corlis padded down the hallway to the
kitchen. There was a pot on the stove. Empty. A solitary plate in
the drainer. One fork. One spoon. And two cups on the counter. She
picked them up, curious. The heavy white mug was stenciled with the
Pele Project logo, obviously a misappropriation. The other was
bright yellow with chunky red print declaring it the property of
Puna Fire and Rescue.

She sniffed it. Coffee. The other held diet
Coke.

A man, then.

She rinsed them out and put them in the
drainer beside the plate. It was obvious Guinevere lived by
herself, equally obvious she’d entertained recently.

Corlis turned her collar up and went back to
the main room. Maybe Keegan would get some sleep. He was wound as
tight as an addict in withdrawal and there’d been a look in his
eyes that Corlis wouldn’t soon forget.

Guinevere Stalling was nothing like her
picture. In person she was all lush and curvy like a Botticelli
done by Rueben. Who’d have guessed Keegan went for antique plush?
Not that he was any kind of prize. Mr. Goddamned Average.

A noise at the front door sent her to the
foot of the stairs. Fallon stood on the other side of the spy-hole,
head down. The rain had slowed, but it was still hard enough to
plaster the thick fall of black hair to his nape.

She opened the door and he shouldered past
her, bringing the wild-ozone scent of the storm in with him.

“Padraic?”

“Three hours,” he said, not looking at her.
“Fucking wake me.”

****

Jen squirmed. Her sheets clung to her with
the obsessive grip of a truly paranoid neat-freak, and that was the
last time she’d let her cousin, Mac, demonstrate hospital corners
on her bed. Tidy lessons? He was so dead. She braced herself,
rolled to the side and fell from the bed in a rushing avalanche of
blankets. The edge of her pillow brought down her prized Tiffany
and iridescent dragonflies flew everywhere.