Scout's Honor (22 page)

Slowly, to calm herself, she closed her eyes
and took a deep breath. In four years of working for Austin, she’d
seen him skirt the law many, many times, bending it at will with
his power and his money. She’d seen him crawl on his belly like a
snake to make bribery look like a gift. She’d seen him voice
requests as unrepentant demands to politicians and judges alike.
But she hadn’t seen him break a law until two days earlier, Friday
morning, when she’d read the front-page newspaper story about a
senator charged with influence peddling. With all the other
congressional scandals cropping up, she hadn’t given the story much
more than a glance at first. Then a name had caught her eye, the
name of a small, privately held company in Illinois—Morrow
Warner.

The influence the dear senator had been
peddling went far beyond the expected pork barreling. He had
dabbled in foreign affairs and foreign wars, foreign corporations,
foreign currency, and especially foreign imports. The press had
labeled him the “Global Connection,” and all of his hard work had
been directed toward filling the coffers of Morrow Warner.

Johanna knew who owned Morrow Warner. She
also knew that no one else did, because she had hidden the owner’s
identity in miles of paperwork, barely skirting the law herself. A
precaution, Austin had said, something for his old age, something
the board of directors of Bridgeman, Inc., couldn’t take away.

Saturday’s paper had
confirmed worse than influence peddling by the senator and had
alleged extortion. Then that morning’s Sunday
Post
had quoted “reliable sources”
confirming extortion and alleging underworld connections and a
possible tie-in to an assassination. Two hours after she’d read the
article, Austin had called wanting to visit her, personally, that
night.

Johanna had thought about notifying the
police, then realized irrationality wasn’t her best option. Austin
hadn’t been charged with anything, and asking someone to dinner
didn’t qualify as a crime. Powerful men were easy targets for
scandal and allegations. Both the Illinois senator and Austin
Bridgeman were powerful men. She knew better than to jump to
conclusions, or to believe everything she read in the
newspapers.

Still, she wished her law partner, Henry
Wayland, had decided to stay in Boulder for the weekend just this
once. She would like someone to be with her when Austin came, since
she’d decided to beg off dinner, and drinks, and especially long
talks about old times. The best posture for her to assume was one
of cool formality and discretion.

At least that’s what she’d thought earlier.
Now darkness had fallen and she wasn’t sure.

In a distracted gesture, she ran her hand
back through her hair. Damn Henry for disappearing every Friday.
She knew he did it to escape his mother, but that was ridiculous
for a grown man. She didn’t even know where he was. All she knew
was that he’d be back by Monday morning at 9:00 A.M. sharp. Henry
was nothing if not reliable.

Austin was reliable, too, but not in a
comfortable way. She had worked for a powerful man. She knew power
corrupted; she’d seen the workings of corruption firsthand.

Assassination
. It was improbable . .
. but was it possible?

She had seen Austin break men with less
thought than some people gave to lunch. A few times she’d helped
him. It was part of the game of high-stakes business. Winner take
all. Losers run like hell.

She wasn’t running. She could handle
Austin.

She turned back toward the street. The only
movement was a gray sedan cruising the block at a crawl, no doubt
looking for the rare parking spot.

Raising her chin, she rolled her head to one
side, easing the ache of muscles gone tight with strain. She
continued the motion by lifting her hair off the back of her neck
to let the night wind blow against her skin. It was so damn
hot.

Her suitcases were still packed in her
bedroom. She probably should have run.

She probably should have run like hell.

* * *

Dylan watched her with a narrowed gaze,
taking in every sinuous line, every sultry curve. She made jeans
look like custom-tailored slacks and a silk T-shirt look like a
thousand dollars’ worth of handwork. It was Johanna Lane all right.
Pure sweet class from the sheen of her honey-blond hair to the arch
of her foot, which he’d previously seen only encased in
butter-soft, Italian leather heels. He remembered everything about
her, everything he’d seen at a distance. Austin’s rough boys
weren’t allowed to fraternize with the upper echelons of the
hierarchy. He doubted if Johanna Lane remembered he existed. He
hoped not. It would only make things harder—on him.

He opened the duffel bag and took out a wide
roll of cloth tape. Tearing off a length, he taped the
passenger-door handle to a random spot beneath the dash. The rest
of the roll went in his overcoat. He didn’t have time to talk her
into going anywhere. Nor was he particularly inclined toward
explanations. He hurt too damn bad. He’d been two days without
sleep, almost as long without food, and he was bleeding again. He
could feel the fresh dampness seeping down the right side of his
chest. He’d killed a man last night in Lincoln, but not before the
bastard had cut him.

Get out. Get out while you
can
, his conscience whispered. Then he
remembered he didn’t have a conscience. He’d killed a man in
Lincoln to save a worthless life—his own—and maybe one that was
worth a whole lot more, Johanna Lane’s.

He turned and, with a quick jab of the gun,
broke the dome light in the sedan. The last thing he needed was a
welcome-home signal when he brought her out.

* * *

Johanna closed and locked the French doors,
then pulled the sheers and the drapes. She’d packed her suitcases
on a gut instinct, and the later it got, the more rational her
instinct seemed. If she hurried, she could still catch a flight to
Chicago. Once she was safe in her parents’ big house, Austin
Bridgman would look more manageable. And it had occurred to her
more than once that she might end up needing a good lawyer. Her
father happened to be the best.

In the bathroom, she threw her toothbrush,
comb, and makeup into a small bag. Before she put in the aspirin
bottle, she shook two pills into her hand, then a third. It was
definitely turning out to be a three-aspirin night.

She swallowed the pills with a glass of
water and left the water running for a second glass. The heat had
been oppressive all day, and not even night had lowered the record
temperatures.

A sound in the living room drew her head
around. She shut the water off and listened again, concentrating,
trying to hear over the sudden pounding of her heart and the rush
of adrenaline pumping through her body.

When no more sound was forthcoming, she
forced herself to relax enough to think. Her first thought was to
find something to defend herself with, and she grabbed her longest
nail file, the most lethal thing she could find in the whole damn
bathroom. She told herself she was overreacting, but her fingers
wrapped and tightened around the file as if it were a knife.

She stepped quietly into the hall,
listening. If anything looked even remotely amiss in the apartment,
she would slip out the front door and leave. She wasn’t going to
take chances. If Austin had sent someone in his place, someone who
didn’t ring doorbells and use front doors, she needed
protection.

She reached the arch connecting the hall and
the living room and peeked around the corner.

“Ahhh!” The file clattered to the floor,
dropped by fingers numbed from a quick, well-placed blow. Her next
cry was smothered by a large, strong hand. An even stronger arm
went around her middle, crushing her to her assailant’s body.

“My name is Dylan, Dylan Jones,” a harsh
voice whispered in her ear. “I’ve been a lot of things in my life,
but a rapist isn’t one of them. So ease your mind. I don’t want to
hurt you.”

She squirmed violently in his arms, but his
strength was indomitable.

“Your name is Johanna Lane,” the voice
continued, “and four months ago you worked for Austin Bridgeman.
You need to decide if you’re going to cooperate, or if we’re
leaving here the hard way.”

Johanna stilled.
Austin
had
sent
someone else. She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, fear and
anger at her own stupidity washing through her. She should have
run.

“Feel that?” her captor asked, his voice
breathless and gravelly.

Something pushed against her hip, and she
nodded.

“It’s a twelve-gauge shotgun, and I am
definitely threatening you. We’re going out into the hall, into the
elevator, and out the front door. That’s cooperation. The hard way
is with you unconscious, or taped up, or both.” He lifted the gun
and rested the barrel against her temple. “Do you want to do this
the hard way?”

She shook her head once, very slowly. He’d
said he didn’t want to hurt her; he’d also made it clear he would
hurt her if he felt the need. She was too frightened to believe the
first statement, and too frightened not to believe the second.

“Good.” He stepped back toward the door,
holding her tight against him while he opened it a crack and
checked the hall. “Go.”

They moved toward the bank of elevators, his
body propelling her forward, pushing her from behind, overriding
her faltering gait. The gun wasn’t at her temple. She didn’t know
where it was, but she didn’t doubt its presence or his willingness
to use it, yet she still wanted to scream and fight him. A greater
fear kept her from doing either.

Dylan stayed behind her on the long walk
down the hall, her body clasped to his. He kept behind her in the
elevator, applying just enough pressure on her arm to let her know
he wouldn’t tolerate a struggle, not even the hint of one. He
wasn’t into terrorizing women, but he was committed to worse if she
gave him any trouble. He knew Austin Bridgeman, and he knew he
didn’t have time to be nice.

The elevator doors whooshed open in the
lobby. For a moment freedom was fifteen steps away. In the next
instant it was gone. A group of men stepped into the pool of light
illuminating the portico of the apartment building—with Austin
Bridgeman leading the pack.

Dylan lunged for the “Close Door” button on
the operating panel, shoving the woman away from him and into a
corner of the elevator. He single-handedly pumped a shell into the
chamber of the twelve-gauge, keeping the gun leveled at her and
giving her a grim look.

Johanna pushed herself deeper into the
corner of the elevator, instinctively widening the distance between
herself and the man called Dylan Jones. The urge to scream receded
to a dull, throbbing ache in the back of her throat. His eyes were
brown, dark and bright with an overload of adrenaline. Beard
stubble darkened his jaw. His light-colored hair was longer in back
than in front, and in front it was standing on end, raked through
and furrowed—wild, like the gleam in his eyes.

The mercury had pushed ninety-two that day,
but he was wearing an overcoat, a lined overcoat stained with dirt
. . . or blood. A torn black T-shirt molded his torso, soft black
jeans clung to his hips and legs.

He was bruised on one side of his face and
cut on the other. He was muscular and lean, hard, stripped down to
the basics of strength. He was feral.

Dylan waited, listening and watching her
size him up and grow more afraid. There was nothing but silence
outside. Nothing but the noise of their ragged breathing inside.
Then the mechanical sound of the other elevator moving intruded.
Dylan steadied himself with a breath and removed his finger from
the “Close Door” button. The doors slid open. He stepped out,
ready.

Johanna heard a movement, a scuffle, and a
muffled thud. Now was the time to scream, she told herself. Dylan
Jones hadn’t been sent by Austin. Austin had come in person to talk
with her.

The thoughts had no sooner formed than she
was jerked out of the elevator. The violence of the movement
knocked the breath from her lungs. The speed with which he dragged
her across the lobby, his hand tightly wound in a fistful of her
shirt, the gun jammed against her ribs, kept her breathless. She
stumbled, and he hauled her to her feet, always shoving her
forward, keeping her fighting for her balance.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the
crumpled figure of a man lying next to the elevators. She tried
once more to scream, but as if he’d known what her reaction would
be, he moved his hand from her shirt to her neck and applied a
warning pressure. She sobbed instead, and his hand immediately
loosened, but only the barest of degrees.

He pushed the building doors open with his
shoulder. Heat, sultry and intense, engulfed them. She stumbled
again on the steps, and once again he kept her upright, on the
thinnest edge of her balance.

Johanna knew now was the time to fight and
kick, to scream and cry, but Dylan Jones never gave her the chance.
He was a master at keeping her half off her feet and moving too
fast to think. She did manage a hoarse moan, but a renewed pressure
in her ribs with the gun barrel stifled the rest of her verbal
rebellion.

They crossed the street,
keeping to the shadows of the trees and the parked cars lining both
sides of Briarwood Court. Johanna had chosen the neighborhood for
the quiet elegance of the older homes and the architectural charm
of the apartment building. For three blocks in either direction,
Briarwood Court was a haven of upper-middle-class wealth. She had
always felt secure and protected—until tonight.

With a harshly voiced set
of commands, Dylan directed her toward the gray sedan. “Get in on
the driver’s side. Don’t mess around with me—just get in and scoot
to the middle of the seat. Do
not
touch the passenger-side door. I’ve got it rigged
to explode if it opens.”