He opened the rear door, got her seated and followed her inside. The minute he closed the door, Mason drove away. Safe!
“Seat belt,” he said to her. “Mason, do you know the door we’ll enter at the medical center?”
“Northeast corner.”
“That’s near my office.” She opened her purse and started digging. “I have a key card to use on that entrance.”
“It’s handled,” he said. “We downloaded the hospital floor plan and figured out your routes to and from the OR and your office. Detective Cisneros arranged for key cards and necessary identifications since I’m carrying a concealed weapon and can’t go through scanners.”
For the first time since he’d met her, Jayne seemed to be impressed. Usually, he didn’t care if the clients noticed that TST Security did a solid, professional job, but her opinion was important to him. He liked Jayne and wouldn’t mind getting closer to her. After this job was over, he’d like to get close enough to pick out her wild undies.
“What are we going to tell people about you?” she asked. “If I introduce you as my bodyguard, I’ll have to explain a thousand times why I need guarding.”
The thought had already occurred to him. He didn’t consider himself a master of disguise, but he was capable of fading into the woodwork as a computer nerd and—thanks to Mason and his bodybuilding workouts—Dylan could expand his narrow frame enough to look big and tough. Today, he was wearing a tweed sports coat, jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail at his nape.
He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. “I think I can pass as a professor.”
“Interesting thought,” she said as she studied his look. “You do have an academic look, but you’d need a whole background story. Somebody would catch on.”
“I could be a boyfriend.”
Her full lips drew into a circle. “No, no, no, no, no. I don’t want to start that rumor. Besides, we don’t let friends and family into the OR.”
“Much as I’d like pretending to be a neurosurgeon...” He actually would enjoy playing that role. The brain fascinated him. “I don’t think your patient would appreciate that disguise.”
“Or my insurance carrier.”
“I’ve got it,” he said. “I’ll be a journalist doing an article on America’s hottest neurosurgeons.”
“Oh, swell, and doesn’t it bother you to reduce the schooling and talent it takes to become a neurosurgeon to an article about physical attractiveness?”
“I’ll be a regular old journalist. My catchphrase will be—don’t pay any attention to me. I’m here to observe.”
“Perfect.” Glancing toward the driver’s seat, where Mason sat stoically behind the wheel, she lowered her voice. “Do you really think I’m hot?”
“You sizzle, Doc.”
At the medical center, a sprawling complex at the edge of Denver’s suburbs, he rushed her through the side door and up one flight of stairs. From studying the floor plan, he knew exactly where her second-floor office was located. It spoke well of her status that she had her own small office space with a door that closed. Not much larger than a walk-in closet, the room had one floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, a desk with a chair and two other chairs for guests.
From his web research, Dylan recognized the man who had taken the swivel chair behind her desk.
Jayne stopped short and glared. “Hello, Dad.”
Inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, Jayne attempted to maintain a calm breathing pattern. Nobody wanted a jumpy brain surgeon; she had a responsibility to her patient to remain calm. The worst thing would be to let her father get her rattled.
Dramatically, Peter the Great rose from the chair and stood behind her desk. His barrel chest puffed out like a rooster. She hadn’t seen him in ages, not since she’d bought her house and he came to Denver to tell her it was a dump in spite of the changes she’d made, which she took as a challenge to renovate even more. In his tailored gray pinstripe suit with his neatly barbered chocolate-brown hair, which was the same color as hers, he managed to look decades younger than the age indicated by his birth certificate.
He wore his “concerned” face—an expression that hadn’t changed since she’d come home from kindergarten with a bloody nose and Dad had hired a professional boxer to teach her self-defense. There was a crease between her father’s dark eyebrows; his chin jutted out and his mouth pulled into a frown.
“Last night,” he said in his resonant baritone, “you should have called me to let me know you were all right. I was worried.”
It’s not always about you. Anger seethed inside her. She wanted to scream and yell and tell him that she could have been hurt, could have been kidnapped and it was his fault. But what if it wasn’t? What if their suspicions were wrong? She was furious and, at the same time, she felt an ache inside. She wanted to rest her head against his shoulder and cry away her fears and doubts.
Preventing either response—yelling or weeping—Dylan extended his hand and introduced himself as her bodyguard. “I’m the one who kept Jayne from calling you. For her safety, we moved her to a secure location and turned off her cell phone so the intruder couldn’t triangulate her signal and find her.”
“You’re the guy I talked to on the phone this morning, the one who wouldn’t tell me where you took my daughter.”
“That’s correct.”
“You’ve got one hell of a nerve, son.”
“Over the phone, I can’t accurately verify your identity.”
“You sure can. I can send you my photo. Or you can watch in real time while I’m talking on my cell phone.”
“The intruder disarmed a high-tech, high-quality alarm system at the house. Hacking a cell phone and transmitting a false identification would be child’s play for him.”
“Jayne should have used another phone to call me.”
“Dr. Shackleford requires several hours of sleep before she performs delicate neurosurgery.” Dylan turned to her. “Doctor, you should speak to your assistant, Eloise. I have a few questions for your father regarding Martin Koslov.”
He practically shoved her out of the office, and she couldn’t have been more grateful. She walked down a short hallway to an attractive waiting room, where two patients sat in comfortable chairs reading old magazines. The medical assistant/receptionist was feeding the gang of tropical fish in the five-foot-long aquarium. With her hair dyed a purplish red, Eloise was nearly as bright as the fish with their streaks of neon blue, yellow and mottled green. She had named her fishy friends and made up fishy stories about their lives.
“Sorry about my dad,” Jayne said.
“You don’t need to apologize. Meeting Peter the Great is a big deal for me. If I’d known he was going to be here, I would have brought a used plane ticket for him to autograph.”
“He’s not in the airport business anymore.” But he probably flew one of his private planes up here from Dallas. “Maybe he could autograph a used oil can.”
“You know, Jayne, I never ever pry, but my fish are totally nosy. Hedda—the black one with yellow stripes—wants to know about your cute male friend with the glasses and ponytail.”
“A journalist, he’s doing a story on neurosurgery.”