“I can do it,” Erin cut in. “I learned the goddamn codes. All eight of them. Good-bye.” And off she flounced without looking back, offspring howling and wiggling, diaper bags swinging angrily. Pissed as hell.
“Leave them off,” she shouted down after Erin’s stiff, retreating back. “It’s about time for Rosalia to leave anyhow.”
Erin muttered something rude, and slammed the door to the security room. Tam shrugged inwardly. What the hell. Narrow-eyed, she stared down at the card that lay on the table. Picked it up, fingered it.
She actually felt curious, in spite of her apprehension. Tempted to check it out. Maybe…maybe she wouldn’t dismiss this out of hand without investigating further. Very, very carefully, of course. She’d been so wound up in dealing with Rachel’s problems, it had been a long while since she’d organized any sales. The coffers could always use a fresh influx of ready cash. She liked cash.
She stared at the cookies that were left on the plate in the middle of the table. She could smell the butter from the other side of the room.
Some perverse impulse prompted her to grab one. She examined it from every side, sniffing all its glittering, sugary, cholesterol-laden, artery-plugging, insulin-resistance-causing, cellulite-provoking glory.
Deadly in its own way. Like one of her jewelry creations.
Rosalia appeared in the kitchen entryway. Tam’s cookie-holding hand dropped down under the table as if she’d been caught stealing.
Too late. She could tell, by the discreetly delighted smile the older woman tried so hard to hide. “Nine o’clock tomorrow?” Rosalia asked.
Tam mumbled an affirmative. “Go right on out,” she said. “The security’s disarmed. Erin left it open.”
Rosalia nodded toward the cookies. “Enjoy,” she said. “Next time I do the caramel leche cookies. You try, you like for sure, hmm?”
Tam winced inwardly. She’d created a monster. “Tomorrow then.”
Rosalia clumped down the stairs, humming cheerfully. Tam stared at the cookie in her hand. It seemed to stare back, smug and impassive.
Oh, what the fuck. She was destined to die anyhow. She took a bite, chewed. Sugar fireworks went off in her brain. Wow.
She chewed it very slowly and realized with surprise that she was genuinely curious to see just how handsome and charismatic a guy had to be to dazzle a woman as gooey-in-love with her husband as Erin was. He had to have some mojo. He probably thought he was God incarnate, which was a big freaking bore. Or else he was a merciless hired killer engaged to take her out. Which was much more interesting, but a big, fat, dating disadvantage. And mortal danger tended to be a sexual turnoff. She took another bite of deadly bliss, staring down at the card. Janos. Hungarian, maybe. If the name was real, which was doubtful.
She realized she was smiling at the irony of it. Demure little Erin, earnest girl nerd, trying to fix her up. Trying to get her laid, of all crazy things. Hah. Cute. Misguided, wrong-headed, insane…but very cute.
She tossed it into her mouth, wallowed in the sugar orgasm, let the buttery, sugary sexuality surrogate melt on her astonished tongue.
Huh. Go figure. She felt…inexplicably better. Scary, that.
The only way to know for sure if her current identity was truly compromised would be to suss the guy out, do her X-ray eyes routine on him. Men were easy to read, particularly for her. A few well-placed words to strip them bare, cross section them, and the thing was done.
After all. She’d hate to throw away everything she and Rachel had here out of sheer paranoia. She would have to be careful, but hey. She’d always liked risk. Though she could no longer afford to like it, not with Rachel to factor into the mix. She reached for another cookie.
It might even be kind of entertaining to cut this guy down to size.
Chapter
6
Val stepped into the building that housed Shibumi, an exclusive private dining club, and gave his name to the security personnel at the desk, secretly vibrating with unprofessional excitement while they called up to see if he was expected. They verified that he was and he proceeded up to the sixteenth floor. Shibumi was the meeting place stipulated by Tamara Steele on the computer bulletin board, the only way she would deign to communicate with him after her initial phone call the day before. She had posted the meeting location a half hour before. A cautious woman.
He still could not believe his luck.
He wrestled his mind back into matrix mode. Cool, detached, and watchful. He must not betray himself by demonstrating urgency or fear. He couldn’t even think about Imre, sitting slump-shouldered and alone in a dark, locked cell. Or about what could happen to the child in Novak’s hands. Or the fate that awaited Tam Steele if he carried out his mission. The things he’d seen, in Novak’s underground chamber.
Things that still haunted him.
Don’t. He pushed the memories aside. Tonight’s job was simplicity itself. Buy Imre more time until he could think of a fucking plan. That was all. Tonight, he was a rich Roman entrepreneur, on a mission for profit. A confirmed playboy who loved wine, women and money. All he had to do was charm her…and seduce her. On film. Hah. Easy.
He would deal with all the rest of it one fucking minute at a time.
He had identified a short list of priorities as a basic framework to work from. One, keep Imre in one piece. Two, keep the child far from the action. Three, spare the woman. Four, stay alive himself, if at all possible. If not, pazienza. He died. So what? He hadn’t really expected to live all that long anyway.
The elevator opened onto an elegant, tasteful room decorated with Japanese paneling and screens. He informed the impassive Asian man behind the desk of his appointment. The man picked up the phone, murmured into it in Japanese. Moments later, two tall, very broad men came out. One was fair and one was dark. He recognized them both from the surveillance cameras he had mounted outside the McClouds’ homes. The blond man was Davy McCloud, the dark one was Nick Ward.
Their muscular bodies were dressed in surprisingly good suits, discreetly tailored to make room for their shoulder holsters. They had the requisite flat, watchful look of security personnel on their faces.
“Mr. Janos?” said McCloud. “Come with us, please.”
McCloud led the way, while Ward fell into place behind him. Val had been surprised to hear the man pronounce his name correctly. Yah-nosh. They returned to the elevator, and proceeded to the next floor, which evidently housed the private dining rooms. A key card opened one of the doors. A small, paneled anteroom had a closet for his coat. The security men watched him while he hung it up.
“Ms. Steele does not want to meet with anyone carrying a weapon,” McCloud said.
Val thought about that for a moment. “Ironic,” he murmured.
The man’s expression did not change. He waited.
“Will she abide by the same terms?” Val asked.
The two men glanced at each other and shrugged. “Not our business,” said Ward. “Ask her yourself. See what she says.”
“You’re free to leave, if you don’t like it,” McCloud added.
He crouched and pulled the knife out of his ankle sheath. It was just as well that he’d left the pistol, considering it out of character for a wealthy businessman. He’d figured that the knife was an accessory that any man abroad in an unfamiliar foreign city might choose. He felt naked without it. But his hands and feet were weapons themselves after years of intensive training in various martial arts disciplines.
McCloud took his knife. Ward stepped up, gesturing for him to lift his arms. “Excuse me,” he said, sounding far from apologetic.
Val