“Tell me, Scott. Does your present employer know the reason for your abrupt departure from the NYPD?”
“He does.”
“And he trusts you with his security? Bartholomew Greene must be a forgiving man. Or very, very foolish.”
Or so deeply involved in the same seamy underworld that had entangled TJ Scott, he’d jumped at the chance to bring the disgraced cop into his fold.
“Isn’t Greene worried you’ll betray his trust? The way you did your badge?”
“I didn’t betray my badge, Red.”
The pet name brought her chin up. She raked him with a withering look, not bothering to disguise her scorn.
“I suppose some people might not consider accepting bribes from petty criminals a betrayal. The squad from the anticorruption task force voiced another opinion when they kicked in your apartment door and found a suitcase stuffed with cash in your closet.”
The shame of that night came rushing back. She and TJ had been asleep when a splintering crash jerked them awake. He’d lunged for his service pistol and rolled naked from the bed. Jordan had dived for the neat little .38 she carried when not in the field. She could still hear the shouts and bellowed warnings, still remember the chaotic confusion of those first few seconds. Even now her cheeks burned with fury when she recalled how two members of the squad had stood watch while she and TJ dragged on their clothes.
That scene had been bad enough. The worst came a few moments later. To this day Jordan carried with her the absolute mortification of discovering that a highly trained and otherwise perceptive OMEGA agent had fallen for a dirty cop. A cop who still claimed he was set up.
“I said it then. I’ll say it again. That wasn’t my suitcase.”
The rough edge to his voice told Jordan he was fighting for control. The knowledge gave her a vicious sense of satisfaction.
“Tell it to the judge, Scott. Oh, wait! You already did, didn’t you?”
“And he dismissed the case against me.”
“Because of a technicality,” she shot back. “Some low-level clerk at the NYPD put the wrong apartment number on the search warrant.”
Fury bubbled to the surface, scorching away the hurt. She snatched off her glasses and let him have the full force of her contempt.
“It didn’t matter what the witness said. That whole chorus of pimps and street pushers who swore they paid you to stay off their backs. I would have believed you, TJ. I did believe you until the police report came back and confirmed your fingerprints were all over those bills.”
She’d kicked herself over and over for missing the small signs that, in retrospect, were so damn obvious. The gold Rolex. The Italian loafers. The weekend at that ritzy Connecticut resort.
Her only excuse was that it had all happened so fast. They’d met at a charity event to benefit children of NYPD officers who’d died in the line of duty. The next afternoon they’d shared a blanket at an open-air concert in Central Park. The following Saturday they’d zipped up to Connecticut for the wildest, most heart-pounding forty-eight hours of Jordan’s life.
She could almost—almost!—forgive herself for missing the signs that the cop with the linebacker’s shoulders and sexy grin was on the take. What she couldn’t excuse was how she’d fallen for the man so fast and so hard.
She knew better, dammit! All those years when she’d lived from hand to mouth, lying about her age, taking any job she could, she’d never let any male get close to her. The bone-deep wariness her stepfather had instilled with his fists had colored her every relationship with adult males. And despite the sultry image she projected on the runway, she’d never promised more than she intended to deliver. Until TJ.
Disgusted all over again at her acute lapse in judgment, Jordan angled her chin. “We’ve had this conversation before. Several times. Is there any point to continuing it?”
He opened his mouth, bit back whatever he was going to say and shook his head. “I guess there isn’t. See you around, Red.”
“That’s right,” she muttered, her eyes on the broad shoulders covered in green-and-white jungle print. “You most certainly will.”
TJ moved with the same lazy grace that had always characterized him. Even in those awful days after his arrest, his shoulders had stayed square and his long legs ate up the ground in an arrogant, self-confident stride.
Wrenching her gaze away, Jordan yanked open the door and approached the receptionist. Dark-haired, dark-eyed and lovely in a ruffled muumuu, the woman greeted her with a warm smile.
“Aloha. Welcome to the Tranquility Institute.”
“Aloha. I’m Jordan Colby. I have a reservation.”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Colby. I have your welcome package waiting for you.”
Reaching under a counter made of a solid slab of gnarled wood, she produced a slim folder.
“This contains a map of the grounds and a schedule of daily activities. There’s also a note from Mr. Greene’s personal assistant, confirming your appointment with him later this afternoon.”
“I don’t see a key to my cottage,” Jordan commented, shifting through the packet.
“You don’t need a key. Entry to all facilities is by visual recognition. All you have to do is look into the blinking red light beside the door. Are your bags in your car?”
“Just a briefcase and carryall.”
“If you’ll give Danny your car keys, he’ll fetch them and transport you to your bungalow.”
Jordan eyed the map and saw her cottage was one of a half dozen scattered along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. The route looked simple and uncomplicated.
“I’ll drive myself.”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” Shaking her head, the receptionist signaled to a native Hawaiian the size and shape of a sumo wrestler. “We don’t allow private vehicles beyond this point. To maintain tranquility, the guest cottages and activity center are also telephone and television free. We ask that you leave your cell phone here at the desk to avoid disturbing the other guests.”
She smiled prettily, her teeth white against her skin.
“There’s a communications room here in the reception center with TV, phone, fax and Internet services if you need to keep in touch with the outside world.”
The tiny transmitter/receiver embedded in the gold earring would keep Jordan in touch with the outside world. She didn’t really require her cell phone and wouldn’t use it in any case to communicate with OMEGA, but decided to make the point that she hadn’t come as a guest.
“I’m here to see Mr. Greene on business,” she said firmly. “I need to retrieve messages and maintain contact with my employees. I won’t carry my cell phone with me when I leave my cottage, but I will be using it and my laptop computer while I’m here.”
The receptionist looked doubtful but was too well trained to argue with a guest.
“Very well. Danny, will you take Ms. Colby to her cottage, please?”
Big, bulky and exuberantly cheerful, Danny steered the golf cart along a path of crushed lava rock and pointed out the institute’s facilities. All the buildings were constructed in the same turn-of-the-century territorial style as the reception center, with steep, hipped roofs, green shutters and wide verandas.
“That’s the Lotus Spa,” Danny said, indicating a structure surrounded by swaying royal palms. “The spa café serves light breakfasts and lunches. Carrot juice and macadamia-nut salads and stuff like that,”