Chapter Eight

The limousine pulled up to the curb outside the boutique’s door, and Mitch got out and surveyed the street. Andrea looked out the window, chewing her bottom lip. A few shoppers strolled the sidewalk carrying colorful bags stuffed with their treasures. No one looked threatening, but the relative serenity of the area did little to calm her galloping pulse. When a driver blasted his car’s horn to protest the limo blocking a big portion of the narrow roadway, she gasped and jumped an inch off the seat.

Kenyon left to check the back alley and rear exit, and a minute or two later, returned and nodded an okay. Gregory reported by radio: all clear. Mitch checked the store interior and returned.

When Mitch swung the door open, Andrea squared her shoulders and slid out of the car. The men formed a human shield at her sides. They quickly escorted her across the sidewalk and through a set of ornate glass doors. A lock clicked behind her, blocking the entry of any other customers.

Safely inside, Andrea released the breath she’d been holding and gazed around the shop. Okay, new problem: getting this little excursion over with as swiftly as possible. Life was too short to waste a lot of time agonizing over the color or style of what she wore. Comfort and utility were more important than elegance. She preferred shopping online. Whenever she was forced to go into a brick-and-mortar store, she liked to grab a couple T-shirts off a display table and make a quick exit.

Her spirits sank. This place had no display tables. Artwork graced the walls where she would have expected to find racks of clothing. A few items were artistically draped on mannequins, but for the most part, the shop looked empty. Shit. Weaver was only going to give her one store, and he’d picked the wrong location. What was she supposed to do now?

An attractive, impeccably dressed and coiffed woman of about thirty hurried to where Andrea stood. She smiled broadly. “Good morning, Miss Stone. I’m Marla. If you’ll come this way, please.”

How did the woman know her identity? Had someone warned her of the visit? Weaver? She wanted to throw him a questioning glance, but kept her gaze from straying. This was the first true test of her ability to be Karli Stone, and she was determined to ace the exam. Reminding herself Karli enjoyed shopping, she nodded. “Yes, of course.”

The woman motioned toward one of two cushioned armchairs flanking a matching table that held a crystal dish of mints and a selection of style magazines. “Please have a seat. Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

When Andrea hesitated a microsecond, Weaver said, “Blouses and casual tops.”

“I’ll look at what you have in blouses, then I’d like to see something in a nightshirt,” Andrea said with an air of displeasure in her voice and a haughty glance over her shoulder, hoping Weaver would get the message.

The woman pretended to ignore that Weaver had spoken and said, “Of course.” She pulled out a measuring tape. “May I?”

Andrea raised her arms to be measured.

The woman smiled. “I’ll just be a second.” Then she hurried away.

Weaver whispered, “Karli wears negligees.”

“I can’t sleep in something with narrow straps that try to strangle me, and naked won’t work when I might have to run outside in the middle of the night.”

His mouth tightened and his nostrils flared. She sensed she’d said something that left him speechless. Good. She sat, crossed her legs, and looked around, wondering what she was supposed to do while she waited for the saleswoman to return.

A man in a suit and tie approached. He stood stiffly enough to be mistaken for one of the mannequins. “May I serve you some refreshment?”

“Water would be wonderful,” Andrea said.

The man hustled away and returned almost instantly with a laden silver tray. He set a small ice bucket and a crystal wineglass on the table. “Ice?”

“Yes, please.”

He used sterling tongs to drop a cube into the glass, then poured sparkling water over it from a pitcher. He set down the pitcher and lifted the glass, handing it to Andrea along with a linen cocktail napkin.

Andrea took the glass and sipped the water. “Thank you.”

“May I get you anything else, Ms. Stone? Perhaps a croissant or petit four?”

“No, thank you.”

The man dipped his head in something like a bow and backed away. Andrea moistened her lips. Yow! If they treated Karli Stone like this, what would they do for royalty?

Weaver stood beside her chair, stiff and at attention, the perfect bodyguard for a rich socialite. He was considered the hired help and hadn’t been offered water. The whole scene felt surreal. She’d fallen into a rabbit hole and ended up in a world where the extent of someone’s wealth made the rules.

If she hadn’t changed out of the jeans and into a soft pair of white slacks and stiletto heels, would she be less welcome? If she showed up as Andrea Carnegie in her favorite T-shirt and cutoffs would they have called the police and had her escorted right out the front door?

Seconds ticked by with only the soft notes of a piano tinkling from hidden speakers. Impatient but trying to look rich and bored, Andrea picked up a magazine and flipped a couple pages, feigning interest. A few minutes later, the saleswoman reappeared, rolling a small rack filled with merchandise. She removed the first hanger and held up a silky flower-print blouse, fanning out the bottom to demonstrate the cream-like flow of the fabric. “This is a Dolce & Gabbana original in cornflower blue. We have the same style in lilac, in a slightly bolder pattern. But with your coloring, the blue will be stunning.”

Andrea didn’t think drooling would be appropriate, so she nodded. “Blue is fine.”

Next, the woman held up a white linen scoop-neck top with tiny pearl buttons down the front and a wide band of peach embroidery along the edges. She positioned a coordinated pair of short shorts beneath the top. “This marvelous ensemble arrived just yesterday.”

The designer had established his name by doing an Inaugural Ball gown for the first lady. The set was too frothy for Andrea’s taste, and she frowned, ready to shake her head.

Weaver spoke up. “That’s perfect for you, Ms. Stone.”

The saleswoman gave him a wide grin, and a speculative look crept into her eyes. Andrea wondered if having Weaver Velcroed to her side was a mistake. Would the woman think they were lovers? Would she start circulating rumors about Karli? His remark was too personal for the average ship’s officer to make to a woman who was merely his employer. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Not wanting to make a scene, and realizing he was right, Karli would wear the frilly outfit even if she wouldn’t, Andrea quickly waved a hand in a blasé manner and acquiesced, “Send it along.”

For just a split second, she wondered how much the ensemble cost. Then she reminded herself Dillon Stone was a billionaire. A few thousand dollars was pocket change to someone with that level of wealth. Whatever the cost, he could afford it. And asking the price would probably be a social gaffe.

She shook her head, declining the next two items. The third and fourth she accepted. The fashion show of blouses and tops lasted another fifteen minutes. She bought one more ensemble and an exquisite Valentino evening sweater in mint-green cashmere. After the final blouse, the woman held up a Chinese-red nightshirt with black dragon print and black rickrack loops fastening a row of carved black buttons halfway down the front. The long satin sleeves were full at the wrists and trimmed in the same black. The back was matching shiny satin.

The woman slipped her hand between the front and back to show that the front sections were sheer, almost transparent. “This comes with coordinating black sleep bra and panties,” she explained.

The nightshirt was miles fancier than the oversize cotton shirts Andrea preferred for sleeping. But Weaver stood nearby viewing the skimpy panties, and his efforts to study the ceiling and floor, in fact look anywhere but at the garment, made her self-conscious. She decided not to take the time to ask for something else. “That will do.”

“May I show you another rack?”

“Not today, thank you.” She didn’t look at Weaver. Moistened her lips. “But I would like to see a couple bras.”

The woman took more measurements, then hustled away again. Andrea sipped more water. Couldn’t Weaver find anything more useful to do than stand here and watch while she shopped for underwear?

When the saleswoman returned and held up the first scraps of lace, Andrea shot a sideways glance in Weaver’s direction, squirmed in her seat, and said, “How many do you have there?”

“A dozen.”

“Send them all.”

“Shall I include the matching panties?”

“Of course.”

Weaver cleared his throat, his expression pained. Andrea wondered if he considered her choice of words to be some sort of mistake. But he merely pulled a credit card from his pocket, handed it to the woman, and said, “Please have everything delivered to the Black Swan.”

That earned another broad grin and a slightly flirtatious toss of her head from the saleswoman.

Andrea rolled her eyes at the woman’s potentially fatal mistake. If Andrea, as Karli Stone, and Weaver, as her bodyguard, had been lovers, Karli would be jealous, and the woman could have just blown a very lucrative sale. A devil sat on her shoulder and suggested she give the woman an icy stare. She might not want Weaver for her lover, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get into the role of pampered-socialite-screwing-the-hunky-pool-guy and pretend. The woman needed to learn not to flirt with another woman’s man.

Andrea raised one eyebrow and flashed the woman a disapproving look. Her message seemed to register; the woman’s eyes widened, and she licked her lips.

Chuckling inside and feeling successful in the role of stuffy socialite, Andrea headed for the front door. A slight twist of her ankle reminded her to pay attention to how she set down her feet, and the reality of her mission rushed back into the forefront of her mind.

She was a target. This whole charade was for the benefit of a would-be killer.

Her mouth went dry when the moment came to step outside the shop. She inconspicuously squeezed the purse where she’d concealed her weapon, thankful Gregory had brought her backpack to Karli’s cabin and she had her own means of protection. Feeling the outline of the hard metal shape inside the purse gave her a slight sense of comfort. Unlike her partner and the other Rangers, a weapon was something she could be certain she could depend on if the need arose.

Weaver put an arm out at her waist like a barricade and stopped her at the door. “Wait here.”

He left her alone and went outside. After he’d scanned the street, a signal passed between him and Kenyon. He remained vigilant, studying the roadway while Kenyon got out of the limo, then he opened the rear door in preparation for her entry and returned to where she stood. “Okay.”

The feeling of being hunted wrapped around her again. Pulling in a fortifying breath, she stepped outside onto the sidewalk. Weaver used the same procedure as when they’d entered. He took her right side, with Kenyon positioned as her left blocker.

Weaver scanned the nearby buildings as the threesome walked in unison. He asked Kenyon, “Where’s Gregory?”

“The rooftop across the street.”

“Have either of you seen anything suspicious?”

“Nada. Shoppers and sightseers.”

Trying to act casual, yet watch where she was going, Andrea looked for Gregory. She saw no one and was impressed that such a big man could be so well concealed. She glanced up and down the street, warily scrutinizing the shoppers, then hustled into the car. Weaver closed the door after her and slid into the front seat beside Kenyon. Her heart rate and breathing slowed to normal as they crept back along the narrow, crowded roads to the marina.

In the parking lot, Weaver reconnoitered the area, then swung open the door. “Okay, it’s clear.”

She walked quickly to the golf cart, and Weaver drove out the dock to the yacht. When she stepped onto the deck, a ton of tension lifted from her shoulders. Maybe she should have bought the blouses even larger so she could fit a bulletproof vest underneath. Not that a vest would help if a sniper aimed for her head.

Weaver walked her to Karli’s cabin and said, “Even while you’re on board, I expect you to report everything you plan to do, other than meals with Stone. If we know where you’ll be, my team and I can prepare.”

“This afternoon, I’m going to swim some laps, then sunbathe while I study the family albums. Other than that, I’m going to work out in the exercise room mornings before breakfast.”

He nodded. “I’ll join you. Be your training partner.”

She hadn’t planned on company and wasn’t excited about the prospect. “I prefer to work out alone. And I’ll be fine. No one can get a shot at me in an interior cabin.”

Ignoring her attempt to dissuade him, he said, “I’ll be there anyway.”

…

Mitch stood out of sight in the shade with his back to the wall and watched Carnegie shuffle through a stack of papers. She’d swum two dozen laps in the pool, then climbed out and attacked her collection of data just as she’d said she would. He had planned to stay only until she was settled on deck, but the sight of her leaving the water, sunlight glistening on her wet body, had kept him rooted in place while she rubbed a towel over her arms and legs. He liked the way she filled out a swimsuit, and he was assigned to watch her. A grin tugged his lips upward. Ranger assignments were rarely this easy and enjoyable.

His grin collapsed. Some assignments were hell and resulted in death and anguish. Some assignments bred nightmares and fed the nagging voice of self-doubt.

Reminding himself he was here to watch as in protect, not watch as in leer, and the best way to ensure this assignment had a different outcome than his last one was to maintain a state of readiness, he stepped out into the sunshine to make a circuit of the deck and check for anything amiss. A buzzing noise above caught his attention.

He shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the area. Someone was flying a drone about a hundred yards from the yacht. Not taking any chances, he rushed to where Carnegie was sitting.

“Get back into the pool. Go to the deep end on the far side and stay up against the wall where that drone can’t get you in its sights unless it’s directly overhead.”

She glanced up and scanned the sky as she walked toward the pool. A graceful dive brought her to the wall he’d specified, and she surfaced, shook the hair from her eyes, and looked to him for further instructions.

He spoke into his radio. “Gregory, bring your rifle and scope up to the pool deck and take up a position near the elevator. Pronto.” Then he grabbed a silver tray off the table next to the chair where Carnegie had been sitting and walked to the far side of the pool so that he was positioned standing above her. He angled the tray to reflect sunlight toward the drone. If the suspect aircraft was in the area to spy on Karli, or something more sinister, the person controlling it would have to respond to the bright flashes of blinding sun by bringing it closer. If the pilot was simply an annoying nerd, he would probably direct it away.

Carnegie asked, “What’s happening?”

“I’m trying to determine whether the drone’s in the area because of Karli or here by coincidence.”

“I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

“That’s something we agree on. There’s rarely any such thing.”

The buzz grew louder as the drone moved closer to the boat.

Gregory reported, “In position.”

“There’s a drone at your eleven o’clock. Put the scope on it and check it out.”

A few seconds later, the reply came. “There’s a suspicious-looking tube mounted under the camera.”

“Wait until it gets a little closer and will fall on the deck, then take it down.”

“Roger.”

The drone continued its approach. Carnegie spoke from the pool. “If you think that tray is thick enough to deflect a bullet, hand it to me, and I’ll hold it over my head.”

He grinned at the image of her wearing a tray like a hat as he passed it down to her. “If it makes you feel better, be my guest. Don’t worry, though. You wouldn’t be anywhere near here if I believed the pilot could get a clear shot at you. Plus, Gregory is a sharpshooter. He’ll down it before it’s in a position to try.”

The buzzing continued for another half minute, then Gregory took the shot. The drone’s blades tilted and hit the rotor. Two of the four blades fell in an arc to the left and splashed into the water next to the yacht. The motor and payload section dropped straight down, thumped onto the outer edge of the deck, and went silent.

Mitch rushed to where the payload section had fallen and crouched next to the wreckage.

Gregory appeared at his side a second later. “Looks like a rudimentary dart launcher. Somebody probably cobbled it together using Taser parts.”

“That would be my guess, too.”

Carnegie rushed up, water dripping from her limbs and hair. “Good shot. I’ve never seen anyone hit one of those before.”

Mitch glanced up at her and was momentarily distracted by all her beautiful bare skin. Forcing his attention back to the wreckage, he said, “See if you can find me a box we can put this in, Greg. And bring me a pair of gloves. We’ll send it over to the lab and have the techs take a look at it.”

Carnegie peered at the dart launcher. “Do you think those could be laced with poison or something?”

Leaning forward, she positioned her chest at Mitch’s eye level and revealed the provocative space between the swell of her creamy-skinned breasts. His blood pressure spiked, but he managed to keep his awareness from affecting his expression or voice. “Poison is always possible, but I doubt it. Hitting you would be too iffy a proposition, but getting a dart anywhere near you would send a message. This is a scare tactic meant to shake up Dillon Stone. They’re adding an exclamation point to the letter.”

She stood and turned slowly in a semicircle, scouring the harbor from one side to the other. “Where do you think the pilot could be?”

“Any one of a million places.” Mitch stood and, noticing a lock of wet hair dripping next to her eyes, pushed it back from her forehead. His finger moved slowly, prolonging the contact long enough to send sparks shooting up his arm. Freezing, mortified, he yanked his hand back as if he’d brushed a hot stove. Why the hell had he touched her? Was he completely losing his senses? Acutely aware that he had to get a grip, he forced himself to do a mental one-eighty. “You can go back to what you were doing now, Ms. Stone. The excitement is over. Sorry for the interruption.”

She blinked, looked in his eyes, then pivoted with the grace of a ballerina and sauntered back to her chair and her towel, her perfectly rounded ass holding Mitch’s attention. “Thank you. You know, someone should pass laws to regulate those annoying things. Having people spying on you from the sky is a terrible invasion of privacy.”

…

An hour later, a cool shadow fell over Andrea’s face, and she opened her eyes. Dillon stood like a towering sequoia next to her lounge chair.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I want to ask you to join a business associate and me for cocktails later. He specifically requested to meet Karli, or I would have made an excuse for you not to be there.”

“It’s no problem,” she said, sitting up and grabbing a towel. Self-conscious about the swimsuit’s fit, she swung the towel around her shoulders and tugged the ends together over her chest. “Unless you think he’s a threat. Do you know why he wants to meet her?”

“Nothing nefarious. She’s a regular donor to one of his favorite charities. Do you know anything about horse rescues?”

She shrugged. “A little. They rescue animals that are being mistreated. I’ve seen pictures of some of the horses they help. The poor animals looked starved and sick.”

“Karli donates to Save the Horses. She got involved when she heard owners who could no longer afford feed were sending animals across the border to Canada to be slaughtered and sold for meat.”

Andrea twisted her mouth in chagrin and exhaled. “Does she actually work at the rescues or just support them financially?”

“She’s afraid of big animals, so she sends checks but doesn’t help with the labor.”

“That’s good. I’m not a horse person, either. The only pony I ever tried to feed an apple was rude enough to bite my hand. I can talk generally about them, but I’d be hard-pressed to sound intelligent about their actual care.”

“Well, then if you don’t mind, he’ll arrive for cocktails in about an hour. We’ll be on the observation deck where you and I lunched yesterday.”

Andrea stood and picked up the floppy hat she’d brought along to pull down and shade her face. “Then I better go change.” She envisioned the huge closet and paused. Cocktails on the Black Swan probably involved a dress code more sophisticated than happy hour at the pub near her apartment. “What would be appropriate for me to wear?”

“Karli would choose a lightweight dress, probably the sleeveless mint-green faille Armani with the round neckline and pencil skirt. She has a lovely emerald teardrop pendant and earrings for jewelry.”

She gave him an appraising look. She’d expected a vague casual, dressy, or semiformal. “I can’t believe you know her wardrobe. Most men are oblivious.”

“I try to pay attention to every facet of her life.”

Andrea gathered up the photo albums. “Okay, I’ll look for the dress you described.” Hopefully it fits.