Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

Longsford said, “Wait,” and then just looked at her, a hard assessment.

“I know your time is valuable,” she said, and stepped into the opening he’d left. “Please, let me take you to lunch. I have a complete package of information, including financial details. Bring your accountant-bring whomever you’d like. If you’re still not interested, then I’ll move ahead with the reception.”

He didn’t respond right away, visibly weighing the decision. One last nudge… She smiled at him. “Your choice of restaurant, of course. You call the shots, all the way.”

His nod came abruptly. “As long as you understand that.”

“It would never work any other way,” she assured him. “I’m a facilitator, not a manager.”

He withdrew a business card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over to her. “Call my secretary.”

Crap. It would have been much better if she’d been able to pin him down on a day and time-

“I’d love to make sure you have first crack at this,” she said, even as she took the card. “I’m seeing my printer-you know Houghlin’s?-tomorrow at eleven to make final arrangements for the reception materials. I’d be happy to hold off my approval on the print job until after lunch.”

Longsford’s frown gave her a glimpse of the man he could be. The man who was capable of snatching young boys from their families and locking them away for his own use…then killing them when he was through. She hid her shiver, wishing her shawl was still draped over her shoulders. She met his eyes, pretended she couldn’t see behind them and smiled. “Please,” she said. “Whatever restaurant is most convenient for you.”

He eyed her in an almost proprietary way, as though he expected to acquire her right along with the property. “Call in the morning for place and time,” he said. “Now. I have my own guests to attend to. Please feel free to make a contribution to the cause. And Maia-” He waited for her to meet his gaze, her expression attentive, before adding, “If you drop something, do let someone else pick it up.”

It sounded like a warning.

Karin put a modest donation to Keep It Green on a credit card and ate enough of the gourmet finger food to satisfy her stomach for the rest of the day. She exchanged dignified and appropriate conversation with the other guests and didn’t overstay her welcome.

It was as she was climbing into the car that her thoughts returned to her encounter with Dave. Her wary, suspicious mind had had time to mull it over-to realize the significance of their encounter. Of just how hard he’d held her arms.

And she thought of the first time he’d held her that tightly, and what he’d really been doing.

“Miss?” Bill paused with his hand on the door.

She smiled at him. “Sorry. It was an interesting event…it left me with a lot to think about.”

“It’s not many find themselves invited here,” he agreed, and gently pushed the door closed.

By the time he settled into the front seat, Karin had found the bug. Son of a-

No, don’t jump to conclusions. Just because he’d put another of those bugs on her-and damned clever about it, too-didn’t mean he intended to track her down and reel her in. Maybe he’d just wanted to keep his hand in the game.

But she couldn’t be sure.

She leaned forward as Bill put the car in gear. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Ma’am?”

“I find myself in need of a nightcap, but not company. And I have a particular fondness for single-malt whiskey.”

“There’s no place in this city I don’t know,” he told her, and grinned. “We’ll get you that nightcap, miss.”

Karin smiled her thanks and leaned back into the luxurious seat, content to pass the time by peeling the tracker patch off the back of her arm, gentle with it as she placed it inside her powder compact. When Bill pulled the car to the curb outside one of the charming little stores near the waterfront-Thomas P.’s, it said, with a window display of lovingly arranged bottles on half casks and velvet-she had the compact palmed and ready to go. It was a simple matter to drop her purse and, upon recovering it, to hide the compact behind the planter along the storefront. Thank goodness for old ploys. And for a community determined to decorate itself with flowering plants.

Maybe Dave would find it. Maybe he wouldn’t. But he certainly wasn’t going to find her.

God, she’s good.

Dave sat in the Maxima outside the recently closed liquor store and couldn’t help the little tingle of admiration, not even as it warred with annoyance. That would teach him to assume anything about Karin Sommers. When the tracker had stopped moving, he’d been certain he’d pinned down her hotel, that from here on out he’d be able to keep a decent surveillance on her.

But no, she’d found the little bug. Found it and stashed it.

That she’d led him to the area’s best fine-liquor store while she was at it…

Okay, that was the part that made him smile.

Made him remember, too, their scotch tasting-his surprise that she knew the formal details, his response to the sensual nature of her delight in the taste of it.

Maybe she’d meant to evoke those memories…maybe not. No assumptions either way.

And he had no idea where she’d take the scam from here. He was within yards of the bug, but couldn’t find it without engaging in some decidedly suspicious activity outside a liquor store in one of the better parts of town.

He’d given her his number. He’d have to hope she used it.

And that was the part that annoyed him.

Or maybe it just frightened him.

He thought about it another moment. Karin on her own against Longsford plying a scam was one thing, but this time the scam was only the means to an end. She was two layers undercover, and she was up against a high-profile player who’d been preying on little boys for years-and a man who killed children wouldn’t stop at killing a woman. Not even the most clever, determined woman with whom Dave had ever butted heads.

Yeah. It definitely frightened him.

Regardless of what she’d told Longsford, Karin had no appointment with the printer the next morning. She called Longsford’s secretary and set up lunch, and then spent her time at the Kate Waller Barrett Branch Library, saving photos off the Ranchwood Web site and pulling the information together in a rough flyer that included the number for the Florida cell phone Dave had sent to Kimmer Reed.

And then she found herself a park bench out in an overcast, rain-spitting day and called the Florida number herself.

The woman who answered the phone was breathless, enough so Karin paused a moment before asking to speak to Kimmer Reed. And then, before the woman could tell her it was a wrong number, Karin quickly added, “This is Karin, Dave’s friend. I’ve got some background info you’ll need to hold your cover.”

Kimmer’s breathing was already settling down. She said, “Don’t mind me, I was on the treadmill. Why did you call the dedicated phone?”

Karin winced. This one was on top of things, all right. She decided then and there that the only way to go was the truth; gut instinct honed by a lifetime of practice told her she couldn’t play this woman. “I don’t have your number,” she said. “Dave and I are still working separately. He probably mentioned that.”

“Not in detail. I know he’s worried sick about you. From the sounds of it, I understand why.”

If he didn’t want it this way, he shouldn’t have made it impossible to trust him.

Totally ironic, considering he was the honor-bound rescuer and she was the one who so comfortably hovered around the line between wrong and right and, by his definition, probably crossed it on a regular basis.