Kate Donovan - Exit Strategy

“I want respect. And-” she gave a sheepish shrug “-a rain check, if you don’t mind.”

“Beg pardon?”

She pouted as she rubbed her jaw. “I have the most excruciating toothache. The only reason I didn’t cancel my appointment with Mr. O’Neill was that he’s a new client, and I didn’t want to make a bad impression.”

It was her best routine, cultivated from dozens of lame dates with even lamer informants. While most women used headaches as their primary excuses, Miranda had quickly discovered that men were resourceful enough to work around that particular ailment. But a toothache? That made kissing painful. And as for Gresley’s favorite indoor sport? It was almost impossible for a girl with an impacted molar!

She could see from his puzzled expression that he was wondering what use she’d be to him in her condition. To add to his dilemma, she stepped closer and murmured, “I can’t keep calling you the Prince of Darkness. Do you have a human name?”

He laughed. “You may call me Alex. And you must allow me to introduce you to the Gresley family remedy for toothaches. I promise, it will work.”

“But will it cost me my soul?”

Gresley’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “I’m not interested in your soul, Miranda. Just restoring your mouth to health. Do you like Scotch?”

“Is that the remedy?” She smiled. “I was practically raised on it.”

“I have a twenty-five-year-old vintage Macallan at my town house. And my driver is waiting for us at the door.” He paused to look her over, openly admiring the copper dress and its contents. Then he offered her his arm and suggested, “Shall we?”

To Miranda’s relief, Gresley was a perfect gentleman during the short limousine ride to his town house. Not that she was concerned for her own safety. The man was in passable shape, but no match for her. She was quite certain she could literally kill him with one arm tied behind her back. The driver would present a more formidable challenge, but there was a tinted privacy panel between him and the passengers, so even he wasn’t a threat, at least for the moment.

From her study of Gresley’s file, she knew just what questions to ask him to put him at his ease and make him feel self-important. By the time he ushered her into an elegant sitting room on the second floor of his home, they were laughing and chatting like old friends. He seemed harmless and only slightly depraved, but she reminded herself of the scene at the Fortuna, and the way he had treated that other girl, so she didn’t let her guard down.

When he finally left her alone, explaining that he wanted to instruct the servants not to disturb them, Miranda scooted over to his desk and began to snoop, but found nothing. Then a nearby briefcase caught her eye. There was no lock on the clasp, so she opened it and found a pad of lined paper covered with handwritten notes and labeled “Manifesto.” Thrilled, she dug through her purse, located the barrette-camera, and snapped shots of the notes.

She had barely returned to her seat on the lavender silk sofa when her host reappeared, carrying a tray containing a bottle and two cut-crystal glasses. “You won’t find anything this smooth at the Fortuna,” he assured her.

Miranda gave him a smile, then took a sip of the Scotch, swishing it in her mouth as though treating her injured tooth. “I think it’s infected. This has been going on for almost two weeks. If your remedy doesn’t work, I might have to break down and go to the dentist.” She shuddered. “I hate those needles. And the drill. The very thought of a dentist terrifies me.”

Gresley edged over so that his thigh was pressed against hers. “I have an associate who could help you with that little problem. His research in the area is phenomenal.”

Miranda licked her lips. “He does research about people who are afraid of the dentist?”

“All phobias, actually.” Gresley nuzzled her neck, then trailed his lips up to her mouth.

“Ow! Oh, sorry.” She pulled away, grimacing. “Maybe we should just call it a night. It’s late, and my mouth is getting worse instead of better.”

Gresley scowled, and seemed about to complain, when a doorbell sounded from the ground floor. “Ah, help has arrived. I took the liberty of sending for someone to assist you. You’ll be feeling better in no time at all. Excuse me for just a moment.”

Miranda stared after him as he left the room. Was he actually telling her that Jonathan Kell was at the door? Here in London? What fantastic luck! And to think she had almost flown to Geneva that night!

Think, Miranda, think, she pleaded with herself. You’ve got to completely change your approach to Kell. You don’t need to refer to Ortega, or lure him with the vial of HeetSeek. Gresley is giving you the perfect entrée-a dental phobia! Kell will see you as an instant kindred spirit.

All she needed now was a way to dump Gresley and pick up Kell. The phobia angle was nice, but she had a feeling the copper dress would be at least as effective a tool, so she crossed her legs, allowing maximum skin to be exposed by the slit.

When the door opened, she licked her lips and prepared to smile, but her coquettish expression faded before it began when she saw that Gresley was accompanied by two men, neither of whom were Jonathan Kell.

The first was the burly driver who had transported them from the Fortuna. The second was a slightly built gray-haired fellow carrying a black leather case.

“Miranda Duncan? May I present Phillip Make-peace, my personal physician. He’s here to take care of that toothache.”

Miranda stood and backed away, annoyed. “I told you, I don’t like needles. Or anyone touching my mouth, dentist or doctor. Send him away.”

Gresley shot his driver a curt glance. “Take hold of her.”

“No!” She held up her hand in warning. “The escort service trained us for this, you know. And they have excellent lawyers, or barristers, or whatever the hell you call them over here. So just back off before you buy yourself a shitload of trouble.” Her eyes narrowed. “I can guarantee you, I’m not worth it.”

“I’d prefer to be the judge of that,” Gresley said with a sneer. “Settle down. You’ll get double your standard fee.” Turning back toward his driver, he barked. “Do as you’re told! Now.”

When the physician pulled a syringe from the bag, Miranda pretended to whimper. “No. Please let me go.”

Her behavior had the desired effect, making the driver less wary as he rushed her, his huge hands outstretched.

Using the same technique that had worked so well at Ortega’s cabin, she grabbed his forearm and used his own momentum to propel him past her, sending him crashing into a curio cabinet that shattered upon impact, raining glass and splinters down on him.

He was dazed, but she knew he wouldn’t stay down for long. She could possibly sprint past the other two men and out the door without further engagement, but her adrenaline-charged system wanted Gresley, who was frozen in disbelief. So she strode up to him and smashed her fist into his face. And while she yelled from the pain that shot through her knuckles, she knew from the sound of his jaw shattering that his agony was far worse than hers.

But just to be on the safe side, she also kneed him brutally in the groin, then watched in satisfaction as he crumbled to the floor and curled into a ball.

“Better have a dentist look at that mouth,” she advised him with a tart smile. Then she spun on the doctor, who was backing toward the doorway, the needle still in his hand.

“Drop it and run,” she warned. “Now.”

But he was looking at something behind her, and she knew the driver was back on his feet, so she turned to him, arching an eyebrow as she spied the pistol in his bloodied hand.