Barbara Dunlop - The Baby Contract

Did 10 percent sound like enough? she wondered. Maybe she should claim 15 percent. Or was fifteen too much of a stretch?

No. It wasn’t a stretch. The number of women in need of some form of personal protection was growing by the month. In fact, it was growing by the week. Maybe even by the day. Should she say day?

Yes. By the day. That was a perfectly fair claim to make—15 percent and growing by the day.

Dressed in pale gray cargo pants, a blue sweater and sturdy leather boots, she pulled open the stenciled glass entry door. The Pinion reception area was compact, decorated in gray tones, with a sleek steel-and-smoked-glass counter curving around the back wall. A man stood behind it dressed in black. His hair was cropped short, his chin square and strong, and his arms and shoulders all but bulging from the three-quarter sleeves of his T-shirt.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a deep voice.

She smiled, trying to look friendly and innocuous, like the kind of person a man would want to help. “I hope so,” she said, striding forward to the countertop. “I’m looking for Troy Keiser.”

The man hit a couple of keys on a computer terminal recessed into the desk in front of him. “You have an appointment?”

“Not for today,” she answered. “We’ve been corresponding for a few weeks, and my plans were fluid.” She stopped talking, hoping he’d draw the conclusion that Troy Keiser was willing, even intending to make an appointment with her.

“Your name?” he asked.

She wished he hadn’t asked that, but she couldn’t see a way around giving it to him. “Mila Stern.”

Troy Keiser—and, she had to assume, the entire human resources unit of Pinion Security—would recognize her name as the woman whose job application they’d rejected three times over.

The man pressed a button on his compact headset.

Mila continued to smile even as tension built within her. She was fully qualified to become a security agent at Pinion, even if Troy Keiser wouldn’t admit it. She had a degree in criminology and a black belt in Krav Maga, along with significant technical surveillance and tactical weapons training.

The man waited, and Mila waited. She knew if he talked to Troy Keiser, it would be game over before she made it past the lobby.

Her gaze flicked to the elevator doors behind him. No doubt they were controlled by a passkey. If she was lucky, there was also a staircase from the lobby. She drew his attention by smoothing back her brown hair, pretending to check the French braid that held it in place. At the same time, she surreptitiously scanned the room.

There it was. A stairway door. She let her gaze slide right past it without pausing. If Troy refused to see her, she’d make a break for the stairway. Reception man would have to circle the end of the counter to come after her, giving her a head start of two, maybe three seconds.

He might call for backup on the second floor, but that would take five to seven seconds. She could run a flight of stairs in three, and this was only a nine-story building. She’d duck out at the fourth floor and try to lose them. Assuming the stairwell doors weren’t locked. They could easily be locked.

The man ended the phone call without speaking and pressed another number.

Mila waited, hoping a new call might work in her favor.

“Vegas?” the man said into the phone. “There’s a woman here for Troy. No, no appointment. Mila Stern.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing on Mila.

She shifted her weight to the ball of her left foot, getting ready to sprint.

“Will do,” he said. The suspicion seemed to go out of his eyes.

She took a chance and waited a moment longer.

He ended the call. “You can meet Hugh Fielding on the second floor.”

Yes. At least she’d make it out of the lobby.

“Is Troy here?” she dared ask.

“He’s busy at the moment. But Vegas should be able to help you.”

She wanted to ask what Troy was doing, or more importantly where Troy was doing it. Was he on the second floor or somewhere else?

The man pressed a button, and a light on the elevator behind him turned from red to green.

“Thank you,” said Mila, heading for the elevator.

She knew that Hugh Fielding, nicknamed Vegas, was Troy’s business partner. He might not have recognized her name. Then again, he might be planning to run interference, to keep her away from Troy, maybe even to escort her directly out of the building.

During her research of the company, she’d learned Troy Keiser undertook most management functions, including making the hiring decisions. It seemed Vegas Fielding was the technical expert.

She stepped inside the elevator. The two was already lighted on the panel. Taking a chance, she reached out and pressed nine—might as well get as far away from Vegas as possible to start her search. The white circle lit up.

The doors closed, and she moved to a front corner, flush against the wall beside the door. If she was very lucky, Hugh Fielding would think the car was empty and assume she was catching the next elevator.

It stopped on two, and the doors whooshed open.

Mila held her breath, hearing phone chimes and several voices outside. No footfalls approached the elevator, and none of the voices seemed raised in alarm.

The doors closed again, and she let out her breath, easing out of the corner as the numbers counted to nine.

When the doors opened on the ninth floor, Troy himself stood outside. His arms were folded over his chest, and his feet were braced apart. It was obvious he was expecting her.

“Seriously?” he asked with an arched brow.

“Hello, Mr. Keiser.” She quickly exited the elevator.

If it descended without her, she’d have at least a few moments with him.

“You just broke into my building.”

“No,” she disagreed. “Mr. Fielding invited me in. I’m sure nobody could break into the Pinion Security building.”

A flare came into his blue eyes. She could only hope it was amusement and not anger.

“Vegas invited you to the second floor.”

“But the person I really want to see is you.”

“So you hijacked the elevator to the private floor?”

Mila glanced along the short hallway that ended in two doors. “I didn’t realize it was a private floor.” She wasn’t about to admit she’d planned to search the building from the top down in order to find him.

“How can I help you, Ms. Stern? And no, you can’t have a job. Sweet-talking your way past reception does not prove your superior tradecraft skills.”

“That wasn’t my intent.”

“What was your intent?”

“To talk to you in person.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

Mila’s brain immediately leaped to her rehearsed points. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the number of high-profile businesswomen, female politicians and celebrities in need of some form of personal protection is rising every year. Estimates show that companies focusing on that fast-growing demographic can see an increase in business of up to 15 percent per year. And offering services that cater specifically to—”

“You’re making that up.”

She didn’t let the interruption rattle her. “I’m not. Any number of public sources can point to the rise in female political figures, industrialists, high-powered rock stars.”

“The 15 percent. You made up the 15 percent.”

He had to be guessing. Mila was a very good liar.

“It’s more anecdotal than scientific,” she allowed. “But the fundamental point—”

“We already cater to women,” said Troy. “We protect hundreds of women, with better than a 99-percent success rate.”

There was something slightly off in his expression. He was lying right back at her. But why would he lie? And then she got it. He was making up the 99 percent to mock her.