Diana Palmer - Soldier of Fortune

Her eyes lingered on his dark, unfathomable face as she complied with J.D.’s curt order to put her seat belt on. “Mr. Brettman, why did you bring me along?” she asked softly.

“You’re my cover, honey,” he said, and smiled sideways at her. “We’re lovers off on a holiday.”

“The way I look?” she chided.

He reached over and took the pins out of her coiffure, loosening her hair. His fingers lifted the glasses from their perch atop her head, folded them, and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. He reached over again and flicked open the buttons of her blouse all the way down to the cleft between her high breasts.

“Mr. Brettman!” she burst out, pushing at his fingers.

“Stop blushing, call me Jacob, and don’t start fighting me in public,” he said gruffly. “If you can remember all that, we’ll do fine.”

“Jacob?” she asked, her fingers abandoning their futile efforts to rebutton her buttons.

“Jacob. Or Dane, my middle name. Whichever you prefer, Gabby.”

He made her name sound like bowers of pink roses in bud, like the softness of a spring rain on grass. She stared up at him.

“Jacob, then,” she murmured.

He nodded, his dark eyes searching hers. “I’ll take care of you, Gabby,” he said. “I won’t let you get in the line of fire.”

“You meant it, didn’t you?” she asked. “You’re going to try to rescue Martina.”

“Of course,” he replied calmly. “She and I, we had a tough time as kids. Our father drowned in a bathtub, dead drunk, when we were toddlers. Mama scrubbed floors to keep us in school. As soon as we were old enough, we went to work, to help. But I was barely fifteen when Mama died of a heart attack. I’ve taken care of Martina ever since, just the way I promised I would. I can’t let strangers try to help her. I have to.”

“Forgive me,” she said gently, “but you’re an attorney, not a policeman. What can you do?”

“Wait and see,” he told her. His eyes surveyed her quietly, approving her elfin beauty. “I’m not in my dotage yet.”

“Yes, sir, I know that,” she murmured.

“Jacob,” he repeated.

She sighed, searching his dark eyes. “Jacob,” she agreed.

That seemed to satisfy him. He glanced past her as the plane started down, and he smiled. “The Eternal City, Gabby,” he murmured. “Rome.”

She followed his gaze and felt her heart lift as the ancient city came into view below. Already, she was leaping ahead to the time when she could actually see the Colosseum and the Forum and the Pantheon. But as she remembered the reason for their being in Rome, her enthusiasm faded. Of course there wouldn’t be time for sightseeing, she reasoned. J.D. was going to be too busy trying to get himself killed.

The drive into Rome was fascinating. They went in on the Viale Trastevere, through the old part of the city, across the wide Tiber on an ancient bridge. The seven hills of Rome were hardly noticeable because of centuries of erosion and new construction, but Gabby was too busy gaping at the ruins they passed to notice or care.

They went right by the Colosseum, and her eyes lingered on it as they proceeded to their hotel.

“We’ll find a few minutes to see it,” J.D. said quietly, as if he knew how much it meant to her.

Her gaze brushed his hard face and impulsively she touched her fingers to the back of his hand. “It really isn’t that kind of a trip,” she said softly.

He searched her worried face. His big hand turned, grasping hers warmly in its callused strength. “We’ll have to pretend that it is, for a day or so at least,” he said.

“What are we going to do?” she asked nervously.

He drew in a slow breath and leaned back against the seat, handsome and rugged-looking in his vested suit. It strained against massive muscles, and she tingled at the sight. J.D. had always affected her powerfully in a purely physical way. It pleased her eyes to look at him.

“I’m working on that. But one thing we’ll be doing in the hotel,” he added slowly, “is sharing a suite. Will that frighten you?”

She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of anything when I’m with you, Jacob,” she replied, finding that his given name was more comfortable to her tongue than she’d expected.

He cocked a heavy eyebrow. “That wasn’t the kind of fear I meant, actually,” he murmured. “Will you be afraid of me?”

“Why would I be?” she asked, puzzled.

He blew out a harsh breath and looked out the window. “I can’t think of a single damned reason,” he growled. “I hope Dutch got my message. He’s supposed to call me later at the hotel.”

“Dutch?” she queried softly.

“A man I know. He’s my go-between with Roberto,” he replied.

“Roberto and Martina don’t live in Rome, do they?” she asked.

He shook his head. “In Palermo. So, for all appearances, we’ll be a couple on holiday, and there won’t be anything to connect us with the kidnapping.”

“Will this man Dutch know if Martina is still in the country?” she asked.

“He’ll know,” he said with certainty.

He was obviously irritated with her, so she didn’t press him with any more questions, contenting herself with staring at every building they passed.

Their hotel was disappointingly modern, but the old-world courtesy of the Italian desk clerk made up for it. He was attentive and outgoing, and Gabby liked him at once. J.D., however, seemed to have misgivings about him. He didn’t share them with her, but he stared aggressively at the poor little man.

He had booked them a suite, with two bedrooms. Gabby hadn’t expected anything else, but J.D.’s behavior was downright odd. He glared at the elegant sitting room, he glared at her, and he especially glared at the telephone. He went out on the balcony to pace and smoke, and Gabby felt as if she were going to fly apart, he made her so nervous. She went into her bedroom and unpacked, just to have something to do. The sudden sound of the phone ringing startled her, but she didn’t go back into the sitting room; she waited for J.D. to call her. Meanwhile, she changed into jeans and a silky green top, leaving her hair loose and her reading glasses in her purse. She did look like a tourist on holiday. That ought to perk up J.D.

He called to her about five minutes later, and she walked onto the balcony to find him staring blankly out at the city. He’d taken off his jacket and vest and opened the top buttons of his shirt. His thick, wavy hair was mussed, and one big, tanned hand was still buried in it. A smoking cigarette was in the other hand, which was leaning on the railing.

“Jacob?” she murmured.

He turned. His dark eyes focused on her slender figure, so intent that they missed the shocked pleasure in her own gaze as she took in this sudden and unexpected glimpse of his body. Where the shirt was loose, she could see the olive tan of his chest under curls of dark hair, and rippling muscles that made her hands itch. Her whole body reacted to his sensuality, going rigid with excitement.

“Dutch,” he said, nodding inside toward the phone to indicate who his caller had been. “Martina’s out of the country.”

She caught her breath. “Where?”

“Guatemala. On a finca —a farm—owned by a terrorist group.”

Her eyes searched his hard face. “Why would they take her there?”

“Terrorism is international, and this particular group probably have holdings all over the world. The rule of law in Guatemala is notoriously inefficient, which makes it a good place to hide a kidnap victim.” He laughed bitterly. His jaw tautened. “They’ll kill her if they don’t get the money. They may do it anyway.”

“What are you going to do?”