Dana Marton - Ironclad Cover

She felt a small pang of jealousy. When was the last time a man had touched her with so much passion?

“Zoning can be changed,” the words came from the other room, drawing her attention.

Was that Cavanaugh?

Would the couple in the garden hear him and look up?

Probably not, she decided after a second. She could barely hear as close as she was. She didn’t think the people below would catch anything but a low murmur, and even that would probably be drowned out by the general buzz of conversation filtering out from the downstairs windows that were much closer to them.

“I sure hope so, I’d hate to lose all that money,” said yet another man next door.

How many of them were in there besides the two she had seen entering?

“Some guy is coming your way.” Gina’s voice sounded urgent in her ear.

Anita glanced toward the door. There were at least a dozen rooms opening off the hallway. What were the chances that whoever was coming would come into hers? She could hear doors open and close. Whoever it was, he was looking for someone. Probably one of Cavanaugh’s friends coming late to the meeting.

She stepped off the balcony railing, anyway, just in case. And not a moment too soon. Her door opened slowly, revealing a dark silhouette.

“There you are. I thought I saw you come this way. Still alone?” Michael Lambert stepped into the path of the moonlight and strolled toward her with a satisfied smile.

She took a slow breath and willed her clamoring heart to slow. She could have been caught. “The cigar smoke was starting to bother me. I thought I would grab five minutes of fresh air and some quiet.” She watched him. Was he buying it?

He smiled like a man who did, so she relaxed a little.

“May I just say that you’re the most beautiful woman here tonight?” He stood in front of her, too close, and held her gaze. His eyes looked black in the dark.

She couldn’t remember their real color from earlier.

“Thank you.” She accepted the compliment that would have felt even better if he weren’t interrupting her surveillance. Still, it had been a while since she’d been alone with a handsome man who found her desirable and told her so.

“So what do you do on the island? I detect a lovely accent from up north.”

“Just started a new company, business consulting,” she said, and gave a few sentences worth of details. You never knew who he could be connected to.

“Impressive,” he said.

“And you?” Maybe she would recognize the company name. If he was ruining her eavesdropping, at least she could see if he might not be a possible link—maybe a way to get introduced to Cavanaugh.

“Land development,” he said.

Any connection to the real-estate deal being discussed next door? “Sounds exciting.” She smiled and tried to look fascinated. “Tell me more.”

“Heaven forbid.” He gave her another one of his sexy grins. “Boring a lovely lady is an unforgivable offense. Especially when there are so many other fascinating things we could talk about.” He unleashed a slow grin. He was a charmer and he knew it.

“Such as?” She played along.

“I haven’t seen you at one of these receptions before. Are you new to the island?”

“—going up.” Gina was saying something at the same time as Michael talked, so Anita caught only part of it.

“Relatively,” she told Michael. Didn’t matter if they got caught now. It would look like they were up here with romantic intentions. She doubted anyone would bother with them. “You’ve been here long? I hardly know anyone here.” Hint: I wouldn’t mind some introductions.

“Hardly anyone is worth knowing,” he murmured and leaned forward. “Present company excluded.”

Before she knew what was happening, Michael was brushing his lips against hers. But despite how easy this could have been, her hands came up to his chest and pushed him away, even as her brain registered how nice it was to have that kind of human contact again.

Her heart beat a confused rhythm in her chest as the door opened behind her. Michael raised his head.

Busted, she thought and turned just in time to see Brant Law, FBI agent extraordinaire, walk into the room with a disapproving scowl on his face. He was a lawman through and through, right down to his stance—a perfect fit for his name.

He flipped on the lights and the sudden brilliance of the chandeliers forced her to squint. What on earth was he doing here?

“WOULD YOU LIKE to tour the facilities and see how the project is coming along, sir?” The man’s voice was cutting in and out.

“No,” Tsernyakov said into his phone. He had no desire to walk through a biohazard lab, to link himself in any way to this latest project or to break the anonymity of the assignment. “I’ll be sending a representative.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up the phone and thought for a moment about whom to send. He didn’t like for even his most trusted men to know too much, be involved in too many branches of the business. He kept them isolated from projects other than their own, from each other. He didn’t want any of them to put together the big picture, to get any ideas about whether they might be able to take over from him.

He leaned back in his chair and ran down his list of top candidates, then settled on one. That should work fine.

A timid knock sounded on his door that he recognized as Alexandra’s.

“Come on in, dear.” He pulled himself straight and put a smile on his face.

“Is this a bad time?” She hesitated in the doorway, young and beautiful, unaware of how the pink T-shirt stretched across her breasts made him feel.

“You could never come at a bad time.” He got up and went to her. “You look breathtaking as always.”

She looked down and blushed. “I was wondering if I could go into town today.”

“Of course, I’ll tell my driver immediately.” He turned toward his desk then stopped, pretending to hesitate. “Unless…”

“If you don’t think it’s—”

“No, no. I was just thinking that I had a busy day. I could use a little time away from the office. I’ve been meaning to take you shopping at Marks & Spencer. Of course, you probably don’t feel like spending the afternoon with an old man like me.”

“You are not old,” she protested instantly.

“I’m not Ivan Ivanoff, either.” Ivan, a famous Russian piano player about the same age as Tsernyakov, had recently married a model younger than Alexandra, the top news of TV stations around the country.

“No,” she agreed. “You’re much nicer. Do you ever think about remarrying?”

He shrugged and tried to look as modest as he could. “Who would have me, anyway?” he said before she could respond. “So shopping, then maybe a movie and dinner?”

“That would be really great.”

Yes, it would be. He hadn’t had the time to work on her lately, but tonight he would make sure she began to see him as something else than just a family friend. He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so glad you are here with me.”

“Me, too.” Her smile was genuine. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”

“Nothing will happen to you, I swear.” Not as long as she pleased him. That’s what he had spared her for when he ordered the murder of her parents—something she knew nothing about.

He would end the year in style, with a new young lover and more money than he’d made on any one deal in his life before.

“Why don’t you wait for me upstairs?” He ran a finger down Alexandra’s face. “I have to make a few more calls then I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a spontaneous hug and was practically skipping on her way out of the room.

“Your next appointment is here, sir.” His secretary’s voice came through the intercom.