Dangerous Liaisons (26 page)

Jesse glanced down at the standard OIA Navy blue suit coat, skirt, and heels she wore, still unable to believe she rode in a Hummer with Cole on the way to arrest Helen Lanton. Jesse cast a covert glance at Cole, whose attention remained fixed straight ahead. He wore a pinstripe suit, black tie and black wingtips.
Wingtips.
The only similarities in their outfits were the badges hanging off their jackets’ breast pockets, his, with the name Cole Smith.

Followed by two black Crown Victoria sedans, Cole pulled into the driveway of a two million dollar, white Federal style home in Georgetown. A round front porch adorned the façade, with the same shaped balcony above supported by four columns. Green shutters and landscaped flower borders around a manicured lawn completed the picture-perfect disguise. Cole cut the engine. He flashed an encouraging smile, then reached for the door handle.

The FBI agents in the black sedans had been instructed to give Jesse and Cole the opportunity to get Helen Lanton to the door, then they would leave their cars and make the arrest. Jess followed Cole along a brickwork sidewalk to the front porch. She noticed the perfectly trimmed dwarf English Boxwoods. Just like the ones she and Amanda would have had outside their Paris chalet. Cole stepped up to the massive forest-green door with a shiny brass kick plate at the bottom and rang the bell.

A maid opened the door.

“Ma’am,” Cole said. “We’re agents Smith and Evans, here to see Helen Lanton.”

The woman’s gaze flicked to his badge. “One moment.”

She turned and, before the door shut, Jesse caught sight of an antique, colonial-period mirror and Oriental rug.

A moment later, the door reopened. A petite brunette with high cheekbones and pouty lips stood in the doorway. Tops, she weighed a hundred pounds. A chill grazed Jesse’s shoulders. And all along, she’d thought Lanton was the bad ass. Something about Helen Lanton’s yellow, short-sleeved blouse and light blue, denim Capri slacks captured Jesse’s attention, then she realized she’d seen a similar outfit in Vogue from Bergdorf Goodman department store. The outfit ran fifteen hundred dollars. Jesse glanced at the shoes. Gucci. Make that two thousand dollars.

Jesse met her gaze. “Helen Lanton?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’m agent Evans, this is agent Smith.” A look of recognition flickered in Helen Lanton’s eyes.

Her gaze flicked past Jesse as car doors slammed shut, then returned to Jess. “What’s this about?”

Jesse wanted to shout
For murdering six men!
but only moved aside for the men who stepped onto the porch. Helen Lanton’s eyes shifted to the older man, who reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a palm-sized, black leather case. He flipped open the case to reveal an FBI badge and ID card.

“Helen Lanton, I’m agent Brooks. You’re under arrest for conspiracy and the murder of your husband, Robert Lanton, a Federal Agent.”

Brooks brushed past Jesse and Cole, followed by the other three men. “Helen Lanton,” he said as he carefully spun her around and reached back to pull handcuffs from his belt, “you have the right to remain silent.” He clamped them on her wrists, then turned her to facing him. “Anything you say and do…”

Jesse’s blood cooled another notch when Helen Lanton met and held her gaze. No denial, no tears…no emotion. Brooks directed her down the sidewalk toward the waiting cars, reciting the rest of her Miranda Rights. Another agent opened the back door of their black Crown Vic and Brooks pressed her head down as they placed her in the backseat.

Jesse looked at Cole.

“You ready?” he asked.

She nodded. As ready as she’d ever be.

An hour later, Jesse stood beside Cole as they rode the elevator to the eighth floor of the Humphrey Building in Langley. The car stopped and the doors opened. Jesse led the way down the hall. Two agents emerged from the third office on the right and fell in behind them. The agents wore their FBI badges on chains around their necks. She and Cole wore their badges. Hers displayed her picture and agent number over a prominent blue letter B. Cole’s badge had a green letter C behind a far too handsome mug shot.

At Tom’s closed office door, Jesse held up a hand to the three men behind her. “I need a sec.”

She gave the door a perfunctory knock, then entered. Tom looked up from a semi-circle of monitors. He never went home before nine. Why would he, living alone in an ultramodern, sterile townhouse overlooking the Potomac?

His face lit in genuine delight, and he stood. “Jesse. Nielson finally released you. And you look none the worse for wear. I knew you’d come to your senses.” Arms outstretched, he started around his massive electronic desk toward her.

“Actually, I have come to my senses. Only, you’re not going to like the results.”

Tom stopped, confusion chiseled on his expression. His arms fell to his sides. “What do you mean?”

Jesse regarded him. “In the final hour, I was willing to chance it all for you. I couldn’t have been more wrong about everything if I’d planned it. But being wrong about you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” Maybe that wasn’t true, but she wasn’t sure about much of anything. “You never really know a person.”

She stepped aside and Cole slid into the doorway.

Tom looked at him. “What’s going on?”

“I was wearing a wire, Tom.”

He paled. “What do you mean?”

The two FBI agents brushed past Cole. “Tom Montague,” the man in the lead began, “your employment has been terminated. We are going to escort you out of the building. You will accompany us to our offices where you will answer our questions.” Tom didn’t move, and the agent said,
“Now.”

Jesse watched them lead Tom from the office. She had told Blue Leader about the disc in Lanton’s possession. They hadn’t located it yet, but would. A list of OIA’s operatives was dangerous information to have floating around. Nielson was keen to learn how one of their top analysts came to be in possession of the list to begin with. Jesse hadn’t considered that. She wasn’t an analyst. She was recon. She made sure her team had a safe path. Jesse turned and headed out the door toward the elevators. A finality settled into the pit of her stomach. Strong fingers closed around her shoulder. She turned to face Cole.

He leaned close. “We’re finished with business. Are you ready to see your sister?”

“Amanda?” Jesse said, as if the name were foreign.

He gave her that gentle smile, and she wished mightily they were back in the Colombian cantina and she could do it all over again.

City gave way to country on a Maryland road almost as quickly as the lights in Colombia had turned into jungle. Jesse had spent time in the DC/Maryland area, but this place was unfamiliar. For twenty miles, rolling hills surrounded the old highway. The dormers of a house peaked above a distant hill off to the right, then fell from sight behind the next hill.

Cole had refused to tell her where they were going, and Jesse decided the ride would be less painful without an argument. Autumn sun snapped in the crisp air and streamed into the truck cab like liquid gold. She stared out the window, spirited away by the fantasy of walking alone on a quiet path through those green hills. Her heart skipped a beat. No more lying. She didn’t have to look at the man sitting beside her to know she had grown tired of being alone.

The truck slowed and Jesse jolted with the realization Cole had turned up the drive angling toward the house—not house, she corrected, three-story plantation mansion—she’d spotted earlier.

She looked at him. “This is a private residence.”

He kept his gaze straight ahead. “Uh huh.”

Jesse narrowed her eyes.
“Whose residence?”

Cole remained silent.

She felt her temper mount and took a deep breath.

The truck started up the hill, and a moment later, two Australian Shepherds, one blue merle, one tri-colored, crested the hill and raced toward them. A tremor shook her belly. Something wasn’t right. The dogs neared, and Cole slowed. They leaped into the back of the truck. She shot him a questioning look, but he still ignored her. At the top of the hill, the house came into view.

“Amanda and I won’t be staying long,” Jesse said. Maybe being alone had its merits.

“Uh huh,” he grunted and brought the truck to a stop in front of a covered porch.

Jesse was out the truck before his hand touched the keys. The two Aussies smiled and panted at her from the bed as she stared at Cole through the passenger side window. He paused, hand on the key, and raised a brow.

“If you don’t get your ass out here and show me where my sister is, I’ll ransack the house,” she threatened.

He gave a slow shake of his head as he killed the ignition. “My folks might get the idea you don’t like me.”

Jesse’s stomach did a flip. His parents? She stood motionless as he exited the car, then strode around the hood toward her.

When he neared, she said under her breath, “I’ll get you for this.”

“I’m sure you will,” he replied, “but, right now, let’s go see your sister.”

Before she could stop Cole, he took her hand. Her mind jumbled. If they walked into the house holding hands, his parents would get the wrong idea. If she jerked her hand away, they would think she was a bitch.

To her surprise, Cole didn’t go up the front stairs, but led her around the side of the house with the two dogs bringing up the rear. They rounded the corner and Jesse halted. Amanda sat on the grass, slowly stroking the belly of a Bassett hound lying beside her, legs straight up, floppy ears spread, eyes closed. A young woman relaxed on a lawn chair a few feet away.

Cole tugged Jesse forward. She walked beside him, feeling like she had stepped into another woman’s shoes. When they reached Amanda, she looked up at Jesse.

Jesse smiled. “Hi, Boozie.”

Amanda’s face lit. She pointed at the dog. “Dog.”

She returned her attention to the dog, closing the door between them, and resumed the same, slow stroke along his belly. Before long, once Jesse’s attention turned elsewhere, Amanda would offer her gesture of unconditional love by approaching her, then allowing Jesse to hug her.

Cole slipped an arm slip around Jesse’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Jesse looked at him. His eyes shone, and she realized the door between
them
lay wide open.

THE END

We had a great time writing about Cole and Jesse. We hope you enjoyed their story.

If you would like a taste of more of our romantic suspense, take a look at the extended excerpt from Abducted: Texas Rangers Special Ops, Reconnaissance Team.

Stay well,

Evan and Shawn

T. C. Archer

She came for the fashion show. He came to catch a killer.

He's too hot, too smart, and too young… and too damn hard to resist.

The El Paso fashion gala was slated to be the hottest event of the year and a must do if Liz Monahan, the creative brains behind Nina Bruno Designs, was to vault the company to the big time. Circumstances put Liz at the party in one of her own creations, escorted by a young, handsome model hired to show her off to the well-known and well-established. But Liz didn’t count on her date being an undercover Texas Ranger who is investigating a human trafficking ring. She also didn’t count on being kidnapped and trafficked herself.

When Texas Ranger Ben Hunter slips away from Liz Monahan at the gala and begins his investigation, he couldn’t be more surprised to arrive in Juarez, Mexico to find her held captive by infamous human trafficker Carlos Sanchez. In order to save her, Ben must commit murder. Hers.

Nina Bruno Designs caters to the modern woman. The mature woman who knows that life begins after forty.

Liz mentally repeated the litany as she blinked at the strobe of photoflashes illuminating the night outside the limousine. The car slowed behind a line of other limos entering a circular drive and Francis Remmey’s estate came into full view. Spotlights crisscrossed the Edwardian columns and stone façade of the mansion.

Only a few hours ago, she had been giddy at the prospect of getting caught on camera by the reporters that now crowded each approaching vehicle and lined both sides of the walkway leading to the hacienda’s steps. It seemed the entire state of Texas had converged on El Paso for the fashion event of the year, the fifth annual
G International Gala
hosted by Larissa Remmey, owner of
G International
fashion magazine.

Now, however, getting noticed was a double-edged sword.

Liz shifted her attention to the two co-workers sitting across from her. Richard Anderson, VP of Marketing of Nina Bruno Designs, and Brenda Pierce, Head Designer.

“This is a bad idea,” Liz said.

“You and your dress are going to be a hit,” Richard said. “Stop worrying.” 

The knot in her stomach cinched tighter. “What in God’s name were we thinking? We have an arsenal of models, any of whom would pant at the opportunity to debut the first design in our winter collection. Just because Lisa wasn’t able to accept our offer to replace Tanya didn’t mean we couldn’t find someone else. Why didn’t we try?” 

“Name someone else who lives in El Paso,” Richard said. “Even better, name someone old enough who would fit into that dress. You’re the one who’s been selling the idea that older women don’t want to see teenagers modeling the clothes they buy.” 

Liz tugged the bustier top higher. She had to remember to make the darts deeper for women her size. “My
attributes
aren’t enough to warrant me modeling this dress.”

“Yes they are,” he replied. “But the point is moot. We had no choice.”

Liz tamped down on the panic that began three hours ago upon watching the news report that their New York buyer Genevra had declared bankruptcy. That meant the three hundred-thousand-dollar payment they were expecting in sixty days wasn’t coming. An hour after they’d learned about Genevra, they got a call from a local reporter that the model they’d hired to debut their winter-line dress had just been seen getting into a limo outside her downtown El Paso hotel wearing a layered chiffon flamenco-style dress that screamed Jorge Estonia—their direct competition in Dallas.

In a span of three hours, Nina Bruno Designs—the company she had poured her life savings into—had gone from the verge of financial independence to teetering on financial ruin. The worst part was that the employees and investors now expected her to pull off what Tanya could have accomplished in her sleep.

When Brenda had approached Liz with the design early that spring, she’d fallen in love with the strapless, bustier-style leather bodice and chic gathered skirt design. But the thought never entered her mind that she might be forced to wear the twenty-seven-inch dress in an effort to keep the company from going under.

Another Xenon-flash flared, jarring her from her thoughts.

Brenda leaned forward and straightened the strap on Liz’s three-inch heel sandal. “You look as good as Tanya in that dress.” 

Liz pursed her lips. “We promoted Tanya as the model for this dress. People are expecting her, not a replacement ten years older, and certainly not a company executive.” 

“You’re only seven years older,” Richard said. “But you don’t look a day over her thirty-seven.” 

Liz shot him a dry look. “If that’s meant to boost my ego, it doesn’t.” 

Richard returned the look. “Get your priorities straight, Liz. You want our first invitation to Larissa’s gala to be our last? Without this event, our winter collection ends up in bargain stores and we don’t get invited to another major fashion show this year.”

Liz knew he really meant, ‘We won’t be in a position to go to another major fashion show this year—maybe no other fashion show ever.’ The company no longer had the luxury of growing slowly. This was Nina Bruno Designs’ only chance to stay in business. 

“Damn that bitch,” he muttered.

“Richard,” Liz admonished.

He shook his head. “Don’t start with me. You hired Tanya.”

“She’s the best model in her age bracket,” Liz said. “And, as you pointed out, one of the few who would fit into this dress.” 

His eyes lowered to her chest. “Not anymore.” 

* * *

From the corner of his eye, Ben saw another limo stop in front of the estate and turned his head in time to see the rear door open and Richard Anderson emerge from the vehicle. Anderson turned and extended a hand into the car’s open doorway. A slim arm reached toward him and cameras flashed in quick succession as a long, shapely leg stretched toward the paving stones. Elizabeth Monahan’s face came into view, illuminated by camera lights.

Ben lifted an eyebrow in appreciation as she rose to her full five foot nine—no, he dropped his attention to her three-inch heels—her six-foot
height
. He raised his gaze up those long legs, then the pleated skirt that brushed toned thighs, and blew out a silent whistle.
Whoa
. Her breasts nearly spilled over the bodice of the leather top—the dress that was kicking off the winter collection for Nina Bruno. His appreciative mood vanished. What was the Creative Director of Nina Bruno Designs doing wearing the dress Tanya Xavier—his date—was supposed to be modeling?

NB Designs had hired him as Tanya’s escort. He was the arm candy that said,
Buy this dress and land a man like me
.

Something had gone wrong for Elizabeth Monahan to be wearing the main attraction. Was he to escort her or did the change of plans include another escort? Maybe she decided that Tanya would wear another dress. He didn’t like surprises. She should have called. But why would she? He was just the hired help.

Richard Anderson slipped Ms. Monahan’s hand into the crook of his arm and led her toward the steps. Toward Ben. She glanced left, and the press snapped photos and thrust microphones toward her. Then she spotted him. Her brow furrowed. Understanding hardened her expression and Ben read in her eyes a mirror image of his thoughts: 
What the hell are you doing here?
He’d bet a thousand bucks someone forgot to call him to cancel. Damn good thing, too, because he’d have come no matter what.

They reached him.

“This isn’t going to work,” Elizabeth hissed under her breath.

She had that right. Was that a hint of nipple peeking over the bodice of her dress? The damn thing was scandalous, even for these over-the-top designers.

“You knew Adam was going to be here, Liz,” Richard said in a low voice. “You hired him.” 

Adam Billings. His alias.

She flashed a dazzling smile that caught Ben off guard before he caught sight of a reporter pointing a camera at them. The camera flashed and her smile didn’t falter when she said under her breath to Anderson, “You know good-and-well I forgot he was going to be here, and you conveniently forgot to remind me.”

She darted a glance over her shoulder, clearly worried her whispered words might have been overheard by a reporter who had edged closer. Not much chance of that happening amid the babble of other reporters.

She really couldn't ask him to leave, but he had to play the part of a pliant employee. Ben angled his head away from the reporters in case any of the vultures could read lips. “I can leave, if you prefer, ma’am.” 

“Liz, half of Texas is watching us,” Anderson said. “Make a scene now, and it’ll be all over the state before the evening is over. We need him.”  

Something Ben couldn’t quite define flickered in her gaze, then she shot Anderson a look to kill. “I sleep with the CEO, Richard. You’re fired.” 

Ben bit back a laugh.

Anderson nodded. “Sure thing, Liz. As soon as the party’s over, I’ll pack up my desk.” He transferred her hand to Ben’s arm. “She’s all yours. Good luck.”  

The determination to get to know her better had formed two days ago, during a photo shoot with him and Tanya after the Thompson Agency sent him in to replace the model originally hired to escort Tanya.

Ben glanced at her legs, then reminded himself not to combine business with pleasure. So what if he hadn't expected to see her tonight dressed in an outfit that heated his blood? He had to get inside the Remmey’s mansion. Business now. Pleasure later.

Liz gripped his arm and he had the feeling she was considering a quick getaway. Ben covered her hand with his—if nothing else to keep her from bolting. Liz Monahan was his ticket through the door. 

He led her up the stairs and a man dressed like a British soldier opened the door at their approach. They entered the foyer and the door closed behind them, cutting off the voices. Ben squinted against a glow of chandelier light bouncing off the white marble floor. A sweeping staircase to their right led to a gallery that encircled the foyer. Directly ahead, three arched doorways opened to the rear of the estate. An escape route if anything went wrong. But Liz Monahan as his date might ensure nothing went wrong. Slipping away from her would be easier than ditching Tanya. If Liz was all business as she had been during their shoot two days ago, she wouldn’t miss him.

He steered her left, toward the music wafting through an arched doorway. They reached the room and he turned Liz right in the direction of a dancefloor near a twelve-piece orchestra.

Ben waited until they’d passed a man and woman talking in low tones before whispering to her, “Is that true?” 

She looked up. “What?” 

He leaned closer. “Do you really sleep with the CEO?”

Frustration flickered across her features. “No, but I’d give him a go if he really would fire Richard.” 

Ben laughed. He just bet she would. “He’s right, you know. You are the one who hired me.”  

Her eyes narrowed. “
You
I
can
fire—and don’t think your good looks will stop me.” 

So she had noticed. During the photo shoot she’d appraised him like a prize horse.

Ben shrugged. “I’m an independent contractor, if you recall. I don’t have to work for Nina Bruno Designs again.” 

“Nina Bruno Designs is the best designer this side of the Mississippi. You’d be a fool not to want to work for us again.” 

She actually sounded offended.

“Maybe that means I should sleep with
you
,” he said.

She shot him one of the looks she’d given Anderson. “I don’t rob the cradle.” 

“Then I guess we have a deal.” 

She opened her mouth for a retort but, instead, smiled at a large group they skirted a large group

“Not that I’m disappointed,” he said, “but where is Tanya, by the way?” 

She slowed and her smile wavered. “Over there.” 

He looked across the sea of bodies in the direction she stared. Tanya stood surrounded by a group of men. The man on her left shifted so that his face came into view and Ben’s heart jumped to a hard hammer.

Carlos Sanchez.

The human traffics dealer wasn’t supposed to be in Texas.