Vengeful Bounty (10 page)

“Sounds freaky,” he said, his eyes probing mine. “So you think the guy might still be in town and dangerous?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Probably not. But I just don't know.”

“Be careful. I'd hate to lose you.”

Before I could interpret the soft tone in which he said that last statement, DeMarcus appeared and leaned over him, whispering, “Couple girls want your autograph. Want me to get rid of 'em?”

“Oh, nah,” Jackson said, craning his neck to see the fans. “Send them over.” He glanced at me. “If you don't mind, Mina?”

“Not at all. Go right ahead.”

Two slightly drunk young women (pretty, I noted, with a slightly surprising sense of insecurity) with pens and zebra-striped notebooks in hand offered their paper for their idol to sign. Jackson was gracious, as he always was with fans, and I gave them a moment to talk.

Mentioning the Roberto dream had made me more aware of my surroundings. I hadn't noticed it before, but there was something odd about the group of men about five tables down from us. There were four of them sitting there, all with shortly buzzed hair, all in suits. They ate their food and nodded as one of them pointed to an electric planner calendar on the table.

But one of the men wasn't watching the calendar.

He was blankly staring at me.

We met eyes for a second that seemed like forever. An eerie chill went down my spine. Why? I wasn't sure. I hadn't seen that man before, had I? It wasn't Roberto. Neither were any of the men at the table. Perhaps I was being overcautious. Strange, though, to have my nerves shaken like that, especially after I'd had a couple glasses of wine. Maybe he was being flirtatious. Although I casually looked away, pretending to take no major notice of him, I saw out of the corner of my eye that he continued to stare.

A sudden mouthwatering scent of dumplings filled my senses and my stomach audibly growled. Turning my attention to the plates being set before us, I lifted my brows, taking in the aesthetic arrangement of the entre with its dash of green vegetables and swirls of dark sauce.

“Ah, here they are,” Jackson said, smacking his lips. “Dig in, my friend. Smell good?”

I nodded my head. “Oh, yes. If they taste as great as they smell, I might just die indeed.”

I looked back up at the table of men, and the one who had been staring had finally stopped. He cut at his entrée and contributed to a conversation I couldn't hear. For the time being, I forgot about him and the way that he had stared so blankly in my direction for that unnerving length of time.

If I had been smart, I would have eaten my dinner and found some excuse to leave immediately after.

Unfortunately, I forgot all about him by my third glass of wine.

I never saw the quick flash of his camera as he took a picture of me, smiling and tipsy and laughing at yet another tale of Jackson's dating nightmares.

It was a mistake I'd end up regretting before the night was through.

11

“At least let me leave the tip,” I said.

Jackson shook his head, pulled a couple bills from his leather wallet, and placed them underneath his practically licked-clean dumpling plate.

“No, let me. I'm old-fashioned,” he said.

“Oh, come on, you aren't trying to woo me or prove yourself.” I began digging in my purse for some ones. “You paid for dinner. At least let me get the tip.”

“No, Miss Feminist. Just humor me.” He looked up into my eyes. “I'd hate to have to arm-wrestle you in front of all these people.”

I shrugged, leaning back in my chair, my body and spirits warm from the food, his smile, and the wine, which was steadily working its way out of my system now that I had a full stomach. The sky had gone dark, and stars twinkled as the Sky Café made its prompt 11:00 p.m. descent.

The sphere vibrated slightly as it reattached to Reunion Tower. The colorful lights of downtown Dallas filled the massive windows, the cars on the highways moving like glittery arteries through the heart of the city.

Slowly the people of the restaurant filtered out, taking turns filling up the elevator. DeMarcus didn't spare a lot of time before he cleared the way for Jackson and me. The bodyguard and the hostess kept everyone else away. Only the three of us would be allowed on this particular elevator trip.

“Get ready, buddy,” DeMarcus said. “I think word got out.”

“What fun,” Jackson casually said.

As the light feeling of vertigo trickled up my body with our fast downward movement, I studied Jackson. He lived a dangerous life, too, always being on the lookout for crazy fans that might want to chop off a piece of his hair or curse at him for not performing their favorite song at a concert, or fans' boyfriends decking him out of jealousy.

He leaned against the glass wall with arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his head, looking very much like a confident star on top of the world.

I felt a sudden pull, an odd desire to take his hand and just see what it felt like.

He turned to me, lowering his sunshades down over his eyes, and smiled. The elevator door opened, and DeMarcus stepped out first. Almost as if they'd been psychic, the flash of cameras snapped and DeMarcus's booming voice ordered the couple of paparazzi men to kindly put them away, that they'd get the opportunity for a short interview as long as there were no pictures taken until the end.

“Get out of here,” DeMarcus muttered to me. “Unless you want your picture snapped.”

With his body still in the way, it was almost as if there was a wall separating me from the people on the other side. He kept his hand on the slot where the elevator door tried to slide shut several times but failed. He and one of the cameramen were in the middle of striking a monetary deal when Jackson leaned over me, with his hand pressed flat against the wall above my shoulder.

There it was all at once: the heat of his nearness, the slight masculine scent of his body with a hint of Old Spice. My friend was tip-toeing on a dangerous line, and we both knew it.

“You should come to my concert next week,” he said softly, a gentle purr. “Give me a chance.”

Give me a chance.

Those words carried so many different connotations that I felt dizzy. Or was it his sky-blue eyes, and the way they tempted me in a fresh new way as they stared into me above the top of his dark lenses? As quickly as the feeling came, I suppressed it back down into the deepest depths of me. I couldn't think things like this about Jackson. It was only a spark of lust, and if I acted on it, a chain reaction of things could happen.

For instance, Jackson could only be playing around, and then I'd feel stupid.

If I was picking up the right vibe, however, and we crossed that line, things could get complicated. We could end up breaking up and stop being friends. Also, if we dated openly, I could be thrown into the public eye, thus hurting my fairly secret identity as a bounty hunter.

Not to mention Damon could come back.

Evict. Evict.

“I think DeMarcus is ready for you,” I said.

Jackson hesitated, glancing down at my lips, then back up into my eyes. My heart vibrated in a wave of adrenaline. Then he pushed away from the wall and thanked me again for dinner.

“You've got a free seat at my concert,” he said. “Anytime.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Now's your chance to sneak out.”

He gave DeMarcus's shoulder a slight push, and the big man's arm dropped, letting the star into the small crowd of people. Digital voice recorders were shoved in his face, and all focus was on him as DeMarcus provided just enough shield for me to get away. My heels
clopped
against the floor as I walked in quick strides, trying to shake the nonsense that I'd just felt when Jackson had been so close to touching me.

Stupid, really. It was something that couldn't and shouldn't work, at least not like that. Jackson was a fun time. If Damon wasn't going to fill that void in my heart, even though I'd thought he was the one, then I'd need someone like Damon. Another bounty hunter, someone who understood my work, someone older and more serious and—

A man in a suit opened the door for me, and I stepped outside, brushing past him so closely that I caught a whiff of his strong pine-scented cologne. He had a jagged scar on the bridge of his nose that looked as if it might have been from a bite. It took me a second to recognize him: He was the man who had stared at me in the restaurant.

Crap.

I let myself continue my stride for a few more paces, and then when I heard laughter at the hotel's door, I turned around as if to see who might be making the commotion.

But what I really wanted to see was if I was being followed.

And sure enough I was—by Mr. Stare and one of his damned suit-wearing cohorts.

Great,
I thought.
Your little lust game in your head got you stupid, Mina, and that is yet another reason not to think about dating while you're so close to going Global. Now you've got someone following you. That's never good.

The cement ground was covered in recent light rain, the musty smell of it in the air.

I had my laser gun, but for now I didn't want them to think I was dangerous. Better to play the damsel in distress (or in my case, ignorance), than let them know I was packing. They'd have their guard way down if they thought I wasn't a threat.

I stalled for a moment, leaning against a streetlamp to fix my shoe that really had nothing wrong with it. I slid my fingers under the strap and dusted off imaginary grime from the toe.

My best bet was to turn around and go back inside. If I stayed around people, I'd have a better chance of escaping these guys. Just who were they, and why were they after me? Did they mistake me for someone else? Were they some secret form of the paparazzi set on beating information out of me about Jackson and then taking some nude pictures just for the heck of it?

A female security guard stood post in her box at the entrance of the parking lot where my Honda sat waiting for me. It would be a very bad idea for me to get into my car. My pursuers would then be able to track me down to my home via my license plate, and I didn't need that headache. Smiling at the security guard, I flashed my plastic parking ticket. She nodded to me. As I passed her box, the cheering and laughing of some TV sitcom roared on a mini screen inside.

“Oh!” I cried theatrically. “I have suddenly
got
to use the little girl's room!”

Spinning around toward the hotel, I broke out into a full-fledged high-heeled run, right past the two men—in between them, in fact. I caught looks of startled befuddlement on their faces before I sensed with my woman's intuition that they were following me back inside.

Quickly I glanced into the glass of an approaching car's windshield and saw that the men had fallen farther behind. I had five, maybe seven seconds on them.

Bursting back into the hotel lobby, I darted right into a crowd of businessmen and women who couldn't get enough of their bar party. At the end of the dark noisy bar, I quickly sat down among a group of whisky-laden middle-aged men, who immediately started introducing themselves and asking who I was. Actually, they sort of shouted their inquiries because the loud
thud-thumping
of the music all but drowned out our voices. What was it with people gathering in “social” spots that had their stereo system turned up to ridiculous levels? Did people not have enough to talk about? Worked for me, tonight, though. Anything to make a distraction.

I tried not to grimace when one of the men put his fat fingers on my arm, and I peeked through the crowd to see Mr. Stare and Friend scanning the lobby, trying to figure out which direction I'd headed. When Mr. Stare thought it wise to start searching the bar, I furtively darted from the table and through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Clean silver counters reflected the ceiling's fluorescent lights.

“Sorry, ma'am, you can't be back here,” said a hefty blonde woman with tired eyes but flawless makeup. She turned off the faucet where she just finished washing the dishes. “You looking for the restroom?”

“Oh, no, my mistake, I'll just be heading out,” I said, smiling, trying to be likable.

Please like me, lady,
I thought, inching toward my next brilliant idea.
Like me enough to let me through that doorway just over there, the one that's marked
STAIRS.

“It's not that way,” she said with a scowl.

I stopped in my tracks, knowing I didn't have much time. I took half a second to study her. What would she particularly detest? Roaches? Lizards? No, I knew what would make her freak out.

I let out a shrill, horror movie scream.

“What?” she said, jumping, turning her back to me to try and discover what I was frantically pointing at. “What? What?”

“A rat!” I shouted.

“Shit, no!” she hollered, jumping on top of the clean counter connected to her bubble-filled sink. “Not
here
! I
hate
those damn things!
HATE
them! Where'd it go? RYAN!”

I could feel the door to the stairs pressing against my back. “Along that wall there. I think it went underneath the counter!”

“RYAN!” she cried.

A gangly young man, no older than 21, burst through the doorway from the bar and wiped his hands on his white apron.

“What, Jane? What?” he said, his long, horsey face growing even longer as he frowned.

“A
rat
!” she said, pointing in the direction I had.

I stayed in place long enough for Ryan to grab a broom and start leaning his gangly body over to look under cabinets and in crevices. And then I went through the door.

I never cease to amaze myself with what I can manage to do in high-heeled shoes. On this occasion, I raced up the stairs, skipping one with each bound. I had no clue as to where these bar kitchen stairs were headed, only that they led away from my pursuers and toward somewhere safe, I hoped.

I reached a door and found it unlocked. It was another kitchen, this one smaller, and though the lights were on, unoccupied. I ran through the door that would lead me out, and excused myself as I tried not to slip on the wet floor that a young man was mopping. This bar was smaller, and it was closed. I did a little double-take at the cleaner. He looked exactly like Ryan. A twin? Pity I didn't have time to find out.

He looked up from his mopping just long enough to frown and say, “Hey—”

I was gone and into the next hallway. The dual-colored diamonds on the carpet played tricks on my eyes. It was late. I was incredibly sober. I had to make a decision: where to now?

Then I saw it—a laundry bin on wheels about halfway filled with sheets. The hotel room cleaner had left the door ajar. The nearly muffled sound of a vacuum cleaner told me that Mr. or Mrs. Cleaner was still in that room. Little high-pitched
reeeee
sounds pulsed through the crack in the door—whoever was vacuuming was using one of the kinds that you stood on and rode, and with every change of direction it emitted that sharp noise. That was one of the reasons why I still used a hand-held.

Before I wasted any more time, I grabbed two armfuls of sheets (I didn't want to think about who had been lying on them or what might still be on the woven threads), and I leapt into the thick cloth bin. I yanked the sheets over on top of me and found myself enveloped in a white cotton womb.

Just in time. Mr. Stare and Friend's voices trailed through the snowy layers and I heard every word clear as day.

“Just forget it,” one (which one I wasn't sure) said. “We could be looking all damn night. She just got away.”

“She can't be far,” said the other. “I say we at least look on this floor.”

I felt pinpricks of sweat stab at my underarms. I breathed slowly, shallowly, silently.

“No,” said the first. “You got a picture of her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That's good enough. If the boss says she's the right one, then we can give a copy to all the guys. They can apprehend her on sight.”

“But if this is the girl, she might know she's being followed now. Might take precautions.”

“Maybe. But you tell me who's ever gotten away from Boss when he wants her?”

They both snickered in a low, creepy tone.

“Let's get out of here,” said the first. “We'll run into her again. And if we don't, there's plenty other flowers in the garden.”

I waited a good 15 minutes after the elevator dinged and their voices, now talking about football, trailed off and then shut off entirely when the elevator door shut.

I needed to find a phone. Even if I thought the men were gone, I couldn't be too sure. I needed Colt to come pick me up. We could come fetch my car in the morning when the jerks were sure to be gone, or at least off my trail. I could wear a wig. Whatever it took.