Covert Makeover. Mallory Kane
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desperately hung on to her false smile.
He buttoned his coat. He was done here.
“All right, Ms. Brooks,” he said finally. “Your idea is actually not too bad. It’s simple and yet unexpected. So if the kidnappers and Montoya agree, you can have your excitement. But don’t forget for one moment that this is deadly serious. One wrong move and you could be killed.”
He paused, but she didn’t take the bait. She just nodded.
“Remember, we have to be ready within two hours. When the kidnappers contact us again, I’ll let Ms. Brennan know immediately.”
Sophie didn’t realize she’d wiped her palms down her sides until his gaze slid along the buttons of her white silk blouse, over the snug waistband of her skirt, down to the hem and farther. His frown stayed in place, and his entire body exuded disapproval.
She swallowed, suffering his assessment. Probably wondering how fast she could run if something went wrong with the ransom drop.
“Tell Rachel Brennan to call me.”
“Of course. Does she have your number?”
He flipped out a card.
Sophie took it.
He nodded and turned toward the door.
She felt a little dirty, and it surprised her how much it bothered her that he actually believed she’d participate in a ransom drop for kicks.
As she watched him walk away, his grace and self-assurance obvious in his sleek movements, she reviewed his change in attitude toward her. He’d started out neutral, with a little bit of masculine appreciation for her appearance. Now though, he apparently thought she was lower than pond scum.
Odd that it mattered so much what he thought. She didn’t even know him.
As she sat back down at her desk, she looked at her notepad. She’d sketched him.
Had he seen it? The sketch was small, but accurate. She turned on her desk lamp to look at it more closely. She’d caught the storms that had gathered in his eyes when he’d spoken of his failed marriage. Looking at the sketch, she noticed there was a subtle difference in how he’d looked then and how he’d looked when she’d been pretending to be a bimbo.
The eyes in her sketch looked sad. Before he left, the sadness had been replaced by distaste.
She held the sketch closer to the light, studying the hint of sadness she’d caught. Did he still love his wife?
Shaking off the question, which was none of her business, she picked up her phone to tell Vicki to cooperate with him in arranging meetings with the staff.
Then she tried to go back to work on her latest assignment, but her curiosity got the better of her. She accessed the archived designs on her laptop. There it was. The Majors/DuVall wedding. Their snow-white invitation had featured two gold-embossed hearts linked together.
She glanced across the salon at him as he spoke with Vicki, then back at her notepad. Pen in hand, she drew two identical hearts, one broken. She swallowed and scratched out the image.
At least that would never happen to her. Not again.
IN A PRIVATE office in an expensive villa overlooking the capital of Ladera, seven men sat around a polished wood table. Three of them smoked cigars. Each of them had a cup of steaming black coffee close at hand.
When the eighth man walked into the room and sat at the head of the table, the other seven sat up straighter. The tall, white-haired man nodded at the servant pouring his coffee.
The servant quickly bowed and exited the room.
“You know why we are here,” he addressed the other men.
A rotund middle-aged man lifted a finger. “Is it true that DeLeon’s kidnapped fiancée has been traced to Ladera?”
“There are rumors. Someone in the Miami area is investigating her whereabouts.”
“And doing a good job of it,” another man commented.
The white-haired man pinned him with a dark glance. “Yes. I have it on good authority that the police are staying out of this investigation, nor have federal officials been called in. But that could happen at any moment.”
“Who is the contact?”
“That is not your concern. You should be squashing interest in DeLeon’s antidrug bills by whatever means necessary while he is preoccupied with the search for his missing fiancée. The Laderan people are counting on the legislature to keep their livelihood from being taken away from them because of DeLeon’s crusade. We must continue to paint him as a fanatic, only interested in revenge for his ex-wife’s mental illness caused by illegal drugs.”
“Juan DeLeon is very popular.”
The man sighed and sipped his coffee. “Exactly. That is why I took the chance of bringing you all here at this time. You are my most trusted allies. Before you leave, I need to make sure that each of you understands your role within the next days. DeLeon has several senators poised to demand an immediate vote on two bills, the first to oust legislators found guilty of corruption, and the second to impose term limits.”
There was a hushed muttering around the table.
“I expect to hear shortly of a development in Sonya Botero’s kidnapping. We must ensure that the votes are timed to coincide. We can’t take the chance that DeLeon will return before the vote is taken. Several of DeLeon’s allies have vulnerabilities that we can use to our advantage. This is where you come in. Hector, let’s start with you. Here’s what you must do….”
SEAN SPENT the rest of the morning grilling the employees at Weddings Your Way, including Sophie Brooks. He left with little more information than he’d come with. Then he drove by the hospital to check on Craig Johnson.
He spoke with him briefly, but the young man seemed too medicated to respond much. Sean was suspicious, but the nurses confirmed that he’d been agitated earlier and the doctor on call had ordered a sedative.
Sean spoke briefly with Johnson’s physician by phone and let him know that he had to speak with Johnson the next day. The physician hired and paid for by Carlos Botero assured Sean that Johnson would be alert the next day.
Sean headed back to his office at the Botero estate and studied the police reports and went over the security tapes. Just as he suspected, he found nothing he hadn’t already seen or heard from the police.
By the time he’d finished, it was after six o’clock and there had been no word from the kidnappers. Michaela would be waiting for him. He picked up the intercom phone.
“Javier, a phone call may come in from the kidnappers. If so, let Mr. Botero speak to them, but you patch me through immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks. Let me speak to Mr. Botero.” After a brief pause, Carlos’s voice spoke weakly into the phone. “Mr. Botero, do you need me this evening?”
“No, no. Javier will be here, as will Cook. You go on home.”
“Thank you, sir. If anyone contacts you, Javier has instructions to patch me through, although I doubt we’ll hear from them tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
By the time he got to his apartment off old Route One, it was almost seven. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as he rode up in the elevator from the parking garage. He unlocked the door and stepped into his brightly lit living room.
He’d barely had time to shrug out of his jacket and toss it onto a chair before Michaela came running in.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! You’re late!”
The blond curls and the wide grin of his precious daughter greeted him like a burst of sunshine after a gloomy day. He dropped to his haunches and held out his arms.