Mountain Shelter. Cassie Miles
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them,” Smith ordered. “I’ll step over here and help Dylan pick out the right undies.”
When she rapped his knuckles, he gratefully dropped the thong and said, “I’d appreciate your help.”
She lectured on why most women wouldn’t want to wear a thong in the operating room and how a sports bra was most comfortable for a long day’s work. Her anatomical details were too much information for Dylan.
The CSI had turned away and kept his focus on his handheld fingerprint-matching device while Dylan followed Smith across the landing to the incredible bathroom. With the marble and a fluffy white throw rug, this space was as feminine as the bedroom, but there was a difference. The bedroom was suitable for a princess. The bathroom was meant for a sensual queen.
Smith made quick work of packing the essentials on Jayne’s list. They were almost ready to leave when the CSI stepped into the doorway. “I’ve got a match for these prints.”
“And a name?” Dylan asked.
“You’re not going to like it.”
* * *
JAYNE APPROVED OF the downtown Denver hotel where Dylan had arranged for a suite, but she wasn’t pleased that he’d called in one of his partners to drive the car to the hotel and accompany them onto the elevator and into the room.
While Dylan stood beside her with one hand clamped around her upper arm, ready to yank her out of there at the first hint of danger, his partner, Mason Steele, drew his gun. Looking like a secret agent from an espionage movie, Mason searched the attractively furnished outer room with the sofa, chairs, table, television and kitchenette. He nodded to Dylan before entering the adjoining bedroom.
Though impressed by their professionalism, Jayne didn’t appreciate the show. She had a real life. No time for games. “Tell me again why all this is necessary.”
“Standard procedure,” he said. “When we take you to a new place, we search. It only seems overprotective because there’s nobody lurking in this room. If there was a monster hiding in the closet...”
With a start, she realized that Mason hadn’t yet looked in the closet by the entrance. A dart of fear stung her, and she stared at that door, remembering herself in the bathroom when the knob had jiggled. Don’t be scared. It’s just a door. Shivers trickled up and down her spinal column as Dylan helped her out of her heather-blue trench coat. When he opened the door, her jaw clenched.
And nothing happened. The boogeyman didn’t jump out. There was nothing to be scared of. The sooner she remembered that, the better.
After he hung up her jacket, he returned to her side. Towering over her, he pushed his glasses up on his nose with a forefinger. “You went through a scary time tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you are.” Though she refused to meet his gaze, she knew he was watching her and had seen her fear. His voice was low and soothing. “Over the next couple days, you might have flashbacks or be jumpy or tense for no apparent reason. I’m sure you know all about post-traumatic stress. I mean, you’re a brain surgeon.”
“Not a behaviorist.”
“What’s that mean?”
“There are many theories about how the brain works, and I can only speak for my own opinion. The source of many emotions can be pinpointed on the naked brain, but it’s extremely difficult to control behavior.”
“Emotion isn’t your thing,” he said. “You’re into memory.”
“With my neurosurgery, I can stimulate old memories that have already formed, but I can’t implant new memories without the experience.”
“But you don’t have to experience something to recall it. I’ve learned about volcanoes but never seen one erupt.”
She hadn’t intended to meet his gaze, but she found herself looking into his cool, gray eyes and seeing the sort of deep calm associated with yogis and gurus. At the same time, she realized that her moment of panic and flashback had passed. Dylan had distracted her by luring her into lecturing him about her work.
“Very clever,” she said. “You handled me.”
He directed her to a side chair upholstered in a patterned blue silk that echoed the colors of the wallpaper, while he sat on the sofa and opened a metal suitcase on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them. After removing a laptop computer, he flicked a switch on a mechanism inside the case. A small red light went on.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It means we can talk freely in here without fear of someone listening in.”
The various dials and keyboards in his case were nowhere near as complicated as the equipment she dealt with in neurosurgery. “You can be more technical, Dylan. I’m capable of understanding.”
“I don’t doubt your smarts,” he said. “I just don’t expect you to be interested in my security tools.”
“Unless I say otherwise, you may talk to me in the same depth you use with your colleagues.”
“That won’t be too hard.” Dylan called out to his partner. “Hey, Mason, do you want to know about the circuitry in my white-noise machine?”
His partner stepped into the bedroom doorway. “As long as it works, I don’t care.”
She glanced between the two men. Mason was clean-cut and muscular. Dressed in a leather jacket and khakis, he looked like a bodyguard. Dylan was a different story. With his horn-rimmed glasses, his purple Colorado Rockies baseball cap on backward and his long hair, he didn’t appear to be a tough guy. And yet, if given a choice, she’d pick Dylan every time. There was something about him that connected with her.
He motioned for Mason to join them as he explained the machine to her. “Much of my equipment is proprietary. I invented this stuff for my own use in security. This machine emits a noise that disrupts any other listening device but is too sensitive for our ears to hear. While we’re in this room, we can speak freely.”
As a neurosurgeon, she understood the concept of blocking different frequencies of sound, but she didn’t understand why this sort of machine was needed. “Who would want to overhear?”
“I have something important to discuss.” He glanced toward his partner. “You need to hear this, too.”
“Shoot.”
“There were prints found in Jayne’s bedroom. They were on the wineglass that was on the bedside table.”
“I didn’t pick up the glass.” Revulsion coiled through her as she visualized the man in the ski mask touching her things.
“The fingerprint belonged to Martin Viktor Koslov, a hired assassin from Venezuela who learned his trade with the Columbian drug cartels.”
Mason growled, “What kind of trade are you talking about?”
“Think of the worst torture you heard about interrogation methods,” Dylan said. “Koslov has worked for Middle Eastern emirs and superrich oil men from his home country. For the past eight years, he’s been sighted in the US, including Alaska.”
“Why Alaska?” She couldn’t imagine why an assassin would take a side trip to Juneau.
“The pipeline,” Dylan said. “He’s not a bomber or a terrorist, but he’s suspected in several murders, thefts and complex arms deals.”
Mason looked toward her and asked, “How did you get away from this guy?”
“He said he didn’t want to hurt me.” She remembered his accent. It didn’t sound like Spanish, but she really didn’t know. Languages weren’t her thing. “Detective Cisneros seems to think he wanted to kidnap me and hold me for ransom so he could get something from my dad.”