Secret Agent, Secret Father. Donna Young
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gone to great lengths to keep the senator’s relationship with Helene Garrett private. A precaution he practiced with all the senator’s mistresses. “That won’t get us the Primoris files or the code. We need to find Lomax.”
“My men are checking nearby hospitals and clinics.”
“You actually expect him to show up on some grid? He’s injured, not stupid, Webber,” he snapped, annoyed over the fact that this wouldn’t have happened if Helene hadn’t slipped under their radar.
Oliver had investigated Helene months before the senator had started the affair. With his contacts, it took Oliver no more than a few calls to get everything from her finances to her elementary school records. False records, as it turned out.
“From the look of his car seat, he’s lost a lot of blood. If he passed out, he’d have no choice. Someone might have taken him to the hospital.”
“Find him.”
“It would help if you could give me more than just his name.”
“I gave you his name and the time and place of the meeting.” Oliver paused, his eyes critical. “It should have been enough.”
“I told you, they forced my hand. It couldn’t be helped.”
“Just find Lomax and keep him alive. I don’t care what it takes,” Oliver ordered, already making plans to advise the senator to call an emergency meeting. The others would have to be informed. “That bitch stole the Primoris file. I want it back. Do you understand?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Boyd responded automatically. “And the police?”
“I’ll make a few calls. Jacob Lomax won’t be on their data banks unless I arrange to put him there.”
“Are you thinking of making the murder public?” Webber questioned.
“No.” Any unwanted attention at this stage could sabotage their plans. “At least not for now.” Not until the others met and reevaluated the situation. They were too close to their goal.
“How about her partner?” Webber asked. “Grace Renne?”
Oliver considered the possibility. “She might know something. Or at the very least, have seen something.” Oliver remembered faces, names. It was vital in his world. He’d met Miss Renne once at some sort of political function—one of many. At the time, the association between Helene and Doctor Charles Renne’s daughter seemed coincidental—and, in his mind, added to Helene’s credibility. But now…
“They had lunch yesterday afternoon,” Webber prompted.
“Then you should have already had someone talking to her this morning.” Oliver stood, his gaze back on the horizon. He didn’t like disloyalty within his ranks. And those who were foolish enough to betray him suffered. “I’m here in Washington, D.C., with the senator until after the fundraising ball tomorrow night. You know how to get hold of me. And I mean me, Webber. The senator is too busy with the upcoming election to be bothered with this. Do you understand?”
Not waiting for an answer, Oliver turned to Sweeney. “Frank.” He waited the moment it took for the enforcer to join them. “You’re with Webber. Make sure he does his job this time.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“Yes, sir.” Sweeney stepped behind the mercenary, boxing the man in between Kragen and himself.
“One more thing.” Oliver grabbed Webber’s wrist. When Webber automatically jerked back, Sweeney clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place with a viselike grip.
“I want to make sure they don’t force your hand this time.” Slowly, Oliver poured the cup of coffee into Webber’s palm. Within moments, the hot liquid raised blisters. “Be diplomatic, Webber,” he cautioned with noncommittal coolness.
Webber nodded, his jaw tightened against the pain until the skin turned white under his ruddy complexion. “And if the Renne woman doesn’t want to cooperate?”
Oliver dropped the mercenary’s wrist and tossed the cup to the ground. “Then be discreet.”
He wasn’t dead. It took a moment for the thought to seep through. Another for the layers of fog to dissipate.
He surfaced gradually, registering the extent of his injuries. The throbbing at his temple, the ache over his brow. When his right arm refused to move when commanded, he shifted his shoulders no more than an inch. Pain rifled through him, setting off waves of nausea that rocked his belly, slapped at the back of his throat.
But his heart beat.
For a full minute, he concentrated on the rhythmic thumping, worked on breathing oxygen in and out of his lungs.
A keen sense of danger vibrated through him. But when his mind searched for details, he found nothing but the urge for caution. And an underlying edge of danger.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The ceiling beams doubled, then danced before finally coming into focus. His gaze slid from the white ceiling to the white bandage on his shoulder.
With his good hand, he carefully searched the bed around him but found nothing. He let his arm fall back to his side. Molten heat blasted through his upper body, setting his shoulder and ribs on fire and telling him he’d been carelessly quick with the motion.
Cloth brushed leather, drawing his attention. Slowly, he turned his head. No more than four feet away, a woman straightened in the leather wingback chair. She uncurled her long legs in one slow, fluid movement. The morning light washed over her in soft pink rays, coating both her skin and pale blond hair in a hazy blush.
“You’re awake.” Her sleep-soaked voice reminded him of crushed velvet, rich and warm. But it was caramel-brown eyes that caught his attention. Carmel dusted with gold, he realized as she drew closer.
And edged with concern. Enough to tell him she’d spent the night in the chair.
“Is the pain bearable?” Her face was scrubbed clean, revealing a few freckles dotting her nose. With long, blond hair tied back into a ponytail and clad in jeans and a black, zipped hoodie two sizes too big, she looked no older than a first-year college student.
The back of her hand drifted over his cheek. Her cool, soft touch soothing. So much so that he felt a curious ache in his chest when it dropped away.
“No fever, thank goodness. How are you feeling?”
He caught her wrist with his good hand and jerked her closer. It was a mistake.
Skin pulled against stitching, bones ground against cartilage. A curse burst from his lips in a long, angry hiss.
“Where is it?” His question was barely a whisper. Dried bile coated his tongue in a thick paste, leaving his throat sandpaper-dry.
“Where is what?” she demanded. But a quick glance at his shoulder kept her from tugging back. He didn’t have to look because he felt it. Blood—thick and warm—seeped from his wound into the bandage, dampening the gauze against his skin.
“The 9 mm. Where is it?” he repeated, pushing his advantage. Whoever she was, she wasn’t smart to let him see her concern.
“In the nightstand drawer. Both the gun and the two clips.” Her temper surfaced, sharpening her tone.
He didn’t take her word for it. Instead, he reached down with his bad arm—grunting at the shock of pain—then opened the drawer with his fingers.
But his actions took effort. Sweat beaded his forehead, his arm shook against her when he grabbed the pistol.
“Let go of my wrist.” The fact she kept her words soft didn’t diminish the anger behind