First You Run (14 page)

“It’s not that simple, luv.” He reached over and took her hand. “But I’d be more interested in seeing where you are.”

She slid off the bar stool. “I’m going to get dressed,” she said, heading toward one of the bedrooms off the spacious suite.

When she disappeared, he just sat there staring at the empty stool.

Damn Jack Culver and his search for long-lost adoptees. After tonight Fletch would
have
to leave.

He walked across the room to the balcony, taking in the rolling green hills and pristine beauty of San Diego. Over the harbor, a tangerine sun hung suspended, ready for touchdown.

What sunset would he see tomorrow night? The next woman on Jack’s list was in Bend, Oregon, if he recalled correctly. About as far away from Miranda in San Diego as he could get and still be in the same time zone.

He tried to rationalize why this was a good thing. He couldn’t ever let this mutual attraction go to the next level, because he knew she was adopted, and if he never told her, especially if they were in a relationship of any kind, then he’d be lying by omission. And if she learned the truth and realized he’d known all along, then she’d probably hate him. It would hang over his head.

But he couldn’t tell her. Why destroy her childhood or strain the love she obviously had for her parents? No matter what happened tonight, tomorrow he’d fly to Oregon, and she’d drive off to her next destination.

And that left him feeling…unsatisfied. Maybe if they—

“Can you help me?”

Miranda had showered, made up, and turned into a vision in white.

“God save the queen,” he whispered under his breath. “You look incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I love that dress.” It was so feminine, tied in the front across her narrow frame. The V-neck exposed plenty, a style that was both sweet and sexy, especially with her hair pulled up with only a few tendrils touching her neck.

She held a silver chain out to him. “Will you fasten this for me? It’s an ancient clasp and a little tricky to do alone, which is why I never wear it. But since you’re here…”

He took the ends of the chain, holding the tiny, circular pendulum at eye level. “It’s an opal, the national gem of Australia,” he said, moving the chain so that the iridescent stone and the tiny semicircle of diamond chips caught the light. He lowered it to look into her eyes. “These are unlucky. Did you know that?”

“I’ve heard.” She turned, offering him the back of her neck. “This was my mother’s. She gave it to me when I left for California, to have a piece of her with me all the time.”

He lifted the necklace over her head and brought the two ends of the chain together. “So you don’t believe the folklore about opals?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I respect folklore; I just think this particular legend is based on the fact that the stone is soft, so the gems tend to break easily. Do you believe in things like luck? You strike me as awfully pragmatic for that.”

“I lived with Aborigines for two years. I’d believe anything is possible.” He used his nail to catch the clasp, which was old and one good yank from breaking. When he rested the chain on her skin, he couldn’t resist a brief kiss and caught a whiff of something sweet.

“Mmmm. You don’t just look beautiful. You smell and taste beautiful.” He dragged the word out, just because he knew she liked it.

She tilted her head, offering more skin. He ran his tongue along her nape, curled his hands around her shoulders, and pulled her closer so she could feel how instant his response was.

He threaded his fingers through those wispy hairs, admiring his ability to give her a million goose bumps. “You know I have to leave for Oregon tomorrow.”

She let out a soft, gentle moan. It could have been disappointment. It could have been resignation. It could have just been that she liked the sensation of his breath on her skin.

“But tonight,” he said softly, leaning back to see the way the setting sun added a bit of auburn to her dark hair. “Tonight…” He caressed her neck, sliding one finger into that soft hair, imagining how he’d slide into her.

God, she made him hard fast. She dropped her head forward and sighed, and he bent his face to take another nibble.

And then his heart stopped, and his eyes widened, and his throat closed.

Holy. Bloody. Hell.
There it was. No bigger than a fingernail, hidden an inch from her hairline, buried in dark brown tresses, impossible for her to see.

The tattoo.

“Miranda.” His voice must have sounded strained to her, too, because she glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Did you…” He took a slow, even breath. “Do you know you have a…a mark? At your hairline?”

She touched it. “Yes, it’s a birthmark.”

Oh, no, it isn’t.
“Are you sure?”

Laughing, she turned. “Yes, I’m sure. My mother said I’ve had it all my life. I can’t really get a good look at it, but my hairdresser said it says ‘hi.’ Which cracks her up.”

“Let me see it again.” He spread the hair at the roots and studied the strange mark. It did look like a lower-case
h
and an undotted
i
.

Miranda stepped away, indicating his worn jeans and T-shirt. “You probably need to change your clothes, too.”

“Right,” he said, his brain spinning a million kilometers a second, trying to figure out what to tell her. How to tell her. When to tell her.

“I don’t want to be late for my own reading. Especially since that amazing Suzette went out and found another forty copies of my book in San Diego.”

He couldn’t tell her now. That was sabotage of a whole different nature and would ruin her night just as effectively. Later tonight, he’d tell her.

She placed a single fingertip on his lips, scrutinizing his face as carefully. “You’re thinking about something, Adrien. I can tell.”

“I’m thinking about later tonight.”

She gave him a sexy smile and stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Me, too.”

She was oblivious to the pain he was about to inflict.

J
UST WHEN
M
IRANDA
thought she
got
the man, he changed.

Adrien had abruptly left the balcony and returned in minutes in a sharp sports jacket and dress trousers, the ends of his hair damp from a lightning-fast shower. He’d barely put his hand on her to lead her through the lobby for their walk across Balboa Park.

The sun had just set, but the air was still warm and rich with the scent of greenery and life. They took their time, holding hands as a peacock strutted past a mazelike garden, then dipped into the shadow of a covered walkway, following the balustrade-lined path back to the Museum of Man.

At a quarter to seven, the tower bell tolled, mournfully matching the sadness that had settled over her.

“So, what happened?” she finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Twenty minutes ago, you were licking my neck. Now you can’t even make eye contact. You morphed from boyfriend to bodyguard in three point five seconds.”

“I
am
a bodyguard right now. I’m working. Your safety is my number one concern. I have to—”

“Stop.” She pulled away from his grasp and crossed her arms, keeping stride past an open area of free-form sculptures and bright red bottle-brush trees. “Are you holding back because you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“A bit, maybe, yes.”

“Oh, that was definite.” She laughed. “You know, Adrien, we don’t have to…” She wet her lips, swallowed, plunged. “We don’t have to live in the same city. There is such a thing as a long-distance affair.”

His lips lifted in a wry smile. “With a woman who doesn’t fly?”

There was that. “I…suppose…I…”

“Please, Miranda.” He lowered his voice and draped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into the steely muscle of his side. “If you tell me you’ll get on a plane for me, I’ll know you’re lying. Don’t commit yourself to something you can’t or won’t do.”

He felt warm and smelled good. Good enough to fly for? “You could come to Berkeley.”

“Yes, I could. I spend quite a bit of time in a corporate jet since the Bullet Catchers have a few to ferry us around the world. Would you ever get on one?”

A corporate jet? A little tin can? “No.”

“Shouldn’t it go both ways?”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “Do you make every woman commit to a year’s worth of dinner dates before you have a fling with her?”

He pulled her tighter. “I don’t want to have a fling with you, Miranda. And neither do you. You’re better than that.”

Like hell she didn’t want a fling. She wanted it
bad
. “I know what your issues are,” she said. “It’s the mother thing, isn’t it?”

He stopped. “What?”

“What you told me about her. That she had loose morals.”

“Forget the morals, luv.” He twirled his finger in a circular “crazy” motion at his temple. “She had loose screws.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He veered them across the lawn, toward the museum entrance. “You want to chat about my mum, then?”

“Unless you’d rather talk about mine.”

“Right now, I don’t want to talk at all.” He tugged at his earring, as he did whenever he was uncomfortable. “I want to do everything I can so that you enjoy a safe and memorable signing.”

She tightened her grip around his waist, stepping in front of him so close that with one breath, their chests would touch. “And after that?”

He lowered his head and kissed her lips, very sweetly. The whole time, his finger circled one tiny spot on the back of her neck, and he looked more unhappy than a man who was being seduced should look.

“After that, I’m gonna make your heart pound and your breath tight and your pulse race.”

Heat bubbled right between her thighs, regardless of the note of hesitation in his voice. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“I’m afraid it’s both. Turn around, Miranda.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pivoted her. “You’ve gathered quite a crowd, luv.”

Dozens of people filled the stairs and the entrance to the museum, and more streamed in. Anticipation tiptoed up Miranda’s back…or was that because Adrien had his finger on her nape again?

He dropped one more kiss right on that spot and whispered, “Good luck, then.”

Son of a bitch, she still had the muscle with her.

The stud was right next to her when Miranda Lang floated into the museum like a swan in white. The dude was a hired blade, with rock-star hair and Hollywood stubble. He wore gradient aviator shades that any of the museum patrons would think were the ultimate in hip, but Eddie Dobson knew better. They were designed to hide the eyes.

Eddie had been a little worried about the heightened security when he’d arrived twenty minutes earlier but not surprised, after what they’d pulled off in LA last night. No matter. He’d never carried a gun in his life, although his aim was pretty deadly, and he’d proven it on every level. But he’d bet his next version of Halo that the bullet stopper who was tracking the hot doctor had a Walther or a Glock hidden under his expensive jacket. The bodyguard was obviously on a first-name basis with security, so they probably knew he and his weapon would be here tonight.

That might make things a little trickier, might take the level of play up a notch, but since he was only there to let the author know there was a higher power in charge, he could still accomplish his goal. He reached into his pocket and fingered the wireless sensor, fighting a smile.

He had control with a button. That’s what he loved about this. It was like a video game, only he was
in
it. He looked around the cavernous rotunda, at the massive columns of fake Maya carvings and the maze of half-walls that spilled off the main area to other exhibits.

It was a typical role-playing game environment, complete with unknown models and textures. And he was the First Person Shooter with a button in his hand. Maybe he could have some fun with Hollywood Boy while he was at it.

A spunky blonde in a skinny skirt started the festivities with an introduction, while Eddie stayed in the back of the crowd of San Diego’s effete intellectuals. Skinny, young, and undetectable, he’d be noticed by no one. That was his power; he was invisible. And like the winner of any good game, he was invincible, too.

The bodyguard moved through the crowd while the speaker introduction was made, then made his way closer to the podium. Eddie had to give the guy props. He was unobtrusive, wary, and smart. Which added considerably to the game play.

It would be cool to see how good he was, just for laughs.

Eddie shifted in his sneakers and cleared his throat, purposely zeroing in on the author, who stood to the side of the podium while Spunky Blonde read her bio. The bodyguard did a visual scan, and Eddie could feel his eyes boring the proverbial hole. Eddie shifted again and, with pretend deadly intent, lifted his hand. Then, timed just for effect as he did with that slick move when he played level seven Gears of War, he reached inside his jeans jacket.

He saw the bodyguard tense instantly, his elbow bending like he was going to whip out his weapon, waiting and ready.

They locked eyes. Barely managing not to smile, Eddie lifted a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, shook it like a magician to prove it was empty, and then blew his nose, hiding his chuckle in the cotton.

He probably shouldn’t have gotten on the guy’s radar, but it was irresistible. That dude was big and armed and had the looks that probably got him laid more in one month than Eddie’d gotten in his whole life.

But today Eddie had the power. Right in his pocket.

The introduction ended to polite applause as Dr. Lang stepped to the podium. She was pretty in a Julia Roberts meets Andie MacDowell kind of way, the kind of woman who wouldn’t notice Eddie if he stripped naked in front of her and waved a million dollars and the keys to a yacht. But she
was
a professor; if he’d gone to college, she might have liked him because he was a geek, and geeks were smart.

When the applause died down, he took a few steps closer to the stone tower in the back of the room. His game strategy started and ended right at the top of that thing called a stella—or stelae—something Latin.

He had to be very close when he pressed the button, but it would work. Then he needed to get the hell out within twenty-three seconds, but he’d planned his escape route this afternoon. He’d been so invisible he’d walked right in front of her and even talked to her, and she didn’t see him.

He had a little time to listen to her spiel. She started off soft, her gaze darting from an imaginary focal point in the back of the room then back to the bodyguard. The dude had positioned himself close enough to the podium that he could throw himself on top of her if he had to, and though he was attentive to the crowd, he looked at Dr. Lang like he would definitely enjoy throwing himself on top of her.

“There will be no cataclysm, there will be no doomsday, and there will be no cosmogenesis that marks the end of one time and the beginning of another,” she droned. He didn’t even listen. God, he heard enough of that crapola from the Moonies.

With each sentence, she loosened up a little more, and after a few minutes, she hit her stride. Her voice rose with confidence, and she no longer glanced toward her bodyguard. The snobby crowd seemed mesmerized. What a bunch of idiots.

Still, she had them, and she knew it.

Sorry, Doctor. We’re taking things to the next level here
.

“On ten-four-zero-zero-zero, or January 18, 909, the very last Long Count stela, so much like the very monument we see here, was erected at Piedras Negras.” She made a gesture to the twenty-something-foot monster column next to him. The one he’d been on top of just that afternoon, right after she’d left with Hollywood Boy to find out the books were history. Somehow they solved that problem, but they wouldn’t be able to solve this one.

He waited until every eye was back on her, until she began to read the passage about how they could all sleep like babies when December 2012 bore down upon them all. They could sleep—forever. He was following the king. Well, the money trail the king left behind.

Time to remind her of who was in charge here. His heart rate sped up, and his fingers itched the way they did when he opened the cellophane on a new game. He abso-fucking-lutely couldn’t wait to start playing. To beat a level, to make a kill, to outsmart whatever Dot-popping, Coke-drinking, pasty-faced genius invented it all.

A few beads of sweat dampened his collar and temples as he took careful, slow, backward steps to the half-wall that surrounded the rotunda. He glanced up at the top of the biggest of the three stone columns, squinting at his target. Every ounce of attention honed in on the one spot, the place where it would start. His hand shook a little, and he wiped his upper lip and his mouth.

Here goes, kids
. So slowly that no one could see his arm moving, he dipped his fingers into the pocket of his loose cords, sliding down the inside until he felt the handmade controller. His thumb grazed the button, his pulse hammering. He lifted his eyes to the mark again.
Four
.
Three
.
Two
.

“You’d better be in there looking for your balls, mate, ’cause you’re going to need a pair when I get done with you.”

Shit monkeys!

The voice in his ear was harsh, low, and accompanied by the barrel of a gun pressed in his lower back. Eddie’s bowels turned to water.

“Now, I know you keep your hankie in your top pocket,” the Australian accent continued. “And you got through security with no problem, so I’m guessing you don’t have any hardware in that pocket, do you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned an inch, but the bodyguard jammed the gun and stayed right behind him, not giving him a chance to see his face.

“Take your hand out of your pocket, or I will put a bullet through your kidney.”

Eddie closed his eyes and made a decision. If he pressed the button right now, he wouldn’t have failed, and failure was unacceptable. The fact that the bodyguard knew took a little of the mystery out. She’d know, too, but no one else would. And then they would accomplish the goal of emptying this room. Fast.

“Show me both hands.”

Eddie pulled his left hand out but smashed his thumb on the tiny button in his right pocket. Then he lifted both hands to show he was unarmed. He had twenty-two seconds to get out of there. “I just wanted to hear the speaker, but if you’d like me to leave, I will.” Right now.

He fought the urge to look up but breathed when the weapon at his back moved an inch away. “We’ll go together,” he said. “Now.”

Eddie took a step to the side and looked at the bodyguard, who had him by about four inches and forty pounds of muscle. But size didn’t matter anymore. Speed did.

“Sorry to bother you, man,” he said, holding the gaze of a man who clearly took no shit from anybody. “I’ll be going now.”

The bodyguard lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. Eddie took a few more steps backward, circled around the edge of a half-wall, and headed straight for the door. He’d just cleared the entrance when he heard a loud, collective gasp, a few female cries of “Oh, my God!” and one piercing female scream.

He broke into a run, wishing like hell he could have seen the brilliant invention at work but knowing that the bodyguard had a good enough look at him to be trouble.

But he’d done his job for the cause.

When he reached the parking lot, he pulled the device from his pocket to admire it again. This baby worked like a charm. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. He had one more stop to make that night—another treacherous level of game play.

As he drove past the museum, he saw Hollywood Boy at the top of the stairs, scanning the crowd as it dissipated. Resisting the urge to honk and wave, he secretly gave him the finger instead.

Game over, bodyguard. You lose.