Into the Crossfire (16 page)

was a gleaming wetness.

His semen.

Sam had shot a small lake into her during the night. At the memory, her

knees wobbled. She gasped for air, the sound loud in the quiet room. Nicole's head

whipped around to see if she'd somehow woken Sam up, but he was out like a

light.

The thought of that--of Sam waking up and finding her here, of having to

face him after last night's excesses...Oh no.

It wasn't that she wasn't still attracted to him, it was that she was attracted

too much. The Nicole Pearce of last night--the woman who had wallowed in sex,

who had tuned out the world to focus narrowly on Sam Reston and his luscious,

utterly male body--she had to simply put that woman away. That Nicole was an

aberration and she had to disappear, right now.

Speaking of disappearing...

She looked around wildly. Her dress was on the floor, crumpled, bra on top.

Jacket on the back of a chair. One sandal was toppled on its side next to a big,

sleek chest of drawers, and its mate...where the hell was its mate? Walking

barefoot out of Sam's house was too awful to contemplate, but the other sandal

was nowhere to be found. Two sweeps of the room and no shoe. Just one place left

to look. She crouched and yes, there it was. Under the bed. Under Sam's very

large, very low bed. It took a full minute, but she finally got it.

She couldn't possibly walk out looking like this, but on the other hand,

there was a drumbeat inside her, insistent and loud. Get out now. Get out now.

Before he woke up, because she had no clue what she could possibly say to him.

Dress and go, now.

She slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door open, so that a little of the

faint morning light could seep in. If she turned the lights on in the white-tiled

bathroom, the glare could wake Sam up.

A splash of cold water on her face, a quick wash between her legs--and oh

my god, the nap of the washcloth felt incredibly rough against her super-sensitized

flesh--a comb hastily pulled through her hair was all she allowed herself time for.

Bra and dress went on in under a minute.

Holding her sandals by the straps, she tiptoed her way to the front door. On

the floor was a silky mauve slash of material. Her panties. Her beautiful La Perla

panties, ripped apart. And how she'd reveled in Sam tearing them off her, because

they'd been this unacceptable barrier between her and Sam's hard flesh.

She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them, intent more than ever

on getting out as fast as she could, like someone fleeing from the scene of the

crime.

The door. She eyed it warily. Last night, getting in had been like getting

into some secret room at the Pentagon. Palm print, keypad, five-digit code. She

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had no idea what the numbers were. Her mind had been utterly lost in mists of

lust.

If she needed a secret code to get out, she was in trouble.

The idea of having to walk back into the bedroom, wake Sam up and ask

for a code made her focus, concentrate. She studied the door, narrow eyed. A door

had to work both ways, didn't it? You have to be able to get out, not just in.

There was no security panel. No door handle, either, for that matter. She

stared at the door, willing it to yield up its secrets.

Did it open by remote control? Did she have to go back into the bedroom

and root through Sam's pants? That would be the last straw.

There was one button on the wall next to the featureless door. She held out

a hesitant finger, hovered over it, then gathered her courage and pressed it, hoping

it wasn't connected to something dangerous, like a siren. Or a bomb.

A crisp click and the lock disengaged, the door sliding open.

Yes!

Nicole tiptoed through, then quietly slid the door closed behind her.

She stood in the hallway, breathing heavily, as if she'd just engineered a

jailbreak. Her heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle the sound didn't echo in

the quiet corridor.

It was utterly ridiculous, but she couldn't do anything about the way she

felt--panicky and broken, as if running away from something dangerous.

Mindful of the clickety-clack of her heels on the shiny hardwood floor of

the corridor last night, she walked barefoot to the elevator and called it up,

wincing at the little ping as it reached Sam's floor. It sounded so loud in the

silence.

In the elevator, she clutched her pochette tightly, like a shield, and stared

mindlessly at the elevator doors.

When they opened, she stepped out into the huge, glass-encased lobby. The

sky was now a dark pearly gray and she could see the beach not fifty feet away,

the small waves curling like lace on the sand.

"Miss?"

Nicole jumped and barely managed to suppress a scream.

"Miss? Can I help you?" The tone more pointed, with a slight Hispanic

accent.

A security guard, dressed in some security company's livery, surrounded by

a circular polished-wood barrier with lots of video screens showing empty

hallways, looking at her with a frown.

Nicole heroically refrained from looking down at herself in dismay but she

knew exactly what he was seeing. A disheveled woman who had obviously been

up to no good, tiptoeing away shoeless from a night of excess in one of the

apartments.

This was just so unfair. Nicole was the epitome of a proper lady. Even in

the midst of a hot affair, she always kept her decorum; it had been drummed into

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her. She prided herself on the fact that a casual observer would never know what

she was thinking, what she was feeling.

Right now, she might as well have had babe after a hot night tattooed on

her forehead.

The only thing to do was brazen it out. She straightened, put on her best

ambassador's-daughter polite smile and lifted her head.

"Good morning," she said evenly. "I wonder if you could call me a taxi?"

"Sure thing, ma'am," the guard said, punching out a number on the phone

keypad without taking his eyes off her. Presumably in case she made off with one

of the stone planters that must have weighed three hundred pounds each.

"Thank you," Nicole said primly, and walked to the front of the lobby,

sitting down on one of the long, gleaming oak benches. She carefully put on her

sandals and stared out the two-story windows at the beach. The sky was cloudless,

pale blue, the ocean light gray. It was going to be a glorious day, as so many days

were in San Diego.

She stared out at the ocean, thinking of absolutely nothing, until she heard

the guard call out. "Taxi's here, ma'am."

She turned her head and sure enough, a cab was coming around the circular

driveway. Nicole nodded to the guard and got into the cab. She gave her address to

the driver and stared blindly out the window as he took off.

This part of San Diego was beautiful, but she barely noticed the white sand

beaches, lush vegetation, the light dancing on wavelets over the ocean, the runners

on the beach.

All she could think about was Sam Reston on top of her, nose an inch from

hers, staring at her fiercely as he moved in and out of her. And the fact that all last

night, she hadn't thought once about her father.

New York

"Paul Preston for Mr. Mold. I have a ten o'clock appointment."

Ah. Finally. The last secretary in the gauntlet. She lifted her gaze and gave

him a small smile, just a slight baring of beautiful white-capped teeth as large as

Chiclets, then her gloss-covered mouth closed tightly. Muhammed had learned

that the more powerful the man, the less friendly the secretary.

He'd cycled through three secretaries already, offering smiles in decreasing

increments, as he neared the "Holy Presence." This secretary was the one who held

her boss's schedule. She was powerful beyond measure and she knew it.

Muhammed had asked for this appointment, desperate to get to top

financier Richard Mold as fast as possible, knowing that time was vital, yet trying

not to press too hard, because Mold would see it as a sign of vulnerability.

These men could smell desperation at a hundred paces, like hyenas can

smell blood from miles away. Muhammed was desperate, but not for money.

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Though he lived in a world that would do anything for money--live for it, die for

it, even kill for it--he was indifferent to its lure.

Particularly now, when he--Muhammed Wahed, a child of the camps--was

going to change the course of human history. Men would weave stories of his

actions for a thousand years. More.

So it was hard for him to keep calm in front of the secretary's cool gaze as

she pressed a button and quietly said, "Mr. Paul Preston to see you, sir. Your teno'clock appointment."

Did she notice the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead? See that he had to

work to keep from wringing his hands?

Maybe she did. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe if he were too cool, it

would be noted, commented on. Richard Mold commanded an empire and his

methods were harsh. In his own world, he was a caliph, a sultan. Anyone asking a

favor was meant to be a sweaty, trembling supplicant.

There was a low, calm, deep murmur from the intercom--the tone of

command very clear--and the big mahogany and brass door to the right of the desk

issued a faint click and slid smoothly into the wall.

The secretary looked at him coolly. "You have until ten fifteen, sir."

The subtext was that at 10:15, security would be called in.

Well, by 10:15 he'd either have a name, or not. It was in Allah's hands at

this point.

He walked through the door.

Over the past years, Muhammed had been in countless offices of the rich

and powerful. Some preferred the English Lord look. Paneled walls, deep leather

armchairs, crystal decanters, as if an office on the fortieth floor of a Manhattan

skyscraper had been in existence for three hundred years, bequeathed down

through the generations, from earl to earl.

Some had offices that looked like they'd time-traveled back from the

twenty-second century.

But all of them, all of them exuded a specific aura--look at me. Look at

what I've accomplished. Look at how powerful I am. Do not mess with me

because I will crush you.

Muhammed had been in this office once before, when Mold had just taken

over the big hedge fund. It had looked like Versailles then. Now it was all sleek

black marble and Lucite.

They said that Mold had spent three million dollars redecorating his office.

And there he was, behind a twelve-foot-long slab of ebony with transparent

legs, the desk empty and bare and highly polished, as befitted a Master of the

Universe.

Mold stood but didn't offer his hand. "Preston," he said. The deep voice

wasn't particularly warm or welcoming. "What can I do for you?"

That was a loaded question, if ever there was one. Muhammed was here

only because Mold hoped Muhammed could do something for him. If it was only

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a favor being asked, Muhammed would be marched out by security the instant

Mold pressed the red button that was undoubtedly on the underside of the desk.

All nervousness had gone, sucked away like the stale air into the invisible

conditioners.

Muhammed had seen the future.

Mold's office building was one of the top ones of the list. The instant his

martyr brothers could fan out, this building was to be one of the first to be

irradiated. The brothers would be freshly barbered, dressed in the uniforms of

Wall Street--suits by Armani, Boss, Jil Sanders. They would have ID that would

bear up to a security guard's scrutiny. Muhammed would give the order that one

martyr stay in the lobby and another martyr brother come up here, to the fifty-fifth

floor, and blow himself up right in front of the snotty secretary's desk. Mold would

die instantly. His company, everything he stood for, would be gone in an instant,

everything untouchable for decades.

It calmed Muhammed right down. Mold was giving off the waves of

aggression typical of a Wall Street trader turned hedge fund manager. His temper

tantrums were famous. He was used to screaming, intimidating underlings to get

his way.

Muhammed looked at Mold calmly, at this dead man walking.

Only a few days to go.

He looked around, then chose a chair and sat down just as Mold said, "Have

a seat."

The chair was by a hot new designer and was made of paper. Muhammed

had read that it sold for $10,000, enough to feed hundreds of people in the camps

for a year.

Richard Mold deserved to burn. They all did.

Muhammed hitched his trousers so as not to ruin the excellent crease, and

crossed his legs.

Silence.

It irritated Mold. His deeply tanned face turned tight, his eyes narrowed.

"So, Preston, what's this about?" he asked coldly.

Muhammed waited a beat, then spoke. "I have a piece of information you

might find interesting, and in exchange, I want a name and a phone number."

Mold's thick gray eyebrows drew together. "What's the info and what

name?"

Muhammed plucked at the crease of his trousers, enjoying the feel of the

fine linen. He let a minute go by, two. Oh, he'd learned the subtle ways of power