Living on the Edge Page 2

  Someone stepped on her foot, hard, but she didn’t dare look down to figure out who it was. Beside her, an old woman gasped and slipped beneath the shoving bodies.

  Sloane reached for her but was too late, and the frail woman went down beneath a herd of lethal spiked heels.

  Sloane tried to turn around to face the mob, hoping to stop them before they killed the woman. She was swept along in their wake, forced to move with them or fall herself. The crush of shoving limbs was unrelenting, and it took her too long to face the oncoming crowd. She pulled in a breath to scream for them to stop when she saw Mr. Tuxedo behind her with the frail woman in his arms.

  He gave her a grim, determined nod. “Go,” he told Sloane. “I’ve got her.”

  Seeing him protect the old lady gave Sloane pause. He was supposed to be the bad guy. Wasn’t he?

  Okay, so clearly he wasn’t the shooter—that shot had come from across the room. But if he wasn’t here to hurt Edward, why had he been heading their way with a gun under his jacket?

  There wasn’t a whole lot of time to contemplate that question before Sloane squeezed through the door, and down the steps, and found Edward waiting for her on the ground floor.

  She didn’t even slow, but grabbed his arm and headed for the rear exit of the hotel, where the armored limo was supposed to be ready and waiting to pick them up.

  Mr. Tuxedo still had an elderly woman in his arms to deal with, and Sloane hoped that by the time he did, she and Edward would be long gone. She really would have liked to know what his part in all of this had been, but her job was to get her principal out safely, and that was exactly what she was going to do.

  Lucas had lost her. One minute she was right in front of him, and the next, she was gone.

  He set the little old lady on a bench and checked to make sure she was going to stay upright. Her white hair had come free of its sparkling combs and was now a mess. The sleeve of her silk gown was torn, but she looked healthy enough.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She gave him a shaky nod.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Just banged around a bit. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She sounded breathless, but Lucas figured she had a right to be. That whole mess had probably scared the hell out of her.

  She reached up to pull at her mangled sleeve, and her hands were shaking so badly, they looked like they might fly off her wrists. A dark bruise was forming on her forearm, beneath pale, papery skin.

  Shit. He couldn’t leave her like this. What if she’d hit her head?

  “Sit tight. I’m going to find you some help.”

  Lucas flagged down one of the confused bellboys and hauled his pimply ass over to the woman. “You stay with her,” he ordered the kid, jabbing a finger into his skinny chest. “Do not let her out of your sight until a paramedic has checked her out. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the kid.

  Police and other emergency vehicles were swarming into the parking lot. Lucas flagged down the first paramedic he saw and dragged him bodily to the old woman. The wide-eyed EMT went to work, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds. At least he seemed capable enough to handle the situation.

  It was going to have to be good enough. Lucas still had to find Sloane and keep her off that flight to Colombia. His best chance now was to intercept her at the small airport where her plane would depart.

  In eighty-eight minutes.

  As he headed for his car, he dialed the Old Man.

  “Is she with you?” he answered on the first ring.

  “No, sir. There was a situation here. Shots fired. She got away.”

  “Shots? Is she okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I swear to God, Ramsey, if so much as one hair on her head is harmed, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  Lucas slid behind the wheel of his car. “Yes, sir.”

  “Find her. Stop her. Do not let her step foot on that jet. I don’t care what it takes.”

  He eased out of the parking lot as more emergency vehicles came into view down the street. “I’m on it, sir.”

  “I chose you for this because you’re not a man who knows how to fail. Was I wrong?”

  “No, sir. This was just a minor setback.”

  “Any idea why there were shots fired at some charity ball?”

  “None. But I can tell you that the shooter was aiming right for her.”

  “Dear God,” breathed the Old Man, sounding like he’d just aged twenty years in a heartbeat. “Are you sure he wasn’t aiming at her principal?”

  Lucas merged onto the highway, heading away from Dallas toward the airstrip. “Principal, sir?”

  “She’s a bodyguard, of all things.” He spoke like the mere thought chapped his ass raw. “Are you sure the shooter wasn’t aiming for her client?”

  A bodyguard? Seriously? Well, that would certainly explain how she knew how to break his hold without so much as batting an eye.

  Lucas wondered why this little bit of info hadn’t been passed on to him earlier. Must’ve been need-to-know.

  “No, sir. I guess he could have been the target. She was hanging all over him, so it’s hard to be sure exactly where the gunman was aiming. I assumed that since she was my target, she was also the shooter’s.”

  “Anything’s possible with that woman, but I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Is there anything else about her I should know, sir?”

  “Now that you’ve lost her, you mean?”

  Lucas gritted his teeth and gunned the engine, maneuvering around the late-night traffic. “Yes, sir.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why it’s so important that I stop her from getting on that flight. What’s so important about some chick bodyguard?”

  “That chick bodyguard happens to be my daughter.”

  Daughter? No way. The Old Man couldn’t have a child. He wasn’t human. He was frigid logic. He lived and breathed strategy and tactics. He was walking death with any weapon created by man, and had at his disposal some of the most lethal men on the planet. All of whom feared and respected him. He couldn’t have a kid. That was just . . . spooky.

  “Uh. Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you had a daughter.”

  “Not many people do. See that you keep it that way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Old Man hung up, leaving Lucas reeling. The stakes had just been raised, big-time. If he failed to stop Sloane and she ended up heading toward one of the most dangerous countries on the planet, he wouldn’t have to worry about a new line of work. The Old Man would kill him.

  Chapter 2

  Sloane’s flight left in thirty-two minutes, and if she didn’t get to Colombia soon, the chances of her ever seeing Gina again were somewhere below zero.

  She parked at the small private airstrip, where the pilot was waiting, got out of her car, popped the trunk, and grabbed her luggage. The canvas bags weighed as much as she did, but chances were she was going to need every last advantage she could get, so she’d packed accordingly.

  Sloane’s phone had rung in the middle of the night last night. It was Gina.

  I’m not sure exactly where in Colombia I am, Sloane. All I know is that I’m surrounded by jungle and he won’t let me go. His name is Lorenzo Soma. He . . . changed after we got here. I thought he was some rich exec, but I was wrong. There are men with guns here. Lots of guns. They lock me in at night. I’m scared, Sloane. I—

  Whatever else Gina had started to say had been cut off abruptly.

  Sloane had spent the last twenty hours making arrangements to find and rescue her former boarding school roommate. She only hoped that things weren’t as bad as she feared—that Gina was exaggerating again.

  The sick, twisty feeling in Sloane’s gut told her she was fooling herself.

  “Need a hand?” came a deep voice from behind her.

  Sloane was on edge, revved up from the adrenaline rush at the hotel. Before she could think through w
hat she was doing, she whirled around, ready to strike at the throat that had made that statement.

  It was Mr. Tuxedo, and he was faster than she was. He grabbed her wrist before her strike landed and pulled her forward, using her own momentum against her. She ended up spun around, her back to his chest, her own arms wrapped around her like a straitjacket.

  “Whoa. Calm down,” he said into her hair. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Maybe not, but she wasn’t so sure she could promise him the same. “Let me go.”

  “Not until I’m sure you’re not going to try anything stupid.”

  “Who are you?”

  He paused as if debating his next statement. “A friend.”

  “You say that like I should know who you are. I don’t.” She would have remembered a man who looked and moved like him. There was not a single doubt in her head about that.

  She could feel the hard heat of his body behind hers, the subtle contours of his pecs against her shoulders. His arms were thick and unyielding beneath the sleeves of his tux jacket, holding her in place. A faint, clean scent hovered around him, and Sloane couldn’t help but pull it into her lungs.

  A deep, primal part of her mind perked up, sparking a kind of interest in him she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Maybe never.

  If it weren’t for the fact that he was an armed stalker, she might have been interested in seeing whether or not that instinct was right.

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you following me?” she asked.

  “I can’t let you get on that plane.”

  Sloane’s body stilled inside his hold. If he didn’t want her going to Colombia, then his appearance at the charity ball earlier tonight hadn’t been about Edward. It had been about stopping Sloane before she could reach Gina. Which meant he had to know something about her abduction.

  “Where is she?” Sloane demanded.

  “She who?”

  “Gina. Where have you taken her?”

  He loosened his grip and turned her around to face him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Gina. I just came to keep you off that flight.”

  Sloane studied his face, watching the minuscule movements of his mouth and eyes, searching for a sign he was lying. She found none.

  What she found was even more disconcerting than a lie. There was pain hiding in his expression. She saw it in the tightness of his mouth and the redness rimming his eyes. He was hurting, and she had to shove away a fleeting moment of concern.

  He was handsome. Not in the way of models—all perfect angles and symmetry—but deeper than that. More alluring. His nose had been broken at least once, and there was a small scar bisecting his upper lip. He’d shaved today, but the shadow of his beard darkened his wide jaw. His hair was a shiny deep black, swept back from his forehead in a sleek style that fit perfectly with the tux.

  Sloane hated it that she couldn’t stop staring. She had things to do. A friend to save.

  “I’m getting on that plane,” she told him.

  “No, you’re not.”

  If she hadn’t been watching him so intently, she wouldn’t have seen the smirk playing about his mouth or sparkling in his eyes. But she was watching, and she saw his amusement for what it was.

  A challenge.

  A tingle of excitement bubbled through her veins. This was going to be fun.

  She gave him a sweet smile, one that made him relax his hold on her arms. It was all the room she needed to strike. One well-placed blow to the temples, and he crumpled and was out for the count.

  Lucas knew the woman had game, but he had no idea how much until he was staring up at the stars, wondering what had happened.

  His head throbbed, both where she’d hit him and where he’d hit the asphalt. Rather than moving it, which seemed a really bad idea, he lifted his arm and checked his watch.

  He’d been out for only a few minutes, but long enough that her private jet was gone.

  Shit. Now he had to call the Old Man and admit how he’d fucked up such a simple job.

  Failure grated along his insides, making his stomach churn. No wonder he’d been kicked out of the U.S. Army Rangers. He couldn’t even subdue one unarmed woman.

  Lucas pushed himself to his feet, forced his throbbing knee to take the punishment he gave it, and dialed the Old Man.

  “She got away, didn’t she?” answered the Old Man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You underestimated her, didn’t you?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line, before he spoke again. “Can I safely assume you won’t make that mistake twice?”

  That sounded suspiciously like a second chance—something the Old Man rarely gave. The chance for redemption flared bright and hot inside Lucas, and he gripped the phone tighter, hoping he wasn’t wrong about the man’s intentions. “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll arrange for you to fly out immediately. You’ll go to Colombia and drag her ass back. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can’t be gentle with her. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her, sir. She’s your daughter.”

  “I’d rather see her in a hospital bed than a body bag. If that’s what it takes, that’s what you’ll do. Whatever it takes. Are we clear, Ramsey?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  Sloane Gideon was going to have the world’s shortest visit to Colombia. One way or another. Lucas refused to fail the Old Man again.

  Bella Bayne waited patiently while Tanner wiped blood from his broken nose and the stream of tears from his eyes. He wasn’t crying. Hell, no. Tanner O’Connell was too tough to cry, but even a tough guy leaked a little when his nose broke.

  She was more interested in how he’d handle the blow to his pride than whether or not those were tears of pain.

  The sparring mat was soft under her bare feet, and the smell of hot sweat filled the air of the training room. Around them, her men and women—her mercenaries—gathered to watch her beat the new guy to a pulp.

  “If you can’t beat me,” she told the interviewee, “why should I hire you? Because your brother works here? Are you looking for special treatment?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” said Tanner, his voice ringing with a swollen nasal twang.

  Bella laughed, though she had to force it out. There’d been a time not so long ago when she’d been weak and helpless—a victim just about anyone could have hurt. But not anymore. That life was over. “At the rate you’re going, neither one of us has to worry about that, do we?”

  Tanner clenched his fists, which he held up, ready to defend himself against another blow. “You never said that part of the interview would involve beating the hell out of a woman.”

  “There are a whole lot of things I haven’t said yet. Quit whining and show me what you’ve got. Or do I have to grow a dick before you’ll man up?”

  The onlookers laughed, and Tanner gave a resigned sigh, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them.

  She had to give him points for that. Seven out of the last ten men she’d interviewed hadn’t gotten past the bloodied nose phase. They’d packed up their muscles and gone home.

  Now, the women, on the other hand ... they had no trouble coming at her, fists, elbows, knees, and heels flying without concern.

  “Bella,” came Payton Bainbridge’s voice echoing across the training room. “A word.”

  She didn’t dare take her eyes off Tanner now that he was showing promise. “I’m busy. Make an appointment.”

  “You can bludgeon that young man later. This can’t wait.”

  Great. The bills from the Mexico job must have come in.

  Bella called a halt and bowed to Tanner. “If you’ll please excuse me. We’ll have to pick this up again later.” She turned to her right-hand man. “Riley, could you give Tanner a ride over to Leigh’s office to get
his nose set?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Riley scrubbed his sweaty, shaved head with a towel and tossed it into the hamper. “I’ll make sure she makes him all pretty again.”

  There were at least a dozen people in the training room, and every one of them had something to say about how pretty the new guy was. Bella left, and the door swung shut on a particularly vile comment regarding Tanner’s pretty mouth.

  She smiled, wishing she could stay and join the fun, but there were consequences to face, and Payton was going to make sure she did.

  Bella followed Payton down the hall toward her office. Air cooled the sweat on her body, and the shiny tile floor was cold under her bare feet. The seam down the back of Payton’s perfectly cut suit jacket barely shifted as he walked. Every one of his gray hairs was in place.

  “Hey, Payton,” she said behind him. “Does your hair ever grow?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “It always looks the same. I’ve known you for what, twenty years, and I’ve never once seen you with shaggy hair.”

  “That’s because I’ve never had shaggy hair.”

  “No, I mean, I’ve never seen you come in looking like you just got it cut. It’s always the same exact length. Do you have some kind of secret superpower I don’t know about?”

  Payton glanced over his shoulder without slowing, and said, bone dry, “Yes. Clearly that must be it. I’m the Amazing Never Needs a Haircut Man. Now that you know my secret, I’ll have to kill you.”

  She kept bugging him, because she knew her turn was just around the corner. Literally. Once he got her into her office, she was going to have to sit and listen to him gripe about stuff she had no interest in listening to. “I’m just saying you must get it cut every three days or something.”

  As they rounded the corner, Lila, Bella’s secretary, stood and held out a bottle of chilled water.

  Lila was dressed in her usual burlap brown attire, which hid every bit of proof she was a woman. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place by a plain rubber band—not even the kind meant for hair. A gnawed pencil was behind one ear and her nose was bright pink.