Last Man Standing Page 6

  They didn’t make towels long enough to cover those legs.

  Professor Westin had passed his background screening, the security check at the gate, and—other than those few minutes alone in the library—had been under constant surveillance by Aaron or someone else in the house. But their newest guest had shown an inordinate amount of curiosity in her surroundings. He supposed intellectuals were like that, always poking around, eager to learn something new. His brother Mac was a forensic scientist who never missed a detail. Mac could read a crime scene with all five senses, and with a little help from chemistry and computers, piece together the who, what, where, when, and sometimes even the why of the crime.

  Cole’s powers of observation lay in reading people.

  The professor had first caught his attention when she climbed into the wardrobe. Odd. But he’d seen stranger stuff in this house. When she disappeared into the bathroom, he’d gone back to his desk to finish up some paperwork. But now, as he watched the hurry in her movements, he realized her curious eccentricities served a purpose. What, he didn’t know yet. But she was up to something. Dinner wasn’t for nearly an hour, and she showed all the signs of a woman who was late for an appointment.

  He hooked the last button on his cuff and unbunched the oxford cloth sleeves beneath the elastic and leather brace of his shoulder holster. He missed the days when he could just toss on a pair of jeans and… He froze with his hands at the knot of his tie.

  She’d dropped the towel.

  A better man might have turned away, but Cole couldn’t. Slim and delicate from the nape of her neck down to the heel of her foot—with miles of smooth, milky skin in between—Victoria Westin didn’t look like any professor he knew. Even in black and white, she was tall, lean and sexy. His pulse quickened. His lips parted to accommodate the sudden heat inside that sought escape.

  She’d pulled on panty hose, a slip and a plain green dress before he forced himself to blink and look away. He retreated all the way to his desk to grab his suit coat from the back of his chair and slip it on, needing the physical activity to work off the tension that made him edgy and horny and frustrated as hell. He needed a long workout in the gym or a stiff drink. He didn’t need to be dreaming up scenarios about slender redheads doing stripteases.

  He was in one screwed-up mess, sitting on a time bomb. He’d uncovered dates and codes and had no clear idea whether they were legit or not, without outside verification. He hadn’t heard boo about his mother’s recovery from being attacked. And he was certain that someone in this house suspected he was a traitor. They might not know he was a cop, but he or she saw him as a threat.

  How else could he explain the influx of invitations to sit in on every meeting? Not just with Jericho, but with Chad and his fiancée. Paulie. Aaron, too. Supervising deliveries, consulting on stock options, hiring accountants. Strategies for dealing with a relentless district attorney who’d published yet another interview about his determination to rid Kansas City of organized crime. He’d never been so popular.

  What did they want him to say? That he knew the assistant district attorney personally? That ADA Dwight Powers believed Jericho Meade had gotten away with murder?

  Someone was trying to keep Cole very busy, and feed him lots of misleading information in an effort to trip him up and reveal his connection to Dwight Powers.

  “What the—?”

  Victoria Westin had just slipped something inside the lining of her jacket. Cole moved closer to watch. She smoothed lipstick over her lips and smacked them together, studying her appearance in the mirror. The luscious shape of her mouth interested him almost as much as what she did next. Instead of replacing the cap, she unscrewed something from the bottom of the tube and tucked that into her jacket as well.

  “What are you up to?” he whispered to the image on his screen.

  Cole buttoned his jacket as she opened her door and peered into the hallway. He typed in a command and switched the view to the one from the upstairs hallway camera, and caught her slinking along the railing toward the landing’s sitting area.

  “That’s beyond curious, lady. Who are you?”

  Instincts borne of too many years on the job transformed his suspicion into a defensive awareness that radiated through his skeleton and sharpened every sense. He looked past her to the bigger picture on the screen.

  Where was Aaron? Polakis was supposed to be watching her until dinner.

  A nosy guest. A missing guard.

  Too many unanswered questions.

  When Ms. Westin peeked over the top of the banister before tiptoeing down the stairs, a plan took shape in Cole’s mind.

  It was crazy. It was desperate.

  But it was a plan.

  WITH RIMSKY-KORSAKOV filling the room and the ear of whomever might be listening on the other end, Tori slipped out her door and made her way to the grand staircase.

  Through the window overlooking the landing she spotted Aaron outside. He was smoking a cigarette in the gazebo at the end of the garden path and trading words with a platinum blonde who wore a thigh-baring tennis dress and his rain-spattered jacket across her shoulders. That must be the infamous Lana, who hated to be kept waiting. Had they been caught in the rain together? And where was Chad?

  Aaron hadn’t struck her as the kind of man who’d go in for the gallantry of offering a woman the warmth of his coat. Nor did he seem to be at a loss for words with Lana, judging by his angry gesticulations. Hmm. Five fingers on his right hand, she idly noted.

  But as long as he was occupied, Aaron wasn’t her immediate concern. Counting his trouble with women and weather as a stroke of good fortune for her, Tori hurried down the main stairs, ducked through one of the unexplored archways in the east wing and broadened her search.

  This was more like the two Bills’ report. A rotating camera hung at the end of a short, empty hallway. There were two heavy walnut doors on either side, all trimmed with polished brass and new locks. She could tell from the understatement of the decor that this was a suite of offices. What was housed inside them, she couldn’t say, but the word Private on one of the doors was all the invitation she needed.

  It took her only a few minutes to time the sweep of the camera. Once her pathway was clear, she placed a dime-size dampening module against the lock to prevent the disruption of any electronic alarms, then quickly picked her way inside.

  Closing the door behind her, she leaned back against the shoulder-high walnut paneling and breathed deeply, silently, orienting herself to her surroundings. Steady tremors of cloud-to-cloud lightning provided all the light she needed to see. A desk sat at one end of the room. Heavy and ornately carved, it was the style of furniture that touted a man’s power and virility. But it was the file cabinet recessed into the wall and the computer sitting on top of the desk that got her pulse racing.

  Information heaven. She mouthed the words in triumph, conscious of the presence of listening devices in the room.

  Moving without a sound on her two-inch heels across the oriental rug, she circled the room, taking note of the two seams in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that marked another hidden door. Everything was neatly dusted in here, making it difficult to tell whether the passageway had been opened recently. The switch would be hidden behind a book, or maybe inside one of the lacquer boxes displayed on the shelves.

  Though curiosity begged her to search for the way inside, to see if it connected to her room, this was a reconnaissance mission. She needed to explore all her options as quickly as she could, then return to the main part of the house before she was missed.

  Lightning flashed outside the window and a clap of thunder galloped closely on its heels, warning of the worsening storm. The wind picked up and tree branches drummed against the panes like impatient fingertips. Dark house. Big storm. Tori clutched the edge of a chair and carefully identified each sight and sound, refusing to be unnerved by the weather or her own inexplicably fanciful mood. Then a second flash lit the room.

  Her s
tartled gasp was drowned out by the answering thunder.

  The end wall held a nearly life-size painting of Jericho Meade and a man who must surely be his son, Daniel. They shared the same lanky build, the same sharp nose. And though the younger man’s hair was golden and Jericho’s snowy white, they shared the same cold blue eyes.

  Tori shivered at the creepy feeling of those painted eyes watching her every move. Oils and canvas couldn’t hurt her, though the real thing could.

  Determined to meet her fear head-on, she lined her cheek up against the wall to inspect the gilt-edged frame. Pay dirt! The hanging cord above the heavy portrait was a fake. The back of the picture was anchored by a spring-loaded hinge, an indication that a safe was hidden in the wall behind it. Anticipation danced through her, soothing her jumpy nerves. She would definitely find her way back into this room.

  With restored perception, she approached the desk. She noted the cut-glass bowl of foil-wrapped mints similar to the one she’d spit out earlier. Someone had strong taste buds or—she smiled—used the bitter taste to cancel out another bad habit. She stroked her fingers across a nineteenth-century humidor, then lifted the wooden lid to sniff the pungent aroma of the cigars stacked inside. A hint of the same fruity tobacco smell had clung to the material of Jericho’s suit. There was no questioning whose office she’d entered.

  The job didn’t get any better than this.

  But she wouldn’t solve this case in a day. Tomorrow, she’d find time to sneak back in to unlock the desk and file cabinet to locate inventory lists, bills of sale or transit, even a combination for the hidden safe.

  Unless, of course, Jericho happened to keep something like that on his computer. She was the one who’d romanticized the secret doors and passageways as gateways to stashes of stolen goods. Maybe Jericho was more modern when it came to doing business.

  She wasn’t late for dinner yet.

  Tori spared a few seconds to flip on the computer. She held her breath as the machine beeped softly and came to life. It made no other sound as the software loaded. Still, that single mechanical tone, jarring against the natural symphony outdoors, was enough to set her on edge. The glow from the monitor seemed inordinately bright, and steady as a spotlight compared to the periodic bursts of electricity from the storm. A vague sense of imminent danger shifted Tori on her feet and she automatically looked to the watchful eyes of the portrait. They seemed to blink on and off, open and shut, with each streak of lightning.

  But, of course, there was no movement except the row of icons popping onto the screen. Tori crouched behind the desk and read through the file names.

  C. Donations. Charitable donations? A possibility for listing art acquisitions. But stolen ones?

  PM. Paul Meredith? Prime Minister? Afternoon?

  Tori flexed her fingers as a dozen ideas filled her head. She needed uninterrupted time to play on Jericho’s computer, to bypass possible encryptions to open files and evaluate the information stored there. This was just an introduction to all the possibilities that could aid her search.

  Layout. She liked the looks of that one, hoped it meant house plans.

  Daniel.

  Daniel? She mouthed the question and frowned. What records would a man keep on a computer about his deceased son?

  Lancelot. Tori’s heart leaped in her chest. Naw, it couldn’t be that easy. Maybe she could spare one more moment, just to click on the icon—

  “Bang. You’re dead.”

  Lightning flashed and Tori jumped at the low-pitched voice from across the room. Someone a hell of a lot scarier than a lifeless portrait was watching her. And he was no figment of her imagination.

  She slowly rose, silently cursing the seconds when she must have dropped her guard. Then silently cursing the man closing the door behind him. She hadn’t dropped her guard. She’d been outmaneuvered.

  With her eyes adjusted to the room’s sporadic light, it didn’t take her long to assess the well-cut suit that clung to massive shoulders and masked the sleek bulk of a weapon holstered at his side. Or the long, dark hair pulled back from carved cheekbones and hanging past his starched white collar. Or the eyes that pierced the darkness and condemned her long before she ever spoke.

  This guy had “Don’t fight, don’t run, don’t even breathe funny” written all over him.

  An unfamiliar, nervous energy shimmied across her skin, and she curled her fingers into tight fists at her sides. Tori couldn’t tell if it was acknowledgment of a worthy adversary, a surge of ill-timed sexual attraction or an uncomfortable combination of both that had her emotions scrambling for cover.

  She straightened her fingers and stiffened her spine, pushing aside her initial reaction. She wouldn’t surrender her mission to an attack of nerves. Nor would she let an unexpected rush of hormones sway her from her purpose. “Let me guess. You’re Cole Taylor.”

  “And you’re trouble.”

  She supposed that was confirmation enough of his identity. He strode across the room, moving as stealthily as she had. God, he was even bigger up close. And she was a tall woman. Way too much man for her peace of mind. She curled her toes inside her pumps to keep from retreating. Those deep blue eyes scanned the room without ever losing her from their line of sight.

  “Breaking into the boss’s office? Accessing files. There’s a reason it says Private on the door.”

  Tori didn’t bother denying the obvious. “What gave me away? No one followed me. Any sound I made was muffled by the storm. And I bypassed the door sensors.”

  The subtle curve at the corner of his mouth could be a smile or a sneer. “The computer.”

  He reached across her to shut off the machine. Tori turned her nose to the side to avoid contact with the crisp scent of pressed gabardine. He paused, giving her time to inhale the subtler tang of the man himself. It was far less personal than Chad Meade’s touch had been, yet far more potent. Taylor knew he was too close to be polite; he dared her to be afraid.

  “I rigged an alarm program that alerts me in my office. If you don’t type in the right code within ten seconds of the screen boot-up, I pay a visit.”

  She rolled her gaze up to meet his, boldly refusing to be intimidated. “Clever.”

  “Clever enough.” He pulled his arm away and stepped back. “You’re Victoria Westin, the art lady.”

  “Art historian.” She let a little huffy indignation creep into her voice. She was an invited guest, after all—even if the invitation didn’t extend to this private room. Maybe she could bluff her way past Cole Taylor’s censure. “I’m here to appraise and catalog Mr. Meade’s collection for estate purposes.”

  “Bull.” A flash of lightning punctuated his opinion.

  So much for bluffing.

  “You’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter. Westin and Jericho Meade were business partners decades ago. Frank claims he made his fortune on the straight and narrow. Rumors say he gets infusions of cash from, shall we say, less honorable means. Word in the city says he’s expanding his real estate holdings and he’s a little strapped for cash right now.”

  “Word in the city?” Tori faced him head-on, age-old hackles rising in self-defense. “I work for the museum, not Frank. I resent your implication. And how do you know so much about my family?”

  He leaned in, ignoring the whole idea of personal space. Tori tilted her chin and held her ground.

  “I make it a point to know everything I can about everyone I meet. You here to help out Grandpa? Maybe sweet-talk your way into a loan from Jericho? Or do you have something else in mind?” He opened his palm and showed her the tiny dampening device he’d pulled from the lock. “I’ve never seen technology like this used in any museum. Unless you’re planning to steal something.”

  “First I’m a con artist, and now I’m a thief?”

  He’d grabbed her wrist and lifted it, thrusting her watch toward her face. “I’ve got cameras hidden around here that this baby can’t pick up.”

  “Get your hands off me.” Tor
i had managed to twist free, but she had a feeling he’d simply let her go.

  “Where’d you get the hardware?”

  “It’s none of—” The buzz of voices in the hallway diverted her defensive temper. “Afraid you can’t handle me on your own?”

  The alertness that put Tori on guard against the threat of discovery paled in comparison to the exponential energy that suddenly suffused every muscle in Cole’s posture. He seemed to swell in height. A vein ticked along his jaw and something reckless flickered in his midnight-blue eyes.

  Harsh and demanding undertones riddled the bone-deep pitch of his voice when he suddenly reached for her. “Take off your jacket.”

  “What?” Tori darted back a step. He followed.

  “Strip, lady,” he ordered, cornering her at the edge of the desk.

  A key slipped into the lock but didn’t turn. There was laughter as a third voice joined the conversation outside. Tori glanced over her shoulder at the door, not sure which enemy proved the greater danger at the moment. But when she felt the hand at her breastbone, she knew.

  “Hands off, buddy.”

  She wound her fingers around his wrist and pinched, a sure move that had taken down others. The big man grunted a curse at the pain she’d inflicted, but instead of going down, he twisted out of her grip and pinned her arm behind her back, crushing her thighs with his own against the desk.

  “Hey—” was all she got out before a taut hand muffled her mouth.

  He leaned in close enough for her to feel his hot breath against her cheek. “I’m trying to save your life.”

  Then his fingers were on her buttons again, undoing them to the background noise of joking voices just outside the door.