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“What about your job, then? What would your boss say?”
“I want to go because of my job,” she said, eyeing him as if he was a simpleton. “To get the story.”
“What I mean is that the Billy Brent interview can’t be the only assignment you’re working on.”
“Well, no, but—”
“And where would the money come from? Do you have any idea how much last-minute tickets cost?”
“Of course. I don’t live in a cave.”
“Okay, then you know you’re talking a small fortune for the flight alone. And aside from everything else, surely the Post wouldn’t send an Arts and Entertainment journalist to cover the sort of story we have here. I mean, a hit man with a contract on Billy Brent has to be such big news it—”
“I’ll make you another deal,” she interrupted.
He reminded himself that he wasn’t buying into any guilt trip.
Then she quietly said, “Dan, you can’t imagine how important this is for my career.”
“Yes, I can.”
And, hell, maybe it was important. But he had his own career to consider. And he sure didn’t want any more potential complications.
But the next thing he knew, he was saying, “Exactly what have you got in mind?”
She looked very relieved; it didn’t make him the least bit happier that he’d opened his mouth.
“If I can convince my editor to okay the assignment and authorize my expenses,” she said, “you’ll stop objecting and take me along.”
Her words made him feel better. She couldn’t seriously expect her boss to not only give her the time but the money as well. Could she?
He really doubted it. Hard news stories went to hard news reporters. Period.
“So?” she said.
His phone began to ring, temporarily saving him from her question.
“Dan O’Neill,” he answered.
“Dan, it’s Lydia.”
“Hi,” he said, turning away from Mickey even though he knew that wouldn’t keep her from hearing.
“I’ve talked to several people about Mickey Westover, and it doesn’t sound as if you have anything to worry about. She has a reputation for being a straight shooter.”
“And things that are said…”
“In confidence?” Lydia supplied, probably guessing that Mickey was right there.
“Uh-huh.”
“All my sources assured me there’d been no problems.”
“Good. That’s good to know. Anything else?”
“Nothing negative. I’m going to keep at this. There are a few more avenues I want to explore. But I’m not really expecting to turn up anything problematic.”
“Good,” he said again. “If you do, though…”
“You’ll know almost as soon as I do.”
“Fine. And thanks.”
He clicked off, telling himself he couldn’t have asked for better news.
Lydia might have said she was going to keep checking, but she never gave a positive preliminary report unless she was damned sure she wouldn’t get any surprises later on.
Even so, the fact that he didn’t have to worry about Mickey double-crossing him wasn’t going to make him change his mind. He and Ken would be far better off without her.
“Where were we?” he said, turning back toward her.
“Just about to make a deal.”
“I don’t think we were quite to that point.”
She gazed at him for a moment, as if trying to figure out exactly what he was thinking, then said, “Dan, I know I’m repeating myself, but I just don’t believe you can really realize how much this would mean to me. And all I’m asking for is the chance to convince my boss.”
He hesitated, knowing he’d feel better if she thought that he was at least giving her a chance. And surely she’d never persuade the guy to go along with her.
“Okay, have a shot at it,” he said, assuring himself he was looking at virtually no risk.
She held out her hand for his cell phone, which reminded him that the rest of the phones—including hers—were still sitting in that recycle box.
He turned his cellular over to her, then nonchalantly zipped his suitcase shut.
Her conversation shouldn’t take more than about thirty seconds. And once her boss had said “No dice,” all there’d be left to do was drop her off at her car. After that, he’d be done with her.
THE MORE MICKEY TALKED, the less Dan liked what he was hearing.
Somehow or other, she’d succeeded in presenting her absurd idea in such a logical-sounding way that it no longer seemed half as absurd.
When she lapsed into silence, obviously listening to whatever her boss was saying, he desperately wished he could hear both sides of the conversation.
Her expression made him certain that this Eric fellow was not telling her there was absolutely no way. Which was what was supposed to be happening.
Dammit. He felt like kicking himself for not realizing how convincing she could be. Because he sure as hell should have.
After all, at this point she’d convinced him to agree to two of her ridiculous deals.
“I know, Eric,” she said. “You’re perfectly right. I’m not the best candidate. I’m not claiming to be.
“But the critical thing is that I’m the one up here with Dan O’Neill and he trusts me.”
Oh, right. Trust was a definite stretch.
Maybe he believed that Mickey wouldn’t renege on her word. After all, Lydia just didn’t get things like that wrong. But that didn’t mean he entirely trusted the woman.
She was a schemer, a sneak, a blackmailer, a—
“And since I’m the only person he’s willing to take along…” she was saying.
Willing to take along? That was hardly the way he’d put it.
“Yes, I am positive about that. He just doesn’t have much faith in most journalists.”
Finally. Something that was true.
“But the two of us clicked, and…well, he isn’t giving us any real choice.”
When she paused, he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her clincher.
“Either you assign me to the story,” she concluded, “or we don’t get it.”
There was a small silence before she said, “Yes, I really do think I’m up to it. And the prospect of letting it slip through our fingers…we’re talking a hit man trying to kill Billy Brent. We’re talking not only that, which none of our competition even knows about, but exclusive coverage of what happens from here on in.
“Eric, it’ll be a huge story. And only the Post will have it. We’ll scoop both the Chronicle and the Examiner. Hell, we’ll scoop The New York Times!”
Dan could feel his anxiety level rising. Mickey Westover was making him very nervous.
She glanced over and gave him a warm smile. It sent a chill down his spine. The fact she felt like smiling wasn’t good.
The silence stretched until he couldn’t keep himself from whispering, “Is he going for it?”
“Going, going, gone,” she said. “I’m on hold and he’s on his other line, running the idea past the editor in chief for an okay.”
Oh, man. But surely an editor in chief would recognize the insanity of this.
He began willing that to happen.
And then Mickey said, “Eric, that’s great. Please thank Mr. Edwards for me. And I promise I’ll come through, that neither of you will be disappointed.”
THE ONLY AVAILABLE SEATS had been in first class, and since Mickey had never flown anything but economy before that had simply added to her excitement, so much so that she was barely worrying about whether Eric would drop dead from shock when he saw her expense report.
Or about the fact that paying for her ticket had probably put her within two dollars of maxing out her Visa card. Which meant that the car rental people were in for an unpleasant surprise.
Dan had said there was no time to waste returning the Taurus, so they’d driven down to Victoria in his four-by-four and left the car at Billy’s to be picked up. But once it had been retrieved, and someone tried to get authorization for what she owed them…
Well, her MasterCard wasn’t at its limit, so as soon as she had a chance she’d phone and give them that number. Otherwise, her credit rating would be in the tank.
As the plane lifted off, she took another slow, deep breath. It was only for insurance, though. She already felt pretty much back to normal.
There was barely any queasiness left in her stomach, and her intuition was saying that everything would be fine from here on in. Travelwise, at least.
Thus far, however, it had been a banner day in that department.
Of course, things had been even more exciting in the hit man department. But that was something she’d be wiser not to think about. Remembering how hard she’d been shaking, while pointing that gun at the killer, was a lot tougher on her nerves than focusing her thoughts on her travel adventures.
Adventures. She paused on the word, then decided it was the right one.
Driving with Dan, while he’d taken those tight mountain curves at roughly eight hundred miles an hour, had definitely been an adventure. And there wasn’t the slightest doubt that the flight from Victoria to Seattle qualified.
It had been her first time in a seaplane, and she’d quite happily go through the rest of her life without a second one. Their descent had been steep enough to convince her that the pilot was suicidal and intending to drown everyone aboard.
But now that she and Dan were on a nice, safe 757, en route to New York, it would be smooth sailing. Or smooth flying, to be precise.
“Would you like something to drink?” a flight attendant asked.
Dan opted for a beer.
Since the woman was holding an open bottle of champagne, Mickey chose that.
She took a sip, pleased to discover that her stomach was going to handle the bubbles just fine. Then she began wishing that Dan seemed happier about having her along.
Well, more accurately, she wished he didn’t seem downright miserable. And that he liked her. Even a bit.
Things would be far more comfortable if the air between them wasn’t heavy with negative vibes, not a single one of which was coming from her.
After all, how could she possibly feel unkindly toward a man who was letting her in on the scoop of a lifetime? Even if he had done a lot of foot-dragging before agreeing. And aside from helping her get a major career break, he was really sort of cute.
She considered that for a few seconds, aware of how drastically her opinion of his attractiveness had changed since they’d met. Obviously, he was the type of man who grew on people.
Oh, she still wasn’t crazy about his short hair, but that type of thing was easy to fix. And she was sure the coldness in his blue eyes would dissipate if he just began warming up to her.
And that little scar above his upper lip…she’d been wondering exactly how he’d come by it.
Actually, she’d been wondering a lot of things about him. And since most men loved talking about themselves, what better way of warming him up than getting him to do exactly that?
“So,” she said.
He glanced at her.
She shot him a friendly smile and tried not to feel badly when he didn’t return it.
After a few beats, she said, “I haven’t forgotten what you were saying earlier—that you don’t want your name in print. Or any mention of the company you work for. But is it okay if I ask you about it? Completely off the record?”
“Ask me what about it?”
“Well, for starters, it must have a name.”
“You wouldn’t recognize it.”
“I might.”
Dan broke eye contact with Mickey and sat gazing out the window for a moment, considering where he should go from here.
Given what Lydia had learned, he figured he could believe Mickey when she said “off the record.” So it wouldn’t hurt to tell her a bit about RCI.
Besides, even though the company kept a low profile its existence was hardly a state secret. And Mickey was a journalist.
She’d know exactly where to look for whatever information she was interested in finding, which meant that it would probably take her all of five minutes to learn most of what she might want to about either RCI or him.
Confidential information had almost become a thing of the past.
He drank some of his beer, then said, “The company’s called Risk Control International.”
“Oh. Okay, you were right. I’ve never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t. It’s in the survival business.”
“You mean wilderness survival?”
“No. I mean keeping people alive.”
“Oh,” she said again.
For a moment he thought she was done, but then she said, “So it provides bodyguards?”
“Uh-huh. That’s one thing. It also runs a lot of training courses. Most of them are basically aimed at law enforcement types, but they attract civilian students, too—usually executives who work in countries with terrorism problems, or other people at high risk.”
“And the courses teach…?”
Man, the way she could fire questions made him suspect she was a better reporter than he’d been giving her credit for.
“They cover things like self-defense, tactical driving, handgun training,” he told her. “And there’s one called Special Technics that touches on everything from hot-wiring cars to picking locks.”
“People need to know those sorts of things to stay alive?”
“Sometimes. You can never tell what kind of jam you’ll find yourself in. At any rate, the company can pretty well provide any service, handle anything a client needs. Most people working for it are independent contractors, which gives it a large pool of experts to draw on.”
“Is that what you are, then? An independent contractor? And an expert?”
“Uh-huh. I’m a personal security advisor, which basically means that I analyze a situation, settle on a way of safeguarding the individual—or individuals—at risk, and then take things from there.”
“And that was what you did in Billy’s case.”
“Right. Only the plan should have gone a whole lot more smoothly. All it involved was Billy laying low with Ken Heath, who also does work for RCI, while I lured the killer to the retreat. Then, according to the script, once he got there I’d make him tell me who’d hired him. After that, I’d turn both him and the information over to the police.”
“Make him tell you?”
He merely shrugged. He wasn’t getting into that with her.
For a moment she looked as if she was going to try pressing him about it, but she finally just said, “Do you have any idea who might have hired this guy? I mean, I’m assuming you discussed that with Billy.”
“Of course.”
“And he thought it could be…?”
“The list is endless. I’m exaggerating,” he added quickly, even though he wasn’t exaggerating by a lot.
“In any event,” he continued, deciding it would be wise to change the conversation’s direction, “what happened today just goes to show how even the most straightforward plan can fall apart.
“Billy wasn’t supposed to give Ken the slip and head for New York, I wasn’t supposed to end up on the wrong end of a gun and the killer wasn’t supposed to get away.”
He had another swig of beer, assuming he must have satisfied her curiosity by now.
However, she barely waited for him to swallow before saying, “But now that he did get away, and now that you think he might show up at NBS in the morning, how will you deal with it?”
“Well, if we haven’t found Billy before then, we’ll go with Plan B—watching to see if the hit man does show up at NBS. And insuring Billy’s safety if that happens.”
Mickey looked thoughtful, then said, “I asked you about this before, but you didn’t tell me. How did Billy know someone was trying to kill him?”
When he hesitated, she added, “I wouldn’t use it in a story unless I’d checked with him, first.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said slowly, reminding himself once more that he didn’t have much reason to be overly cautious. He’d never known Lydia to make a mistake.
Besides, as soon as Billy was back in circulation he’d be telling anyone and everyone what had happened. He knew their star well enough to be sure of that.
Focusing on Mickey again, he said, “A couple of weeks ago, Billy almost totaled his Porsche—was incredibly lucky that he only got shaken up. And when his mechanic checked over what was left of the car, he discovered that the brakes had been tampered with.
“Then he had a look at Billy’s other vehicles and found that someone had done the same thing with all six of them. That was when his people contacted RCI.”
“And RCI contacted you.”
“Uh-huh.”
He watched her take a sip of champagne, absently thinking that he’d never in a million years have imagined today unfolding as it had, would never have pictured himself winging his way across the country at all, let alone with a beautiful woman who smelled like…
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