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He’d had plenty of chances with girls his age, but he hadn’t been interested in some giggling ninny who would let him touch her tits in exchange for his class ring or some such garbage. Girls were always looking to fall in love and he wasn’t interested. He didn’t believe in love and knew he never would love anyone. His parents and his siblings had convinced him that love was a foolish notion. It just plain didn’t exist.
The cement was hot against the bottoms of his feet as he jogged the length of the pool and snatched up his towel. He was still sore and knew with his bruises and scar, he looked like hell.
Kat glanced up and offered him a blinding smile that caused his diaphragm to slam into his lungs. “You’re feeling better,” he said weakly, knowing she expected conversation.
“Yeah.”
She lifted her sunglasses to squint up at him. God, she was beautiful. Her lips were a slick, glossy pink and her cheekbones were carved gently. Standing above her, he could see down the column of her throat and lower still to the deep cleft between her breasts. Her tan line, faded so
mewhat, was still visible and if she moved just the right way, he was certain he’d catch a glimpse of her nipples. “No permanent damage?” she asked, as if she really cared.
“Looks that way.” He swiped the towel over his face and through his hair, trying to ignore the raw sensuality that seemed to radiate from her. Hell, why was she looking at him like that?
“That’s good. I was worried about you.” She stretched and the motion seemed somehow feline in the hot sun. A hot summer breeze kissed the back of his neck.
“Were you?” He didn’t believe her and he was suddenly wary.
She swallowed and licked her lips. Somewhere in the house a door slammed. “Yes…there’s so much that’s happened, some of it so awful.” Tears moistened her eyes and for the life of him he felt sorry for her. “Anyway, I know I’ve treated you badly—that display at the hotel was uncalled for. I was drunk and angry and…oh, God, Zach…I’m making a mess of this, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”
“Forget it,” he said, feeling his face turning a darker shade of red.
“I will. If you’ll forgive me.”
Jesus, what was going on here? He cleared his throat and glanced at the shadows shifting beneath the trees. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” Again the smile, though this time there were teardrops drizzling down her cheeks and he realized how devastated she was about the loss of her child.
He felt awkward and stupid for even thinking about her in any way sexual. She was grieving, for Christ’s sake. Nervously, he knotted the towel in his hands. “I…uh, look, don’t worry about London. She’ll turn up.”
“You think so?” She sounded so hopeful.
Did he do that—give her a sense of false hope about a poor little girl who might already be dead? He felt absolutely wretched. “I dunno, but…everybody’s looking for her…” It sounded lame, even to his own ears, and he noticed the ghost of pain crossing her eyes. Hell, he was just no good at this!
She reached up and grabbed his hand with hers. Heat swirled up his arm. “I hope so, Zach,” she whispered, blinking hard as her fingers tightened over his. A jolt of electricity kicked his heart into high gear. She looked so young suddenly, so vulnerable and small. He had to remind himself that this was Kat. “God, I hope so.” She used his arm as a brace and climbed to her feet, her body only inches from his. He barely noticed the lingering pain from his beating.
To his utter amazement, she stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss over his cheek. “Thanks for understanding, Zach. I needed a friend.” He turned his face, staring into her eyes, feeling her moist, smoky breath against his skin, half expecting her to kiss him again, but she smiled sadly and let go of his arm, then picked up her things and walked back to the house.
He was left standing by the pool, dripping, and wondering what the hell had just gone on.
Pain, as hot as if it erupted straight from the bowels of hell, shot through Witt’s chest. For a second he couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone had locked their fingers over his throat and was strangling him. Where were the pills? He yanked open the desk drawer and saw the vial in the pencil rack. Agony tore at his heart as he managed to retrieve the nitroglycerin pills and shove one under his tongue. He was nearly gasping now and waiting, his elbows propped on the leather desk pad, his head resting in his palms. Sweat broke out over his forehead and the damned intercom began to buzz impatiently. He didn’t answer and knew that Shirley, his secretary of more than twenty years, would get the message.
The buzzer stopped and five minutes later, he was collected again—the angina had passed and he straightened his tie. No one save McHenry knew about his condition and he planned on keeping his secret to himself. Witt hated weakness and this heart condition was just that…a sign that he wasn’t as strong as he once had been.
He reached for his humidor, opened the lid, and the heavy scent of Havana tobacco wafted to his nostrils. He grabbed a cigar, wedged it between his teeth, but didn’t light up. Not now. Not after the angina attack.
He pushed the intercom button, learned that Roger Phelps was waiting in the reception area of the offices of Danvers International, and growled at Shirley to show him in. Disgusted, he didn’t bother lighting up though he longed for a few relaxing lungfuls of smoke.
Within minutes Phelps was seated on the opposite side of Witt’s desk. He looked like Joe Average. Tan slacks, brown jacket, off-white shirt, and nondescript, department-store tie. His face wasn’t noteworthy, just even features with the beginnings of jowls that matched the paunch developing at his belt line. Witt was more than a little disappointed in the man who had supposedly been an agent with the CIA before dropping out of the government to do independent work.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Danvers?” Phelps said in a nasal voice. He hiked up his pants a bit and Witt noticed that his shoes—cheap loafers, from the looks of them—were scuffed.
“You must’ve guessed why I wanted you. My daughter, London, was kidnapped. The police and FBI are incompetent jerks. Don’t have a clue where my daughter is and it’s been damned close to a month.”
Phelps didn’t comment.
“You come highly recommended.”
A lift of a shoulder.
