Ten years ago she’d been a vivaciously pretty seventeen-year-old and already modeling for her mother’s athletic wear company. Now Antonia Castillo was heart-stopping. The recent picture in the dossier he’d studied on the plane was from the latest running shoe campaign, depicting Antonia crouching low as she exploded from starting blocks on a cinder track. Her body was an inspiration to would-be wearers of the shoes, long, lean, strong and bronze. The skimpy swatches of silk she wore left sleek legs bare and clung to her stupendous breasts. The photographer caught the essence of competition in her intensely focused expression. Thick dark hair was twisted back in a heavy braid revealing the bold angles of her face glorified in a sheen of healthy sweat. Those startling blue eyes against a deep skin tone gleamed with the spirit of personal challenge. Full, lusty lips peeled back from white teeth bared in a high-energy smile. Hell, it made him want to buy shoes.
And then he’d remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her. Stripped of power, bereft of pride.
That was the face that haunted his nights.
Promise me. Promise me you won’t say anything.
There was no trace of that vulnerable girl in the assessing gaze that swept over him now.
“You’re looking well, Russell.”
“A sight for sore eyes?”
Those dazzling eyes narrowed. Her tone chilled. “Once, perhaps.”
Still, that greedy detailing had already told him.
Things were going to get complicated.
“Your father sent you alone to pick me up?”
The chin guard on the helmet hoisted an arrogant notch. “I pick up whom I please these days.”
“To the delight of the tabloids, I might add.”
“You’ve been keeping track of me.” It was hard to tell by her voice if that notion annoyed or flattered her.
“You’re hard to miss. Safaris, mountain climbing, sky diving, bunji jumping, a true media darling. A poster child for daredevils.”
And she made fine posters. He didn’t have a lot of time to keep up with current events, let alone the social swirl, but Antonia Castillo was news. She wasn’t found on the society pages at glittering events but rather in the pits at a race track, hanging with bikers or fight promoters, tossing back brews with the boys. One would never guess there were shadows hidden behind that brilliant smile. A courageous woman or one with something desperate to prove? It didn’t matter. Both were dangerous and made him nervous because of their unpredictability.
“I take on each day as if it was my last, Russell. You disapprove?”
“It’s your life.”
“Yes, it is, and I live it as I choose.” She flung that at him like a challenge, but he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t dare.
“Good for you, Ms. Castillo,” was his cool, distancing reply.
He couldn’t see her face, just those expressive eyes. They blazed hotly. With passionate feeling. Those kind of emotions, whether anger or insult or something more, were the last things he meant to inspire in either of them. But they were there, simmering now as they had then, just below the surface. Dangerous and unpredictable.
He’d been naive to think this would be just another job.
“Your father’s waiting for me. Should I start walking?”
His dismissing prompt dashed the heat from her stare. Her reply was equal in its disinterest. “Climb on. Or take a cab if you’re afraid the ride might be too much for you.”
He snagged the spare helmet off the sissy bar and drawled, “I can handle anything with wheels or estrogen.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. He could imagine her sassy smile. “Ummm. We’ll see.” She snapped down her visor and goosed the throttle impatiently.
Slipping on his sunglasses and the open fronted helmet, Zach swung a leg over the seat. Even as he touched the saddle, the bike lunged forward, forcing him to grab on or get thrown. With one hand clenched in the back of her jacket and the other working the helmet strap, Zach managed to find the foot pegs as Antonia Castillo slalomed between slower vehicles, leaning and weaving like a downhill racer.
He wasn’t dressed for a winter ride. His wool pea coat didn’t shed the cut of the wind the way her leathers did. His bare hands and face burned as they headed out into the open air of the freeway southbound toward the lakeshore. Behind dark glasses, his eyes watered and blurred. But even as he grimaced into the brunt of the elements, a part of him enjoyed the fierce whip of the February air and the freedom of flying down the road unencumbered by convictions. Antonia’s laughter filtered back to him as if she felt his exhilaration and mocked him because of it. With hands resting firm and wide spread atop the curve of her hips, Zach leaned back to appreciate the irony of the trip.
What was he doing here, on his way to meet with a man who’d tried to destroy him, with his hands enjoying the feel of a woman who, even when little more than a child, had turned him inside out?
His simple intentions were about to go straight to a chaotic hell.
Once they left the open highway for more sheltered suburban streets, neighborhoods went from large homes crowding the manicured boulevards to massive family compounds hidden behind high walls. He observed, not as a casual visitor, but as a potential protector, noting side streets, surveillance opportunities, and possible danger spots until they reached the Castillo’s residence.
The walls and iron gates were a newer addition, as were the video cameras. Nothing like being proven vulnerable to encourage an escalation in security. They idled outside the gates for less than eight seconds before the way parted, so obviously someone was on the job.
The house wasn’t visible from the street. A long drive made of brick and cobblestone wound through a thick stand of oaks and firs shielding the residence from view. Not a good scenario. It provided too many places for an undesirable to conceal himself. Zach liked wide open spaces. He liked to see an enemy coming.
And that’s how he felt as they took the final turn and he saw Victor Castillo, himself, standing on the front steps of his palatial kingdom.
The house was magnificent. Set on a bluff overlooking the slated waters of Lake Michigan, the sprawling three story stone and timber structure with its turrets, leaded glass and steeply pitched tiled roof reminded him of the estates that dotted the English North country. Though quaint in comparison to the true palaces of Europe, it made a statement of comfortable wealth and American arrogance. Much like its owner.
The last and only time he’d been here, he’d arrived in an unmarked panel truck with a cluster of other highly trained, highly motivated fellows. He went unnoticed, like the invisible working class meant to serve without intrusion. His job was to not garner individual attention from those in residence. This time, he’d been invited. So why was he wishing for that anonymity again?
He climbed off the back of the bike, moving cautiously until he was certain he had proper circulation in his legs. Antonia swung off and strode up and into the house without a word to him or her father. Why had she come to meet him herself if she was angry he was here? The number
