“Coincidence, do you think?” he asked at last.
“The kidnapping? Perhaps. If someone knew the details of the first, they’d know there wasn’t a very good chance that they’d come out of it rich men.” Her tone was remarkably free of bitterness.
“Unless it wasn’t about the money.”
“What, then?”
“Terror. Simple, stark terror. The quickest way to bring an enemy to its knees is with the idea of what could happen.”
She had to be thinking about it. It had to be tearing at her, undercutting her sense of safety. For a moment, he was blind-sided by the memory of what he’d found in that room. But she betrayed none of that inner fright with her next bold words.
“My father’s knees won’t bend and neither will mine, not before empty threats and scare tactics.”
“And if they become more than that?”
“Keep them from becoming more than that, Russell. That’s why I hired you. My only rule—don’t let them get close. Don’t ever let them get close enough to touch me.”
The briefest tremor shook through her voice, just a ripple to disturb the smooth surface calm.
Before he gave thought to it, he started to reach out to take her hand, thinking to extend a reassuring press. But when she caught the movement toward her, she took a rapid step back to place herself out of range. He let his hand fall back to his side and sought to console her with his sincerity instead.
“They will not get by me. My word on it.”
She stood for a moment, gauging him for his ability to keep that solemn vow, strung tight as the piano wire that had nearly taken off his hand a few days earlier instead of his head. And gradually, she began to uncoil.
“Tomas put your bags on the third floor.”
“Is that where you sleep?”
“No. My room’s down there.” She gestured toward the right, but her stare was still locked into his.
“And where do you want me?”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “I’d have you sleeping inside my pajamas with me if it didn’t compromise Rule Three.”
Visuals, hot and embarrassingly graphic, ran wild through his imagination, but he managed a thin smile. “There’ll be none of that. What are your plans for the next two hours?”
“I’ve got a photographer waiting for me. We’re going to do some publicity stills.”
“And who else will be there?”
“About a dozen hair, wardrobe and makeup artists, not to mention lighting specialists, the assistant and the assistant to the assistant and Veta. Just a few close personal friends. I don’t leave home without them.”
“Don’t leave the house.”
“I won’t. Where will you be?”
“Unconscious for the next two hours. And then I’ll be on the job.”
Why hadn’t she told him the significance of the ring?
Toni sat in the styling chair letting her thoughts free flow as she made herself malleable to those whose job it was to make her into a priceless marketing tool. On the magazine page, at least, her value was immeasurable.
She glanced down at the unique twist of precious metals she wore on her little finger. Would he remember it? More important, would he understand the implication of someone else knowing what it symbolized?
She should have told him. It was foolish to keep secrets from the one man who knew the worst of them.
His word. He’d given it to her ten years ago and hadn’t broken it, not even at the risk of losing his job and his credibility. She would hold to his promise like a lifeline, for that’s what it was. The one fragile strand tethering her at the precipice of panic and indecision. She could cling to his word as the one certainty in the chaos her world had become.
She stared at the illusion they’d created in the mirror. Strong, vital, fearless, feminine, the epitome of woman power. A sham. A mask she wore to hide the frightened little girl inside. She wore her reputation as a wild child like armor, deflecting those who would get close while keeping herself safe and yet a prisoner inside. Zachary Russell had freed her ten years ago, but in many ways, she was still a hostage.
Resentment for the situation created a lump of anger and anxiety wedging solidly in her throat, refusing to go up or down. She loathed having to call him, to beg through his friend that he return. Because seeing him was a reminder of what she was constantly trying to overcome. The fact that it had been her fault. The fact that despite all she had done, she was still vulnerable. His presence, his rules, the way he looked at her were all unspoken reminders of what he knew, of what he’d seen. Having him here was her private heaven and hell. He was the only one who could strip off the mask she wore and leave her naked and exposed. And he was the only one who could make her feel safe enough to do the things that lay ahead. So forge ahead, she would. Business as usual.
“Any time you’re ready, Ms. Castillo.”
Under the hot lights and strict direction of her photographer, Toni lost herself in her work for the next two hours. She allowed herself to become a posable mannequin, for her mask to be manipulated so she became any woman they wanted her to be—strong and dynamic, feminine and free-spirited, an aggressive warrior pursuing victory at any cost. It was easy to pretend to be someone else when there was nothing else inside her. Until she glanced up to see him standing in the shadows and, momentarily, the pretense fell away.
“Hold that look, Toni. That’s perfect,” her photographer cooed. “Now, give me more. Work with it. You’re a woman yearning for something just out of reach. Let me see that longing. Let me feel it. Great, baby. That’s it.”
He’d changed into a pair of dark slacks and a cabled sweater, but there was nothing casual about his stance or his ever moving gaze. Ten years had passed and he still made her heart beat with a crazy, out-of-sync rhythm. She’d seen better looking men, men with the features of an Adonis who had feet of clay. It wasn’t about perfection. That wasn’t what made Zachary Russell so compelling.
To a critical eye, he was average in appearance, average height, average looks, nothing, at least outwardly, to set him apart. He wore his brown hair buzzed nearly to the scalp, perhaps in defiance of a receding hairline or maybe in indifference to it. His nose was crooked, his mouth too thin except when he unleashed an occasional and always surprisingly wide and white smile. He had nice eyes, intelligent, kind, she’d thought at first, and changeable the way hazel eyes had a tendency to be. And he had a jaw like granite, stubborn, often stubbled, squared and fitting a face on Mount Rushmore.
No, there was nothing spectacular about his features, just a pleasant arrangement that was not unappealing. What set Zachary Russell apart, what made her pulse skip and leap like a child’s game of hopscotch, was the total package.
The man reeked of charisma. He had a way, with his direct gaze, of conveying an intensity, a strength, a confidence that both overwhelmed and reassured. His silky, accented voice held
