her recorded message ended, he said, “Touch one thing in my office and I’ll contact the police.”
Lucie was a loose cannon. If he’d been smart, he would have fired her when he took over the CEO reins from Ellen Denby six years ago. Actually he had thought she would resign once she realized she’d be taking orders from him. But in typical Lucie fashion, she had dug in her heels and stayed on at Dundee’s. For six years, she had done everything humanly possible to make him fire her; and he had done everything within his power as CEO to make her quit.
Lucie wasn’t cut out for the line of work she had chosen. Not now or in the past. Whatever had possessed her to think she would make a good FBI agent, he’d never understood. She’d had the intelligence, the grit and the determination, but not the temperament. Lucie had always been volatile. Even as a kid, she’d been high-strung and emotional.
There had been a time when they hadn’t been enemies. When they were teenagers, he had looked out for her the same way he’d looked out for his kid brother, Brenden. But that had been a long time ago. A lifetime ago.
Sawyer placed a call to the security office in the building that housed Dundee’s. When one of the officers on duty answered, Sawyer said, “This is Sawyer McNamara. Send someone upstairs to the Dundee Agency on the sixth floor. Have him go to my office and wait there with one of my agents, Lucie Evans, until I arrive.”
“Yes, sir. Is there some problem we need to know about?”
“Ms. Evans has threatened to wreck my office if I don’t arrive there within the next fifteen minutes. I prefer not to contact the police, but handle this internal problem myself.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send someone immediately.”
“Thank you.”
The next call Sawyer made was to Lucie’s abandoned client who had hired Dundee’s for a bodyguard assignment. Taylor Lawson was a has-been TV star whose claim to fame was a role as a brash young space cadet on a futuristic drama that ran four seasons some twenty years ago. He had been invited to act as host for this year’s TV Sci-fi convention in Las Vegas.
“I want a capable bodyguard,” Lawson had said. “But I want a woman. A good-looking woman that I can pass off as my girlfriend.”
“I know just the agent.” Sawyer had known immediately that it was the type of assignment Lucie would hate. And whenever possible, the cases she hated were the ones he chose for her.
“Yeah, who the hell is this?” the man bellowed and Sawyer realized he had no doubt disturbed Taylor Lawson’s sleep.
“Mr. Lawson, this is Sawyer McNamara from Dundee’s. I’m calling in reference to—”
“That crazy bitch you sent me tried to murder me,” Lawson said. “I’ve got a good mind to sue Dundee’s and you and her.”
“Exactly what happened?” Sawyer asked.
“I told you, she tried to kill me.”
“Why would Ms. Evans try to kill you? Her job was to protect you.”
Lawson coughed a few times, and then grumbled several obscenities. “She was supposed to play the part of my girlfriend. That was understood when I hired her.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“Well, apparently you didn’t make that part of her assignment clear because she sure as hell refused to act the part.”
A nagging suspicion tightened Sawyer’s gut. “Precisely what did Ms. Evans refuse to do?”
“She refused to sleep with me. I paid top dollar for her services and I expected her to be worth every cent. But when I told her to strip and get in bed, she refused, so I took matters into my own hands.”
“And did what?” Sawyer swallowed hard.
“I slapped her and the crazy bitch sucker punched me. Knocked me on my ass and—”
“Mr. Lawson, Dundee’s provides bodyguard services, nothing more. I thought I made that perfectly clear to you. If Ms. Evans had to defend herself, then consider yourself lucky that she didn’t kill you. Believe me, the lady is more than capable.”
“Hell, you’d think she would have been thrilled to have Lieutenant Jack Starr fuck her. Most women would be.”
“Then there’s your problem. You see, Lucie Evans is not like most women.”
“I figure she’s a butch, despite the way she looks. You should have warned me. You’ll definitely be hearing from my lawyers. I’ve got a broken nose, a couple of cracked ribs and a black eye.”
“Unless you want Ms. Evans to file charges against you for attempted rape, then I’d think twice about siccing your lawyer on us. Now, you have a good day, Mr. Lawson.”
Son of a bitch! That over-the-hill has-been had tried to rape Lucie. No wonder she was pissed at him. He’d known Lawson was a sleaze, but he’d also known that Lucie could handle him. And she had. What he hadn’t considered was that the man might actually try to rape her.
LUCIE EYED THE security guard with disdain. Don’t blame him. He’s just doing his job, doing what Sawyer told him to do. Watch her and make sure she doesn’t follow through with her threat to demolish the CEO’s office.
Even though she had no intention of actually wreaking havoc on Sawyer’s expensive sculptures and paintings—she had too much love and respect for good art to destroy such beauty—he had no way to know for sure what she might do. Yes, she had, during one of her classic hissy fits, broken a Waterford crystal paperweight, but the piece had not been one of a kind. A duplicate now resided on his desk in the precise spot where the original had sat. She would no more toss one of his Salvatore Fiume or Marino Marini pieces on the floor than she would take a knife to his Charles Ginner or Clare Avery paintings. One of the things she admired about Sawyer was his eclectic tastes in art, music, food and sports. He was a man who enjoyed the good things in life and appreciated them to the nth degree. He possessed a suave sophistication that disguised the primeval warrior beneath his Reuben Alexander suits.
Lucie knew how ruthless he could be. She had seen the man in action and had been the recipient of his cold, relentless retaliation for the past nine years. If she had thought time would soothe his inner demons, she had been wrong. Like Jane Austen’s fictional Mr. Darcy, Sawyer’s favor once lost was lost forever. Even now, despising him for the way he’d treated her—the way she had allowed him to treat her—Lucie could not deny that some small part of her still held on to a tiny shred of hope. Someday Sawyer McNamara would forgive her. But before he could forgive her, he would first have to forgive himself.
No, she wouldn’t have harmed his expensive artwork, but if not for the ever watchful guard she would have dearly loved the chance to do some damage. Maybe she could have removed the contents of his desk and scattered it all over the floor. Or better yet, she could have tossed his laptop out the window. A six-floor fall onto the solid concrete below…
“He should be here soon,” Daisy Holbrook said, breaking the awkward silence. “While we’re waiting, would either of you like coffee? Or maybe a Danish or muffin?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” the young,
