made another grab, and he changed hands, keeping the package beyond her grasp. “How come you’re so sure?”
“If you must know, I’ve been receiving similar packages for the past couple of weeks. The contents are definitely not love notes.”
“Then, what are they?” He pretended ignorance, wishing like hell that he could simply tell her his job. This game of keep-away was getting silly. “Gosh, Miss Natalie, this package isn’t a threat, is it?”
“What if it is?”
Her hands balled into fists, which she planted on her hips. A red flush of anger climbed her slender throat, coloring her smooth, delicate skin a bright pink. Though she wasn’t aware of the change, she looked vivacious and pretty as a rose petal. By contrast, her voice was like steel.
“That’s my mail, Quint. I’ll thank you to set the package on my desk.”
He shook his head. “Your daddy wouldn’t like that, especially after he went to all the trouble of installing an X-ray machine in the mail room.”
“How did you know about the security upgrade?”
Quint was impressed that she’d already caught him off guard. Within minutes after meeting him, Natalie was poking holes in his cover. “I’m just naturally nosy, I guess. Let’s just run this package down to the mail room and check it out.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said.
Quint knew that with the other packages, she had followed procedure and turned them over to security. They had found no traceable evidence. No fingerprints. A generic brand of paper. The messages were printed using a common brand of computer printer.
He wondered why she was reluctant with this package. Did she have a reason for downplaying the threat? Her father had warned him that Natalie liked to do things her way. Quint’s game of keep-away had probably ticked her off.
Turning away from him, she stepped around her desk and began shuffling through the phone messages. “I prefer not to waste time with this package. Just toss it in the trash.”
He did as she asked. Later, he’d find a way to retrieve the package and give it to Andy at Chicago Confidential for more detailed analysis. It would’ve been a whole lot simpler to just take it with him, but being undercover created a lot of complications, especially on a bodyguard assignment. Since Quint couldn’t carry a side arm without causing questions, he counted on a modified .22-caliber Derringer hidden in his belt buckle. The hollowed-out heel of his left boot concealed a switchblade. The silver band on his black Stetson could be used as a garrote. All things considered, he felt well armed.
It wasn’t so simple to get around the fact that Natalie didn’t know he was guarding her and, therefore, had no particular reason to pay attention to what he advised. Still, he urged her to be prudent. “Seems to me, Miss Natalie, that if you’re getting threats, you ought to be more careful.”
“Thanks for your opinion.”
“Maybe,” he suggested, “you should have a bodyguard.”
“I can take care of myself.” Standing behind her desk, she signed a few standardized forms and made a couple of notes that she tossed into the out basket. “I’ve traveled extensively for Quantum, sometimes in hostile regions where the possibility of kidnapping was imminent. I’m fully trained in hand-to-hand combat, the use of firearms and evasive techniques.”
Quint had a hard time imagining how this slim, sophisticated woman would deal with an actual assault. She was too tightly wrapped to scream, too manicured to risk breaking a nail. Though her green eyes sometimes sparked with energy, she seemed to be the perfect corporate vice president—predictable in every way.
Her L-shaped office, though pleasantly furnished, was nothing spectacular, except for the well-lit painting on the wall opposite her desk in a conversation area. It was the only piece of artwork in the room. Quint strolled over to take a closer look at a misshapen square of yellow. When he got nearer, there seemed to be other colors trapped inside the yellow. The big canvas seemed alive, teeming with secret color.
“It’s an original,” she said. “The artist studied with Rothko.”
“Valuable?”
“Very,” she said. “I spent almost the entire budget for furnishing my office on that one painting.”
Her choice said a lot about her character. She liked nice things and didn’t settle for second best.
An interesting woman, Quint thought as he watched her clean up the accumulated work details on her desk. It’d be a damn shame if anything bad happened to her. Even if she’d had decent self-defense training, he doubted her amateur karate chops would stop a terrorist. “These—what did you call them—evasive techniques? What are they?”
“Mostly common sense. Avoid danger. Stay within the boundaries of safety. If you see someone coming after you, run away.” She pantomimed jogging as she came around the desk. “Don’t be a hero. If you have a chance to escape, grab it!”
In the blink of an eye, she thrust her arm into the trash can and retrieved the padded envelope. Her fingers poised at the edge, prepared to rip the seal.
Quint reacted on pure instinct. His hand caught hold of her wrist, preventing her from opening the package. He yanked her toward him. Furious, he glared down at her. “You might have a death wish, Natalie. But don’t take me with you.”
“I had no intention of opening this envelope,” she said defiantly. “I’m not an idiot.”
Her wrist trembled in his grasp. Her body was inches from his. He could feel her heat, could hear the soft exhale of her breath. Her expensive perfume tickled his nostrils.
Quint felt a prickling of his own, a twitch at his nerve endings as if something paralyzed inside him had begun to waken. By grabbing her wrist, he’d chosen survival over death. Was living another day so important to him? Or did his reaction spring from an innate urge to protect?
Natalie wrenched away from him, leaving the package in his hands. She straightened the lapels of her blazer. “On our way out, we’ll take this possible letter bomb down to the X-ray machine in the mail room. Will that make you feel safer?”
“It will.”
Her unexpected action had thrown him off-kilter. He had underestimated her—a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Natalie Van Buren was a woman who needed to be in charge and liked to have the last word.
IN THE EMPLOYEE’S PARKING LOT outside the private plane hangars at Midway Airport, Nicco waited patiently in his rented van. Ten miles from downtown Chicago, he watched the corporate jets take off, soaring like sleek javelins hurled by the gods. The spectacle of flight never ceased to amaze him, even with his practical experience as a pilot.
The cell phone in the pocket of his ground crew jumpsuit trilled and he answered, “Speak.”
“Daughter has left home base. A man in a cowboy hat is with her.”
“Follow them.”
He disconnected with a scowl. Who was this cowboy accompanying Daughter? Not a lover. According to their
