her what had happened to him in Germany. Instinctively Dougal stuck his hand in his pants pocket and ran his fingertips over the 9mm slug fragment that he’d had turned into a key chain precisely so he wouldn’t forget. The bullet scar at his upper right thigh—at the very same level as his pocket—throbbed at the memory.
Dougal steeled himself for a proviso he couldn’t live with, but he wasn’t in any position to be choosy. He needed the work. He was trying to get his fledgling business off the ground and it was a struggle. Last month he’d been forced to take out a loan just to make payroll. But there were some things he simply wouldn’t do. No matter how badly he needed the money.
“What’s the condition?” He fisted his hands.
“I want you and your team to go undercover—”
“That’s a given.”
She ignored his interruption and went on smoothly. “As tour guides.”
“Tour guides?” She caught him off guard with that one.
“Tour guides,” she repeated.
“Why?”
“I need you and your men not just on my planes, but at my resorts, as well.” She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs and angled her head to size him up.
“The Lockhart Agency is an air marshal service, not resort security,” he said.
“Should I take that to mean you don’t want the job?”
Dammit, he did want the job and she was well aware of it. At least she hadn’t made any reference to Germany or Ava. He shifted his weight, his feet shoulder-width apart, hands resting on his hips.
Taylor laughed. “You look like an old West gun-slinging sheriff staving off a lynch mob, Dougal. Relax, have a seat.”
He forced himself to drop his arms by his sides and settle into the plush leather couch across from Taylor’s expensive mahogany desk. He did have a tendency to brace for battle even when there was nothing to brace for.
“What does the job entail?” he asked.
“You’ll work for the entire first two weeks in May,” she said. “It’s a fourteen-day tour.”
He nodded. “No problem there.”
“You and your men will take tour guide training with the rest of my employees. You’ve got four men. We have four new tours starting next month and I want air marshals on all the planes and at the facilities.”
“Okay,” he said cautiously. “What else?”
“You’ll be required to wear costumes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s nonnegotiable.” Taylor might look like a pampered supermodel, but she was a sharp business woman. “In fact, if you decide to take the job, you should start growing your beard now.”
“Beard?” Involuntarily his hand went up to stroke his jaw. He’d never worn facial hair in his life.
“You’ll be playing the Bard.”
“Who?”
“Shakespeare.”
Dougal frowned. “I’m not following you.”
“I’m concerned that the saboteur is targeting the Romance of Britannia tour next, and the lead tour guide on that junket dresses as Shakespeare. Or rather the Shakespeare in Love version of what he dressed like.”
“Why are you so sure the saboteur is targeting that particular tour?”
Taylor opened up her desk, took out a green file folder and passed it across her desk. Dougal opened it and read the letter inside.
You thought those little incidents at your Venice resort was trouble? You haven’t seen anything yet, bitch. Just wait until one of your planes falls from the sky. Wouldn’t that set tongues wagging? Do you have any idea how vulnerable your air fleet is? Just take a look.
Attached to the anonymous letter was a schematic of the inside of a Bombardier CRJ200. In the margins, written in red, was a detailed listing of the numerous ways a saboteur could cripple the private jet.
His blood chilled.
Dougal raised his head and met Taylor’s gaze. For the first time, he saw real fear in her eyes and he was strangely comforted. If she was afraid, that meant she was taking the threats seriously, and the fact that she’d laid her cards on the table made him feel instantly calmer. He was the kind of guy who liked to have a map of the quicksand bogs before he ventured into the jungle. “What did the police say when you showed them the note?”
Taylor plowed a hand through her hair. “I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want any more negative publicity than I’ve already gotten. I prefer to keep this in-house.”
“We should have it dusted for prints.”
“I already sent it out to a private lab. There were dozens of prints on the envelope, none on the letter beyond mine and the temp who’s been filling in since my executive assistant decided not to return from maternity leave.”
“What happened in Venice?”
Taylor inhaled audibly. “A few months back my Venice resort experienced a series of…problems.”
“Meaning?”
“Malfunctioning smoke alarms that allowed a fire in the laundry room to go undetected until it had done several thousand dollars’ worth of damage. It was suspicious because the smoke alarms had just passed inspection the week before.”
“Cause of the blaze?”
“Undetermined.”
“Go on.”
“After one of the scheduled banquet feasts, a few guests contracted food poisoning, sending them to the hospital for treatment. And finally a Renoir was stolen. The security system had been turned off, and the police suspected an inside job. I fired the manager, hired someone new. Taken one by one it seemed like mere coincidence, but then I learned an exposé reporter was following me.”
“The incident between you and Daniel in Spain,” he said.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Once the reporter aired his piece, I thought the sabotage was all over. Apparently—” she waved at the letter Dougal was still holding “—I was wrong, and the guy was just lying in wait, lulling me into a false sense of security.”
“You believe it’s a man?”
She shrugged. “Aren’t men usually the ones who do these kinds of things?”
Dougal thought of Ava. “Not necessarily.”
Taylor pulled
