Suspected in at least seven murders. Often employed by Michael’s enemies to take care of problems that required a more mundane solution.
The elevator car still descended slowly toward the lobby. Michael figured he had another minute or so, tops.
He took a coil of slender but very strong nylon rope from the briefcase, looped it under the dead man’s arms, then jumped and caught the edge of the hatch with one hand. He pulled himself up through it and then used the rope to haul the corpse through the hatch, as well. Then he lugged Carl Williams over to the edge of the moving car and looked down. There was enough room.
Michael rolled the body off the top of the car. It plummeted to the bottom of the elevator shaft, where it wouldn’t be discovered for a while. Long enough, anyway.
Michael wasn’t going to lose any sleep over Williams’s death. The man was a cold-blooded murderer and didn’t deserve any mourning.
As he hung one-handed from the hatch opening again, Michael grasped the cover with his other hand and pulled it over. He popped it back into place as he dropped lightly to the floor of the car again. He stowed the rope in the briefcase, looked at the rip in the leather and shook his head. Now that he regretted.
The fight for his life and then the exertion of disposing the hit man’s body had made him breathe hard, but that had settled down by the time the elevator eased to a stop and the door opened. Michael stepped out into the lobby.
And was immediately assaulted again. Not by a killer this time, but by an attractive and determined-looking young woman. Almost as tall as him, she had smooth skin that held a faint shade of copper, dark, intense eyes that caught his and didn’t seem to let go and long, straight, midnight-black hair that hung halfway down her back. Her long-sleeved silk blouse was a deep forest-green. Stylish jeans hugged her hips and long legs, legs that Michael couldn’t help noticing as she blocked his path.
She held a small digital recorder in her hand and said, “Mr. Brandt, if I could have just a few minutes of your time. My name is Jessie Morgan. I’m a journalist and I have some questions.”
Under other circumstances, talking to this woman might have been quite a pleasant experience, Michael thought, but not now. He had a great deal on his mind—the mission that had brought him here, for one thing, and the fact that mere moments earlier he had been fighting for his life, a sure sign that his enemies knew he was in town. He shook his head, brushed past her and strode toward the huge glass front doors of the office building, saying over his shoulder, “Sorry, I don’t have any time right now.”
As he left the place, he didn’t look back.
It never occurred to him that she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Hating Michael Brandt would have been very easy if he hadn’t been so ruggedly handsome, Jessie thought as she hurried to catch up to him on the sidewalk outside the building. Tall and obviously muscular under his casual but expensive clothes, he moved with an elegant, tautly controlled grace that reminded her of a stalking cougar. Intense blue eyes gazed out from a compelling, rough-hewn face. His sandy hair was cut short but was still long enough to tousle a little in the front. Some instinct must have warned him that she was coming up behind him, because he looked back sharply over his shoulder at her, his muscles tensing as if he thought he might be under attack.
He relaxed as he recognized her, but he didn’t slow down. “I’m sorry, Ms. Morgan,” he said as he strode along the sidewalk among towering skyscrapers. “I told you I can’t give you an interview right now.”
Even though she was almost as tall as him, Jessie had to hurry to keep up. Michael Brandt was the sort of man who didn’t look as if he were moving very fast until you realized how much ground he covered.
“Just a few minutes of your time, Mr. Brandt,” Jessie said again as she clutched the little recorder. “I’m sure my readers would like to know—”
Brandt stopped short but was able to make it seem graceful rather than abrupt. “What paper do you work for?” he asked.
“I’m a freelancer,” she said, “but I’m on assignment right now for Supernova.”
“The tabloid?” His voice was flat.
“It’s a weekly newsmagazine.”
“The tabloid,” Brandt said again. He resumed walking, and this time he didn’t apologize for refusing to talk to her.
With an angry toss of her head that threw her long hair back, Jessie started after him as he headed for a limo parked up the street. She wanted to get in at least a question or two before he reached the car.
“Is there any truth to the rumor that you’re dating Angelica Boudreau?” she called after him.
At first she thought he was going to ignore her, but then he stopped and looked at her again. “I’ve never even met the lady.”
Jessie suppressed the impulse to grin in triumph. All they had to do was answer one question and she was halfway to victory. Once she got even the most reluctant interview subject talking, she could keep them going.
“But what about the reports linking her separation from her husband to her involvement with you?”
Brandt shook his head. “They’re false. Like I told you, I don’t know her.”
“Then who are you dating?”
He smiled. “I can’t imagine why my love life would be interesting to anybody.”
“You’re a celebrity. People like to know what celebrities are doing…especially who they’re doing.”
For a second she thought Brandt was going to laugh. A good-humored twinkle appeared in his eyes, making him even more attractive. But then, in a flash, it disappeared. He gave a shake of his head and started walking toward the limo again. “Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t talk about such things. Besides, I’m not a celebrity.”
“No? You’ve driven race cars in Europe, flown a hot-air balloon around the world—”
“Most of the way around the world. I still haven’t quite managed a complete circumnavigation.”
“And you’re worth umpteen jillion dollars,” Jessie went on as if he hadn’t interrupted. “That right there is enough to make you count as a celebrity.”
“I try to keep a low profile on my financial dealings.”
“Easy to do when you can distract the press by dating some of the most beautiful women in the world. You need a private jet just to keep up with all the ladies you’ve got on the string.”
Brandt looked over at her as they walked. “You’re a determined one, aren’t you?”
“Always have been.”
“What if I said this entire conversation was off-the-record?”
“Too late. You can’t go back and put conditions on things like that.”
“What if I sue your paper?”
Jessie had to laugh at that one. “More publicity for Supernova. The publisher
