“I suppose this is the part where I fall into your arms, flutter my eyelashes and tell you that you’re my hero.”

Quint grinned. “I wouldn’t mind one bit, Natalie.”

“Don’t hold your breath, cowboy. You lied to me. You’re a bodyguard, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

Quint leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and rotated his shoulders to relieve the tension in his back. Rescuing Natalie like that had been a crazy stunt, and he was damned lucky that he’d succeeded. If he’d failed, they might both be dead.

He felt Natalie’s hand on his shoulder. “Quint? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said.

“You’re shaking.”

From fear, the fear of losing her. He swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“And you?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”

Looking at Natalie, knowing that she was alive and well, he felt the soul-deep pain beginning to heal. “I’m just fine.”

“Good.” She straightened her shoulders. “Because I’m going to kill you.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We’ve got another month of sinister summer sizzlers lined up for you starting with the one and only Familiar—your favorite crime-solving black cat! Travel with the feisty feline on a magic carpet to the enchanting land of sheiks in Caroline Burnes’s Familiar Mirage, the first part of FEAR FAMILIAR: DESERT MYSTERIES. You can look for the companion book, Familiar Oasis, next month.

Then it’s back to the heart of the U.S.A. for another outstanding CONFIDENTIAL installment. This time, the sexiest undercover operatives around take on Chicago in this bestselling continuity series. Cassie Miles launches the whole shebang with Not on His Watch.

Debra Webb continues her COLBY AGENCY series with one more high-action, heart-pounding romantic suspense story in Physical Evidence. What these Colby agents won’t do to solve a case—they’ll even become prime suspects to take care of business…and fall in love.

Finally, esteemed Harlequin Intrigue author Leona Karr brings you a classic mystery about a woman who washes up on the shore sans memory. Good thing she’s saved by a man determined to find her Lost Identity.

A great lineup to be sure. So make sure you pick up all four titles for the full Harlequin Intrigue reading experience.

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Not On His Watch
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my old friends, critique groups, the guys at Merrick and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers.

Thank you for your caring support,

for your laughter and your love.

And, as always, to Rick.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassie Miles was born in Chicago, and now lives in Denver, one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, with the traffic jams to prove it. She belongs to the film society and enjoys artsy subtitled cinema almost as much as movies in which stuff blows up. Her favorite entertainment is urban, ranging from sports to museum exhibits to coffeehouse espresso. Yet she never loses sight of the Rocky Mountains through the kitchen window.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Quintin Crawford—The long, tall Texan became a Confidential agent to forget his dark personal tragedy. He never expected to find sunshine in Chicago.

Natalie Van Buren—Daughter of the CEO of Quantum Industries, she struggled to earn her vice president title and learned never to settle for second best.

Henry Van Buren—The CEO of Quantum Industries, a megapowerful international oil distributor based in Chicago.

Nicco, alias Nick Beaumont—The mysterious expert in timed explosives. Who was he working for?

Gordon Doeller—The Quantum vice president in charge of marketing had his fingers in too many pies.

Eugene “Hutch” Greely—The leader of the eco-cult Solar Sons held a dangerous grudge against Quantum.

Zahir Haji Haleem—A force to be reckoned with in oil-based Middle Eastern economies. Was he a hero or a snake?

Maria Luisa Moreno and Jerome Harris—Loyal Quantum employees. Or were they?

Vincent Romeo, Whitney MacNair Romeo, Lawson Davies and Andy Dexter—Agents with the newly formed Chicago Confidential.

Daniel Austin—Founder of Montana Confidential and close friend to Quintin Crawford.

Javid Haji Haleem—A Middle Eastern ruler and twin to Zahir. He came to Chicago to aid the Confidential investigation.

Kathy Renk—The receptionist in the Confidential offices.

The Confidential Agent’s Pledge

I hereby swear to uphold the law

to the best of my ability; to maintain the

level of integrity of this agency by my

compassion for victims, loyalty to my

brothers and courage under fire.

And above all, to hold all information and

identities in the strictest confidence….

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Outside the square granite entryway to the office building, dirty snow marked the curb where a white Fiat sedan and a blue Toyota were parked. The sidewalks appeared to be deserted. No lights shone from the office windows. The stealthy gray of dawn thinned the night shadows into faded streaks.

If Quintin Crawford had to guess, he’d place the time in the snowy scene to be somewhere between six and six-fifteen in the morning. Quint and four other agents stared at the high-resolution video on the large flat monitor in the special-ops room. They were watching, waiting for something to happen.

On the screen, a bearded old man came onto the street. His lips moved. His hands, in ragged mittens, pounded the air and twitched as he mumbled incomprehensibly. He could’ve been anyone—any tired soul who got fed up with the daily struggle and opted out. Not too long ago, Quint silently acknowledged, that guy could’ve been him.

Trudging aimlessly, the bearded man pulled his brown knit cap low on his forehead. His filthy, rumpled jacket and grease-stained trousers were also brown. The only hint of color showed in the dark red woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. Beside him, a three-legged black-and-white Border collie bobbled along in syncopated gait. When the dog hopped ahead, the man hurried for three paces, then slowed again as he rounded the corner and disappeared.

It was quiet on the street, windless. Nothing moved.

For one fleeting instant, the building shuddered and shimmered with an eerie glow. More light than color, this brief flash signaled the onset of danger.

Quint’s muscles tensed. His senses alert, he watched the screen.

The gray dawn shattered in flames.

With a deafening roar, a fierce explosion erupted from inside the stone walls. Glass splintered. Metal door frames crumpled. A ball of fire pitched the Fiat and the Toyota like empty tin cans, sending them crashing and rolling on the concrete street. The Fiat landed on its roof with tires spinning in the air. Black smoke gushed across the sidewalk. The granite entrance gaped like the ragged jaws of hell, spewing flame and soot.

In the wake of this man-made thunderhead, a remembered pain—more intense and fearsome than any physical hurt—sliced through Quint’s gut. The knife twisted. He closed his eyes and catapulted backward in time. Two years, three months and nine days ago, he had faced another senseless explosion. In those fire-streaked skies over Texas, he had lost everything.

In his mind, he saw the single-engine Cessna. His wife, Paula, on her first solo flight. The white winter skies over the prairie. Another plane. A blast of gunfire.

On the ground, Quint was helpless. He could do nothing to stop the attack.

The Cessna was caught—trapped in the cross fire between earth and air. Lethal flares. Tracer bullets. There was a flash. A shimmer. An explosion. The underbelly of the clouds glowed blood-red.

Pieces of the Cessna, debris, fell to the earth.

Quint’s heart dropped. His world stopped rotating on its axis. He was numb, yet aching in every fiber of his being.

Without Paula, he had no reason to live. In the months that followed, he prayed for death—a dark, silent embrace to fill the inconsolable emptiness. He rode into the plains alone and stayed for days, waiting, begging for the end to come. But death was a stubborn bastard.

Eventually, Quint’s bitter tears ran dry. The remnant of his life was nothing better than a sick joke. He had his health, his oil business, his ranch…and no reason to enjoy any of it.

Somehow, he forced himself to go on, learned how to laugh to keep from crying, told himself that he’d be able to accept Paula’s death. Someday. He’d pull himself together and become a whole man again. Someday.

Someday wasn’t here. Not yet.

His eyelids pried open as the last echoes from the office building explosion on the high-resolution screen faded and the picture went black. It would’ve been nice to pretend this bombing was a DVD from Hollywood where the macho hero would stride through the flames with a smudge on his forehead and a beautiful starlet tucked under his arm—but real life was seldom so neat and tidy. All too often, people died. Real people.

It was the job of Quint Crawford and the other members of Chicago Confidential, a special division of the Federal Department of Public Safety, to confront the violence and end it. They pursued their investigations undercover—deeply undercover. All agents had other lives. When not on assignment, they worked at successful careers that weren’t necessarily related to law enforcement.

The Confidential program had started in Texas under the direction of Mitchell Forbes, and there was another branch in Montana. Here in Chicago, the front for their operations was Solutions, Inc., a fictitious corporation located on the penthouse floor of the Langston Building, a skyscraper in the heart of the city.

With a quick glance, Quint surveyed the faces of the other four agents who sat at the round table in the high-tech confines of the special-operations room. Everybody but the boss seemed shocked by the explosion, a little off balance. Quint was the new guy in town, on loan from Texas Confidential, but he wasn’t sure he liked the way this assignment had been introduced with a bang. It might be good to lighten the mood.

“I have a couple of questions,” he drawled. “First off, what happened to the dog?”

Three of the other four agents chuckled, but Vincent Romeo, the head of operations, did not crack a smile. This dark, brawny man, a former National Security Agency operative, was responsible for setting up this new Confidential branch. Though Vincent had the reputation of being a good man and an effective agent, his attitude seemed aloof—somber as his black turtleneck and trousers.

In Quint’s estimation, Vincent was a serious tight ass. The only time he brightened was when he looked at his redheaded wife, Whitney MacNair Romeo, who had to be the prettiest agent in any Confidential branch.

Coolly, Vincent responded, “By the time the authorities responded to the explosion, the dog and his owner were long gone. No one—not even the security guards in the building—were injured in this explosion.”

“So, they never saw the dog again,” Quint clarified. It seemed odd that the authorities on the scene wouldn’t make a point of finding a witness.

“The dog isn’t our problem,” Vincent said. His tone was near sarcastic. “If there are no more questions, we’ll continue with our briefing.”

Quint stretched out his long legs and leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable ultramodern chair that hugged his behind like a handcrafted leather saddle. If Vincent wanted to play it cool, Quint would oblige. “Cause of the explosion?”

“The mechanics of the bomb will be explained in a moment.”

“When was this video taken?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where?” Since it was March, Quint assumed the snow on the curb indicated a colder climate. Something about the shadows and light made him think of northern latitudes.

“Reykjavik, Iceland.”

“Why?” Quint asked. This was the hard question—the one that would surely drive their undercover investigation.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. The corner of his mouth pulled into an expression that could’ve been a frown or a sneer. “You don’t waste words, cowboy.”

“Y’all have to excuse my impatience.” Quint purposely exaggerated his Texan drawl. “I didn’t know we were chitchatting at an afternoon tea party. You just take your time…city boy.”

Vincent’s coal-black eyes flared. Apparently, he didn’t like to have his leadership challenged.

Beside him, Whitney groaned. “This is what I hate about working with men. Everything turns into a contest.”

She was much too ladylike to call this altercation a spitting match, but that’s what it was. Neither man would quit until they knew whose spit flew the farthest.

Ever since Quint arrived in Chicago two days ago, Vincent Romeo had been treating him like a brainless hick from the sticks. That attitude was going to stop. Right now.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Quint said. “I hail from Midland, Texas. My business is oil, but I run a few head of cattle on my ranch so it’s true I’m a cowboy. Damn proud to be one. And I surely don’t mind if you call me ‘cowboy’ or ‘Tex’ or ‘good old boy,’ but you’d better learn to say it with a smile.”

“You might not have noticed,” Whitney said, “but my husband isn’t big on unnecessary grins. I think it’s a brooding Italian thing.”

“I think his shorts are too tight.” Andy Dexter gave a snorting laugh and shot a loopy grin in Quint’s direction. Like most guys who spent a lot of time with computers, Andy was lacking in social skills. He was, however, a genius in telecommunications and computer forensics. His specialized computer equipment made the special-ops room look like the cockpit of a 747, with wall-to-wall blinking lights, switches, screens and dials. In an instant, Andy could analyze and match voiceprints or fingerprints, pull up Interpol data or reproduce satellite photos of troop movements in Zaire. It had been his idea to install built-in laptops in front of each chair at the round table for briefings.

“Could we get back to business?” Lawson Davies glanced at his Rolex. “It’s already nine-fifteen, and I have a deposition in forty-five minutes.”

“Really, Law?” Whitney arched a delicate eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think the vice president in charge of a big corporation’s legal department needed to bother with such mundane legal tasks.”

“I’m observing and training a new attorney.” He turned toward Vincent. “That bombing in Iceland. It was the building where Quantum Industries has its offices. Correct?”

“Yes,” Vincent said.

“The story they put out to the media claimed the explosion was an accident caused by a gas leak,” Law said thoughtfully. He was well acquainted with the ins and outs of the oil business. When not on undercover assignment, he worked for Petrol Corporation, an oil distributor whose competition was the multinational giant, Quantum Industries, the largest buyer and seller of oil worldwide. “Why was the bombing covered up?”

“There was a need for an undercover investigation.” Though Vincent directed his reply toward Law, he trained his gaze on Quint. “Within Quantum, nobody but the CEO knows the truth.”

Staring back at Vincent, Quint asked, “Do we know who set the bomb?”

“Not yet.”

“Any of the usual terrorist suspects?”

“Not as far as we can tell.” Vincent nodded to his pretty redheaded wife. “Please proceed with the briefing information.”

“Right.” Whitney tapped a few computer keys on the laptop in front of her. The built-in screens all around the table came to life. “First, you have detailed information about Quantum Industries, which you can read later. Second, we have an analysis of the bomb—a high-tech mechanism on an override timer which appeared to be deactivated long enough for the old man and his dog to pass safely. We’re assuming the terrorists didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention with fatalities. The third point is most important for our investigation. Although nobody took credit for the bombing, there was a message. It said: ‘Next time, home base.’”

“Are we sure they meant Quantum?” Law asked. “There are other offices in that building.”

“We’re sure,” Vincent said.

“Then, home base is Chicago.” Law looked away from the screen and removed the wire-rimmed glasses he wore for reading. “If we had windows in this special-ops room, I could point out the Quantum Building over toward the Sears Tower.”

“Right here in our own backyard,” Whitney said. “That’s why we’re involved. Several other agencies are working on security and surveillance. We’ll be undercover, as always, trying to prevent another strike.”

Law asked, “Where did we get this video?”

“There was a routine surveillance camera across the street.”

“Digitally enhanced,” Andy said, calling on his expertise. “I’m sure the original wasn’t in color and wasn’t so sharp. If you want, I can run a downgrade to give us the actual picture.”

“Not necessary,” Vincent said. “But I would like your digital analysis on the incendiary and the trigger mechanism. Your assignment, in addition to the usual telecommunications, is to study the Quantum Building blueprints and pinpoint probable locations for explosives.”

Andy beamed. Excitedly, he dragged his skinny fingers through the wild mop of blond hair that perched like a bird’s nest atop his narrow forehead. “Oh, man! I love a challenge.”

The younger man’s enthusiasm brought a smile to Quint’s lips. It had been a very long time since he’d been so eager about anything. “I’m assuming,” he said, “that since both Law and I are in the oil business, we’re going to investigate Quantum.”

“Correct,” Vincent said. “There’s the possibility that this is an inside job. However, it’s much more likely that we’re looking toward the Middle East.”

“We’ll start with the nation of Imad.” Whitney tapped another key on her computer. A map displayed on their individual screens. “Imad is on the Arabian Peninsula, bordered by Oman, Anbar and Arabia. This oil-rich emirate is under the thumb of Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed. Though it’s not general knowledge, the sheik is suspected of human rights violations. Imad is on the verge of being sanctioned by the United States.”

Quint exchanged a glance with Law. Both men nodded. Whitney’s information wasn’t news to them.

Law said, “Several distributors are already refusing to buy oil from Imad. Quantum is among them.”

“Correct,” Whitney said. “Quantum was the first distributor to back off from Imad.”

“Sounds like a motive for terrorism,” Quint said. “Maybe the sheik blew up the Quantum Building in Iceland for revenge.”

“Revenge doesn’t make sense,” Whitney said. “The sheik wants to be friendly with Quantum, to have them buy his oil reserves. In any case, we have reason to believe Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed has plans to come to Chicago. He has a daughter, Miah, who lives here.”

“In Chicago?” Quint asked.

“Yes, and I’ll have more information about her later,” Whitney said. “This is our most recent photograph of Khalaf.”

Their screens displayed a sharp picture of a trim, older man, dressed in a tailored military uniform. Though his expression was stiff, his dark eyes burned with a sinister inner flame.

Whitney continued her briefing. “This trip is highly unusual. Sheik Khalaf seldom leaves Imad, especially now when he appears to be building up his military.”

“What’s the reason for the buildup?” Quint asked.

“Money,” Whitney answered. “The bottom line is always money. Unless Quantum starts buying oil from him again, the sheik’s regime will go broke. He might attempt to gain leverage by taking over the country to the north of him—Anbar.”

“We’re friendly with Anbar,” Law said.

“Yes,” Whitney said. The photograph on the screen changed. “This is Prince Javid Haji Haleem of Anbar. He’s next in the line of succession for the throne of Anbar.”

With curling black hair and dark piercing eyes, he was a good-looking man. Even Quint would call him handsome, and Quint didn’t generally notice such things about other men. “I’ll bet the ladies are standing in line to join this guy’s harem.”

“Not funny,” Whitney chastised as she displayed a series of photos of Javid. “The future ruler of Anbar believes in treating women as human beings and not chattel. In many ways, he’s an enlightened leader, promoting literacy and education among his people. He travels all over the world as a goodwill ambassador for Anbar, and he investigates.”

“Investigates what?” Quint asked.

“Javid is an expert on terrorism. With his assistance, a lot of tragedy has been averted.”

The last in the series of pictures showed a subtle difference. Javid’s features were honed by a sharper edge. “Whoa,” Quint said. “Was this picture taken on a bad day?”

“Very observant.” Whitney sounded impressed. “That photograph is not, in fact, Javid. It’s his identical twin brother, Prince Zahir Haji Haleem. Notorious international playboy.”

Her information came as a surprise to Quint, who generally kept up on events in oil-rich countries around the world. He knew there were brothers in Anbar, but he didn’t know they were twins.

“Both Zahir and Javid are half-American and were raised here. Now, they both live in the Middle East. It’s important to keep in mind that Zahir is more than a jet-setter,” Whitney said. “He’s been involved with supposed freedom fighters in the Middle East, most recently with Khalaf when he deposed the government in Nurul. Which brings up another issue.”

Quint leaned forward, listening carefully to this complex explanation. “Does this have something to do with Khalaf’s daughter?”

“Good guess. Miah Mohairbi’s lineage links her to the throne of Nurul. If Zahir marries her, his claim is solidified.” Whitney brought up the map again. “Nurul is on the Red Sea by Yemen.”

Law frowned at the screen. “I’m familiar with Nurul. Quantum isn’t buying oil from them until the political situation settles down. Other distributors, Petrol included, are following their lead.”

“How does Zahir fit into the picture?” Quint asked.

“If he’s allied with Imad,” Law said, “his tactics are questionable.”

“As in terrorism?”

Law shrugged. “There’s no stated U.S. position as yet.”

Whitney spoke into the intercom that connected with the front desk. “Kathy, would you please escort our guest into the special-ops room?”

While waiting for the electronic door to open, Quint scrolled through the data on his screen to a section with information on Quantum Industries. In his dealings with the megapowerful oil distribution giant, he’d met many of the principals, including the CEO, Henry Van Buren. He noticed an unfamiliar face in their briefing notes, a very lovely face. He paused on her photograph. Natalie Van Buren, vice president in charge of public relations. Her soft brown hair fell neatly to her shoulders. Her green-eyed gaze was cool and direct and somehow mysterious, as if she had a secret. Why was the photograph of a public relations vice president included in a briefing about terrorists?

As soon as the electronic door whooshed open, their screens went blank.

Whitney stood. “Gentlemen, I’m pleased to introduce Prince Javid Haji Haleem, future ruler of Anbar.”

In person, Javid was impressive. Though he was probably only in his early thirties, he carried himself gracefully. As he shook Quint’s hand, he said, “I know you.”

“No, sir, I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”

“We have not met. I know your reputation.” His slight accent made his speech seem formal. “You have led wildcat oil crews.”

“Not for a long time.” In his twenties, Quint built the resources of Crawford Oil by wildcat exploration around the world, usually in Central and South America. He quit traveling when he settled down with Paula, five years ago on his thirtieth birthday.

“You discovered oil in many nations,” Javid said. “Yet, you never exploited the local population. Instead, you created employment. In some cases, you won freedom for oppressed peoples. I admire you, Quintin Crawford.”

“Thank you, sir.” Embarrassed by the tribute, Quint got back to the topic at hand. “How can Chicago Confidential be of service to you?”

Javid strode around the table and sat beside Vincent. “I believe my brother, Zahir, helped in the overthrow of Nurul by Sheik Khalaf. It is no secret that Khalaf would like to put Zahir on the throne in Nurul. The alliance between these two is perilous for my nation. If Imad and Nurul combine their military resources, they could conquer Anbar.”

“If they conquer Anbar,” Law said, “they might become the most powerful force in the Middle East.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Javid frowned. “I have come to you because I am also convinced that Zahir was involved in the Reykjavik bombing.”

“Do you have proof?” Quint asked.

“Not direct evidence.” A pained look crossed his face. “It saddens me to think my own brother is linked with terrorists, but I am not naive. Zahir is capable of…anything.”

Quint said, “We just heard that Sheik Khalaf is coming to Chicago. How about Zahir?”

“He will be here soon,” Javid said. “There are rumors he is betrothed with the estranged daughter of Khalaf, but his stated purpose in coming to Chicago is to meet with Quantum and to discuss the future sale of oil from Nurul. And possibly to convince them to buy from Imad.”

“But he supposedly bombed Quantum in Reykjavik,” Andy said.

“My brother negotiates with one hand,” Javid said. “He plots with the other.”

Andy nodded, seemingly unconcerned about human treachery. “What can you tell us about the incendiary?”

“If you’d like,” Whitney said, “we can review the specs right now.”

Vincent nodded his assent, and the large high-resolution screen lit up with a three-dimensional blueprint for an incendiary.

Once again, the door from the outer office opened, and Kathy the receptionist stepped inside. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have an urgent phone call for Quint.”

“I’ll take it out front.” He rose from his seat, glad to be leaving a technical discussion of bombs and bombing.

In the outer office, he winked at Kathy Renk. “Thank you, ma’am. All those switches and coils are way too much information for me.”

“Me, too. When Andy explains mechanical stuff, it’s hard for me to stay awake.” A pleasantly plump woman in her late thirties, Kathy couldn’t be considered beautiful. But when she smiled, the world was a friendlier place. She pointed toward Whitney’s office. “You can take the call in there. It’s Daniel Austin.”

Quint closed the office door behind himself, picked up the phone and said, “If it isn’t Daniel Austin, the head hound dawg at Montana Confidential.”

“Surprised you can remember with that peanut-size buzzard brain of yours. How the hell are you?”

“Can’t complain,” Quint said. “I’m in the middle of a briefing, so I got to keep it short. What’s up?”

“What’s your take on Javid?”

“He’s not afraid to look me straight in the eye. He seems a mite quick to turn on his brother, but I don’t know the family history. And, I’d have to say, Javid’s a real handsome fellow.”

“You got that right.” Austin chuckled. “And don’t we sound like a couple of prancin’ Nancy boys?”

“Don’t know about you,” Quint said. “I happen to be confident enough in my masculinity to notice when another guy is good-looking.”

“Boy, you’re beginning to sound like Oprah.”

“Well, perhaps that’s why I was sent to Chicago,” Quint said. “Now, was there a reason for this urgent call?”

“The CEO at Quantum, Henry Van Buren, is an old friend of mine, and I’m worried about him.” All the joking left Austin’s voice. “I want you to take real good care of him and his family.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Most especially,” Daniel said, “I want you to look out for Henry’s daughter, Natalie. From what I understand, she’s a single woman.”

“You’re matchmaking,” Quint said. “Now who sounds like Oprah?”

Austin gave a hoot of laughter. “Seriously, how are things going with the set-up of Chicago Confidential? What do you think of Vincent Romeo?”

“A good man.” Quint didn’t choose to mention his personal spitting match with Vincent which was a man-to-man private matter. “This is a real high-tech operation, and they’re doing just fine.”

“Take care of yourself,” Austin said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me a lot of room, sir.”

After saying goodbye, Quint disconnected the call and returned to the outer office where Kathy Renk was scowling at a half-eaten candy bar.

“Something wrong?” Quint asked.

“It’s that new maintenance man, Liam Wallace, who thinks he’s God’s gift. The ego on that man!” She fluttered her hands. “Oh, listen to me. He’s got my feathers all ruffled. It’s not important. You go back to your meeting.”

Quint smiled at Kathy as he returned to the special-ops room. The discussion with Javid continued, outlining the arcane politics of Imad, Nurul and Anbar. Why had Austin alerted him? What did he suspect about Javid? Quint wondered if the twin brothers really were estranged.

As Vincent wrapped up the briefing, Lawson Davies was given the assignment of researching other terrorist groups and ferreting out possible traitors inside Quantum Industries. Quint wondered how he was going to be used in this investigation. Infiltrating Quantum was out of the question. Even if he buried his Texan accent, he couldn’t disguise his identity; too many people at the company already knew him. Nor was it likely he could go undercover with the terrorists.

As the others left the office, Vincent caught his gaze. “Stay behind. We need to talk.”

Quint returned to his chair. Idly scrolling through the information on his laptop, he paused again on the photograph of Natalie Van Buren, a lady who should be safe at her desk, escorting visiting dignitaries and sending out press releases. What was her connection?

Vincent returned and took the seat beside Quint. For a moment, they sat quietly, allowing the energy in the room to settle.

“When I started out,” Vincent said, “I never planned to be the guy behind the desk. The administrator. The boss. It’s harder than I expected.”

“‘Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,’” Quint quoted.

“And the butt that sits on the throne.”

A joke from Vincent Romeo? Quint could hardly believe it.

“Except,” Vincent said, “I’m not a king. We all work together, and I want you on my team, Quint.”

“I’m ready to play.” Quint figured this was as close to an apology as he’d get. And it was enough.

“I’d like to hear your opinion on the briefing information.”

Quint glanced toward the woman’s face on the screen. It would be her job with Quantum to make sure these Middle Eastern dignitaries were entertained while in Chicago. “From what Javid said, I’m worried about his brother, Zahir. He’s convinced the world that he’s just a playboy, but his plan might be to take over the whole Middle East.”

“Wish we had solid proof against him.” Vincent sighed. “It’s easier to go after known criminals. We know how they think, how they operate.”

“Not always.” Paula’s death had been caused by a drug cartel, a viperous nest of professional criminals who had ultimately been stopped by Texas Confidential. Unconsciously, Quint’s gaze wandered toward a mounted set of cow horns over the door in the special-ops room. The horns—an anachronism in this high-tech arena—were a good-luck gift from Daniel Austin. “The only thing to count on is the unexpected. Mitchell Forbes gave me that bit of advice.”

“Mitchell’s a good man. He told me a lot about you. Information that wasn’t included in your dossier.” Vincent’s voice lowered. “I’m sorry for your loss. Deeply sorry.”

Quint acknowledged his sentiment with a shrug. Neither of them were men who spent much time expressing their emotions. “What’s my assignment?”

Vincent pointed toward the computer screen. “You’re looking at her.”

“Natalie Van Buren?”

“She and my wife went to boarding school together, and Whitney is worried about her. It seems that Natalie has been receiving threatening notes.”

“For how long?” Quint asked.

“A couple of weeks. They started before the bombing in Reykjavik and might be unconnected threats from a crank, but we need to keep an eye on Natalie.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Quint said. “She’s not hard to look at.”

“Here’s the complicated part,” Vincent said. “We don’t want to alert the terrorists to our presence. You can’t tell anyone you’re her bodyguard. Not even Natalie herself.”

“Wait a minute,” Quint said. “Are you saying that she won’t be told that I’m there to protect her?”

“Exactly.”

“How am I supposed to shadow her every movement, without letting her know why I’m there?”

“Turn on that famous Southern charm.” Vincent grinned broadly. “Okay, cowboy?”

STANDING ALONE at the floor-to-ceiling window in her father’s office on the thirty-first floor of the Quantum Building, Natalie Van Buren stared at the familiar Chicago sky-scape. Tall, solid buildings thrust into the cloudy March day, defying the blistering winds from Lake Michigan with their muscular presence. She loved the character of her big-shouldered city. Chicago had been built from the honest sweat of plain, hard-working Midwesterners. Chicago was a city that got things done.

Usually, this view comforted and inspired her, but not today. Natalie knew, in her heart, that someone was lying to her. Behind the bland reassurances from the other corporate vice presidents that everything was business as usual, she sensed a thin veil of deception.

When it came to Quantum business, Natalie trusted her instincts more than she did data, meetings or memorandums. This was her home; she’d grown up here. These corporate offices had been her childhood playground. As the eldest daughter, she’d always aspired to taking over the family business. Her life had been dedicated to proving herself worthy of running the largest oil distributor in the world.

Impatiently, she turned away from the window. Where was her father? Why was he taking so long? The minute he stepped through the door to his office, she’d pounce and demand to know the truth. As if that would make him tell her. Nobody ever forced Henry Van Buren to play his hand.

Her father entered his office and closed the door. Though he strode with his usual athletic vigor, his green eyes—exactly the same color as Natalie’s—seemed tired. “Good morning,” he barked.

“I need to know what’s going on,” she said.

“Read the Tribune.” He sank into the black leather chair behind his desk. “I have a job for you, and I don’t want you palming it off on an assistant.”

She never shirked her responsibilities. Why would he even insinuate that she wasn’t a hard worker? “Before we talk about anything else, I want some answers. In five days, I’ll be speaking to that energy consortium in Washington, D.C., and I must be sure of what I need to say.”

He tilted his head to one side, studying her as if he didn’t see her every Monday through Friday. “You look nice today, Natalie. That’s a pretty color.”

“Loden green.” Her tailored, silk-blend blazer with matching knee-length skirt ought to look more than simply “nice.” This suit had cost a small fortune. “Back to business, Henry. I have a few questions.”

“Shoot.”

“The security in this building has been increased. New fish-eye cameras have been installed on the floors. There’s a new machine in the mail room for x-raying packages. Why?”

“It was time for an upgrade.”

He had on his poker face. Natalie recognized the expression because she often wore it herself. She and her father were very much alike—hardworking, skilled businesspeople who were absolutely dedicated to Quantum. Yet, they weren’t close. They never hugged. And they weren’t confidants.

Natalie strolled across the carpet to his desk and casually picked up a clumsy-looking ceramic paperweight that she’d made for him when she was in fourth grade. “I hope we’re not going to the expense of upgrading security because of those stupid threatening notes I’ve received.”

His poker face slipped. “I’d do anything to protect you, Natalie. You know that.”

His sincere concern worried her. Though Natalie had been a bit disconcerted by the first couple of notes, she was more angry than anything else. She refused to be intimidated. But if her father was taking the threats seriously…

“Next question,” he said.

“Does this extra security have anything to do with the explosion in Reykjavik?”

“You have the PR information on the explosion. An accident. What else?”

“I’ve heard that someone is buying oil from Imad.”

“There’s no law against it,” he said. “What does that have to do with Quantum?”

“We’re not dealing with Imad?”

“Hell, no. Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed can take a flying leap, as far as I’m concerned. In my opinion, the man is a murderous terrorist.”

“I’m glad.” The moral center at Quantum always made her proud. Though they were a megacorporation in a sometimes dirty business, her father kept them on the high road. The suspected human rights abuses in Imad truly disgusted him. “What’s our position on Nurul?”

“I’ve agreed to meet with Prince Zahir next week. Though he’s not officially part of their new government, he’s acting as emissary. But I don’t intend to buy from Nurul until their politics have stabilized.”

“What’s the story with Zahir?”

“Even though he’s supposedly engaged, he has the reputation of being a ladies’ man. Which makes me glad that you’re going to be out of town meeting with the energy consortium while he’s here.”

Though her sense of being deceived lingered, she had to smile. Her father didn’t want her getting involved with a renegade prince from the Middle East. “Do you really think I’d fall for Zahir?”

“You never know.” He scooted a stack of papers to the center of his desk and eyed the top sheet, apparently anxious to start work. “Are we finished with your questions and ready to start your new assignment?”

“I’m not quite finished,” she said. “About my speech to the consortium, the legal department has compiled proof against the allegation that Quantum is a monopoly. Our contracts are clearly nonexclusive. According to—”

“Hold it! This job assignment will give you a new perspective on contracts. I want you to spend the next couple of days with one of our oldest suppliers, the owner of Crawford Oil. His name is Quintin Crawford. He’s up here from Texas and would like to be shown around the town.”

“You’re joking!” She had tons of work to do before she left town. “You want me to waste my time babysitting some minor-league supplier?”

“Watch your attitude, Natalie. The loyalty of men like Quint is what keeps us in business.” He pressed a button on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. “Please show Mr. Crawford in here.”

“No, Henry, my schedule is full. I can’t… I don’t want to…”

Her objections faded to helpless sputtering when the door to her father’s office swung wide and an extremely tall man swaggered into the office. From the top of his black Stetson that almost scraped the upper edge of the door frame to the toes of his brushed-leather cowboy boots, he was every inch a Texan. He was not—definitely not—the type of sophisticated escort Natalie preferred.

Though his denim jeans and suede jacket might pass for an eccentric fashion statement, the rest of his outfit was over the top. At the throat of his white cotton shirt was a bolo tie with a silver concha that matched the blindingly polished silver in his gigantic belt buckle.

“Howdy, Miss Natalie,” he drawled. “Your daddy tells me you’re going to show me the town. I am much obliged.”

“Hello, Mr. Crawford.” Her brain raced, trying to figure out ways she could dump this assignment. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Call me Quint.” He removed his ridiculous cowboy hat, strode toward her and stuck out his hand. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

When she accepted his handshake, Natalie looked up at him. His brown hair was a little too long and untamed. A dark tan bronzed his features. His startling blue eyes, surrounded by crinkles from the sun, held her gaze. Strangely mesmerized, she saw wide-open skies, unlimited vistas and wildflowers—a breath of fresh air through her sterile corporate existence. His handshake was firm. His large hand engulfed her soft palm, but his touch was gentle and controlled.

She swallowed hard. No way would she allow herself to be interested in a shaggy-haired cowboy.

Her father came out from behind the desk and rested his hand on each of their shoulders. His gesture startled her. It felt as if he was giving them his blessing.

“You two have fun today. All day. That’s an order, Natalie.”

She didn’t mistake his meaning. Natalie would not be allowed to assign the task of sightseeing with Quint to an assistant. According to her father—the CEO of Quantum—this Texan was her problem.

Chapter Two

Before leaving Confidential headquarters, Quint had checked out the blueprints Andy had for the Quantum Building, a post-World War II skyscraper that had been upgraded and renovated several times, creating a security man’s nightmare. If a terrorist planned to hide a bomb within these walls, the options were endless. Thousands of square feet of cubicles, offices, boardrooms, bathrooms, cafeterias, mail rooms, exercise facilities and a parking garage made this structure into a thirty-two-story labyrinth of danger.

Therefore, Quint had decided before he got here that he’d feel safer protecting Natalie on the streets of Chicago—far away from potential threats at Quantum. The way he figured, randomly selected destinations would lessen the opportunity for a planned assault, if, in fact, she was a target for these unnamed terrorists.

After he and Natalie left her father’s office, he trailed her into the elevator. His gaze flicked to the ceiling. The center panel could be easily removed to gain access to the elevator shaft. In spite of security cameras, any of the eight elevators could be considered a possible bomb location.

Disembarking on the twenty-fourth floor where her office was located, she asked, “Is there something special you’d like to see while you’re in Chicago? The stockyards, perhaps?”

“We got steer in Texas, Miss Natalie. While I’m here, I got a hankering to see the sights of your fine city. If you don’t mind.”

“The Art Institute?” she suggested.

Her smooth alto voice held a challenge, as if she wouldn’t expect a cowboy to be interested in an outstanding art collection, but he didn’t take offense. He was undercover. His exaggerated “good old boy” routine was meant to be disarming; nobody would suspect him of being a bodyguard.

Reinforcing her impression that his idea of culture was the local hoedown, he asked, “At the Art Institute, do you suppose they’ve got any of the cows?”

“Cows?” Her eyebrows lifted.

“Y’all had painted cows on the streets for a while. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh yes, the Chicago Cows. Dozens of life-size cow statues with designs by contemporary artists. It was a very successful public display.” She strode down the hall toward her corner office. “But I’m afraid the herd has gone back to the barn.”

Though her tone was professionally cordial, Quint had the impression that she’d be thrilled if he, too, would retire to the hayloft and leave her alone. “Too bad,” he said.

“After I check in with my secretary,” she said, “I have a lunch date with an old friend from boarding school. I should make other arrangements for you. I’m sure you’d be bored to death with our girl talk.”

“Don’t inconvenience yourself.” Quint already knew about the lunch date. Natalie’s school friend was none other than Whitney MacNair Romeo. “I’ll tag along with you ladies.”

When she hesitated, probably trying to come up with another excuse to dump him, Quint added, “Your daddy told me you got real good steak in Chicago.”

Her father was the only person at Quantum who knew the nature of Quint’s assignment, and Henry Van Buren was relieved to have a bodyguard for his headstrong daughter. The mention of his name had the desired effect on Natalie; she wouldn’t disobey direct orders from the Quantum CEO.

With an icy smile, she said, “Of course, you’re welcome to lunch with us.”

Entering the outer office, Natalie tossed off a casual introduction of Quint and her executive secretary, Maria Luisa Moreno.

But he wasn’t so cavalier. He’d been raised by his grandma from Alabama, who insisted on good manners and Southern hospitality. He shook the secretary’s hand and looked straight into her dark pretty eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Maria Luisa. I’m a supplier for Quantum, visiting for a few days from Texas.”

The slender black-haired woman sized him up in a glance, then she smiled, slow and sultry. “I would’ve guessed Texas.”

“I reckon the Stetson is a dead giveaway.” He sensed her approval and felt gratified by her warmth. It didn’t hurt to have Natalie’s secretary on his side. “I used to have a girlfriend named Mary Lou. Mind if I call you that?”

Her sooty eyelashes lowered seductively. “For you, I’ll be Mary Lou. And you can call me anytime—”

“Maria Luisa.” Natalie interrupted their flirtation. “Was there anything important in the mail?”

“Not really.” She released Quint’s hand and resumed a professional pose. “When I came in, there was another of those hand-addressed envelopes marked Personal. I left it unopened on your desk.”

Quint was immediately alert. Where there were threats and a bombing, mysterious envelopes raised a red flag. He strode into the office behind Natalie, but he beat her to the desk and snatched the padded brown envelope before she had a chance to touch it.

“Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

Obviously irritated, she reached for the package. “If you don’t mind, I can handle my own mail.”

Not if it’s a letter bomb. “I don’t see a postmark. Your secret boyfriend must be somebody in the building.”

“I doubt that.”

She 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 research, Natalie Van Buren had no special male companions. Perhaps the cowboy was a client of Quantum Industries. Perhaps a media representative.

Thoughtfully, Nicco stroked his clean-shaven chin, glad to be rid of his beard. He was tempted to call the communications man who had bugged Natalie’s office, but he generally avoided using the unsecured cell phone. Anyone might be listening.

On the passenger seat beside him, a black-and-white dog thumped his tail against the door and stared up at his master. The canine expression seemed expectant and wise—far more intelligent than many of Nicco’s companions. At least Scout knew how to obey simple commands.

Nicco scratched the soft fur between the dog’s ears and checked his wristwatch. His contact was eight minutes late. Such carelessness was to be expected from a low-level baggage handler. Americans had no work ethic. In Nicco’s experience, most Americans tried to do the least effort for the most reward. Their only ethic was greed as they stormed through the world leaving devastation in their wake.

Through the windshield, Nicco saw the contact approaching the van. He was a square-shouldered man wearing a jumpsuit. An unfiltered cigarette dangled from his thick lips. In his right hand, he carried a black metal lunch pail.

Nicco nodded to Scout, and the three-legged Border collie maneuvered agilely into the rear of the van.

The contact opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside. “How you doing?”

There was no need to exchange pleasantries. Nicco acknowledged the contact with a nod, started the engine and drove toward the exit from the parking lot. They never conducted business at the airport where too many security men might notice. On South Cicero, Nicco headed toward a tavern beside a vacant lot.

After he parked, he asked, “Have you placed the parcels?”

“All three in the Quantum hangar beyond Security. Just like you told me.” The contact lit another cigarette. The offensive stink poisoned the air in the van. “But there’s a change in plans. I want more money.”

Nicco said nothing. He was amused that this pitiful underling would attempt to dictate terms, especially since he had already served his usefulness.

“Five thousand,” the contact said. “Or else I give my boss those packages and you’re out of luck.”

“Do you enjoy smoking?” Nicco asked.

“Yeah.” The man took a long drag on his cigarette. It would be his last earthly breath.

WITH A RIGID GRIN pasted on her face, Natalie listened to Quint finish placing his luncheon order at the Hamilton House on Wacker Drive.

“…and I want my filet cooked so rare that I can hear it say moo…”

Could he be any more cornball? Every other word he drawled was some kind of down-home expression. She twisted the napkin on her lap into a knot. In public relations, she frequently socialized with oddballs, and she was able to cope with them. But Quint had gotten under her skin. More than once, she’d had the distinct impression that he was being annoying on purpose, playing up his cowboy act to irritate her.

As the waitress departed, he asked, “Something wrong, Miss Natalie? You look like you got a burr under your saddle.”

“I’m fine.” She peered across the table at her old friend, Whitney MacNair Romeo, and said, “I should visit the ladies’ room.”

“I’ll come with you,” Whitney said.

Politely, Quint stood while the two women left their seats and moved through a maze of rose-colored linen tablecloths in the elegant dining room. Inside the rest room, Natalie rolled her eyes and exhaled a loud groan.

“Whitney, I’m so sorry I had to drag him along.”

“No problem.” Whitney looked in the mirror and pushed her thick red-gold hair into place. “As I said before, he’s a client of Solutions, Inc., and I like Quint. He’s kind of cute.”

“Or not!” she said, more loudly than she intended.

Even more exasperating than his hee-haw commentary was the effect he seemed to have on women. Maria Luisa, her secretary who was usually utterly aloof when it came to men, allowed Quint to call her Mary Lou. She’d practically propositioned him. Mary Lou?

“Really,” Whitney said. “It’s endearing the way his hair falls across his forehead. Incredible blue eyes. And he’s got a great body.”

“Hadn’t noticed. I was blinded by the dinner platter he wears for a belt buckle.”

“If you really didn’t notice, Natalie, you ought to start taking hormones. There’s no harm in spending a couple of days with a handsome cowboy.”

“Quint? Hah!”

“Why not? You’re an eligible thirty-year-old woman.”

“So what?” Natalie said. “Quint is obviously not eligible. His gold-and-silver wedding band is almost as big as the buckle.”

An odd little frown turned down the corners of Whitney’s mouth. “I happen to know he’s not married. His wife died over two years ago in an accident.”

“Then, why is he wearing a ring?”

“Possibly, he hasn’t gotten over her death.”

Natalie confronted her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were more flushed than usual. The green in her eyes seemed murky and confused. She didn’t want to think of Quint as a tragically wounded figure—a man who was sensitive and caring. How could he be? He’d grabbed her in the office, manhandled her.

She touched her wrist where his masterful grip had closed like a vise. He was rude and crude. But he’d thought he was protecting her, which made his quick action seem somehow gallant. Stupid, but gallant.

She sighed. “He’s not my type.”

WHEN THEY RETURNED to the table, Quint was staring at the note that had been inside the “Personal” package. After it had been x-rayed in the mail room, he insisted on taking the note and padded envelope with them.

Natalie eased into her chair. “Put that away. Please.”

“Your fan mail is interesting,” he said as he passed the paper to Whitney. “Natalie got this delivered to her office by messenger.”

All the notes contained stick-figure pictures and typed messages. This one showed a person being hanged—a drawing that was chilling in its simplicity. It read, “Here’s how we shut your big mouth.”

Natalie felt embarrassed to be worried by a threat that seemed as childish as that of a bully on a grade-school playground. Yet, there was something primal about the purposeful lack of sophistication. The threat was direct, uncluttered by logic or reasoning.

Yet, the message didn’t make sense. She wasn’t supposed to talk. To whom? About what?

Whitney’s brow furrowed as she gazed down at the sheet. “Do you have any idea who might be sending these notes?”

“Since almost all of them refer to my big mouth, I assume the reference is to something I’ve said in a press release or a media interview.” Natalie reached for the single glass of white wine she allowed herself at lunch. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

“No,” Whitney said firmly. “I want to know who’s threatening my friend.”

She’d always been bossy. When they were in boarding school together, Whitney generally led the charge, and Natalie organized the necessary elements to implement their projects, ranging from later curfews to a vegetarian menu in the school cafeteria. Early in their relationship, the two women decided never to compete against each other because neither one of them could stand losing.

Natalie sipped her wine and glanced toward Quint. “Surely you don’t want to hear more about this nonsense.”

“Surely, I do.” His gaze was calm, steady and reassuring.

For a moment, she thought he might reach across the table and pat her hand. “All right,” Natalie said. “I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking about these notes. Then, we change the subject. Agreed?”

They both nodded.

“Because Quantum Industries is the largest distributor of oil in the world, we’re a target for all kinds of hate groups. First, there are the environmentalists.”

“I don’t much care for the tree huggers,” Quint said. “But I thought they were peaceable.”

“Not all of them. There’s one group in particular. An eco-cult based somewhere in southern Illinois. Their leader is a guy named Hutch Greely, and they call themselves the Solar Sons.” She looked toward Whitney. “My sister thinks they’re heroes. You remember my sister, Caroline?”

“The research genius? Isn’t she inventing alternative fuel or something?”

“She’s close to a breakthrough on a hydrogen-combustion engine,” Natalie said. “Last week, she e-mailed me that she’s taking some time off, which isn’t like her at all. I’m afraid she might have joined this Solar Sons cult.”

“Then, they can’t be threatening you,” Whitney said. “Caroline wouldn’t let them.”

“Probably not.” But she wasn’t sure. She and her younger sister had gone through some stormy times.

“How dangerous are the Solar Sons?” Whitney asked.

“They do protests. And they’ve been linked to acts of civil disobedience like spiking trees.” She and Caroline had argued about their tactics. No matter how pure the motivation, the Solar Sons had no right to physically interfere with legitimate businesses. “Of course, they hate Quantum, the big bad oil distributor.”

“Anybody else who hates Quantum?” Whitney asked.

“Several nations in the Middle East who we’re not buying from. And then, there are the U.S. politicians. We’re not real popular with them.”

“But I thought you were flying to Washington on Monday,” Quint said.

“It’s not a friendly visit,” Natalie said. “My trip to D.C. is to address an energy consortium and to dispute some unfounded concerns about Quantum’s operating as a monopoly. Which reminds me, I wanted to talk to you about your contracts.”

“Maybe later,” Quint said. “When did you start getting these notes? Before or after your trip to D.C. was scheduled?”

She thought for a moment. “After. Possibly, somebody doesn’t want me to meet with the politicians.”

“Why not?”

She said the first word that popped into her head. “Imad.”

“Ruled by Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed,” Quint said. “You think he’s behind these threats?”

Quint’s quick grasp of the international situation surprised her. Few people had even heard of Imad. “How do you know about Khalaf?”

“I generally try to keep current with world events in the oil business. Have you met this sheik?”

“No.”

“What made you think of him?” Quint asked.

“Quantum refuses to buy from him. I’ve done several press releases stating that fact.” If half of the suspected corruption in Imad was true, Sheik Khalaf was a monster. “But I’ve always been careful to avoid accusations about his government.”

“Could it be,” Whitney suggested, “that the sheik doesn’t want you talking to someone in Washington?”

“It’s kind of obscure. A direct threat would be more effective. You know the kind of thing—‘Don’t go to D.C. or else!’” She nearly laughed out loud. What a melodrama! Nasty notes with stick figures and obscure threats. “How can I possibly meet a demand when I don’t know what’s being asked of me? The whole thing is ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t laugh it off,” Quint said. “Most people are frightened by anonymous threats.”

“Not me. I don’t get scared. I get mad.”

“Amen to that,” Whitney said. Turning to Quint, she added, “I’ve never seen Natalie back away from a fight.”

“There’s always a first time,” he said.

He caught Natalie’s gaze. His breathtaking blue eyes held her attention. There was nothing hokey about his manner when he said, “The first rule of self-defense is avoid danger.”

Their salads were served, and Natalie took the opportunity to slide into a different topic. “So, Whitney. How’s married life? Are you learning how to cook?”

“Vincent didn’t marry me for my culinary skills,” she replied with a grin and a wink. “And I don’t have a single complaint about him.”

“I can’t believe you married a man named Romeo. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding. Tell me about it.”

While Whitney described her gown and the flowers and the ornate service, Natalie picked at her romaine lettuce and croutons. She didn’t have much of an appetite. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the stick-figure notes. Should she be more concerned? The vague malaise she’d felt about deception at Quantum returned tenfold. Was there real danger? The explosion in Reykjavik worried her. What if it had been a bomb? Why was her father beefing up security?

Earlier, Quint had mentioned hiring a bodyguard. Should she consider that precaution before going to Washington? In some of the South American countries where she traveled for Quantum, she had been assigned a full-time guard. In the Middle East, she had an interpreter and a bodyguard, which meant she had absolutely no privacy. She hated being shadowed every waking hour. No bodyguard! Not in the United States. Unless there was obvious cause, she refused to believe she needed such extreme caution.

When the entrées arrived, Quint took one bite of the slab of beef on his plate and proclaimed it the “second-best steak he’d ever had.” He informed them that number one was beef slaughtered on his own ranch and cooked up by his grandma from Alabama. “But Grandma’s true specialty is barbecue. Melts in your mouth and sets your tongue on fire at the same time.”

“Of course,” Natalie said. Her own lemon-grass chicken seemed dry and unappealing.

“Are you a good cook, Miss Natalie?”

“I’m not half bad.”

“She’s brilliant,” Whitney said. “When we were in boarding school, she used to make pizza from scratch with fresh mozzarella. Any project that Natalie undertakes, she does well.”

“Cooking is no big deal. It’s just following a recipe.” She sliced her buttered asparagus. “I was wondering about Sheik Khalaf. If he has a bone to pick with Quantum, why wouldn’t he send the nasty little notes to my father?”

“Because,” Whitney said, “your father is an incredibly principled man who would walk into fire rather than back down to a threat.”

“An incredibly stubborn man,” Natalie agreed.

“On the other hand, your father would do anything to protect his family. A threat to you would make him sit up and take notice.”

Though Natalie hated to think of her presence at Quantum causing a weak link in the company’s moral armor, she had to admit that Whitney had a point. “Why would Sheik Khalaf warn me to keep my mouth shut in Washington? What could I say that would damage him?”

“You’re the spokesperson for Quantum,” Whitney said. “Which makes it look like you’re advocating sanctions against Imad.”

“Also Nurul,” Natalie said. Nurul was where Prince Zahir Haji Haleem might become powerful. Should she worry about him?

She laid her fork across the plate, lacking the desire to eat or to discuss the threats. She turned to Quint and said, “The best steak I ever had was in Cartagena, Colombia. I still don’t know all the seasonings, but they were delicious.”

“There’s some fine cooking in South America,” he said.

“My father mentioned that you had done a lot of wildcatting. Have you been to Colombia?”

He blinked. A shadow darkened his eyes. “That’s where I met my late wife, Paula.”

“I’m sorry,” Natalie said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay. I like thinking about when we met. Those are good memories.”

His thumb rubbed against the braided surface of the ring he wore on his left hand. After Paula died, he had taken the remains of her wedding band to a jeweler, where he had the gold of her ring entwined with the silver of his own. Together forever.

After their lunch, Whitney talked Natalie into letting her take the threatening note to Solutions, Inc. for computer analysis. When Whitney described the software and telecommunication services provided by Solutions, Quint almost believed it was a real business instead of a front for Chicago Confidential.

They bid her farewell, then he and Natalie caught a taxi to the Art Institute. Though the mention of Paula had tossed him into a more introspective mood, he remained alert to his assignment, scanning the faces of bystanders on the street. In the taxi, he played the sightseer, giving him an excuse to twist his head around to see if they were being followed. With all the identical yellow cabs, that was a near-impossible effort.

When they disembarked on Michigan Avenue outside the Art Institute, he noticed another vehicle, half a block away, that came to a sudden stop. Only one man got out. Average height. Longish brown hair and a Vandyke beard. Probably in his early thirties. He wore a shiny black windbreaker. Though he took out a cell phone and started talking, Quint had the sense that he was waiting for them to make the first move. Had they picked up a tail?

When Quint started up the wide marble stairs leading to the fluted columns of the Art Institute’s entryway, he lightly touched Natalie’s elbow, politely escorting her, trying to protect her from unseen, unnamed threats.

She glanced up at him. “Is something wrong?”

It was hard to sneak anything past her. “I’m just looking around, enjoying your city.”

The man in the windbreaker stayed a good distance away, a few stairs behind them, doing a fairly good job of hiding among the visitors to the Art Institute.

“Miss Natalie, do you mind if I take a gander at those shops across the street?”

“Not at all. And, by the way, I prefer when you call me Natalie. ‘Miss Natalie’ doesn’t suit me.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” As they backtracked down the stairs, Quint watched the black windbreaker. Would he follow them?

The man with the Vandyke continued up the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of the columns. He must be just an innocent tourist, here to appreciate fine art.

When they reached the curb, Quint said, “Changed my mind. I’ll shop for souvenirs later. Let’s go see some art.”

“Fine.”

A slight edge of irritation crept through her professional politeness, and Quint figured he was driving this lady crazy.

Inside the Art Institute, Quint felt relatively safe. There were plenty of guards on every floor. Nobody was going to grab Natalie in here.

He allowed himself to relax.

“What sort of art do you like?” Natalie asked. “Old masters? Asian? Photography?”

“I like Remington.”

“Pictures of cowboys,” she said. “Of course.”

In his wildcatting years, Quint had blown through life like a Texan tumbleweed. He’d viewed art collections around the world from the Louvre in Paris to the Georgia O’Keefe Gallery in Santa Fe. In fact, he’d visited the Art Institute of Chicago once before.

As they toured the postmodernists, he stopped in front of a painting by Edward Hopper depicting a night scene of a near-deserted cafeteria on a city street corner. “Must be lonely living in the city,” he said. “After the crowds go home, there’s nothing but you and the concrete walls.”

“Sometimes, it’s lonelier in a crowd,” she said.

He stepped back, supposedly to get a better perspective on the painting. His gaze rested on the back of Natalie’s head. Her smooth, thick, brown hair fell in a delicate swoosh to her shoulders. Highlights of gold shimmered in the light. Her hair looked soft, touchable. He hated to think she might be lonely.

In another part of the gallery, he paused in front of the famous portrait by Grant Wood of a bald farmer with a pitchfork and his plain wife, American Gothic. “They look bored.”

“Not much action on the old homestead,” she said.

“Depends on your viewpoint. I’ve spent a whole afternoon on horseback, watching the prairie grass grow and the clouds roll by. But I wasn’t bored.”

“No?”

“Sameness is a comfort, knowing that every morning the sun is going to rise in the east. Whether or not I’m there to watch, the clouds will build and the rain will fall. I don’t need a lot of excitement to be content.”

For once, she didn’t sneer or smirk. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I can appreciate the stillness in nature. The touch of the wind on your face. The amazing beauty of a pink sunset.” She nodded toward the old couple in the painting. “Maybe they’re the smart ones. Knowing what to expect. Being together no matter what.”

“I like that,” he said. He liked her, too. He wanted to take her to his ranch and show her the vistas that went on forever until you could see the curve of the earth. Natalie would enjoy ranch life. From the way she handled those threatening notes, he knew she was tough and brave—not a sissy.

She was a city gal with a highly competitive nature. She didn’t like to be second best, and she wasn’t shy about stating her opinions. If she came to his ranch, she’d likely be running the damn place within a week.

When Quint turned away from the painting, he glimpsed a face—shaggy hair and a Vandyke beard. It was the guy from the street, but he wasn’t wearing his black windbreaker. Was he following? Was his presence a coincidence?

The cell phone inside Natalie’s purse rang out, and she quickly grabbed it. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I hate to interrupt anyone’s appreciation of these paintings.”

“Don’t worry on my account.”

She stepped into the foyer and conferred in hushed tones. After she disconnected the call, she returned to him. “We have to leave. Prince Zahir arrived a week early. He’s at Quantum.”

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