Copyright © 2011 Meg Maguire
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
Chapter One
As the door swung shut on the throbbing din of the bar, Libby let the relative peace of the street envelope her. She filled her lungs with the damp fall air, relieved to be outside. Happy to be alone. Then as she set off toward home, the door opened again, the club’s rabble flaring behind her. Dread settled in, darkening her mood.
“Where d’you think you’re off to?” It was the drunk Australian who’d triggered her early departure with his no-means-yes campaign of flirtation.
“Gorgeous,” Libby muttered, and picked up her pace.
“I said where are you off to?” His voice was far too loud in the comparable quiet of the night. Libby locked her arms over her chest, eyes fixed forward.
“C’mon, don’t ignore me.”
She wasn’t usually one for single entendres, but now seemed an appropriate time to be direct. “Leave me alone.”
“Ooh, language.”
She hugged herself tighter, didn’t turn around. She’d always thought not carrying a bag was a wise strategy for a woman who ventured out at night on her own. No purse, nothing to get mugged for. But right now, with no purse and hence no pepper spray or phone or any other feminine defense accessory at hand, she was tempted to change her tune.
“Why won’t you just chat with me a minute?” her harasser slurred, closing in. Libby recalled with far too much clarity the beer-stinking heat of his breath when he’d first approached her that evening.
Sickly streetlights illuminated the mist-dampened pavement and signposts, left them looking slimy and ominous. The whole scenario smacked of a bad TV thriller, but ambiance aside, too many people were still out and about for this to end with Libby’s kinky, brutal murder. This was simply an irritating situation. It meant admitting intimidation, at least to herself…a loathsome idea. She’d need to either seek refuge back in the bar or find a cab and make her escape on four wheels. Humiliating.
“I really enjoyed watching you earlier,” the man announced, coming to flank her.
“Back off,” Libby reiterated, and he made a grab for her upper arm.
“Oi! Everything all right?” A deepish voice, the clipped, casual tone of a New Zealand accent.
She turned as a cyclist glided up and hopped onto the curb beside them, halting with an authoritative squeak of his brakes. What he was doing out this late with no lights or helmet evident, Libby couldn’t guess.
“I’m fine,” she said, torn between gratitude and pride. She yanked her arm away from the drunk Australian.
“We’re just chatting,” he added, suddenly sounding anxious.
She didn’t blame him. The cyclist dismounted his bike, and he was tall, a good two or three inches taller than Libby, which was saying something. He wasn’t built like a cyclist either—far more sturdy. He had a nearly shaved head and a handsome, broad face, marred mildly by a thin, deep scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and down one cheek. Dramatic half-sleeve tattoos of swirling dark and light patterns started at his elbows and continued over powerful arms, disappearing behind his T-shirt. He held his handlebars with one fist and fixed the obnoxious Aussie with a steady eye and a dangerous, false smile that cooled Libby’s blood.
“Yeah, I heard you chatting. If I’m not mistaken she told you to back off.”
Libby opened her mouth, poised to protest, then closed it again. She wouldn’t normally want rescuing, but she suspected she liked this man. She wouldn’t mind having a scary, chivalrous fellow like this on her side. A fine substitute for pepper spray.
“Why don’t you mind your own business, mate?” Libby’s harasser asked coldly.
“I’m making this my business, mate.” The cyclist delivered the last word with the bite of a far ruder one. “Would you hold this a moment?” he added brightly to Libby, tilting his bike toward her.
She took the handlebars, and he reached behind to draw a heavy-looking steel U-lock from the back pocket of his jeans. The way he fidgeted with it in one fingerless-gloved hand, it may as well have been a mace.
“Jesus, calm down.” The drunk man took a few steps back, seeming sobered by the threat. “Forget it.” He turned back toward the bar, tossing a half-glance behind him in the direction of Libby and her benevolent thug.
She offered him a tiny, sneering wave then gave the cyclist a good look up and down. “Well, you’re very convenient.” Perhaps more aptly, he was intimidating…except his face. He had the kindest smile she’d ever seen. “I could have handled that, though.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He replaced the lock and took his handlebars back. “Do you need an escort someplace?”
“No, but I’ll let you feel like a big man. Walk me to the end of Ghuznee, if you want.” She nodded down the street.
“No worries. I’m going that way anyhow.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re American?”
“Guilty. And you’re a local boy.”
He nodded. “That asshole back there—”
“I know.” Libby smiled at him. “Not one of yours.”
They strolled in silence for a minute, the tall man wheeling his bike between them.
“You weren’t really going to hit him, were you?” Libby eyeballed him, trying to guess the answer.
He grinned and shook his head. “I’m sure you’re a very nice girl, but I don’t much fancy going to jail over you.”
Still rattled from the Australian, Libby didn’t have it in her to offer a flirtatious retort on the topic of just how nice she might indeed be to this dangerous-looking man. Instead she nodded and studied his bike, a skinny, orange racing frame branded LeMond, with curved handlebars wrapped in canvas tape, glossy with layers of varnish. It was classic, from the seventies, she guessed, which made her smile. She liked older things, things with a history to them, a bit of damage. Plus it was rare to spot a non-mountain bike in Wellington given the murderous hills. Seeing such an exotic specimen left Libby momentarily homesick for Boston.
“Hey, we’ve got the same shoes,” she said, looking between their matching pairs of red Chuck Taylors.
He glanced down to confirm, smiled again but said nothing. They reached an intersection.
“This far enough?” he asked.
“Yeah, gorgeous.” Libby looked behind them then back at his orange bicycle. “Thanks, Tiger.”
“Right. See you around.” He swung a long leg over his seat. “Keep yourself out of trouble, eh?”
“I will if you’ll wear a helmet,” she replied, and watched him glide down the street and out of her life.
“I cannot emphasize enough, Mr. Nolan, that my daughter is not to be trusted.”
Reece nodded his comprehension at the impeccably dressed American seated across from him. They were sequestered in a private booth in one of Wellington’s posher restaurants, a discreet rendezvous point for the unorthodox proposal.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Prentiss,” Reece said, “I’d prefer not to know the actual details of what it is your daughter’s done to make this…surveillance necessary. I hope that’s all right.”
“I don’t see why that should be a problem. But understand this—Libby is a master manipulator. She has been her entire life,” the silver-haired businessman asserted for the fourth time in as many minutes. He clasped his manicured hands beside his untouched bisque. “Don’t get close to her, Mr. Nolan. This job is strictly from-a-distance. She gets her hooks into you and you’re as good as useless to me.”
“I understand. Is she… Does she lie?” Reece asked.
“Libby wouldn’t say she lies. But I find my daughter’s version of the truth to be quite different than my own, let’s say that. I believe my daughter believes every word of what she says. Fortunately for you, you won’t be getting close enough to her to hear those words.”
Reece nodded again. “Of course not. Anything else I need to know before I get started?”
Prentiss shook his dignified head, looking melancholy. He flagged the waiter with a flick of his wrist and requested the bill.
“You do understand that I’ve never done anything like this before, right?” As much as Reece needed the money, he was dogged by his own experience. Or lack thereof.
The older man nodded. “That is precisely why I’m interested in you, Mr. Nolan. I’ve hired pros in the past for this kind of work, and the results have been disappointing. It is my hope that you’ll have better luck, and raise fewer red flags. My daughter is…unorthodox. I think it’s time I tried hiring someone less conventional to watch her. I’m after results this time, not credentials. Here’s to hoping you deliver.” He smiled dryly and drained his wine glass.
“Are you going to be seeing her, while you’re in New Zealand?” Reece asked.
“No, I will not. And can you guess why, Mr. Nolan?”
The question felt like a test Reece hadn’t studied for. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
The waiter returned, and Prentiss counted out a handful of colorful New Zealand bills, folding them inside the check presenter before answering. “Because my daughter is an exceedingly bright girl, and she knows me well enough to guess that my presence can mean only one thing. Do you know what that thing is, Mr. Nolan?”
Reece shrugged his ignorance.
“That I’ve come here to hire someone like you, of course.”
Tom Prentiss’s debrief notwithstanding, Reece felt anything but prepared for the scene that greeted him when he reached the beach on the outskirts of the harbor two evenings later. The proximity of the ocean would have been unnerving enough on its own, and he shuddered at the hiss of the rushing waves. Then he got a grip, shoved his stupid phobia to the back of his skull and focused himself on his assignment.
Reece wasn’t sure this beach was technically in Wellington, or if it was even legal for public use. It looked suspiciously like a protected reserve. And you definitely can’t build a bonfire out here. Reece felt quite certain about that, although New Zealand law wasn’t his forté. Not yet. Still, there was a fire, blazing away unattended. Strewn nearby were the makings of a one-woman beach party—cooler, folding chair, a towel and a boxy portable stereo set on a blanket. By the last rays of the fading sun, Reece could just spot the figure he assumed must be his mark out in the waves. Her father hadn’t mentioned she was a surfer.
Libby Prentiss made her way to shore as the evening descended. Reece relocated behind a boulder twenty yards from the bonfire, straining to watch the proceedings through his binoculars. The fact that he’d had to borrow them from his mother was enough to leave him feeling grossly unqualified for this job. He adjusted the focus as the woman picked up her board and headed for the fire.
Reece swallowed. Libby Prentiss was nothing like he’d expected. Right face—it was definitely her—but apart from that key fact this woman didn’t look at all like the one in the photo. Less Harvard honors graduate and more…mermaid from hell.
She trudged up the beach, tugging the elastic from her wind-whipped ponytail and shaking it out. In the photograph Libby’s dirty-blonde hair was shoulder-length and straight, almost painfully tidy and smooth. In reality it was wild, falling to the middle of her back in thick tendrils, bleached platinum by a regimen of sun and saltwater. A couple more weeks of this and she’d have dreadlocks.
Her face was dramatic, even in the low light and stripped of the prep-school-perfect makeup of the photo. She had a fierce, predatory mouth that looked designed to leave marks, and even her eyebrows had an intensity about them. Her image on paper was beautiful but her actuality was far more dangerous.
Libby jabbed her board into the sand and unzipped her wetsuit. Reece swallowed again. He felt like a creep, squatting near the bushes and spying on a disrobing woman.
I have a professional obligation to look, he told himself, nearly believing the flimsy justification as he watched her peel the neoprene from her legs. Then Reece was suddenly staring at the sexiest woman he’d ever seen in real life. Not his type, but factually, undeniably sexy.
She had on a bikini, and her body, like her face, was fierce and angular. Long and lean and intimidating. Her breasts were small, which Reece didn’t mind, though he was irked to catch himself noticing them. So much for professionalism.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Libby rummaged through a duffel bag and pulled on an undershirt and a pair of baggy, drawstring pants.
Reece stood, safe now in the freshly fallen darkness. He leaned against the rock he’d been hiding behind and simply watched. If he was honest with himself, she was fascinating.Like some strange creature from another planet…and in a lot of ways the States might as well be another planet.
His brows rose as Libby popped a cassette tape into her stereo—he hadn’t seen one of those in years. She snapped the deck shut and nodded her head to what he recognized in a few moments as Queen’s “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy”. She belted out the harmonic lyrics with a strong voice and no shame. Kicking her cooler open with her heel, she pulled out a half-empty wine bottle and tugged the cork free with her teeth. As she took a long swig, Reece wondered with alarm if she was already drunk.
Reece’s phone rang. Or rather, it vibrated—he’d been a smooth enough amateur spy to set it on silent but the buzzing in his shirt pocket jangled his nerves. He kept his eyes trained on his target, wishing it would stop. How bloody long until it went to voicemail?
Libby Prentiss wielded the neck of her wine bottle like a microphone, sang the song off with a flourish, and snapped the tape deck off with her toe. She turned to where Reece stood in the dark.
“Hey! Pervert!”
Panic trickled through his veins, and he froze, as if it could somehow fix whatever it was he’d already managed to bugger up. As if Libby Prentiss were a tyrannosaurus and he’d become invisible to her if he just stood still long enough.
She took a defiant slug of wine. “I can see your phone, jackass!”
Reece glanced down in time to catch the bright white screen that was illuminating his pocket go dark again.
Bugger.
She curled her finger, come-hither. “Come on down here, loverboy. Let me see you.”
What in the hell did a spy do in this situation? Why wasn’t there a handbook? Or if there was, why hadn’t Reece been smart enough to read it?
Libby reached into her bag and rummaged for a few seconds, and Reece found himself staring into the barrel of a drawn gun.
“Come over here.” Libby jerked the thing a couple of times to indicate that he should join her by the fireside.
Reece couldn’t find a decent reason to argue. Abandoning all pretense of suavity, he raised his hands by his ears and approached. “Jesus, don’t shoot me.”
Number one—don’t let her see you unless it’s absolutely necessary. Ten minutes into the assignment and already Reece had broken the first rule of the contract.
Libby trained the gun on him, but something in her cocked eyebrow and smirk said she hadn’t yet decided what to make of him. One thing was clear—she wasn’t impressed. “What do you want?”
“Sorry. I was just passing by.” Number two—if you have to talk to her, don’t bother lying. Libby’s a savvy girl. She’ll know.
“Oh, yeah? Doing what, bird-watching?” She twitched the barrel at his binoculars.
Reece drew within a few paces. Libby was silhouetted by the bonfire, but she could surely see him as plain as daylight. The smell of the ocean peeled off her in waves, making Reece seasick, and he prayed he looked even half as dignified as he felt.
Libby pointed the gun at her lawn chair. “Have a seat.” There was a smile in her voice—a sultry voice that promised torturous waiting culminating in unforgettable sex. Sex she would be fully in charge of. “You’re going to sit down and I’m going to call the cops.”
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