Covert Makeover Page 6

  And there was that folder on her nightstand. There was no logical reason why she’d have it. Was that part of the excitement? Like the people who voraciously read every true-crime novel or had police scanners to listen in on crimes in progress?

  She certainly didn’t seem like the sensationalist type. But then, his ex-wife hadn’t seemed like a drug addict, either.

  He glanced around Sophie’s living room. How long had she lived here? His wedding had been four years ago. She’d mentioned that theirs was her first assignment for Weddings Your Way.

  She hadn’t collected many personal items in four years. The furniture looked as if it had come with the condo. Everything was too sterile—too black-and-white.

  Suddenly he flashed on the image of her bedroom. The furniture was the same black lacquered ultramodern design as the living room, but she’d put a pure white spread on the bed and thrown brightly colored pillows across it like confetti.

  And her toenails were pink.

  He blinked, just as his cell phone rang. It was Montoya.

  “Majors, I’ve run through the tapes. Not much to see, although I know you’ll want to look at them yourself.”

  “That’s right, I do. Look, this is taking longer than I’d hoped. It may be late before I get back over there. Did you check the drive for—”

  “Of course,” Montoya interrupted. “Found two spent cartridges and some flecks of paint. At least one round hit the car.”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  There was an infinitesimal pause. “I’ll take care of getting them analyzed.”

  “And those tapes—”

  “I’ll have one of my men run them over to your place if you like.”

  Sean frowned. The gesture from the Weddings Your Way security chief was unexpected. Still, it would save Sean a lot of time.

  “I’d appreciate it.” He gave Montoya his address. He started to mention that he’d talked to Johnson, but decided not to. That could wait.

  He disconnected and glanced at Sophie’s closed bedroom door. Ten minutes.

  He stepped over to a chrome media cabinet, angling his head to read the titles on display. The variety of items there surprised him. There were a number of DVDs. He ran his finger along the spines. Oliver Twist, Daddy Long Legs, While You Were Sleeping, Phantom of the Opera, Sneakers. Eclectic mix, to say the least.

  Her books were mostly fiction—romantic suspense, he guessed, from the titles and covers, but there were a couple of hardbacks that for most people would be odd choices. A Look Over My Shoulder: A Life in the Central Intelligence Agency, I Led Three Lives.

  Espionage? He started to pick up the CIA book, then he spotted a slender trade paperback titled Recovering Your Life. He reached for it instead.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sean froze at the sound of her voice. It held an odd note. Was it fear? Or irritation?

  He shook his head. “Just glancing at your movie collection. You like a lot of different things.”

  He faced her and swallowed his surprise at her appearance.

  She’d turned back into the sophisticated lady. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. She’d applied makeup, and she wore a white short-sleeved top and a slim black-and-white striped skirt.

  “I suppose I do.” Her blue eyes turned icy and she lifted her chin.

  Sean almost dreaded looking any farther, but he couldn’t stop himself. Yep, there were the black stockings and black high-heeled pumps. Underneath the black nylon he could see tiny beige rectangles—bandages.

  He had to force himself to breathe. He’d have bet money that with her skinned knees, she’d have worn slacks or a longer skirt.

  He should have known it would be a sucker’s bet.

  But those knees were so vulnerable. She could have died out there today, and she’d known it. The feel of her quaking body under his had left him no doubt of that, but she’d refused to give in to it.

  Suddenly he saw her differently. His gaze shot back to her face. She didn’t want people—didn’t want him—looking at her, knowing about her. Why?

  Ah, hell. Now he was the one wasting time—time he didn’t have to waste.

  He picked up the keys to her BMW, tossed them and caught them in one swift move. “Want me to drive?”

  “Could you do me a favor first?”

  He glanced at her suspiciously. “Sure. What?”

  “Could you put this on my elbow? I ruined three trying to get one on straight.” She held out a large strip bandage and gave him a little smile.

  She’d surprised him again. For a minute there, he’d thought he’d seen something in her. Something that made her different from his ex-wife. But her flirtatious persona was back. Damn, she was hard to pin down.

  “Anything to help a beautiful woman maintain her image of perfection,” he drawled.

  Her cheeks turned pink, but she handed him the bandage and turned her elbow toward him. Her perfect skin was marred by a gash that must have been made by a sharp piece of gravel.

  “That looks bad. And your arm above it is scraped, too. Are you sure you only need one bandage?” He pushed her sleeve up. “Let me—”

  “No!” She jerked away, her hand tugging the material back down over her arm.

  Sean went still, his hand up, palm out. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”

  “Never mind. I—I’ll get Isabelle to do it.”

  “Here. I won’t even touch it. It won’t take but one second for me to slap the bandage on.” He peeled it out of its wrapper and held it up with his fingertips. “No hands.”

  She cocked her elbow so he could get to the gash, but her other hand remained protectively over her sleeve. He slid the bandage over the gash. As soon as the adhesive touched her skin, she backed away, pressing it down.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a cool nod, but he hadn’t missed the quiver in her voice.

  There was something else he hadn’t missed. The perfect Ms. Sophie Brooks wasn’t so perfect after all. She had a scar on her arm just below the curve of her shoulder.

  A large scar—an old one.

  Chapter Four

  The man who had nearly killed Sonya Botero’s limousine driver before was ready to try again. He gathered his paraphernalia together and prepared the syringe. This time, it would be easier. Last time, there had been no IV. He’d had to jab the needle into Johnson’s chest while he slept. He’d gotten about half the dose in, helped by the fact that Johnson had sat up in bed, driving the syringe even deeper. The limo driver had lapsed into a coma and everyone had been questioned.

  The good news this time was that all it would take to get the drug into him was a few seconds to push the liquid into his IV port. In less time than it took to inject the drug, it would stop Johnson’s heart.

  The bad news was that the driver now had a guard. The man’s problem was twofold now. He had to figure out a way to get up to the eighth floor, because this week he was scheduled to work in the emergency room. Then, he had to get past Johnson’s guard.

  But he was a smart man, and careful, very careful.

  Craig Johnson, limousine driver and security agent for Carlos Botero, wouldn’t see another Miami sunrise.

  AS SEAN AND SOPHIE climbed into her BMW, he looked at his watch. There was no way he could get Sophie back to Weddings Your Way and get home in time to tuck Michaela in. This was the second night in a row he’d missed her bedtime.

  She was changing daily and he was missing it.

  He rubbed his stubbled jaw and sighed.

  He’d just drop Sophie off and pick up the truck he’d driven this morning. Montoya’s offer to send over the tapes would help. He’d stay home a little late tomorrow and have breakfast with his daughter.

  “I’m truly sorry. I’m keeping you from something.”

  “No problem,” he muttered absently as he reached for his cell phone. “I was hoping to go back to the hospital and talk to Johnson some more, but it’s been kind of a busy day.”
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  “You talked to him?”

  The sudden switch from polite apology to sharp interest put him on guard. His finger hovered over the quick dial button to his home phone.

  “Yeah, for a few minutes,” he said noncommittally. “He was on his way to the lab for a test.”

  “So now he can have other visitors?”

  Sean slid the phone into his jacket pocket and sent her a sidelong glance. “No.”

  “Oh.” Her blue eyes narrowed.

  “Why?”

  “Well, he was involved in the kidnapping. My boss is interested in what he has to say.”

  “I’m sure she is. I’m determined to get to the bottom of all this. I want to know how he’s involved, too. But I don’t intend to have him talking to anyone else until I’ve questioned him thoroughly myself.”

  “You still have a guard posted?”

  “You’re awfully interested in Craig Johnson.”

  “Rachel is interested in him. He used us. That call he made to Ladera could be an important clue to where Sonya Botero is being held.”

  “I need to be sure that’s what happened.”

  “Well, as Sonya’s driver, he was certainly in the perfect position to report on her whereabouts at any point in time. How did he end up with that job?”

  “That was my call,” he said flatly.

  She gave him a knowing look. “You thought you could trust him.”

  “Obviously I was wrong.” And he still didn’t know why. He was a good judge of character, always had been. The talent had served him well in the private security business.

  His gaze dropped to the dashboard clock. He dug out his cell phone and pressed the quick dial button to his home phone. Sophie dropped her gaze to her palm, where she concentrated on smoothing an edge of a bandage.

  When Rosita answered, he could hear Michaela in the background, crying.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked without preamble.

  “Ah, Mr. Sean. ¡Ella se porta como una mocosa!”

  “Like a snot-nosed brat? Michaela? She’s probably just tired.” It was one of Rosita’s favorite expressions, but she usually used it for her grandchildren, not his daughter. “What happened?”

  “Today was the day she made pictures to show you. Remember, she told you she would draw you the big scary monster? Now she doesn’t want to go to bed. She is crying in the corner.”

  Guilt whirled through his gut. He’d made a promise to his baby girl, and forgotten it. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Did a courier deliver a package?”

  “Ah, sí. The doorman accepted it. I have put it on the kitchen table.”

  “I’m sorry to keep you so late.”

  “De nada. But please, for the sanity of this old woman, hurry home.”

  He disconnected and pocketed his cell phone, realizing that Sophie had stopped trying to pretend she wasn’t listening.

  “Brat?” she repeated, a tiny frown growing between her delicately arched brows.

  “My daughter.”

  Sophie almost gasped aloud. He had a child. She hadn’t expected that. He was certainly a chameleon. She’d seen him as a devoted bridegroom, a sleek and sophisticated businessman, and today as a gritty, sweaty, sexy man. She’d felt just how thoroughly male he was when he’d lain on top of her.

  Even with gravel biting into her flesh, even with gunshots flying over her head, she’d still noticed the hard, hot feel of him pressed against her, his thighs surrounding hers, his arms protecting her, his breath on her neck.

  But a father? “I—I thought you were divorced.” Why didn’t his wife keep the baby?

  “That’s right.”

  His eyes might as well have flashed a teal blue sign—off limits. He wasn’t going to talk about his daughter or his home life.

  That was fine with her. Any fantasies she’d had about why he’d offered to drive her home or why he looked at her so intensely had already been washed away down the shower with the hot sweat and masculine scent he’d left on her body.

  Then, as she’d sat alone in the steamy bathroom, nursing her injuries, as she had so many times in the past, she’d deliberately banished the last remaining dregs.

  No connections, no involvement, equaled no pain. And that’s how Sophie intended to keep it. Unfortunately, not feeling lonely was harder.

  As she sat beside him, the sweat and dirt gone from his arms and face, with as sexy and good-looking a man as she’d ever met, the loneliness dug deeper into her heart.

  She’d planned her life carefully. Structured it so that she had no regrets, or at least she didn’t dwell on them. All the things she’d lost, all the things she was destined to miss, she rarely thought about anymore, except maybe deep in the night, when she would awaken, frightened by a noise or a dream.

  “Look, Ms. Brooks,” Sean said as he exited the freeway.

  Sophie looked up. “You can call me Sophie.”

  He didn’t. “I really need to do something before I take you back to Weddings Your Way. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  Her heart leapt into her throat and she clasped her hands so tightly her palms stung. “Oh, of course. No problem,” she choked out.

  Please don’t let it be his daughter.

  He made a couple of turns, then pulled into a high-rise apartment building. “I made a promise to my daughter, and I’m late. She’s supposed to be in bed by now. I just need to see the picture she drew me and get her tucked in.”

  Sophie’s fingers began to tremble. “Fine,” she said shortly, earning her a suspicious glance.

  She did her best to pull herself back into Confidential mode, to think and act like an agent, rather than a nervous, quivering girl, but her shoulder and elbow hurt and her knees stung and she felt anything but cool and professional. She’d been in danger before. She’d certainly felt fear. But this man had given her a taste of what it felt like to be shielded from harm for the first time in her life, and it had weakened her defenses.

  Sean Majors had gotten under her skin. And now she was going to have to face his daughter. Just a few minutes. She sucked in courage with a long breath. She could handle anything for a few minutes.

  Couldn’t she?

  “How—how old is she?” So much for effort at conversation. She heard the barely capped panic in her voice.

  To her surprise, Sean smiled. His face changed. His mouth turned up more on the left than the right, a boyish, slightly crooked smile that carried in it a touch of sadness. Sophie looked down at her hands.

  “She’s almost three,” he said, pulling into a reserved parking place near a bank of elevators.

  Inside Sophie’s head, the numbers ticked off. She swallowed and tried desperately to stop the inevitable path of her thoughts.

  She was twenty-nine. That meant her baby would have been twelve. Her hand twitched to rest on her flat tummy, but she bit her lip and stayed still. It had happened for the best.

  It had. With her background, she’d have been a lousy mother anyway.

  She swallowed and pulled in a long breath. “Should I just wait in the car?”

  He stopped with his hand on the door handle, as if he were considering that possibility. Then he frowned and got out. “No.”

  He came around and opened her door for her. “We won’t be long.”

  They were silent on the elevator ride. Sophie had the feeling he was as uncomfortable bringing her to his apartment as she was to be going there.

  Just as the elevator doors opened, he shot her a withering, disapproving glance.

  She flushed. It was the bimbo persona. He was embarrassed, worried even, about her meeting his little girl. She closed her eyes briefly. She was an ex-CIA agent, a Confidential agent. Her job was playing a part.

  She could do this.

  He unlocked the door and leaned in to hold it open for her. The first thing she saw was an array of toys and stuffed animals scattered around the living room. The room was large, and decorated in muted colors. A long leather
sofa was the focal point of the room. She saw balcony doors behind the sofa, with a child-protective gate in front of them.

  “Have a seat. I’ll just—”

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” a trembling little voice cried out, and suddenly a small blond whirlwind in pink-and-yellow pajamas flew out of nowhere.

  Sophie lowered herself to the sofa and watched in fascination as Sean reached down and grabbed the child.

  “Daddy, I drew you the monster and you didn’t come and you didn’t come, and Rosita made me take a bath. I don’t like Rosita.”

  Sean kissed her pale, tear-streaked cheek and laid his hand protectively around the back of her neck as he swung her back and forth. “Yes you do, Michaela. You love Rosita.”

  A middle-aged Hispanic woman with an ample bosom appeared in the kitchen door. “Well, Rosita doesn’t like driving home this late.” Her black eyes snapped to Sophie.

  Unsure of what to do, Sophie stood and tried to smile.

  Rosita looked her over, apparently unimpressed with what she saw, and turned back to Sean with a glare.

  A flutter of dread quickened Sophie’s pulse.

  “Michaela, I want you to meet Miss Sophie.”

  The dread climbed up into her throat, closing it. Or maybe it was the tears that pricked her eyelids. Michaela looked at her and Sophie saw immediately that the child’s eyes were the same teal blue as her father’s. She was beautiful. A perfect child.

  “Miss Sopee.”

  “Sophie,” Sean whispered, exaggerating the F sound.

  “Miss So-Fee.”

  Everyone’s eyes were on her. She took a step closer, blinking rapidly. “Hi, Michaela. You’re so pretty.”

  Sean angled his head slightly toward Sophie as Michaela buried her nose in the hollow of his shoulder.

  “Eww, Daddy, you’re stinky.”

  Sean laughed. “You want me to go live in the pigpen?”

  Michaela put a finger over her mouth and rolled her eyes, obviously giving the matter a lot of thought. Then she shook her head and yawned. “Come see my drawing. It’s good and scary.”