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Lazlo's Last Stand
Kathleen Creighton
Coming out of the shadows Keeping a low profile was Corbett Lazlo’s secret for success. But now the super-spy and elusive owner of the Lazlo Group had to confront the faceless assassin who was killing his agents – by making himself the next target. Then sexy Lucia Cordez stepped into the line of fire. And the only safe haven for her was Corbett’s isolated home, where guarding her suddenly became very risky…to his heart.For although Lucia claimed to love him, she could be the assassin’s partner – and Corbett’s deadly betrayer. Mission: Impassioned Find the traitor…lose your heart.


The battle ended with Lucia pinned to the mat by Corbett’s lithe body.
She fought to block the bombardment of her senses. “Someday I’m going to beat you. When I do, will you give me a field assignment?”
Corbett’s sensual lips, enticingly out of reach, twitched into a smile. “I have better uses for your talents.” He glanced at the clock. “I imagine you’ll need extra time to dress for our…date this evening?”
Lucia looked into his eyes and anger mixed with helpless longing. She masked them both with a teasing smile. “A date? Hmm, you’re hoping the assassin will strike again this evening, and you can hardly put one of your usual debutantes in the middle of a takedown operation, can you?”
She enjoyed a small sense of satisfaction when he looked taken aback.
Call it a date, if you like. I prefer to call it my first field assignment.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathleen Creighton has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today, she says she is interested in everything – art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history, but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing and now combines her two loves in romance novels.

Dear Reader,
Once upon a time, there were five talented writers of romantic suspense, diverse in age, nature and style. One day these five writers got the notion to write about a private security agency called the Lazlo Group. (Although nobody seemed to know much about this agency, and less about the mysterious Corbett Lazlo.)
Given that many writers consider writing for a continuity series to be about as much fun as, say, having a root canal, mammogram and bikini wax all on the same day, you might guess this response to the invitation to join them: “Are you insane?”
Naturally, I said, “Count me in!”
Why?
Well, I’ve had the pleasure of working with these five authors before. Then there was the fact that they let me have Corbett Lazlo’s story. The Lazlo Group and its enigmatic founder had fascinated me since they were introduced in the CAPTURING THE CROWN series. Who, I wondered, is this man with no past? Does he even have a heart? What sort of woman could hope to capture the love of so private a person?
The answers, dear reader, lie in these pages. I hope you find them satisfying, and that you may conclude this book with the time-honoured phrase, “And they lived happily ever after!”
Kathleen Creighton

Lazlo's Last Stand
KATHLEEN CREIGHTON

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This is for Marie,
and also for Nina, Caridad, Lyn and Karen,
some of the most fertile – yes, Marie,
and cluttered, too, but in the BEST
possible way – minds I’ve ever encountered.
Thanks for letting me share the ride.
Chapter 1
The attack came in low, but he was prepared for it. He easily evaded what might have been a lethal blow with a feint to the right, and then, in a move as precise and disciplined as a classical dancer’s, spun left and caught his opponent in midfollow-through, squarely behind the knees. The attacker, expecting a death-dealing blow to the throat or sternum, went down like a sack of rocks.
Down, but far from out.
Corbett Lazlo had little time to enjoy his moment of triumph. Before he could deal a follow-up blow, his assailant arched his body like a bow and was on his feet again, circling in a half crouch, his eyes hard as bullets, a slight smile playing over his lips. Corbett stood at ease, balanced on the balls of his feet, smiling back. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The next strike came like lightning, and, even though he’d been prepared for it, delivered a glancing blow to Corbett’s ribs. There would be a bruise tomorrow. He went down, exaggerating the effects of the injury, and when the follow-through came, he rolled and twisted his body like a fighting cat and came up on top, his opponent pinned with Corbett’s knee against his throat. He was now at his mercy; only a slight increase in pressure and the larynx would be crushed. The match was his.
After the briefest of pauses, Corbett removed his knee from the other man’s throat, rose and offered him a hand. When both men were on their feet, he bowed respectfully over his own clasped hands and uttered the traditional words of respect by the student for the master.
The other man returned the obeisance, then beamed upon Corbett a wide, delighted smile.
“Bested by my own move! Excellent. It is the moment every teacher cherishes, when the student surpasses the master.”
Corbett grinned back, an expression that transformed his austere features in a way that sent a jolt of desire through the woman watching from the screened-off doorway of the dojo.
To Lucia Cordez the jolt was a familiar sensation, as was the ache of longing that came with it. Corbett Lazlo had been the most important person in her life for nearly ten years, but in so many ways he was still a mystery to her—like smoke, she sometimes thought. Visible and real, but emotionally elusive, impossible to grasp.
Careful to keep her feelings well-hidden, she stepped around the carved wood screen and made her own obeisance to the master as he passed her on his way out.
“Ah—there you are.” Corbett’s features had settled once more into lines resembling those commonly found on ancient Roman coins. It was his customary expression when looking at her—imperious, impersonal…aloof. “You have news for me, I assume? Might I hope it’s good news for a change? Tell me you’ve traced the source of the e-mails that have been threatening me with so many ingeniously hideous deaths.” His tone was light, even a bit sardonic.
Lucia shuddered and said faintly, “Corbett, please.”
He paused in the act of mopping his face with a towel to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not the least bit amused by what’s been happening. To my organization, to my agents. These breaches of security must be stopped. Will be stopped. So? What do you have for me? From the look on your face, I assume it is not good news.”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “I’m sorry, Corbett. Our safe house in Hong Kong was hit last night.”
Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, his features hardened even more. His ice-blue eyes looked as if they could etch glass. “Anyone killed?”
She let out a breath. “No. Both our agents managed to escape. But—”
He moved suddenly, tossing the towel away with controlled violence. “Not now. I’ll read your report later. Come—” he motioned her out onto the mat with a hand gesture and a jerk of his head “—go a round with me. I want to see if you’re keeping up with your skills.”
“Now? But—” But it wasn’t a suggestion. Even if it had been voiced as one, Lucia knew that from Corbett Lazlo a suggestion was as good as an order.
“Master Liu tells me you haven’t been to your last two sessions.”
“I might have had one or two other things on my mind,” she said stiffly. “Tracing those e-mails—”
“—is high priority, but no excuse for letting yourself get soft.” His eyes traveled over her body in dispassionate appraisal.
Soft. She felt the look as if he’d touched her.
She shook off the feeling, gathered her defenses. “Oh, all right. Although,” she added in a grumbling undertone as she turned to go to the locker room to change her clothes, “I don’t see why it matters, when you won’t let me work in the field anyway.”
Corbett’s voice, sharp as the sound of icicles breaking, stopped her in her tracks.
“I doubt an assailant is going to have the courtesy to wait while you don your workout clothes. Come—as you are. Now.”
She turned back slowly, chin cocked in futile defiance. “Not fair. You’ll have the advantage.” She nodded toward him. He stood relaxed and confident in the center of the mat, feet a little apart, baggy workout pants riding low on narrow hips, arms folded on his well-muscled chest. The way he looked at her, staring down the length of his aristocratic nose, he reminded her of Yul Brynner as the King of Siam, except for the thick silver-streaked mane of hair, the slick of sweat and the patches of red on his upper body where Master Liu’s blows had hit home.
His lips curved in a small, arrogant smile. “Then you’ll have to fight harder to overcome it, won’t you.” He made an autocratic cupped-hand gesture. “Come. I’m waiting.”
Oh, how she wished her heart wouldn’t race so. And pound, sending waves of heat into every part of her body. Thankful for the café-au-lait skin that at least partly camouflaged blushes, Lucia locked eyes with the man who was at once the nettle in her garden and the love of her life. Slowly, she reached for the top button of her jacket and simultaneously stepped out of her flat-heeled shoes. Corbett Lazlo’s eyes followed her fingers downward, pausing when they did at the cleavage beneath her pale blue silk blouse. Did his eyes flicker slightly, or was it only wishful thinking? She freed the last button and let the jacket drop to the floor on top of her shoes.
As she stepped onto the mat, she felt the thump of her pulse in her throat, heard the rush of it inside her head. And beyond that the quiet voice of Master Liu: “You must train your mind, as well as your body, Lucia. Your body is only the weapon. Your mind must choose when and how to use it.”
Quiet descended. Her focus narrowed. She saw only a pair of ice-blue eyes, heard only the whisper of her own life forces: blood, adrenaline and that intangible something Master Liu called chi. I am weightless. Invincible.
There. The slightest flicker in those diamond eyes. She feinted so that the blow only grazed her side, and her mind ordered her body not to feel it. She whirled and aimed a kick at Corbett’s glistening chest, which he blocked easily. She heard a soft chuckle of approval as she twisted around, regained her balance, shifted on the balls of her feet to meet the counter attack.
The battle was short but hard fought. Neither asked for nor gave any quarter, and it ended, as it always did, with Lucia flat on her back, pinned to the mat by Corbett’s hard hands and lithe body.
Eyes closed, she fought to block the bombardment of her senses: the crazy rhythm of out-of-sync heartbeats, the scent of clean man sweat, the feel of healthy male hide, warm and slick, salty-sweet to the tongue….
Of course, the last was only her imagination. She fought for the courage to say something flippant and flirty, knowing it was a lost cause. Breathing hard, she had to settle for, “Someday I’m going to beat you.”
Corbett’s deep voice vibrated from his chest to hers, hinting at a smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Lucia opened one eye. “If I beat you—when I beat you—then will you give me a field assignment?”
The thin, sensual lips, suspended enticingly out of reach above hers, twitched the smile into oblivion. “I have better uses for your talents. Speaking of which—” he raised his head to glance at the large clock on the wall above the door “—hadn’t you better be off? I should imagine you’ll need some time to dress for our…date this evening.”
Lucia looked into his eyes, and it was anger she did battle with now—anger mixed with helpless longing. She masked them both, she hoped, with a teasing smile and an airy, “Oh—a date? Is that what we’re calling it?”
A small pleat of frown lines appeared between Corbett’s black eyebrows. “You are accompanying me to a holiday ball at the British embassy, my dear, in full formal regalia. What else ought we to call it?”
Lucia snorted, deliberately inelegant. “That’s only because there’ve been two attempts on your life in the past few months, and you’re hoping the assassin will strike again so the army of agents you have planted all over the scene can nab him. You can hardly put one of your usual…um…debutantes in the middle of a takedown operation, now, can you?”
She enjoyed a nice sense of satisfaction when he looked taken aback and didn’t reply. Knowing the victory would be only temporary, she seized the moment to twist out of his grasp and regain her feet, pleased with the toned muscles that made the motion as smooth as that of a trained gymnast. Call it a date, if you like, she thought as she scooped up her jacket and shoes. I prefer to call it my first field assignment.
She slipped around the screen, nearly colliding with the man just entering. Adam Sinclair stepped out of her path with exaggerated care, grinning broadly. “He’s all yours,” Lucia said tartly, and she sailed out the door with her nose pointlessly in the air.
Adam found Corbett sitting in the middle of the mat, gazing at the screen, knees drawn up, arms propped on top of them.
“She’s right, you know,” he said to his best friend and long-time partner as he offered him a hand up.
Corbett grunted and stooped to pick up a towel from the mat. “You heard that, did you? How long have you been lurking?”
“Oh, I came in as you two were in the heat of battle—just in time for the takedown, as a matter of fact. Wasn’t about to intrude on that little scene. From where I was standing…”
Corbett made a soft sound that in anyone less dignified would be called a snort. “For God’s sake, Adam, I’m Lucia’s employer, her teacher.”
“She’s hardly a schoolgirl. Face it, Laz. She’s a grown woman, and a damn gorgeous one, at that. And any fool can see she’s got it bad for you.”
“She’s got a bit of a crush, maybe, and if you think I’d be such a bloody jackass that I’d take advantage of that—”
“God forbid!” Adam held up both hands in mock surrender.
Neither man spoke again as they walked together through the maze of gleaming corridors, not until they were inside the elevator, a private one to which only a very few people had access. Corbett pressed the pad of his thumb against a glass plate and gave the voice command for the ninth floor. As the elevator purred silently upward, he said without turning, “Everything’s in place for tonight, I assume.”
Adam allowed himself a wry smile. “Since you have to ask, I take it you’re concerned.”
That remark earned him a heated reply. “Concerned? Why on earth should I be? This idiot, whoever has been taking potshots at me, must be a bloody poor excuse for an assassin. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you now, would I?”
Adam shrugged. “You never know, he might get lucky this go-’round—third time’s the charm, and all that.” He paused, and when no reply seemed forthcoming, added, “In any case, it’s not yourself you’re worrying about. It’s her.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lucia.”
This time he waited out the silence. The elevator gave a discreet ding and came to an almost imperceptible stop. In response to another voice command from Corbett, the door opened onto a sparsely but elegantly furnished foyer.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into taking her,” Corbett said in a tight voice as he stepped from the carpeted elevator onto gleaming marble.
Adam kept silent while the other man went through the biometric security measures required for entry into his private quarters. “You could always go by your lonesome,” he said as he followed Corbett into the immaculate and tastefully appointed apartment. And he was struck by the silence. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the man ever felt lonesome.
Adam knew he was one of only a very few human beings in the world Corbett Lazlo trusted enough to let his hair down with, but most of the time even he had no clue what his best friend might be thinking—or feeling. He knew the emotions were there, but they were like rustlings in the shadows, unseeable and unknowable.
Corbett made an unintelligible, though vehement, remark, which Adam could only assume was in Hungarian, Corbett’s parents’ native tongue. He tossed the towel onto a chair as he made his way to the kitchen. Adam, close behind, heard him mutter, “You’re forgetting the reason I’m attending this bloody party in the first place—the only reason.”
“Ah, yes—Mum and Dad. Right. The M.P. and his lovely lady will be attending, I take it? What about Edward? Too busy with Josh and Prudence’s wedding to put in an appearance, I suppose.”
Corbett took two bottles of Perrier out of the stainless steel refrigerator and handed one to Adam. He cracked the other open, drank deeply, then smiled and shook his head. Adam knew he still found it hard to believe his favorite nephew—and one of his best agents—was about to marry the daughter of the British prime minister. “Oh, he’ll be there. My brother never misses an opportunity to cozy up to the haut monde. My parents naturally will be expecting me to bring a date. And I mean, a believable date. If I don’t, for the next six months I can look forward to a parade of nubile British damsels toddling in and out of my life, each one more lovely and mind-numbingly youthful than the last. The strain of keeping—” he swept the hand holding the Perrier in a vague arc “—all this…” He let it trail off.
“Your secret life,” Adam finished for him, nodding as he drank. On a different sort of day he knew it would have been dark-brewed German beer, but not today. Not tonight. “Yeah, I can see how that could complicate one’s social life a bit. Doesn’t have that effect on mine, but then, I’ve never minded the occasional white lie. One thing you don’t need to worry about with Lucia, though, isn’t it?”
After a long pause with no reply, Adam leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “You underestimate her, you know. You trained her yourself—you should know what she’s capable of. She’s as good as any agent we’ve got.”
Corbett drank the rest of the water in his bottle before he replied. He waved the empty bottle again in a rough half circle, frowning. “Field ops isn’t what I recruited her for. You know that. She has one of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever run across. When it comes to computers—God, I can’t begin to understand the things she knows. The things she can do. It would be crazy to risk all that in the field. Insane.”
“Yes, it would be insane,” Adam said softly, meeting the other man’s eyes over his own raised bottle. “To risk…all that.
“But,” he added quickly, as Corbett’s frown darkened, “no worries, in any case. We’ve got our best people on it, and—” he glanced at his watch “—they’re probably in place, or getting there as we speak. Time I was, as well.” He set his own empty Perrier bottle on the curved marble countertop and gripped the other man’s shoulder as he passed him. “Later, mate. I’ll let myself out.”
As Adam paused in the foyer to listen to the security system engaging behind him, it occurred to him that it sounded a bit like a cage or prison door locking. These days, with the whole agency more or less under siege, that pretty much described it, he supposed. And what a bit of irony that was, considering how near to the real thing Laz had once come, way back when, during that unpleasantness with British SIS.
Sixteen years ago. God, had it really been that long? Sometimes it seemed like yesterday; then at other times, another lifetime. Hard to believe, now, that anyone in his right mind could have believed Corbett Lazlo guilty of being a double agent. It had been a frame-up, of course, and a damn good one, but still. Even more incredible that he’d been brought up on charges, convicted and sentenced to life in prison for treason, and might be there still if Adam hadn’t taken the gamble of a lifetime. Some would have said he was a crazy man to have given up his own job and risked everything to save his best friend.
That’s the way some people—most people—had seen it at the time, anyway. For Adam there had never been any question of a gamble or risk. Stack up loyalty to the service against loyalty to the best friend he had in the world and the man to whom he owed his life many times over… Hell, it was no contest.
Using all the Secret Service tricks and contacts at his disposal, Adam had managed to whisk Laz out of Britain just in time to avoid those slamming prison doors. The two of them had put together an organization of agents, a handpicked few initially, only the very best, people they could trust with their lives. And their first job had been to unravel the conspiracy against Corbett Lazlo and prove his innocence. The latter they’d done in short order. The former…well, that case was still open. And still unresolved.
Sixteen years later that handful of agents had become the Lazlo Group, the most prestigious private-security agency in the world, with a stellar international reputation. Most often they were called in as a last resort, when all conventional means had failed. The Group could be trusted not only to get the job done, but also to be discreet about it. And in exchange for guaranteed results, they commanded top dollar for their work, no questions asked. These days Laz was the acknowledged leader of the group, Adam his right-hand man and still his closest friend. Friend? More like a brother. Closer than any brother—damn sight closer, for sure, than that prick Edward ever was to him. Hard to believe those two sprang from the same loins. Vain as a bloody peacock, that one, even if he did do a decent job for the Group as the moneyman.
Although Laz often consulted with Adam before making decisions about assignments or new agents, Laz’s was the final word. As it had been when he’d recruited Lucia Cordez right off the campus of UC Berkeley. And, as usual, he’d been right; the girl was brilliant. And not just with computers. She had the makings of a first-rate agent, and the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous didn’t hurt, either. Fact was, her looks gave her access to places and people not every agent could reach.
Well, they would, if Laz wasn’t so bent on keeping her locked up in his ivory tower, too bloody dense to know he was crazy in love with her. And vice versa.
On the other hand, probably just as well the pair of them were as blind as wombats when it came to matters of the heart, Adam thought as he rode the private car down to the subbasement where, via secret corridors, he would switch to the public elevators in order to access the building’s street floor. Otherwise one or the other of them was bound to notice Adam was crazy in love with the girl himself.
Lucia stalked across the courtyard, which still glistened with the misty rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. Though, to be honest, to call her progress stalking was perhaps overstating it a bit, given that she was wearing strappy sandals with four-inch heels and a gown that limited her stride to something more mincing than regal.
To her extreme annoyance, her escort kept pace with her without compromising his natural elegance one iota.
“I don’t see why you should be upset,” Corbett drawled in an undertone as, in a seemingly natural gesture, he placed one hand on her back just below the edge of the silver fox stole she wore, wrapped tightly against both nervous shivers and Paris’s December chill.
“You might have mentioned it,” she shot back, suddenly breathless.
“I thought I just did.”
“It would have been helpful if you’d done so before I got dressed. I would’ve chosen something a little more—” she swept a hand downward across her front “—a little less…”
The neckline hadn’t seemed that revealing when she’d decided on this particular dress for this evening’s “date,” but now, judging from the caress of the stole’s satin lining she felt with each heaving breath, it did leave quite a lot of her uncovered. Again, to be honest, she hadn’t been thinking all that much about décolletage when she’d chosen the slithery gold gown. She’d chosen it because the color complimented her tawny skin and brought out the auburn highlights in her hair.
Uh-huh, right. Girl, you chose it because it shows off your booty, and you know you look hot in it. If you’re going to be honest…
“You look quite lovely,” Corbett said, in the same tone he might have used to inform her she had a smudge on her cheek. “It isn’t as though you’re meeting the queen, you know—or even the bloody prime minister. Just a minor member of Parliament and his bride—hardly worth getting upset over.”
“A minor member of Parliament and his wife who happen to be your parents.” The last word emerged in a furious hiss. She halted and turned to face him. The horde of butterflies in her stomach turned happy flip-flops at the sight of him, so slim and tall and elegant in his evening dress, the gleaming white of his shirtfront only inches from her own heaving—and now largely uncovered—breasts. She drew a deep breath. “Corbett, you are going to be introducing me to your parents as your, um… They will probably think we…” She paused, met his gaze of cool appraisal, then muttered tartly as she turned to continue her promenade across the courtyard, “Then again, if you’re going to look at me like that, they probably won’t think anything at all.”
“Look at you like…what?”
“Like you’re studying a wine list. Or the morning stock report.”
“Would you prefer me to leer?” He was there beside her, effortlessly in step with her once again, his expression mildly amused. “Perhaps drool a little?”
Lucia had to quell an urge to kick him. How could he be so completely at ease, when she felt as awkward as when she was queen of the geeks in high school? And as nervous as if the captain of the football team had asked her to the prom?
Before she could think of a witty riposte, Corbett said dryly, “Don’t worry, my father will do enough of that for both of us. Well—probably not the drooling.” Then his hand was on her back again, touching her in a way he probably meant to be courteous or reassuring, and his laugh held more warmth and genuine amusement than she’d ever heard in it before. “Don’t worry, I’m joking. I seriously doubt the Honorable Andre Lazlo will be undone by a bit of cleavage.”
Lucia tossed him a look, incapable of coherent speech or thought now that he was touching her again. He smiled back at her, his austere features romantically shadowed by the courtyard’s security floodlights. “Never mind, my dear. You’ll understand, once you’ve met my mother.”
Nodding to the footman dressed in Dickensian costume, Corbett took Lucia’s gloved hand and deftly tucked it into the crook of his elbow. He added in an ominous tone, “You would probably be wise to steer clear of Edward, however.”
Lucia had visited the Paris offices of the British Embassy several times on various errands for the Lazlo Group, but this was her first visit to the ambassador’s residence, the grand old building on the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. She barely had a moment to appreciate the spare but elegant entry hall, with its patterned marble floor, red velvet draperies and sweeping curved staircase, before yet another footman was there to relieve her of her stole. She felt decidedly more vulnerable without it. It’s a mission. It’s what he trained me for. I can do this. She lifted her head high and pasted on the confident smile she knew Corbett expected from her.
She was less successful in controlling the tremors inside.
Corbett was aware of the quiver. Slight though it was, he felt it unmistakably even through his jacket and shirtsleeve. He was on the verge of saying something reassuring, but thought better of it. He was the one from whom she was trying so hard to hide her nervousness; she’d hate that he’d noticed.
He felt twinges of protectiveness to her and reminded himself that he’d trained her well, she had no reason for jitters.
That gave way to compassion. Anyone might be a bit nervous at the prospect of meeting the parents of the boss on whom she had a slight crush.
Then guilt: It was wrong of me to use her like this. Isn’t fair to her.
Although, damnation, he’d been careful to treat her with absolute decorum. Damned hard to do, too, when she was so incredibly beautiful. He could smell her hair, her skin, her own signature fragrance, that sweet, sassy scent that always made him think of warm tropical nights. Jasmine, perhaps?
“Dahling! There you are. Vere have you been, édesfiú? You terry-ble boy!”
The voice he both adored and dreaded soared across the crowded ballroom like the cry of an eagle. At his side, Lucia gave a start and threw him a look, half query, half alarm.
“That would be Mother,” he said resignedly, “obviously channeling the Gabor sisters.”
Lucia braced herself to meet the couple sweeping down upon them. To her the Honorable Andre Lazlo and his wife seemed to belong to another age, and the chamber music rising above the hum of genteel conversation a fitting accompaniment for them as they glided over the gleaming parquet floor. Lydia-Maria didn’t need a towering powdered wig, panniers and a black beauty spot artistically applied to her heart-shaped face in order to fit perfectly with the grand ballroom’s eighteenth-century splendor of carved paneling and gilded mouldings, cascading chandeliers and red velvet draperies. In her platinum pouf and shimmering white gown, with a neckline that plunged dangerously close to the limits of decency—Yes, Corbett, I see what you meant!—she seemed to glitter like the brightest diamond in a rococo setting.
Her husband, by contrast, seemed almost austere in his tux, even with a festive swath of red, white and blue ribbon across his chest. He was a tall man, regal in bearing, handsome in an ascetic sort of way, with silver-white hair and luxuriant moustache to match, and the ice-blue eyes he’d bequeathed to his younger son.
This is what Corbett will look like when he’s old, Lucia thought.
It gave her an odd feeling, as if she’d been allowed a tiny peek behind his facade.
She could almost hear the elder Lazlo’s heels click together as he took her hand and bowed over it with military precision, but was unprepared and had to stifle a nervous giggle when he kissed her hand and in the process let his eyes linger on her half-exposed bosom with an unmistakable twinkle of appreciation. She wanted, but couldn’t quite bring herself, to look at Corbett, to see if he’d noticed.
The introductions had barely concluded when Lucia saw Edward Lazlo heading toward them through the crowded ballroom, with pauses for handshakes and backslaps along the way. Glad-handing, Lucia’s father would have called it, like a politician on the campaign trail.
For all his charm and apparent popularity, Lucia had never managed to like Corbett’s older brother. Being around him gave her a feeling of clammy distaste, as if she’d inadvertently touched something slimy and cold. And, since she was the agency’s computer tech and he its controller, she had to spend a good bit more time in his company than she liked. She tried her best to hide the way she felt, of course, knowing how close the two brothers were. Knowing, too, that Corbett felt deeply indebted to Edward for financing Adam Sinclair’s efforts to clear him of the treason charge, back in their SIS days.
Hard to believe the man could ever have been guilty of so selfless and noble an act, she thought now as she endured his arrogant smile, the look of heavy-lidded appraisal as he took in her gown and cleavage, and the touch of his fat hand on her bare shoulder with a murmured, “How nice to see you, Lucia.”
Then for a while she slipped willingly into fifth-wheel status, wearing the stiff, meaningless smile of the outsider as she watched the four Lazlos draw together and become family. Corbett, of course, drew most of her attention; it was fascinating to see him in this context for the first time. She’d always been struck by how different the brothers were, but now she could see how and why that could be so. Corbett took after his father, both in looks and manner, while Edward favored his mother in much the same way. His body was shorter, softer and rounder than his younger brother’s, which was all sharp angles and hard planes, like his father’s. Edward’s face had the open, friendly plumpness of a happy cherub, while Corbett’s finely chiseled features seemed always veiled in shadows. And yet, watching, she could see genuine affection between the two brothers, as well as the deep respect both had for their parents.
Families, Lucia thought, suddenly missing hers. She was an outsider here, as she would expect to be. What gave her an unexpected pang of loneliness was the realization that she would be just as much an outsider in her own family now. She’d missed them terribly when she’d first moved to Paris, but over the years, visits to her parents’ home in the San Francisco suburb of Pleasant Hill had grown fewer and farther between. Now, on those rare trips to California, all she could think about was getting back to her apartment in Paris, her job…and Corbett. This was her home now, and the Lazlo Group was her family.
And the Lazlo Group—my family!—was being threatened. Someone was picking off their agents—mybrothers and sisters!—one by one. Someone had tried twice to kill its founder and head, Corbett Lazlo. Someone was bombarding agency computers with horrifying e-mails.
And she’d been powerless to stop them.
The hum of genteel conversation, the tinkle of chamber music, the laughter and lights and Christmas cheer all faded into nothing as Lucia’s mind tugged and plucked at the puzzle knot that had frustrated her since midsummer. So far all her best efforts had done was teach her that it was far easier to be a hacker than to catch one.
Maybe, she thought, if I backtrack through…
“Hmm…are those pixels I see in your eyes, my dear?”
The quiet voice so near her ear gave her a start. Electric currents ran wild across her skin as she looked into Corbett’s brilliant blue eyes.
“Let’s not keep the ambassador waiting. Shall we?”
She laughed to cover her shiver and tucked her gloved hand into the crook of the arm he offered.
It was an hour or so later, maybe two—Lucia had lost all track of time—when she and Corbett left the embassy’s heavily secured courtyard and began to stroll along the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. They walked slowly, close together, like lovers reluctant for the evening to end. The night had turned cold and raw. There were few people on the streets, though by Paris standards it wasn’t late. A nasty little wind riffled Lucia’s hair and curled freshly around her neck and under her skirt. She moved closer to Corbett’s side, telling herself it was permissible to do so, that they were supposed to look like lovers, after all. And she tried not to enjoy too much the warmth and closeness of his body, the smell of his jacket and aftershave.
A little ripple of something—perhaps a combination of pleasure and suspense—shivered through her. As if he’d felt it, Corbett pressed her arm, the one that was tucked through his, closer against his side, an odd little hug that may have been only encouragement but somehow felt more intimate than that.
“You did very well tonight,” he murmured, and his voice wasn’t soft like a lover’s, but had a slight rasp to it, as if the words didn’t come easily. “Handling—ah…dealing with…meeting my parents.”
She glanced up at his profile and saw the crease of a wry smile in his cheek, even as his narrowed eyes roamed the street and sidewalk ahead, missing nothing. “I thought they were wonderful,” she said sincerely, then shrugged. “Your mother especially. She seemed much younger than I know she must be. Your parents would be in their seventies, right? I assume—”
“Mother is seventy-six,” Corbett said. “My father will be seventy-nine in February.” He glanced at her, smiling that same wry smile. “By the way, I thought you did an admirable job of not bursting into a fit of giggles when he kissed your hand.”
“I wouldn’t have!”
“I was watching your face. You were on the verge, don’t tell me you weren’t.”
“He caught me by surprise,” Lucia said with dignity. “And his moustache tickled.”
Corbett laughed softly and gave her arm another of those strangely intimate little squeezes. Lucia felt the same shiver, and this time knew without a doubt that it was pleasure.
“I could have done without that little comment he made about me being—what was it? Oh, yes— ‘a nice, healthy-looking vooman. Vith some meat on her bones.’ What, exactly, did he mean by that?”
Corbett’s chuckle now sounded slightly embarrassed—something new for him. “That was a compliment. He approves of you, my dear. In fact—” now he sounded bemused “—they both did. I think—”
Whatever it was he thought was never revealed. He stiffened, put one hand to his ear and seemed to come to attention, like a hunting dog on point. His eyes were dagger points, focused straight ahead, though Lucia could see nothing alarming about the handful of people hurrying along the still-damp sidewalk, heads down, shoulders hunched against that nasty little wind.
“Lucia, go back to the embassy and wait for me,” Corbett said in a quiet voice as he gently untangled his arm from hers.
“But I—”
“Don’t argue. That’s an order. Go. Now.”
Chapter 2
Lucia went, but with rebellion in her heart, in her soul and in every ounce of her being. Her feet were the traitors; they obeyed his will, not hers. She went, but with every muscle straining against the tug of an irrational yearning to stay at the side of the man she loved and face along with him whatever dangers threatened. She went, but with reluctance in every step, high heels scraping unevenly on the damp sidewalk as she paused and turned every few steps to look back.
And so it was that she saw the events unfold in jerky fast-forward, like an old-time movie.
Corbett relaxed only slightly as he listened to Lucia’s footsteps retreating back toward the safety of the embassy. He knew she didn’t want to go, that she’d have stayed and fought side by side with him, if he’d allowed it. He felt a peculiar swelling of something he couldn’t quite identify. Was it pride or something more complicated?
No time to wonder about it now. Adam’s voice was muttering in his ear again, calmly and without a hint of excitement.
“Yeah, mate, this looks like a live one…can’t tell what he’s carryin’. Definitely comin’ your way, though.”
Corbett pressed the button hidden under his tie and replied quietly, “Got it. Don’t move in…wait for my word.”
When she glanced back again, Lucia saw a man turn the corner at the end of the next block. A young man, wearing a jacket with a hood. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he walked rapidly toward Corbett, not with his head down and hunched against the cold wind, going someplace warm and in a hurry to get there. No—this man’s head was up, and even from that distance, she could see that his gaze was fiercely intent. And fixed on Corbett.
In her heart, in her gut, she knew this was wrong. He was wrong.
Oh, God, this is it. It’s him.
This was the assassin who’d already tried twice to murder Corbett. This time…
No. She told herself Corbett had planned for this. That he had backup all over the place. That just because she couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there. She told herself she couldn’t go back, that he’d be furious with her if she did.
But she did stop walking and stepped into the shadow of the nearest doorway to watch.
She wasn’t aware until sometime later that she’d also slipped off her high-heeled shoes.
Corbett watched the man in the hooded jacket come toward him. He felt calm, though his heart was thumping like bloody hell. Well, he couldn’t help that, could he? Adrenaline was flowing; he felt ready, eager, almost weightless in his anticipation of the battle to come. A smile curved his lips. Not a nice smile.
“Laz…come on, mate.” Adam’s voice in his ear had an impatient edge to it now.
The distance between Corbett and the hooded man was closing fast. He touched his tie and murmured, “Steady, old man…steady.”
Thirty meters…twenty…ten…
Steady…
At point-blank range, the man pulled his hands from his pockets. One hand held a gun. Using both hands, he brought the weapon up, aimed it at Corbett’s chest and fired.
Lucia heard the sound of the gunshot. She watched him fall.
It was the last thing she saw clearly. The next thing she knew she was running—flying—down the sidewalk toward the two men, knowing as she ran, knowing without seeing, that the assassin was advancing, aiming his weapon at his target’s head for the killing shot. Her scream of rage and despair seemed to hang behind her in the Paris twilight like the echoes of a bugle’s call to arms.
* * *
Corbett lay on the cold sidewalk and struggled to breathe. Was his heart still beating? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. He thought he was alive. He must be, he could see and hear. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Was this how death came?
He could hear the scrape of footsteps coming nearer, hesitantly…his would-be assassin, checking to see whether he was alive. If he’s learned anything from his last two attempts, he’ll put the last shot—the killing shot—between my eyes. If I’m not dead already, I soon will be.
There’s no way Adam can get here in time.
This was it, then. His last moment on earth. Corbett closed his eyes and thought of Lucia.
She didn’t feel her stocking feet on the sidewalk. She had no idea she’d dropped her stole, or that she’d hiked her gown to her waist.
Your body is the weapon, Lucia….
Her mind was calm, its focus narrowed, locked on her target. All the strength and will of her mind and body compressed into one powerful force.
And she struck.
It’s been said no one can swear quite like an Aussie, and in those first few seconds after hearing the gunshot, Adam did his level best to uphold his former country’s reputation. As he was running toward that awful sound he kept swinging back and forth between a strong desire to strangle his best friend and the fear the bloody idiot wasn’t going to live long enough to give him the chance.
Why had the bleedin’ bastard waited so long to give the okay to move in? Had he been waiting for Lucia to get out of harm’s way? Okay, he could maybe understand that, but now there was no way he or the others could reach Laz before the assassin finished the job—if he hadn’t already. If I can get to the blinkin’ corner, I’ll have a clear shot at the blighter, maybe I can wing ’im, at least. If Laz hadn’t given strict orders to take him alive… Bloody hell!
Adam rounded the corner with his gun drawn, his heart in his throat and his lungs on fire. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.
To Corbett it was flashes of color, flurries of motion, bodies hurtling through space, meeting, struggling, falling, the violence too insanely hurried to be real.
What he remembered afterward was the sound. A screech of pure animal rage; grunts and sickening smacks and thumps. A scraping, skittering sound. More grunts and gasps, the sounds of men in desperate combat.
No. Not men. One man, and one woman.
Lucia.
It was his worst nightmare. The woman he realized had a very important place in his life was struggling for hers against an armed assassin. His assassin. And he could do nothing. Couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. Could only watch helplessly while the battle played itself out.
Lucia’s initial attack had the advantage of surprise. Her flying kick slammed into the assassin as he stood over Corbett’s body, the gun pointed down at his target’s head…hesitating, inexplicably, although she didn’t recall that until later, and was only unquestioningly grateful for the extra second or two that meant the difference between Corbett’s life and the unthinkable. His death.
The kick sent the gunman crashing to the sidewalk. The gun flew from his hand and went spinning across the wet pavement. Lucia dove for it, not noticing nor caring that her bare legs scraped the concrete, or that what was left of her gown barely covered the rest of her. All she knew was a fierce sense of triumph when she felt the shape of the gun in her hands, still warm from the assassin’s hands.
She managed to twist her body around barely a split second before the man was on her, his full weight pressing her down.
He was strong. Stronger than she was. Bigger than she was. And now he had the advantage, his upper body strength pitted against hers, as he struggled to force the gun from her hands. She could feel it slipping…slipping from her grasp. But now she could feel his weight easing off the lower part of her body as he concentrated all his efforts on retrieving the gun.
Yes—her legs were free! And she brought one knee up, hard, between his legs.
In that same second there was a deafening explosion.
Then everything went still.
For Corbett, hearing the gunshot was a thousand times worse than getting shot himself. His reaction was instinctive; he tried desperately to get up, go to her, see if she was all right. Help her any way he could. He managed to lift his upper body a few inches before crushing pain slammed him back down. He dragged in a breath, and that hurt, too. He gritted his teeth and got out one word: “Lucia…”
“Take it easy, mate. Don’t try—”
“Adam—Lucia—I heard…”
“She’s okay. Can’t you hear her? She’s the one swearing a blue streak over there. Lie still, you bloody fool, don’t you know you’ve just been shot? Point-blank range, too. If it hadn’t been for that armor you’re wearing, that slug would’ve put a hole through your chest as big as my fist. Where’d it hit you? Oh, crikey. Damn good thing it wasn’t a couple inches higher, it would’ve stopped your heart for sure. As it is, I’m bettin’ you’ve got some busted ribs, at the very least.”
“Yeah…hurts to breathe. Feels like…I’ve been kicked by a mule. Where the hell’s our shooter? Did Lucia—” Corbett grimaced and put a hand over his eyes. He swore under his breath, then said, “Please tell me she didn’t kill him. Damnation—we needed him alive.”
Adam glanced over his shoulder. “Nah, he’s not dead—not yet, anyway. Bleedin’ pretty badly, though. Our girl’s doing what she can for the blighter.” He looked back at Corbett, grinning. “Wish you’d seen her. I’ve never seen anybody move that fast in my life. She was like a whirlwind—like that cartoon—crazy little guy, that tasmanian devil, you know? Came out of nowhere. Poor sod never knew what hit ’im. Not at first, anyway. Dropped his weapon, they both went for it, and that’s when she shot him. Might’ve been an accident, I don’t know. Either way, she didn’t have much of a choice, mate, so you’d better not be blamin’ her for whatever happens now. You know she saved your life, right?”
“I’m not blaming her…or anybody else.” He set his teeth and struggled up onto one elbow. “My fault. Should’ve given the go-ahead sooner…”
“Damn straight,” Adam said.
He’s just a kid.
It was the first thing Lucia thought when she rolled the inert body off her. His body was lithe and strong, but slender, slim-waisted, like a boy’s. She pulled back his hood and pressed her fingers against his neck. It was smooth and warm, and she could feel his pulse tapping rapidly against her fingers. Corbett will kill me if he dies. Don’t die, damn you.
But, my God, where was all the blood coming from? The front of his jacket was soaked with it already. She looked around frantically for something to stem the flow, but except for the clothes they were wearing, there was nothing. Her dress was useless, so she rolled the bottom half of the boy’s jacket and shirt into a wad and pressed it against the wound high up on his chest. She was so absorbed in what she was doing that it came as something of a shock when she looked at his face and saw that his eyes were open. Fierce blue eyes, wide with shock and fear, and staring straight up into hers. His lips moved, his mouth opened, but no sound came.
“Don’t try to talk,” she said, forgetting he probably wouldn’t understand English.
But he was still struggling to get words out, so she leaned closer. And heard, garbled but unmistakably in English, “Don’t…want to die…”
She lifted her head and yelled, “Adam—I need help!”
She heard Corbett say in a grating voice, “Go on. I’m fine. We can’t…lose him. He’s the only lead we’ve got to…whoever’s responsible for this damned vendetta. We have to get him to our medical facility. Can’t let the French authorities—”
“Too late, mate,” Adam said.
Lucia heard it then, too—the raucous seesaw braying of incoming emergency vehicles, so markedly European and so different from the wail of sirens she had grown up with in the States. She saw Adam and Corbett exchange looks of helpless frustration, and she knew the other agents on the spot had already melted away into the night. She became aware of shouts and running footsteps. Embassy security reached them first, along with the few pedestrians out in the chilly evening. People crowded around the four of them; hands reached to offer aid and comfort. Lucia looked down one last time into the terrified eyes of Corbett’s would-be assassin, and with a small sob of gratitude, gave her desperate fight to keep him from bleeding to death into more capable hands.
Time passed. It could have been days or minutes, for all Lucia knew. She spent it in a dreamlike state where time could stretch or compress without rhyme or reason. An eternity filled with the press of people and the cacophony of voices giving orders, asking questions, demanding one thing or another all faded seamlessly into the quiet efficiency and muted murmurs of medical personnel in a well-equipped emergency van. Over her strenuous protests she was checked for trauma, treated for shock and released; then, in another blink of an eye, she’d found herself transported through time and Paris streets to a hospital waiting room where, in the manner of such places the world over, time seemed to pass with the speed of glaciers.
At some point Adam joined her, bringing her strong bitter coffee in a foam cup. She sat and held it, warming her cold hands while two policemen came and questioned them about the shooting.
Just a formality, they assured her. It was clearly a case of attempted robbery gone wrong, and witnesses all seemed to agree that Lucia had acted in defense of her own life and her escort’s, and that the shooting of the would-be robber had been accidental, taking place in the course of the struggle for control of the gun.
“Zere is just one sing I do not understand,” the older of the two policemen said in his heavily accented English, as he tucked his notebook and pen back into his pocket. “Do you know ze reason why Monsieur Lazlo was wearing body armor? Was he expecting some kind of trouble?”
“No, I don’t,” Lucia whispered. Then she cleared her throat and added in a normal voice, “Corbett is a bit eccentric….”
Adam grinned. “Rather like what’s ’is name—Howard Hughes, I guess, eh? Or Michael Jackson.” “Not at all like Michael Jackson,” she retorted, turning to glare at him, and the younger policeman chuckled.
“Zere is just one sing I do not understand,” Lucia said to Adam sotto voce after the two law officers had departed. “Your story about being a passerby who just happened to witness the incident and stopped to help seemed to satisfy them all right, but I happen to know you had a gun. What on earth did you do with it?”
He gave her an enigmatic look, then after a moment relented. In a seemingly casual movement, he lay one ankle across the opposite knee and gave his pantleg a twitch—just enough to reveal the holster strapped to his leg. He muttered out of one side of his mouth, “Cops’d have no reason to pat down an innocent bystander who’s just tryin’ to be a Good Samaritan, now, would they?”
Lucia began to laugh, silently at first, with one hand over her eyes. When, to her shock, the laughter became a sob, she clamped the hand over her mouth, but it was too late to stop it. She gave Adam one brief, horrified look, then closed her eyes on the streaming tears. And after a moment she felt his hand come to rest on her shoulder, then begin to pat her, awkwardly, tentatively. The rather touching sweetness of the gesture turned the tears back into watery laughter.
She dabbed at her cheeks with the blanket the emergency medical team had given her, since what was left of her gown was a bit gory and left a good deal of modesty to be desired. She had no idea what had become of her fur wrap and shoes.
“Sorry, luv, haven’t got a hanky, I’m afraid.” Adam didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed she’d turned off the waterworks. Not that he minded being cast in the role of comforter, but his usual methods of dealing with female tears seemed far too dangerous in this particular circumstance.
“That’s all right.” She sniffed, blew, wiped, then asked, “How soon will we know something?”
“Haven’t a clue. But no worries, Laz is gonna be fine. He’s just got some busted ribs. They’re probably running tests and monitoring his condition to make sure there’s no damage to his heart. He took a pretty good hit to the chest, you know. Bullets can do some damage, even with a vest on. Believe me, I know.”
She just looked at him for a moment with those aquamarine eyes of hers—reminded him of the color of the water off the Great Barrier Reef from the air—then said in a voice he could barely hear, “I know all that. I was asking about the boy.”
Adam actually rocked back a bit when she said that, as if she’d gobsmacked him. “The boy—you mean the shooter? You’re askin’ me about the devil that almost killed—”
“He’s not a devil, Adam, he’s not even a man. Didn’t you see him? He’s just a kid.”
“Yeah, a kid with a bloody big gun.” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Could he be wrong about her feelings for Laz after all?
“Corbett didn’t want him dead,” she went on in that hushed, almost fearful voice. “What if he dies, Adam? What if I killed him? Corbett’s going to be so angry with me.”
He snorted. “I seriously doubt that. Especially considering the alternative.”
“The…alternative?”
“Yeah—you dead instead of ‘the kid.’” He shoved himself to his feet, because he felt as if some sort of giant spring inside of him was getting ready to let go. “Look—you stay put. I’ll go and see what I can find out, okay?”
All he knew was he had to get away from her before he said or did something that was going to embarrass the hell out of both of them.
He found Corbett in a curtained cubicle, hooked up to a monitor of some sort and looking none too happy about it.
“Thank God,” he growled when he saw Adam. “I was about to abandon all hope of rescue. Help me up, will you?”
Adam was about to question the wisdom of that move but changed his mind when he saw the look on Corbett’s face and instead simply offered his arm.
Corbett gripped it hard, gritted his teeth and got himself hoisted up into a sitting position and turned with his legs hanging over the side of the gurney. “I don’t know why they insist on all this—” he waved a hand at the wires attached to his arms and chest “—for some broken ribs and one hell of a bruise. It doesn’t require a medical degree to tell me I’m going to be damn sore for a while.”
“Yeah, you are. So you sure you want to be doing whatever it is you’re about to do?”
“Look, I’m going to hurt no matter where I am. I’d just as well do it at home. At least there I can—” He broke off, swearing under his breath, to glower at Adam. “Fill me in. How’s Lucia? Is she—”
“She’s fine—a bit shaky, but she’ll be okay. She’s here, by the way—out there in the waiting room. Worried sick about the shooter, if you can believe it. Worried she’s killed him. Thinks you’re gonna be cranky with her if she did.”
Corbett jerked and managed to whisper, “Good Lord,” through the resulting hiss of pain.
“Yeah,” Adam said, refraining from any comment that could be construed as sympathy. “I told her it was him or her—not too much she coulda done but what she did.”
Corbett’s mouth tightened and his eyes got the stony look Adam knew all too well. “What’s his condition?”
“They won’t tell me much, given I’m not family. All they’ll say is, he’s in surgery. I’m thinkin’ it’s probably too soon to tell if he’s gonna make it.”
“Damn. Bloody mess…” Corbett lifted a hand to scrub at his face. Finding himself still tethered to the monitor, he tore the wires from his arm and chest in a rare fit of temper. “We should have had transport there on the spot, dammit. We should have gotten him out of there before—did we at least get an ID? Do we know who the bastard is?”
Adam cleared his throat. He’d had happier moments facing a dentist’s drill. “Sorry, boss. Didn’t have time to go through his pockets. Lucia had her hands full just tryin’ to stop the blood. If they’ve ID’d him—” He broke off, swearing, as his words were drowned out by sounds of a commotion of some sort drifting in from beyond the curtain. “What the bloody hell—”
The voice, now risen to clearly audible levels, was French accented, harsh and strident, almost as deep as a man’s but somehow unmistakably female. It bulldozed right over the attendant’s murmured response. “I want to see him. Now! He’s here—I know he’s here!”
“Whoa, someone’s not a happy camper.” Adam tweaked aside the curtain to have a look, but the speakers weren’t visible from where he stood. He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe I should go—” He broke off, due to the fact that the man he was speaking to appeared about to take a header off the gurney.
“Laz? Here, mate, what—” He managed to get to him just before he toppled over, while out in the lobby the woman, whoever she was, ranted on.
“Tell me how he is, damn you! Don’t tell me you cannot! I am telling you, I am his family. I am his mother!”
“Are you all right, man? Crikey, you’ve gone as white as a sheet. Here—lie down.” Bloody hell, Adam thought. If it was his heart after all… “I’ll get the nurse.”
“Help…me up, dammit. Got to see…” Corbett’s grip on Adam’s arm would have done a croc proud.
I know that voice.
It couldn’t be. Just wasn’t possible. But there was no mistaking it, even after almost twenty years. Corbett could hear its echoes resounding through the halls of the emergency wing, strident, raw, crackling with emotion.
Her voice.
“You will pay for this, Corbett Lazlo! Everything you care about, whatever means the most to you, I will destroy. If it takes the rest of my life, I swear I will…make…you…pay!”
He told himself it wasn’t her, but he had to see with his own eyes.
With one arm across Adam’s shoulders and the other across his ribs, he managed to stand erect. Dark splotches were floating through his field of vision. He shook his head to clear it…concentrated on breathing deeply. Evenly. Relax…tensing up only makes the pain worse.
Bloody hell. He’d never felt so feeble and woozy. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Adam swearing at him, but he couldn’t spare the energy it would take to tell him to can it. He needed every ounce of strength just to take those first steps.
Out in the emergency entrance, the woman’s voice had quieted to a raspy, throaty sound, like a lioness purring. And Corbett remembered that one, too, as clearly as if it had been yesterday….
Murmuring words of love to me in a tangle of sweaty sheets on a stolen afternoon in the hot little room in Montmarte… Saying my name in a way no one else ever has, before or since, giving it the French pronunciation: Cor-bay…
Speaking of betrayal, as we sat together on a rooftop in London, watching the fog swirl around the chimney pots, with that particular intensity in her voice and in her eyes, that hint of violence and danger that made me wonder sometimes whether she was not quite sane. “I give you fair warning, mon cher. I love with passion and I hate the same way. Do not ever make me hate you….”
He’d been young then, and had laughed off both of them—the words of love and the warnings—and he’d known in his heart it was the danger that made her so irresistible.
Just as he knew in his heart now that it was not only possible, it was true. The voice was hers. He knew it even before he heard the words that erased all possibility of doubt.
“Yes, that is right. I am Cassandra DuMont. His name is Troy DuMont. He is my son. Now will you tell me where… Yes, yes, I understand he is in surgery….”
Corbett didn’t hear the rest. The initial shock of hearing her voice, recognizing it, had blocked the significance of her words from registering on his consciousness. Now, as he pushed through the double automatic doors into the triage area, he found himself face-to-face with the woman he’d tried so hard to expunge from his memory. He’d even thought he’d succeeded. Hoped he had. Now he knew how foolish he’d been to even try. Knew he should have paid more attention to the things she’d said to him, both the love words and the warnings.
Because suddenly, as if a curtain had been torn down, he saw everything clearly. All at once he knew. All the months of watching mission after mission end in near disaster, of trying to track down moles and trace vicious threats delivered via e-mail, of seeing his agents picked off one by one—even that mess years ago that had gotten him branded a traitor and booted out of British SIS, and would have seen him locked up in prison for the rest of his life—he knew who was responsible for it all.
Cassandra.
And there was worse than that. Much, much worse than he could ever have imagined.
“He’s my son!”
Cassandra DuMont had a son. A son who had tried three times to kill him and, but for Lucia and a state-of-the-art Kevlar vest, would have succeeded. A son now fighting for his life only a few floors away. A son who appeared to be at least nineteen or twenty—certainly no younger. And that could only mean…
He’s my son.
Corbett stood frozen while the doors to the E.R. area swished shut behind him, still dazed, caught in a nightmarish web of shock and disbelief. And it was in that moment that she turned and saw him.
It was odd, but with everything that had come crashing down on him in the past few minutes, his brain still managed to register the fact that she was beautiful. Odd, too, that he could notice how much she had changed, and yet was so much the same. The same tall, voluptuous body, the same golden curls, the same big—slightly protuberant—blue eyes. But the years and the thirst for vengeance had taken their toll, too, and in that instant just before she recognized him, he felt a flash of sorrow for the loss of the passionate but somehow naive young girl he had known.
“You!” She shrieked the word and lunged at him, as if she meant to kill him on the spot, with only her bare hands. Adam managed to intercept her before she could reach him, and she stared wild-eyed past the restraining barricade of his arm like a crazed animal through the bars of a cage. “You did this, Corbett Lazlo! You shot him—just like you shot my brother. If you’ve killed him, too…”
“Here, now,” Adam said, panting a little as he tightened his hold on her increasing struggles, “I think you’ve got things a bit backward, haven’t you? Your boy was the one doin’ the shooting. Tried his best to kill Mr. Lazlo, here.”
“Yes!” She hissed it like an enraged cat. “And should have, if he’d only waited for the right moment, as I taught him. If he’d had more patience.” Her mouth stretched in a terrible travesty of a smile. “He would have killed you, Cor-bey—his own father. Yes, that is right. As you have already guessed, the man you shot is your own son!” Her voice broke, before it erupted in a shrill crescendo. “If you have killed him, I will make you wish he’d killed you instead. I will make you pay—”
Behind Corbett the door whooshed open. In the sudden silence, a voice spoke calmly…quietly. Another voice he knew well.
“Madam DuMont, Corbett didn’t shoot your son,” Lucia said. “I did.”
Chapter 3
Corbett felt himself go cold from his scalp to the pit of his stomach. There was a moment when he was literally frozen in place, unable to move, unable to think. Unable even to decide how to feel. On the one hand, he could have throttled Lucia himself if it could have prevented her from uttering those words—words that amounted to her death warrant.
But then again…what was this strange shimmering, vibrating warmth now beginning deep inside his chest and spreading slowly through him? Was it admiration?
Because, by God, he had to admit she was magnificent. She put him in mind of an avenging goddess, wrapped in an EMT’s blanket, barefooted, the torn remnants of her golden gown swirling around her scraped and dirty legs, red-brown curls gone wild as if they had life and energy of their own.
Or was it something else that made his heart quiver so oddly? Something else entirely—perhaps the fear in her deep blue eyes contrasting so poignantly with the determined set of her mouth and the smudges of dried blood on her smooth, soft cheeks…
The frozen moment—and that’s all it was, a moment—passed. Movement resumed with an explosion of sound and fury. And after that things happened the way they do during times of disaster—quickly but at the same time seeming to move in slow motion: Cassandra shrieking like a wounded leopard and lunging toward Lucia; Adam brushing past Corbett to intercept her once more; Corbett moving in the opposite direction, moving through the breath-stopping pain in his ribs to grab Lucia and shove her behind him.
Before the echoes of Cassandra’s initial scream had died, while she was still drawing breath for a new assault, the elevator doors swished open. A doctor in surgical scrubs, face mask dangling from its neck straps, stepped out. Confronted with the strange tableau in the foyer, he halted as if he’d hit a wall.
Four faces turned toward him, and then once more, all motion, all sound, stopped.
The doctor’s uncertain gaze traveled from one emotion-wracked face to another. Paused at Cassandra…focused on Corbett.
“Are you the parents of Troy DuMont?”
And time resumed its normal cadence.
Too dazed to do otherwise, Corbett simply shook his head, while Cassandra DuMont whirled, tearing herself out of Adam’s grasp.
“I am! I am his mother. Tell me—my son—is he…” Her voice was the terrible croaking of a mother in terror.
“He’s still in surgery at the moment,” the doctor said in calm, British-accented English. “He’s come through quite well, thus far. If you’d care to come along with me, there’s a place upstairs where you can wait more comfortably.”
Cassandra threw a look back at Lucia. Corbett waited with muscles tense as she hesitated, the battle between a madwoman’s thirst for vengeance and a mother’s love for her child played itself out, the struggle written in anguish across her face. Then she gasped and bent forward as if she’d taken a blow to her stomach, and began to move backward toward the elevator as if pulled against her will by an irresistible force. In the doorway she paused, made a V-sign with two fingers like the forked tongue of a snake and stabbed them at Lucia.
“Chienne! Tu es fichue…”
The words were in French, but the venom in them was unmistakable in any language. Bitch! You are dead. For several seconds after the elevator doors had closed there was utter silence.
Adam broke it first with an explosive laugh. “Always was a charming wench. Did I understand her correctly? Did she say—”
“Later.” Corbett’s face was grim as he jerked his head toward Lucia. “We’ve got to get her out of here. Cassandra won’t wait for the outcome of the boy’s surgery to make good on that threat. How’d you get here?”
“Caught a cab, actually, since the other lads weren’t inclined to wait around to give me a lift.”
“That’ll have to do. See to it, will you?” The grip on Lucia’s arm tightened.
As she allowed herself to be steered toward the exit doors, she watched in a kind of numb bemusement as Adam turned up the wattage of his smile and swooped in upon the poor desk nurse, who’d been hovering behind her counter like a mouse behind a leaf, and was looking more confused than alarmed. She stammered a bit as she announced that she’d already summoned security, and blushed when Adam told her cheerfully to cancel that and summon a taxi instead.
Lucia thought it interesting that the girl who’d been steadfast in facing down a wildly distraught mother’s demands, seemed completely flustered in the presence of Adam’s Aussie charm.
As for her own feelings, they were in such turmoil she felt all but paralyzed. Though oddly, not with fear. It was anger she felt, and an irrational sense of betrayal. Irrational, because what right did she have to be jealous of anyone Corbett chose to involve himself with? But jealous she was. And this was even more odd because she’d never minded—well, not terribly—the parade of nubile beauties he’d “dated” briefly on and off over the years.
But this? A son?
For there to be such passionate hatred now, she knew, there must once have been an equally passionate love.
The automatic doors whisked open to admit a gust of cold misty air. Its effect on Lucia was like a slap in the face, and while it did nothing to lessen her misery, it did serve to snap her out of her sleepwalking state.
“It is December,” she said in a voice that matched the weather, and gazed pointedly at Corbett’s chest, which was quite bare and still trailing an assortment of tubes and wires. “You might want to put on some clothes.”
She didn’t mention her own state of undress, but drew some satisfaction when his startled look took in the thin blanket she was clutching around her. Noting the fact that it didn’t come close to covering her legs, and that those legs were clad only in torn nylon stockings.
His mouth hardened and his brows drew inward. Still dragging her with him like a recalcitrant child, he made a swift U-turn and headed back to the E.R. Doctors and nurses immediately surrounded them, scolding and warning in two languages of the irresponsibility and dire consequences of their actions. Which Corbett, of course, ignored, and instead demanded his clothes. A nurse, looking troubled, nevertheless scurried to fetch them. With equal imperiousness, since Lucia’s clothes were unavailable, Corbett demanded she be provided with something to wear in their stead. Another nurse hurried to obey.
None of this surprised Lucia in the slightest. It was simply the way things were done with Corbett Lazlo.
A short time later, still clutching the blanket but now dressed in nurses’ scrubs and squeezed between Corbett and Adam in the backseat of a cab driven by an apparently suicidal Haitian, Lucia listened to a conversation in which her immediate future was being planned. It was a two-way dialogue, without any input at all from its subject.
“We’ll need a chopper,” Corbett began as soon as they were seated, destination given and the taxi in motion.
Adam’s response was brisk. “Already on it, boss. It’s warming up as we speak.” There was a brief pause before he added, “I’m assuming a safe house?”
“I don’t trust any of our ‘safe’ houses. There’s only one place I know of where I can be certain Cassandra can’t get to her.”
Tempted to thrust her hand in the air like a first-grader, Lucia cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me?”
“Ah—the old homeland?” This was Adam, as if she hadn’t spoken.
Corbett nodded. “It’s the only place I can think of that’s not on anybody’s radar.”
“Even mine.” Adam again, wryly. “So you’ll be wanting the Citation, as well, I presume?”
“Excuse me!” Lucia said, more loudly. “I presume I’m the one you’re talking about whisking away to parts unknown. Do I get any say in this?”
“No!” Corbett and Adam responded together.
Lucia did a slow, silent five-count during which she managed to swallow her anger and remind herself it was she these two insufferable alpha males were bent on protecting. Though she wasn’t entirely clear as to why that was. The revelation that Corbett Lazlo had a son—one evidently bent on killing his own father—had driven all other intelligent thought from her mind.
“Forgive me,” she said, when both men seemed to be waiting for her to speak, “I’m trying to understand what just happened. And what it is about this particular woman that has you both turning tail and running for cover like…like—”
“Yeah, mate, I wouldn’t mind a bit of explanation, myself.” Adam’s tone was semiserious, for once. “This is the same Cassandra DuMont we know from our old SIS days, right? Daughter of Maximilian DuMont, late and unlamented head of the dastardly organization we call S.N.A.K.E.?”
“Snake?” Lucia said, incredulous. “The organization Dani pretended to work for as the Sparrow?” Dani Moore, a former SIS agent, had recently married a Lazlo Group man, Mitchell Lama. The two had uncovered a disloyal Lazlo Group employee, Chloe Winchester, while on a mission together for Corbett. Chloe had thought Lucia had gotten the job she should have had and had been selling Lazlo Group inside information to the SIS in a twisted revenge scheme.
“Yes,” Corbett said. “We got into the habit of calling them that back in those ‘old SIS days,’ mainly, I suppose, because that’s what the bastards were like. Silent and deadly.”
“Right-O,” said Adam. “You never knew what rock you were going to find the blighters hiding under, coiled up and just waiting for the moment to strike.”
“We used to try and outdo each other coming up with clever things for the letters to stand for,” Adam said with a chuckle. “‘Sinister Network of A-holes, Killers and Extortionists’—that was one of me own, I believe.”
“My personal favorite was ‘Society of Nasty Auld Knaves and Evildoers,’” Corbett added dryly. “I believe the current SIS meaning is ‘Syndicate of Nasties, Assassins, Killers and Evildoers.’”
“I know they’re killers for hire. Tell me what your connection is to them.”
“They started out as mercenaries. Their leader was Maximilian DuMont. He was a French mercenary in Southeast Asia during the early days of the Vietnam conflict, before he got a taste of the drug trade and decided it was a bit more lucrative than fighting other people’s wars for them. Made a mint of money, and when the Soviet Union fell, he was in a perfect position to expand into the arms business. Recruited a lot of ex-KGB agents who had an inside track to where the surplus weapons were stockpiled. There was a major war going on at the time among all the weapons dealers over who’d garner the lion’s share of the spoils. Max and his thugs came out on top, mainly because there wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do to eliminate the competition, and those competitors knew it. If they valued their homes and families, they got out of Max’s way. If they didn’t…well, then they probably died along with their wives, mothers and children.”
Lucia, though warm enough snuggled between the bodies of two big men, nevertheless felt a chill. “My God. And Cassandra DuMont is this monster’s daughter. No wonder—”
“Oh, that’s not the half of it,” Adam said with gossipy glee. He leaned forward to speak to Corbett around Lucia. “You want to tell her the rest, mate, or shall I?”
“Oh, by all means, be my guest.” Corbett’s tone was acidic—just short of bitter. Not at all like him.
And which didn’t appear to faze Adam. “After a few major arms deals featuring Soviet weaponry were traced back to the DuMont organization, SIS—CIA, too, I should think—got interested. Laz and I were part of the team on Max’s trail. We got a bit too close, apparently, because old Max decided we needed to be taught a lesson. Sent his daughter to seduce the lead agent on the case, which happened to be our friend, here.”
As Adam talked, Lucia watched Corbett’s profile, trying to decipher the tight smile and narrowed eyes in the everchanging light inside the cab. Wanting to understand the tension she could feel in his body, pressed up against her side.
“She was supposed to set him up—to be kidnapped, tortured, murdered—probably all three, based on Max’s track record. It was a warning to the rest of us to back off. That was the plan, anyway. Trouble was, things didn’t go quite according to Maximilian’s plan. You see, Cassandra fell for Laz, arse over teakettle—”
Revelation came to Lucia via the very tiny twitch she felt in Corbett’s body, as if he’d experienced an unexpected stab of pain.
He feels guilty. He blames himself for what’s been happening…his agents’ deaths.
And he shouldn’t, she thought angrily. He’s a good and decent man who cares deeply about all his agents. He isn’t to blame for someone else’s evil. He isn’t.
“—and instead of giving him up to her old man, she warned him. Maximilian never did forgive her. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill her, even if she was his own daughter. But in the end, I suppose, what he did was worse.”
“What did he do?” she asked, holding her breath for the answer.
“Disowned her,” Corbett replied in a flat voice.
“Cut her out of his organization completely.” Adam picked it up from there. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. Not long after that, Max’s son, Apollo, came gunning for Corbett.” He paused, and in the light of the street-lamps they were passing, Lucia saw the shadows in Corbett’s face go long and deep. Adam went on in a thoughtful tone, “I never did figure out how you knew just where and when they’d be coming for you. You want to—”
“It’s neither the time nor the place. Needless to say, I’m fairly certain Cassandra is behind all my troubles, all of them for the past nineteen years,” Corbett snapped.
They were in the financial district now and approaching the ultramodern building that, in addition to the well-known banking institution on the ground floor and several securities and insurance firms higher up, housed the secret headquarters of the Lazlo Group. Corbett moved as if to shift forward and at the same time reached for his wallet. Then he drew a sharp breath and held it, and leaned back instead.
“Got it,” Adam said under his breath, and taking out his own wallet, counted out some euro notes to give to the cabdriver.
Meanwhile, Lucia struggled to hold on to her frustration. There were so many things she wanted to know. Felt she deserved to know. Particularly since these dramatic events in Corbett Lazlo’s past appeared to be about to dramatically affect her future.
“She—Cassandra—said you killed her brother,” Lucia said to Corbett in a tight but steady voice. “Did you?”
He replied with a quiet, “Yes.”
“The little punk didn’t give ’im much of a choice,” Adam said as he settled back in his seat. “And that’s the plain truth of it. If he hadn’t—”
“Not now.” Corbett’s tone was one that neither Lucia nor Adam cared to challenge. Adam gave her a smile and a shrug of apology as the cab rolled into the underground parking garage.
Following Adam’s directions, the driver, with protesting tires, pulled around to a remote corner of the lot and jolted to a stop. Adam opened his door and turned to help Lucia, both of them carefully avoiding watching Corbett’s determined but obviously painful struggle to extricate himself from the car.
“He’ll be okay,” Adam murmured for her ears alone, and she nodded and mouthed the words, “I know.”
But she marveled at the strange confusion of emotions stirring inside her, seeing the indestructible Corbett Lazlo in such a state.
As the taxi drove off with a screech of tires, its three former passengers turned to a door marked in French, in large black letters: Emergency Exit—Authorized Personnel Only. Adam opened the door using a remote and held it while Lucia and Corbett entered what appeared to be a large steel-walled vault, then followed them in, closing the door after him. Corbett placed his palm on a glass panel near the door, and a steel panel above it slid open to reveal a state-of-the-art optical scanner. One by one, each of them stepped up to the screen, eyes wide-open. Only when all three had passed the iris recognition scan did the larger panel slide back to reveal the elevator.
The purpose of this, Lucia knew, was to prevent anyone from gaining access to the Lazlo Group secret headquarters by taking one of its members hostage. Hidden sensors in the vault would determine the number of people inside. Entry could only be accomplished once every person had been cleared by iris scanning. She remembered thinking, when she’d first been introduced to the system, that it seemed a bit excessive—even paranoid. Now, remembering the light of madness in Cassandra’s eyes, the way she’d stabbed those forked fingers when she’d spit the words, “Tu es fichue…”
A shudder ran through Lucia. For the first time, as the steel-reinforced elevator whisked them silently upward, she was grateful for the extreme security measures and no longer thought them the least bit excessive.
It wasn’t until the elevator doors opened again and she found herself standing at the entrance to Corbett’s private apartment that it hit her. Wherever in the world she was being whisked away to, it was happening now. The helicopter was on its way. It would land on the rooftop of this building, and she would be bundled aboard like baggage, without even being allowed to go home to her apartment to pack her own.
It was, suddenly, simply too much.
As Corbett and Adam stepped out of the elevator, she took a step backward and said in a strangled voice, “I can’t— I’m not doing this.”
Both men turned to look at her, wearing identical expressions of noncomprehension, as if a piece of their luggage had acquired a voice.
Corbett’s expression changed quickly to a puzzled frown. “Can’t do…what?”
She was suddenly furious with him. For an intelligent man, could he be more obtuse? “I can’t just leave like this. I have to go home first.”
His frown deepened. “I don’t see why. Unless you have a cat. Do you? I’ll arrange for someone—”
“No, I don’t have a cat. I have to—” her voice rose as Corbett began to shake his head “—I have to get my stuff.”
“Out of the question. By this time Cassandra will no doubt have your place located and staked out. No, we’re getting you out of the country—now.” He reached for her arm, and she pulled away like a stubborn child.
“Dammit, Corbett, I don’t have any clothes.”
Adam said quietly, “She’s got a point, boss.”
Corbett glanced at him, then let out a breath and drove a hand through his already untidy hair. “Oh, all right then. I’ll send someone to pick up your things. Adam?” “On it.” Adam had already plucked a cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket.
As he turned away, mumbling instructions into the phone, Lucia ventured, though still with some reluctance, from the elevator.
“What about my job?” she said to Corbett in a low voice as he was engaged in convincing his security system to grant them entry into his apartment. “I’m so close to tracking down the source of those e-mails. Who’s going to—” Seeing the wry smile beginning to form on his lips, she broke that off and said, “Oh.”
“Yes, I think we can mark that little mystery solved, at any rate,” he said dryly. He opened the door and waited for her to enter ahead of him. “I’m only surprised I didn’t think of it immediately—the messages did have Cassandra’s particularly nasty style. And the attacks on my agents and safe houses… Although to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t entirely certain she was still alive. Given the circles she moves in.” He paused to frown at Lucia. “What is it now?”
She had halted just inside the door and was looking around, feeling a little like Dorothy, awaking to find herself in Oz. In all the years she’d worked for Corbett Lazlo, all the hours she’d spent in his company, she’d just realized this was the first time she’d ever set foot in his apartment. Her heart gave an odd thump and seemed to drop into the bottomless well that was her stomach. She couldn’t put her finger on why. Not then.
“Nothing,” she breathed, willing herself to relax as she moved through the entry and into the graciously appointed but strangely sterile living room.
Adam came in, closing the door behind him. “Team’s ready to roll,” he said briskly as he tucked away his cell phone. He turned to Lucia. “You might want to write out a list, luv. I expect they’ll be in a bit of a hurry.”
Though his glance rested only briefly on her face, which she knew must be a disaster, his nut-brown eyes seemed kind. Adam was kind, she realized, in spite of his reputation as a bit of a player. He’d always treated her with a kind of cheeky affection—rather like an older brother, she thought, although she’d never had a big brother and could only guess what that might be like. He was terribly good-looking, too, and she wondered why his company never made her heart do unnatural things the way being close to Corbett did.

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