Tough As Nails. Jackie Manning

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      “Of course. You’re right,” she said, realizing that she needed to protect her clients. “I need to know.”

      HE TAPPED HIS FINGERS along the computer pad, trying to control his fury.

      Did they really think he wouldn’t have known that they had found the bug? Stupid, arrogant bitch. She hires a wiretap man from TALON-6 and thinks he’ll keep her safe. Well, she’d learn her lesson, and so would he.

      He clicked off the monitor, then walked to the darkroom. The next photo will frighten the hell out of her. He could hardly wait.

      A pity that he couldn’t have seen the bitch’s face when they found the bugging device inside the phone. It didn’t matter. Soon he’d get what he wanted.

      Very soon it will be over. And he knew exactly what it would take to bring her out into the open.

      He laughed. Damn, she’d go willingly. She always did. Run right after one of her flock. He grinned, thinking of the way her eyes would bulge in shock, her mouth twist in terror while she begged him for her life.

      Landis was an extra bonus, an added thrill. Once the incriminating evidence was planted, Landis would be the first person the police would think murdered her.

      Thank you, bitch. He laughed. Yeah, now that he had a chance to think about it, he was ecstatic at the lucky turn of events.

      He grabbed the telephone and punched in the numbers that were deeply burned into his memory.

      Chapter Four

      On the outside, Clancy’s Pub, just off Second Avenue, looked like any other neighborhood bar. But Brianna sensed, soon after she and Mike entered the warmly lit, wood-paneled interior, that the pub was more than an accidental choice for a discreet place to talk. No one else was in the place. She sensed that this bar was yet another mysterious part of Mike’s world. The idea was unsettling yet intriguing.

      As soon as he ushered her into one of the half-moon leather booths, she slipped her oversize shoulder bag onto the seat between them. If he’d noticed the distancing tack, he gave no sign as he picked up the bag, slid in beside her, and leaned it and his attaché case against the back of the booth.

      She looked up at the vaulted ceiling where brass containers of lush Boston ferns hung from exposed rafters. Soft indirect light spilled here and there, carefully planned to cast an intimate glow for patrons. Or for lovers.

      She shuddered at that thought. They weren’t a hand-holding couple on a date, in spite of the soft lighting and romantic ambience.

      Looking around, she couldn’t help wondering where the customers were. She eyed the bartender again. Mid-forties, with a touch of gray at the temples, he was a man whose deep tan contrasted sharply with a person who remained inside all day. Maybe he worked out in a health club, she decided, noticing his well-muscled forearms below his rolled-up sleeves. He had briefly looked up in response when they’d entered, yet somehow she sensed he and Mike knew each other.

      For a moment, sheltered in this cozy booth, insulated from the blaring horns and hammering street noises outside, she felt protected, like a butterfly inside its cocoon. Or was it the man beside her who made her feel safe?

      But she wasn’t safe. The momentary absence of fear was her brain’s natural reaction to overcoming stress. How often had she seen this in her patients? Mind games to fight off the panic gnawing within her; that is, if she’d admit to feeling afraid. But she wouldn’t give in to her feelings. Or to Mike.

      She turned to look at him. He was studying her. He was sitting so close. She could see the light and dark shards of blue in those extraordinary eyes. Her throat felt powder-dry, parched from nerves. She forced herself to meet his assessing gaze. “Interesting place,” she said finally. “A private club?”

      His grin hinted of dimples. “Very perceptive of you, Doctor.”

      It was the first time he’d called her doctor. Had he chosen that word for its impersonal feel? Was he feeling as unsettled by her presence as she was by his?

      Of course he wasn’t. And her nervousness had nothing to do with her ex-husband sitting so close to her. She forced a smile. “And you’re a member of this…private club?”

      He leaned back and stretched his long legs. “Clancy’s is owned by a few ex-Special Forcers. Yes, I’m a partner. It’s a safe place to come when we’re in town.”

      So, her first hunch was correct. That minor victory made her feel more at ease. “This place has a calming ambience,” she said, her gaze deliberately averted from him. God, she was making small talk as though he were a stranger standing beside her in line at the food mart.

      She forced her brain to work. “Mike, what are you planning to do next?”

      “Order something to help you relax.” He turned around and raised his hand at the bartender. “Ben, the usual for me and—” He turned to her, waiting for her order.

      “Chablis. Domestic,” she said.

      Ben nodded, unfolded himself from the stool and slipped behind the bar.

      Mike leaned forward. “First, we’ll go to your apartment so you can pack a few things for the next couple of days. While you’re gone, I’ll have a sweep done—”

      “A sweep?”

      “An electronic sweep. Check out any bugs or video cameras. That sort of thing.”

      A shudder crept up her spine. “Video cameras? How could someone install video…?” The words died in her throat. This morning she would never have believed someone could sneak into her office and plant a listening device, either.

      “Just a precaution,” he said gently. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch whoever’s behind this.” As though he noticed her tension, he added, “I’ll see that you’re safe, Brianna.”

      The bartender placed a frosted glass of white wine in front of her and a bottle of nonalcoholic ale by Mike.

      “Thanks, Ben.”

      “You’re welcome, Mike,” Ben mumbled and hurried back to his stool at the end of the bar. The front door opened and two police officers came inside. Mike nodded to them when they waved and took seats near the bartender.

      Mike’s gaze met hers again. “Off-duty cops like to hang out here, too. The security is top-notch.”

      “Security?” She began to see the connection. “Is Ben really a bartender or does he…wear other hats?”

      “He’s what we call a freelancer.” Mike used a fingernail to whisk a stray hair from her cheek. “Ben’s ex-Special Forces, too, and a good buddy of one of my former teammates.” He took a swig of his drink, swallowed, then put the bottle down on the marble-top table. “Freelancers hire on for assorted jobs. Law enforcement, police units, and TALON-6 hires their services when a particular situation comes up.” He studied the ale left in the bottle.

      “So Clancy’s Bar is an employment office, of sorts.”

      He took another СКАЧАТЬ