Covert Makeover. Mallory Kane

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      “Mr. Botero, I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”

      “Do not apologize. Just promise me you will leave the authorities out of this. I depend on you.”

      “I’ll do whatever you want done, sir.”

      Carlos’s black eyes burned into Sean’s. “I want my daughter back. Sonya is my heart, my only remaining child. I cannot bear to lose her.”

      Sean patted the older man’s hand. “I give you my word as a father that I will do everything in my power to get your daughter back safe and sound.”

      Carlos relaxed minutely. “Thank you. Thank you. If my old friend Esteban were still alive, he could help you. But now Javier has taken on the additional duties of bodyguard.” Carlos took a breath and got choked. He started coughing.

      Sean quickly called for the nurse. It pained him to see his robust, vital boss so ill and weak.

      After the nurse brought Carlos some water, then wheeled him out, saying it was time for his massage, Sean sat down behind Carlos’s massive carved desk and put his head in his hands, replaying for the tenth or the hundredth time what had happened on that day in June when Sonya Botero was abducted in front of Weddings Your Way.

      As Botero’s chief of security, Sean felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He was the one who had recommended Sonya park her red Porsche and let Craig Johnson, a member of his security team, drive her in her father’s limousine.

      He’d felt she needed a bodyguard, considering the growing unrest in Ladera and the increased threats against her fiancé, Juan DeLeon. He’d picked Johnson for the job because of his military background. He’d served in some political hotspots.

      Now Johnson was still in the hospital from a failed attempt on his life, an innocent client of Weddings Your Way was severely injured, and until just a few minutes ago, no one had heard from the kidnappers since the first note a few days ago.

      Sean pictured the original note, with the unidentifiable bloody thumbprint on it and the lock of Sonya’s hair in the envelope. The note had been frustratingly terse. Two million, will be in touch.

      Shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck, Sean reread the new note. It was scarcely more informative than the first one had been.

      You will have two hours to comply. Sean picked up the desk phone and called Carlos’s personal accountant, who had already begun putting together the two million dollars.

      “Winstead, it’s Majors. We’ve received a second note. Is the money ready?”

      “It’s available. Specifics?” The dour accountant wasted few words.

      “No pickup time, yet. Once we hear, we have to be ready in two hours, so I need your assurance that the cash will be ready.”

      “Denominations?”

      “Ten-thousand dollar bills.”

      “Right.”

      “Thanks.” Sean hung up, feeling helpless. He was used to being in control of a situation. He’d always been aware of Sonya’s vulnerability, given her high-profile lifestyle and her well-known charity work. He’d always sent a bodyguard with her to large public functions, although the independent, spoiled heiress hadn’t known that.

      But the events surrounding her kidnapping didn’t feel right to him. From the beginning, Rachel Brennan, the owner of Weddings Your Way, had somehow managed to keep police and FBI involvement to a minimum. Sean had butted heads with her security chief a couple of times already, as well. Rafe Montoya seemed determined to keep Sean out of the loop.

      A wedding planning salon with a crack security force. A high-profile kidnapping that hadn’t been scooped by the media. And Weddings Your Way employees uncovering vital pieces of information, like the fact that Johnson had called a number in Ladera before someone had sneaked into his hospital room and nearly killed him. It was all too convenient, the way everything seemed connected to the wedding-planning salon.

      It didn’t add up.

      Well, today, all that was about to change. Sean was going to see Rachel Brennan and demand answers. It was time he took control of the situation.

      Sean stood and tucked the bagged note into his jacket pocket. He had promised Carlos that he would bring back his daughter safely. As a father.

      As he headed out into the July Miami sunshine, on his way to the hospital to see Johnson, he thought about Carlos’s words. She is my heart.

      He knew exactly what his boss meant. His mouth relaxed into a smile as he thought about his three-year-old daughter, Michaela. What would he do if something happened to her? Despite the heat, he shivered and suppressed an anguished groan. He would die.

      As he patted the note in his pocket, his brain fed him a vision of another note. The note his ex-wife Cindy had left him.

      You and the baby are sucking the life out of me. I can’t take it anymore. Get a divorce. You can have Michaela. She thinks you’re her father anyway.

      Those words had pierced his heart with the efficiency of a stiletto. More than two years later, the piercing pain had dulled to an ache, but it hadn’t lessened. He rubbed his chest as he climbed into his Mustang convertible and started it, gunning the engine loudly.

      How could another man’s child wrap his heart around her tiny fingers? How could he feel so consumed with love for her if she wasn’t biologically his? He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.

      It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Michaela had his eyes, his dogged determination.

      His ex-wife’s note was just one final cruelty. She’d hurt him in every other way she could. From her point of view, destroying his relationship with his daughter would be the perfect final blow.

      He pushed thoughts of his ex-wife and her many betrayals out of his mind as he pulled up to the gate and instructed the guard not to let anyone in unless they had prior clearance from him. Not the police. Not a delivery truck. Not anyone.

      He drove the several miles to the hospital, and headed straight up to Johnson’s room. A quick discussion with the nurse in charge told him Johnson was doing fine now that he’d finally regained consciousness.

      The guard he’d placed at Johnson’s door rose from his chair.

      “Mr. Majors.”

      Sean nodded. “Morning, Kenner. If you want to grab some coffee, go ahead. Be back in ten minutes.”

      It was after eight, but the room was still dark. Some morning show was on TV, but Johnson’s eyes were closed and one hand worried the oxygen tube inserted in his nose.

      Sean stared at the man he’d hired less than a year ago. How in the hell had he been so wrong about him? Fury at himself and at Johnson propelled him across to the windows where he yanked up the blinds.

      “Hey!” Johnson shielded his eyes from the bright Miami sun. He coughed and groaned, then squinted. “Mr. Majors.” He sank back into the bedclothes, his face suddenly pale.

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