Into the Crossfire Read Free Page B

the big shiny brass plaque, right
    next to the door across the hall, bearing the name of what she understood to be the
    most successful company in the building. RESTON S ECURITY. He followed her
    gaze and waited until she looked back at him.
    Maybe he was the company's owner's black-sheep cousin. Or brother. Or
    something.
    It had to be asked. "Are you, um, a relative of Mr. Reston?"
    He shook his head slowly, dark eyes never leaving hers. "Company belongs
    to me."
    Oh. Wow. How embarrassing.
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    He was standing there, hand still out. Nicole's parents had drummed
    manners into her. She'd shaken hands with tyrants and dictators and suspected
    terrorists in embassies all over the world. It was literally impossible for her not to
    put her hand in his.
    She did it gingerly, and his hand just swallowed hers up. The skin of his
    palm was very warm, callused and tough. For a moment she was frightened that he
    might be one of those men who had to prove his manliness by the strength of his
    handshake. This man's hand could crush hers without difficulty and she made her
    living at the keyboard.
    To her everlasting relief, he merely squeezed gently for three seconds then
    released her hand.
    "N-Nice to meet you," she stammered, because really, what else could she
    say? "Um--" And she so desperately needed to get into her office. Now. "My name
    is Nicole Pearce."
    "Yes, I know, Ms. Pearce." He bent his head formally. His eyes were very
    dark and--she now realized--very intelligent. "So--as to my price, let's see if I can
    convince you I'm not a security risk."
    He pulled out a slim, hugely expensive cell phone. One Nicole had coveted
    madly, both for its function and style, but had decided against as being simply way
    out of her current financial league. He pressed two buttons--whoever he was
    calling was on speed dial--and waited. She could hear the phone ringing, then a
    deep male voice answering, "This better be good."
    "I've got a lady here I want to ask out for dinner but she doesn't know me
    and she's not too sure of my good character, Hector, so I called you for an
    endorsement. Show your face and talk to the lady. Her name's Nicole. Nicole
    Pearce." He waited a beat. "And say good things."
    Nicole accepted the cell phone gingerly. The video display showed the
    darkly handsome face of San Diego's brand-new mayor, Hector Villarreal, dressed
    in a bright orange golf shirt, holding a golf club over his shoulder, out on the links,
    eyes crinkling against the bright sunlight. "Hello, Ms. Pearce." The deep voice
    sounded cheerful.
    She cleared her voice and tried not to sound wary. "Mr. Mayor."
    "So." He was smiling, eyebrows high. "You want to go out to dinner with
    Sam Reston? You sure you want to?" There was humor in the faintly-accented
    voice.
    "Well, actually, uh--"
    But it was no use talking to a politician, they talked right over you.
    "Don't worry about it. Sam's a great guy, he'll treat you right, no question.
    But I really do need to warn you of something, Ms. Pearce, and it's serious."
    Her heart thudded and she looked up into Sam Reston's hard, impassive
    face. He could hear perfectly, since Mayor Villarreal was talking at the top of his
    voice.
    "Yes, Mr. Mayor?"
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    "Don't ever play poker with him. Man's a shark." A loud guffaw and the
    connection was broken.
    Nicole slowly slid the phone closed and looked up at Sam Reston. He was
    standing utterly still; the only thing moving was that enormous chest as he
    breathed quietly. He had the extreme good taste not to look smug or self-satisfied.
    There was no expression at all on that hard, dark, bearded face. He simply watched
    her to see what she would do.
    She held out the phone by one end and he took it by the other. For a
    moment they were connected by five inches of warm plastic, then Nicole dropped
    her hand.
    They looked at each other, Nicole frozen to the spot, Lowlife--no, Sam
    Reston--as still as a dark marble statue. There was no sound, absolutely nothing.
    The