The Full Story. Dawn Stewardson

the insanity of this.

      He began willing that to happen.

      And then Mickey said, “Eric, that’s great. Please thank Mr. Edwards for me. And I promise I’ll come through, that neither of you will be disappointed.”

      THE ONLY AVAILABLE SEATS had been in first class, and since Mickey had never flown anything but economy before that had simply added to her excitement, so much so that she was barely worrying about whether Eric would drop dead from shock when he saw her expense report.

      Or about the fact that paying for her ticket had probably put her within two dollars of maxing out her Visa card. Which meant that the car rental people were in for an unpleasant surprise.

      Dan had said there was no time to waste returning the Taurus, so they’d driven down to Victoria in his four-by-four and left the car at Billy’s to be picked up. But once it had been retrieved, and someone tried to get authorization for what she owed them…

      Well, her MasterCard wasn’t at its limit, so as soon as she had a chance she’d phone and give them that number. Otherwise, her credit rating would be in the tank.

      As the plane lifted off, she took another slow, deep breath. It was only for insurance, though. She already felt pretty much back to normal.

      There was barely any queasiness left in her stomach, and her intuition was saying that everything would be fine from here on in. Travelwise, at least.

      Thus far, however, it had been a banner day in that department.

      Of course, things had been even more exciting in the hit man department. But that was something she’d be wiser not to think about. Remembering how hard she’d been shaking, while pointing that gun at the killer, was a lot tougher on her nerves than focusing her thoughts on her travel adventures.

      Adventures. She paused on the word, then decided it was the right one.

      Driving with Dan, while he’d taken those tight mountain curves at roughly eight hundred miles an hour, had definitely been an adventure. And there wasn’t the slightest doubt that the flight from Victoria to Seattle qualified.

      It had been her first time in a seaplane, and she’d quite happily go through the rest of her life without a second one. Their descent had been steep enough to convince her that the pilot was suicidal and intending to drown everyone aboard.

      But now that she and Dan were on a nice, safe 757, en route to New York, it would be smooth sailing. Or smooth flying, to be precise.

      “Would you like something to drink?” a flight attendant asked.

      Dan opted for a beer.

      Since the woman was holding an open bottle of champagne, Mickey chose that.

      She took a sip, pleased to discover that her stomach was going to handle the bubbles just fine. Then she began wishing that Dan seemed happier about having her along.

      Well, more accurately, she wished he didn’t seem downright miserable. And that he liked her. Even a bit.

      Things would be far more comfortable if the air between them wasn’t heavy with negative vibes, not a single one of which was coming from her.

      After all, how could she possibly feel unkindly toward a man who was letting her in on the scoop of a lifetime? Even if he had done a lot of foot-dragging before agreeing. And aside from helping her get a major career break, he was really sort of cute.

      She considered that for a few seconds, aware of how drastically her opinion of his attractiveness had changed since they’d met. Obviously, he was the type of man who grew on people.

      Oh, she still wasn’t crazy about his short hair, but that type of thing was easy to fix. And she was sure the coldness in his blue eyes would dissipate if he just began warming up to her.

      And that little scar above his upper lip…she’d been wondering exactly how he’d come by it.

      Actually, she’d been wondering a lot of things about him. And since most men loved talking about themselves, what better way of warming him up than getting him to do exactly that?

      “So,” she said.

      He glanced at her.

      She shot him a friendly smile and tried not to feel badly when he didn’t return it.

      After a few beats, she said, “I haven’t forgotten what you were saying earlier—that you don’t want your name in print. Or any mention of the company you work for. But is it okay if I ask you about it? Completely off the record?”

      “Ask me what about it?”

      “Well, for starters, it must have a name.”

      “You wouldn’t recognize it.”

      “I might.”

      Dan broke eye contact with Mickey and sat gazing out the window for a moment, considering where he should go from here.

      Given what Lydia had learned, he figured he could believe Mickey when she said “off the record.” So it wouldn’t hurt to tell her a bit about RCI.

      Besides, even though the company kept a low profile its existence was hardly a state secret. And Mickey was a journalist.

      She’d know exactly where to look for whatever information she was interested in finding, which meant that it would probably take her all of five minutes to learn most of what she might want to about either RCI or him.

      Confidential information had almost become a thing of the past.

      He drank some of his beer, then said, “The company’s called Risk Control International.”

      “Oh. Okay, you were right. I’ve never heard of it.”

      “Most people haven’t. It’s in the survival business.”

      “You mean wilderness survival?”

      “No. I mean keeping people alive.”

      “Oh,” she said again.

      For a moment he thought she was done, but then she said, “So it provides bodyguards?”

      “Uh-huh. That’s one thing. It also runs a lot of training courses. Most of them are basically aimed at law enforcement types, but they attract civilian students, too—usually executives who work in countries with terrorism problems, or other people at high risk.”

      “And the courses teach…?”

      Man, the way she could fire questions made him suspect she was a better reporter than he’d been giving her credit for.

      “They cover things like self-defense, tactical driving, handgun training,” he told her. “And there’s one called Special Technics that touches on everything from hot-wiring cars to picking locks.”

      “People need to know those sorts of things to stay alive?”

      “Sometimes. You can never tell what kind of jam you’ll find yourself in. At any rate, the company can pretty well provide any service, handle anything a client needs. Most people working for it are independent contractors, which gives it a large pool of experts to draw on.”

      “Is that what you are, then? An independent contractor? And an expert?”

      “Uh-huh. I’m a personal security advisor, which basically means that I analyze a situation, settle on a way of safeguarding the individual—or individuals—at risk, and then take things from there.”

      “And that was what you did in Billy’s case.”

      “Right. Only the plan should have gone a whole lot more smoothly. All it involved was Billy laying low with Ken Heath, who also does work for RCI, while I lured the killer to the retreat. Then, according to the script, once he got there I’d make him tell me who’d hired him. After that, I’d turn both him and the information over to the police.”

      “Make