Bodyguard Rescue. Donna Young

then did Nigel turn his attention to his guest.

      “A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Threader.” The wiry little man crossed the room, set his briefcase down, then leaned over the desk to offer his hand. The scent of cheap cologne saturated the air. “Nice place you got here.” His watery eyes scanned the elegant room before returning to Nigel, hesitating only slightly on the puckering scar tissue that pulled at Nigel’s right eye. “Very nice place.”

      Dirt caked the underside of the man’s overgrown fingernails. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Nigel placed his drink on the desk and gestured to the chair beside his guest. “Have a seat.”

      Alcott cleared his throat, bringing his hand back to smooth his tie, then slid into the high-backed leather chair.

      “You disappoint me, Mr. Alcott.” Nigel rose slowly from behind the desk, well aware of the effect his deliberate movement had on the man across from him. “I’ve paid you a great deal of money to perform a mediocre task and, so far you’ve failed to live up to your end of the deal.”

      Alcott didn’t flinch. Instead the man sat back and crossed his legs. The casual pose didn’t quite mask the tension in his body.

      “Finding a woman on the run isn’t a mediocre task, believe me.”

      Nigel picked up the Buddha from the desk corner. The size of his fist and carved from pure white jade, the statue symbolized enlightenment.

      “I believe you claimed expediency, accuracy and complete confidentiality. I have yet to witness either of the first two.” Nigel observed his guest’s face muscles tighten with apprehension at the statement. “And I have my suspicions about the third.”

      Carefully, he set the statue back in its place, then continued. “But since my time is limited and your tracking skills came highly recommended by our mutual business acquaintances, I’ve decided to allow you to continue with your efforts. Provided, of course, you start showing me results.”

      Alcott’s expression eased a little as he ran a hand over his lacquered gray hair then wiped his palm on the chair. Nigel’s eyes narrowed in disgust.

      “I promise you, I won’t require much more time, Mr. Threader. A week on the outside. Dr. MacAlister has proven to be an unexpected challenge, but I’m closing in.” He shifted his position, his hair leaving a grease mark on the back of the chair. “These things can be tricky, if you know what I mean.”

      “I see.” Nigel kept his expression noncommittal as he leaned against the desk pretending to consider Alcott’s excuses.

      After a significant pause, he said, “I believe you, Mr. Alcott.”

      Alcott visibly relaxed. “I appreciate that. After all, we aim to please. But it’s nice when a customer understands the difficulties of the job, if you know what I mean.”

      “Hmm,” Nigel murmured while brushing a blond hair from the arm of his silk suit. Over the years, the natives on the island began calling Nigel “El León,” or the lion, because of his thick, tawny mane of hair.

      “I trust you had a pleasant trip to my island.”

      “Oh, yeah, slept like a baby through most of the plane ride.” The investigator reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette, obviously taking the change of subject as a good sign. “That Jag you left for me at the airport was one impressive number.”

      He waved the cigarette in the air as if it were a baton. “It’s quite a setup you got here, Mr. Threader.” Alcott grinned, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Owning your own island and all,” he added, before lighting his cigarette.

      “Yep, one sweet setup.” Leaning back into the chair, Alcott tucked his lighter back into his jacket pocket. “One a man like me could appreciate.” He exhaled a stream of smoke that turned into a low whistle when he noticed the Renoir on the wall. “Classy.”

      Nigel’s gaze followed his to the painting. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “We aim to please, also.”

      “Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” Alcott flicked his ashes off to the side and onto the Persian rug.

      Irritation scraped against Nigel’s nerves, but he forced the emotion down. “Did you bring the dossier on Dr. MacAlister?”

      “Got it right here.” Leaving the cigarette dangling from his mouth, Alcott grabbed the case and pulled out a manila folder. “You know at first I couldn’t understand why you wanted a profile on the dame. I got the impression you already knew who she was.” He slid a color glossy of Kate MacAlister out of the folder and took a long, appreciative look. “Once I got this, I figured it out real quick.”

      He shoved the picture into Nigel’s hand. “Now, there’s a good-looking broad. It doesn’t hurt that her daddy’s an international tycoon. Or that he manufactures the best damn scotch known to mankind. Money, brains, looks and an unlimited supply of booze. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better myself. If you know what I mean.”

      Nigel studied the photograph, ignoring Alcott’s suggestive laugh. No matter how abhorrent the man appeared, as an investigator he did excellent work. The woman in the picture was dressed in a light T-shirt and jeans but the casualness of the dress didn’t detract from her natural beauty. A perfect oval face, the elegantly defined nose complemented her classically high cheekbones. Her black hair, tied back into a long, silken tail, accented her flawless skin. Nigel resisted the urge to run his finger over the image. Her pale gray eyes flashed brightly with amused intelligence, taunting him, daring him, with an impudence reflected in the generous curve of her mouth and delicate arch of her eyebrows.

      Oh, yes, even the great Michelangelo himself would’ve been in awe.

      “Interesting.” He maintained a noncommittal coolness as he placed the folder onto the desk, preferring to peruse the rest at his leisure where he could analyze this new development alone.

      After taking a linen handkerchief from his pants pocket, he wiped his hands. “Now about your timetable, Mr. Alcott. More than twenty-four hours is unacceptable.” He meticulously folded the material and tossed it into the wastebasket.

      The other man blustered. “Look here, Mr. Threader. I thought we had an agreement. It’s like I told you. I’m close, but a job this sensitive takes time.”

      Nigel sighed and nodded to Quamar, who immediately came over and grabbed Alcott from behind, pinning him to the chair with one arm braced against the little man’s throat. The bodyguard ignored Alcott’s shriek of surprise and slammed the man’s left arm down on the desk, exposing his palm. The investigator struggled briefly but was no match for the well-muscled giant.

      “What the hell is going on?” Alcott’s eyes widened in alarm, his face etched in desperation. “Listen, we can discuss this like civilized gentlemen. There’s no need to get heavy-handed.”

      Nigel responded in a bored voice. “You are an ill-mannered cretin, Mr. Alcott. Please do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me otherwise.”

      Without waiting for a response, he walked behind the desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves.

      Alcott watched, his face reflecting a numb horror as Nigel snapped on the gloves. The sound ricocheted through the room. Out of sheer desperation, the small man fought against his captor. “What the hell is this? You can’t do this.”

      “This, Mr. Alcott is a warning.” His dark blue eyes turned arctic. “And make no mistake— I do as I please. I make it a point never to deal personally with brutish, ignorant people such as yourself.” Nigel withdrew a cigar from the rosewood humidor beside the desk and rolled it between his fingers. It was his own personal blend, handmade on his plantation in Cuba. “But time and circumstances have forced otherwise.” He picked up the guillotine cigar cutter lying beside the humidor. Its silver blades flashed in the light.

      Alcott whimpered.

      “I