Bodyguard Rescue. Donna Young

he placed the end of the cigar into the guillotine circle and squeezed. The twin blades sliced together, deftly cutting the tip of the cigar off.

      He studied the decapitated end for a moment, pleased with the clean edge. “You have until midnight tomorrow to locate her and notify me.” His voice took on a hard edge. “Or I will kill you.” He placed the cigar on the desk beside him. “I consider myself a fair man. Moreover, to prove it, I will loan you some of my staff to help with the search. Remember, Mr. Alcott, expediency, accuracy and confidentiality.” Nigel leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “After all, we would not want to put a permanent black mark on your reputation, would we?” Leaning back, he tossed the cutting instrument in his hand, like a child would a coin. “If you know what I mean.”

      The sweat poured off Alcott’s face soaking the grimy, white collar of his shirt while his gaze fixated on the blade in Nigel’s hands.

      Nigel glanced at Quamar and nodded toward the desk. The bodyguard grunted in approval before he grabbed Alcott’s neck from behind and slammed his face onto the desktop, leaving it pinned there.

      Nigel stood to the side, a small, inhuman smile creasing his lips. “Think of it this way, Mr. Alcott,” he said softly as he inserted the pinkie into the cutter. “You might be leaving here with a whole new perspective on the phrase ‘Close but no cigar,’ but at least you’ll be leaving.” Nigel squeezed the cutter. “If you know what I mean.”

      THE UNMISTAKABLE HUM of helicopter blades woke Roman. The sound, out of place in the quiet mountain wilderness, had him off the couch. Within seconds he grabbed a pair of binoculars from the peg beside the back door, his senses instantly alert. Damn. Whoever it was, was circling low and easy. After unstrapping the 9 mm Heckler & Koch from his ankle, he stepped barefoot onto the porch, staying hidden in the midmorning shadows of the eave.

      A slight turn of the lens’s dial placed the helicopter in focus. It was a civilian bird, brand-new with no call numbers and definitely high tech with its sleek lines and stealth capabilities. Roman’s grip tightened reflexively around the binoculars as he released a soft whistle between his teeth. Big bucks.

      The helicopter banked left, hovering for a split second before it increased its speed and headed west. Through the lenses, he caught a glimpse of two men dressed in outdoor gear, viewing the area through their own scopes before the helicopter disappeared beyond the farthest ridge.

      Helicopters were a common enough sight in the Rockies, but not one hovering so close to the treetops. Since the cabin was located in prime terrain for hiking and rappelling, a logical explanation could be that these boys were outdoor enthusiasts with more money than brains, scouting the area for new trails.

      Roman’s lips twisted back in a feral grin. Sure, and he’d just bought some swampland in Florida to start a Putt-Putt business.

      It was more likely Threader’s people were mapping the cabins in the area for a ground-level search. Not hard to do when the pilot doesn’t file a flight plan.

      He stuck his head through the doorway, listening for any movement upstairs. Silence greeted him, which meant the doc was still asleep, undisturbed by the helicopter.

      Over ten hours now. The mild sedative he’d slipped into her soup the night before had done its job.

      He ignored the twinge of guilt over drugging her. It had been necessary. Obviously, Kate had been living on raw nerves for quite a while. The paleness in her face, the hunted look in her eyes, but most of all the fact she’d attacked him instead of running, told him that she wasn’t thinking straight.

      At first he’d been enraged, knowing how foolish it was for her to stand and fight anyone Threader sent. Damn it, she knew better. The thought that he might have been one of Threader’s thugs and what they could have done to her—what they could still do to her if they found her—scared the hell out of him. He’d regretted it almost immediately, though, when his fear had turned to anger and caused what little control she had left to snap.

      Suddenly feeling a need to check on her, Roman tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, its coolness reassuring against his naked back, then took the loft steps two at a time, stopping short at the top.

      The bedroom was dim in the midmorning light. Faint streaks of sunlight sliced through the partially open slats of the wooden blinds. Kate lay sideways on the rustic pine bed. The tartan flannel sheet lay tangled across her chest while Cain’s faded football jersey rode high around her rib cage, leaving her stomach and legs exposed. The comforter he had wrapped snugly around her the night before lay in a heap at the side of the bed. Even the drug-induced sleep couldn’t stop her habit of wreaking havoc on the bed linen during the night. Sharing space with the doc was like going ten rounds with a steroid-enhanced octopus.

      He smiled at the memory.

      Assured she would sleep a few more hours, he started to turn away then caught sight of a wisp of peach lace. His mouth went dry.

      The fluff of underwear, while accenting her slim hips and long, supple thighs, did nothing to protect her from his gaze. Roman’s throat tightened. He’d forgotten her fondness for sexy lingerie.

      His conscience nudged him to turn away, but he ignored it. In the diffused light her skin reminded him of some fresh cream he’d gotten once from a Slavic farmer, warm and rich with the texture of liquid velvet. He feasted like a starving man.

      Then he swallowed, willing his glands to work again while he devoured her with his eyes. They traveled down her sleek, smooth legs, stopping briefly on the gentle curves of her calves, before finally resting on her toes—each nail painted a deep, decadent red.

      He held his body tense, anticipating the heavy blow of desire. And it came—like a wrecking ball catching him in the solar plexus.

      She muttered something, drawing his attention to her face. Her brows furrowed, then smoothed, but she didn’t open her eyes.

      Her midnight hair fell in shimmering waves around her face, mussed by the pillow. Her ivory complexion had an elusive pink hue, like the flush of sunset on snow. She looked warm and feminine and so damn inviting he wanted to submerge himself in her softness and not come out, ever.

      Years of need and longing twined tightly within him, forcing him to fight his urges. He remembered the way she felt in his arms, the gentleness of her touch, her sweet shyness that always gave way to an even sweeter surrender. He could still feel her lying in his arms that last night, her cheek resting against his heart when she whispered she loved him.

      Swearing under his breath, he jerked around and went downstairs. His desire for her was as strong as ever.

      He slipped out the front door, too agitated to stay within the confines of the cabin. He was here to do a job, damn it. The situation was complicated enough without allowing his emotions to overrule his mind.

      He wrenched his gun from his waistband and circled the cabin, moving silently through the aspen and pine.

      Cain, never one to leave anything to chance, had designed his little vacation getaway out of native rock, using little pine, making the structure impervious to most guns and nearly impossible for anyone to burn down.

      The rear of the cabin butted up to shale, with two propane tanks that provided the fuel for heat off to one side. The rock wasn’t impassable, but if someone rappelled from the top of the mountain, it would be damn difficult to remain undetected.

      Roman patrolled the perimeter twice, assuring himself they weren’t under surveillance. Not because he sensed anything unusual—the normal sounds of the forest had already told him they were safe—but because he wasn’t ready to face what waited for him inside.

      Last, he checked the rented SUV, parked a few yards away. It, too, rested undisturbed and well hidden beneath the thicket of trees.

      After sliding his gun back into his back waistband, Roman sat down on the front porch steps and lit a cigarette. He glanced briefly at his lighter. To the untrained eye, it looked like an ordinary disposable lighter. To Roman the homing device hidden