The Bodyguard Contract. Donna Young

I’ve had it for many years.”

      “It’s beautiful,” Lara murmured. She grasped the cross in her fingers, surprised over the chill of the metal against her skin. Somehow she’d expected it to be warm. “I can’t take this.”

      “You must. It is the key to my situation.”

      “I don’t understand.” Lara frowned, turning the cross over in her hand.

      “You will.”

      “Father, I don’t have time for cryptic puzzles. Tell me what you need.”

      “I need you to bring Anton Novak to me.”

      “The arms dealer?” She let out a low laugh. “I realize what you’ve provided to our government is beyond our expectations. But Novak?” She shook her head. “That’s impossible. He’s Mikhail Davidenko’s right-hand man.” Lara’s fingers tightened on the rosary. “Why?”

      “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I must see him within the next forty-eight hours.” He slid an envelope through a thin gap at the bottom of the screen. “He is meeting a client here. At midnight tonight.”

      Lara glanced down at the information, saw an electronic key card with it. “And the key?”

      “The key is to a room at the Château Bontecou. Room seven twenty one. I’m registered under the name Jim Brisbane. Bring Novak there and wait for me.”

      “Father, maybe if you tell me what you’re involved in—”

      “It’s personal, little one. Very personal.”

      “A vendetta?”

      “More like a contract,” he admitted. “With God.”

      Trepidation slithered, coating her spine like slick oil. “I will keep your secrets. I always have. I promise. You have only to tell me—”

      “I’ve told you what I need. And you can keep your promise by doing what I ask.” Impatience deepened his accent.

      With his impatience, came hers. “I’m sorry, Father, even if I could figure a way, I would need a reason. And my superiors’ approval. Even then, I would require more than forty-eight hours. Anton Novak is a dangerous man.”

      “Dangerous is a relative term,” he whispered. “Look, Eos, I have the biochemical your government wants. Enough to wipe out an entire city.”

      Everything in Lara stilled. “And I told you, we are very grateful.”

      “Then understand, I wouldn’t put you in this position except you’re my last hope. Bring me Novak. And tell no one.”

      “Or?”

      “Or I will be forced to release the poison on thousands of people.”

      “I don’t believe you,” she whispered, her words urgent. “We’ve known each other too long. You would not kill innocents.”

      “It’s in your best interest to believe me. What’s at stake is worth far more than my immortal soul.” She heard the scrape of his chair, the grunt of effort it took him to stand. “You are my only option. And I’m sorry for it. Now that you’ve accepted my gift, you have no choice.”

      His gift? Lara gripped the silver tight, understanding. “You poisoned the cross.” Her stomach pitched, then rolled. “How long do I have?”

      “Long enough.” Behind the determination, she heard the sympathy. “Once you have Anton Novak in your custody, take him to Las Vegas. Wait at the Château Bontecou and I will contact you within the next twenty-four hours. You give me Anton Novak and I will give you Katts Smeart and its antidote.”

      “There’s an antidote.” Lara shuddered with relief.

      “Yes, there is.” Xavier sighed, as if his burden suddenly seemed too much. “I’m sorry, little one, but I couldn’t take the chance that you would not help me. Work quickly, any longer than forty-eight hours and the antidote will not save you.” He hesitated for a moment. “Please. No innocents need be involved. Not if you handle this problem for me.”

      After raising his hand, he once again made the sign of the cross. “God be with you, my child.” With that, Father Xavier Varvarinski stepped out of the confessional.

      Lara listened to the receding footsteps, understanding that it would be of no use to follow him. Not even to tell him he was wrong. Her uncontaminated hand slid to her stomach. Innocents were already involved.

      Mojave Desert, North of Las Vegas

       Wednesday, 2200 hours

      PREGNANT. For the hundredth time, she pressed her fingers to her lids and swore. She’d never been one to cry before—not because of any sort of toughness or principle, but simply because she wasn’t capable—could never find the release mechanism within her.

      Now she didn’t have eyes, she thought with disgust, she had two spigots. Both spurting water at the slightest emotional whim.

      Lara glanced up at the stars, their shine all flash and sass against the shaded layers of the indigo sky. It seemed pregnancy, or more specifically her whacked-out hormones, had found that mechanism.

      With a sigh, she turned toward the north, searching the sky, using the diversion to undermine the chaotic emotions churning within.

      She saw the belt first, its stars winking—bright beacons that led her to the sword. Within moments, she’d outlined the whole constellation. Orion.

      Jerk.

      If only she hadn’t let her guard down, hadn’t allowed herself to find solace in his arms. Humiliation rose to her throat, but anger caused the muscles to constrict. If only…

      Damn Ian. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She’d been taking the shots of progesterone for birth control and never had a problem—until now.

      She’d been close to her goals. Goals she’d set long ago. Ones that didn’t include children or marriage.

      Mercers weren’t meant for relationships, or families. So where did that leave her? “Getting through the next three days,” she promised, determined. Then what?

      She concentrated on her surroundings. An ocean of sand stretched between her and the horizon—with nothing between except boulders, scrub bushes… and the occasional tumbleweeds the wind tossed about.

      In the distance, a diesel engine rumbled and gravel crunched, shattering the desert’s tranquility. She crouched behind the boulder, peered through her infrared binoculars until she caught the shimmer of movement. Soon a semi appeared, its black cab blending easily in the darkness. The steel of its tractor trailer flashed—a mirror reflecting the moonlight. Lara’s thumb pushed the zoom on her binoculars for a closer look.

      Flanking one side was a dark sedan. Automatically, Lara noted the license plate.

      When both the big rig and car slowed down to a snails pace, she glanced at her wristwatch.

      Half an hour early. How convenient.

      Within minutes, the two vehicles stopped, but their headlights remained on, the engines running.

      The driver of the diesel immediately jumped out of the cab, his potbelly heaving with the effort. With urgent, bowlegged strides he headed for the nearest bush.

      Long trip, Lara mused. She kept the driver in her peripheral vision, heard his grunt of relief, while she scanned the perimeter.

      The semi’s headlights glared through the sedan’s back window revealing two men. Almost immediately, the driver of the sedan got out. Dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, the guy resembled a walking bald, brick wall with enough bulked-up muscle to make her wonder if he’d been nursed on steroids.

      Once, just once, she’d like to see a hired thug with limbs the size of twigs.

      Steroid