Not on His Watch. Cassie Miles

hold of her wrist, preventing her from opening the package. He yanked her toward him. Furious, he glared down at her. “You might have a death wish, Natalie. But don’t take me with you.”

      “I had no intention of opening this envelope,” she said defiantly. “I’m not an idiot.”

      Her wrist trembled in his grasp. Her body was inches from his. He could feel her heat, could hear the soft exhale of her breath. Her expensive perfume tickled his nostrils.

      Quint felt a prickling of his own, a twitch at his nerve endings as if something paralyzed inside him had begun to waken. By grabbing her wrist, he’d chosen survival over death. Was living another day so important to him? Or did his reaction spring from an innate urge to protect?

      Natalie wrenched away from him, leaving the package in his hands. She straightened the lapels of her blazer. “On our way out, we’ll take this possible letter bomb down to the X-ray machine in the mail room. Will that make you feel safer?”

      “It will.”

      Her unexpected action had thrown him off-kilter. He had underestimated her—a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Natalie Van Buren was a woman who needed to be in charge and liked to have the last word.

      IN THE EMPLOYEE’S PARKING LOT outside the private plane hangars at Midway Airport, Nicco waited patiently in his rented van. Ten miles from downtown Chicago, he watched the corporate jets take off, soaring like sleek javelins hurled by the gods. The spectacle of flight never ceased to amaze him, even with his practical experience as a pilot.

      The cell phone in the pocket of his ground crew jumpsuit trilled and he answered, “Speak.”

      “Daughter has left home base. A man in a cowboy hat is with her.”

      “Follow them.”

      He disconnected with a scowl. Who was this cowboy accompanying Daughter? Not a lover. According to their research, Natalie Van Buren had no special male companions. Perhaps the cowboy was a client of Quantum Industries. Perhaps a media representative.

      Thoughtfully, Nicco stroked his clean-shaven chin, glad to be rid of his beard. He was tempted to call the communications man who had bugged Natalie’s office, but he generally avoided using the unsecured cell phone. Anyone might be listening.

      On the passenger seat beside him, a black-and-white dog thumped his tail against the door and stared up at his master. The canine expression seemed expectant and wise—far more intelligent than many of Nicco’s companions. At least Scout knew how to obey simple commands.

      Nicco scratched the soft fur between the dog’s ears and checked his wristwatch. His contact was eight minutes late. Such carelessness was to be expected from a low-level baggage handler. Americans had no work ethic. In Nicco’s experience, most Americans tried to do the least effort for the most reward. Their only ethic was greed as they stormed through the world leaving devastation in their wake.

      Through the windshield, Nicco saw the contact approaching the van. He was a square-shouldered man wearing a jumpsuit. An unfiltered cigarette dangled from his thick lips. In his right hand, he carried a black metal lunch pail.

      Nicco nodded to Scout, and the three-legged Border collie maneuvered agilely into the rear of the van.

      The contact opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside. “How you doing?”

      There was no need to exchange pleasantries. Nicco acknowledged the contact with a nod, started the engine and drove toward the exit from the parking lot. They never conducted business at the airport where too many security men might notice. On South Cicero, Nicco headed toward a tavern beside a vacant lot.

      After he parked, he asked, “Have you placed the parcels?”

      “All three in the Quantum hangar beyond Security. Just like you told me.” The contact lit another cigarette. The offensive stink poisoned the air in the van. “But there’s a change in plans. I want more money.”

      Nicco said nothing. He was amused that this pitiful underling would attempt to dictate terms, especially since he had already served his usefulness.

      “Five thousand,” the contact said. “Or else I give my boss those packages and you’re out of luck.”

      “Do you enjoy smoking?” Nicco asked.

      “Yeah.” The man took a long drag on his cigarette. It would be his last earthly breath.

      WITH A RIGID GRIN pasted on her face, Natalie listened to Quint finish placing his luncheon order at the Hamilton House on Wacker Drive.

      “…and I want my filet cooked so rare that I can hear it say moo…”

      Could he be any more cornball? Every other word he drawled was some kind of down-home expression. She twisted the napkin on her lap into a knot. In public relations, she frequently socialized with oddballs, and she was able to cope with them. But Quint had gotten under her skin. More than once, she’d had the distinct impression that he was being annoying on purpose, playing up his cowboy act to irritate her.

      As the waitress departed, he asked, “Something wrong, Miss Natalie? You look like you got a burr under your saddle.”

      “I’m fine.” She peered across the table at her old friend, Whitney MacNair Romeo, and said, “I should visit the ladies’ room.”

      “I’ll come with you,” Whitney said.

      Politely, Quint stood while the two women left their seats and moved through a maze of rose-colored linen tablecloths in the elegant dining room. Inside the rest room, Natalie rolled her eyes and exhaled a loud groan.

      “Whitney, I’m so sorry I had to drag him along.”

      “No problem.” Whitney looked in the mirror and pushed her thick red-gold hair into place. “As I said before, he’s a client of Solutions, Inc., and I like Quint. He’s kind of cute.”

      “Or not!” she said, more loudly than she intended.

      Even more exasperating than his hee-haw commentary was the effect he seemed to have on women. Maria Luisa, her secretary who was usually utterly aloof when it came to men, allowed Quint to call her Mary Lou. She’d practically propositioned him. Mary Lou?

      “Really,” Whitney said. “It’s endearing the way his hair falls across his forehead. Incredible blue eyes. And he’s got a great body.”

      “Hadn’t noticed. I was blinded by the dinner platter he wears for a belt buckle.”

      “If you really didn’t notice, Natalie, you ought to start taking hormones. There’s no harm in spending a couple of days with a handsome cowboy.”

      “Quint? Hah!”

      “Why not? You’re an eligible thirty-year-old woman.”

      “So what?” Natalie said. “Quint is obviously not eligible. His gold-and-silver wedding band is almost as big as the buckle.”

      An odd little frown turned down the corners of Whitney’s mouth. “I happen to know he’s not married. His wife died over two years ago in an accident.”

      “Then, why is he wearing a ring?”

      “Possibly, he hasn’t gotten over her death.”

      Natalie confronted her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were more flushed than usual. The green in her eyes seemed murky and confused. She didn’t want to think of Quint as a tragically wounded figure—a man who was sensitive and caring. How could he be? He’d grabbed her in the office, manhandled her.

      She touched her wrist where his masterful grip had closed like a vise. He was rude and crude. But he’d thought he was protecting her, which made his quick action seem somehow gallant. Stupid, but gallant.

      She sighed. “He’s not my type.”

      WHEN THEY RETURNED to the table, Quint was staring at the note that had been