Bait (15 page)

“Good evening, Lord Bonnet,” she said, in Ronnie's lilting, musical voice. “Is this not a lovely party?”

The man bowed very slightly. “Yes, Your Royal Highness. I wonder if I might have a word?” He eyed Gabe, who had not moved.

Was this her potential assassin? He certainly looked the part, which made the notion that he might be one ridiculous. She touched Gabe's arm, pressing firmly. He scowled and didn't budge.

“Gabriel,” she said. She'd meant to sound firm, but her voice quavered at the end. He half turned to look at her. “Please step aside.”

Alex appeared behind the man. “I got your back.”

Gabe took a step back, allowing the man close enough to talk.

“Merci bien
,” he said to Christina, ignoring Gabe. He began to speak rapidly in French. Gavin translated. “I know we've been on opposing sides on your idea to open up our northern regions to exploration for oil and natural gas. But the damage . . .”

Christina gave a gentle smile and placed a hand on his forearm, stopping him in midsentence. “We 'ave all made a pact tonight to practice our English. It will be fun, yes? Do you speak English?”

Bonnet scowled. “
Naturellement
. Of course, if it please you, ma'am. I was saying that . . .”

“
Non
, Lord Bonnet,” she interrupted. “My grandaunt's anniversary ball is hardly the place to discuss this. Enjoy the evening, and we will speak at the Vienna summit in three weeks.”

A frown pulled his stern face down even more. “This is very important, and I've been unsuccessful in making an appointment through the private secretary's office.” He glared in Deni's direction.

The Nabourgs ambled toward the head table, signaling it was time for guests to take their places. Relieved, Christina stepped back. “I'm sorry, Lord Bonnet. Our hosts are beginning the seating for dinner.”

He reached out toward Christina, glanced at Gabe, and lowered his hand. “May I speak with you later, then? It's urgent.”

Not if she could help it. The man gave her the shivers. “Yes, of course.” She turned to Deni.

“You will sit beside Lady Nabourg,” Deni said at once. “I am assigned to sit at a table with Lady Nolin and Mrs. Boeckman.”

“Oh,” Christina said, eyes rounding. “But . . .”

Deni patted her arm. “I do not have the rank to sit with the nobles. You will be fine.”

Butterflies returned to her stomach. She relied on Deni's knowledge and, when needed, intervention. She felt chilled, knowing she was on her own.

A warm, calloused palm slid into hers. “We're here,” Gabe said. “You're doing great.”

Grateful, she squeezed his fingers. When he stepped away again, she missed his solid presence beside her. She moved to the head table and found her name on a simple white card. A footman held her chair. Gabe nudged him aside, gentle but implacable. When he'd seated her, he fell back several steps, until he almost blended into the wall.

“Bonnet,” she murmured, lips barely moving. “He's a politician, right? A public figure. It's odd that he wasn't in front of the cameras at the protest. Usually politicians want the spotlight.”

“Trevor will find something, if it's there to find,” Gabe said reassuringly. “Focus on the here and now.”

Dinner was a long, tedious affair. At the start of each of the seven courses, several guests would stand and offer a toast to the Nabourgs, to their wedding anniversary, and to their continued health.

At last, the toasts dwindled and stopped. Lady Nabourg rose, presumably to give her own speech of thanks. Before she could open her mouth, though, a man entered the ballroom and made straight for the head table, a footman following him with a small box and a bouquet of roses. He stopped about fifteen feet from the table and inclined his head. His dark hair was cut short, but would be curly if allowed to grow. Thick brows slashed over grayish-­blue eyes. His nose seemed slightly rounded and too large for his face, but fit well with his broad shoulders and long legs. He looked familiar, but she could not immediately place him.

“My lady, you look lovely,” the man said. “My apologies for appearing uninvited, but I very much wanted to wish you both many more years of happy marriage.”

The viscountess beamed down at him. “Lord Brumley, you honor us. And I am thinking your surprise visit might have more to do with my grandniece, your beautiful fiancée, is it not so?”

Christina's heart stopped. Ronnie's fiancé? What was he doing here?

“Abort,” Gabe said into her ear. “That's Julian Brumley, the fiancé. Get ready to move her out.”

T
REVOR
HAD
WARNED
him it was too dangerous for them to be together until the shooter had been neutralized. Why had he ignored the warning? Christina, the ‘her' in question, raised her napkin and pretended to blot her lips. “Wait. He can't get near me until the dancing starts. It will look too suspicious if he appears, and I immediately run away.”

“It's too risky,” Gabe said.

Christina intensified her whisper. “You're in charge of protection, but I'm in charge of the pretense. I'll move when it won't look odd.”

He'd positioned himself between wall sconces so that his face was in shadow, but she felt the fury in his gaze. Half expecting him to lunge at her and drag her away by the hair, she was astonished when he didn't move. And didn't move.

“Thank you,” she breathed. There was no response.

Julian Brumley indicated the box the footman held. “My lord and lady, a small gift to celebrate your anniversary.”

Lord Nabourg peered at it. “Excellent. Lovely.” He gestured, and the footman bowed and placed the box on the table beside the other gifts.

Julian lifted the roses into his arms. “And now, my lord and lady, if you will permit me?” He strode to Christina, sitting beside Lady Nabourg. Christina tensed. He smiled into her eyes, warmth and affection pouring from them, and handed her the bouquet. “Beauty for my beauty,” he said. The crowd murmured approvingly.

Nonplussed, Christina bent her head to sniff the flowers, then set them on the table. “They're beautiful, Julian. Thank you.” She stumbled almost imperceptibly over his name. He smiled again, then the footman was back, guiding him to a table halfway down the room, where there was an open seat. Christina began to breathe again.

Conversation began again in the room, perhaps a touch more animated than before. Her appetite gone, Christina picked at the
spekkoek
, a traditional layered spiced cake. Her gaze kept skittering to Julian Brumley, even as she asked Ronnie's great-­aunt questions about her youth in Andorra. Lady Nabourg spoke animatedly about her childhood, slipping from Dutch to English and back again. Christina nodded and smiled and murmured at appropriate intervals, and made herself look interested.

“When they get up, come toward me,” Gabe said in her ear. “Nod so I know you heard me.”

She hesitated, but finally inclined her head. It wasn't the right move. In order to reveal the shooter, she had to remain exposed to a certain extent. And where would she be safer than at a party with a bunch of old noblemen? Gabe was being reactive, but there was no way to communicate that to him.

The room became restive, and Lady Nabourg finally raised her head. “Well, my dear, it is time to start the dancing.” She rose, and her husband followed suit. They came together on the dance floor, and the orchestra began to play a waltz. They were elderly and not spry, so they did little more than sway, but it released the rest of the guests to dance as well, or move about the room to chat. The dance floor filled quickly, mostly with the younger guests. Christina rose, intending to withdraw quietly, with no one the wiser. Instead, Émile Bonnet waylaid her as soon as she stepped from the table.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said. “I was distressed to hear about the attack in Brussels. Your life is in danger. Perhaps it would be better if you didn't attend the Geothermal Exploration conference in Vienna next month?”

Ronnie had mentioned the conference several times. In fact, she and Trevor had argued about it, in their very polite way. Even if the “situation,” as she called it, was not resolved by them, Ronnie still wanted to go. She was scheduled to speak on economic responsibility, supporting an initiative to lure oil companies into Concordia. “I speak for future generations,” she'd said. “Our economy cannot sustain itself on farming and tourism alone. We import seventy percent of our food from other countries as it is. There are many ways to mitigate potential damage that oil production and distribution might have in certain rural areas.”

Christina spoke as she believed Ronnie would, hoping she got it right. “It is too important an issue for me to stay away. All geological reports indicate there are huge deposits of oil in our northern, rural regions.”

Émile frowned. “With respect, ma'am, that's shortsighted. Importing oil does no damage to our land, which sustains some very rare animals. It's irresponsible to destroy natural animal habitats.”

Ronnie had discussed this with her at length. “You refer to the sheared mink in the Ardennes. You need not worry. They will be very carefully monitored and regulated. Every effort will be made to insure their survival.”

Gabe stepped to her side. “I'm sorry, Lord Bonnet. The princess is required elsewhere.”

Before she could move, Julian strode up to her and caught her up in an embrace, swinging her around in a tiny circle. Christina could do nothing but clutch at his shoulders until he set her down again.

“Ronnie,” he said, hands on her shoulders. “I know you told me not to come, but I had to see you.” He wanted to kiss her, Christina could see it in his eyes, but the famed English reserve took precedence. “I missed you, little cabbage.”

“I . . . I missed you, too.” She forced a smile. Gabe was right; she had to leave now, before Julian realized the woman before him was not his Ronnie.

Émile extended a hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Brumley. I am Émile Denis, Earl Bonnet.”

“Lord Bonnet.” Julian gave a polite nod and a brief handshake. “I appreciate the English. My French is atrocious.”

“It was Her Royal Highness's wish for the evening.”

Gabe and Alex had moved in, one on each side of the men, near enough to tackle them if things went south.

“May I introduce Gabriel Morgan and Alexander Wood?”

Julian looked them over and opened his mouth to speak. Deni appeared beside her. “Julian,” she said. “How wonderful to see you again.” She kissed both his cheeks.

Émile turned back to Christina. “Ma'am, I beg you to listen to reason. Oil and gas exploration is invasive. We cannot afford to lose fertile soil in our farming areas.”

“Her Royal Highness's position has not, and will not, change, Lord Bonnet. You will have to persuade others at the summit,” Deni said.

Émile's nostrils flared and his mouth flattened. Brows pulled down, he said brusquely, “Saner voices will prevail.” He dropped his voice and leaned closer to Deni. “What is this awful business of someone firing a rifle at our princess?” he said in French. “It must be a madman; she is a compassionate champion of our ­people. See how she fights for our country's health. Perhaps naïve, but well-­meaning all the same.” Gavin translated in her ear, though she doubted she was meant to hear the low conversation.

“
Oui
,” Deni agreed. “This is the reason for the bodyguards, until they catch this madman.”

Julian laughed suddenly, wrapping an arm around Christina's shoulders. His hand came to rest directly on top of her bandage. He did not seem to notice, addressing the group at large. “No more politics,” he declared. “I want to dance with my fiancée.”

“First things first,” Gabe said. “The princess was just mentioning she really needed to go, uh, go powder her nose. Why don't we let her do that, and then you can dance.”

Christina eased free of his arm. “That's true. I'll be right back. Julian.”

“In a moment.” He grabbed her hand and walked toward the dance floor. She had no option but to follow him or cause a scene. “It's been weeks, darling. Let me hold you.”

Once on the dance floor, he swung her into his arms and led her expertly across the floor. A good dancer herself, she had no problems following his lead. She forced herself to relax. One dance, then she would get the hell out of there.

“I know Trevor said we'd be safer apart,” Julian said. “But I can't focus on anything else, knowing you might still be in danger, and me so far away. Your texts and phone calls aren't enough, darling. I need to be with you.”

Ronnie called and texted Julian? That was news to her.

“I want to be with you, too. But what if Trevor is right, and you being here puts me in danger?”

He smiled at her, eyes full of mischief. “I don't think it will.” He gathered her close, banding his arms around her. His head dipped, and he whispered into her ear.

“Now, my dear. Just who the hell are you?”

 

Chapter Fifteen

G
A
BE
CURSED
. D
AMN
it! He should have hauled Christina's ass out of there as soon as the freaking boyfriend walked in. Fiancé. Whatever.

“Abort,” he hissed, knowing they were too late. The jig was up. Any minute now, Brumley would pull out his cell phone and call the police. If they were lucky, he wouldn't make a scene while he did it.

“Well?” Brumley asked. His voice was calm and even; he could have been asking about the weather, for all the excitement he betrayed. “Darling?”

“I know how to handle this,” she said, and Gabe realized with a jolt she was talking to him. God fucking dammit. She was putting herself in danger. Not disengaging.

“Negative,” he clipped out. “Abort. Gavin, bring up the car. Tag, Alex, to me.”

But as he closed in on her, Christina did the unthinkable.

“My name is Christina,” she told him. She
told
him. Freaking unbelievable.

Gabe could see Brumley's hand clench around Christina's fragile one, hard enough to turn her fingers white. For a moment, all he could think about was getting the bastard's hands off her.

“Where is she?” the man's voice was icy. “If you've harmed her in any way . . .”

“Ronnie is safe, I promise.” Christina wiggled her fingers. “Please. Let me explain.”

“What is this? Kidnapping? Extortion?”

“Neither. We're . . .”

Tag and Alex reached him, both ready for action. “Break trail,” Gabe snapped, and clamped a hand around Christina's upper arm. “Walk with me, princess, if you would, please.”

When he guided her none-­too-­gently by the arm, she moved with him, thank God. Tag and Alex stayed two steps ahead of them, clearing a path. It wasn't until they hit the front door that he realized Julian Brumley had followed them. His hand dipped into his tux to his shoulder rig, touching the butt of his Glock.

“Back inside,” he said, pointing with his other hand. 'Course, that meant he'd let go of Christina's arm, and she halted, turning back toward the freaking fiancé, who should have been two countries and a Chunnel away from them.

“Gabe,” she started, “we have to . . .”

“No,” he grated. “We do not.” He took the four steps he needed to get into Brumley's personal space, and dropped his voice almost to a growl. “Go. Back. Inside.”

“Gabe, stop. Julian's not the assassin. He's not involved.”

Brumley drew himself up to his less-­than-­impressive five foot ten. “I will not,” he said, somehow managing to look down his nose at Gabe. “However, I will call the Federal Police and have you arrested.”

“Stop, both of you. We're causing a scene.” Christina stepped past Gabe to slip her arm into Brumley's. “Darling, let me show you the garden. It's a bit overgrown. We'll have some privacy,” she said, loud enough for those nearest to hear.

Shit. He'd been so focused on the fiancé that he hadn't even noticed the groups and ­couples strolling on the lawn, enjoying the evening. And Christina was right; they were starting to stop, to stare.

She settled the matter by walking that way.

He gave himself a mental shake. He'd better get his act together, and fast. Seeing her dancing with Brumley had thrown him off his game. It was a good plan. It got them out of view, and, if Brumley tried to hurt Christina, he could disable the fiancé with no one the wiser. Without being told, Tag led the way and Alex brought up the rear in their fun little parade.

“Ronnie is safe,” Christina said quietly. “We're not extortionists. We're part of the plan to keep her alive.”

Brumley dipped his head closer to hers, the better to hear her, probably. Gabe clenched his fists to stop himself from physically tearing the two apart.

“I talked to her just last night. She said she was looking forward to the ball tonight.” He sounded more puzzled than hostile. “Is she here?”

“No. Trevor put her in a safe house. I don't know the location; it's better that way. I can't tell anyone what I don't know.”

Brumley tugged on his earlobe. “Why didn't she say anything? Is Trevor with her, at least?”

“Yes,” Gabe cut in. “He's investigating the ­people around her. Including you.”

Displeasure flashed in the other man's eyes. He stopped, turning his head to pierce Gabe with a stare. “Surely, Trevor cleared me.”

Without warning, without a sound, three dark shapes swarmed them. Tag grunted in front of him and collapsed. Gabe registered the spit of a silenced handgun as he drew his Glock and dove for Christina.

The figure on the left raised an arm to shoot Brumley. Christina spun aside, crashing into Ronnie's fiancé. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The muffled shot went wide.

Gabe leapt over them, using his forearm to knock aside the man's handgun—­with silencer—­and tag him in the throat with the webbing between his fingers and thumb. The man staggered back, hand on his windpipe. Before Gabe could relieve him of the weapon, the crack of a rifle sounded, and the man spun and fell.

“Target down,” said Mace.

Behind him, a second man reached down to grab Christina by the hair, and hauled her to her feet. Gabe whirled back, already reaching for the man's wrist to break his hold.

The third man fired at Gabe. He felt the wind as the bullet passed within millimeters of his ear, reflexively ducking and missing his grab for the bastard holding Christina. Her hands flailed, trying to reach the top of her head, unsuccessful as he yanked her backward by the roots.

Alex returned fire, the crack of his handgun loud in the almost silent struggle. The man jerked, but didn't fall. Alex leapt toward him as the man shifted to aim at him. The kid swept an arm up and over, knocking the gun aside, then closed with his target, sliding his hand down to the man's wrist to control the gun. The other hand snaked around the man's neck, and Alex smashed the man's face into his knee several times.

The bastard holding Christina pressed a gun to her temple. Controlling his rush of adrenaline, Gabe steadied the barrel in his palms, slowing his breathing. The coward was hiding behind her, using her as a human shield. He couldn't get a clear shot without risking hitting Christina.

“Drop your guns,” the man ordered. “Or I blow her brains all over the ground.”

The third man broke free from Alex, panting heavily. He spat out a mouthful of blood and dove for his handgun.

Gabe edged sideways, trying to get the man holding Christina to turn and follow him. If he could get Mace a clear shot . . .

A second crack, this one pitched lower, and the gunman fell sideways and lay still. Christina scrambled away from him, tripping over her long skirts.

“What the hell?” Mace said. “That wasn't me. There's another shooter up here.”

Gabe snagged Christina's wrist and dragged her into a crouch, covering her with his body. He watched as the third man reached his gun, only to have Alex smash into him and take him to the ground, where the young operator flipped him over and twisted his arms high onto his back. The man cursed. Gabe stayed where he was, head swiveling as he watched and listened. Other than the screams and running of the Nabourgs' guests, the grounds were silent.

Brumley got to his hands and feet, and crawled over to Christina. The whites of his eyes were showing. He added his bulk to Gabe's, covering Christina from the other side.

“Where's the second shooter?” Christina tried to rise, but he kept her where she was. “Mace?”

There was a long pause. “Got 'im.” Gabe heard the sound of a bolt snapping back, ejecting a shell casing, and then being slammed forward. “Freeze! Hands where I can see 'em.” Then, “Put the rifle down. Step back. Back! Get on your knees, ankles crossed. Hands behind your head. Lace your fingers. Do it now!”

“Mace, report.”

“White male, early fifties. He was in another goddamned part of this fucking maze of a roof. Pardon my language,
chérie
.”

Gabe pulled Christina and Julian with him to the relative shelter of a tree.

“Stay put.” He ran, crouching, over the uneven ground to Tag, who was groaning and starting to rise. “Is he alone?”

Mace cursed again while he passed the question on to his captive. “He says so, but who the hell knows up here?”

Gabe pushed Tag down flat and checked him over. His teammate was muttering profanity. “It caught your vest, dickhead,” he said, relief thick in his voice. “Whatchoo doing, taking a nap out here?” He tore Tag's jacket off and helped him remove the ballistic vest.

“Figured . . . figured I'd take the night off.”

Gabe supported him while Tag caught his breath. “Gavin,” he said. “Did you see anything?”

“Blacked-­out van. Didn't come onto the grounds, which is why I didn't see it earlier. It stayed on the road and took off the second it saw me.”

“All right. Head up to the roof.”

“Already on my way.”

Julian left the safety of the tree, followed closely by Christina. He knelt beside Alex. “I can take him, if it would help.”

Alex looked to Gabe. He shook his captive as he squirmed and fought.

“No. Thank you, but we've got it covered.” Gabe glowered down at their prisoner. “We're going to talk, you and me. You can do it with your face full of leaves, or I can let you up. Which'll it be?” It felt good to vent his anger on someone.

A single eye blazed up at Gabe, hostile and far from cowed. “Let me up.”

Gabe's nostrils flared. “Maybe not. How many of you are there?”

“Eat shit.”

He twisted the man's arms higher on his back and increased the pressure. The man hissed in pain. “How many, asshole?”

“And die.”

He wasn't going to get immediate answers here. Hauling the man to his feet, he kept the hammerlock tight as Tag staggered over to search him. A folding knife, a strip of cloth, a map.

“I found duct tape on one of the dead men,” Christina reported, coming over to him. She kept well back from his captive.

Gabe didn't dare release even one hand to take the tape. “Can you come over here and bind his wrists?”

The awkward positioning meant that Christina nearly had to wedge herself in front of him to reach the man's wrists. As she wrapped the tape around and over, Gabe tried to scan down her body. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She finished securing the man's hands and stepped away.

Mace reported in from the roof. “No one else up here, Archangel. We're coming down.”

“Let's go.” Gabe's command encompassed them all. Tag, Christina, Julian, and their captive marched back to the house and assembled on the wide, curved driveway. Alex and Gavin came around a corner, each holding the arm of a balding man wearing black fatigue pants and a black pullover. Mace headed up the rear, carrying a rifle slung over a shoulder and another in his arms.

“Who's in charge here?” asked the second shooter. He tried to shrug off the arms holding him, but neither man let go until Gabe gestured to them.

“I am.” He jerked his head at Alex, who came to take charge of their captive. “And just who the hell are you?”

The man drew himself up to his full height, which was still inches short of Gabe's own six foot one. “I am Commissaris Jansens, Federal Police.”

Gabe's eyebrows went up. “You're a cop?” He didn't bother to try to conceal the disbelief in his voice.

“
Ja
,” the man said. He had a round baby face, but experience lined his skin. Large ears and thin lips should have made him look silly, but the man carried himself with absolute authority. “I have been assigned to protect Princess Véronique.” He turned to face Christina and bowed formally.
“Prinses, ben je gewond?”