HardWind (6 page)

“I was going to give you an assignment this morning, but obviously you are in no

condition to even shave, much less hold a gun in your hand.”

Dáire opened his mouth to disagree then thought better of it.

Dark gray eyes the color of an approaching storm narrowed even more as Gentry

swung that reproachful glare to Jackson. “I realize you are not his babysitter, Jackson,

but it would have been prudent of you to dissuade him from his sojourn at that filthy

strip bar last evening.”

“Had I known he was—” Jackson began.

“You knew perfectly well he was going to act like the child he sometimes is,”

Gentry cut him off. “You might not have known where he’d end up, but you knew it

would be somewhere of which I would not approve.”

“Are you going to dictate where I can and can’t go now?” Dáire heard the words

tumbling from his lips and had to steel himself not to wither beneath the frigid glower

that shifted his way.

“I would have thought nearly a year in that cell in Borneo would have taught you a

bit of humility, Cronin,” Gentry snapped. “Obviously you learned nothing from your

stay there.”

Fury flashed through Dáire’s brown gaze but he kept his mouth shut. He alone

knew what he’d endured in that hellish prison and the things he’d learned about

himself had nearly broken his spirit.

Gentry drew in a long breath, held it then let it out slowly, forcing the irritation and

anger away. “You have a problem and until you can deal with it, I will not be giving

you any more assignments.”

Blinking against the unfairness of his boss’ decision, Dáire sat up straighter in his

chair. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” he denied. “Yes, I got drunk last night but—”

“I was speaking of your problem with Star Kiernan,” Gentry cut him off. “She has

always been a liability to you, has always been your problem, and now that problem

has escalated. You will handle it now and then we’ll move on.”

Jackson cleared his throat. “Ma’am, Star has taken that decision out of his hands.

She—”

Gentry slammed her fist down on the desktop. “I know all about Boyd. He is of no

consequence. The matter is between Cronin and his whore.”

28

HardWind

Dáire stared at the most powerful woman in The Cumberland Group and wished—

not for the first time—that she were a man. There had been occasions when he would

have taken great delight in plowing a fist through the haughty face that glared back at

him. At that moment he hated her with every fiber of his being, and the thought of

wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing until the life had drained from her

overweight body beckoned to him.

“Jackson, will you excuse us?” Gentry asked, not bothering to look the older man’s

way.

Without a comment, Jackson was up and out of the room. He knew Gentry’s

scolding tone all too well and didn’t care to be there while she castigated Dáire.

Once the door closed behind Jackson, Gentry leaned forward and put her folded

arms on the desktop. “While I do not profess to understand the torments you were

forced to endure in Borneo, I am keenly aware of how it affected you.”

“Do you really?” he asked, a muscle working in his lean jaw.

“And while I sympathize with the horrendous experiences you suffered, I am not

about to coddle you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No, you didn’t, but you seem to think you can do whatever the hell you want to,

when you want to, without there being consequences. The Group’s dispensation for

your travail extends only so far, Cronin.” Gentry’s stare turned colder than the waters

flowing beneath an iceberg. “If you want out, just say so. I’ll terminate you here and

now.”

For a long moment the two stared at one another and it was Dáire who finally

looked away. He didn’t like the glint in her sharp eyes and the set of her mouth filled

him with unease.

“All right,” Gentry said, settling back in her chair. “Now that we have that out of

the way, I want you to take a few weeks off and reassess this obsession you have with

the Kiernan woman. Either get it out of your system or work it out with her. I don’t

believe I have to tell you which of those choices I would prefer you make.”

Dáire reached up to rub at the pain lacing through his temples. “No, you don’t.”

Gentry sat forward and took up the phone receiver, punched in a two-digit number

then asked whoever was on the other end of the line to come to her office. She replaced

the receiver, steepled her fingers and sat there observing her employee until the door

quietly opened and someone came in.

Dáire looked up as a petite blonde woman came to stand beside him. She held a

glass of lavender-colored liquid, which she extended toward him.

“Drink it,” Gentry ordered.

Hurting too bad to balk at the command, Dáire took the glass, tipped it back and

drained the contents, swallowing quickly, though when he lowered the glass he was

29

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

pleasantly surprised to find no horrid aftertaste. He wordlessly handed the glass back

to the blonde and the woman turned and left the room.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing you can acquire on your own,” Gentry told him. “How is your head

now?”

Dáire realized the discomfort was receding at a rapid rate and the thick coat of

spiky fur on his tongue appeared to have disappeared. The nausea, the spinning

sensation, the pounding were drifting away on a calming sea.

“The pain is going away.”

“Good,” Gentry said. “Now get the hell out of my office and don’t come back until

you’ve settled things with Kiernan.”

Dáire frowned. “What about Jackson? Is he—?”

“He will be working with someone else until I deem you fit to return to duty. Don’t

concern yourself with Jackson. He’s the least of your worries at the moment.”

It was a dismissal with which he could not argue. He got up and started for the

door.

“Cronin?”

Dáire looked back around at the white-haired sixty-something woman he had once

labeled The Piranha.

“Don’t make it necessary for me to handle the matter of Kiernan on my own. I

promise you might not like how I will resolve things.”

An ice-cold finger of fear scraped down Dáire’s back. He nodded without speaking.

The man who was Gentry’s bodyguard narrowed his eyes at Dáire but remained

silent as the younger man left the office.

Jackson was nowhere in sight when Dáire climbed to the upper deck, but the copilot of the helo was waiting. The man informed his passenger the chopper was ready

to return to the airfield.

Feeling far better than he had when he had arrived, Dáire followed the co-pilot back

to the Agusta. The last sight he had of the
HardWind
was the giant motorboat’s wake as

it headed farther out to sea.

30

HardWind

Chapter Four

The Corinth opened for business at eleven o’clock six days a week and Star liked to

be there to greet the lunch crowd every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday for an hour

or two unless something came up to prevent her. On Tuesday, Thursday and Friday

evenings, she was at the hostess kiosk to welcome the dinner guests from eight until

nine p.m. and to circulate among the tables to speak to her guests. The restaurant

always closed on Sundays.

It was a fifteen-minute drive from the Farraige to the Corinth and Star was running

a bit late. She came hurrying out her door and stopped, blinking at the sight that

greeted her.

Dáire was sitting on the floor beside his front door, his legs drawn up, shirt sleeves

rolled up, forearms resting on his knees, his back against the wall, sunglasses perched

on the top of his head. He half-smiled at her.

“What the hell are you doing?” Star asked despite wanting to kick herself for

speaking to him at all.

“My keycard is in my wallet,” he answered. “My wallet is in the bedroom. The

bedroom is behind a locked door.” He lifted his hand. “Thus, I am awaiting rescue.”

“Where’s Jackson?”

“On his way to his next assignment.”

“Then how did you get up here?” she demanded.

“They were vacuuming the floors in the elevator. Consuelo’s already gone I guess.”

Pursing her lips, Star turned around, ran her keycard down the entry box and

disappeared back inside her home. She was gone a minute or so then came back, tossing

a keycard toward Dáire. “Keep it,” she snapped, about to shut the door when her phone

started ringing.

Dáire smiled at the vulgar word that exploded from Star’s lips. With the keycard in

hand, he pushed his back up the wall and got to his feet as she went back into her

condo. He heard her growl an answer into the phone then stilled when he heard her

next words, asked with obvious concern.

“Is she all right?”

Thinking it might be bad news concerning Star’s older sister—her only living

relative—he turned around and stood there listening to her end of the conversation.

“Did you take her to the doctor?” She was silent for a moment then asked, “What

did he say?” Another moment of silence stretched out before Star said, “I’ll be right

there!”

31

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Star’s face was ashen when she came rushing out of her home. She barely glanced

Dáire’s way when he asked if the call had been about Sophie, Star’s sister.

“What?” Star asked, staring at him as though she didn’t know him.

“Was the call about Sophie? Is she sick?”

“No,” Star answered, shaking her head. “It had nothing to do with Sophie. Just

leave me alone, Cronin.”

He watched her stabbing at the button on the elevator panel until the doors opened

and she raced inside. The pallor of her face was even more noticeable as she slapped at

the lobby button inside the cage.

“Is there anything I can do?” he called out to her as the doors began to close.

“You’ve done more than enough already,” he heard her grumble before the copper

panels slid shut, hiding her beautiful face from view.

Sighing heavily, Dáire swiped his card down the entry box and went into his home.

The air was rife with the pleasing scent of lemon, which told him Consuelo had worked

her magic on his soiled bedroom. He didn’t need to check on the cleaning woman’s

labors for she was by far the best housekeeper there was at the Farraige, if not the

costliest.

Kicking off his shoes, he went to the triple doors that led out to the rooftop pool,

peeling away his shirt as he opened one of the doors and walked outside. The sea

breeze was stiff this high up and the shrill call of the seagulls stitching across the sky

made him feel at home. Tossing his shirt aside, he stretched out on one of the teakwood

chaise lounges that sat at an angle to the pool. The porotex fabric molded to his body as

he leaned back, crossing his ankles, lacing his hands behind his head as the wind played

over his bare chest.

Though he hadn’t been ready for his next assignment, he chafed at the thought of

being sidelined, leaving Jackson alone with some other operative. He couldn’t

remember when the last time was that the two of them hadn’t been partnered and a

part of him was tense over him not being there to protect the middle-aged man. Friends

since Dáire had saved the Fibber’s life during a heated gun battle with a suspected

terrorist, it was only natural three years later that Cronin introduced the government

agent to Gentry when Jackson retired from the FBI. The two men had been partners

ever since.

Jackson bore an uncanny resemblance to the television actor Lee Majors. The two

had the same height and build and were within a month of one another of being the

same age. Dáire had lost count of the times fans of Majors’ television show had rushed

up to Jackson, mistaking him for the actor. Times such as those irritated the hell out of

the retired Fibber.

“How can I blend in with people running up to me and calling me Steven Austin

and asking for my fucking autograph?”

“Maybe you should ask Gentry for that facelift you’re always talking about,” Dáire

had once suggested. “The docs could build you better, stronger, faster…”

32

HardWind

That suggestion had gotten Dáire a black eye.

Thinking about that shiner, Dáire laughed. He relaxed in the chaise and closed his

eyes behind the mirrored finish of the Ray-Bans. Though it was hot, he embraced the

waves of warmth that bore down on him, bringing glistening sweat to his matted chest.

He’d spent a week lying on the beach in the south of France, soaking up rays and a

bronzed tan that now covered every inch of his body save one small V-shaped area—

front and back—that a pair of black swim trunks had kept safe from potential cancer.

France, he thought, and the smile slipped slowly from his face.

He’d been in The Cumberland Group’s medical facilities near Montpellier for three

months, during one of which he’d barely been able to walk. The soles of his feet would

forever carry the scars of the canings that had ripped them apart. Even now, his feet

were often too cold or too hot, and pain lanced through his lower legs on occasion and

would for the rest of his life. In prison, his wounds had been forcibly kept open to keep