Summer Games (8 page)

As she and the captain walked down the aisle, horses poked their heads over stall doors. Some of the horses whickered softly when they scented her, asking for a word or a touch. She responded almost absently, stroking velvet noses, teasing the lips that nibbled playfully at her fingertips, and through it all she kept walking toward the phone at the end of the long, dusty aisle, wondering who was on the other end of the line.

“I called your name three times before you noticed me,” Captain Jon said. “Perhaps I should get you a beeper.”

“Like bloody hell.”

His white eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t think it was that bad an idea.”

“I don’t like electronic leashes.”

“No kidding,” he answered, in a too-innocent tone. The American slang sounded odd coming from the Eton-educated Swiss aristocrat.

After giving Captain Jon a narrow glance, Raine relented with a smile. “Sorry. It comes of being raised with the damn things. Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, the Pan-American Games—it didn’t matter. Somewhere in the world, hell is always breaking loose. Beep-beep and good-bye.”

Captain Jon didn’t argue. He knew better than anyone that Raine’s father had managed to attend only three of the dozens of competitions she had been in over the years. Nor had those three been the crucial ones, the competitions where a smile or a touch or a thumbs-up from your family really mattered.

“Worry about your own piece of the world,” the captain advised, rubbing his hand through his thinning gray hair. “Leave the rest of it to the pros.”

Men like Cord, she thought, but she said nothing aloud. She simply stroked another velvet muzzle and kept walking.

“Speaking of the rest of the world,” Captain Jon said, “we have an amendment to the security regulations. Riders who want to look over the country around Rancho Santa Fe have to use the buddy system.”

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath.

The captain’s eyebrows rose. The word wasn’t a normal part of Raine’s conversation. Or even an abnormal part. She must be really on edge. Being a wise man, he didn’t mention that fact.

Belatedly Raine realized that she hadn’t kept her response soft enough so that it wouldn’t be heard. That wasn’t like her. She must be a lot closer to competition madness than she thought. “Sorry. Again.”

“I hear much worse,” he said dryly. “It’s a way of letting off steam.”

“So I’m told.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“Too soon to know.”

“If you run out of American and British slang, try the Aussies. They’re very inventive.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Impatiently she swiped some hair off her face and stuffed it behind her ear. “Buddy system. Hell on the half-shell. That’s all I need, to be yoked to another rider every time I leave the stable.”

Despite the sharpness of her voice, her hand was gentle when a dark, eager muzzle reached out to be petted.

Captain Jon wasn’t surprised by the endless patience Raine had for horses, but he was startled by the tension in her expression and voice. When everyone else was coming apart with nerves, she was—or at least, had seemed to be—a center of calm.

“The buddy system isn’t an unreasonable request,” he said mildly. “Ever since Munich, Olympic athletes have been a target.”

Raine made a throttled sound that wasn’t quite a word. It was just as well. It wasn’t the kind of word she used in public.

“I’ve seen the countryside around the endurance course,” he continued. “There’s bugger-all out there but hills, obstacles, and what’s left of the original golf course.”

“I know. I was there yesterday.”

“Alone?” Captain Jon asked sharply.

“Most of the time.”

Before he could ask any other questions, Raine took two fast steps and picked up the receiver that was dangling over a bale of straw.

“Hello,” she said crisply.

“Seven o’clock.”

Hearing Cord’s voice shocked her. She had already stuffed him into a mental pigeonhole labeled “competition madness.” She hadn’t really expected to hear from him again. She certainly hadn’t expected her heart to lurch and then race while adrenaline poured into her blood as though she had just taken a hard fall.

His midnight-and-black-velvet voice brought yesterday back all too vividly—first the fear, then the safety.

And then the fire.

In the background at Cord’s end of the line, other voices floated like colored leaves, oddly pitched voices riding broken waves of sound punctuated by bursts of static.

Automatically he shifted in his seat and adjusted the volume on one of the many radios and scanners that were within his reach. Now he could hear Raine better. The sound of her soft, quickening breaths licked over him like remembered flames.

Yet she said nothing, did nothing, as though she didn’t want to remember him at all. She was in full retreat from yesterday.

From him.

“I know you’re there,” he said, his voice both gritty and intimate. “I can hear you breathing. I just wish I was close enough to feel your breath, too, and kiss the pulse beating in your warm throat.”

Raine’s breath came in sharply. She felt like she could taste Cord on her tongue, feel him, know the dizzying thrill of his sensuality pouring over her. It both frightened and fascinated her. He was as much in control now as he had been when he had surprised her in the hills.

And she was as much off-balance.

“Don’t you ever play fair?” she asked bluntly.

“I’m a hunter. I don’t play at all.”

“Well, I’m no dumb bunny, Cord Elliot,” she said, her voice clipped.

His laugh was rough yet soft, a purr from an animal that was definitely not a domestic cat.

“I know,” he said. “I feel rather like Actaeon must have felt when he hunted Diana beneath her own moon. Not a sport for the faint of heart.”

A shiver went through Raine.

It wasn’t fear.

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “Wear whatever you like. Or, like Diana, wear nothing at all.”

He hung up before she could say anything.

It was just as well. She couldn’t think of anything to say. The masculine promise and anticipation in his voice should have been illegal.

“Everything okay?” Captain Jon looked closely at her face. “First you went pale and now you’re flushed.”

“Everything’s fine,” she said, hanging up the receiver. “The person I was talking to is just a bit . . . unnerving.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Doubt it.”

Frowning, she fingered the plastic-coated ID badge she wore around her neck on a thin steel chain. The photograph was surrounded by color and number codes that identified her as an Olympic competitor with access to all equestrian areas.

“I know a lot of people,” Captain Jon said.

“I just met the man yesterday.”

“Oh?”

Raine looked down at her hands and arms, dusty from hours of cleaning Dev’s stall and brushing his healthy red hide.

Wear anything you like.

The thought made her smile. It was a slashing, competitor’s smile. Mr. Always-in-Charge Elliot was going to have his wind knocked out for a change.

But first she needed a long, slow perfumed bath.

“I won’t be in the mess hall tonight,” she said.

Captain Jon shrugged. His athletes were older than most Olympic competitors. He didn’t cluck over his riders, unless they had it coming. Then he could mother-hen with a vengeance. But Raine had never given him a bit of trouble, not even when she had fallen for that smooth-talking Frenchman.

Although he had dumped her just before a big meet, she had kept her concentration, proving she was a world-class competitor. In fact, her performance that day had convinced Captain Jon that Raine was Olympic material. The unhappy affair with another rider had simply confirmed the captain’s original estimate: Raine had that indefinable quality known as class. She rose to meet the professional occasion no matter what her private life was like at the moment.

“Found a man, eh?” the captain asked, smiling widely.

She thought of denying it, then shrugged. He would find out. He always did.

“Right,” she said. “He knocked me off my feet.”

“Isn’t that ‘swept you off your feet’?”

“Not this one. Knocked me right out of my shoes.”

The captain chuckled, assuming it was a joke. “Don’t worry about curfew. You can use the break.”

Barely a hundred feet from the phone Raine had used, Cord sat in an RV loaded with electronics. Big as a bus—and built with an unusually heavy framework—the bland-looking motor home was really a mobile fort. From it, he could call any place on earth. And any person.

At the moment he was talking to Virginia. He didn’t know the man’s name; the man didn’t know Cord’s. It didn’t get in the way of their conversation.

“That’s the best you can do?” Cord asked impatiently. “Lives depend on this.”

“They always do.”

“But this time . . .” His voice died.

It wouldn’t help to say that this time a woman’s life was at risk, a very special woman, the only woman who had ever managed to reach past his defenses and touch the naked yearning beneath.

“Do better,” Cord said bluntly.

“Barracuda isn’t an easy target.”

“Now, there’s a bit of hot intelligence.”

The man at the other end of the line winced. “Ease up. I’ve had my ass chewed raw on the subject of Barracuda.”

“You looking for sympathy?” Cord asked.

“Yes!”

“You’ll find it in the dictionary between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis.’ I need information.”

Cord broke the connection and tried another source. Normally he was a patient man, but since Barracuda had disappeared, nothing could be called normal.

“Yeah,” a bored female voice said.

“Any hits on that profile I sent you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Radio traffic?”

“No.”

“Inspiration?”

“No.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “Try tea leaves.”

“I’m thinking of starting a coffee-scum scam. More coffee gets sucked up than tea.”

Smiling reluctantly, Cord disconnected and looked around with pale eyes that had seen too much but kept on watching anyway. Somebody had to.

There were no windows in this part of the bus, just television screens showing the outside world in real time, real sound, and full color. Everything appeared to be absolutely normal. The air around the stables shimmered with heat and sun, dust and an unhealthy dose of LA’s infamous smog.

There weren’t many people hanging around right now. Cord knew the ones who were—a handful of reporters and horse pundits, a dozen equestrian groupies, some competitors walking or exercising or schooling their horses.

Even though the slate of equestrian events had already begun, workers were hammering and building with a frenzy that came from wrestling with deadlines that should have been met weeks ago. But Santa Anita’s racing season hadn’t ended until June. That hadn’t left enough time to convert a flat racing track into a show-jumping ring, dressage ring, practice rings, exercise areas, massive new bleachers on all sides, and the multitude of living quarters required for both men and animals.

Supposedly the workmen had been thoroughly vetted before they were employed. Cord had checked them again anyway. Personally. Putting on dirty clothes and a tool belt was a great way to become instantly invisible. He had done it himself in the past.

So had Barracuda.

Cord went back to the swivel chair that was nearly surrounded by ranks of electronic gear. He picked up the radio mike and punched in Kentucky’s code.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Elliot,” Thorne drawled. “Right lovely day.”

He grunted. “Where is she?”

“Headed toward her motel.”

“Anybody new check in?”

“No suh.”

“What about her guards?” Cord asked, referring to the agents who were presently camped out in the rooms on either side of Raine’s.

“Merryweather is crying about bad cards.”

“And cleaning out the unwary,” Cord said dryly.

“Yes suh. I only played poker with her once. It was a learning experience.”

“Strip poker?”

A deep chuckle was Kentucky’s only answer.

It was all Cord needed. He smiled despite the unease digging into him like spurs. “I’m picking up Raine at seven. If I see anyone peeking out of windows, I’ll use them to shovel out stalls.”

“I’ll pass the word, suh.”

Cord disconnected and punched in another code. After a few moments he punched in more numbers, waited, and gave yet another code.

“Anything new since oh two hundred?” he asked when a voice answered.

“No.”

“Any rumors?”

“No.”

“Guesses?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“Always plenty of that,” the voice agreed. “Consider yourself logged in.”

“Wait,” Cord said, before the man could disconnect. “Has Bonner logged in?”

“An hour ago.”

Soundlessly Cord let out his breath. “Okay. If Bonner misses a contact, inform me immediately.”

“Affirmative.”

Cord leaned back in the swivel chair and wished he knew the source of the uneasiness that was raking him. But he didn’t. All he had was the cold certainty that something, somewhere, was going to hell.

Raine wasn’t quartered at Santa Anita with the rest of the Olympic three-day event team. Her teammates were all male. Rather than take a room at the track by herself—and force other athletes to squeeze more men into the few other available rooms—she had decided to stay at a nearby motel.

The Winner’s Circle was more accustomed to high rollers than high jumpers, and was decorated accordingly. Gilt, mirrors, and red velvet were everywhere. Raine privately referred to the decor as “whore’s Christmas.” But the water was always hot, the sheets were changed every day, and the towels were fresh twice daily. That was all she asked of any lodging, and more than she usually got.

When she opened the motel door, the cool, slightly stale smell peculiar to rented rooms and air conditioning washed over her. The good news was that the room no longer felt like walking into a refrigerator. It had taken two days, but she finally convinced the management she preferred a temperature in the upper seventies to one in the sixties.