An Inconvenient Affair Page 3

  “Of course. Can’t inconvenience the colonel.” Muscles bunched in Troy’s arms, his hands fisting at his sides.

  What the hell was going on?

  The “men in black” retrieved Troy’s Italian leather briefcase and placed a streamlined linen fedora on his head, the same look that had been featured in countless articles. If she’d seen him in his signature hat, she would have recognized him in a heartbeat.

  He was infamous in D.C. for having hacked the Department of Defense’s computer system seventeen years ago. She’d been all of ten at the time but he’d become an icon. From then on, any computer hacking was called “pulling a Donavan.” He’d made it into pop culture lexicons. He’d become a folk legend for the way he’d leaked information that exposed graft and weaknesses within the system. Some argued he’d merely stepped in where authorities and politicians should have. But there was no denying he’d broken major laws. If he’d been an adult, he would have spent his life in jail.

  After a slap-on-the-wrist sentence in some military school, he’d been free to make billions and live out his life in a totally decadent swirl of travel and conspicuous consumption. And she’d fallen for his lying charm. She’d even liked him. She hadn’t learned a damn thing from Barry.

  She bit her lip against the disappointment in herself. She was here to put the past behind her—not complicate her future. She pressed her back against the body of the plane, unable to get far enough away from the man who’d charmed the good sense right out of her.

  Troy reached for his briefcase, but the younger man took a step back.

  The older of the two men held out…handcuffs.

  Cocking an eyebrow, Troy said, “Are these really needed?”

  “I’m afraid they are.” Click. Click. “Troy Donavan, you’re under arrest.”

  Two

  “Were the handcuffs necessary?” Holding up his shackled hands, Troy sprawled in the backseat of the armored SUV as they powered away from the airport. The duo that had arrested him sat in the front. His mentor and former military school headmaster—Colonel John Salvatore—sat beside him with a smirk on his face.

  As always, he wore a gray suit and red tie, no variation, same thing every day as if wearing a uniform even though he’d long ago left the army.

  “Yes, Troy, actually they are required, as per the demands of the grand dame throwing this gala. She’s determined to have a bachelor auction like one she read about in a romance novel and she thought, given your checkered past, the handcuffs would generate buzz. And honest to God, the photos in the paper will only help your image, and therefore our purposes, as well.”

  It was always about their purposes. Their agreement.

  He’d struck a deal with Colonel Salvatore at twenty-one years old, once his official sentence was complete. Salvatore had been the headmaster of that military reform school—and more. Apparently he helped recruit freelancers for Interpol who could assist with difficult assignments—such as using Troy’s computer skills and later utilizing his access to high-power circles. Other graduates of the military school had been recruited, as well, people who could use their overprivileged existence to quickly move in high-profile circles. For these freelancers, no setup was needed for a cover story, a huge time and money saver for the government.

  A person might be called on once. Or once a year. Maybe more. Salvatore offered things no one else in Troy’s life had ever given him. A real chance to atone.

  He may not have felt guilty at fifteen, but over time he’d come to realize the repercussions of what he’d done were far-reaching. His big DOD computer exposé as a teen had inadvertently exposed two undercover operatives. And even though they hadn’t died, their careers had been cut short, their usefulness in the field ruined.

  He should have taken his information to the authorities rather than giving it to the press. He’d been full of ego and the need to piss off his father. He knew better now, and had the opportunity to make up for what he’d cost the government and those two agents.

  And yeah, he still enjoyed the rush of flying close to the flame while doing it.

  Troy worked his hands inside the cuffs. “You could have waited. There was no need to freak out Hillary Wright. I would think you’d want her calm.”

  Her horrified, disillusioned blue eyes were burned in his memory as deeply as the sound of her laugh and the genuine warmth of her smile.

  Sighing, Salvatore swiped a hand over his closely shorn head. “If you’d been on the private jet like you were supposed to be none of this would have happened. Stop caring what Hillary Wright thinks of you. She’ll be out of your life by Monday. Your time will be your own soon enough and, with luck, I won’t need to call on you again for a long while.”

  The years stretched ahead in monotony. His company all but ran itself now. The past eleven months since he’d been called upon had been boring as hell.

  His mind zipped back to Hillary and how he would see her for the rest of the weekend—how she would see him. “A bachelor auction, huh? That grand dame can’t expect me to strut down some catwalk.”

  “When did you start worrying about appearances?”

  “When did you start using innocents like Hillary?” he snapped back, unsettled by the protective surge pumping through him. At least he would have a chance to explain to her some of what had happened on the plane. He could claim the event swore him to secrecy about the handcuffing gig, even if he wasn’t authorized to tell her about his role with Interpol. “I thought your gig was to, uh, collaborate with the fallen.”

  “My ‘gig’ is to mentor people with potential. Always has been.”

  “Mentor. Jailer.”

  Salvatore smirked. “Someone’s grouchy.”

  Troy rattled his cuffs as they drove deeper into the skyscraper-filled city. “Could you just take the cuffs off?”

  He hated being confined and Salvatore knew that, damn it. Although looking at the cuffs now, other uses scrolled through his head, sexy fantasies of using them with Hillary. Maybe he would lock his wrist to hers, and take it from there.

  “The mistress of ceremonies has the key.”

  “You’re joking.” He had to be. “That’s hours away.”

  “When have I ever had a sense of humor?”

  “Valid point.” Troy’s hands fell in his lap. He might as well settle in for the scenic ride through downtown Chicago. He would be free, eventually, and then he would check on Hillary. For now, he was stuck with Salvatore.

  The colonel was one eccentric dude.

  Sure, Salvatore was the Interpol handler for the group of freelancers whose lifestyles gave them a speedy entrée into a high-profile circle when fast action was needed. But it must blow to be an overgrown babysitter for Troy at some shindig hosted by a local grand dame at a downtown hotel. Tonight’s gala kicked off a whole weekend of partying for the rich and famous, under the pretense of charity work.

  And apparently Salvatore wasn’t just here for Troy, but helping the CIA by being here for Hillary, too.

  “Colonel, I am curious, though, why do we need Hillary for this? How much does she know?”

  The more Troy learned about her, the more of an edge he would have over her the next time he saw her.

  “She’s here to identify contacts of her former boyfriend. And because we and the CIA need to be sure she’s truly as innocent as she seems.”

  Was his protectiveness misplaced? Could he have so misread her? Either way, it didn’t dim how damn badly he wanted to peel her power suit off with his teeth. “This is really just to test her?”

  The colonel waved aside Troy’s indignation. “Speaking of Hillary Wright. Your little stunt—switching from the private jet to her flight? Not cool. I had to cancel lunch with an ambassador to get here in time.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  Sighing, Salvatore shook his head. “How the hell did you even get on that plane?”

  “Really?” Troy cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even have to ask me, the
guy who broke through the school’s supposedly impenetrable computer firewalls in order to hack your bank account and send flowers to the Latin teacher on your behalf?”

  A laugh rumbled in the old guy’s chest. “As I recall, that trick didn’t go so well for you since she and I were quietly seeing each other and I’d already sent her flowers. She figured out fast who pulled that off.”

  “But the flowers I chose were better—Casablanca lilies, if I recall.”

  “And I learned from that. Same way you should accept you can learn from others once in a while.” Salvatore and the teacher had eventually married—and divorced. The man’s laughter faded into a scowl. “The internet is not your personal plaything.”

  Troy held up his cuffed wrists. “These give me hives and flashbacks.”

  Salvatore’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “Because I’ll get the job done. I always do. I’ll find our mystery guy either in person or through the hotel’s security system. I will make sure this time that he doesn’t get away with hiding from the cameras. We will track his accounts and nail the bastard.” He’d only caught a glimpse of the guy once, a month ago shortly before they’d taken down Barry Curtis. If only they’d caught both men then… “But now, as far as I’m concerned, my job also includes making sure Hillary Wright stays safe in that pool of piranhas posing as scions of society.”

  “As long as you don’t make a spectacle of yourself or her, I can live with that. Keep it low-key for once.”

  “Okay, deal,” he agreed, perhaps a bit too quickly because Salvatore’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Time for a diversion. “One last thing, though.”

  “You’re pushy today.”

  “Look in my briefcase. I brought John Junior—” Salvatore’s only kid “—a copy of Alpha Realms IV. He’ll have a month’s head start mastering it before it hits the market.”

  “Bribery’s a crime.” But Salvatore still reached for the Italian leather case. “What’s the favor?”

  “It’s just a gift for your son from my software company. No strings attached.”

  “What’s the favor?” he repeated.

  “I don’t agree with your pulling Hillary Wright into this. She’s too naive and uninformed. After the party tonight, I want her sent home to D.C. Scrap keeping her around for the weekend.”

  Troy would figure out a way to contact her in D.C., without all the hidden agenda crap. But make no mistake, he would see her again.

  “She’s not so innocent if she was involved with Barry Curtis.” The colonel slid the video game into his black briefcase. “She’ll prove herself this weekend—or not.”

  “Guilty of bad judgment, that’s all.” Troy was sure of that. What he didn’t know—something that bothered him even more—was if Hillary still had feelings for the creep.

  God, why did he feel such a connection to a woman he’d only just met? Maybe because she possessed an innocence he’d never had.

  “Are you so sure about her?” The leather seats creaked as Salvatore shifted back into place.

  Troy was certain he couldn’t let her go into a ballroom full of crooks alone. “I’m sticking with her tonight and putting her on a plane in the morning.”

  Salvatore patted his briefcase. “You should really keep me happy if you want me to put in a good word with your brother’s parole officer.”

  Troy looked up sharply. Pulling in his brother was dirty pool, even for Salvatore.

  “I’m not an enabler.” His brother, Devon, had more than a drug problem. He’d blown through his trust fund and had been sent to jail for dealing to feed his cocaine addiction. Troy forced himself to say blandly, “Do whatever you want with him.”

  “Tough love or sibling rivalry?”

  Anger pulsed—at Salvatore for jabbing at old wounds. “You’d better tell the driver to move this along so I can get out of these handcuffs before I have to take a leak. Otherwise you’ll have to help.”

  “Bathroom humor is beneath you, Donavan.”

  “I wasn’t joking.” He pinned Salvatore with an impassive look as the SUV stopped in front of the towering hotel.

  Salvatore reached for the door handle as the driver opened Troy’s side. “Time to rock and roll.”

  * * *

  Standing in the elevator in the Chicago hotel, Hillary smoothed her sweaty palms down the length of her simple black dress. Strapless and floor length, it was her favorite. She’d brought it, along with her good luck charm clipped to her clutch purse, to bolster her and steady her nerves. It wasn’t working. Her hands went nervously to her hair, which was straight with a simple crystal clasp sweeping back one side.

  She’d been nervous enough about this weekend from the moment she’d been asked to come to Chicago, but at least she’d had a plan. She’d thought she had her head on straight—and then she’d fallen right into flirting with a notorious guy seconds away from handcuffs. The experience had thrown her. Right now, she wasn’t sure of much of anything.

  There’d been a time, as a little girl, when she’d dreamed of staying in a five-star hotel like this one, in a big city, with all the glitz included. As a kid, after she’d finished her chores on the dairy farm, she’d hidden in her room, away from her drunken mother. For hours and hours, Hillary had played on the internet, escaping into another world. Researching other places and other ways to live. Clean places. Pretty, even.

  With tables full of food.

  She’d spent a lot of time thinking about the cuisine, learning recipes, planning meals and parties to fill her solitary world. Even if only in her imagination.

  Once she’d turned eighteen, she scrounged together enough college loans to get a degree in hospitality and economics. Three years ago, she’d landed with a major D.C. corporation that contracted out events planners. Someday, she hoped to start her own company. Be in charge of her own business. She refused to live her life as the scared little country girl she’d once been, hiding in her room, too afraid to slip out and grab a mushy apple from behind mom’s beer.

  The elevator doors slid open and she smiled her thanks to the attendant before stepping out into the wide hall, sconces lighting the way into the glittering ballroom. Nerves ate at her stomach like battery acid. She just had to get through this weekend. She’d make the proper identifications, which would help confirm her innocence. Or at least get her off the hook, even if they still didn’t believe she’d known nothing about what Barry had in mind for those supposed college scholarships.

  Forging ahead, she passed her invitation to the tuxedoed man protecting the elite fundraising bash from party crashers. Media cameras flashed. Even with spots in front of her eyes, she already recognized at least two movie stars, an opera singer and three politicians. This party rivaled anything she’d seen or planned—and her standards were top-notch. The ballroom glittered with refracted lights from the crystal chandeliers. Columns and crown molding were gilded; plush carpets held red-and-brass swirls.

  A harpist and a violinist played—for now—but from the looks of the instruments set up throughout the room, the music would obviously be staggered. The stage was set for a string quartet. A grand piano filled a corner, with a 1940s-era mic in place alongside.

  The dance—at two thousand dollars a head—was slated to fund scholarships. But then that was the root of Barry’s scam—collecting money for scholarships, most of which were never awarded, then funneling the cash out of the country into a Swiss bank account.

  Bile rose in her throat. She thumbed the charm clipped to her bag, rubbing the tiny silver cow pin like a talisman, a reminder of where she’d come from and all she intended to accomplish.

  Men wore tuxedos or military uniforms, the women were in long dresses and dripping jewels that would have funded endless numbers of scholarships. Well, everyone wore formal attire except for the gentleman in a gray suit with a red tie. Her contact.

  Colonel Salvatore.

  She’d been introduced to him by her lawyer. Apparently
, the colonel worked for international authorities. The CIA had promised he would ensure her safety and oversee her cooperation while she was in Chicago. Only one more weekend and she could put this all behind her.

  The colonel stepped up beside her and offered his arm. “Miss Wright, you’re here early. I would have escorted you down if I’d known you were ready.”

  “I couldn’t wait any longer to get this evening under way.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” He started into the ballroom, moving toward the seating section with a runway thrust into the middle.

  She recalled there being some mention of an auction of items donated by the elite from around the globe.

  More money laundering? Couldn’t anyone or anything be genuine anymore? Was everything tainted with greed and agendas?

  Salvatore gestured her toward a seat reserved with his name and “guest”. They took their places five rows back, not conspicuously in the front. She was also in the perfect spot to see both of the screens panning shots of the guests while a matriarch of Chicago high society took the stage to emcee the auction. Of course Colonel Salvatore had planned everything.

  Hillary forced herself to focus on studying each face on the screen, on searching for the two familiar individuals who Barry had claimed were his “silent partners”—not that Barry was talking to authorities now that he’d lawyered up.

  But then when had she ever been able to count on a man? Her father certainly hadn’t done anything to stop her mother from drinking or to protect Hillary and her sister. He’d buried himself in working in the fields, and as long as she worked alongside him, she was safe.

  The hard work of her childhood had taught her to work hard as an adult. Life was just hard. Plain and simple. She was still trying to keep herself safe so her efforts could finally pay off.

  As bid after bid went by for posh vacations, jewelry and even private concerts, her thoughts raced back to Troy Donavan and that hour of lighthearted banter on the plane. For a short snap, life had felt fun and uncomplicated.