The Medusa Proposition

He leaned back, grinning openly. “I give an uncooperative interview every few years just to make the point that I still don’t talk to reporters. And when I heard you were coming back to television, I thought you’d enjoy the welcome back gift.”

Chagrin flitted across her face. Uh-huh. She thought she’d landed the big catch that would launch her comeback. Sorry. He was nobody’s trophy fish.

A cute little frown wrinkled her brow as she pressed. “Seriously. Why me?”

Now there was a loaded question. With more loaded answers to it than he cared to examine closely. His gaze narrowed. Two could play that game. “I wanted to see if your eyes were as blue in person as they are on TV.”

Only the barest flutter of her eyelashes gave away that she was flustered by the innuendo in his voice. She was really very good at what she did. It was just that he knew her reporter’s game all too well and had no intention of playing along. Women tried to use sex as a weapon against him all the time. He was rich, single, reasonably good looking and still in his thirties, which was to say, he was the Holy Grail to women like her.

“And are they?”

“Are they what, Miss Ellis?”

“As blue in person?”

It was his turn to hide his surprise. He got the distinct impression that was a personal question. Purely off the record. Was she flirting with him?

He studied her, letting his gaze range from head to toe and back until she squirmed once, ever so slightly. Then he answered casually, “Actually, I was more curious whether they’re that blue in bed.”

“In your bed?” she asked shortly.

He shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“That is something you’ll never find out, Mr. Rowe. This interview is over. I shall, of course, be happy to make it known to my colleagues that you are still as stubborn and arrogant and obnoxious as ever.”

His grin broke free. She was magnificent with her eyes snapping cobalt fire like that and her cheeks bright with color. She leaped to her feet in agitation as he rose casually to his. So. She’d turned down his fairly unusual offer to bed her, had she? A fascinating first.

“Give me a call the next time you find a dead guy on a beach and need help,” he drawled at her ramrod stiff back.

She paused deliberately at the door and looked slowly over her shoulder. She said pleasantly, “Good Lord willing, Mr. Rowe, the next dead body I find on a beach will be yours.”

He laughed heartily as the door slammed shut behind her. He was still chuckling a few minutes later when Gretchen stepped into the room, frowning.

“What’s up, Gretch?”

She handed him a sheet of paper with an e-mail printed on it. “We received another threat against you, Mr. Rowe.”

He sighed. “I get death threats all the time. Tell Nils. He knows what to do.” Nils Olson was his chief of security and a former Swedish Special Forces commando. They’d met when they got caught in a blizzard, helicopter skiing on a mountain in Austria. The big Swede had found him snow-blind and half-frozen. They’d made it down that mountain together and been fast friends ever since.

“Here’s your schedule for today, Mr. Rowe.”

He’d tried for years to get Gretchen to call him Tom, but she’d never budged. He was the boss, and would forever remain Mr. Rowe to her. He knew everyone thought they were sleeping together. But he also knew that she was hopelessly in love with Nils, and Nils was hopelessly focused on his job, completely unaware of her feelings. Tom tried to respect her privacy as much as she respected his, however, and stayed out of the whole thing. And in the meantime, he had a great security chief and an equally great assistant.

He sighed and took the typed schedule. His day was packed with meeting various members of the sixty delegations at this summit, then he had an hour to work out, an hour to rest and shower, and last on the list, the opening ball this evening.

“Have my tuxedo steamed and my black dress shoes shined, will you, Gretchen?”

“Of course.” She moved to the coffee table to collect the tray. “How did your interview with Miss Ellis go?”

“Actually, it went fantastic.”

That made Gretchen look up. She knew as well as anyone how much he despised reporters.

He grinned. “She only lasted ten minutes before she stomped out in a huff.”

“The last one made it nearly a half hour before she gave up.”

“The last one was hoping to get me in the sack.”

Gretchen tsked. “Still. Only ten minutes? You must have been particularly unpleasant today. Either that or this one wasn’t the least bit patient.”

“You’re right. She’s not the least bit patient, our Miss Ellis. Not patient at all.”

* * *

Paige looked around the grand ballroom, scoping out who was present and if her light blue satin gown was too horribly out of fashion. It felt weird to be wearing high heels and jewelry and have her hair piled on top of her head like this. She’d spent so long crawling around in mud, wearing fatigues and toting an assault rifle that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to get dolled up.

The crowd ranged in more or less concentric circles around the room, with the people growing progressively more financially important as she walked toward the heart of the party. Her gaze swept the innermost circles of power here tonight—a who’s who of the world’s most influential business leaders. Her stomach leaped at the sight of a familiar silhouette, a tall, athletic form she’d recognize whether dressed in surfing trunks or a designer tuxedo.

Of course, he had to choose that exact moment to look up. Their gazes locked. Damn him! He would have to catch her ogling him in a fancy tux that made him look like a cover model. He smirked at her and her palm got a sudden itch to swipe the expression off his face. But rather than give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of her, she instead pasted on a pleasant smile as she veered away from him and his companions.

Paige snagged a flute of champagne from a strolling waiter and downed the thing in a single gulp. When the next waiter passed, she exchanged the empty glass for a full one and sipped this one a little more temperately. Although she’d been gone for two years, the faces were mostly the same. She had interviewed many of the dignitaries in the room and made polite small talk with them as she cruised the ball.

A number of her fellow journalists were clustered around a bar at the far end of the huge room, but she avoided them. They had an alarming tendency to reminisce about Jerry with her, and frankly, she avoided those memories whenever possible. She might have come to terms with her role in Jerry’s death, but it didn’t mean she wanted to wallow in her lingering guilt.

She felt eyes on her and glanced up, her gaze colliding with the dark, amused one of Thomas Rowe halfway across the room. Jerk. She looked away pointedly. But she couldn’t resist peeking his direction a minute later. Dammit! He was still staring at her!

She yanked her gaze away, vowing to herself not to look at him again tonight. But then the darnedest thing started happening. She’d glance innocently at something or someone, and there he’d be, smack-dab in her line of sight. It was like he was trying to make her look at him. Surely he wasn’t that juvenile.

And then he started moving in on her. Oh, it was a gradual thing, and to the innocent observer would undoubtedly be completely undetectable. But she was aware of every foot closer to her that he came. Was he stalking her? She actually had to curb an impulse to sidle away from him. Double jerk.

The annoying game was interrupted when she overheard his name mentioned among a group of women clustered just to her right. Paige recognized one of them as the wife of the American ambassador to China, a woman she’d interviewed before.

Paige moved in smoothly. “Mrs. Carrillo. You look fabulous! Tell me, are you still working with that international women’s rights group?”

“Why, hello, Paige. Yes, I am. You’re looking lovely yourself.”

“You’re too kind. I didn’t mean to interrupt you ladies … please, don’t stop on my account.”

A woman Paige didn’t know but who sported a thick European accent—French, maybe—laughed. “I was just telling them about Mimi Ando’s rather sordid past.”

Paige said winningly, “I’m sorry. I thought I overheard you mentioning Thomas Rowe.”

The Frenchwoman replied, “You did. He and Mimi were quite an item a few years back. They had a scandalous relationship, even by Parisian standards.”

Curbing her eyebrows, which seemed to want to sail upward, Paige encouraged the woman. “Do tell.”

“Well, they partied their way across Europe and had spectacular fights in the most inappropriate places. And then she met Takashi and dumped Rowe cold. He hasn’t dated another woman seriously since. Rumor has it that she broke his heart.”

Indeed? A jilted lover, was he? Funny he hadn’t shown more reaction to Ando’s body this morning, then, even if to show a certain satisfaction at a rival’s death. But he’d acted entirely unaffected. Not even surprised, come to think of it. Had he known what was in that bag? Was it possible? Had Thomas Rowe murdered Takashi Ando? Over a woman? Her instinct was to reject the notion as absurd. But her training, both in journalism and things military, demanded that she consider every possibility, no matter how outrageous.

She risked glancing around the room in an attempt to spot Rowe. There he was, speaking to a very tall brunette with the kind of body that made other women feel completely inadequate. “Who’s that Rowe’s talking with over there?” Paige asked.

The other women looked around and the Frenchwoman burst out laughing. “Speak of the devil. That’s Mimi Ando.”

Another woman murmured, “While the Takashi cat’s away, the Mimi mouse will play….”

The Frenchwoman shrugged. “Maybe their romance isn’t as dead as it seemed.”

Paige flinched at the reference to death. Ando’s body was still in her refrigerator, awaiting the American forensics team due in later tonight. A gruesome image of his remains flitted through her head. Surely Tom wouldn’t say anything to Mimi about her husband’s death before the American team had a chance to examine Takashi’s remains. And even he wouldn’t be so callous as to tell a woman in a public venue like this that her husband had died.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I could use another glass of champagne. Enjoy your evening.”

“Look me up the next time you’re in Beijing, dear,” Mrs. Carillo called as Paige drifted away.

Paige stepped into the hotel lobby and paced the length of the cavernous space, troubled. Why would Vanessa Blake send a possible murderer to help her this morning? If Rowe was some sort of agent of the U.S. government, had he gone rogue? She opened her cell phone and dialed Vanessa’s private line as she stepped outside into a lush garden in search of privacy.

“Hey, Viper.”

“What’s up?”

“Who was that you sent me this morning? I mean I know who he is. What capacity do you know him in?” “A professional one. Why?”

Paige frowned. “Could you be a little more specific than that?”

“Mind me asking why?”

“Were you aware he had a torrid relationship with Mimi Ando that she broke off so she could marry Ando?”

A long silence greeted that announcement. Finally, Vanessa said heavily, “I’m forced to acknowledge the relevance of that, but I’m having a hard time believing what you’re suggesting. I’ve known Tom for years. He was on Jack’s team.”

Paige’s jaw dropped. Vanessa’s husband was Colonel Jack Scatalone, a longtime Special Forces officer and team leader. He was still one of the Medusas’ primary instructors. And Rowe had worked for him?

“Are you telling me Thomas Rowe is … was … one of us?”

“He was. He’s not an active operator anymore.”

Paige asked grimly, “So, if he wanted to go off the reservation, he’d know how to do it?”

Vanessa sounded surprised. “You seriously think he’s turned? That he killed Ando?”

“I think we can’t rule it out.”

“Jack’s going to have a cow at the idea. He thinks the world of Tom.”

“So don’t tell him about it just yet. Let me poke around a little and see what I can find out.”

Vanessa sighed. “That’s not how Jack and I do business, but thanks for the offer. Call me if you learn anything new.”

“Right, boss.”

She lifted the phone away from her ear thoughtfully.

“And what are you poking into now?” a male voice asked from directly behind her.

Paige whirled, startled, and almost dropped her phone in her shock. Thomas Rowe. “That’s none of your business, Mr.

Rowe.”

“Ah. So the journalist likes her secrets, too, does she? Are we being a hypocrite, perhaps?”

She scowled at him. “You wish. I’m just doing my job. What’s your excuse?”

He laughed, a low masculine sound that scraped across her skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “You’re missing all the fun, Miss Ellis. Come inside.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to dance with you.” That made her stare. “What on earth for?”

“To start rumors and wreck your credibility should you attempt to do some sort of negative report on me.”

“I thought you don’t give a damn what the press says about you.”

“I don’t want them to say anything about me at all. That’s entirely different.”

“Dancing with me isn’t going to shut me up.”

He grinned. “I doubt much of anything could do that.”

“And on that insulting note, Mr. Rowe, you can take your invitation to dance and shove it.”

She turned and strode away from him with as much aplomb as she could muster. But she didn’t count on him following her inside. Furthermore, she didn’t count on him reaching out fast to wrap his arm around her waist tightly enough that it would take violence on her part to shake it off. Heads were already turning their way, and if she wasn’t mistaken, eyebrows—and tongues—were wagging.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” he murmured. “Dance with me. It’s a waltz.”

“And your point?”

Of course he ignored her question entirely and instead commented, “Did you know the waltz was declared scandalous when it was introduced? It was thought to be too sensual for proper ladies. So. Are you a proper lady or not, Miss Ellis?”

She opened her mouth to suggest as politely as she could that he remove his hand from her waist before she broke his fingers, but before she could, he spun her around him and onto the dance floor. Despite his dashingly lean appearance, the guy was shockingly strong.

And she was waltzing.

With Thomas Rowe.

Playboy. Billionaire. Bastard.

And all she could think about was how incredible sex with him would be.

Chapter 4

Tom grinned as the waltz shifted into a slow ballad, the kind where the guy pulls the girl as close as he thinks she’ll let him without slugging him, and the dancing is actually just swaying and shuffling while checking out each other’s bodies. Paige made to step back, but he tightened his arm around her waist to prevent the movement.

“What are you doing?” she whispered furiously.

Amused, he murmured back, “Your reputation isn’t wrecked, yet. One dance with me could just be a polite thing after I granted you an interview. But two dances means there’s something going on between us.”

“You are such a jerk!”

“You’re just now figuring that out? You mustn’t have done your homework on me before our interview, Paige.” Her entire body vibrated in his arms, almost like she was growling. He grinned down at her. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

Her eyes narrowed to distinctly feline slits. For just a moment, alarm resonated in his gut. If she’d been a man and looked at him like that, he’d have given second thoughts to provoking the guy any further. But as it was, she barely came up to his chin and couldn’t weigh much more than half of his solidly muscled 220 pounds.

His left hand slid down the slinky satin of her gown, caressing the inward curve of her spine. Her body arched slightly away from the touch, which brought her belly very nicely into intimate contact with his groin. Blue lightning snapped and crackled in her eyes.

He probably ought to stop. But damned if he didn’t want to see just what she’d do if she exploded on him. His hand slid lower. The pert bulge of her derriere filled his hand like it had been made for him. Her flesh was firm and resilient and, about as quickly as he registered its sexy texture, went rock hard under his palm.

Her gaze went black. Cold. Furious.

Oooh whee, she was pissed off. It was a sight to see. He had himself an armful of fireball, now….

Her gaze left his for a moment, focusing on something over his left shoulder. Alarm flashed in her eyes, at sharp odds with the fury pouring off her.

And then, without warning, she went limp in his arms, a hundred plus pounds of deadweight jerking him downward. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold her weight. In fact, he did it easily. It was just that he had to adjust to the surprise of it.

A slight breeze whiffed over the top of his head. What the—

Something hooked behind his right ankle. Jerked sharply. Twin fists smashed into his shoulders. He flew backward, slamming onto his back at full length on the dance floor.

Something heavy landed on top of him. Breasts smashed into his face, and he smelled the most luscious combination of warm female and sexy perfume he’d ever encountered.

Holy cow. She was a hellion when she blew up. He mumbled against her chest, “I want you too, honey, but do you think this is the place for—

“Shut up and stay down,” she snapped. He froze. That was exactly the tone of voice one of his buddies on his old Special Forces team would have used when bad things hit the fan.

“What’s up?” he bit out. Paige was vibrating again, but this time it was pure fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through her. He could smell it on her skin.

Her breasts lifted away from his face far enough for him to breathe, but she continued to sprawl on top of him. And then it dawned on him—her stance was protective.

She spoke without glancing down at him. “Someone just shot at you. Stay here. I’m going after him.”

And then her weight lifted away from him and she was racing across the room in a flash of ice blue satin. He leaped to his feet. People around him were staring, still frozen in that moment of initial shock before they began buzzing like bees. He hadn’t experienced the time distortion of a hyperadrenaline rush since his Special Ops days, but damned if everyone around him wasn’t moving in slow motion now.

With preternatural strength, he bolted after Paige. She was already slipping onto the terrace and into the night. He put on an extra burst of speed. If she got to the gardens before he caught up with her, it’d be hell not to lose her in the thick tropical foliage and overhanging palm trees.

She dodged down a shadowed path between giant ferns and he followed suit, thankful for her pale dress in the blackness. Damn, she was fast! His legs churned as he chased after her. A branch whipped across his face and he ducked grimly, but pressed on.

Surely she was mistaken. They’d been on a crowded dance floor, for goodness’ sake. There was no way of knowing who the shooter had been pointing at … assuming there even was a shooter. He wouldn’t put it past Paige Ellis to have imagined the whole thing. She was a reporter, after all. She made her living sensationalizing things.

For all he knew, she was chasing nothing at all. But he couldn’t in good conscience leave her alone to the vagaries of whomever might be in this isolated area late at night. Although the way she’d knocked him down in the ballroom, she probably could take perfectly fine care of herself. Okay, so he was out here tearing after her because she interested him. And very few women did that.

He stretched into a full run, arms pumping, breathing hard. There. Another glimpse of blue satin ahead. He ran even harder. Sweat popped out on his brow. The path turned sharply and his dress shoes slipped on the crushed granite. He flailed his arms and managed to catch himself, but Paige had pulled away again.

How big was this stupid garden anyway?

Yard by yard, he gradually closed the gap on her. How on Earth was she running in high heels? The foliage thinned slightly. He vaguely recalled hearing about a rose garden that this resort was known for.

And then he glimpsed something that made his blood run cold. A second fleeing figure not far ahead of Paige. Attired in all black and running like his life depended on it. Worse, she was almost on the guy. And what exactly was she planning to do with him once she caught him? The guy was obviously a pro. He’d break her neck in a heartbeat.

For the first time tonight, true panic speared through him. He’d been shot at plenty during his military career, and he’d had plenty of bullets wing past uncomfortably close to him before. But the idea of watching Paige get her head ripped off scared him like nobody’s business. He dug deep and with supreme effort found an extra gear. Ten yards from Paige. Eight. Five.

A shot rang out and he flinched reflexively.

Rifle. High-powered, large caliber. Sniper rig, then.

The man fleeing before her went flying, tumbling head over heels and crashing into a bush. Paige hit the dirt beside the man and Tom slammed flat beside her. “You okay?” he bit out.

“Yeah. You?”

“Good. What about the other guy?”

Paige reached up awkwardly with one hand and felt the downed man’s neck. “Dead. Sounded like a sniper rig.”

He agreed with her assessment of the lone gunshot.

She muttered, “You need to get out of here. I can handle this on my own.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me.”

“I mean it, Tom. Go back inside. You’ll be safe there.”

“I don’t give a damn about safe. I want to know who just killed the guy who tried to kill me.”

She glared at him in the darkness. Although she sounded pissed, she looked closer to panicked. “I won’t have your death on my hands! You’ll be safe inside, and I need you to get undercover right now.”

“Not happening.”

Her mental wheels were turning so hard he could almost see them as she tried to cook up some reason to make him go inside. Time for a little distraction. “You packing?” he muttered.

“Where in this dress am I going to stow a weapon?”

He grinned as his hard gaze scanned the area. Too much cover out here. They’d never spot the shooter. Besides, assuming the sniper had killed his intended target, the guy would have already left the area.

“How ‘bout you?” she asked in turn, her head swiveling all around in search of the latest assassin. “You armed?”

“Nah. Hotel security forbade it,” he answered in disgust.

She glanced at him in surprise. “And you actually followed the rules?”

He snorted. “I sure as hell won’t from now on. Who’s the dead guy?”

“Dunno. His name badge says he’s conference security. Goes by Claude Dufresne. He looks European.”

He raised a skeptical brow. “And how does a European look?”

She answered absently as she rummaged in the dead man’s pockets. “Bad teeth covered with nicotine stains from unfiltered cigarettes.”

Okay, he’d give her that one. A certain group of Europeans certainly fit that set of parameters.

She continued under her breath, “His credentials look legitimate. I think he actually was conference security.”

“We’ll have to verify that. If this meeting is compromised, we’ve got a big problem on our hands.” A huge problem, in fact. “It’ll be a mess if the conference has to be delayed or rescheduled—”

She interrupted his train of thought as he started to spin out the alarming possibilities if this economic summit failed. “Tom, you’ve got a bigger problem than that. Someone just tried to kill you.”