Trust Me

He didn’t think he could’ve lived with that. And he sure as hell didn’t intend to rehash it—or court praise for something he considered to be far from his most shining hour, popular opinion be damned.

Evidently mistaking his silence for modesty, something approaching approval registered on Mrs. Sommers’ autocratic face. “Gabriel also mentioned you served our country as a Navy SEAL. And that you received numerous medals and commendations.”

This time, he sent his brother a reproachful look, which was met with a slight, live-with-it shrug. A little ruefully—apparently St. Gabe wasn’t above some minor payback—he returned his gaze to the client. “Yes, ma’am, that’s true.”

She pursed her lips. “He also assures me that if anyone can get my Delilah out of this mess she’s in, it’s you.”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?” Her arctic-blue eyes drilled into him. “And what exactly do you mean by that, pray tell?”

“It means I have a general idea of your granddaughter’s situation, but I’d be doing us both a disservice if I made any promises until I know more,” he said easily.

There was a prolonged silence as once again she considered him, then she abruptly murmured, “Hmmph.” Leaning sideways, she reached into her large handbag and pulled out a fat document-sized manila envelope.

“I anticipated this,” she said brusquely. “It’s all here. Delilah’s original itinerary. A list of the people she met with. Transcripts of my conversations with that detestable Condesta’s representatives. Photos of and information about the compound in Santa Marita where she’s being held. Oh, and a photo of her, of course.”

“This should be very helpful.” Dom took the proffered envelope and set it down in front of him. “First, however, I think we’d better establish what, exactly, you want me to do. Take over negotiations? Handle the exchange?”

To his immense gratification, she snorted and said briskly, “Certainly not. I have lawyers to do those things. Lawyers and advisers and business managers, whom I allowed, against my better judgment, to convince me that dealing with Delilah’s captors was the right thing to do…” She trailed off, then squared her shoulders and ratcheted up her already ramrod posture. “I may be old, Mr. Steele, but I’m not stupid, at least not often, and I don’t care for extortion. I want you to go to San Timoteo and bring Delilah home where she belongs.”

He did his best to squelch an inner cheer. “Okay. But there are still things we need to discuss.”

Her mouth curved in a moue of annoyance. “If this is about your fee—”

“No, ma’am,” he assured her. “I’m sure you’re good for it.” He swallowed a grin at her huff of indignation, then got down to business. “What I want is some insight into your granddaughter. Is she a leader or a follower? Easygoing or high-strung? Quick off the mark or more of a deep thinker?”

“Why on earth do you need to know all that?” she snapped.

“Well, let’s see.” He lazily drummed his fingertips against the tabletop. “I guess because it would be helpful to know what to expect. Is she likely to scream or faint when I show up? Will she feel compelled to offer her opinion about every move I make, or will she do what she’s told? Is she going to get hysterical if we have to make a run for it and she breaks a nail?”

Abigail’s icy blue eyes glinted. “You may count on Delilah to behave sensibly, Mr. Steele. I didn’t raise her to indulge in histrionics. She’s a level-headed, responsible young woman as befits her station, and I can assure you she understands that sometimes duty—or circumstance—requires one to subvert one’s emotions and do what needs to be done.”

“Okay,” he said mildly. “But if she’s such a paragon of virtue, then how’d she wind up enjoying Condesta’s enforced hospitality?”

“I never claimed my granddaughter was perfect,” she said stiffly, raising her already elevated chin another fraction. “For all her many sterling qualities, once in a while, on exceedingly rare occasions, Delilah can be unexpectedly…stubborn.

“This trip was a perfect example. Although it could easily have been handled by one of the staff, whom we pay to do this sort of thing, and despite the fact that she has countless obligations that require her attention at home, she insisted on personally going to San Timoteo to inspect a school that had applied to the Anson Foundation, a nonprofit organization my late father started, for funding.

“As I understand it, once her business was completed she decided to attend some sort of local celebration. It got out of hand, the police were called in and when the young man she was with was threatened with arrest—” her lips tightened “—Delilah foolishly objected.”

Dominic nodded. The granddaughter might be a few years older and a little less flaky than he’d initially envisioned, but the rest of the story was still pretty much what he’d expected—a classic case of Rich Person Behaving Badly. “So how do you think she’s holding up?”

“I’m sure she’s managing. The Anson blood runs in her veins,” the old lady said coolly, as if that said it all.

And maybe it did, Dom decided. At least it didn’t sound as if the granddaughter was likely to wilt like a hothouse flower at her first sight of him. Or complain endlessly about his choices and methods, or because he hadn’t brought her champagne and caviar or her own private masseuse.

Not that he’d ever intended not to rescue her if given the opportunity. Even if Mrs. Sommers had revealed that her darling Delilah had all the charm of a polecat on steroids, he’d planned all along to go to San Timoteo to relieve El Presidente of his unwilling guest.

But he wasn’t a fool. For all his no-sweat approach to life, he believed in doing things right. And in the security business, that meant careful planning and meticulous preparation, which meant obtaining all the information you could.

Still, it was probably past time to end the suspense and let Queen Abigail know he was willing to save her bacon, so to speak. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” Mrs. Sommers abruptly appeared years younger, for the first time revealing the genuine concern hidden beneath her crusty exterior. “How soon can you leave?”

“Sometime in the next forty-eight hours. Let me look this over—” he tapped the envelope “—make some calls and I’ll get back to you later today with any other questions that crop up and a more definitive timetable.”

“Excellent,” she repeated. Grasping her purse, she started to stand.

Already formulating a list of things he needed to do, he pushed to his feet. Once again, Dom and his new client shook hands and then Gabe offered his arm to escort her from the room. The two were almost to the door when Dom reached in and drew out the sheaf of papers. Paper-clipped to the top was a five-by-seven color photo. He glanced at it.

A shock like the blast from a stun gun jolted through him.

“This is your granddaughter? Lilah Cantrell?” Damned if his voice didn’t come out in a croak.

Mrs. Sommers turned, still graceful despite her years. “Delilah, yes. Her father was the product of my union with my second husband, James.”

He fought to keep his expression neutral. It took only a second for him to realize why he hadn’t made the connection: when he’d known Lilah, her grandmother’s name hadn’t been either Sommers or Cantrell, and the family mansion had been referred to as—he racked his brain, and suddenly he had it—the Trayburne estate.

But even so…He felt Gabriel’s sudden scrutiny like a touch. Yet Gabe being Gabe, his brother didn’t let on. “Come along, Abigail,” the other man said smoothly. “Margaret has the paperwork you need to sign at the front desk.”

The second they’d cleared the threshold, Dom turned his attention back to the glossy studio image clutched in his hand. A fine-boned blonde with china-blue eyes, a tantalizing mouth and an expression both reserved and challenging looked back at him.

Well, hell. Delilah Sommers was actually Lilah Cantrell. And despite her grandmother’s claims to the contrary, Lilah was every inch a self-centered society princess.

That he knew from personal experience.

Because Lilah Cantrell was the first—and only—woman he’d ever fallen hard for. The one woman he’d never been able to predict. The only woman ever to have shown him the door before he’d been sure he was ready to go.

And definitely the last woman on earth he’d deliberately seek out.

He uttered the first half of Gabe’s earlier curse.

“Something wrong?”

He jerked his head up, startled to find his older brother standing in the doorway watching him.

He immediately blanked his face. “No.”

And there wasn’t, he told himself firmly, shoving the picture back into the envelope. So what if he’d just agreed—no, insisted—on not just seeking Lilah out, but being allowed the privilege of saving her shapely little prima donna butt? He was a pro and he intended to act like it.

After all, the past was just that—the past. And he and Li had been barely more than kids at the time of their clichéd summer fling. What’s more, he’d known from the start they had no future. If in the intervening years he’d occasionally thought about her with a pang of regret, it was only because the sex had been incredible. Hell, more than incredible. Maybe the best of his life—

“You sure you’re all right?”

Gabe’s question yanked him back to reality. He thought about it for all of half a second and then felt a genuine smile form on his lips. “Yeah, I am. Why wouldn’t I be? I get to leave this Popsicle weather, go where I can work on my tan and foil some bad guys in the bargain. Plus we get paid for it.

“Trust me, bro. I can handle it.”

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