This was so far off her radar, sitting here on Christmas morning, her hand in the hand of the sexiest man she’d ever seen, both of them thinking of the night before. Both of them thinking about sex. Both of them thinking that soon, they’d be back in bed.
He’d felt the little jolt in her hand as he’d said the words. Her hand trembled slightly in his. She couldn’t think of a word to say. The silence of the house enveloped them as they watched each other.
The silence. The silence of the house. The house was silent. Completely, utterly still.
“Oh, God no!” Caroline jumped up, all pleasurable thoughts of lovemaking and celebrating Christmas gone, vanished from her head as if they’d never lodged there.
She knew exactly what that silence meant. The heating system gave off a constant low hum, a background noise that became white noise, something you forgot instantly, but it was always there. The utter silence in the house could only mean one thing—the boiler had died.
Tears sprang to her eyes.
“The boiler,” she whispered. “Oh, Jack, the boiler’s just kicked the bucket again, oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
Caroline knew exactly what the boiler dying entailed. Mack the Jerk wouldn’t come until Monday evening at the earliest, so they had three miserable, painful days to look forward to.
The house would take about two hours to lose its heat, then the icy fingers of the outside world would reach in and squeeze the house and them, hard.
All of today, all of Sunday and all of Monday would be spent in the freezing cold. It meant bundling up with every item of clothing possible, until only the fingertips and nose showed, and they would slowly chill so much it would hurt. It meant huddling around the fireplace, roasting on one side, freezing on the other. Any other part of the house would be so cold it was painful.
Once, she’d actually had to crack the ice in the toilets to relieve herself.
Foolish foolish Caroline, thinking that this Christmas would be any different from past Christmases, hard and lonely.
The light elation she’d had since waking up had vanished utterly. Things had seemed…so different. For the first time in a long while, there was a lot to look forward to—the zing of attraction she hadn’t felt in years, a couple of days just lazing around, flirting, having fabulous sex.
Instead, a couple of grim days trying to just stay alive in the freezing cold was what she had to look forward to.
“Relax,” Jack murmured, and ran a finger down her cheek.
Easy for him to say. Though, come to think of it, maybe he knew exactly what it was like to have to huddle for days seeking warmth. He’d fought in the Hindu Kush. She distinctly remembered him saying that. She knew enough geography to know exactly where the Hindu Kush was—the foothills of the Himalayas. So this was something he could do.
It’s just that this wasn’t a mission to some godforsaken outback, where hardship was the norm. It was a home he’d paid good money to live in, and he had the right to expect comfort.
Caroline had wanted some lightheartedness back in her life, after so many years of struggle and darkness. She’d been so looking forward to a couple of days of flirtation and lightness and…well, yes, sex.
She’d been planning on drowning him in good food and raiding the Lake wine cellar. What good were all those bottles of Syrah and Valpolicella doing down there in the dark?
And instead, here she was, in a repeat of the horrors of the Kippings. Cardigans pulled out, polite smiles, strangled conversation trying to avoid the stark truth of a freezing home.
Jack studied her features, then turned on his heels.
He was leaving.
Caroline didn’t blame him a bit.
“Jack?” It came out a small croak.
He turned.
This was so hard, after all her childish yearnings. Merry Christmas, indeed. Caroline forced herself to stand upright and caught herself twisting her hands. She let them drop by her side. This was hard, yes, but she’d been doing hard for a long, long time now.
“Do you—” She had to swallow past the tightness in her throat. “Do you want your money back?”
She’d surprised him. He looked totally blank for a moment. There was something about his face that told her he wasn’t often surprised. Then he frowned in puzzlement. “Why would I want that?”
“Because—because you’re going to spend the Christmas weekend in a freezing-cold house. That wasn’t what you paid for. I imagine you want to leave.”
He searched her features. “You’re upset,” he said. “So you get a free one.” He turned around again.
Caroline stood, swaying a little, blinking with surprise, holding her arms around her midriff. Already the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees. “So…where are you going?”
“To go get the toolkit in the garage,” he said, without turning around, “so I can fix that damned boiler.”
JFK Airport
“ENP Security, how may I help you?”
Deaver turned into the plastic shell of the public phone at Kennedy. “Yeah,” he said in a heavy, nasal Midwestern accent. “Can I speak to Jack Prescott? This is Pat Lawrence, tell him we met at Intersec in Dubai last year.”
Coming into Customs as a foreigner had been beyond weird, but it had gone smoothly. Security was primed to question Middle Eastern males, not Finns. The photo likeness had been enough for Deaver to be waved through.
First order of business, find Prescott. The Old Man had died, Prescott would be the new CEO of ENP. Deaver had to find out if he was in North Carolina still.
Axel’s documents would hold for a while, but soon he’d need more.
He prepared to be put on hold. The ENP secretaries wouldn’t put anyone through to Prescott immediately. They’d make him jump through hoops. Deaver had a phone card and was willing to wait it out, though.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the secretary said, instead of Hold please. “Mr. Prescott is no longer with the company.”
Deaver straightened. “What? That’s ridiculous! Of course—”
“The company has been sold to Orion Security and Mr. Nathan Bodine is the new CEO. Have a nice day.” The dial tone came on.
Fuck! Deaver stared at the phone, jaw clenched, breath coming in spurts. The son of a bitch had sold the company. His father barely dead in the ground, and the bastard handed over his life’s work, just like that. Well, of course. Fucker had a fortune in diamonds. He wasn’t going to go to work every day when he had a fucking fortune in his hand.
Deaver angrily punched out another number. Prescott’s home line. Secretive bastard had never given him his home number. Deaver’d had to lift it from company files.
Eight rings. He was about to hang up when a recorded female voice answered. “The number you have dialed is no longer connected.”
Son of a bitch had run! Simply pulled up stakes and disappeared!
Deaver hadn’t factored that in at all. Prescott had thrown him to the dogs and stolen his money, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he would disappear with it.
Prescott was a close-mouthed bastard and didn’t have friends—or at least men he’d have confided in—in the company. Even if Deaver wanted to take the chance of showing his face in Monroe, he’d probably come up with nothing. No one would know where Prescott had run off to.
Deaver knew. Fucker had gone to his woman, this Caroline Lake. Find her, find him, find the diamonds.
He needed to regroup, and he needed ID and weapons.
There was a man in New York named Drake, lived out in Brighton Beach. Drake could get anything, anywhere, as long as you had the price. Deaver would hang out in Manhattan, get himself kitted out with new ID, while he searched the Net for Caroline Lake.