Secrets and Seduction: 5 Romance Novels (52 page)

“Is he able to testify?”

“He says he will be.”

“Trial starts Monday. If he doesn’t appear in court — ”

“Mr. Andryzak knows that and he plans to appear.”

“He might have complications or a relapse.”

Ciara glared at him. “He has just as much to prove by coming to court from his sickbed as you do.”

“I didn’t come from my sickbed.”

“No? Two days out of the hospital is hardly enough time to recover your strength.”

“I’m not going to argue about this with you. This is my firm. If you want to continue to work here … ”

Ciara drew herself erect, lifting her chin. “I’ll get to the rest of the files.” Then she walked out, her stride as regal as a queen.

Bryce’s office was emptier without her in it. She stimulated his brain when they were together — and other parts more southerly. Recovering, ha.

He settled back in his chair to read through dozens of depositions. A few hours later he heard raised voices. Since that rarely happened in his firm, he left his office to investigate.

“The police should be vetting packages before they come here,” Ciara told someone with some heat. Bryce should have known she’d be involved.

“It’s not addressed to the company. It’s personal. Besides, I’ve seen this company’s name before.” Sharron, his office manager, explained, gripping a box to her mid-section. She was a short, stout, meticulously groomed brunette in her mid-forties. “Mr. Gannon orders his shoes from there.”

Shoes. His new hand-stitched leather shoes had arrived in record time. Money did get things done faster.

“I think we should call the bomb squad,” Ciara insisted.

Like hell he was going to lose another pair of shoes. Bryce stormed down the hall to where the two women stood facing off in front of the reception desk. He grabbed the box from Sharron. Yes, the company was where he’d ordered the shoes only a few days ago.

“Mr. Gannon,” the receptionist cried, startled.

“Bryce, don’t take any chances,” Ciara warned.

“Thanks, Sharron.” Bryce nodded to his office manager. He spun on his heel, happy to have saved the shoes from a dunking or worse.

“Bryce, you don’t know what’s in there,” Ciara protested, following him.

“Shoes. I ordered them.” He couldn’t wait to put them on. The old pair he wore now was uncomfortable.

Snatching his letter opener from his desk drawer, Bryce pried open the box and lifted the lid.

“Bryce, at least — ”

The muffled boom shot white powder into Bryce’s face, into his nose and open mouth, and rocked him back on his feet gasping and scrubbing desperately at his face, trying to clear his eyes. God, not more ricin! His heart pounded in his ears. The powder tasted like paste. He needed to spit. He tried not to inhale.

“Bryce!” Ciara screamed. She was covered in a fine mist of white powder.

Bryce gasped for air and his lungs constricted with the powder. He began coughing and couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t catch his breath or draw in enough air. Fear and panic danced a dizzying whirl in his mind. He remembered how much it hurt last time, and that wasn’t a direct hit. This time he’d gotten the full dose. His breath whistled as he drew it in. His lungs burned with the lack of air. Slowly he sank to the thick carpet, clutching the desk to keep upright.

God, it was just like last time. Only this time he was going to die for sure.

“Call nine-one-one!” Ciara screamed. “Bryce, where’s your oxygen?”

Bryce couldn’t speak. Why did Ciara think oxygen would help, anyway? Through the white cloud that slowly drifted to the carpet he noted his staff filling the doorway of his office. Were they as terrified as he was? He hadn’t even gotten to use the second chance he’d been given. And he really wanted to.

It seemed the familiar wasn’t so safe after all.

• • •

Ciara watched Bryce gasp for breath and felt helpless. Her mind and heart were racing. “Oxygen. He needs oxygen,” she snapped at the paralyzed staff. “Look for an oxygen tank.”

One young blonde woman broke free to search the room on the outskirts of the white cloud.

How long would it be before Ciara was gasping like Bryce? She’d coughed a couple of times when the powder first hit her, but nothing more. Had she been far enough away to avoid a fatal dose? Or was she going to die more slowly? She didn’t want to die.

“There’s no oxygen tank,” the blonde reported, wringing her hands. She sounded near hysteria.

Hadn’t Bryce brought it to work? Damn his pride. “Try to find some in this building.”

“Nine-one-one’s coming,” Sharron reported in a breathless voice. “Oh, God, it
was
a bomb.” She moaned like a dying thing.

How long did a fatal dose of ricin take to kill someone? Would Bryce die right here as they watched? His blue eyes were wild as he struggled to breathe.

“Bryce, help is coming.”

What more could she say? Ciara covered his hand with hers where he gripped the desk edge. He turned his hand under hers and squeezed in a death grip.

She winced at that description.

Oh, where was help? If they could only make it in time. She knelt beside him on the plush carpet and he gave her a grateful look.

The minutes stretched out into eons, punctuated by the tortured shriek of air whistling in and out of Bryce’s lungs. His hand grew clammy. Sweat broke out on his upper lip, beading the white powder to paste. His lips had a blue cast to them, like she’d seen in the ICU. He sank to the carpet as his strength faded.

Shouts came from the hallway, excited babble, and then the EMTs surged through the doorway. Ciara had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. A little of the tension eased out of her muscles.

“Letter bomb,” Sharron informed them.

“It might be ricin poison,” Ciara added as she stood and moved out of the way.

The EMTs surrounded Bryce, laying him flat, getting an oxygen mask on him. They donned masks over their mouths and noses.

“He just got out of the hospital last week from a ricin letter bomb,” Ciara added.

“God, this is the guy?” one EMT asked.

She nodded.

“You were in the bomb’s path too?” the EMT asked, looking her over.

“Yes, but I don’t feel any symptoms.”

“Maybe you’d better sit down, to be safe. We’ll get to you in a minute.”

The EMTs worked vigorously over Bryce. They opened his shirt and attached monitor leads. Ciara could almost count the half minutes by the calming of Bryce’s breathing. When the horrible wheezing stopped, her heart hitched, but Bryce’s eyes were open and following the activity around him.

She remembered he’d said the last time he’d been unconscious when he reached the hospital. Would that be soon?

Police officers entered the room and shooed the frightened employees outside. Ciara heard Sharron taking charge. One policeman knelt next to her.

“Were you contaminated, miss?”

“Yes, but I feel all right. I was trying to stop Bryce from opening the box. I wanted him to call the bomb squad.”

Why hadn’t she insisted more firmly? Why hadn’t she grabbed his arm? She was a strong woman. She could have stopped him. She didn’t want him hurt or killed.

The thought startled her. A week ago she wouldn’t have cared less.

Bryce stared at her until an EMT moved to block her view.

“Can you walk me through what happened?” the officer coaxed.

The EMTs gently loaded Bryce onto a gurney.

“Can it wait? We need to get to the hospital. The box is on his desk.” She waved in that direction.

The EMTs paused by her. “You’d better come with us.”

“I’ll follow you to the hospital,” the cop said.

It was a worrisome ride in the ambulance with the siren screaming. Ciara wanted to scream too. She wanted to shake off the tension that tightened her muscles and the fear that made her nearly nauseous. Thank God it was a short trip. Bryce was wheeled right into an exam room.

“Bryce Gannon, aged thirty-nine, possible ricin poisoning. Letter bomb,” the EMT explained. “My station brought him in last week for the same thing.”

Medical staff converged on Bryce and a woman in blue scrubs ran from the room, probably to get Bryce’s records.

“You’ll have to wait outside, miss,” a nurse told her.

“She was exposed too,” the EMT said.

“I feel all right,” Ciara objected. “Help Bryce.”

“Ricin is toxic. I was here the last time this man was brought in, so I know. We need to check you over,” the nurse insisted.

“I read about ricin when I went to work for Mr. Gannon. If the symptoms haven’t already set in, I have hours until it’s critical. I can wait.”

“All right. But stay here. We don’t want you out in the waiting room.”

Ciara watched them cut Bryce’s clothes off, and winced. Bryce wasn’t going to like that.

How strange that she thought he’d survive this attack too. Maybe because he was still conscious. Odd, he’d gotten only a partial exposure last time. This time he’d gotten the powder right in his face. Had it been a more concentrated poison last time?

A tech ran out with a sample. Ciara prayed that it was less powerful ricin. If, no, when, Bryce recuperated this time, she’d insist that he have police protection.

Since when did she have any power over him? She decided she’d call Lawrence Baisden and have him wield the power of the Attorney General’s office.

In a few minutes the tech slammed back through the swinging doors. “It’s not ricin.”

“What? Well then what is it?” the E.R. doctor snapped.

“Flour mostly. Somebody’s playing a sick joke on this guy.”

“But he couldn’t breathe,” Ciara protested while her mind whirled. A joke? This wasn’t funny.

The woman in blue scrubs followed the tech in with a medical chart. “Mr. Gannon has reduced lung capacity, like COPD. He’s on bronchodilators. Any extreme level of stress would bring on an asthma-like attack.”

She leaned over Bryce. “Mr. Gannon, why didn’t you use your inhaler when you couldn’t breathe?”

Ciara moved closer to hear Bryce’s answer.

“Thought — it — was — ricin.” His voice rasped and rattled like stones in a metal can.

“Dr. Khalil is his pulmonologist,” the woman continued.

“Page him,” the doctor ordered. “Get him here so we can find out if his patient’s had a relapse.”

Ciara sagged against the wall, letting out her breath. Bryce would live. But that sick bastard who’d sent the bomb would see the inside of a jail cell if she had anything to say about it.

When the staff was done poking and prodding Bryce and word came that Dr. Khalil was on his way, Ciara found herself alone with Bryce. She moved to his side. Hesitantly, she took his hand. It was cool to the touch. He squeezed in return.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Lousy.” The word was muffled through the oxygen mask.

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah.”

His stare was intense. He signaled her lower. When she leaned over him, he moved his mask and kissed her. He tasted of flour and antiseptic and man. Ciara felt a thrill run through her that traveled to her toes and curled them. Her pulse went haywire.

When the kiss ended, Ciara pulled back gently so Bryce could replace the oxygen mask. “What was that for?”

“For holding my hand.”

She frowned. That made no sense.

“For wanting me alive,” he croaked.

Why would he think she wanted him dead?

“Excuse me, the doctor said it was okay to come in,” FBI agent Garrison said from the doorway. He wore a navy suit. Agent Pollack, also wearing a dark suit, followed him in.

“Miss Alafita,” Garrison’s dark eyes were full of keen interest and intelligent speculation.

She moved away from Bryce giving the agents better access to the gurney.

“The doctor said it might be difficult for you to talk, so I’ll try to limit the questions to yes or no answers,” Garrison said to Bryce.

“We’ve been to the crime scene,” Agent Pollack explained. “The doctor said it’s not ricin, which explains the note that came with the package.” He held it up in its clear evidence bag where Bryce could see it.

Bryce frowned.

The agent showed it to Ciara.

Walk away now or you’re dead.

“‘Walk away now or you’re dead’ is pretty clear,” Agent Garrison said.

So the letter bomb had only been a warning? That made no sense. Bryce voiced his doubts. “Two real bombs and then a fake? Hoax?”

“Rather an elaborate hoax,” Agent Pollack said. “The box you received had a typed FedEx airbill on it. An overseas airbill. Someplace in Italy.”

Bryce’s shoes came from Italy. “Shoes? In the box?”

Pollack glanced at his partner before answering. “No. Why did you think there were?”

Bryce slid the oxygen mask aside. “Ordered them. Three days ago.”

“How?” Pollack demanded.

“Internet.”

Pollack nodded. “They’re tracking your computer movements trying to get to you.”

“Who?” Ciara asked.

Bryce couldn’t shake his head in time to prevent Pollack from answering. “Adam Steele’s rival.”

“Rival?” she choked. “You think this is over the Steele case?”

“It’s the likeliest possibility,” Garrison said.

“That’s crazy. Attacking the defense attorney doesn’t assure Steele goes to jail. He’ll just get another lawyer. Why not just kill Steele?”

“He’s probably as well guarded as the president of the United States,” Garrison told her. “The chances of getting to him — and getting away alive — are slim. Killing Mr. Gannon, or any other defense attorney, has a better chance of succeeding.”

His partner continued, “Now they’re trying to scare you off the case.”

“Mind games.” Ciara shuddered.

“Russian roulette,” Garrison agreed. “Will the next time be an empty threat — ?”

“Or a bullet,” Bryce rasped.

Ciara gasped. “Bryce needs protection before it comes to that.”

“Mr. Gannon,” Agent Pollack began, “You’ve refused protection each time it’s been offered. We’re offering again.”

“Take it, Bryce,” Ciara begged.

Bryce sighed and nodded. “No safe house.”

“You’d be safest there,” Garrison argued.