Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard #10)

Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard #10) Page 3

Olivia was so shocked by his behavior, she bounced between disbelief and outrage. She shoved his hands away, pulled her top together, and said, “If you try to touch me again, you’ll regret it.”

He tried again, and she retaliated. She heard a crunching sound when she punched him and felt a good deal of satisfaction. It was short-lived. A giant of a man with a thick neck and bald head appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing a tailored black suit, but he looked like a thug. He was at the other end of the terrace and heading toward her. As Jorguson was screaming and holding his nose with one hand, he was waving to the big man and pointing at Olivia with the other.

“Martin, see what she did to me?” he howled. “Get her, get her.”

Get her? Was he twelve? Olivia could feel her face turning red. She kept her attention centered on the bodyguard as she jumped to her feet. His suit jacket opened, and she saw a gun. He hadn’t reached for it, though, and was glancing around to see how many people were watching.

She was in trouble, all right. She thought about taking off one of her stiletto heels and using that as a weapon, but she decided she could do more damage with it on. She spied Terry watching from the doorway with a cell phone to his ear. She hoped he was calling the police.

“Do you have a permit to carry that gun?” she demanded of the bodyguard, trying to make her voice sound as mean as possible. Now, why, in God’s name, had she asked that? What did she care if he had a permit or not? She was slowly slipping her hand inside her purse to get to her pepper spray. She couldn’t find it and realized then that, when she’d changed purses, she’d left the spray at home on her bedside table. A lot of good it would do her there.

The thug named Martin, zigzagging around the tables, was getting closer. The man was built like a sumo wrestler. Olivia figured she was on her own. The other diners were already beginning to scatter. She stepped back from the table, dropped her purse into the chair, and waited for the man to reach her. If he touched her, she’d kick him where it mattered most, and if he blocked her, she’d go for his knee or his midsection.

Jorguson, holding his bloody nose, was backing away but still pointing at her and shouting. “How dare you touch me. You’re going to be sorry. I know people who will hurt you. You don’t hit me and get away with it. Don’t you know who I am and what I can do? One phone call is all it will take,” he screamed. “You’re a dead woman, Olivia MacKenzie. Do you hear me? A dead woman.”

Of course she’d heard him. She thought everyone within a ten-block area had heard him. She refused to give him any satisfaction by reacting, though, and that was probably why he was becoming more outrageous with his threats.

Her attention remained centered on the bodyguard. She thought he would do his best to intimidate her in front of his employer, maybe even try to get her to apologize to Jorguson—hell would freeze before she’d do that—but he surely wouldn’t touch her. Not in front of all these people.

Or maybe he wouldn’t care who was watching. Jorguson had shouted his intent to have her killed. Would this bodyguard try to top that crazy threat?

There was a wall of windows in the restaurant facing the river, and diners were crammed together, their faces plastered to the glass. Some had their cell phones glued to their ears; others were using the cell phone cameras to record the incident . . . for YouTube, no doubt. Certainly, most of them had witnessed Jorguson ripping her dress and then screaming after she’d punched him. The man had howled like an outraged hyena. Surely they’d heard his ridiculous threats, too.

The bodyguard took Jorguson’s orders to “get her” to heart. He lunged. He grabbed her upper arm and twisted as he jerked her toward him. Pain shot up into her neck and down to her fingers. His grip was strong enough to break her bone.

He glanced over his shoulder at the crowd before turning back to her. “You’re coming with me,” he ordered.

A woman rushed out of the restaurant shouting, “You leave her alone.” At the same time, two men in business suits ran past the woman to help Olivia.

“Let go of me,” she demanded as she slammed the heel of her shoe into the top of his foot.

He grunted and let go. Olivia got in a solid kick, and he doubled over. But not for long. He quickly recovered and, roaring several grossly unflattering names at her, straightened and reached for his gun. His face was now bloodred.

Good Lord, was he going to shoot her? The look in his eyes suggested that he might. Apparently, Martin had forgotten his audience, or he no longer cared he was being watched. His impulse control had vanished. He had the most hateful look on his face as he pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants. The two businessmen coming to her aid stopped when they spotted the weapon.

“I said you’re coming with me,” he snarled as he lunged.

“No, I’m not.” She threw a twelve-dollar glass of iced tea at him. He ducked.

“Bitch.” He spit the word and tried to grab her again.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. Now get away from me.”

The gun seemed to be growing in his hand. She backed away from him, and that infuriated him even more. He came at her once more, and before she could protect herself, he backhanded her. He struck the side of her face, his knuckles clipping her jaw. It was a hard hit and hurt like hell. The blow threw her backward, but even as she was falling, she didn’t take her eyes off the gun.

She landed on her backside, winced from the impact on her tailbone, and quickly staggered to her feet.

She understood what the expression “seeing stars” meant. Dazed, she tried to back away.

The thug raised his gun again, and suddenly he was gone. Olivia saw a blur fly past her, tackling the bodyguard to the ground. The gun went one way, and the thug went the other, landing hard. Within seconds her rescuer had the man facedown on the grass and was putting handcuffs on him while reading him his rights. When he was finished, he motioned to another man wearing a badge and gun who was rushing across the terrace.

With one of his knees pressed against the bodyguard’s spine, the rescuer turned toward her. She suddenly felt lightheaded. She could have sworn she saw an ethereal glow radiating all around him and the sound of a singing choir echoing overhead. She closed her eyes and shook her head. The blow to her jaw must be making her hallucinate. When she opened her eyes again, the vision and the choir were gone, but the man was still there, looking up at her with beautiful hazel eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked as he hauled the bodyguard to his feet.

“Olivia MacKenzie,” she answered. She sounded bewildered, but she couldn’t help that. The last few minutes had been hair-raising, and she was having trouble forming a clear thought.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Agent Grayson Kincaid. FBI. Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

The bodyguard finally found his voice. “I was protecting my boss.”

“With a Glock?” Kincaid asked. “And against an unarmed woman?”

“She kicked me.”

A hint of a smile turned his expression. “Yeah, I saw.”

“I’m bringing charges.”

“You attacked her,” Kincaid snapped. “If I were you, I’d be real quiet right now.”

The bodyguard ignored the suggestion. “Mr. Jorguson has known for a long time that the FBI has been tailing him and listening in on his private conversations. What you’re doing is illegal, but you people don’t play by the rules, do you?”

“Stop talking,” Kincaid said.

Another agent grabbed hold of the bodyguard’s arm and led him away. He didn’t go peacefully. He was shouting for a lawyer.

“Hey, Ronan,” Kincaid shouted.

The agent dragging the bodyguard away turned back. “Yeah?”

“Did you see it?”

Ronan smiled. “Oh yeah, I saw it all. After I put this clown in the back of the car, I’ll go get Jorguson.”

Olivia glanced around the terrace. In all the commotion she hadn’t seen him slip away.

Kincaid nodded, then turned back to her.

“The gun is under the table,” she offered.

“I’ll get it,” Kincaid said.

He walked over to her, and she flinched when he reached out to touch her. Frowning, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see how bad it is.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted. “I’m fine.”

He ignored her protest. He gently pushed her hair away from the side of her face. “Your cheek’s okay, but he really clipped your jaw. It’s already starting to swell. You need to put ice on it. Maybe I should take you to the emergency room, have a physician look at your arm, too. I saw the way he twisted it.”

“I’ll be all right. I’ll ice it,” she promised when he looked like he wanted to argue.

He took a step back and said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to him faster.”

“You got here before he shot me. He really was going to shoot me, wasn’t he?” She was still astounded by the possibility and getting madder by the second.

“He might have tried,” he agreed.

She frowned. “You’re awfully nonchalant about it.”

“I would have taken him down before he shot you.”

Her cell phone rang. She checked the number, then sent the call to voice mail. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man rounding the corner of the building and glaring at her. He stormed toward her, just as Kincaid bent to retrieve the bodyguard’s gun.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” the man shouted.

Since he was wearing a gun and badge, she knew he was also FBI. “Excuse me?”

“You ruined a perfectly good sting. Were you wearing a wire? Did you get anything we could use? No, I didn’t think so. You weren’t supposed to be here until one. We weren’t ready.”

The agent screaming at her was an older man, late fifties, she guessed. His face was bright red, and his anger could light fires.

He moved closer until he was all but touching her, but she refused to be intimidated. “Stop yelling at me.”

“She’s not with the FBI,” Kincaid said.

“How . . .” The confused agent took a step back. He looked at Olivia, then at Kincaid.

“I’d know if she was. Your undercover woman hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Two months’ planning,” the agent muttered. He pointed at Olivia. “Are you wearing a wire? Jorguson seems to think you are. Are you with a newspaper or—”

“Poole, leave her the hell alone,” Kincaid said.

Poole was staring at her chest. Uh-oh. Olivia knew where this was going.

“If you think you’re going to look for a wire, be advised. I’ll punch you, too,” she warned.

Distraught to have his investigation fall apart, Agent Poole stepped closer and said, “Listen, you. Don’t threaten me. I could make your life a nightmare.” He put his hand in front of her face and unfolded three fingers as he said, “I’m F . . . B . . . I.”

She smiled. It wasn’t the reaction he expected. “You want to talk nightmares?” she said. She put her hand up to his face and unfolded her three fingers. “I’m I . . . R . . . S.”

TWO

Olivia was still waiting with Terry the waiter by her side. He tried several more pickup lines, and when none of them worked, he finally shrugged and went back into the restaurant.

Agent Kincaid had told Olivia to stay put until he and the other agents dealt with Jorguson and his bodyguard. He hoped by the time they returned to her Agent Poole would have calmed down. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Poole’s expression bordered on homicidal. His eyes bulged, his jaw dropped, and his face contorted in a scowl. Had Kincaid not been so angry with him for deliberately ignoring orders, he might have laughed.

It was apparent that Poole still didn’t want to believe that Olivia was just an innocent bystander. He planted his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Someone tipped you off that we were running this operation, right? You’re with a newspaper or one of those trashy television shows, aren’t you? Are you doing an exposé on Jorguson or something? If you are, I’ll shut you down,” he threatened.

“IRS,” she quietly repeated.

“I want proof.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out an oblong laminated card. “Here you go.”

Kincaid thought she sounded almost cheerful, which didn’t make any sense considering what she had just been through. She should have been on her last nerve, but Olivia MacKenzie’s calm demeanor was impressive . . . not to mention her stunning beauty. Her eyes were a clear violet blue. Her complexion was flawless, and her lips were lush and full. From what he could see, her body was just about perfect, too. Full breasts, narrow waist, and long, shapely legs. It was one hell of a challenge not to stare at her. He hadn’t experienced a reaction like this since he was a teenager.

“Okay, then,” Olivia said. She snatched her ID from Agent Poole and slipped it into her purse. Then she tried to leave. “Good luck with Jorguson and Martin.” She turned toward the parking lot, but Kincaid stopped her by grabbing hold of her hand. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” she repeated, looking up at him. “I really should return to work, and I’m going to have to go home and change clothes first.”

Ignoring her protest, he gave Poole his full attention. “Shut this down and go back to the office,” he said, his voice decisive and abrupt. “You and I need to have a word as soon as I’m finished here.”

“How long will that take?” Poole demanded.

“As long as it takes.”

“Yes, sir.” Poole gave Olivia one last glare and took off.

“He looks like I just ruined his life,” Olivia remarked.

“Isn’t that what you do at the IRS?”

She could hear a smile in his voice. “Pretty much,” she agreed. She tugged her hand away from his and asked, “Where exactly are we going?”

“Inside.”

She stopped. “Oh, I don’t think . . .”

He took her hand again and pulled her along toward the restaurant doors. She gave up on protesting. She could have argued, but she didn’t think anything she said would matter. Agent Kincaid looked like the kind of man who was used to getting his way. The air of authority about him was a bit daunting, and she had the feeling he wasn’t going to let her go anywhere until he was finished with her.