Worth Every Risk

  His mission should be clear—determine her identity and find out if she was tangled up in anything illegal.

  She didn’t fit the picture of a felon. Damp hair framed her face. A soapy clean fragrance filled the air between them. His eyes trailed down the two enticing legs that spanned the break between shirttail and floor.

  There were dozens of reasons he should keep an emotional wall between them.

  But right now he didn’t want a wall between them. Hell, he didn’t want that T-shirt between the two of them and couldn’t ignore the inappropriate thought pounding in his brain.

  The only thought firing every cell in his brain.

  He wanted her. Bad.

  Worth Every Risk

  DIANNA LOVE SNELL

  DIANNA LOVE SNELL

  always liked to do things big. Dianna started out hand painting larger-than-life murals and outdoor advertising over 100 feet in the air throughout the Southeast. When technology advanced, she moved into creating spectacular marketing projects that light up the sky across the country from Boston to Dallas, and unusual designs for Olympic venues in Atlanta and Salt Lake City. Dangling high above ground must have gone to her head, because she began creating stories while she worked and decided to put her thoughts onto paper. Winning the Golden Heart and Daphne du Maurier Awards convinced her she was on the right track. Now, her books feature larger-than-life characters who conquer insurmountable odds to save themselves and the people they love. When not writing action-packed suspense stories, she rides her motorcycle in search of new locations to use as settings in future books. She lives in the Atlanta, Georgia, area with her motorcycle-instructor husband and a tank of unruly saltwater fish named after television characters. Please visit her Web site at www.diannalovesnell.com to contact her by e-mail and learn more about Dianna, or send snail mail to 1029 Peachtree Parkway North, Suite 335, Peachtree City, GA 30269.

  To my dear friend and first critique partner, Mae Nunn. To good friends—Sharon Yanish and her pilot husband, Ron, who critiqued and helped with research (any mistakes are my own), Donna Browning who cheered me on, Haywood Smith for her incredible brainstorming and Rita Herron who assured me this book would be published.

  To Terri Love, Manuella Robinson, Jane O’Hern, Walt and Cindy Lumpkin for encouragement and reading first drafts.

  Last and most important, this book is dedicated to the one person who supports everything I do…my best friend, my champion and the love of my life, Karl.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Lightning crackled nearby. Close, but not close enough.

  “Come on, God, please.” Angel Farentino whispered the desperate prayer for the hundredth time since midnight. But lights still burned through the opulent compound, her prison for the last seven days.

  Wind whistled across the beveled panes outside the French doors.

  “I should have asked for a hurricane instead of a thunderstorm,” she muttered under her breath. She nervously rolled a golf ball–shaped compass in her hand. Would Mason Lorde snap her fingers like twigs if he caught her with his solid gold desk toy?

  No chance he would let her off easy. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  Just like everything else in her life.

  Mason Lorde, her dream employer. Angel chuckled, a humorless sound. Mason had turned into her worst nightmare. But what young woman with her past wouldn’t have jumped at the chance for a job with a highly reputed firm? Assisting the warehouse manager for Lorde’s revered import company beat cleaning commodes any day.

  She’d thought.

  Brilliant light flashed across the heavens, highlighting the brass bed on her right. A silk duvet covered the lump she’d built with pillows. The sleeping effigy would gain her an extra minute.

  Angel consulted her black sports watch.

  In sixteen minutes Kenner would begin his 2:00 a.m. round.

  On the dot.

  Unlike the rest of the security, the new knuckle-dragging commander in charge of Mason’s thirty-room mansion lacked any sense of tolerance. Kenner had replaced poor Jeff who’d overseen the property for the past ten years.

  She could still hear Jeff screaming that bit of information as he pleaded for his life.

  Another glance at her timepiece: Fifteen minutes, thirty-three seconds.

  Angel fidgeted with the compass, desperate to turn the knob and flee, but patience was her only ally. Kenner certainly wasn’t. Who could fault him for his inflexible attitude? He had no intention of repeating Jeff’s mistake. His predecessor had smoked one too many cigarettes a week ago while she’d scurried down hallways in a fevered attempt to flee.

  No, Kenner followed instructions explicitly. Like when Mason had ordered everyone to witness Jeff’s punishment. Kenner had brought her outside and clamped hands the size of catcher’s mitts on each of her arms, scooting her up to the show performed for her benefit.

  Poor Jeff.

  Not a word had been uttered in the deep woods of North Carolina in Jeff’s defense as he cried and begged. No one in nearby Raleigh would ever believe what went on inside the private compound belonging to one of the city’s most prominent businessmen.

  Just over six feet tall, with thick golden hair and a champion’s physique, Mason, the Nordic Antichrist, had calmly raised his repulsive .357 Magnum handgun to Jeff’s head and pulled the trigger. A deafening explosion. So much blood.

  She’d have hit the ground when her knees buckled if Kenner hadn’t held her upright. And the smell. Who could forget the god-awful coppery stench? Her stomach roiled again.

  Angel clenched her fists, squeezed her eyes shut. The horror still seared her brain with gruesome images of death. Only a week had passed since her failed escape attempt. But the brutal image of the hole in his forehead and Jeff’s eyes locked open in panic would stay with her for as long as she lived.

  Along with the responsibility for his death.

  And all because of a job she thought was a godsend at first. What had she done so wrong in her life to end up working with a criminal again?

  Twelve minutes, forty-two seconds until room check.

  Jagged sparks flashed across the eerie sky, nearer, but still too far away. Her heart pounded against her breastbone.

  Please, God, make it happen.

  Thunder rumbled through the black heavens, longer than it had during the two power outages this past week, a common occurrence at the estate remedied temporarily by generators. She’d timed the last one. Should God deem to knock out the main electrical feed once more, she’d have nine minutes until three thousand volts surged back through the chain-link fence.

  Three thousand volts or face Mason when he returned tomorrow morning—not much of a choice.

  She was leaving whether the power went out or not.

  If Mason caught her running this time, her penance wouldn’t be light. She’d used her second chance and still nursed wounds from the aftermath. Her foiled escape had ended badly once his goons made quick work of recapturing her. Angel realized too late she’d mistaken Mason’s charm and attention as sincere interest, not the obsession of a twisted man.

  Her first clue came when the smooth businessman who’d fl
attered her with well-bred manners used his manicured hand to backhand her into a wall. Mason explained it as step one in teaching her compliance and submission.

  He’d wasted his time.

  Thunder barreled across the sky, directly overhead, rattling the delicate glass panels in front of her.

  Ten minutes, eighteen seconds left.

  Her restless fingers worried the cold silver band Mason had locked on her wrist. The slime actually smiled when he assured her the tracking device was for her own protection. He promised to return by the time she healed.

  Cuts and bruises weren’t major concerns, but living to see her twenty-sixth birthday was questionable.

  The guards had all breathed a sigh of relief.

  Only a crazy person would try to escape again.

  “We’ll see who’s crazy,” she whispered, “you son of a—”

  Lightning exploded in a clap of thunder, so close her arm hairs stood on end.

  The entire compound fell dark.

  Angel hit the self-timer on her watch and dropped the compass down the front of her Lycra bra top covered by a butter-yellow T-shirt. Mason’s choice of colors, not hers. Combined with the matching shorts, she’d stand out like a beacon when the first light popped back on.

  She pushed the French doors open and rushed into a cooling August rain that battered the private balcony. A worn navy blue cap blocked her eyes from the downpour and hid the shoulder-length auburn hair she’d fastened in a ponytail.

  There was no going back. Guards would enter the empty bedroom by the time lights flicked on.

  Feeling blindly in the dark for the rail enclosing the balcony, she gripped the ledge, eased over and locked her legs around the center column. Her arms strained to hold her body’s dead weight. Tremors shook through her at the fear of falling twenty feet. Slick, wet marble offered no traction to slow her descent.

  She slid down the soaked surface, slick as a greased fireman’s pole. Friction burned both her hands and exposed legs in seconds. Tears, mixed with rain, poured down her face from the searing pain.

  She lost her grip.

  Anticipating the impact, her muscles tensed. She plummeted through a black vortex. Sharp points stabbed into her shoulders and hips when she landed, but no excruciating pain from a broken bone. A boxwood hedge had spared her.

  Like an upside-down turtle on a bed of nails, she lay still, panting. The insides of her outstretched legs burned and wet bullets of rain pelted her face. She kicked both feet, rolled and dropped into a crouch to listen.

  No one was coming—yet.

  Through the darkness, she counted memorized steps across the lawn. Lightning crackled and fingered through the dark sky. When grass changed to concrete, she sidestepped around the Olympic pool. Raindrops slapped the chlorinated water.

  Her feet met grass again. She picked up the pace then bumped into a stone arbor strangled in vines. The scent of jasmine registered before she tripped on a thick stem and went down hard, scraping her palms.

  She gulped a deep breath, listening. No boots splashed across the wet ground anywhere near her.

  Angel jumped up and lunged into the blackness.

  Heel to toe, heel to toe. Don’t smack the ground.

  Finally, the big elm came into view during a quick flash of lightning. She stepped around the tree, sucking in short gasps of air, safe for the moment in a deadly game of hide-and-seek. Her hand shook violently as she pressed the button to illuminate the watch face.

  Four minutes and twelve seconds. Time to see if God thought she deserved one more break.

  Her ruse of a docile nature had paid off so far. The perimeter guards’ overconfidence had bred complacency when their boss was away.

  But what if someone started the generators too soon?

  She sprinted eight big steps forward and stopped. Drenched to the bone, trembling from fear, not cold, she reached out to touch the ten-foot-tall security fence. Survival instincts stayed her hand at the last second, but she still had to touch it.

  No tingle.

  Thank you, God.

  The current normally surging through the steel mesh could toss a grown man like a discarded rag doll.

  Kenner’s roar of anger from the balcony reached her. He’d found her empty bed.

  She clenched a handhold and began her ascent.

  Freedom came closer with every move. She hauled herself over the top. Her hand slipped. Soft flesh tore on the twisted chain link. She bit down hard to swallow a cry of pain. Her foot caught a toehold, and she scrambled down the other side.

  Leaping away from the fence, she froze. Lights blazed on across the compound.

  Wet chain link sizzled with renewed power.

  Angel fought raw nerves pushing her to tear through the woods like a madwoman. Instead, she backed away, her feet on autopilot. Thick underbrush clawed her calf, shooting a stab of pain up her leg. Still, she plunged ahead. Sheets of rain blasted through breaks in the trees. Thunder boomed overhead.

  How far could they track her?

  Would lightning interfere with the signal from her bracelet? She’d never know.

  A jagged branch snagged the edge of her thin nylon shorts and ripped a searing gash across her thigh. Adrenaline spikes forced her strained lungs to struggle for more oxygen. She caught quick glimpses of her surroundings during brilliant electrical displays.

  At an opening in the brush, she sucked in air and stumbled to a stop. Angel reached between her breasts and snatched out the gold paperweight then flipped it to the compass embedded in the top.

  The small airfield should be dead ahead.

  Distant barking broke through the deluge. She gripped the compass, tension racking through her. Could a dog pick up her scent in a storm? Angel leaped into a sprint, pushed on with one thought—surely someone at the airfield would help.

  Her fingers trailed over the band around her waist, an added weight that slowed her down. But leaving the eight rare coins wrapped within the plastic sleeve was not an option.

  She swore she’d never go to jail again. Her one and only conviction had not been her fault. The police hadn’t believed her story then.

  They’d laugh in her face this time—right before they handcuffed her.

  Jail was no longer her worst fear. The fact that she’d taken her employer’s newly acquired Saint-Gauden’s Double Eagle gold coins had sealed her death warrant.

  But the rare pieces didn’t belong to Mason, either. Possession doesn’t count if it’s stolen property.

  And those eight coins were her only hope for vindication.

  The FBI should be thrilled to have the priceless collection returned and be handed the scoop on Mason’s crime ring. Happy enough to hear her side once she could prove her alibi during the theft. None of that would happen until she was safe.

  As if someone had thrown a switch, the downpour fizzled into a steady shower. Angel burst through a break in the trees, slowed while her eyes adjusted, then moved forward steadily. She stumbled down a slight drop into a ditch, climbed up and touched pavement.

  The runway.

  Thank goodness there’d been no fence around this airport. She scrambled to stand, then drew a quaking breath. Her body vibrated with excitement until the bays of pursuit dogs closing in on her pierced the night.

  A fence might have had merits.

  An open hangar glowed brightly a quarter of a mile away. With no time to celebrate, she sprinted toward the illuminated area.

  Her thigh throbbed from the deep gash trickling blood. She ignored the ache and crept to the edge of the building. A tall, lanky man in mechanic’s coveralls loaded boxes into a small twin-prop cargo plane.

  When the worker finished, he walked across the spotless floor toward a brightly lit office.

  She could just make out two men standing inside. The mechanic pushed the door open and announced the airplane was ready to go.

  The pilot would take off soon and, when he did, she’d be right there with him.

 
One more gift from God.

  Zane Jackson peered through the small window on the office door into the pristine hangar. Hack’s man loaded the last box into his Cessna 404 Titan. Zane moved over to the pot of strong coffee always ready for pilots and filled his thermos.

  “I have to make this run,” Zane casually answered Hack before shifting around to face the terminal manager.

  “You cain’t be serious ’bout flying in this mess.” Hack laid a dog-eared queen of spades down, completing another game of solitaire.

  Oh, yeah, dead serious, for more reasons than just keeping my cover intact. Regardless, this was a rare opportunity Zane wouldn’t pass up.

  Genetically engineered white mice packed in six cases had to arrive alive and on time. Zane didn’t plan to blow the first chance he’d had for business with High Vision Laboratories, target of his DEA—Drug Enforcement Agency—special task force.

  “H-o-o-wee. Nobody needs to fly in a front like this one.” Hack shifted his bulk. “Didn’t you hear about that fellow down in Jacksonville? He told his wife he had to fly in that bad squall come off the ocean. Said he’d lose his contract with Shoreline Delivery if he didn’t. They used a bag to pick up parts of him scattered across Alabama.”

  Zane shrugged. Life was a gamble. He didn’t have much choice anyhow.

  Everyone vied for High Vision’s business. He’d finally gotten a shot with the group suspected as a principal connection in a drug-smuggling ring. If he didn’t meet the delivery deadline, somebody else would the next time.

  His orders were uncomplicated. Fly every shipment High Vision would give his bogus charter business, making him privy to their activities. The task force had an agent inside the High Vision operation who alerted his unit to questionable shipments. Zane’s job was to be in the right place on a moment’s notice. In the meantime, he’d cart lab mice or anything else High Vision requested.

  “Don’t you see?” Hack continued. “That pilot didn’t keep the contract anyways. He should of just stayed home and lost it.”

  Bad weather upped the potential for a problem, but compared to Zane’s past experiences, making Charleston tonight would only warrant a little more attention than usual.