For the Roses Read online

  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 again, 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.”

  Titles by Julie Garwood

  Sweet Talk

  The Ideal Man

  Sizzle

  Fire and Ice

  Shadow Music

  Shadow Dance

  Slow Burn

  Murder List

  Killjoy

  Mercy

  Heartbreaker

  Ransom

  Come the Spring

  The Clayborne Brides

  The Wedding

  For the Roses

  Prince Charming

  Saving Grace

  Castles

  The Secret

  The Prize

  The Gift

  Guardian Angel

  The Bride

  The Lion’s Lady

  Honor’s Splendour

  Rebellious Desire

  Gentle Warrior

  A Girl Named Summer

  Contents

  A Note from the Author about SWEET TALK

  Excerpt from SWEET TALK

  More Books by Julie Garwood

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Teaser Chapter for THE IDEAL MAN

  About the Author

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Aucklanb 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © 1995 by Julie Garwood All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-101-53152-5

  PUBLISHER’ S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’ s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’ s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  No man is an island, entire of it self; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

  —John Donne

  Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

  Meditation XVII

  July 3, 1860

  Dear Mama Rose,

  I’m writing to you in care of Mistress Livonia, and I pray this letter finds the two of you in good health. I’m going to share with you all the wonderful adventures I’ve had heading West, but first I have something very important to tell you. It’s about your new family. You have a namesake now, Mama. Her name is Mary Rose . . .

  Love,

  John Quincy Adam Clayborne

  Prologue

  New York City, 1860

  They found her in the trash. Luck was on the boys’ side; the rats hadn’t gotten to her yet. Two of the vermin had already climbed onto the top of the covered picnic basket and were frantically clawing at the wicker, while three others were tearing at the sides with their razor-sharp teeth. The rats were in a frenzy, for they smelled milk and tender, sweet-scented flesh.

  The alley was the gang’s home. Three of the four boys were sound asleep in their make-do beds of converted wooden crates lined with old straw. They’d put in a full night’s work of thieving and conning and fighting. They were simply too exhausted to hear the cries of the infant.

  Douglas was to be her savior. The fourth member of the gang was taking his turn doing sentry duty at the narrow mouth of the alley. He’d been watching a dark-cloaked woman for quite some time now. When she came hurrying toward the opening with the basket in her arms, he warned the other gang members of possible trouble with a soft, lowpitched whistle, then retreated into his hiding place behind a stack of old warped whiskey barrels. The woman paused in the archway, gave a furtive glance back over her shoulder toward the street, then ran into the very center of the alley. She stopped so suddenly her skirts flew out around her ankles. Grabbing the basket by the handle, she swung her arm back as far as it would go to gain momentum and threw the basket into a pyramid of garbage piled high against the opposite wall. It landed on its side, near the top. The woman was muttering under her breath all the while. Douglas couldn’t make out any of the words because the sound she made was muffled by another noise coming from inside the basket. It sounded like the mewing of a cat to him. He spared the basket only a glance, his attention firmly on the intruder.

  The woman was obviously afraid. He noticed her hands shook when she pulled the hood of her cloak further down on her forehead. He thought she might be feeling guilty because she was getting rid of a family pet. The animal was probably old and ailing, and no one wanted it around any longer. People were like that, Douglas figured. They never wanted to be bothered by the old or the young. Too much trouble, he guessed. He found himself shaking his head and almost scoffed out loud over the sorry state of affairs in general, and this woman’s cowardice in particular. If
she didn’t want the pet, why didn’t she just give it away? He wasn’t given time to mull over a possible answer, for the woman suddenly turned around and went running back to the street. She never looked back. When she was almost to the corner, Douglas gave another whistle. This one was loud, shrill. The oldest of the gang members, a runaway slave named Adam, leapt to his feet with the agility and speed of a predator. Douglas pointed to the basket, then took off in pursuit of the woman. He’d noticed the thick envelope sticking out of her coat pocket and thought it was time he took care of a little business. He was, after all, the best eleven-year-old pickpocket on Market Street.

  Adam watched Douglas leave, then turned to get the basket. It wasn’t an easy task.

  The rats didn’t want to give up their bounty. Adam hit one squarely on the head with a jagged-edged stone. The vile creature let out a squeal before scurrying back to the street. Adam lit his torch next and waved it back and forth above the basket to frighten the other vermin away. When he was certain they were all gone, he lifted the basket out of the garbage and carried it back to the bed of crates where the other gang members still slept.

  He almost dropped the thing when he heard the faint sounds coming from inside.

  “Travis, Cole, wake up. Douglas found something.”

  Adam continued on past the beds and went to the dead end of the alley. He sat down, folded his long, skinny legs in front of him, and put the basket on the ground. He leaned back against the brick wall and waited for the other two boys to join him.

  Cole sat down on Adam’s right side, and Travis, yawning loudly, hunkered down on his other side.

  “What’d you find, boss?” Travis asked, his voice thick with sleep.