Read the book: «Lazlo's Last Stand»
The battle ended with Lucia pinned to the mat by Corbett’s lithe body.
She fought to block the bombardment of her senses. “Someday I’m going to beat you. When I do, will you give me a field assignment?”
Corbett’s sensual lips, enticingly out of reach, twitched into a smile. “I have better uses for your talents.” He glanced at the clock. “I imagine you’ll need extra time to dress for our…date this evening?”
Lucia looked into his eyes and anger mixed with helpless longing. She masked them both with a teasing smile. “A date? Hmm, you’re hoping the assassin will strike again this evening, and you can hardly put one of your usual debutantes in the middle of a takedown operation, can you?”
She enjoyed a small sense of satisfaction when he looked taken aback.
Call it a date, if you like. I prefer to call it my first field assignment.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathleen Creighton has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today, she says she is interested in everything – art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history, but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing and now combines her two loves in romance novels.
Dear Reader,
Once upon a time, there were five talented writers of romantic suspense, diverse in age, nature and style. One day these five writers got the notion to write about a private security agency called the Lazlo Group. (Although nobody seemed to know much about this agency, and less about the mysterious Corbett Lazlo.)
Given that many writers consider writing for a continuity series to be about as much fun as, say, having a root canal, mammogram and bikini wax all on the same day, you might guess this response to the invitation to join them: “Are you insane?”
Naturally, I said, “Count me in!”
Why?
Well, I’ve had the pleasure of working with these five authors before. Then there was the fact that they let me have Corbett Lazlo’s story. The Lazlo Group and its enigmatic founder had fascinated me since they were introduced in the CAPTURING THE CROWN series. Who, I wondered, is this man with no past? Does he even have a heart? What sort of woman could hope to capture the love of so private a person?
The answers, dear reader, lie in these pages. I hope you find them satisfying, and that you may conclude this book with the time-honoured phrase, “And they lived happily ever after!”
Kathleen Creighton
Lazlo's Last Stand
KATHLEEN CREIGHTON
MILLS & BOON
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This is for Marie,
and also for Nina, Caridad, Lyn and Karen,
some of the most fertile – yes, Marie,
and cluttered, too, but in the BEST
possible way – minds I’ve ever encountered.
Thanks for letting me share the ride.
Chapter 1
The attack came in low, but he was prepared for it. He easily evaded what might have been a lethal blow with a feint to the right, and then, in a move as precise and disciplined as a classical dancer’s, spun left and caught his opponent in midfollow-through, squarely behind the knees. The attacker, expecting a death-dealing blow to the throat or sternum, went down like a sack of rocks.
Down, but far from out.
Corbett Lazlo had little time to enjoy his moment of triumph. Before he could deal a follow-up blow, his assailant arched his body like a bow and was on his feet again, circling in a half crouch, his eyes hard as bullets, a slight smile playing over his lips. Corbett stood at ease, balanced on the balls of his feet, smiling back. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The next strike came like lightning, and, even though he’d been prepared for it, delivered a glancing blow to Corbett’s ribs. There would be a bruise tomorrow. He went down, exaggerating the effects of the injury, and when the follow-through came, he rolled and twisted his body like a fighting cat and came up on top, his opponent pinned with Corbett’s knee against his throat. He was now at his mercy; only a slight increase in pressure and the larynx would be crushed. The match was his.
After the briefest of pauses, Corbett removed his knee from the other man’s throat, rose and offered him a hand. When both men were on their feet, he bowed respectfully over his own clasped hands and uttered the traditional words of respect by the student for the master.
The other man returned the obeisance, then beamed upon Corbett a wide, delighted smile.
“Bested by my own move! Excellent. It is the moment every teacher cherishes, when the student surpasses the master.”
Corbett grinned back, an expression that transformed his austere features in a way that sent a jolt of desire through the woman watching from the screened-off doorway of the dojo.
To Lucia Cordez the jolt was a familiar sensation, as was the ache of longing that came with it. Corbett Lazlo had been the most important person in her life for nearly ten years, but in so many ways he was still a mystery to her—like smoke, she sometimes thought. Visible and real, but emotionally elusive, impossible to grasp.
Careful to keep her feelings well-hidden, she stepped around the carved wood screen and made her own obeisance to the master as he passed her on his way out.
“Ah—there you are.” Corbett’s features had settled once more into lines resembling those commonly found on ancient Roman coins. It was his customary expression when looking at her—imperious, impersonal…aloof. “You have news for me, I assume? Might I hope it’s good news for a change? Tell me you’ve traced the source of the e-mails that have been threatening me with so many ingeniously hideous deaths.” His tone was light, even a bit sardonic.
Lucia shuddered and said faintly, “Corbett, please.”
He paused in the act of mopping his face with a towel to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not the least bit amused by what’s been happening. To my organization, to my agents. These breaches of security must be stopped. Will be stopped. So? What do you have for me? From the look on your face, I assume it is not good news.”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “I’m sorry, Corbett. Our safe house in Hong Kong was hit last night.”
Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, his features hardened even more. His ice-blue eyes looked as if they could etch glass. “Anyone killed?”
She let out a breath. “No. Both our agents managed to escape. But—”
He moved suddenly, tossing the towel away with controlled violence. “Not now. I’ll read your report later. Come—” he motioned her out onto the mat with a hand gesture and a jerk of his head “—go a round with me. I want to see if you’re keeping up with your skills.”
“Now? But—” But it wasn’t a suggestion. Even if it had been voiced as one, Lucia knew that from Corbett Lazlo a suggestion was as good as an order.
“Master Liu tells me you haven’t been to your last two sessions.”
“I might have had one or two other things on my mind,” she said stiffly. “Tracing those e-mails—”
“—is high priority, but no excuse for letting yourself get soft.” His eyes traveled over her body in dispassionate appraisal.
Soft. She felt the look as if he’d touched her.
She shook off the feeling, gathered her defenses. “Oh, all right. Although,” she added in a grumbling undertone as she turned to go to the locker room to change her clothes, “I don’t see why it matters, when you won’t let me work in the field anyway.”
Corbett’s voice, sharp as the sound of icicles breaking, stopped her in her tracks.
“I doubt an assailant is going to have the courtesy to wait while you don your workout clothes. Come—as you are. Now.”
She turned back slowly, chin cocked in futile defiance. “Not fair. You’ll have the advantage.” She nodded toward him. He stood relaxed and confident in the center of the mat, feet a little apart, baggy workout pants riding low on narrow hips, arms folded on his well-muscled chest. The way he looked at her, staring down the length of his aristocratic nose, he reminded her of Yul Brynner as the King of Siam, except for the thick silver-streaked mane of hair, the slick of sweat and the patches of red on his upper body where Master Liu’s blows had hit home.
His lips curved in a small, arrogant smile. “Then you’ll have to fight harder to overcome it, won’t you.” He made an autocratic cupped-hand gesture. “Come. I’m waiting.”
Oh, how she wished her heart wouldn’t race so. And pound, sending waves of heat into every part of her body. Thankful for the café-au-lait skin that at least partly camouflaged blushes, Lucia locked eyes with the man who was at once the nettle in her garden and the love of her life. Slowly, she reached for the top button of her jacket and simultaneously stepped out of her flat-heeled shoes. Corbett Lazlo’s eyes followed her fingers downward, pausing when they did at the cleavage beneath her pale blue silk blouse. Did his eyes flicker slightly, or was it only wishful thinking? She freed the last button and let the jacket drop to the floor on top of her shoes.
As she stepped onto the mat, she felt the thump of her pulse in her throat, heard the rush of it inside her head. And beyond that the quiet voice of Master Liu: “You must train your mind, as well as your body, Lucia. Your body is only the weapon. Your mind must choose when and how to use it.”
Quiet descended. Her focus narrowed. She saw only a pair of ice-blue eyes, heard only the whisper of her own life forces: blood, adrenaline and that intangible something Master Liu called chi. I am weightless. Invincible.
There. The slightest flicker in those diamond eyes. She feinted so that the blow only grazed her side, and her mind ordered her body not to feel it. She whirled and aimed a kick at Corbett’s glistening chest, which he blocked easily. She heard a soft chuckle of approval as she twisted around, regained her balance, shifted on the balls of her feet to meet the counter attack.
The battle was short but hard fought. Neither asked for nor gave any quarter, and it ended, as it always did, with Lucia flat on her back, pinned to the mat by Corbett’s hard hands and lithe body.
Eyes closed, she fought to block the bombardment of her senses: the crazy rhythm of out-of-sync heartbeats, the scent of clean man sweat, the feel of healthy male hide, warm and slick, salty-sweet to the tongue….
Of course, the last was only her imagination. She fought for the courage to say something flippant and flirty, knowing it was a lost cause. Breathing hard, she had to settle for, “Someday I’m going to beat you.”
Corbett’s deep voice vibrated from his chest to hers, hinting at a smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Lucia opened one eye. “If I beat you—when I beat you—then will you give me a field assignment?”
The thin, sensual lips, suspended enticingly out of reach above hers, twitched the smile into oblivion. “I have better uses for your talents. Speaking of which—” he raised his head to glance at the large clock on the wall above the door “—hadn’t you better be off? I should imagine you’ll need some time to dress for our…date this evening.”
Lucia looked into his eyes, and it was anger she did battle with now—anger mixed with helpless longing. She masked them both, she hoped, with a teasing smile and an airy, “Oh—a date? Is that what we’re calling it?”
A small pleat of frown lines appeared between Corbett’s black eyebrows. “You are accompanying me to a holiday ball at the British embassy, my dear, in full formal regalia. What else ought we to call it?”
Lucia snorted, deliberately inelegant. “That’s only because there’ve been two attempts on your life in the past few months, and you’re hoping the assassin will strike again so the army of agents you have planted all over the scene can nab him. You can hardly put one of your usual…um…debutantes in the middle of a takedown operation, now, can you?”
She enjoyed a nice sense of satisfaction when he looked taken aback and didn’t reply. Knowing the victory would be only temporary, she seized the moment to twist out of his grasp and regain her feet, pleased with the toned muscles that made the motion as smooth as that of a trained gymnast. Call it a date, if you like, she thought as she scooped up her jacket and shoes. I prefer to call it my first field assignment.
She slipped around the screen, nearly colliding with the man just entering. Adam Sinclair stepped out of her path with exaggerated care, grinning broadly. “He’s all yours,” Lucia said tartly, and she sailed out the door with her nose pointlessly in the air.
Adam found Corbett sitting in the middle of the mat, gazing at the screen, knees drawn up, arms propped on top of them.
“She’s right, you know,” he said to his best friend and long-time partner as he offered him a hand up.
Corbett grunted and stooped to pick up a towel from the mat. “You heard that, did you? How long have you been lurking?”
“Oh, I came in as you two were in the heat of battle—just in time for the takedown, as a matter of fact. Wasn’t about to intrude on that little scene. From where I was standing…”
Corbett made a soft sound that in anyone less dignified would be called a snort. “For God’s sake, Adam, I’m Lucia’s employer, her teacher.”
“She’s hardly a schoolgirl. Face it, Laz. She’s a grown woman, and a damn gorgeous one, at that. And any fool can see she’s got it bad for you.”
“She’s got a bit of a crush, maybe, and if you think I’d be such a bloody jackass that I’d take advantage of that—”
“God forbid!” Adam held up both hands in mock surrender.
Neither man spoke again as they walked together through the maze of gleaming corridors, not until they were inside the elevator, a private one to which only a very few people had access. Corbett pressed the pad of his thumb against a glass plate and gave the voice command for the ninth floor. As the elevator purred silently upward, he said without turning, “Everything’s in place for tonight, I assume.”
Adam allowed himself a wry smile. “Since you have to ask, I take it you’re concerned.”
That remark earned him a heated reply. “Concerned? Why on earth should I be? This idiot, whoever has been taking potshots at me, must be a bloody poor excuse for an assassin. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you now, would I?”
Adam shrugged. “You never know, he might get lucky this go-’round—third time’s the charm, and all that.” He paused, and when no reply seemed forthcoming, added, “In any case, it’s not yourself you’re worrying about. It’s her.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lucia.”
This time he waited out the silence. The elevator gave a discreet ding and came to an almost imperceptible stop. In response to another voice command from Corbett, the door opened onto a sparsely but elegantly furnished foyer.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into taking her,” Corbett said in a tight voice as he stepped from the carpeted elevator onto gleaming marble.
Adam kept silent while the other man went through the biometric security measures required for entry into his private quarters. “You could always go by your lonesome,” he said as he followed Corbett into the immaculate and tastefully appointed apartment. And he was struck by the silence. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the man ever felt lonesome.
Adam knew he was one of only a very few human beings in the world Corbett Lazlo trusted enough to let his hair down with, but most of the time even he had no clue what his best friend might be thinking—or feeling. He knew the emotions were there, but they were like rustlings in the shadows, unseeable and unknowable.
Corbett made an unintelligible, though vehement, remark, which Adam could only assume was in Hungarian, Corbett’s parents’ native tongue. He tossed the towel onto a chair as he made his way to the kitchen. Adam, close behind, heard him mutter, “You’re forgetting the reason I’m attending this bloody party in the first place—the only reason.”
“Ah, yes—Mum and Dad. Right. The M.P. and his lovely lady will be attending, I take it? What about Edward? Too busy with Josh and Prudence’s wedding to put in an appearance, I suppose.”
Corbett took two bottles of Perrier out of the stainless steel refrigerator and handed one to Adam. He cracked the other open, drank deeply, then smiled and shook his head. Adam knew he still found it hard to believe his favorite nephew—and one of his best agents—was about to marry the daughter of the British prime minister. “Oh, he’ll be there. My brother never misses an opportunity to cozy up to the haut monde. My parents naturally will be expecting me to bring a date. And I mean, a believable date. If I don’t, for the next six months I can look forward to a parade of nubile British damsels toddling in and out of my life, each one more lovely and mind-numbingly youthful than the last. The strain of keeping—” he swept the hand holding the Perrier in a vague arc “—all this…” He let it trail off.
“Your secret life,” Adam finished for him, nodding as he drank. On a different sort of day he knew it would have been dark-brewed German beer, but not today. Not tonight. “Yeah, I can see how that could complicate one’s social life a bit. Doesn’t have that effect on mine, but then, I’ve never minded the occasional white lie. One thing you don’t need to worry about with Lucia, though, isn’t it?”
After a long pause with no reply, Adam leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “You underestimate her, you know. You trained her yourself—you should know what she’s capable of. She’s as good as any agent we’ve got.”
Corbett drank the rest of the water in his bottle before he replied. He waved the empty bottle again in a rough half circle, frowning. “Field ops isn’t what I recruited her for. You know that. She has one of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever run across. When it comes to computers—God, I can’t begin to understand the things she knows. The things she can do. It would be crazy to risk all that in the field. Insane.”
“Yes, it would be insane,” Adam said softly, meeting the other man’s eyes over his own raised bottle. “To risk…all that.
“But,” he added quickly, as Corbett’s frown darkened, “no worries, in any case. We’ve got our best people on it, and—” he glanced at his watch “—they’re probably in place, or getting there as we speak. Time I was, as well.” He set his own empty Perrier bottle on the curved marble countertop and gripped the other man’s shoulder as he passed him. “Later, mate. I’ll let myself out.”
As Adam paused in the foyer to listen to the security system engaging behind him, it occurred to him that it sounded a bit like a cage or prison door locking. These days, with the whole agency more or less under siege, that pretty much described it, he supposed. And what a bit of irony that was, considering how near to the real thing Laz had once come, way back when, during that unpleasantness with British SIS.
Sixteen years ago. God, had it really been that long? Sometimes it seemed like yesterday; then at other times, another lifetime. Hard to believe, now, that anyone in his right mind could have believed Corbett Lazlo guilty of being a double agent. It had been a frame-up, of course, and a damn good one, but still. Even more incredible that he’d been brought up on charges, convicted and sentenced to life in prison for treason, and might be there still if Adam hadn’t taken the gamble of a lifetime. Some would have said he was a crazy man to have given up his own job and risked everything to save his best friend.
That’s the way some people—most people—had seen it at the time, anyway. For Adam there had never been any question of a gamble or risk. Stack up loyalty to the service against loyalty to the best friend he had in the world and the man to whom he owed his life many times over… Hell, it was no contest.
Using all the Secret Service tricks and contacts at his disposal, Adam had managed to whisk Laz out of Britain just in time to avoid those slamming prison doors. The two of them had put together an organization of agents, a handpicked few initially, only the very best, people they could trust with their lives. And their first job had been to unravel the conspiracy against Corbett Lazlo and prove his innocence. The latter they’d done in short order. The former…well, that case was still open. And still unresolved.
Sixteen years later that handful of agents had become the Lazlo Group, the most prestigious private-security agency in the world, with a stellar international reputation. Most often they were called in as a last resort, when all conventional means had failed. The Group could be trusted not only to get the job done, but also to be discreet about it. And in exchange for guaranteed results, they commanded top dollar for their work, no questions asked. These days Laz was the acknowledged leader of the group, Adam his right-hand man and still his closest friend. Friend? More like a brother. Closer than any brother—damn sight closer, for sure, than that prick Edward ever was to him. Hard to believe those two sprang from the same loins. Vain as a bloody peacock, that one, even if he did do a decent job for the Group as the moneyman.
Although Laz often consulted with Adam before making decisions about assignments or new agents, Laz’s was the final word. As it had been when he’d recruited Lucia Cordez right off the campus of UC Berkeley. And, as usual, he’d been right; the girl was brilliant. And not just with computers. She had the makings of a first-rate agent, and the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous didn’t hurt, either. Fact was, her looks gave her access to places and people not every agent could reach.
Well, they would, if Laz wasn’t so bent on keeping her locked up in his ivory tower, too bloody dense to know he was crazy in love with her. And vice versa.
On the other hand, probably just as well the pair of them were as blind as wombats when it came to matters of the heart, Adam thought as he rode the private car down to the subbasement where, via secret corridors, he would switch to the public elevators in order to access the building’s street floor. Otherwise one or the other of them was bound to notice Adam was crazy in love with the girl himself.
Lucia stalked across the courtyard, which still glistened with the misty rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. Though, to be honest, to call her progress stalking was perhaps overstating it a bit, given that she was wearing strappy sandals with four-inch heels and a gown that limited her stride to something more mincing than regal.
To her extreme annoyance, her escort kept pace with her without compromising his natural elegance one iota.
“I don’t see why you should be upset,” Corbett drawled in an undertone as, in a seemingly natural gesture, he placed one hand on her back just below the edge of the silver fox stole she wore, wrapped tightly against both nervous shivers and Paris’s December chill.
“You might have mentioned it,” she shot back, suddenly breathless.
“I thought I just did.”
“It would have been helpful if you’d done so before I got dressed. I would’ve chosen something a little more—” she swept a hand downward across her front “—a little less…”
The neckline hadn’t seemed that revealing when she’d decided on this particular dress for this evening’s “date,” but now, judging from the caress of the stole’s satin lining she felt with each heaving breath, it did leave quite a lot of her uncovered. Again, to be honest, she hadn’t been thinking all that much about décolletage when she’d chosen the slithery gold gown. She’d chosen it because the color complimented her tawny skin and brought out the auburn highlights in her hair.
Uh-huh, right. Girl, you chose it because it shows off your booty, and you know you look hot in it. If you’re going to be honest…
“You look quite lovely,” Corbett said, in the same tone he might have used to inform her she had a smudge on her cheek. “It isn’t as though you’re meeting the queen, you know—or even the bloody prime minister. Just a minor member of Parliament and his bride—hardly worth getting upset over.”
“A minor member of Parliament and his wife who happen to be your parents.” The last word emerged in a furious hiss. She halted and turned to face him. The horde of butterflies in her stomach turned happy flip-flops at the sight of him, so slim and tall and elegant in his evening dress, the gleaming white of his shirtfront only inches from her own heaving—and now largely uncovered—breasts. She drew a deep breath. “Corbett, you are going to be introducing me to your parents as your, um… They will probably think we…” She paused, met his gaze of cool appraisal, then muttered tartly as she turned to continue her promenade across the courtyard, “Then again, if you’re going to look at me like that, they probably won’t think anything at all.”
“Look at you like…what?”
“Like you’re studying a wine list. Or the morning stock report.”
“Would you prefer me to leer?” He was there beside her, effortlessly in step with her once again, his expression mildly amused. “Perhaps drool a little?”
Lucia had to quell an urge to kick him. How could he be so completely at ease, when she felt as awkward as when she was queen of the geeks in high school? And as nervous as if the captain of the football team had asked her to the prom?
Before she could think of a witty riposte, Corbett said dryly, “Don’t worry, my father will do enough of that for both of us. Well—probably not the drooling.” Then his hand was on her back again, touching her in a way he probably meant to be courteous or reassuring, and his laugh held more warmth and genuine amusement than she’d ever heard in it before. “Don’t worry, I’m joking. I seriously doubt the Honorable Andre Lazlo will be undone by a bit of cleavage.”
Lucia tossed him a look, incapable of coherent speech or thought now that he was touching her again. He smiled back at her, his austere features romantically shadowed by the courtyard’s security floodlights. “Never mind, my dear. You’ll understand, once you’ve met my mother.”
Nodding to the footman dressed in Dickensian costume, Corbett took Lucia’s gloved hand and deftly tucked it into the crook of his elbow. He added in an ominous tone, “You would probably be wise to steer clear of Edward, however.”
Lucia had visited the Paris offices of the British Embassy several times on various errands for the Lazlo Group, but this was her first visit to the ambassador’s residence, the grand old building on the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. She barely had a moment to appreciate the spare but elegant entry hall, with its patterned marble floor, red velvet draperies and sweeping curved staircase, before yet another footman was there to relieve her of her stole. She felt decidedly more vulnerable without it. It’s a mission. It’s what he trained me for. I can do this. She lifted her head high and pasted on the confident smile she knew Corbett expected from her.
She was less successful in controlling the tremors inside.
Corbett was aware of the quiver. Slight though it was, he felt it unmistakably even through his jacket and shirtsleeve. He was on the verge of saying something reassuring, but thought better of it. He was the one from whom she was trying so hard to hide her nervousness; she’d hate that he’d noticed.
He felt twinges of protectiveness to her and reminded himself that he’d trained her well, she had no reason for jitters.
That gave way to compassion. Anyone might be a bit nervous at the prospect of meeting the parents of the boss on whom she had a slight crush.
Then guilt: It was wrong of me to use her like this. Isn’t fair to her.
Although, damnation, he’d been careful to treat her with absolute decorum. Damned hard to do, too, when she was so incredibly beautiful. He could smell her hair, her skin, her own signature fragrance, that sweet, sassy scent that always made him think of warm tropical nights. Jasmine, perhaps?
“Dahling! There you are. Vere have you been, édes fiú? You terry-ble boy!”
The voice he both adored and dreaded soared across the crowded ballroom like the cry of an eagle. At his side, Lucia gave a start and threw him a look, half query, half alarm.
“That would be Mother,” he said resignedly, “obviously channeling the Gabor sisters.”
Lucia braced herself to meet the couple sweeping down upon them. To her the Honorable Andre Lazlo and his wife seemed to belong to another age, and the chamber music rising above the hum of genteel conversation a fitting accompaniment for them as they glided over the gleaming parquet floor. Lydia-Maria didn’t need a towering powdered wig, panniers and a black beauty spot artistically applied to her heart-shaped face in order to fit perfectly with the grand ballroom’s eighteenth-century splendor of carved paneling and gilded mouldings, cascading chandeliers and red velvet draperies. In her platinum pouf and shimmering white gown, with a neckline that plunged dangerously close to the limits of decency—Yes, Corbett, I see what you meant!—she seemed to glitter like the brightest diamond in a rococo setting.
The free excerpt has ended.
