Colby Control

She was smarter. Or at least not as attached to the rules.

“Still no sign of the target,” Tallant’s voice murmured in her earpiece.

“Affirmative,” she responded. Tallant hadn’t bothered to thank her for the device she’d installed in Vandiver’s phones. At nine o’clock sharp a command had been sent to the software to block all communications directly to his cell phone and his hotel room. The move wouldn’t prevent a caller from calling his room from a house phone; it would block only calls from outside. But that was no longer an issue since he’d left his room more than half an hour ago.

Nora scanned the crowd. Glitzy evening dresses, jeans and tees. Young and old. Vegas was the hot spot for those from all walks of life seeking a thrilling vacation. Or simply a wide assortment of casinos at which to gamble away their hard-earned cash.

She gave her head a little shake. Never play a game unless you know how to hedge your bet. That was her motto. She’d spent enough time here in the past to know how to win. Observe, analyze, then strike. Any other way that resulted in a win was pure luck.

She had never once depended upon luck.

Her gaze zeroed in on the man with the thinline briefcase making his way through the crowd clustered near the entrance to the Eiffel Tower. For a minimal fee one could take the elevator to the top for the best views in the city.

But the only view Nora cared about was of the man dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. The red power tie was like a beacon. She purposely hadn’t mentioned to Tallant the clothes she’d seen arranged on Vandiver’s bed. She wanted to spot him first.

Removing the earpiece and stuffing it into her pocket as she hustled in the target’s direction, she understood that it would take Tallant mere seconds to spot her and realize what she was up to.

Timing was everything.

If she got to Vandiver first, Tallant would have no choice but to back off, however reluctantly, and allow her move to play out.

But if he intercepted her before she reached the target … she was done. He would have her on a plane back to Chicago first thing in the a.m., and by the p.m. she would be facing a Colby firing squad.

Nora didn’t get another good breath until she was right on Vandiver’s tail. So close she could smell his exclusive cologne.

She had counted on him being early.

Matching his pace, she moved up beside him and slid her arm around his. “Hello, Doctor.” She smiled. His eyes widened with uncertainty. “Let’s find a nice, quiet place.”

She guided him toward the pool deck and small adjoining café du Parc. The spot came with a phenomenal view of the Eiffel Tower and plenty of distractions to avoid drawing attention.

A waiter cruised by and Nora ordered drinks.

“I thought you would be a—” Vandiver cleared his throat “—a man.”

Nora smiled. “Don’t be fooled, Dr. Vandiver. I’m very good at what I do.”

As in the photo included with his dossier, Vandiver looked young for his age. Not a sign of gray in his full head of hair and not one wrinkle on his tanned face. She imagined that he kept a personal supply of Botox, along with a state-of-the-art tanning bed. No wasted time at a spa for this man.

He glanced around nervously. “I’m not sure how to begin.”

Nora waited until he’d made eye contact once more. “I’m certain you explained your needs to my employer. I’ll require the photo and the cash, as promised.” He reached for the briefcase at his feet as she continued. “We’ll review the most relevant details.”

He passed the briefcase to her. “It’s all there,” he said. The line would have been cliché if not for the fact that this was clearly his first time being involved in a deal such as this. He was far too nervous to be anything but a novice. “The photo’s there, too.”

A quick peek at the photo confirmed that his wife, Heather, was the mark. Confusion lined Nora’s brow as she glanced at the envelope containing the cash. Not exactly a beefy bundle.

She set the case at her feet, then scooted it forward, out of sight under the table. “You’re sure the money is right?” A guy like him could surely afford the best when it came to hiring a hit man—or woman—for the job of offing his wife.