Free To the Limit by Cindy Gerard Page A

When the shit had hit the fan with Tiffany, Clayborne had been in Europe negotiating a contract for his own firearms company. Or so the story went.
     
    If Mac had read between the lines correctly, however, Clayborne hadn't been there on private business. He'd been on government business—covert government business. Otherwise, why would a Secret Service agent be providing protection for Clayborne's daughter? The only way that happened was for the president himself to request it. So, no, Mac didn't buy the cover story for a second.
     
    Anyway, whether Eve deserved it or not, Clayborne blamed her for subjecting his daughter—who by all accounts he'd given over to a nanny to raise anyway—to the danger and the trauma of the abduction attempt. Blamed Eve for the death of his chauffeur as well. Like she was supposed to know there were two men lying in wait for the limo when they arrived at Orlando for an equestrian competition.
     
    Hell. Eve had done her job. Everything he'd read said she'd done it with bravery and skill. She'd protected the kid. Killed the bad guys even though they'd taken two of the good guys down in the process. But her heroism hadn't been good enough for Clayborne.
     
    Clayborne had done some leaning. And his weight had toppled fences. Eve had been forced to resign from a career that, by all indications, had been the stuff that commendations were made of.
     
    Mac looked at her across the elevator.
     
    "I'm curious," he said as the cab hit the ground floor. "Other than pissing him off, what, exactly, did you hope to gain by meeting with Edwards?"
     
    He'd probably have been wise to keep his mouth shut. But then, something told him she'd never accuse him of being the sharpest knife in the drawer.
     
    The elevator doors opened and she walked out ahead of him. "The big question is: what are you going to do?"
     
    He pressed a hand to his chest. "What am I going to do? What am I going to do about what?"
     
    "About helping me find her."
     
    "Cupcake," he said, stopping her with a hand on her arm and turning her to face him. "You heard the man. I'm out on my ass if I so much as smile at you."
     
    Mac experienced the full measure of her accusatory glare. He exhaled wearily. "Look, if it were up to me, and you wanted to put in the time, hell, I'd say go for it. We'd work together. But it's not up to me. I've got to follow the rules according to Clayborne."
     
    "Since when did you ever play by anybody's rules but your own?"
     
    She had him there. "OK. Fine. Let's make them my rules. I need the job. I need the money. I'm not gonna blow this account because you've got a feeling that the girl's in trouble."
     
    The money from this job—damn good money—was going to keep him afloat for several months. No way was he going to indulge a few lust-induced urgings to team up with her and blow it. This gig would more than pay off his divorce settlement. More important, it would ensure that Angie would have to stop making noises about terminating his visitation rights with Ali. He was damn tired of ducking the ax that his ex enjoyed the hell out of swinging on that count.
     
    And maybe, just maybe, he could even eke out a down payment on that sweet little fishing boat he'd been dreaming about. Ali would love it. As long as she could bring her Barbies.
     
    So yeah. Solvency sounded sweet. Frankly, though, so did the notion of going head-to-head with Eve Garrett. God, she was a looker. Maybe when this was over, he'd look her up. See if he could knock the hard edges off her grudge. Maybe get a little friendly again.
     
    When she caught him staring at her breasts, she made one of those noises that only women could make. The kind that leveled volumes of accusation, denigrated his pedigree back a millennium or so, and put his IQ somewhere around a baker's dozen. Someday he had to find out how they did that. Today he really didn't care. In fact, he was feeling pretty damn fine.
     
    "Why do you really care about