He was guiding her answers, giving her hints on how best to construct her story so it would withstand probing.
He turned and moved back to the end of the bed, putting himself back into the shadows again. “I have done some research on this group you claim you belong to. ‘Knight Errant’ has a very specific definition and my English is good enough to distinguish the subtleties. The quests your knights set are both chivalrous and quixotic. They’re romantic, noble deeds that are at best unreachable. A very modern version of tilting at windmills.”
She phrased her answer carefully. “You can think that if you like.”
Again, the long study and consideration. Then, “Take off your clothes,” he said, his voice low.
Her heart jumped. “No.”
He pulled the revolver from the pouch on his hip. “Understand this. Your future depends upon obeying me for as long as I command it.”
Remember, he must be Zalaya...and you must behave as if he is Zalaya. “Go fuck yourself,” she said and added, “Literally.”
“A physical impossibility,” he assured her.
“You won’t shoot me,” she told him. “It’ll end all the fun you have planned.”
He fired and Minnie recoiled sideways as the heat and friction of the bullet stung her upper arm as it passed by. She was too shocked to even utter a scream. The roar of the revolver in that small room was like a thunderclap.
She could smell something burning behind her and swiveled enough to see the edges of the wallpaper where the bullet had buried itself in the wall were glowing red and smoking.
She turned back to him, shaking badly. The urge to pee was almost overwhelming.
“Rest assured, a bullet in the body doesn’t have to kill.” He motioned with the revolver, pointing to different parts of her torso. “There are a dozen places where a bullet will only inflict serious pain. Pain will only discommode you, not me. Besides, I am a crack shot, as I just demonstrated. There are ways of grazing the body that will achieve the same level of pain and not seriously disable you.” He cocked the revolver with his thumb and Minnie felt ill as she watched the barrel roll around, bringing the next bullet into the chamber.
“Do not insist on a demonstration,” he finished. “Take off your clothes.”
Minnie reached for the zipper of the suit she wore and the cuff jingled against her arm. “I can’t get it off over this.”
He dug in his pocket and tossed the small key onto the bed next to her. “Unlock it and throw the key back.”
She obeyed and tossed the key back onto the floor at his feet. The gun and his gaze did not waver as he bent and picked up the key and pocketed it again.
She stripped the foul-smelling plastic suit from her with a degree of eagerness and dropped it on the floor.
He pointed with the gun to the cufflink. “Put it back on.”
She returned the cuff to her wrist.
“Tighter,” he said. “I won’t have you working your hand out of it when I’m gone.”
She tightened it more and waited, her heart hammering.
“I have work to do and meetings to attend,” he said briskly, moving toward the door that led to his office. But he stopped at the chair to pick up a brown paper bag and threw it to land on the bed. “You will take a shower while I am gone. You may move around the room, but when I return you must be on the bed, wearing what is in that bag.”
He stepped out of the room and shut the door.
Minnie brought her knees to her chest, her ankles crossed, and hugged herself, which successfully hid her nakedness from the camera in the corner. Her mind was racing.
If Duardo must play Zalaya at all times, then he could not openly speak to her as Duardo. So everything he said as Zalaya might hold a message for her—just as his comments about her “ex-lover” being in the army had guided her story.
Was there a message in what he had said before he left? She could not find any hint of such a message. Then why had he come back to the room at all? To play with her? That would be something that Zalaya would do, certainly. Zalaya would have wanted to know about the boat too. But Duardo’s instructions had been banal, indeed. “Take a shower.”
She longed for a hot shower anyway. So she turned her back on the camera, moved into the bathroom and started the water. Looking back over her shoulder, she discovered that the transom over the door hid the camera from her. At least her shower would be semi-private. She shut the door as far as the chain would allow, just to be certain of it.
For the next forty minutes, until the water began to grow cooler, she let the heat soak into her body, washing away the stink of fear and exertion. It was one of the best showers she had ever taken.
She stepped out and reached for a towel and froze. For Duardo had managed to leave her a direct message after all, in ghostly letters outlined by steam on the mirror over the sink.
“There is a microphone under the bed. I must remain Zalaya.” Beneath, he had signed his name and her heart clenched at the sight of it.
Duardo.
Chapter Twelve
Serrano switched off the monitor when he heard voices in the anteroom. A quiet tap and his secretary looked around the door. “Colonel Zalaya?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The secretary withdrew and the door opened to let Zalaya through. The tall security officer lowered himself into the chair and absently rubbed the thigh that had taken the bullet, his other hand still resting on the head of the cane.
“It’s been confirmed,” Zalaya told him. “It’s Nicolás Escobedo’s boat.”
“You still think she has nothing to do with him?”
“We know that Escobedo has those two American women in his household, but she’s Australian.”
“So she says,” Serrano replied.
“She’s an accomplished liar,” Zalaya agreed. “But I’m inclined to believe the baseline story. No one would attempt to sell such a preposterous tale unless it was the truth. Then there are the site passwords and log-in to verify it.”
Serrano frowned. “Perhaps holding her apart from the bordello may be a wise course, after all. It would be best to preserve her.”
“In case she is Escobedo’s agent?”
“Yes.”
Zalaya smiled. “You mean, use her as leverage against Escobedo if he makes his move?”
“Oh, he will make a move sooner or later and I’m a great believer in being prepared. We must keep her more or less whole. No wounds...or bullet holes.”
Zalaya glanced at the blank screen on Serrano’s desk. “I see.” He moved the cane impatiently. “I think you overestimate her value, even if she is Escobedo’s agent. He knows how to cut his losses.”
“Not for that little firecracker,” Serrano assured him. He picked up the remote again and turned the monitor back on. “My secretary recorded this last night from the television show Star Gazing.”
“Which has won dozen of awards for its reliable, ethical journalism,” Zalaya responded dryly.
“Images don’t lie,” Serrano said calmly and backed up the file and hit “play.” He watched the footage again, glancing at Zalaya to see if he picked it up. It had taken Serrano several replays to see what had got his secretary wound up.
When the report about Adán Caballero’s Acapulco sojourn flashed upon the wedding he had attended, Zalaya threw up his hand. “Wait,” he said softly. “Back it up.”
Serrano backed it up while Zalaya watched intently.
“Stop,” Zalaya said. This time his voice was even softer. He tilted his head to look at the fuzzy images on the screen—it was footage from an amateur video camera and the images were jerky. Where Serrano paused it, Caballero was almost out of the frame, which allowed the official wedding party standing on the steps of the cathedral to be seen. “You think that’s her? On the left of the bride in the green dress?” He frowned. “They’re out of focus.”
“The size and coloring...even the hair is right,” Serrano said.
“So
you did watch the security camera footage,” Zalaya said, glancing at him.
Serrano winced. Zalaya was very quick to spot things like that.
But Zalaya had turned his attention back to the screen. “Why come here though? Why send her of all people? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Does it have to? We know he has no decent men except, perhaps, Blanco and he’s been behind a desk for too long. We know he has a gift for doing the unexpected. Would you, in a million years, suspect one like her of being an agent?”
Zalaya sat back. “It doesn’t really matter either way,” he said, smiling. “You and I have both forgotten Escobedo’s weakness. He has a soft spot for the people, the underdog.”
Serrano shook his head, honestly confused. “So?”
“So, even if the woman in my bedroom wasn’t the one who attended his wedding, we can still use her to manipulate him. He is incapable of turning away from suffering if it is right before his eyes. Look at how he met the American woman he just married—he personally sprung her from jail when he heard she had been picked upon by a pack of jackals during the Luna Festival. We keep this woman tucked away until the timing is perfect, then we parade her in front of him as the price he pays if he tries to move against us. If he’s personally acquainted with her peril, it’ll stay his hand. I guarantee it.”
Serrano considered it carefully. He didn’t fully trust Zalaya yet, but he had learned to trust the man’s instincts about the psychology of other men. “Then we must certainly preserve her hide,” Serrano agreed. He held up his hand. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That scratching sound. Coming from above the ceiling. I’ve been hearing it on and off all day.”
Zalaya glanced at the ceiling and shrugged. “There’s nothing above you but the roof. It’s nesting season. It could be birds. Or mice.”
Serrano grimaced. “Spring already. I tell you, Escobedo will move before the summer storms.”
“And I tell you he won’t be ready that fast. He can’t. He has no money and few men. It is physically impossible to recruit, train and equip a big enough force to take back a country in five months.”
“Not if he has help,” Serrano said darkly.
“You’re being paranoid again.” Zalaya got to his feet, moving stiffly as he often did toward the end of the day. “The Americans are refusing to speak to him.”
“They’re not talking to us either.”
* * * * *
Minnie crept into the big bed and hugged herself, warmed and comforted by that one ghostly word on the mirror. The warning about the microphone forced her to merely mouth Duardo’s name to herself. It was enough. She pulled a length of the chain in with her so that she could cover herself completely. The brown paper bag at the foot of the bed crinkled with her movements. It was Zalaya’s bag, so she kicked until it fell off the bed then curled herself up into a ball.
She woke to the feel of lips upon her neck, the caress of a tongue beneath her ear. She thought she was on the edge of dreams again, for Duardo’s hand was caressing her, following her body from knee to shoulder, then sliding over and capturing her breast. She sighed her contentment, rolling over to allow him better access. Her shoulder came up against his hard chest, her legs tangled in his. So good, so very, very good....
She heard the sound of metal clinking and it reminded her of the chain that she was fast coming to hate. That was when she froze, her heart hammering.
She wasn’t sleeping at all. This was real. Zalaya was behind her, caressing her. He was in the bed with her and from the little she could feel, as naked as she.
His hand caressed her breast with the gentleness of a real lover. It was Duardo’s touch. “Pretend I am your soldier,” he said and she knew he spoke for the microphone.
She lay against him in the dark as his hand continued to stroke her and wept silently. The tears were those of joy and remembrance. She’d risked everything by flying directly into hell on earth just to learn what had become of him and had been rewarded with the most unexpected, ultimate prize—Duardo himself. In this evil place, she had been blessed with a pocket of time to feel his arms around her, his body against her.
He had pulled down the blinds so not even the starlight could illuminate them for the camera. All she could sense was his hands and the heat of his body against her.
He wiped her tears and kissed her and at last she knew that this was Duardo, the shell of Zalaya discarded. His touch melted the thousand questions that had pummeled at her. None of them mattered here and now.
He stroked her breasts, her throat, her face, the full length of her body. Nothing was spared. His fingertips toyed with the flesh between her thighs. Her body responded with an arousal that made her almost dizzy with its power. When his hand swept up to her breast, her rigid nipple scraped across his palm.
“Yes,” he whispered and rolled her over onto her back.
He straddled her and bent to draw her nipple into his mouth as his other hand toyed with its mate. He spent long minutes attending each breast in turn, using his lips and tongue and teeth to tease and stroke every inch of them. Minnie’s breath came faster and faster.
As his lips and hands began their slow descent down the length of her body, her thoughts became incoherent. The demands of her building orgasm overwhelmed them. She sank into the climbing waves of pleasure, becoming a creature of instinct. She clawed her way toward the climax. It was utterly selfish.
Except for inconclusive, unsatisfying dreams, she had not felt Duardo’s hands on her body for an eon. She had forgotten the joy of a man’s touch. How could she have foregone this primal pleasure?
His hands were on her hips, his mouth hovering over her mons. He was baiting her. Coaxing her.
Beyond shame, she grabbed his head, guided him to her pelvis, her legs falling apart and welcoming him. His mouth pushed aside her nether lips and his tongue invaded her. Not her clitoris where she wanted it, but her pussy. Her breath caught as he slid up toward the fleshy core of her. He stroked her clitoris, swirling his tongue around it.
She came almost immediately, the waves of climax slamming through her with an intensity that snapped her body into a taut, hard bow. Her head rolled back on the pillow until she could arch no tighter. The low, hard scream that emerged from her lips was so forceful it was almost soundless. It strained her throat.
She fell back to the mattress, shuddering with aftershocks and felt his hands on her hips, lifting her. He was on his knees, between her thighs. He positioned her and slid his cock into her.
“Hot, so hot,” he murmured, his voice thick with excitement and barely above a whisper.
He was thick and hot and she could feel him moving inside her easily. She was slick with her own juices. She looked up at his barely-seen silhouette. He was moving in her, thrusting with controlled slowness. She could feel the head of his cock against her and with each thrust it sent deep ripples across her abdomen. It had been so long! The primal pleasure of being taken by a man...she had missed it so.
She realized she was on the verge of another climax, her heart slamming in her chest and her breath shuddering through her.
“Yes, come for me,” he whispered and his thumbs swept up either side of her clitoris, tugging at it.
She climaxed again and this time it was even more satisfying, for his cock was deep inside her as she clamped around him. She felt him come with her, his hot semen spilling inside her and his fingers clamping on her hips.
It wasn’t until he lay down beside her that she realized both her hands were free. The cuff had been removed while she slept, at the time he had slipped into the bed beside her. Before she could move, his arm curled over her waist and pulled her to him. She felt his cock against her hip and marveled, for he was still fully erect.
His knee pushed her legs apart and he slid over the top of her. With the same strong control he had already shown once, he balanced himself and slid his cock into her again, inch by slow inch.
&
nbsp; It was an exquisite torment and by the time he was buried to the hilt, she was shuddering with breathless anticipation. He brought her knees up by his hips, spreading her completely. Then he lifted her freed hand and brought it down between her legs, resting it against her clitoris. “Make yourself come,” he whispered. “Let me feel it.”
She had never let a man see that very private act and her cheeks heated in the dark. Her hesitation told him what she could not voice.
“Do you not know how it arouses a man?” he murmured.
She moved her fingers, rested them against her clitoris.
“Come for me,” he coaxed.
She began to stroke her flesh. At first she felt awkward performing this well-known ritual before him. But then the pleasure built and it was different in a profound way. With his cock thick and deep inside her, there was a completeness about the act that was missing when it was a solitary pursuit.
He was thrusting inside her, little spasms and movements that betrayed his control. He truly was aroused by her self-pleasuring.
She realized that she was going to climax yet again and quickly. She gasped, shocked at her own responsiveness. She was stirred by his reaction. She shuddered through this third climax, her throat torn by the guttural sound she made. Even as the spasms clenched her he fell against her and drove deep inside her, battering his way to orgasm in hard, swift strokes. She held him to her, encouraging him with her hands, caressing him.
Her fingers felt the ridges of what could only be a scar, close to his spine, level with his shoulder blade.
He withdrew and lay on the bed beside her once more and her hands lost contact with the crease of flesh.
She listened to the sound of her own heart beating in her temples and echoing in her mind. But soon he reached for her again, drawing her on top of him and she went willingly, as keen as he to experience the pinnacle at least one more time.
It was not the last coupling that night. He seemed inexhaustible. Driven. Minnie let him take her how he wished and reveled in it all.
Black Heart Page 15
