by Cherry Adair
Mostly, Danica remembered the vile smell of jet fuel and the sudden realization that she wasn’t dead. Yes, that was what she remembered most.
Being alive.
And very, very itchy. The mosquitoes in the Everglades were the size of hummingbirds. Vampire hummingbirds. Her arm itched so badly she just had to move to scratch. It was an effort, but she managed to connect nails with. . .eeew! Her skin was slathered with some disgusting sticky gunk. If it was itch medicine, it was a sad disappointment.
Had she asked the woman what she was doing back in San Cristóbal when she only left there-how long ago? Frowning gave her a headache, and she drifted back to sleep without having a good scratch or getting any answers.
They had Danica sequestered on President Palacios’s estate; a lush, fifty-acre, park like setting on the outskirts of San Cristóbal. It took Raven five hours to get past the phalanx of security at the gate, and that was only with U.S. intervention; to keep from killing someone to gain entrance he’d called in a few chits.
Five hours, only to end up pacing this overblown frigging chichi sitting room on the ground floor for almost an hour before a tall, gaunt man in a well-tailored black suit entered. Six armed guards in crisp navy blue uniforms flanked the guy, who looked like a Disney villain. Raven didn’t give a flying fuck who this guy was or how many gun-toting toy soldiers he had in his wake. His temper climbed with each minute he was forced to wait. If somebody didn’t produce Danica real soon, things were going to get ugly.
The doctor in Miami bartered Danica’s X-rays in exchange for a shower and a change of clothing for him, for which Raven was grateful. He might smell better than he before, but his temper was now riding an all-time high. “I want to see my wife. Now,” Raven said flatly, turning from his position at the window which overlooked the circular driveway and a fountain grand enough for an Italian piazza, and tacky enough for Las Vegas.
“Your wife is in excellent hands, Mr. Raven.” Bypassing the ugly-ass, shiny, cat-pee-yellow sofas, the man strode forward, all military bearing and officious pomp, fake smile in place. “Good day. I am Edgardo Villalba-Vera, chief of security for el presidente. How may I be of help?”
“You weren’t listening. Unless you want me to tear this damn place apart, take me to my wife. Pronto.”
“I understand that you’re very upset—”
“Pal, I’m way past upset and smack-dab in the middle of homicidal. My wife. Now.”
“El médico is with her at the moment. Her nurse will alert me when he has departed. I will then have you escorted to her suite.”
Raven wasn’t waiting one more minute. His need to see Dani—to touch her, to ensure she was whole and healthy—had become his driving force in the last twelve hours. “The FAA and the NTSB representatives are looking for her,” he told the a-hole tightly. “The authorities investigating the accident want to talk to her.” Not as fucking badly as I do, he though savagely.
“She shall be made available as soon as she is well enough to have visitors.”
Raven’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, yeah? And just who’ll decide when Dani’s ‘well enough’?”
“Mr. Raven, I assure you. . .”
“No, I assure you. The Federal Aviation Administration and the National Transportation Safety Board don’t consider themselves visitors, Ed.”
Thin lips pinched, and something snapped to life in his dark eyes. They do not have jurisdiction in San Cristóbal, señor.
“Danica is an American citizen, so she is their jurisdiction—and even if that wasn’t the case-she sure as hell is mine. And while we’re having this private little get-to-know-you chat, what is she doing here, and by whose authority was she removed from the hospital in Miami?”
The man pulled himself up as importantly as he could before saying officiously, “Miss Cross saved el presidente’s precious only son, Rigo. He, accompanied by his father’s most trusted security staff and many advisors, was on the TransAir flight to Miami. All but your wife and Rigo died in the unfortunate accident last night. When I heard of the interest of your American press regarding the survivors of the crash, I took it upon myself to mobilize my staff and have both Miss Cross and Rigo returned immediately to the palace, where they would be under my protection.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll feel better when my wife is under my protection and in the hospital under a doctor’s care.”
She is, señor, Villalba-Vera tried again to placate him. El presidente’s private physician is tending to her as we speak. She is receiving the best of care, I assure you.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d like to see for myself. Let’s go, pal.” Raven stalked to the monstrous double doors, easily two stories high, and out into the marble vestibule beyond. He turned to look at the guy, who was walking swiftly to catch up. “Which way?” Damn place was probably fifty thousand square feet.
“If you would but wait a m—”
Raven wasn’t waiting. He was tired of waiting. Hell, he’d been waiting for Danica for years, in one way or another. He’d reached his saturation point. He charged across the ridiculously ornate entry hall, blocking out the guy in mid bullshit.
“Hell with it.” He took the red carpeted, marble stairs two at a time, yelling at the top of his voice: “Danica? Where the hell are you? Dani, Goddamn it, answer me!”
Three
Raven tried twenty doors before slamming open the one to a bedroom with a startled nurse who rose from her seat in alarm as he burst into the dimly-lit room. Ignoring both her wide-eyed fright and the army of soldiers behind him, Raven strode across the plush area rug and approached the bed.
He shut out the babble of voices behind him, his entire focus on the still form in the shadowy bed. Dani’s back was to him, her shoulder and hip making barely a bump in the covers. He stood over her, every muscle and tendon, every nerve and cell in his body needing to touch her. Driven to examine her for himself, he stroked a finger gently down her cool cheek when what he needed to do was grab her up, strip her bare and check her over and over again to make sure she was truly, one hundred percent okay.
She was asleep, curled on her side as usual, hand under her cheek. She’d wake up in the morning that way, sleeping on her left side. He slept on his right. In their three years of marriage, she’d been the last thing Raven had seen each night and his first image of the new day. A great life, he remembered. How had something so right gone so damned wrong? His chest squeezed tight as he sat beside her hip on the wide, king-sized bed and touched his palm to her silken shoulder.
Memories flooded him. They’d wake up staring into each other’s eyes. Then kiss lazily and make love. Slowly, as they both surfaced into full awareness. It had been a helluva fine way to start the day.
He missed her. Missed her even before that last, final good-bye.
Her lightly tanned skin was covered with pink insect bites and shiny with some sort of salve. Ah, sweetheart. Not only had she survived a crashed plane in the Everglades, but survived dinosaur bug bites too. And while he sat there, staring at her beautiful face, he asked himself again, what the hell happened to us? How could something so damn good turn to shit?
He slid the skinny lace strap of an unfamiliar white nightgown up her arm to her shoulder, fingers skimming her cool, satiny skin. “Dani, love,” he said softly. “Wake up.”
Long, dark lashes fluttered. She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips curved in a small smile. “Jon.” A whisper. A gift. Raven wanted to fall to his knees and bury his face in her silky black, Cleopatra hair, to smell the familiar gardenia fragrance of her skin. Damn it. He needed her to open those baby blues and give him hell.
He needed all the chattering people bunched behind him out of the damn room.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he said softly, brushing a wayward strand of hair from her cheek with shaking fingers. “I’m here to take you home.”<
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Danica moaned softly but didn’t so much as stir. The small sound and unnatural stillness sent an unexpected chill up Raven’s spine. If he was a dog, his hackles would be up, his ears would lie back, and he’d be growling low and deep in his throat.
Something was way out of whack here. “Danica,” he said, briskly, giving her butt a shake. “Wake up. Now.”
Five seconds response time. Nada. Keeping a possessive hand on her hip, he turned to the nurse hovering on the other side of the bed. Danica always slept hard—but not this hard. “What,” he asked the woman with lethal softness, “did you give her?”
The woman glanced toward the door. Translation from good old Ed, or permission to tell him—what?
“Save time.” Raven said in fluent Spanish to Villalba-Vera. “Drug and dosage. Now.” Moving his hand down the slope of her hip, he felt for Danica’s bruised wrist then rested two fingers lightly on her pulse. Slow. Too slow. And a breath shy of an even rhythm for a natural state of sleep.
Nothing, señor, Mr. Chief of Security in his six-hundred-dollar suit said in barely accented English as he cautiously approached the bed, shaking his head of thick black, razor-cut hair. “She sleeps a healing sleep, according to the specialist el presidente brought to tend to her.”
“Nothing, huh? Call el médico back. I wanna talk to him myself. Better yet, I want someone of my choosing to take a look at her.”
“But of course.” Edgardo Villalba-Vera inclined his head just enough to let his hair fall forward then shift back neatly into place when he straightened. Conceited dick. “Anytime you like.”
The guy was blowing smoke up his ass. It had taken Raven hours to get past the security at the gate, and he normally he could talk a mink out of her coat. “Get that doctor back here. Now. And while you’re at it, my bag’s in the rental out there. Get someone to bring it up while I’m waiting.”
Black brows rose. “Pardon me?”
“My bag. In the rental car. I’ll be staying with my wife until we leave.” And not letting her out of his sight for one second. Raven’s bullshit antenna was up. Way up. This situation was all wrong. For whatever reason, these people were lying. They had drugged Dani. After he found out with what, he wanted to know why.
Villalba-Vera shot a brief, speaking glance at him, hesitated a moment, then nodded to one of his men. “You are of course most welcome. I shall have a room prepare—”
“I’ll sleep right here beside my wife.” Where I belong, he added silently. Of course, when Danica woke to find him back in her bed she might have a thing to two to say about it, but until then he was staying put. “Right now, I want some private time with her. You can take Nurse Ratched with you. Have the doctor knock when he gets back.”
The minute the room cleared, Raven stood, stripped off his jacket, and walked around to sit down on the bed where he could see her face. “I’m here, sweetheart. Open your beautiful eyes and tell me how you feel.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Me—”
Frowning, he bent closer. “What, honey?”
“dica—”
Ah, hell, what was she trying to tell him?
“—ted.”
Me-dica-ted?
“Medicated? They’re keeping you doped up?”
“Mmm. . .”
Exactly as he thought. “Damn it to hell.” Scooping her up, he carried his wife to a nearby chair then sat down, cradling her on his lap. Had she always felt this light? This insubstantial? Her head flopped to his chest. “Stay with me, honey. Just stay with me. I’m here and I’m not leaving your side. Ever again.”
She moaned and her lashes fluttered, showing a glimpse of her pretty blue eyes. Yeah, thought that would get your attention. “Rise and shine so you can tell me to go to hell. Followed by clueing me in on what the hell’s going on around here.”
She tried. He could see the struggle to swim through the drug-induced fog. Raven stroked her cheek then gave it a few sharp taps with his fingertips. Hated to do it but damn it, she had to wake up long enough to give him a hint or something so he could help her.
Her lashes fluttered, lifted a little, and then fluttered some more as she struggled valiantly to open her eyes.
“You’re doing it. Keep going.” While she swam up to him, Raven slid his hand down her arm, turning her cool skin up so he could check for needle marks. Nothing on the left arm, other than dozens of bug bites. He checked the right. Same deal. Of course, there were other, less conspicuous places they could’ve— He felt sick to his stomach. They were in South America; hell, they could’ve pumped her full of anything. . . Question was, were the drugs something she actually required? Was she injured more than he’d been led to believe? Or had she been given some sort of illegal crap?
Because-why?
Because why, damn it?
Didn’t make sense. None of this made any kind of sense.
“P-p—”
“Pills?”
“Mmm. Sleep. . .”
Pills. Keeping her sedated. Again—why?
Her head nestled against his chest, silky black hair brushing his chin. The smell of her stirred his senses despite his concerns. Essence of Dani. The most powerful aphrodisiac in the world.
Having her nestled against him like this felt so familiar, so right, so much a part of him. He held her tighter, folding her limp, pliant body into his. What was the deal? Saving the son of the president of this godforsaken country bought a Good Samaritan a body full of controlled substances?
Not to mention they’d fucking kidnapped her from American soil.
His mind raced, poised between fury and gratitude at finding her alive. Finally, gratitude won. God, how had he lived without her for the last year? His arms tightened around Dani’s limp body. How would he ever have survived if she’d been one of the casualties in that swamp?
Surely, God wouldn’t save her life only to let them remain apart.
Standing, he carried her back to the wide bed with its fancy, white sheets embroidered with the presidential seal. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here, sweetheart. Then I’m coming back to find out what these bastards are up to.”
He got her settled, checked her pulse again, checked her pupils—slightly dilated—and pulled the sheet over her shoulders. She immediately rolled back onto her left side then started snoring softly. He bit back a smile. That’s my girl.
Raven acknowledged there was a possibility she’d needed sedation when she arrived. He acknowledged that he always had a knee-jerk reaction where Danica was concerned. He acknowledged that maybe he was overreacting.
Except that his gut—usually infallible—was telling him this was all a crock. The accident. The kidnapping. The drug-induced sleep. Something was out of whack here. Way out of whack.
No one was getting within ten feet of Danica. No one. Not without going through him first.
He checked her pulse again. Steady. Then he got down to business, doing a visual search for cameras first, since if they were there, someone was watching him right now. He searched the room and adjoining bathroom thoroughly. Nothing. He checked for bugs, listening devices, any sort of recording equipment. Nothing he could detect. Didn’t mean they weren’t there, however. He checked again. And then a third time. Nothing.
He picked up the girlie, gold-and-white phone beside the bed. Hit zero. Buenas tardes, Señor Raven,” a polite female voice answered. “How may I be of assistance to you?”
“When will the doctor be here?”
There was a pause. I do not know this, señor. I will inquire for you.
“You do that. Have someone check to see what’s keeping my bag and send up a large pot of black coffee. Make that a couple of pots. And a pile of sandwiches. Thanks.”
Certainly, señor. Right away.
It would be a really nice bonus
if his weapons remained in the specially designed compartment of his carry-on, but that wasn’t going to be the case. Nope, not a prayer. If they were keeping their little heroine drugged, they were smart enough to pick over his bags like vultures on road kill. He hadn’t had any trouble getting them onto the plane, even in this day and age state-of-the-art beat antiquated X-ray machines every time. He’d arrived armed to the teeth, but here in the presidential palace of San Shitabol, he’d be lucky if the little guy with the pretty hair left him his airport-purchased toothbrush.
“Know what my gut tells me, sweetheart?” Raven whispered as he paced the room, searching—again. “It tells me that before this is over, I’m gonna need a fistful of weapons and a shitload of ammo.”
Four
No more,” Danica protested, as Jon tried to force her to drink yet another cup of far-too-strong Colombian coffee. The stuff not only looked nasty, it was thick as syrup, tasted vile as sin, and was strong enough to grow hair on her chest.
She vaguely remembered the procession of white-jacketed staff bringing in the carts with the coffee urn and platters of food. Jon had hurried them out of the room and locked the door behind them. The picture started coming clearer as she stalled for time, feebly pushing away the cup.
Jon had poured some of the steaming coffee into a cup, sniffed it, and taken a sip; my God, she thought, he was checking for. . .what? More drugs? Poison? When he was satisfied, he’d crossed back to the bed with a determined look that she’d recognized all too well. Then he started the coffee torture.
“Last one.” He stood over her, cup poised at her lips. “Promise.”
“Which means there’s another gallon,” Danica said tiredly, rubbing, not scratching, a bite behind her ear. There wasn’t a muscle, a bone, a joint, or a cell in her body that didn’t hurt or itch. “Hello? Tea drinker, remember?”
