by Cindy Gerard
“Because he’s such a prince of a guy,” he said caustically.
She dug for patience. “Because no matter what happened between us, Marcus still cares about me. I lived with that man for almost ten years. I’ve seen him at his worst. Seen him at his best. I’ve cried with him over the plight of the Sierra Leone refugees, witnessed his unflagging determination to make our humanitarian aid missions happen. He’s a good man.”
And a troubled man, she thought sadly. Luke thought he’d guessed the truth about Marcus’s betrayal, but he didn’t know the half of it.
She could still see the anguish on Marcus’s face the night she’d confronted him. And as painful as it had been for her, she knew that Marcus had been suffering, too. Was still suffering. Which was why she knew that Marcus would do anything to help her.
“You didn’t have to call him,” Luke said quietly. “You knew I was all over this.”
The frustration in his voice broke her heart. “I know. But I’ve imposed on you enough.”
He pushed out another sound of disgust and glanced pointedly toward the bed. “Interesting choice of words.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t twist what happened between us in this room into something ugly, because it wasn’t. It was . . . amazing and beautiful and—”
His jaw hardened. “A mistake? Is that what you were going to say?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
He looked at her sideways, clearly not believing her. She averted her gaze and, because she owed him the truth, finally admitted, “Maybe.”
“So that’s what this is really about? You feel you have to run from what we did? From me? Get that idea out of your head right now. No ties, okay? No strings. No regrets.”
If she stayed with him much longer, she was afraid that strings were exactly what she was going to want. “I know, and thank you for that. But it doesn’t change things. I need to do this on my own. My own way. Please respect my decision.”
He was quiet for a very long time. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Could be,” she conceded, “but it’s my mistake to make. And you have a life to get back to. We both do.”
He glared at the floor, clearly still trying to figure out a way to change her mind.
“Luke,” she said softly and touched his arm. “We both know this is for the best.”
When he looked up there was pain in his eyes, and reluctant acceptance. “Doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about what happens next with you.”
“I know.”
“These guys aren’t going to stop, Val. You need protection until—”
“I’ll get it. Marcus is already assembling a security team. They’ll be on the ground waiting for me in L.A. when I arrive. I can pay for the best.”
“You might be paying for the best, but you won’t be getting it.”
No, the best was right here in this room with her. “I’ll be okay,” she assured him.
He finally shrugged in defeat. “Okay. We do it your way. But until I’m satisfied that your Lima connection isn’t bogus, and you’re on board that jet with the door sealed tight, you’re stuck with me. No discussion.”
“Appreciate it.” She smiled tightly.
He didn’t smile at all.
Low-hanging clouds shrouded the mountain peaks forming a semi-circle beyond the concrete tarmac of the Alejandro Velasco Astete International Airport in the center of the city.
The trip from the hotel to the airport had been both infinitely long and achingly short. Other than lecturing Val on the need to stay close and not draw attention until he had her tucked away on the charter jet, Luke had pretty much kept his thoughts to himself.
There was a lot he’d wanted to say, but he saved his breath. She was determined. She was leaving under her own steam. End of story.
A fist tightened in his gut.
As they finally pulled up in front of the terminal, he told himself that leaving her wasn’t what was getting to him the most. It was the idea that she trusted Chamberlin that stuck in his craw. He’d known it would end between them. Hell, it never should have begun. He’d had a better chance of winning a lottery than of ending up in Valentina’s bed.
They never should have crossed paths in the first place. And yet, they had. And his world was still rockin’ in the wake of the experience.
And yeah, he knew that she was right. Splitting up now was for the best. He’d gotten in a little too deep with her, a little too fast. Better that they went their separate ways now. But Chamberlin? Fuck.
“Stay put,” he told her, got out of the taxi, and with the din of jet engines whining in the background, reconned the area with a long, searching look.
Luke had flown in and out of Cuzco often, so he knew the airport’s layout fairly well. He’d had the driver pull up at the far end of the commercial flight terminal where there was a small hangar for the private charters. Past the charter terminal was an area designated for cargo, where he’d catch his own ride a little later.
While he didn’t see anything or anyone out of place, he wasn’t going to take any chances. Before they’d left, he’d made a few more purchases. Now they were both wearing bright new striped ponchos, dark glasses, and baseball caps—just a couple of tourists headed back to the States, loaded down with bags filled with the local goods they’d bought from street vendors.
Only their bags weren’t stuffed with cheap souvenirs. His backpack was concealed in one. Hotel towels filled the other, just to make it look good. And his red, purple, and blue poncho nicely hid the Glock, tucked within easy reach at the small of his back.
The Glock. Yeah. Now things got dicey. While there was a good chance he could make it inside the terminal without anyone detecting the weapon, he’d never make it past boarding security. So since there was no way in hell he was going to let Valentina board any aircraft without inspecting it first, he had to ditch the handgun now.
“Let’s get inside,” he said, opening the cab’s rear passenger door. “The sooner I get you out of the open, the better I’m going to like it.”
He took her hand and helped her out, then, as part of their cover and to protect her, tucked her under his shoulder like he had every right. To the casual observer, he was a husband, a lover, a friend with benefits—whatever. But anyone wanting to take a shot had to get past him to get to her.
The scent of jet fuel and exhaust permeated the thin mountain air as he hustled her across the walkway toward the smaller charter terminal. Once they were within a few yards of the doors, he reluctantly tugged the Glock out of his waistband and, under the cover of his poncho, quickly broke it down into two pieces.
“Good-bye, ol’ friend,” he muttered as he pitched one piece in a trash can and the other in a recycle bin.
“Let’s do this,” he said and led her the final twenty yards to the terminal.
Because of the tourism trade, the Cuzco airport was always pretty active. Both commercial and charter flights kept the single runway busy. Because of the wall blocking the view of the taxiway and the apron, unless there was a jumbo jet landing or taking off, there was no way to see what planes were jockeying for runway space until they got inside.
Once inside the terminal, he did another visual recon. The charter waiting area was approximately thirty by twenty feet and swarming with travelers who were spread out in back-to-back rows of vinyl and chrome seats, reading newspapers, listening to their iPods, typing on laptops, or watching movies on portable DVD players.
The lone clerk behind a counter that hid everything but her head spoke into a headset, deeply immersed in conversation and looking harried.
To the left of the long counter and the terminal entry doors was a hallway that led to the restrooms. Across from the restrooms was a small door marked MAINTENANCE.
Skirting behind the rows of seats, Luke steered Val to an empty corner of the main waiting room near the hallway, keeping the street side exit door in view. Now that they were inside, the three plateglass windows, roug
hly eight feet square and stacked side by side, offered a good view of the tarmac and the air traffic. A commercial jet on full thrust lifted off down the runway, the roar from the powerful engines rattling the windows.
Closer by, a small Cessna and a pair of Pipers were parked toward the end of the charter flight apron. An older G-3 Gulfstream rolled slowly toward a small maintenance building, then parked outside its open bay doors.
A sleek new G-550 corporate jet had just touched down, turned off the runway onto the apron and, engines idling, nosed straight toward the marshaller who was directing him closer to the terminal.
“That would be your ride,” Luke said after consulting the numbers on the bird’s tail and seeing that they corresponded with the numbers Chamberlin had relayed to Val in a message he’d left with the hotel clerk.
Luke had gone ballistic over that. “This is Chamberlin’s idea of security?” he’d railed after the clerk had delivered the message to their room. “He broadcasts your flight information to any Tom, Dick, or Jose within earshot?”
“Like he had a choice?” she’d pointed out. “How else was he going to get word to me?”
Luke could have thought of a dozen options, none of which would have opened her up to exposure the way that asshole had. But he’d bitten his tongue, grabbed their things, and hustled her out of that room in thirty seconds flat. He wasn’t taking any chances that the goons who were after Val weren’t on their way to the hotel at that very second. He was no one’s sitting duck and he wasn’t about to let her be one, either.
During the hour-and-a-half wait for the jet’s arrival, they’d ridden in no fewer than five taxis, changing cabs every fifteen minutes in different parts of the city until it was time to show up at the airport.
And he’d just run out of time.
“Well,” he heard Val say, “I guess this is good-bye.”
16
Luke’s heart did a little stutter. Yeah. This was good-bye.
It didn’t look like there was anything he could do to stop that from happening, but he would make it damn memorable.
He turned to face her, his back to the terminal, and crowded her into the corner. Even with her hair tucked up under the ball cap, her eyes covered by shades, and smelling like wet wool from her poncho, she looked gorgeous and vulnerable and determined and—aw hell, a little like she might just cry.
Swamped with feelings of tenderness and regret, he touched a finger to her jaw. “So you know . . . I wouldn’t have changed one thing about the past twenty-four hours, Angelface. Well,” he amended with a grin, “maybe the part about getting shot at on the train. And maybe I’d have picked a different mule. And, come to think of it, I could have done without that damn potato.”
Okay. She was smiling now, Just like he wanted. Because if she started crying, he just might do a little blubbering, too.
Jesus, this woman messed with his head.
“Thank you, Luke. Thank you—”
He pressed an index finger to her lips, gently cutting her off. “No,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers.
“Thank you.”
And then he tugged off her shades, looked her deep in the eyes, and kissed her.
How could he not? How could he look into those liquid brown eyes and that valiant little smile and not kiss her one more time? How could he pretend that letting her go was easy, even though he didn’t have a clue why it was suddenly so frickin’ hard?
He wasn’t a romantic. Had never thought of himself as sentimental. But he wanted this one last kiss. One last taste. One last feel of her melting against his lips and telling him without words that she was going to miss the hell out of him, like he was going to miss the hell out of her.
When he finally broke away, her eyes were closed; her fingers were clutched tightly around his biceps.
“Well,” he said, his voice hoarse and grainy, “we’ll always have Peru.”
That actually made her laugh. “Yes,” she agreed and, looping her arms around his neck, hugged him hard. “We’ll always have Peru.”
He held her close for a moment, closed his eyes, and absorbed every feminine inch of her pressed against him . . . and fought a damn-near-overwhelming gut feeling that letting her go was the absolute wrong thing to do.
But she was right, he thought grimly. It was what they both needed.
He reached behind his neck, disengaged her hands, and brought them to his lips. “Don’t take any raw potatoes, okay?”
Her smile was a little wobbly this time. “Count on it.” He squeezed her hands one final time, then set her shades back on her nose. “You stay put a sec. The pilot should come into the terminal soon. As soon as I have a little chat with him and I’m sure he’s on the up-and-up, I’ll walk you onto that plane. But until I’m satisfied that you’re in good hands, you’re still on my watch.”
Luke made another visual sweep of the terminal as he waited for the G-550’s hatch to open and the pilot to check in.
The waiting area was still packed with weary travelers. Some were trying to catch a nap, some were reading, some were staring blankly into space; others muddled through the security line. All were tired of waiting for their charter flights and beyond ready to head home. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a ringer in the bunch. No jackets that appeared to be hiding weapons, no sharp-eyed observers, no mercs on a mission to snatch his girl.
His girl?
Strike that. They’d already established that she was not his girl and there were a hundred stellar reasons why, starting with his profession not being conducive to long-term relationships, and ending with the shitload of baggage she was carrying from her divorce.
She was still his charge, though, until she was safely on board that G-550.
The itch suddenly stood the hair on the back of his neck on end, and Rule Number One kicked in with a vengence.
Instantly on edge, he made another visual sweep of the crowd. Nothing. But then the air pressure in the building changed infinitesimally. The street door opened, admitting traffic noise, jet fumes, and two men whose look and bearing intensified the itch to a scalding burn.
Even if their lack of luggage hadn’t tipped him off, one glance told Luke they weren’t your typical travelers. The first man was big—around six foot two and a solid two-fifty. He was Caucasian, wore his dark hair in a close buzz cut, and, judging from the width of his shoulders, pumped a lot of iron. The other man was Asian and on the short side, but built like a brick shit house. Both wore scowls, badass attitudes, and oversized black dress suits. They made him think of Belushi and Aykroyd’s version of the Blues Brothers, Jake and Elwood, only on steroids.
Enforcers, no doubt about it. And clearly professionals, with their military-sharp bearing, their clear tactical awareness of their surroundings, and their laser-eyed gazes that swept the terminal like radar.
Oh, yeah. They were looking for someone. They were looking for Valentina.
Christ. Who the hell did they work for? More than ever, Luke was convinced that whoever it was had to be a big, big player with a big, big purse and a far-reaching web.
Why the fuck was he after Val? It had to have something to do with Chamberlin, whether she wanted to believe it or not, because the only way these creeps could have gotten a bead on their location this fast was if someone gave it to them. And the only someone who knew she was going to be at this airport at this exact time was her ex.
He’d worry about that later. Right now, he had to get her out of here before they spotted her. The question was, where? A sixth sense warned him that hustling her to the plane might not be the wisest move.
He took a slow step backward so he wouldn’t draw their attention and, using a cement support post for impromptu concealment, watched them. They immediately positioned themselves just inside the door, flanking it on either side, blocking any escape route. Hands clasped in front of them, they stood with their shoulders square in those oversized jackets, making it clear to Luke that they were concealing shoulder ho
lsters.
Oh, yeah. Definitely up to no good. And apparently they didn’t give two figs about airport security seizing their guns. No one was taking their hardware.
When the big guy, Elwood, flipped open a phone and punched in a number, Luke got a sinking feeling that these weren’t the only two snakes to fall out of the tree today.
He whipped his head toward the large windows and saw the hatch of the G-550 open. As the pilot appeared on the top of the airstairs, he reached into his pocket to answer a call.
Snake in the grass number three, Luke surmised as the pilot looked toward the terminal, nodded, and pocketed his phone. A quick glance back at Elwood, who also hung up, confirmed they’d been talking to each other.
Fuck and fuck again.
“We’ve got trouble.” He latched on to Valentina’s arm. “I’ll explain later but for now, grab your bags and walk with me. Move slow. Last thing we want to do is draw attention.”
Her shoulders went stiff with panic but like a good soldier, she did as she was told. Positioning his body between her and the thugs at the terminal door, Luke walked her casually toward the hallway as if they were heading for the restrooms.
He tried the door on the maintenance closet and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
“Showtime,” he whispered and backed her up against the door, pinning her there with his body. He lowered his mouth to hers. “Work with me,” he whispered as he dug into his pocket for his Leatherman, then wrapped his arms around her and reached for the lock on the door.
She looped her arms around his neck and played the part as he unfolded his pick tool. Anyone looking their way would just see a pair of lovers sharing a parting kiss.
“Got it,” he said after a few moments of finessing the lock. “Any eyes on us?”
He gave her a moment to scan the hallway over his shoulder. “No.”
Without a second of hesitation, he opened the door, shoved her backward inside, and followed, shutting it quickly behind them.
