Or was she creating “proof” where there was none to be had?
Hannah let out a slow, shaky breath. She would risk it. She would believe him. “What can I do?” she asked quietly.
Her question could be interpreted many ways, Tate assured himself, acutely aware that she’d voiced it loudly enough to be picked up by the camera. One way to see it was to believe she had resigned herself to her fate and in order to avoid being beaten for appearing to resist, she was offering to do whatever it took to comply with this role she was forced to play.
Do whatever he wanted her to do. All he had to do was tell her.
At least that was the way he hoped the goons who were watching this would see it.
Drawing Hannah even closer to him so that his cheek was against hers, Tate whispered, “Do you know the head man’s name?”
There it was again, that warmth along her skin, that corresponding ripple within the pit of her stomach—or at least the general vicinity, she amended.
Hannah looked uneasily at this man who held her body on his lap and her fate in his hands.
What was it that he was doing to her? Where were these strange sensations coming from? She had questions, frustrating questions, and no visible way to address any of them.
In response to his question about the man who had to be in charge of all this, she shook her head. But before she could open her mouth to testify to her ignorance, he surprised her. He took hold of her chin in his hand. Then, as she watched, her breath caught in her throat, the man who had exchanged a briefcase full of money to purchase some time with her lowered his mouth to hers and lightly brushed his lips over it.
Just before his lips made contact with hers, she thought she heard him murmur, “Whisper it into my ear.”
If she was going to ask “What?” she never had the opportunity, because that was when he kissed her.
And everything changed from that moment on.
She had been kissed before. One of the boys in her school had stolen a kiss from her once, then run off, afraid of being caught. She remembered thinking, as he ran away, that it was a very strange custom, rubbing skin on skin. She’d felt curious as to why he’d done it, but couldn’t remember feeling anything beyond that.
The incident wasn’t repeated, possibly because the boys in her village were afraid of Caleb, who was her protector.
This, however, was different.
Very different.
Hannah knew why this man was doing what he did—at least, she knew what he’d intimated his reason for taking this route was. He wanted to exchange information with her without anyone overhearing or suspecting what was really happening.
But if that was the case, was she supposed to feel this in response?
And what was this that she was feeling?
She had no name for it, no frame of reference, other than that time the water had been too hot for her when she was bathing and it had created a corresponding, almost unbearable warmth all over her, both without and within.
Drawing his head back now, Tate looked at her, waiting for Hannah to comply with his barely audible instruction. Doing his best to harness the hammering of his heart, which was pounding in direct response to kissing her.
Damn, he was going to have to watch himself. It was too easy to allow the lines between his roles to blur, to throw himself into the part of a man who’d just bought himself a preview of the night of uniquely exquisite passion he was being promised.
Hannah, in her innocence, was getting to him and he couldn’t allow that. Distracted cops made mistakes. Fatal mistakes.
“Go on,” he coaxed out loud, acting like a teacher waiting for his student to demonstrate what she’d just learned.
She was shaking again, at least she was inside, Hannah thought as she leaned over in slow motion, her lips feathering along his skin just below his ear.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I never heard anyone call him by name.”
Tate’s stomach muscles tightened so hard, he would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that his gut had suddenly been tied into a huge, unworkable knot.
Cupping her face in his hands, he brought his mouth down to Hannah’s again, then lightly rained gentle, tightly controlled kisses along her cheek, working his way to the other ear.
“Can you describe him?” he wanted to know. They had a name, Seth Maddox, but it never hurt to verify that their source hadn’t just been selling them a bill of goods.
Her breath was growing increasingly shorter, even as she felt her pulse accelerating. And her head was beginning to spin again, just the way it had when she’d been forced to drink that awful-tasting liquid. The one that robbed her of her ability to think, to differentiate shapes and people.
Leaning in against him again, she tried to imitate what he’d just done. But when she kissed him this time, she forgot to move on.
At least, she did for a long moment.
Instead, holding his face in her hands the way he had done with hers, her lips pressing against his, Hannah realized that she was lingering. Lingering—and enjoying it.
Was that pleasure she was feeling?
How could it be?
What was happening—all of this—was against her will. Or at least it had begun that way when the door had closed behind those henchmen, locking her in with this man.
Again she wondered if he was just pretending to be here to save her so that she wouldn’t struggle when he finally had his way with her.
But he’d used her nickname, she reminded herself. He’d called her Blue Bird.
Her thoughts felt as if they were going in two directions at the same time. Her head ached.
Only Caleb knew about that name or used it.
Only Caleb and his girls, she amended.
His daughters had heard him call her that more than once. But Ruthie, Grace and Katie had no occasion to tell anyone else, she silently argued.
She raised her eyes to the stranger. So did she trust him—or not?
Hannah felt horribly confused.
He was waiting, she realized. Waiting for her to tell him something. He was waiting for her to give him the man’s description, she suddenly remembered, struggling to clear her head.
Her lips lightly brushed against his cheek. At the same time, she whispered, “Older than you. Shorter. Thinner. Silver in his black hair. Perhaps fifty, perhaps younger.” She raised her eyes to his, feeling as if she’d failed him. Failed her fellow sisters being held captive as well.
“I’m sorry I’m not a help,” she apologized. The words of regret almost choked her.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he assured her, measuring out each word slowly, tailoring his words to the role he was playing. It had to be in keeping with the facade he had put into place. “You did very well.”
She didn’t see how she could have.
Hannah searched the stranger’s face and saw that he was serious. She shook her head in response, but said nothing. Not until he gently slid her off his lap and helped her back up to her feet, getting up with her.
It was time to go. Before he forgot his training, did something incredibly stupid and blew the whole mission, not to mention his cover.
“I’ll be in touch,” he promised.
For the second time in ten minutes, Hannah’s breath stopped in her throat. But this time, it was fear that created that sensation.
Her eyes were only a shade smaller than saucers. “You’re leaving?” she asked.
Tate inclined his head ever so slightly. “I have to.”
Because he’d gone to so much trouble to mask both his words and hers, she emulated his actions. She could see that she had surprised him when she pulled her torso up against him.
In a barely perceptible whisper, she entreated, “Take me with you.”
When she added the word please, Tate thought his very heart would break right then and there. He would have given ten years of his life to be able to comply, to do exactly as she asked.
But h
e couldn’t.
He had to keep the bigger picture in mind and the bigger picture involved rescuing not just Hannah, but all the other girls who had been yanked out of their homes and their schools, dehumanized, drugged and dragged here, to be offered as tantalizing pieces of flesh to men whose souls were blacker than the bottom of an abyss.
So, though he hated himself for refusing her, for forcing her to remain here another moment, Tate took hold of her shoulders and held her in place as he told her words he knew she did not want to hear: “I can’t.”
He saw disbelief, horror and desperation play over her exquisitely formed face.
“Yes, you can,” she insisted, angry tears gathering in her eyes. “You can take my hand and walk out of here with me. You said you bought me. You gave them all that money for me.”
Had it all been a lie, after all? Had he just been toying with her, making her believe there was an end in sight when there really wasn’t?
But why?
It didn’t make any sense to her.
“That was to show good faith,” he explained.
Anyone listening to this exchange would see this as just a confrontation between a john and the unhappy object of his obsession—nothing more, he thought. It would stand to reason that she would be desperate to escape and willing to do whatever it took to make it happen.
“So I can get invited back to the party,” he added, trying to make her understand why his hands were tied at the moment. Hoping that she could forgive him.
“Party?” she echoed. The word had an ominous sound to it. “What sort of a party?”
She didn’t know, he realized. They really were keeping the girls in the dark. “For the organization’s prospective clients—and other girls like you,” he explained carefully.
Her mouth went dry again. More men meant more of a chance that someone else would claim her.
“So they can—they can—” She stumbled, unable to make herself form the words that described the ravaging that she felt certain would take place.
Tate placed his finger over her lips, silencing her. He didn’t want her saying any more, didn’t want her thinking about anything except that she would be rescued. Just not today.
The look in her eyes was clearly conflicted, but he forced himself to meet it. If he looked away, she’d think he was lying to lull her into a false sense of security and the exact opposite would happen.
“I’ll be back for you,” he promised. It was an oath, a vow he meant to keep no matter what it took.
Anyone overhearing would think it was just a wealthy john telling his “escort” of choice that he wasn’t through with her, Tate told himself.
But he fervently hoped that Hannah would see beyond the obvious and realize he was making a commitment to her, a promise that he was going to return and rescue her as well as the others.
Because he was.
Hannah pressed her lips together. The wariness he’d seen in her eyes earlier returned. As did the apprehensive air.
She didn’t fully trust him, he thought. How could he blame her? He’d given her a catchphrase, a nickname, and then turned her down when she asked him to get her out of here because she was clearly afraid of remaining here another moment. In her place, he’d have trust issues, too.
“When?” she finally asked.
Maybe there was a part of her that did believe him. At least he could hope. “Soon,” he told her with as much feeling as he dared. “Very soon.”
Just as the words were out of his mouth the door to the suite flew open and the two guards he’d relegated to the hallway came back inside.
He’d been right to assume that there were hidden cameras in the rooms and that the duo had been watching their every movement the entire time. Better careful than sorry—and dead, he told himself.
The man with the scraggly excuse for a goatee looked as if he could be outsmarted by a semi-intelligent raccoon. But the other, more powerful-looking one, Nathan, might be a real problem to them if he was so inclined.
Tate wanted the odds to be more on his side before he risked Hannah’s life in an escape attempt. The sting would be a far more favorable occasion for things to go down.
If the wait didn’t kill him.
“You about done?” the goateed man asked. Deep-set, marblelike eyes slid from him to Hannah.
Tate really didn’t like the way the scum was looking at Hannah.
“Yes, I am,” Tate replied calmly, his tone once again belying the churning emotions that were swirling dangerously just beneath the surface.
He could easily envision himself smashing that smirking, annoying face dead center with his fist. He was really going to enjoy taking these people down, he thought. Enjoy it the way he hadn’t enjoyed anything in a long, long time.
“When will I receive my invitation to the party?” he asked, making certain that his question was addressed to both men.
He was well aware of the danger of openly favoring one henchman over the other at this point.
Pitting them against each other had its place and its benefits, but not yet. That was a card to be played closer to the end.
“When the boss is satisfied,” the Scraggly Goatee answered condescendingly.
Tate kept his hands at his sides, but he curled his fingers into fists, wishing he was free to act on impulse rather than orders and protocol. He could take both men easily, even though they had guns and he didn’t. He was trained for that sort of thing, using surprise and skills to his advantage. He could even make a clean getaway with Hannah if he timed it just right—but it would be at the cost of all those other lives. The abducted girls would be forever lost to their families, swallowed up without a trace.
So he remained immobile, telling himself it was all for the greater good.
Nathan eyed Tate with more than a little contempt in his eyes before he answered. “Keep your cell handy. You’ll get a call soon. Within the next few hours,” he added.
Tate nodded. “Thanks.”
A noise behind him made him look over his shoulder. The man with the bad goatee hustled a weary-looking Hannah back into the bedroom again. He raised his voice so that the henchman knew he was talking to him.
“The deal’s off if she’s hurt in any way.” That was so neither of them would feel free to strike her where her injuries would be initially covered up by clothing.
Looking on, Waterford appeared to be somewhat amused.
“You really like this one, huh?” he asked. As if he’d already had his answer, Nathan shook his bald head, bemused. “Don’t really see why,” he confessed. “One pretty much seems like another. Cover up their faces and you can’t tell the difference.”
Tate paused by the door. It was a very narrow line he was walking and he knew it. One misstep and he would go headfirst into the lion’s den, to be ripped apart and devoured.
But he wanted to be sure that nothing happened to Hannah in any way between now and whenever the so-called “party” was going to take place. After that, they were going to be home free.
Because the sting was set to go down at the same time.
He looked at Waterford pointedly, his message clear. “I’m not planning on covering her face,” he told the muscular man.
He was surprised to hear Waterford laugh in response. The man looked almost human as he shrugged his wide shoulders and said, “Every man’s got his own thing, I guess.”
Tate couldn’t imagine what Waterford’s “thing” was, but he was fairly certain that he didn’t want to stick around to find out. The only thing he wanted was for this operation to be over—successfully over—so that he could bring Hannah back to the people who were waiting for her. Back to her family.
If, at the same time, the thought generated an odd emptiness within him, well, he didn’t have any time to try to explore that or figure out why he felt that way. There was much too much to do in the next few hours. He had a sting to finalize. And more money to get from Gunnar to use as bait. Greed had a way of escala
ting and the price that had been agreed to at the first auction was most likely suffering from growing pains because it had been increased.
He wasn’t about to lose this opportunity—or have the sting go bad—because of something as insignificant as not being able to come up with enough funds to pull it off.
He hurried down the hall to the bank of elevators and punched the down button.
The next few hours were going to be crucial. For all of them, he couldn’t help thinking, looking over his shoulder down the corridor toward the hotel suite he’d just left.
And envisioning the girl inside who was waiting to be rescued.
“I’ll come back for you,” he whispered again under his breath.
Chapter 5
“You’ve earned an invitation to the party,” the cold, steely voice on the other end of the line said to Tate later that same evening. The call had come in on the cell phone that was exclusively registered to his “Ted Conrad” persona.
Tired after his long day, Tate nonetheless was instantly alert. He’d been waiting for the call—and, his gut told him, to hear from this specific man—since he had walked away from that tenth-floor hotel room earlier today.
Still, there was a game to play and to win, and Tate knew that he had to play it well. He feigned confusion. “Who is this?” he asked sharply.
“Why, the facilitator of your dreams, Mr. Conrad, who else?” the cold voice replied. The laugh that followed was all but frost-coated. It was obvious that the man on the other end of the line was enjoying the cat-and-mouse game, secure in the knowledge that he was in control. “I must say, Mr. Conrad, for a man I’ve never heard of until just recently, your background has turned out to be truly impressive.”
The background the caller was referring to had been created and entrenched in the right places thanks to his handler and the small crew he worked with who knew how to plant detailed information in files thought to be absolutely above hacking.
Even so, suspicion was never far away and always within reach. Because of that, Tate wondered now if the man on the other end of the call was on the level or mocking him.
Colton Showdown Page 5
