Silent Cymbals

by Lakes, Lynde

  Rusti shivered, thinking about their close call.

  “Unless there’s a change in plans,” Razor told her, “tomorrow is the day I give the microfilm to my new contact.”

  “I guess change-in-plans are the key words here. If your meet goes off without a hitch, how long will it be until the cartel is in custody, until I can go home and actually feel safe about being there?”

  “A couple of days.”

  Rusti had pretty much decided that after the microfilm was safely in police hands she would call Buck Williams herself. She felt disloyal even considering such a thing, but all this skulk and dagger drama and Baxter’s remarks about Razor had unnerved her.

  In spite of her concerns, the shower lifted her spirits, and she rejoined Razor, wearing a hotel terry robe over nightwear consisting of a pink bare midriff top and matching shorts.

  “Wow, you look like a different person,” he said, stripping off his still wet wool shirt. His chest was firm and muscled, narrowing to a trim waist.

  She pulled the robe tighter around her and willed herself to stop staring at him. She wasn’t sure if her fascination was due to his self-assurance, or if it was something deep inside her that came welling to the surface every time she looked at him, a longing she was trying not to acknowledge. “I’ll say goodnight then,” she said. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.” But could she sleep? She was still on edge, remembering what he’d said about not unpacking.

  Suddenly running out of energy, she sank gratefully down on the nearest bed. This room was better equipped than their cramped quarters at the other motel. This one had twin doubles—she tried to ignore how close they were together.

  Although she no longer saw danger in every shadow, she was still too keyed up to sleep. Just the same, it felt marvelous to stretch out full length and let her tired muscles relax, marvelous to indulge in the luxury of letting her mind drift. She knew Razor cared for her, but also suspected that it had something to do with the fact that she was a direct conduit to the killer. Whatever his reasons, she’d grown to count on him. Even with all her uncertainty, her shaky trust was as basic as breathing. That was the wonder of it.

  She was still awake when he came from the bathroom, wearing a robe. If he wore anything underneath, Rusti couldn’t detect it. Her heart pounded. A knowing smile flicked across his face as if he’d uncovered an unexpected and gratifying secret. “Does my state of undress bother you?”

  No matter what she answered, it would get her in trouble. She shrugged and let it go at that. But in the wee hours of the morning, he seemed even sexier than he had been when he was nearly nude at the Cucamonga motel. She didn’t know how she had managed to sleep across from a nearly nude man who merely had to look at her to set her heart racing.

  If she thought that was tough, it was nothing compared to what was happening now. He took off his robe, revealing that he wore blue running shorts underneath. She tingled all over just looking at him. Before she could catch her breath, he climbed onto her bed and stretched out beside her. She gave him a little push. “Hey, get on your own bed.”

  He rolled over and put his arm around her, pulling her close. “I thought maybe we could pick up where we left off at the cabin when we were so rudely interrupted. You haven’t forgotten, have you?” he asked, nibbling on her ear.

  How could she have forgotten? Rather than give her verbal consent, she began to relax against him, closing her eyes and feeling his breath in her hair. She’d known him only a few days, yet they had been through a lifetime of trouble together, more trouble than most people who live to celebrate a golden anniversary ever experienced. That counted for something.

  She wanted him. Her need was a blend of lingering fear and desire. She couldn’t separate the two, or explain it. René and Petra were dead. She could be next, and Razor was her safe haven, her champion, no matter what Detective Baxter said. He had lured the killers to the other side of the hill to protect her, had given her time to get away.

  And right now in the warm, safe circle of his hard-muscled arms, with his clean male scent enticing her, she found herself wanting him so badly it was nearly unbearable. And Razor probably knew it. It would be useless to pretend. All she could do was accept that when this was all over, he would leave.

  He was kissing her neck—his warm lips making her tingle with desire. No. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to take control of the situation. With her longing for him almost overwhelming, distance was the only remedy. Desperately, she broke away, sprang to her feet and made a dash for the bathroom.

  He was on his feet in an instant. “Rusti? What’s wrong?”

  She stopped at the door and turned to face him. “Panic,” she admitted, chagrined, but relieved to be getting it out in the open. Maybe they could deal with it better that way. “This isn’t a good idea, Razor.”

  “Sure it is.” His smile was so heart-wrenching Rusti couldn’t move. He closed the distance between them. Then he bent and brought his mouth down to hers. Everything sensible in Rusti told her to resist, but her arms closed around him of their own accord, her body pressed against his. Her need matched his. Nothing mattered but this bliss, this ecstasy—not her fear that he would leave her, not the fear of her own death—nothing.

  Rusti stiffened at a knock on the door. She wrenched herself free. Razor crossed the room in a flash. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Room service.”

  “At three o’clock in the morning? We didn’t order anything.”

  “Someone did, sir. I’ll leave the tray outside the door.”

  Once again fate had conspired against them. The spell was broken. She turned and fled, slamming the bathroom door behind her. Her lips were warm and throbbing from his kiss. She still tasted him, still wanted the feel of his hard body against hers. She must be losing her mind. Even if she had to sleep in the bathtub, she wasn’t going out there again until he left for his meeting. She couldn’t trust herself. When he called to her, she pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to answer. Her heart thudded. The short hours left before dawn would seem like an eternity.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Razor lay down on the bed. How long could Rusti stay in the bathroom? Stubborn woman. No sense bugging her; she’d come out when she felt like it. Hell, didn’t she know he wouldn’t force himself on her?

  The next thing he knew it was nearly 7:00 A.M., and bright sunshine filtered in through a separation in the drapes. His head ached and he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. Rusti was asleep, lying in the other bed, one shapely leg outside the sheet, showing a glimpse of pink shorts. Auburn ringlets framed her face. A few freckles dotted her cheeks. Her lips at rest promised every luscious thing they had to offer. It wasn’t wise to dwell on that.

  He eased himself off the bed, grabbed some fresh clothes, and went into the bathroom. Minutes later, shaved and dressed, he shoved his keys and change into his pockets. Not wanting to disturb Rusti with the phone calls he needed to make, he slipped out of the room.

  A room service tray waited on the floor outside the door. It held only a bottle of champagne and two glasses—and the inevitable bud vase with a single flower. He checked for a card. None. Management? No one had known they were here except Baxter. Was he Terrilla’s P.D. mole? If so, Terrilla knew exactly where they were. And this could be from him. Razor picked the tray up and set it inside. When he returned, he would check it out—and if it was legit, he and Rusti could celebrate.

  Razor made his calls only steps away from the room where he could keep an eye on the door. He called Buck first. The meeting with Captain Noble was still a go. Razor made arrangements for a rental car, and for Ben to pick up his Mustang to replace the windows. Then he went back inside and found Rusti sitting in the chair beside the window. She’d opened the slider.

  The L.A. sky was yellow with morning smog, and a warm wind flapped the drapes. What a time for a Santa Ana wind to kick up. The static electricity played havoc with nerves already in knots from spen
ding the night in the same room with Rusti without touching her. Razor cleared his dry throat. “We’re set,” he said, his voice still husky. “Buck confirmed it.”

  Rather than comment on his news, she frowned and said, “General Santana is riding.”

  Razor knew the legend about the dry, hot wind, but had other things on his mind this morning. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rusti went right on, as though there was something important she needed to say. “His cape makes the wind. And he wore black boots. Grenadier’s boots…I think they call them.” She favored Razor with a small smile. “I tell my kindergarteners his story, show them his picture.” Rusti’s frown returned. “From now on…every time I see that picture…I’ll think of another pair of black boots…tramping up and down the stairs of that old winery.”

  Regret gnawed at Razor. He hadn’t been as sensitive to Rusti’s fears as he might have been. She had such grit he’d failed to consider she might be more affected by their treatment during the kidnapping than she’d let on. He longed to comfort her, but it was time to leave for his meeting. The talk about the wind had distracted them momentarily from things neither of them wanted to face—the danger of the next few hours, the electricity sizzling between them. Romantic involvements caused operatives to make mistakes. And he’d made enough already. He’d have to be doubly careful; he’d never felt this intensity of emotion before.

  “I have to leave now. Stay put until I come back. If I don’t show up or telephone by 11:00 o’clock, call Buck at Langley. He’ll take care of you. Got it?” Razor locked the slider. “Leave this locked, and don’t open the door. I don’t care if it’s Baxter or Ben or God himself.”

  She nodded. “Be careful, Razor,” she said so softly he had to strain to hear. He headed out the door, leaving part of his heart behind.

  The hotel had a rental car waiting at the entrance for him. The beige Camaro was a far cry from his sleek, black Mustang, but it’d do the job—and keep the bad dudes and the cops off his trail.

  Fifteen minutes later, he parked at a metered space a block away from the police station and on the opposite side of the street. He couldn’t identify his conflicting emotions as he hurried toward the crosswalk. He should feel relief. In a few minutes, he’d be rid of the microfilm—the beginning of the end of this tension-driven hell.

  After the bust, he’d disappear, move on to another big city, another highly-charged assignment, and the process would start all over again. He’d infiltrate another crime cartel, work himself into a trusted position and break up another nest of gangsters. He paused at the corner, waiting for the light to change.

  Why didn’t he have the same sense of relief he’d always had at this stage of the game? What was different?

  A young woman waiting to cross to his side of the street caught his attention. Her hair was lighter than Rusti’s and she was a few pounds heavier, but her restless shifting from foot to foot, her eager impatience, was Rusti’s trademark. Damn, he hoped Rusti stayed put.

  How had she gotten such a hold on him? She was in his thoughts every waking moment. In the past, he’d managed to keep his relationships with women on a more even keel, never mixing work and romance. Then a twist of fate thrust Rusti into his working life. It was more than bad judgment; it was a mistake. His mistake. And to compound his blunder, the fiery redhead had created havoc with his emotional life. She’d battered down the doors of his resistance when he’d least expected it. Although he knew it wasn’t possible, he kept wishing he could take away the hurt, mend her broken heart. Was he in love with her? A kindergarten teacher of all things?

  The WALK sign blinked on. It wasn’t until the crowd pushed forward, that Razor finally got the message and started across the street. He was trotting by the time the signal turned red, and he took the steps of the municipal building two at a time, eager to leave the microfilm in safe hands and get back to Rusti.

  “Help you?” the round-faced desk sergeant asked.

  “Yeah, I need to talk to Captain Harry Noble.”

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?” When Razor said he had, the sergeant checked a list on his desk. “Your name?” he asked.

  Razor’s heart pounded. “Jarvis…Ralph Jarvis.” The sergeant eyed him suspiciously. An icy tingle crawled down his spine. Razor leaned forward and found the name Jarvis second from the top. He pointed to it. “There it is.” He struggled to keep his voice even.

  The sergeant looked up solemnly. “May someone else help you?”

  “Noble’s expecting me.”

  The sergeant studied Razor for a long, agonizing second. He bent forward and in a low, confidential tone said, “The captain’s dead, Mr. Jarvis. His housekeeper found him a little over an hour ago with his throat slashed. Murdered. In his sleep.”

  A recent killing—that’s why Buck didn’t know about it yet. Shaking his head to clear it, Razor turned away. Everyone connected to this case turned up dead. Rusti! He had to get back to the hotel.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rusti finished the coffee she’d made and carried her cup into the bathroom to rinse it out. Razor’s now familiar scent lingered in the still air. How could she possibly stay this close to him for the next couple of days and not give in to her urges? She couldn’t bear to think of losing him, letting him walk out of her life forever, yet she couldn’t imagine Rusti Collins and an FBI agent living out the rest of their lives in a rose-covered cottage…with a couple of little G-men running around. It would never work; she had to let go, but she would always wonder if he was alive or lying dead in an alley somewhere.

  In an attempt to get Razor and his dangerous lifestyle out of her mind, Rusti called Jerry to let him know she was all right. The smitten P.I. wanted to take her to breakfast. “Thanks, Jerry. But I’m not up to it. Meeting with Petra’s parents yesterday took all the starch out of me. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Although he allowed her to end the conversation without giving her a hard time, his tone had been questioning. If he wanted to, he could track her down. She’d have to call him again tomorrow to keep him satisfied. Should she have told him where she was and what she was up to?

  Razor wouldn’t like it—but he didn’t want her talking to anyone. He had his reasons. Baxter might be dangerous, although she didn’t think he was, but not Jerry. He was more than her P.I. He was her friend who’d never do anything to put her in danger. And the sting was almost over, anyway. If Razor didn’t like her asking Jerry for help, too bad. She should call him back right now. Just as she reached for the phone, it rang. Her heart raced. “Hello,” she said quickly. She waited, eager to hear Razor’s deep-voiced response. It didn’t come. The line was open; she could hear breathing. “Hello,” she said a couple more times. A loud click and the hum of the dial tone sent a chill down her spine. With trembling fingers, she placed the phone back in its cradle and willed it to ring again…willed it to be Razor. Something was wrong. She felt it.

  Razor had said if he didn’t report in by eleven, she should— She glanced at the clock on the bedside stand; Razor hadn’t been gone long enough to call Buck. He could still contact her, and if she jumped the gun, she could get everyone all stirred up over nothing.

  As she paced the room, she noticed the room service tray on the floor by the door. Razor must have found it in the hall and brought it in. Champagne. Did Razor know who sent it? She stooped to pick up the bud vase and tried to straighten the drooping flower. Her heart nearly stopped. The flower was a burgundy rose. This couldn’t be coincidental. It smacked of the killer’s dramatic flair. She’d bet there was no longer a burgundy rose at René’s grave.

  She had to get out of there and to the lobby where there were lots of people. She grabbed her purse and the plastic room card and headed for the door. She turned the knob. As the door swung open, a black-clad figure with a nylon stocking over his head leaped at her. She gasped. Thrown off balance, she did a backward-quickstep to keep from falling. The room card went flying. The knife in the gloved
hand gleamed in the midmorning light.

  “No!” Rusti screamed and punched him in the stomach. The blow sent him sprawling, his arm flew up and the knife went spiraling upward. Rusti watched it fall hilt over blade in what seemed like slow motion—then land with a muted thud on the thick carpet. She scurried to reach it, but her attacker recovered and tackled her, slamming her hard against the room service tray, sending it careening wildly and shattering the glasses. In spite of the pain that shot into her weak knee, Rusti rolled away and scrambled to her feet. The attacker grabbed her throat. Rusti thrust her arm up, knocking his hands away. He was tall and quick, but surprisingly less powerful than she expected. Was he hurt, at a disadvantage?

  As they grappled, Rusti tried to pull off the stocking mask. He ducked. She caught him by the wrist and managed to yank off one of the gloves. Her fleeting glimpse of his hands revealed longish fingernails. Rusti blinked. Her stunned pause allowed the assailant to recover the knife. She grabbed the champagne bottle and swung it. It caught him in the chest and knocked him to the floor, and his black boots flailed aimlessly.

  The doorway was clear. Rusti ran. But her attacker was on her heels, wielding the knife. Suddenly, he stopped short…then veered off and ran for the fire exit. Thank God. But why? She paused and looked about. The elevator door stood open. Razor stepped out.

  “Get him.” Rusti pointed, and together they ran after her attacker. They reached the exit in time to see the black-clad figure disappear through the door to the garage at the bottom of the stairwell.

  “What happened, Rusti? Are you hurt?”

  She threw her arms around Razor’s neck and held on…she didn’t want to let go. Ever. “I’m okay,” she said, ignoring the throbbing in her weak knee.