by Cindy Gerard
He wanted to protect her and ravage her at the same time. Those staid, proper business suits she wore drove him crazy. And when she sometimes wore her thick brown hair pulled back in a severe bun, it was all he could do to keep himself from backing her into a corner somewhere, ripping the pins out of her hair and the clothes off her body.
Animal. If she knew how he thought about her, she’d think he was an animal.
Even now, as she sat there in that damn white robe with the lapels gaping open, exhausted and in pain, he wanted to do things to her. Bad things. Amazing things.
“Joe.”
Her soft voice jarred him out of his dark thoughts.
“If you keep looking at me that way, I’m going to have to insist that you take me to bed.”
Holy Christ.
“I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. Look, um… I think I’d better go get some air.”
He shoved up from the table, the wooden chair legs scraping on worn pine, and bolted for the door.
“Joe.”
Holy, holy Christ.
He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. But he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. For her sake, he couldn’t, because if she still had that look in her eyes, he was going to—
“Joe.” A whisper.
A soft hand on his arm.
“Don’t go.”
He turned then because he had to see her face. Had to let her see his face. One look at the hunger, the need, she’d see wisdom in letting him go.
But God, oh God, she didn’t go anywhere. Instead, she reached for the belt on her robe and untied it. A sultry shrug of her shoulders and it was open, then lying on the floor.
“Jesus.” He swallowed hard. “Stephanie—I don’t—”
“Want me?”
“Christ, no. I mean, yes. Yes… I want you, but—”
“But what?”
“This … this isn’t right. You’ve been traumatized. You’ve been—”
“Joe.” She pressed her fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
And then she smiled. A smile so warm and sexy and filled with need that he surrendered. Flat-out. No protest. Surrender.
He moved in close against her, wrapped her in his arms, and lifted her off her feet.
“I’m taking you to bed,” he said, a final warning, just in case she’d somehow misread his intent.
She laughed at him. All amused and happy. “I am so glad we finally got that straightened out.”
24
B.J. figured that Aliria had probably been right when she’d told Brittany that the El Tesoro shopping center in the El Poblado barrio was the best in Medellín. It was also beautiful. Waterfalls rained down in the middle of a palm tree garden surrounded by upscale stores and even a miniature railroad. She stopped for a moment as a beautiful couple danced a sultry tango on the open plaza.
“Would you just look at them dance,” she gushed to the chauffeur, who had stuck to Brittany like a tick. She’d been shopping for over two hours now and the only time she’d managed to get out of his sight was when she slipped into a dressing room to try something on.
So far, she’d bought a pair of shoes, two dresses, and a supply of Santander chocolate—a Colombian delicacy that might just save her life. She was running out of opportunities to slip into the Internet café she’d spotted when they’d first arrived.
“Jose—it is Jose, right?” she asked with her sweetest smile as she absently rummaged through her purse.
“Sí, señorita.”
“Jose, I can’t seem to find my wallet. Oh, dear.” She walked over to an outdoor café table, set down the purse, searched the bag in earnest, and turned into a drama queen. “It’s not here. Someone must have lifted it out of my purse when I wasn’t watching. Oh, my God! How did this happen?”
She turned angry eyes on him. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? To make sure something like this doesn’t happen to me?”
Poor Jose wasn’t sure what to make of an agitated and loud American woman. “I … I speak only small English,” he stammered.
“You understand money? Pesos? Muchos dólares? Well, my money is gone. My wallet is gone! You need to find my wallet!” she demanded, then acted as if a thought occurred to her. “Or maybe … maybe it wasn’t stolen. Maybe I left it in one of the stores!”
One of about twenty-five stores she’d made certain she’d visited.
“Go!” she demanded, making shooing motions with her hands when he just stood there. “What are you waiting for? Go find it. I cannot possibly walk any farther today.” She pointed toward the café. “I’m going to use the restroom. Restroom?” she repeated when she could see he didn’t understand. “Servicios. I’ll wait for you there.”
Jose looked torn. It was either stay with her and risk her wrath and the potential of a big scene—which B.J. knew Cesar would not want—or do as she asked. She decided he needed a little more incentive.
“Do you think that Señor Munoz will be happy when I tell him my wallet was lost or stolen while you stood by and did nothing?”
That did it. He bowed slightly, then took off down the long line of shops.
B.J. hurried over to the Internet café, found a table in the back, quickly accessed the e-mail account Crystal had set up, and typed her message.
ONLY A FEW MINUTES. NO DISCOVERY HERE. DO YOU HAVE ANY INTEL?
Since Crystal had her e-mail account set to sound an alarm when a new message was received, B. J. was confident of a quick reply. Still, it seemed like an eternity while she waited, watching the entry to the café, expecting Jose to show up at any moment.
“Finally,” she whispered when the new-message icon popped up.
She opened it quickly, hoping that Stephanie or Nate and the crew had discovered something of use to them. Her heart sank as she read it. Stephanie had discovered something, all right. On the heels of disappointment, a renewed sense of urgency kicked in.
She had to get back to the villa and talk with Rafe. She closed the e-mail account, spotted a display of computer accessories by the cash register, and quickly bought a flash drive. She tucked it in her purse and rushed out of the café just as a harried Jose ducked into a store.
She headed in his direction. “Jose! Good news! I found it! It was in my purse after all.”
The look on his face would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so anxious to get back to Rafe.
“I’m tired. Take me home, please,” she said, and started marching toward the parking area.
Half an hour later, they arrived at the villa to find Rafe on the back patio smoking cigars with Cesar and two men that she assumed were his sons.
The three younger men were quick to rise when she sashayed out onto the patio, all flirty eyes and piqued interest. Cesar rose slowly. Not because of his age, she knew, but because he felt little for her but disdain.
“Well, hello.” She beamed at the handsome brothers, noting their strong resemblance to Cesar, all the while trying to figure out how to get Rafe away from them. “Looks like you’re having a party without me.”
“Felipe, Rodrigo”—Rafe addressed his cousins as he wrapped a proprietary arm around her waist—“my fiancée, Brittany Jameson.”
“Señorita.” Felipe was all bold eyes and Latin charm as he claimed her hand, then kissed it.
Brittany laughed in delight.
Rodrigo showed more reserve and extended his hand to shake hers. “Señorita,” he said, his smile much cooler than his brother’s. “Welcome to Medellín.”
“My goodness,” she said, sounding breathless, “good looks and charm certainly run in this family. Better be careful, Raphael,” she teased, “or one of your cousins will turn my head.”
Rafe’s laugh was tight as he played the marginally jealous fiancé. “Brittany, mi chica bonita, I’ll give you three reasons why that will never happen. Maria is one and Belicia is two. Both will gouge your eyes out if you look at their husbands the way you lo
ok at me.”
She affected a pouty moue at the discovery that they were married; the playful American, pretending to be disappointed. “And reason number three?”
He jerked her hard against him, a brittle smile on his face. “You will not like the punishment if I ever catch you cheating on me.”
Then he kissed her, all dominant male, a stag marking his territory.
“Well, my.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Maybe we ought to find a private place to continue this conversation.”
She pulled slowly away from him, trailed a pink-tipped nail down the center of his chest as she backed away.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “A pleasure.”
Then she walked back into the house, hips swaying in a blatant invitation for Rafe to follow.
“You’ll excuse me,” she heard him say to Cesar and his sons. “It seems there is a matter of great importance that requires my immediate attention.”
Later when they were alone on the balcony with their arms wrapped around each other so they could whisper safely, B.J. filled him in on the information Stephanie had relayed to Crystal.
“Has Crystal contacted Nate and the guys with this info?” Rafe asked.
“Yeah,” B.J. said. “They’ve packed up and moved out of Medellín. Nate, Reed, and Lang headed for Cartagena. Savage Jones and Doc Colter moved out to Barranquilla.”
“If the facility is in either one of those cities,” Rafe said, “the guys will move heaven and hell to find it, especially now that they can isolate their searches to just the seaport instead of combing the entire city.”
“And if it’s not in either city?” B.J. asked, because they both knew that concentrating the search on Cartagena and Barranquilla gave them, at best, two chances in twenty of being in the right place.
“That’s why we’re walking into the fire tomorrow. Emilio Garcia will have the answers. It’s up to us to find them.”
Unspoken was the very real threat that they were running out of time.
While the Munoz villa straddled the line between opulence and overkill, the Garcias had gone to the far side of the equation, Rafe thought the next day as the early afternoon sun glanced off gleaming windows and golden archways.
“Okay, now when I say Vegas, I don’t think anyone can dispute me,” B.J. said so only Rafe could hear her as they walked up the villa’s Roman coliseum-esque entrance behind Cesar and Aliria.
Rafe had to agree. Emilio Garcia’s villa and grounds reminded him of Caesars Palace in Vegas. Once they’d been admitted past the high-tech security gates, the Munoz limo, carrying the four of them—Rafe, B.J., Cesar, and Aliria—had crawled slowly up a curving drive bordered with dancing fountains and freestanding Roman columns. More columns—these towered to the roof of the three-story villa—flanked the wide bank of white marble steps leading to the entryway.
“Holy gilded cage,” B.J. managed under her breath as they stepped into a grand foyer.
The room was roughly the size of a basketball court. It was open from the front doors to the back, with a botanical garden/aviary complete with a thirty-foot waterfall taking up most of the floor space and reaching to the high ceiling. Beyond the wall of glass that faced the back of the house, Rafe could see party tents and tables and above the rush of water, he could hear a band playing.
Waitstaff stood like sentries in pristine white uniforms just inside the intricately carved double doors offering flutes of champagne and an exotic array of hors d’oeuvres.
“Your mouth is open,” Rafe whispered, leaning close to B.J.’s ear.
“Yeah, I imagine it is,” she agreed.
“Our host,” he murmured with a nod as the crowd parted.
Emilio Garcia strolled toward them through a sea of guests milling around the foyer enjoying the birds and the flora and the huge golden koi swimming in the lagoon at the base of the waterfall.
Unlike Cesar, who had remained fit and trim, Emilio wore his life of indulgence in the form of extra weight on his short frame. He put Rafe in mind of Brando in the classic Godfather film. His jowls were soft, his girth wide, his gray hair thinning on top— which Emilio apparently felt he could make up for by wearing it long and tied with a braided leather lace at his nape. A huge diamond stud winked from his left earlobe.
In one hand, he held an unlit cigar; in the other he held a thick fat glass filled with what looked like scotch. Both arms were open as he met Cesar for an embrace. Then he politely bowed to Aliria.
Rafe stood back, waiting, while Emilio sized up first Rafe and then Brittany over Aliria’s shoulder.
“And you would be the guest of honor.” Emilio drained the scotch, then openly appraised Rafe. He set his glass on a tray as a waiter magically appeared, then just as discreetly faded away.
Rafe gave a respectful bow of his head. “Your generosity leaves me speechless. As does the grandeur of your magnificent home.”
“You look like him,” Emilio said after studying Rafe with narrowed eyes. “We have missed your father. What happened to your family … a horrible tragedy. No amount of sympathy can express my regret.”
Again, Rafe nodded, schooling his expression to hide his hatred for Emilio and everything he stood for. “Gracias. This is a great honor. Please permit me to introduce you to my fiancée, Brittany Jameson.”
A quick spark of carnal interest flared in Emilio’s eyes when he turned his attention to B.J. Rafe understood the drug lord’s reaction. When she’d finally made an appearance after purposefully keeping them waiting for over half an hour, Rafe had been struck silent by the sight of her walking down the stairway at Villa Munoz, dressed in her finest afternoon party wear.
He hadn’t been certain what she’d been going for with the short, white strapless dress that showed off her smooth shoulders, hugged her slim hips like a glove, and showcased her amazing legs, but he knew what effect it had on him. Instant arousal.
His first thought had been, Can she breathe in that dress? His second was, Can I breathe standing next to her? Turned out he could, with great difficulty, once he’d gotten over the initial shock. God, she was stunning.
She’d clipped back the hair on the left side of her face and tucked it behind her ear along with a lavender orchid. He suspected that her intent had been to bring order and civility to the mass of golden curls; instead the hairstyle only emphasized how incredibly, wildly sexy she was.
As if he needed a reminder of that. After she’d filled him in on Stephanie’s report and they’d discussed their plan of action today, he’d spent another long night far too aware of the fact that they shared a bed but nothing more. He couldn’t remember when his willpower had been subjected to such extreme tests.
Just like he couldn’t remember when another woman had turned him on this way. Her gold hoop earrings matched the bangles circling her wrists, which tinkled softly as she lifted a hand for Emilio to kiss. “It is an honor, sir,” she said in her best Brittany attempt to show restraint. If her smile hadn’t been so wide and her eyes so full of dollar signs, she might have pulled it off.
As intended, Emilio picked up on her signals. Rafe clenched his jaw when Emilio bent over her hand, ever so subtly taking advantage of his proximity to her cleavage, which was magnificent. Somehow, she’d managed to plump up her breasts so they all but burst from the molded cups of her dress.
“You Colombian men are all such charmers,” Brittany purred demurely, touching her fingers to the solid gold slave necklace surrounding her neck.
“We are merely appreciative of true beauty,” Emilio said, switching to English. “And speaking of true beauty, may I present my lovely wife, Sofia?”
Sofia Garcia stepped dutifully forward. “Welcome to our home.”
Her English, like her makeup and hair, was perfect. Her smile appeared rehearsed, that of a woman used to living in her husband’s shadow as well as accustomed to his flirtations.
“Your home is breathtaking.” Brittany returned Sofia’s perfunctory handshake and somehow
managed to look envious and awestruck. “You ought to get Cesar to build one of these, Aliria,” she said brightly, walking toward the atrium/rain forest.
“Señora Garcia.” Rafe attempted to draw Sofia’s attention away from Brittany’s rudeness. He accepted the hand she offered and lightly kissed it. “We cannot thank you enough for opening up your lovely home to us. Thank you so very much.”
