“Curiosity killed the gato, esé,” she drawled, though she appreciated his honesty. Talon was calling her out, but he wasn’t doing it in a threatening way. “You saved my life back there. One more somersault off that rooftop and I was a goner. I owe you one.”
“Want to hug it out?” he teased.
Rox lifted a brow. “Want to be put into a sleeper hold?”
“By you? Anytime.”
She regarded this good-looking fiend over the rim of her glass. “I don’t know if I like you.”
“All women love me. They can’t help themselves,” Talon declared with the kind of unadulterated cockiness that was actually kind of charming.
“Or they don’t know any better,” she replied.
Talon laughed unashamedly before holding out his glass. “To those who’ve seen us at our best and seen us at our worst, and to those who can’t tell the difference.”
Rox clinked glasses, meeting his eyes. “Cheers to that. And to Cameron Kurt. May he have reached heaven’s doors before the devil even knew he was dead.”
A sudden call coming into Lightner’s phone caught her attention as they sipped their whisky. Rox pulled on her headphones. Talon leaned forward.
“Yes?” Lightner answered curtly.
“You thought you could set us up and get away with it?” a man with a heavy accent said into the phone. She couldn’t place it but she guessed Eastern European.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to Dmitri,” Lightner responded, sounding bored. “I’ve told you to cut back on your coke habit. It’s making you paranoid.”
“The airport is crawling with authorities,” the man called Dmitri retorted. “We saw them as soon as we landed. We’re already taxiing back toward the runway. The deal’s off.”
“You’re taking the piss,” Lightner snapped. “How can you be sure?”
“I just sent the video to your phone. See it for yourself.”
Rox snapped her fingers at Avi. He was still on his phone but he paced over, a look of question on his face. She yanked the headphones off, turning up the sound on her laptop so everyone could hear. The men immediately stood, crowding around her. Avi stopped talking into his cellphone, holding it to his shoulder as he leaned over her. Jaime had rigged the devices up so they could see Lightner’s screen on her laptop. Lightner was watching grainy footage of white and blue Turkish Polis vehicles beelining for the airport’s private jet terminals.
“Someone at the airport in Israel must have tipped them off, the fucking rotters,” Lightner muttered, putting the phone back to his ear. “Let’s reroute to Ankara. We can be there in another fifteen minutes.”
“No, the deal’s off,” Dmitri insisted, his voice heavy with ire. “Your picture is all over al Jazeera. You’ve been burned. We won’t be doing any business with you. In fact, I doubt anyone will touch you after this.”
And with that, he hung up. Lightner cursed, immediately checking the search engine on his phone for al Jazeera’s website. Sure enough, the headlines were blaring in English, Farsi, Arabic, French and Hebrew: “Infamous London Bomber Lucien Lightner Resurfaces Under False Identities.” The photograph of his old face sat right next to his new one with a scrolling ticker tape of all the aliases they knew about.
“Fucking shit!” Lightner shouted suddenly.
“Sir?”
“How far can we fly before we need to refuel?” Lightner demanded.
“About four thousand nautical miles, sir?”
“Tell the pilot to reroute. We’re not landing in Istanbul. Head west—immediately! Find a quiet place to refuel so we can make it to Houston on the last leg.”
“But—”
“Just fucking do it!” Lightner shouted, and a thrill shot through Rox as she listened to him panic. For all the tight and difficult spots she’d had that bastard in over the past few months, she’d never heard him lose his cool so completely. She’d taken his money, his wife, his mistress, his company, his son, and now his identity. He’d had enough. He was close to breaking. Rox could feel it.
Take that you prick piece of shit. How do you like me now?
“Sam’s idea worked!” she said, smiling slowly.
Avi nodded, but his hazel eyes remained worried, frown lines creasing the sides of his mouth. “He still has the warhead though.”
Rox shrugged lightly. “Yeah, but we have the tracker on his phone’s OS. We’ve just backed him into one hell of a corner.”
Talon and Rush exchanged glances. “We better tell the pilot to ratchet up the cruise speed. We need to get to Houston before he does.”
*
April—Morning
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
J A C K
Samantha stepped into the kitchen wearing an emerald green sheath dress that that made her look absolutely dynamite. She had bold red lips, and her dark hair was pinned up in a twist, highlighting the teardrop emeralds dangling from her ears. All Jack could think about was dragging her back upstairs and messing up her perfectly coiffed look completely.
“You look stunning, tesoro,” he told her, striding toward her. “I don’t think I’m letting you go to Houston without me.”
“It’s a ladies luncheon, Jack,” she emphasized, though she let him kiss her.
“Even better,” he purred into her ear. “I’ll have those DAR members eating out of my hand.”
“Oh, God—please let him take my place as your bodyguard today,” Alejandro complained as he walked into the kitchen wearing a dark suit and tie. “I don’t think I can handle a bunch of prissy socialites getting a white girl drunk in the middle of the day, to discuss art.”
“Mind your mouth, young man,” Hannah tsked. “The Daughters of the American Revolution are far more than socialites. They’re a fundamental service organization that’s served our nation for over a hundred and twenty years and—”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You look lovely, Hannah,” Alejandro interrupted, heading her off at the pass as he reached around her for the coffee flask.
And she did look resplendent in an ivory Chanel suit shot through with silver thread. A heavy three-strand pearl necklace adorned her neck. Hannah shot Alejandro a reproving look and seemed ready to continue telling him off when they were interrupted by the bass thump thump thump of the Wyatt helicopter approaching the ranch.
“Right on time,” Samantha remarked, stepping away from him as she glanced at her watch. “We’ll send the chopper back for you and Uncle Grant later this afternoon, so be ready. The rest of the team is landing in Houston by tonight. We can discuss next steps then.”
Jack caught her hand as she headed for the kitchen door. “You’re sure you don’t want me with you?” he asked her. “I can be very persuasive,” he added suggestively in a last-ditch attempt.
“Oh, I know you can,” Samantha replied with a sparkle in her eye. “But I’d rather you and Jaime spend the morning catching your father up on what’s going on with Lightner. We’ll need all the help we can get from the CIA and the FBI, to cover all the airports in the Houston area. He’s the fastest way to get everyone’s hands on deck.”
“Jaime’s tracking him as we speak,” Jack assured her. “Lightner’s jet has just left Mauritania. Unless he ditches or destroys the phone, we’ll know exactly where he’s headed and when he makes landfall.” He glanced at his watch. “We have a conference call set up in ten minutes.”
“Good.” Samantha paused, looking briefly uncertain. “Are you sure you want to stay for this, Jack? I don’t mind dangling myself out there as bait, but if you’re standing beside me, Lightner could be getting a twofer. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“It’s not on your conscience, tesoro,” Jack responded with absolute certainty. “This is my decision. And Lightner only gets a chance at us if he manages to weasel his way out.”
“Highly possible considering the size of the state of Texas. That asshole could land anywhere,” she sighed.
“It’s an unnecessary risk,
though, man,” Alejandro agreed, sipping his coffee. “You could coordinate your end of the bargain just as easily from Chicago. You don’t need to be here for this.”
“The way I see it, if Lightner manages to elude the authorities, him seeing Samantha and me together only draws him out faster, like a bull to the cape,” Jack replied. “We just have to make the opportunity seem too good to pass up.” He looked at her. “Not leaving, got it?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
The Wyatt helicopter landed on the field next to the house. Jack saw the co-pilot open the door.
“That’s our cue, chickens,” Hannah declared.
Samantha met his eyes one last time as she stood at the door. He sensed her uncertainty, so he strode to her and kissed her hard on the lips. “It’ll be fine,” he promised, holding her chin. “Just go to your luncheon, get all those power brokers to open up their purse strings, and I’ll be there by early evening when the rest of the cavalry arrives.”
She took a deep breath.
“Ready to knock ’em dead?” Hannah asked her as she slid her handbag over her shoulder.
Samantha smiled at her aunt. “You have no idea.”
Help me, Alejandro mouthed to him as he held open the kitchen door for the ladies. Jack stifled a laugh, shaking his head as he followed them out onto the porch. He watched as they climbed into the Sikorsky. The prairie grass waved in a verdant ripple as they lifted off.
It had been a short few days since he’d come out to Texas to see Samantha, yet so much had transpired. Jack felt as though they were galloping toward a wholly different outcome than the one he’d had so much difficulty imagining just a few months ago. Terrifying and exhilarating: two sides of a complicated relationship with an intoxicating and maddening woman.
For all the emotional ups and downs, Jack was more certain than ever that he wanted this woman—this vigilante, this warrior, this commander of men. The more he learned about Samantha, the more this truth became undeniable to Jack. Here was a woman as comfortable in old jeans and cowboy boots as she was in designer garb, wearing gemstones as large as a man’s knuckle. She had the strength and the wit to lead others into battle like Athena, but the vulnerability to weep in his arms when the wars were over. She was a killer, a lover, a leader, a lioness. She protected those she loved with a breathtaking ferocity. She surged over barriers and incalculable problems with the determination of the ocean. She loved passionately, yet she trusted rarely. She sparkled and dazzled like a diamond. Hard, cold, and imperfect—but stunning. Rare and incomparable. Forged by pressure and circumstance most could never survive.
Jack wasn’t certain what the future held, but he knew that no matter what, their destinies were entwined. He’d follow her to hell. He’d show her heaven if she let him. Now all that was left was for him to follow through on his promises. He’d stand with her no matter what. He’d uphold his end of the bargain. The rest of the chips would just have to fall where they may.
“Vento, tempo, donne e fortuna—prima voltano e poi tornano, come la luna,”42 he murmured to the cloudless, seemingly endless blue sky she’d disappeared into on the chopper. “Trust me, tesoro. Trust me not to let you down.”
Chapter 24
April—Mid-Day
Wyatt Towers, Houston, Texas
S A M A N T H A
White gloves and party manners. That’s all Samantha could think of as she sat at the Wyatt Foundation luncheon that Aunt Hannah was hosting for the Houston DAR. The wide slate terrace of the penthouse was decked out in tented finery, gauzy canopies covering the ladies who lunched with the stunning backdrop of the Houston skyline in the vista. Waiters in white jackets served grilled langoustines flown in fresh from the Faroe Islands, with little dollops of caviar from Hokkaido. Perfectly-formed orchids adorned lavish centerpieces while the melodic vibration of a harp accompanied the delicate clink of crystal flutes and the trilling laughter of wealthy women enjoying themselves.
Samantha was seated at the center table with the grand pooh-bahs of the legacy club, trying hard to feign interest in the latest society gossip on Houston’s movers and shakers.
—Did you hear he lost all his money on that commercial property gambit in Mexico?
—Oh, no, she left him for someone younger. Good for her…
—I just had them done. What do you think?
—He gives the best stock tips. We saw a twelve-percent return last quarter.
—She’s devastated of course, but what do you expect from a man who introduces you as his first wife?—
Shoot me now, she thought.
Sam glanced at Alejandro across the terrace. Even though he was wearing dark sunglasses, she could see the answering smirk on his face as he nodded imperceptibly.
Told you so.
Samantha took a small sip of her champagne, dry and sparkling-crisp on her tongue. It was luncheons and hobnobbing like this that was the double-edged sword of her life. Sam had to work parties like this because that was what was required of a woman in her position. With enormous wealth bred enormous responsibility.
“There’s no such thing as wealth without work,” her father used to tell her. “It’s even harder when you’ve got it, because power and influence are more taxing to keep than the actual assets.”
The Wyatt Foundation was her aunt’s pride and joy—in many ways, her life’s work after her father and Ry had died. Through Hannah’s efforts and direction, the Foundation funded countless local veteran’s causes and supported the research and development of life-changing medical advances at the Texas Children’s Hospital.
Hannah had been profiled on numerous occasions for her leadership in the non-profit field, and a luncheon like today’s could easily generate several-million-dollars’ worth of new funding sources, if they played their cards right. And if that meant Sam had to get over her distaste for idle chit-chat and showboating, then so be it. She reminded herself that in less than six hours, she’d be back in comfortable clothes, with her team, doing what she loved best: strategizing. Planning for what felt like an inevitable showdown with Lightner, a moment on which she’d been obsessing for months.
Her attention was snagged by the woman seated next to her when she leaned toward Sam and said, “My word, I just love Wesley Elliott’s work. When Hannah told me he’d donated his photographs for auction this year, I was so excited, I nearly whipped out my checkbook right there.” She nodded at the large photographs being carried out by white-gloved workers and set on easels in front of the tables.
A series of eight, each photograph was a beautifully grained, monochromatic close-up of a woman’s body—the sum of her parts anyway—no picture entirely whole, her identity only defined by the gentle slope of her clavicle, the lilting curve of her shoulder, the clever play of muscle and bone along her spine, the mysterious, hypnotic pull of her mouth. The photographs were riveting. No—they were more than riveting. They were familiar.
Samantha drank down the rest of her champagne, telling herself it was the bubbly that was rushing to her head as the women around her twittered appreciative noises, oohing and aahing over the stark and polished eroticism of the work.
“Lord, he makes Mapplethorpe look amateur,” another lady at the table commented. “See the way he’s used the light? You can tell how he felt about her. My word, to be looked at like that by a man again…” the woman sighed wistfully, her hand fluttering over her heart.
Samantha couldn’t remember the moments those shots had been taken. She just recalled the feeling—the recklessness of first love—the extraordinary trust that came with being enthralled by a person you thought you could love a lifetime. But it hadn’t just been first love—not to her. The passion she’d felt for him had been something more powerful, more visceral. Wes had become part of her in that era of her life. He’d left his mark on her heart the way a flower leaves strong roots, long after the fragile bloom collapses…
It almost hurt to look at these photographs. She wondered
fleetingly if anyone else realized that they were of her. That they were a product of their time together—a haunting visualization of her memories: the dazzling love, the hedonistic intensity, the blind, willful faith, followed by the inevitable disappointments, the bruising, aching loneliness that haunted her for years.
Samantha held up her glass of champagne. It was immediately refilled. She sat stoically, struggling not to react as the women at the luncheon fawned over the photographs, praising the artistry and speculating on the identity of the muse.
Hannah stood, resplendent and lovely as she smiled broadly at the group of women. “The talent displayed before you really doesn’t need a lengthy introduction,” she began, a look of genuine pleasure and delight shimmering in her eyes. “This man is easily one of the world’s most gifted photographers alive today, and he’s got the Pulitzer to prove it,” she added with a light little laugh. “I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance when he was a rising star many moons ago, and now he has been kind enough to donate a few of his works to our charity auction this year. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Wesley Elliott.” Her aunt turned expectantly toward the entrance to the terrace.
Christ, no… Hannah never mentioned Wes was coming to today’s fete. She hadn’t seen him since Austin, the bittersweet night he’d confessed his truths.
Wes came out onto the terrace wearing fine wool slacks and an optic white shirt that made him look tanner and his hair even tawnier than usual. His leonine eyes swept over the group with that you-know-you-want-to grin he’d mastered so long ago, charisma rolling off of him like an aura. Samantha could hear women snapping open their fans, the whispered “oh mys” followed by a few hasty sips of crisp cold drinks, gazes riveted to the striking and famous man before them.
Sam stayed very still in her seat until his eyes found hers after a slow sweep, clashing across the terrace. He angled toward her like a magnet, even as Hannah crossed to him, giving him a quick hug.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 40
