by Cate Noble
It. Was. Her.
Catalina Dion had a picture-perfect profile. He watched the woman scrub. Cat also had an unmistakable grace, a mesmerizing flow to her arms, her shoulders. God, it really was her.
He forced himself to look away, not wanting her to become aware that he stared. Elation and rage pumped through his veins. He waved off the prostitute before him.
A man in a suit, his long hair clubbed back in a ponytail, approached Dante’s table with the swagger of ownership.
The man spoke first in Portuguese, then switched easily to Spanish. “You are not yet seeing what you like, señor? I assure you, my girls are the finest of the fine.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “At Pouca Flor, every need, any desire, is negotiable.”
The inference was plain. For a price, the owner would pander to anything. Excellent.
“Actually, this might sound a bit strange,” Dante began.
The man leaned forward, greed lighting his eyes. “No. Please, go on.”
“That cleaning woman…I, uh, have a certain fantasy.”
“Luzia?” The man’s amused disbelief vanished as he watched Dante tug a roll of bills from his pocket.
Dante was careful not to react to the owner’s confirmation of the name. Luzia Gomez. Dante glanced over his shoulder. The woman had finished scrubbing and hurried toward a rear door.
“My fantasy includes being bathed, scrubbed actually. But…” Dante dropped his voice. “Sometimes beautiful women are too intimidating and I can’t get it, uh…”
The man gave an oily smile and nodded. “Sí. It happens to all of us.”
Dante forced an expression of relief. “She is available, right?”
“Everything here is available. But that one is rather…shy. However, I’m sure a man of your skill could charm her.”
“I’m a little shy myself. She sounds perfect for what I want.” Peeling off several hundreds, Dante gave the man an uncertain look. “This will cover it?”
“A room with a bath is extra.” The man waggled two fingers. “It will be a few minutes before she is…ready. Let me show you to a room.”
At the topmost floor, the man unlocked the door. “A small hint, señor: If you are already in a tub, she can’t refuse your request for help, now can she?”
Dante nodded. “And if she does, I’ll simply have to convince her to play along.”
Chapter 23
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
July 12
Present Day)
Cat dumped the bucket of water, then lowered herself to the floor next to Theresa.
The supply closet, a tiny room with stone walls, was always a few degrees cooler than the poorly vented laundry room. Compared to the coolness of the barroom, however, it felt like an oven and Cat had found herself wanting to dawdle upstairs.
I must be getting sick. She hated the atmosphere in the bar. Desperation and degradation were twin ghosts, haunting the prostitutes and all who entered.
And yet if she ever had to…
“I set the dryers for an extra five minutes.” The other woman kicked off her shoes. “God knows we deserve it. We’ve been working twice as hard since Marsala quit again.”
Eyes closed, Cat simply nodded. Ernesto was nobody’s fool. If he could get two women to do the job of three…
The door pushed open unexpectedly, startling the women. Cat leaped to her feet, effectively blocking the view while grabbing the door before it could hit Theresa as she struggled to get up.
Ernesto scowled at her. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”
“I’m helping Theresa get another box of detergent from the top shelf,” Cat lied. If Ernesto caught them taking a break, he’d cut their pay.
“Let Theresa finish in here. I have a special job for you. Come with me.”
Cat mentally rolled her eyes. Special meant something like a drunken customer had puked in one of the pricier rooms and he wanted it cleaned, pronto. Could she really take two more days of this?
She followed Ernesto toward the staircase. To her surprise, he stopped at the shelf beside the door and pointed to the stacks of clean towels. A fresh bar of soap and a back brush had been set next to them.
“I have a very important client staying in room 307. Take these supplies up and let yourself in.” He handed her a passkey reluctantly—as if it were the key to his safe. “Return my key the moment you’re done.”
“Of course.”
“He might require a little assistance,” Ernesto went on. “He is getting ready for Bettina and wants to look his best.”
A little assistance meant the customer was likely too old and feeble to remove his own clothes and shoes. Certain men should be banned from Viagra.
“Room 307,” she repeated as she pocketed the key.
This also wasn’t the first time Ernesto had pretended his establishment was classy enough to offer room service. Mr. Viagra probably had deep pockets that Ernesto was determined to empty. Maybe, just maybe, she’d score a tip first.
Ernesto waved a hand toward her hair. “And for God’s sake, straighten up a bit first. Get the dirt off your cheeks so you don’t give the wrong impression. And hurry. He’s waiting.”
It was tempting to flip her middle finger to his retreating back. Except in two more days, she could do it to his face. After she collected her pay.
Theresa waddled up behind her. “Here, I’ll go. You deserve a break more than I do.”
“If I didn’t have to return the stupid passkey, I’d let you.” Cat sighed. “But we both know he’d be pissed if I gave it to you.”
“And neither of us needs that. I’ll get to work then.” Theresa shuffled back toward the pile of laundry.
Cat paused long enough to wash her face—only because the cool wetness felt good—but left her hair straggling. Even if she’d had the energy to do more, she wouldn’t. The last thing she wanted was to look attractive or neat here. Maybe in another lifetime stuff like that would matter again.
On the first floor, she slipped out the back and took the fire escape stairs to the third-floor hall window. If he could, Ernesto would have invisible cleaning staff, to avoid customers seeing a single face that wasn’t heavily made up and ready for purchase.
Two more days.
Outside room 307, Cat paused. Shifting the towels to one arm, she knocked. “Housekeeping,” she called out in Portuguese.
When no one answered after her second attempt, she unlocked the door and slowly pushed it partway open. If the old man was already hooked up with Bettina, she didn’t want to see.
The room was empty, the drapes drawn. She could hear water running in the tub and noticed the bathroom door was ajar.
“Hello?” she called out louder.
Obviously Mr. Viagra couldn’t hear above the splashing. Which was fine. She’d set the towels and supplies right outside the bathroom and leave.
As she hurried into the room, a slight movement to the side caught her attention.
The door swung shut. A large man, wearing sunglasses, and sporting dreadlocks beneath a knit cap had been standing behind it. Angrier at her own carelessness than scared, Cat bobbed her head and started babbling in a frightened tone, uncertain whether this jerk even understood Portuguese.
“Excuse, excuse! I’ll go see what is keeping your woman.”
The man reached for the towels. She held them out as she moved past, eager to leave.
His hands closed over her wrists as the towels fell to the floor. Cat’s response was instinctive. She thrust her arms apart and twisted her hands to break free. This wasn’t the first time a customer had stepped over the line, but it would damn sure be the last. Fuck Ernesto and his the-customer-is-always-right motto.
The man countered her move, as if anticipating it. Then he yanked her arms up and over her head before spinning her around and snapping her back against his chest.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” The scorn in his Jamaica-mon voice barely registered as his breath brush
ed her ear, the back of her neck. That she couldn’t see his face gave her chills; she hated anyone coming up behind her.
She tried a different tactic to break free, but he crossed her arms tightly in front of her, his hands cuffing her wrists and keeping her hands pegged uselessly. The man knew how to use his height and strength against a woman and she’d bet he was the abusive type.
Fury rose. As soon as she was free, she’d kick his damn—
“Cat got your tongue, Catalina?”
She stopped struggling. The man’s voice had changed, his English perfect now. Perfectly recognizable. Dante Johnson.
It couldn’t be. He was…dead.
But the height, the build…
He lifted her effortlessly and turned her sideways until she faced the dresser. As he leered over her shoulder she studied his reflection in the mirror. Though she couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark glasses, she saw his chin, saw the hollows beneath his cheeks. His mouth. The features were unmistakably her son’s.
She sagged forward as shock disrupted her system. Her heart slowed, the air suddenly too thick to enter her lungs. She tried to speak, but her mind couldn’t supply words, answers. Logic failed. Emotions flooded her system, drowning her in pain, anger, confusion.
This was a man she’d never thought to see again. A man she’d once loved like no other.
The man who worked for the very agency that had sold her out to Viktor Zadovsky.
The man she’d gladly betrayed to save herself. The videos.
The events of a year ago slammed into her. She’d killed a man. She had stolen secrets. Giselle had died.
“Dante.” The name left her lips in a hiss.
His beautiful mouth, the one that once made her melt, curved up in a chilling smile. “I’ve dreamed of seeing that look on your face.”
Her brain jerked back online. “I thought you were—”
“Dead?” He made a harsh tsk noise. “Thanks for the confirmation. I wasn’t sure if that bomb was serious or just a threat.”
Bomb? She had no idea what he meant. Which was likely part of his plan to keep her disoriented. Hell, for all she knew, she was being recorded; he could be setting her up again.
“How did you find me?”
He smiled and winked. “We’ll get to all those questions soon enough.”
The innuendo was plain. There were probably others rushing up the staircase ready to take her into custody. She knew the drill. She’d be taken somewhere and questioned. And—
Marco.
Did Dante know? Was he here to take her son away, too?
Never.
Feigning defeat, Cat hung her head. “Promise you won’t let them hurt me.”
Dante spun her back around to face him so fast her neck whiplashed. “It’s not them you need to fear.”
He tethered both her wrists in one large hand, before peeling off his sunglasses.
She stared. How could she have forgotten his eyes, so dark they were almost black? Bottomless. And frightening in their intensity, their hatred.
“I promise to show you the same sympathy I was shown,” he whispered.
Cat closed her eyes and swooned, her head rolling to the side as her knees buckled.
The sudden shift of her weight forced Dante to counter. He took a step back and tried to re-grasp her wrists with both hands.
The moment he moved, she exploded into action. Her knee shot up, ramming straight and hard into his groin. As he spasmed in agony, she jerked one wrist free and grabbed the small dagger from her thigh.
Slicing the sharp blade across the top of his hand won her total freedom.
Still doubled over, Dante moved between her and the door. “You’ll pay for that.”
She stabbed the air between them and shifted backward. “No. I’ve paid enough. You won’t get another thing from me.”
Turning, she leaped for the window, tucking her head as she smashed through the glass.
Shards sliced her arms. Pain didn’t register until she crashed onto the uneven roof below. A nail caught her thigh, ripping her skin.
Rolling to her feet, she jumped down onto the trash pile in the alley and sprang forward in a full run. Not slowing, she glanced over one shoulder.
Damn it! He was climbing out the window!
She redoubled her speed and turned at the intersecting street. Just as quickly, she ducked into another intersection and down a narrow walkway between two buildings before cutting across to a different alley.
Though no one was behind her now, Cat didn’t let up.
Dante would be on the ground now, eating up her head start. By this time he’d have alerted his colleagues, too.
They would fan out. Ask questions. Hunt her down. And if they caught her…
Fear exploded in her brain. If they caught her, she’d be separated from Marco again.
That had happened once. During that horrible time when she and Giselle were trapped by Victor Zadovsky.
And God help her, she’d die before going through that again.
Chapter 24
Reims, France
May 3
(Fourteen Months Ago)
“Cat! Wake up.” Giselle was shaking her.
Cat sat up with a cry of awareness. She was in Giselle’s subcompact. They were on their way to meet—
She glanced at the dashboard clock. 7:30 p.m. “Are we there?”
“Almost,” Giselle said. “You were dreaming.”
Cat blinked away tears. She’d dreamt of Dante again. Of the horrible fire, of his body burned beyond recognition.
Please don’t let that be true.
Cat had spent the last eleven months in a self-imposed exile in Canada, nursing a resentment that had grown as rapidly as her belly. Hiding from everyone who knewher, who knew Dante, not wanting people to report, “Wow, is she ever preggars! Huge!”
Dropping out of sight, going radio silent, had also allowed her pride to cling to the fantasy that Dante was pining away, miserable without her.
God, if she’d only known…
And then her son had been born.
In a moment of postpartum idiocy, she’d named him Dante Johnson Samuels, forced to use the surname of her then-current alias. She’d nicknamed the baby DJ, hoping to avoid the constant reminder of the man who’d broken her heart. But her son looked more like his father every day. And Cat realized there was no loving one without loving the other.
Enter Plan B: Regain prebaby body and set up a meeting with Dante.
Except…then she’d learned Dante had been killed in action, nearly seven months ago. Even before her son was born. Her friend Max was dead, too. She’d been desperate for details. Specifics.
The official report gave scant details and had been modified twice. Maybe it was denial, though Cat thought it was all too pat. She wanted the truth; felt entitled to it. But where to start? She’d been out of the loop, and most of her feelers had been uprooted when Remi shuttered his business.
Cat had contacted Giselle—who’d only recently emerged from her own exile following her breakup with Remi St. James.
Giselle confirmed the date of when Dante supposedly died: September 20, but beyond that the story got squidgy. Three operatives and an interpreter killed by mortar in Cambodia—changed to three operatives sold out by the interpreter, killed by an explosion in Laos.
Digging deeper, Giselle, bless her, found an even more interesting morsel: two operatives dead, one alive. Burma.
One alive.
Cat had clung to that, certain there had to be a rescue in the works. If the CIA knew there was a chance that their operatives were alive, they likely had a covert liberation in process. Except Giselle’s source insisted no one knew—although he had undeniable proof. He promised a photograph for fifty thousand Euros now, with another fifty thousand due when the photograph was verified as legitimate. He’d also refused to work with anyone but Giselle—though thankfully, Giselle had convinced the man to let Cat come along.
; The two women had met in Paris yesterday, to finalize their plan. All Cat could think about was one alive. It had to be Dante.
“We’ll pull over in a minute,” Giselle said now. “In case you need to pee before we get there.” Giselle had to call ten minutes before their meeting at the small inn, outside Reims.
“I’d like to call and check on the baby, too.”
“Ack!” Giselle pretended to gag herself. “We’ve been gone two flipping hours. Are you afraid he’s taken up smoking and drinking already? He’s fine! In fact, you should probably leave him with a sitter more often.”
“Don’t remind me!” Cat would have to look for work even sooner after tapping her savings for the fifty thousand. Which was nothing if it gave the unequivocal proof, which was what Giselle’s source had promised.
One alive.
“You should hire a male nanny.” Giselle arched a perfect eyebrow. “Or a male au pair. Trade for services.”
“I can’t even joke about that right now. It’s hard enough to leave DJ for one evening.”
“You’d think we’d left him with Gypsies. Doesn’t Le Soleil Béni’s coveted five-star rating mean anything to you?”
When Cat had shown up in Paris with baby in tow, Giselle had insisted on leaving him with a professional sitter provided through her hotel. To save money, Cat had booked a cheaper room elsewhere, but a five-star sitter would eat up that savings quickly.
“I guess this all sounds pretty silly to you,” Cat said.
They had pulled over and Giselle shut off the engine and opened her car door. “Actually, I’m jealous. You at least have a part of the man you loved. I have nothing but bitterness and a lot of questions.”
Questions that I could answer, Cat thought as she made her way to the lavatory.
Damn you, Remi, for putting me in this spot. Remi St. James had been diagnosed with lung cancer several months ago. He’d told no one—except, of course, the ever-faithful Alfred. Public image was everything to Remi. Yes, he was vain, but as a national hero, he was allowed to be.
In typical Remi fashion, he’d announced he was closing shop to travel the world. Few believed that story, however. The more frequently whispered consensus was that Remi St. James had gone deep undercover on a job that entailed no less than saving the entire solar system.
