But of course, the best option was his not knowing anything about Charlotte Rhames. If he simply bought into his prodigal plaything returning to Greece, he’d be much easier to manipulate.
“I’ve been waiting for you a long time, Sofia,” Hector said, resting a ring-laden hand on her knee. “You know I’m not a patient man and having to wait makes me very angry.”
Possible ways to play the situation—what he might know, what he couldn’t know, what he definitely knew—ran through her mind, and then Charlotte summoned a couple of tears.
“They made me leave, Hector. The man took me right out of the boutique and shoved me into his car.”
The man had been Alex Rossi, and she drew strength from thinking of him. He was one of the reasons she was here, and he’d be one of the main reasons she’d get through it.
“And did he keep you in his car all this time?”
She could still read his mood through his voice, and she had to tread very, very carefully. The man was an unbalanced contradiction of ego and insecurities, and guessing what may or may not set him off was a dangerous proposition.
“They told me horrible things about you, Hector, and—”
“And you believed them, my little pet?”
The term of endearment made her stomach roll. Bad things happened when he used it—painful things. “I was young…and scared.”
His right hand came up to cup her breast, and Charlotte forced herself not to react. His finger trailed up her neck, closed around her throat. “You used to be a better liar…Charlotte.”
Oh shit.
He squeezed.
—
For the first time in his life, Tony felt totally impotent.
Turning his back while Hector Anetakis waltzed Charlotte out the front door was without a doubt the most agonizing thing he’d ever done. And he bore the scars of two bullets and a half-dozen knife fights, so that was saying something.
There was no fuss, no blood. Nobody had even approached Tony, though he knew he’d been watched. Technically, Plan A was being executed beautifully, but his stomach ached and his blood pressure was so high he could hear the pounding in his ears.
He had Gallagher on the phone the second his ass hit the seat of the car. “I hope you’re happy, you son of a bitch.”
“I take it everything’s going according to plan. How long has he had her?”
“Six minutes, seven tops. I turned my back to walk to the bar, and they went right out the front door.”
He heard Gallagher talking to somebody else, then he came back. “Marge is tracking her. They’re heading for the target’s compound, as planned.”
“I still can’t believe you agreed to this.”
“Dude, Charlotte’s a smart, tough cookie. She’ll get the job done.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then Tony heard him sigh. “She got to you, didn’t she?”
“You and I have been friends for a long time, man,” Tony said, “but if she doesn’t come out of this okay, we’re going to have a problem.”
“She’ll be fine as long as you lead with your head and not with your dick.”
Tony didn’t say anything, but he was starting to worry his dick wasn’t the only body part leading him around. Charlotte had only been with Anetakis for maybe fifteen minutes and he was already hot to go in after her. The eleven hours and forty-five minutes left before he could go in full guns blazing were going to be hell.
“Any news on Rossi?” he asked, since they seemed to have exhausted the pissing match portion of their conversation.
“He’s stabilized, and the telemetry, or whatever they call all that beeping electronic shit, is giving signs he’s trying to surface.”
Tony breathed a sigh of relief, and that’s when he realized any fledging feelings of resentment about the whole Sean Devlin thing were gone. Rossi was a good guy—one of the best—and in the grand scheme of things, the man choosing to use a pseudonym really didn’t mean jack shit. “And Grace? How’s she holding up?”
“She’s stabilized, too. Emotionally. She’s done the hysterical and the homicidal and the grief and more homicidal. Now she’s stoic and hopeful and concentrating on Danny. We’re all good here, Tony. You just take care of you and Charlotte.”
“What’s your take on Rogers?” Tony asked, thinking of the pilot. Rogers had stayed on board the Bombardier, which was as self-contained as an RV, but he might need another body if he had to come up with a Plan B.
“He’s a pretty solid guy and a damn good pilot,” Gallagher replied. “He’s pretty good with electronics, especially anything navigational and he’s proficient with a firearm—they all are, whether they want to be or not. But he’s never been under fire, if you know what I mean.”
Tony was going to respond, but he heard Marge call for Gallagher’s attention. He waited, knowing by the anxious tone in her voice it was news on either Rossi or Charlotte.
“Tony, they arrived a minute ago,” Gallagher finally got around to informing him. “Pulled the car up to the front, and Anetakis carried her into the house.”
He closed his eyes, listening to the pounding of his heart. “Carried.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck!”
“Listen to me, man.”
He didn’t want to listen. He wanted to blow his way into that marble mausoleum and rip anybody he came to limb from limb until he found Charlotte. He wanted to end Anetakis’s life, and he wasn’t going to do it with his S&W. He was going to use the knife he kept in his boot. The ear first…
“Tony!” Gallagher jerked him back. “She’s not dead.”
“Marge could confirm that?”
“No. But if she was dead, Anetakis wouldn’t have carried her himself. He’d have left her in the car and let his men deal with her. Right?”
The man had a point, and Tony latched onto it like a drowning man. “Yeah. She was just knocked out—either drugs or he hit her.”
“And she’ll come to and she’ll get the shit done she needs to. Anetakis deals in underage sex, but he has no history of personally inflicting extreme physical or sexual violence. I mean, he ain’t a walk in the park, but he’s nothing she can’t handle.”
“All right. Consider me talked off the ledge.” Not really, but he was already walking a fine line as far as allowing personal feelings to affect his professional performance. He didn’t want to give Gallagher any excuse to try to keep him out of the loop. “I’m going back to the rental to clear it and gear up.”
“Twelve hours, dude.”
“What the hell is it with you and Charlotte thinking I have no self-control at all?”
Gallagher actually laughed at him. “I’ve never questioned your ability to do the job, man. Ever. But when you’re hung up on your partner, things can get a little screwy.”
“I’m not hung up on her,” Tony argued. “I haven’t known her long enough to get hung up on her.”
“Bullshit. She’s been a part of your life for years. You’ve already met the best parts of her—her intelligence, her devotion to us and to the job, her sense of humor. Now you throw in the fact that she’s goddamn hot as hell, and yeah, you’ve known her long enough.”
“To get back to the original subject,” Tony said, because he didn’t want to hear Gallagher talk about how hot Charlotte was anymore, “I’m going in at twelve hours, but I’m also going to be close by, so if there’s anything that can be interpreted as a distress signal, I’m going in.”
“What about that Savakis guy? Any help from there?”
“Charlotte definitely didn’t want him involved. He’s a friend of hers, and he’s got a wife and kids. We can fuck with the Anetakis family and then fly out of here. The cop can’t. He’d have to stay and face the fire.”
“Rogers…”
“I want him right where he is—on the bird. If I end up incapacitated, I want a back-up guy for Charlotte.”
Gallagher was quiet for so long, Tony wondered if he’d lost him. Then, “We should have waited
. We should have held off until the dust cleared here, then we could have all gone.”
There was a big part of Tony that agreed with the man. For one thing, if they’d waited, he and Charlotte would probably have gotten to know each other a lot better by now. He closed his eyes and imagined them in her bed—she’d have really nice sheets—sweaty and satisfied and drifting off to sleep together.
It could still happen.
“Then Ludka would have been gone,” Tony snapped, forcing himself back to the conversation at hand. “We’re going to get him while he’s still off balance and running, remember?”
“Chill, dude.”
“Chill, my ass. This is the hand you fucking dealt me, and now I’m going to play it. It’s too late to second guess it now.”
“Just don’t forget Charlotte always has an ace or two up her sleeve.”
Tony leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the car’s privacy glass. “Okay. And as much as I’m enjoying this little verbal tea party of ours, I need one more thing. I want a motorcycle—a fast one—delivered to the bird. If she needs Rogers, I don’t want him sitting in fucking traffic.”
“Consider it done. And, Tony, the Group can’t afford to lose both of you. I need you to be careful and be smart.”
“Sorry, man. I ain’t coming back without Charlotte.”
“Then vaya con whatever higher power you bargain with when the shit hits the fan, dude.”
—
God, her throat hurt. Hell, her whole body hurt.
Charlotte rolled onto her back on the king-sized bed. The sheets were made of the finest silk, but they chafed against her pink, tender skin. Hector had decided to begin their happy little reunion by taking her into the shower and scrubbing “the filthy stench of Tony Casavetti” from her. The wig had further enraged him. His suit had offered him protection from the too-hot water, but he’d stripped her bare and not been gentle in the scrubbing.
She felt raw and parboiled and, thanks to his temper tantrum in the car, her voice now had an added huskiness. But she wasn’t broken or bleeding anywhere, so Plan A was still limping along down the tracks.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have the run of the top level of the villa as she’d expected. She was locked in his bedroom. Hector, being the paranoid guy he was, had nothing in his totally white bedroom but a king-sized, white bed. The doors to his sitting room and the massive walk-in closets were locked. She could get in the master bath, but she hadn’t seen anything that made for an obvious weapon while she was being cleansed against her will.
Time to look for the not so obvious. She swallowed painfully and pushed herself up and off the bed. Her skin was a little hypersensitive at the moment, but everything else was in working order.
Fortunately, she’d been saved from discovering what plans Hector had for her newly scrubbed self when he was called downstairs. Whatever it was, it must have been important if it was allowed to interfere with their reunion, but since she didn’t have access to his sitting room and office, she had no way of listening in. That part of Plan A had seriously derailed.
She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, but, judging by the look of the sunlight streaming through the windows, she’d been in Hector’s hands for about three hours. That left her approximately nine hours in which to convince him to tell her everything she wanted to know about Konrad Ludka.
A renewed sense of urgency propelled her toward the master bath. She couldn’t be sure Tony had the patience to last the full twelve hours and she didn’t want him coming in after her.
Hector had gotten wind of their arrival somehow, and there were now at least twelve armed guards instead of the usual three. The heightened activity made the dogs tense, and she’d overheard Hector on the phone, making sure his mother and sisters had already left for Monte Carlo and wouldn’t be stopping by unannounced. He was prepared for an assault she had to make sure didn’t happen.
Tony was one of the best at his job, but he was still only one man. She was going to do everything she could to keep him from getting killed on her behalf.
The master bath was all cold white marble, and Charlotte shivered in her overheated skin. Since there was no sign of the clothing she’d arrived in—no doubt they smelled like Tony and were being washed, as well—she pulled a large bath sheet from a shelf and wrapped it around herself. It wasn’t ideal, but at least the body parts she preferred not to share were covered.
The medicine cabinet was a bust—she wasn’t going to incapacitate anybody with athlete’s foot cream or indigestion cures. No hairspray. No matches. No oversized hairbrush with a solid ivory backing.
In one of the vanity drawers she found a rat-tailed comb. She considered it for a few seconds—the handle would snap off if it encountered any kind of resistance. Just by pressing the length of the comb against her fingertip, she knew it would never puncture a major artery.
But then she broke the handle off herself, kept the long, slender piece and put the comb section back in the drawer. If all else failed, Hector was going to lose an eyeball.
It wasn’t enough, though. She couldn’t overpower a forty-something, very physically fit man with a four-inch sliver of plastic. And the clock was ticking. If he came back and found her scouring the bathroom for weapons, she’d be very, very sorry.
She scanned the room again. Towels and toilet paper. Bars of soap. Toothpaste. There was no cologne she could use to blind anybody because of Hector’s headaches. The pipe work under the sink was more than finger tight, and she didn’t have a wrench, so that was a no go.
After considering the toilet, she started moving faster. A handstitched, antique doily covered the tank and she whipped it off. The tank lid she set on the throw rug, and then she grabbed one of the bath towels. It took her three tries to fold it into a rectangle just the right size to sit over the tank and bear the weight of the doily without sagging.
As long as nobody jarred the toilet or set anything on the back of the tank, nobody would notice the heavy lid was missing. She went back into the bedroom and slid it under the mattress on “her” side of the bed. It wasn’t much, but at least if she could get to it, she could clean somebody’s clock in a big way.
Now there was nothing to do but wait. She was careful not to go near the windows. If Tony was watching from a distance and spotted her—mostly naked and wearing a necklace of bruises—he’d start thinking she didn’t have everything under control.
She laughed at herself and it sounded loud in the empty room. All she had at her disposal were a bath towel, a slab of porcelain and a broken comb handle, but she thought everything was under control? A sure sign she belonged with the Devlin Group.
She curled up on the edge of the bed, the bath sheet still tucked securely around her. All of a sudden tears were stinging her eyes and she let them spill over unchecked.
She should have let Tony make love to her in the VIP restroom.
It was a ridiculous thing to be thinking about, but she couldn’t help it. Things with Hector weren’t going as smoothly as she’d hoped, and her chances of getting out in one piece were growing significantly smaller. Charlotte had made a promise to herself a long time ago to never regret anything she’d done, and now she might have to break it. If she didn’t make it out of here, she’d go down regretting never having felt Tony’s naked body moving against her own.
She closed her eyes, filling her mind with images of him—the shock when she’d introduced herself, the bad-boy grin when they’d flirted in the car. The intensity during the aftermath of Ludka’s bomb. And the hunger in his eyes every time he looked at her.
If she did get out of this situation, the first thing she was going to do was jump Tony Casavetti.
The lock tumbled and the bedroom door opened. Charlotte sat up on the edge of the bed as Hector Anetakis entered. Konrad Ludka was right behind him.
The good news was they now knew where Ludka had run off to. The bad news, if she bashed Hector over the head with the toilet tank lid,
chances were Ludka wasn’t going to stand around and wait for his turn.
“Crying, my little pet?” Hector wiped a tear from her cheek with one fingertip.
Charlotte said nothing. Ludka’s presence indicated a professional rather than a personal meeting was about to get underway, and she was in trouble. Hector’s infatuation with her was supposed to be the overall theme here.
She looked into the Greek’s handsome face—he had dark eyes a woman could swim in—and simply stared defiantly. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for her freedom.
He let his fingers slide from her cheek down to her throat again, and they traced the black and blue marks. “I don’t like hurting you, pet. I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”
He stepped back and Ludka backhanded her, knocking her to the floor.
“But Konrad,” Hector said, sounding more amused than she would have liked, “he will hurt you.”
The towel slipped, but nudity wasn’t high on her list of problems at the moment. She could slide her hand under the mattress from here and reach the tank lid, but even if she managed to knock out Ludka, she’d never get by Hector.
It was time to start talking. “Please, Hector. Why are you doing this to me?”
“I was going to make you my wife, Sofia,” he hissed.
The use of her old name and the vein throbbing in his forehead let her know he wasn’t in total control of his temper. He was capable of stone-cold ruthlessness, but right now he was emotional. And emotions were a powerful weapon.
She crawled, naked, across the carpet to him, looking as submissive as possible. “I didn’t know, Hector. They told me you were going to sell me like you did the other girls. That you were only treating me special so you could get more money for me.”
He looked uncertain for a fraction of a second and Charlotte turned on the tears. “I would never have left you if not for their lies, Hector. I loved you.”
Ludka was the wild card in the charade, and Charlotte prayed he didn’t know enough to blow holes in her story. He’d only been with the Group for a little over three years, so he shouldn’t have any clue how she came to be their exec admin.
On the Edge Page 6
