Captured in
Croatia
Christine Edwards
Fanny Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.fannypress.com
edwards.fannypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Captured in Croatia
Copyright © 2014 by Christine Edwards
ISBN: 978-1-60381-550-5 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-551-2 (eBook)
Produced in the United States of America
Dedicated wholeheartedly to my grandfather, the late Ronald H. Ferrell.
A proud man from West Virginia who survived the Great Depression and because of it never missed a day of work in his entire life. I can never thank you enough for raising me.
This one’s for you, Papa.
Special Thanks
I’d like to especially thank Emily H. of Fanny Press for your divine editing precision. It’s such a pleasure working with you!
Thank you to Jennifer M. and Catherine T. for assisting me in bringing this book as well as several others to life. It’s such a wonderful honor to work with you ladies.
Special thanks to my dear friend Gordana Gehlhausen. I appreciate your time with all the Croatian translations. Keep up the beautiful clothing designs, darling!
To Sia for her inspirational song “Soon we’ll be found.”
To Icona Pop for their fun and funky song, “I love it.” Always a must for ladies night!
To Florence and the Machine for their powerful song “Cosmic Love.” With each and every listen, I envision the passionate love between Zoran and Carew.
* * *
Also By Christine Edwards
Claimed in Canada
Naughty in Norway
Nabbed in New Zealand
Coming Soon
Nordic Lessons
* * *
Prologue
4:00 AM
Zagreb, Croatia
It will take a miracle of driving ingenuity to outrun his Maserati, but I’m simply out of options. I suck in a deep breath and repeat my relentless visual circuit: odometer, rearview mirror, road. He’s been on me for the past ten minutes now, ever since I hit the two-lane highway outside his boss’ mansion. Like a tenacious shark out for blood, he’s become increasingly more aggressive. More than once he’s been brazen enough to forcefully collide with the back bumper of my compact Nissan, probably hoping to send me into a tail spin off the dark road.
I can’t let him catch me, not after I’ve obtained the crucial information I was sent halfway across the world to acquire. I need to get the hell out of here and become lost in the capital, where I can appear as just another innocuous traveler.
I see the exit closing in fast. At the last possible second, I punch the clutch, shove the gear shift into fifth, and jerk the steering wheel hard to the right. The tires screech as I head up the curved, shadowed incline directly onto the A-1 South. My odometer reads 110 mph, nearly the maximum my little compact can go.
I glance back, then smack my palm down in frustration against the steering wheel. Damn! What I wouldn’t give to have my vintage Carrera Turbo right now instead of this piece of junk rental!
He anticipated my latest maneuver and has stayed on me like a magnet, mirroring my every move. All right, you big bastard, let’s see what you do with this …. I swiftly weave across three lanes while dropping down to second gear and easing on my brake. Yes, it worked! His Italian stunner’s engine is far too powerful, and he overshoots my position, which buys me mere seconds to execute my favorite move. It’s one I’ve practiced countless times back on the track in Atlanta. At thirty mph, I whip the Nissan completely around to the left. The scent of burning rubber wafts up from my overly stressed tires. The force of the spin makes me lean hard into my seatbelt, but at least I’m putting more distance between us.
Now that I’m heading in the opposite direction, it’s just a matter of time before I lose him completely. I need to be smart about it, though, because if he catches up with me on this straightaway, my rental won’t stand a chance against his sleek Italian ride. Not to mention that he’s already proven his ability to drive like a total demon. Shuddering, I try not to think of what would happen if he caught me.
I cautiously scan the overpass and the oncoming ramp for any sign of his distinct ride. There’s very little traffic this time of night and I seem to have lost him. His car isn’t visible in my rearview mirror, but I need to quickly locate the next exit and hide out until the threat has passed.
A split second. That’s all it takes for the Maserati to gain on me. I recognize his slanted headlights immediately as his low-slung ride emerges from behind a big cargo truck exiting the freeway. He wastes no time and races right up to my rear once again, an arm extended out the driver’s window. I take in one gulping breath before my right rear tire explodes, courtesy of his direct shot. He’s that accurate.
There’s nothing I can do except try to control my speeding car, which starts to careen wildly in spinning chaos. The right side of my compact slams with explosive force against a steel outer guardrail. I hear the sickening crunch of metal as it strains and then rips open from the weight and momentum of my vehicle.
Oh God!
I scream out in total terror. It’s dark and I don’t have a good read on how far up we are. My wild eyes strain to focus as I try to peer below. The murky drop could be twenty feet or two hundred. I reach for the door handle, thinking that it’s better to face him than to fall to a certain death. Without warning, the decision is made for me.
My relentless screams echo within the car’s cramped interior. I’m falling fast, and the weightless free-fall feels surreal. The car flips over its front end as I try desperately to shield my head and neck from imploding glass and metal. I’m petrified that I’ll be blinded. The windows are fractured in patterns of delicate crystal.
During the second jarring roll, my left wrist is shoved viciously against the hard plastic dashboard. Pain explodes across my hand and lower arm. Somewhere within the enclosure, I’m aware of my own rasping cry of pain.
When what’s left of my car finally comes to a rocking, overturned halt, I give a loud moan, fully aware of the gravity of my situation. My heart is racing so hard it feels as if it’s tunneling out of my throat.
Please, please let him have taken off! Let him think I’m dead!
Slowly, rational thought returns. I had to ditch my GPS earpiece while leaving the club earlier tonight for fear of being outted. My extraction team should be here soon to assist me. They had to flee separately from Juric’s thugs once we were spotted hauling ass away from his mansion twenty minutes ago. My car has a signal tracker attached to it, and assuming they’ve lost their tail by now, they should be making a beeline for me at this very moment.
If they’re still being tailed then my only hope is that a concerned passerby might have already phoned the police after seeing the bizarre accident. But there were no other cars on the highway aside from the semi truck that exited earlier. Not a good sign, Carew.
I blink my eyes and look around. Still buckled into the seat, my body hangs suspended and my arms dangle below me. Everything hurts. Before I’m able to assess how bad my condition really is, I hear the loud crunching of steady footfalls growi
ng closer with each beat of my heart. They’re making their way straight toward my overturned car.
I suck in a frightened breath and try to reach down for my seat buckle, but I can only manage a weak groan with the slight, torturous movement. My body aches all over, and I must have a concussion, because my stomach is roiling and everything is spinning, as if it’s the morning after I gulped down an entire bottle of Perrier Jouet Fleur.
I’m out of my mind with terror because this scenario is a nightmare’s nightmare. It’s him. I know it. Soon the black muzzle of his gun will be the last thing I see on this green earth ….
Try harder!
I fumble awkwardly, feeling around for the seatbelt latch at my hip. My fingers are trembling badly and the pain from being battered back and forth is mind-boggling. No matter, I have to try at least to get away from him. It’s futile, I know, but I can’t throw in the towel, not just yet. I keep pressing down on the button but nothing happens. Maybe it’s jammed? Damn, damn!
Closer … and then the noise abruptly stops. My long pale hair hangs all around my face and it’s difficult to see through the mass, but I make out a pair of large, polished black leather dress shoes through my shattered window. I bite down hard against my bottom lip in an attempt to quell the fresh wave of raw panic and pain overrunning my exhausted body.
Play dead!
I try to still my body, but I can sense how erratic my breathing sounds. Knowing he won’t be able to miss that I’m still alive, I tremble softly with the fear. It’s hopeless. He’s going to kill me, and in this position I’m completely defenseless. All my training is for naught. Shit! How did it come to this?
I can’t help it. I have to watch because I would rather know what’s coming than go out like a complete coward. My brave father stared death straight in the face and flipped it off when it came for him, and so will I.
Through the veil of hair I make out that he’s lowered himself into a crouch beside me. He’s mere inches away.
I watch him warily as he tilts his handsome face to the side. He looks like a dark angel of death prepared to claim a victim.
He bashes in what’s left of the window and pulls away the shattered glass so that there is only air between us. In a calm voice that sounds like silk falling through a black tunnel, he says, “Vi ste moja sadasnja, princeza.” You’re mine now, princess.
Chapter One
Four Hours Earlier
Enigma
Our intel team has tapped into our target’s cellphone to find out where he’s headed for the evening. Our mark has good taste. Standing alone at the end of the blue glass bar of the über-chic Wet Works Club, I sip on a Grey Goose Vodka martini. Icona Pop’s hit song “I Love It” blares in the background and I can’t help but sway my hips to the techno beat.
Upon entering Zagreb’s most exclusive dance club, I was momentarily stunned to see the hot Swedish duo actually performing live in the DJ booth. The club owners must have paid a fortune to get them here from Sweden. The two sexy songstresses are busy mixing their funky house music for the fortunate upper class to party to all night long.
The vast warehouse space is low-lit with a myriad of shadowed alcoves and corners that would be the perfect spot for dark deeds. The central focus of the building is the huge dance floor, which is already heaving with beautifully dressed, glistening bodies. The chic lighting is constructed to give the effect of thousands of cut cubes of ice stacked into massive, hanging rectangles. All the seating, including the row of barstools lining the blue glass bar, is all white leather. The overall effect screams ‘haute sexiness.’
As I wait, delicately perched on Christian Louboutin stilettos, I sweep my fingers slowly, sensually, through my waist-length, corn silk blonde hair. My goal is to attract Juric, to let him think that he’s luring me to him, when in fact the exact opposite will be true.
When I entered the packed hotspot five minutes ago, I immediately spotted Juric sitting in one of the three roped-off, white-leather-backed VIP alcoves. An intimidating, huge security guard stands close by and two additional brawny men flank either side of his pristine, private sofa.
Now, standing only twenty feet away from him, I’m impossible to miss. But to play coy, I allow my green eyes to float anywhere but toward him. Billionaire businessmen only obtain his impressive level of success by lusting after challenges, and tonight I’m poised as the ultimate one. Knowing my mark’s tastes, I’ve gone all out this evening.
I’m draped in a stunning Roberto Cavalli black halter dress that is free of any adornment aside from a large, pleated, oval cut-out segment on the right side that starts at my ribs, just at the base of my breasts, and runs down to my hip. It’s unbelievably provocative, and I smile inwardly at the perks of my job. When this is over, they’ll let me keep the dress.
For the past eight years I’ve studied cryptography at MIT. After earning my graduate degree in the complex but fascinating subject of coding and electronic security, I was fortunate enough to acquire an in-house position with the elite private intelligence agency, Wade Garnett, Inc.
On occasion we contract out our skills to covert areas of the United States military, but the majority of our clients are civilians. The central focus of my job is to acquire classified data at the request of my employer, although this is not the only service our company provides for clients. The majority of our contracts focus on electronic security and encryption coding. With the hefty monetary backing from our prestigious clients, the possibilities of my job are nearly limitless.
I haven’t always been a field agent. Two years ago, while riding close in a wired vehicle shadowing one of our top spies, I was forced to step in when his cover was about to be blown. Our guy was inside the home of a wealthy widow whose deceased husband had stored information that our client wanted. She was catching on to the fact that he had never met her husband, despite his claiming to be a past business contact, so I was forced to intervene by knocking on the front door just as the woman was about to call the police. Inventing a quick, off-the-cuff story about a missing dog I could swear I’d seen in her yard, I occupied the woman long enough for our agent to access her computer and got us both out by the skin of our teeth. After that event I pleaded with my boss to place me out in the field as an agent, because the thrill of each unique mission was exhilarating. He was hesitant at first, but I sold him on my decoding skills and the fact that young female spies are rare and therefore more effective. Once he found out that I’d studied Aikido since childhood, he felt less concerned about my ability to handle myself should a precarious situation arise. Eventually he came around, insisting that I train extensively for eight months before I could become active in the field. I was glad he changed his mind because I can be quite stubborn. I wasn’t about to give up without a fight.
This is the fourth time I’ve been sent out on my own. Well, technically I’m not alone. Alan and Breck are in a van parked close by, hidden in a narrow side alley. They’re my eyes and ears as well as my extraction team should something go wrong. Agents are always supported by a well trained and highly specialized team. Breck and Alan are both former Navy Seals. They’re hardcore and don’t fuck around. If need be, they get physical first and ask questions later. Things tend to stay on track that way. Preparation is the key to a successful outcome, and we didn’t become the very best in our business because we leave things to chance.
I hear Breck cut in, speaking though the teeny earpiece nestled inside my right ear canal. “Do you have a lock on him, Carew?”
I pick up my martini glass, turn away from my mark, and just before the rim of the glass touches my lips, I softly murmur, “Affirmative.” Lowering my drink, I purposefully relax my features, glance over at Vasilije Juric, and bat my eyes like a shy doe.
Juric is quite possibly the most influential businessman in Croatia. He owns several factories throughout the country and most of them specialize in manufacturing computer components. He never fails to land a spot on the Forbes 500 list.
/> Five months ago my company was sought out by a prominent California electronics designer who was given insider information. The designer became convinced that Juric had somehow hacked his system and stolen one of his latest designs. The design is a highly complex PC security system that makes any system virtually hack-proof. Compared to others currently on the market, this one is revolutionary. Its estimated worth is over one hundred million dollars. My job is to hack Juric’s PC to see if the latest masterpiece he’s about to roll out is indeed his own creation or our client’s unique design. The irony of hacking into a computer to steal a hack-proof system isn’t lost on me, but luckily for us we have his password. If it’s the latter, then my client is headed straight into a massive lawsuit. Textbook espionage, really. That is, so long as we don’t get caught.
I let my body respond to the fabulous music and throw out a breezy smile each time the smoldering bartender passes by to check on my drink. A handsome guy in his mid-twenties leans in close and purrs in sexy, accented English, “Are you American?”
He must have heard me talking to the bartender. I flick my eyes to his chocolate ones and respond, “I am.”
“Damn, you’re gorgeous. Let me buy you a drink.”
I coo sweetly, “Oh, that’s too kind, but I’m about to meet my date. Maybe some other time.”
He recovers quickly and grumbles something unintelligible before moving on. Good, that was perfect. I want to play this right and lure in Vasilije Juric by letting him know that I’m looking for someone exceptional. I’m hoping that he’ll make his move soon so I don’t have to deflect advances all night. Eastern European men are by no means shy, I’ve come to find out.
Just as I complete that thought, I feel heat radiating close against my back. Someone is standing directly behind me. As I turn around slowly, the first thing I see is a wall of muscle dressed in a suit. His chest is that expansive. The suit is a fine weave, tailored and black. Hugo Boss, maybe? A crisp, white dress shirt lies perfectly beneath a dark, platinum-colored tie that has miniscule black squares set within a grid-like pattern.
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