by Debra Webb
She set her hands on her hips and walked around the perimeter of her cell.
Wasn’t the worst place she’d been held. The idea that it might be the last ticked her off.
Five years! Romero couldn’t have come after her way before now?
No. She shook her head. He’d exhausted every avenue possible to find his wife on his own; then he’d sat back and waited for Nora to grow complacent. And then show up in his city, disarmed.
She hadn’t given him a thought in years.
Big mistake.
He’d been lying in wait…like the snake he was. Protecting his territory and waiting for her to wander back into his dominion.
She’d completely dropped her guard where he was concerned.
Seriously big mistake.
Tallant didn’t like her at all. She wondered how much trouble he would go to in a rescue attempt. Knowing him and his Colby rules, he’d just call the cops and hasten her demise.
Romero owned the law in Vegas.
No one was going to bust in here and demand to know what he’d been up to. No way.
She executed an about-face and traced her steps in the opposite direction. Then there was the Vandiver case. The wife had insisted her husband was trying to kill her, but now Nora wasn’t so sure.
Vandiver appeared convinced that his wife, their client, was trying to kill him.
Tallant could deal with that. Besides, Rocky was in Los Angeles with the missus. He would get the truth out of her. The Equalizers and the Colbys were vastly different when it came to getting to the bottom line.
If Rocky were here in Vegas, he would find a way to reach Nora before it was too late. No one or nothing would stand in his way. Not even the law.
Just her luck to be stuck with Tallant.
Her feet stalled. He’d given her credit for her strategy to get to Vandiver. Maybe he wasn’t that bad. And she’d caught him looking at her in a way that had surprised her. It was possible, she supposed, that he liked her more than he wanted her to know.
But did he respect her investigation skills?
Truth was she’d been denying a physical attraction to him since day one. No use denying it now. It wasn’t like she would live to regret allowing the thought.
Maybe that was why she’d been so determined to make sure he respected her ability as an investigator.
She looked around the box again. Okay, there was a slight chance she’d overrated her skills.
After all, she was in here and Tallant was out there.
Could be he had a point about strategy.
“Nah.” This was just bad timing. Bad timing and ancient history.
Nora crossed to the door and tried to see past the bars of the small eye-level opening. Sounded deserted out there. Dimly lit.
Ancient history or not. Bad timing or not.
She was in deep trouble here.
Wait.
She’d surveyed the cell three or four times and hadn’t noticed any holes for hidden cameras.
But they would be here. That was one absolute certainty. Romero would be watching every move she made. He would take no chances whatsoever.
“If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed,” she mumbled as she reached for the hem of her blouse and then pulled it over her head and tossed it to the floor. “We’ll just bring Mohammed to the mountain.” She reached for the waist of her slacks next.
“WHAT IS SHE DOING?” ROMERO leaned forward and stared at the screen. Nora had stripped down to her bra and panties. “You searched her?” He stared up at the bodyguard towering next to his desk.
“Thoroughly, sir,” his most trusted employee, Quinton Lott, insisted. “She has nothing on her except the clothes.”
That now lay on the floor.
Uneasiness slid through Romero. He knew this woman too well. Far too well. She could not be trusted on any level. Not for a single second.
“Check her again,” Romero ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed behind his head of security.
Romero studied the woman on the monitor. Slender, toned. He had wanted her so badly five years ago. Still wanted her now. Nora had not changed. If anything, her body was even more appealing.
But he would not have her now any more than he had five years ago. For wholly different reasons this time, of course. This time it was because his relentless desire to watch her suffer far outweighed his lingering wish to ravage her sexually.
This time she would not escape his wrath.
Even as he determined not to be distracted by her antics, she bent at the waist and removed one shoe, then the other. That she held on to the last shoe and inspected the sole sent an alarm shrieking in his brain.
On the monitor, the cell door opened and Lott entered.
Now Romero would see what she was up to.
GREAT.
Nora sized up Lott, Romero’s head of security, as he entered her cell.
Big. Mean as hell. Nearly a decade of service to his master.
Would’ve been nice if the less experienced dope from the car ride here had made an appearance.
“What’re you doing?” Lott demanded as he strode toward her, leaving the door open behind him.
Nora shrugged. “It’s hot in here. So I took my clothes off.”
“Give me the shoe.”
She tightened her grip on her right shoe. “It’s only a shoe.” Too bad it wasn’t one of her stilettos. She’d aim for an eye…or maybe a jugular.
He held out his hand as he came closer. “Give it to me.”
She had one shot.
She had to be fast.
Faster than a big, muscled-up guy wearing a tailored suit.
“Fine.” She reached the shoe toward him.
He wrapped a cruel, indignant grip around it.
She released the shoe.
He made the mistake of inspecting it.
She darted around him. Out the door.
The scrub of his shoes on the concrete echoed right behind her.
She ran harder, had no idea where she was going. She’d only been down here once and that was five years ago.
Faster.
If he caught up with her…
He roared curses behind her…so close she could practically feel his hot breath on her bare back.
Run!
Faster!
She couldn’t slow for the fork up ahead.
Right.
She propelled herself to the right. Pushing with all her might.
Go!
The tunnel twisted right again, almost causing her to lose purchase on the cool, damp floor.
Lott was close.
She leaned forward, barely escaping his grappling fingers.
Steps.
Damn!
She lunged up the broad steps. Her chest tightened. Just breathe.
He stumbled. His fingers raked her back.
She propelled herself forward. The palms of her hands hit the step in front of her. She kept scrambling…moving…up. Up! Faster!
“You’re dead when I catch you!”
She burst up onto the final step.
Outside. Pool.
She zigzagged around the pool.
Voices shouted in the distance.
Security.
Dogs barked.
Oh, hell. Don’t stop! She had to escape the landscape lighting.
A ping echoed around her.
Gunshot.
Wall. Straight ahead.
Oh, God.
Something latched onto her ankle. Teeth buried into her skin. She felt the pain before she heard the growling.
Dog.
She glanced down. Tripped, landed face-first on the ground.
Her jaw clamped down hard to prevent screaming as the feral teeth ground into her flesh.
“Down!”
The dog abruptly released her.
Only then did she become aware of the salty taste of tears on her lips or the thundering beneath her sternum and th
e jerky spasms of her chest.
Cruel fingers manacled her arms and jerked her upward. Her ankle was on fire.
The men on either side of her twisted her around to face the head honcho.
Lott’s palm connected with her jaw. Her head twisted to the right from the force.
“Take her inside,” Lott ordered, his face contorted with fury.
The men hauled her forward. She resisted, earning a spree of harsh curses.
By the time they reached the entrance to the kitchen, the adrenaline had receded enough for her brain to fully inventory her injuries.
Chewed-up ankle. The soles of her feet were skinned and raw. Her arms, where the jerks continued to grip her, were bruised. And her face stung from the slap. Too low on the jaw to give her a black eye, but her lip was definitely swelling.
She’d tried. She couldn’t just sit back and wait for Ivan to have his way.
“Put her there.”
Speak of the devil. She smiled at Romero as he directed that she be placed into a kitchen chair.
He folded his arms over his chest and pointed a stare at her that would have ignited a rain-dampened forest. “You’re not escaping me this time,” he guaranteed. He nodded to her chest, where her lacy bra showed off her cleavage. “This time I will watch you pay.”
“You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
Lott reared back his hand to slap her again.
Romero shook his head. “No. When the time comes, I’ll have the honor.”
“Mr. Romero.”
Romero shifted his attention to yet another well-dressed creep who entered the room. This one had shoulder-length blond hair. He whispered something in his boss’s ear. Nora watched Romero’s face for some indication of the news his associate passed along.
“I’ll be right there.”
Evidently nothing troubling, since his expression remained calm and unmoved.
To Lott, Romero instructed, “She’s tested my patience. If she makes a sound or a move, go ahead and break her neck.”
He glared at her once more before exiting the room.
Bastard.
“You heard him,” Lott reiterated. “Don’t feel as if you’re putting me out if you choose to disobey.” He rubbed his palms together. “I would love to twist that slender neck of yours until it snaps like a twig.”
She ignored the big jerk when she wanted to tell him where to go. Maybe what to do when he got there. But Romero had said she wasn’t to make a sound. She’d already pushed his patience to the limit. Having Lott perform a move even a good orthopedic surgeon couldn’t undo wasn’t exactly her plan A.
A woman’s voice filtering in from somewhere in the house silenced Nora’s thoughts.
Romero had company?
She strained to listen beyond the goofballs muttering behind her. Romero was railing at someone but she couldn’t make out more than a word here and there. Judging by his tone, he was not a happy man.
Lott leaned against the kitchen island, his ugly glower resting fully on her. Nora worked at keeping her face clean of anticipation.
More shouting.
Something was unacceptable. Definitely a female. A mad one at that.
Lott moved to the door that led into the main entry hall. Obviously to listen to whatever was going on with his boss.
Nora checked the position of the other two in the room. Still hanging out by the French doors directly behind her.
Just her luck.
The rise of voices, male and female, shattered the low buzz of conversation around Nora. The male voice she recognized as Romero.
The female…Camille Soto!
Did that mean Tallant was here?
Hope swelled in Nora’s chest.
She considered Lott’s back. If she screamed, would he have time to turn around and shoot her before Tallant got in here?
Definitely.
Break her neck?
Maybe not.
She dared to glance over her shoulder at the two behind her.
No making it outside or into the hall…
Lott abruptly turned, as if he’d heard the thought. Nora’s pulse skittered.
Lott motioned for one of the men by the French doors to come to him. Nora watched as the two huddled, Lott passing along instructions she couldn’t hope to hear. The other man nodded, then disappeared into the hall.
Was Soto in danger? Were they going to drag her in here, too?
Nora couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.
Still, there was one man stationed at the French doors behind her.
Lott crossed to where she sat and manacled her arm. “One word,” he reminded with a lethal glare, “and you’re dead.”
She nodded her understanding. He hauled her to her feet. She winced. More at how sore her arm was from all the manhandling than from the scrapes on her feet or the injury to her ankle.
He forced her out of the kitchen through the French doors. His pal followed. Since she hadn’t noticed Lott ordering him to do so, she imagined that the guy followed only to watch her hips sway in the skimpy panties as she walked.
Why not give him a show he wouldn’t soon forget?
“Come on,” Lott muttered as he dragged her toward the entrance to the underground tunnel beyond the lavish pool and patio.
Back down the cool concrete steps. Along the dimly lit gray corridor.
To the cell where she’d been held before.
Back at square one.
He shoved her into the cell. “Put your clothes on. You wouldn’t want your corpse to be discovered naked, would you?”
She made a face at the big, ugly thug.
Taking her time, she dragged on her slacks and blouse. Then the shoes. Hurt like hell with no socks but nothing she could do about that.
After a quick inspection of her ankle, she crossed to the back wall, leaned against it and slid down to the floor.
She needed a new plan. Not that it would stop the outcome of this situation. Even if Tallant had arrived with Soto, the chances of him finding her were about nil. Ivan wanted to torture and to murder.
Odds were that would happen.
But she didn’t have to make it easy.
Chapter Ten
“You did exactly as I instructed?” Romero had never known Camille Soto to double-cross him—if he had, she would be dead now—but he had an uneasy feeling about this negotiation.
She nodded firmly. “Yes.” She inclined her head and eyed him circumspectly. “Haven’t I always followed your instructions to the letter?”
“Of course, but…” He folded his arms over his chest and tapped his chin with his forefinger. “This is a very delicate matter. A personal matter. You’re certain this associate of Nora’s has no idea where she is?”
“None.” She shook her head for emphasis. “He called his employer and they’re going to the police.” Soto smiled—the smile that had first drawn his attention when she’d been a mere waitress. “And we both know how that will go.”
“Bear in mind, Camille,” Romero warned, “that if you do not hold up your end of this bargain where the investigator from Chicago is concerned, I will see that your precious doctor ends up every bit as dead as his vengeful wife wishes him.”
“Then neither of us has any reason to be concerned,” she insisted.
“You will handle this with Vandiver?”
“Just another attempt on his life by his crazy wife,” Soto assured him. “He was very fortunate that you intervened. Sadly, the woman was not so lucky.”
“Sadly,” Romero echoed. He gestured to the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”
Camille Soto appeared puzzled.
“He’s in the trunk of your car,” Romero explained as he ushered her forward. “Blindfolded and secured. When you arrive back at the Palomino, you explain how you and I acquired his release.”
Soto’s smile was brittle, nervous. “Thank you, Ivan.”
He gave her a nod.
She hesitated before
leaving. “I almost forgot.” She turned back to him.
Perhaps now he would have an answer to this nagging doubt.
“Tallant, her associate, mentioned that another investigator from his agency is coming here. Aboard a private jet, I believe.”
“Interesting.” Romero would see to that matter. “If you recall anything else, you’ll let me know.”
“Of course.”
He watched as she hurried down the cobblestone drive to her car.
Strange, he considered as she circled the fountain and drove away. She’d parked on the far side of the magnificent fountain he’d had imported from Spain. Generally she drove right up to the front steps.
That heavy feeling revisited him.
To the man who had attended to Vandiver’s transport accommodations, Romero said, “Watch her. See that she makes no misstep.”
Romero considered Soto’s taillights as they faded into the darkness. The past twenty-four hours had been quite peculiar.
“She’s secured,” Lott informed Romero as he approached the door where Romero still stood.
“Excellent.” Romero closed the door and inhaled a deep, satisfying breath. “I have a few preparations.” His gaze settled on that of his most trusted employee. “Then I’ll be ready to proceed. Her associate is expecting support to arrive via a private jet. Take care of that for me, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Romero surveyed the luxurious foyer that greeted his visitors. Two decades of hard work had gone into his life here in Vegas. This was his world—his empire. Nothing transpired within his domain without his knowledge and his approval. Maintaining power had not been easy. Others came and went in hopes of tipping the balance, but each one proved unsuccessful. For one reason and one reason only. Romero understood the importance of patience and timing.
His watcher in Chicago had informed him of Nora’s departure and intended destination. By the time she’d gotten settled into the Palomino, Romero had already prepared for a move. Still, he’d waited for the right opportunity. Timing was everything, after all.
For five years he’d had various sources keeping watch on Nora. Recording her comings and goings. Keeping tabs on who she called and why. Not once in all that time had she contacted his wife, as he had hoped she would. Not once.
