by Dee Brice
Between drug running and gem smuggling, Colombia was not the safest place to live. Though here, only a short distance from Medellin and Muzo, such sordidness seemed impossible. Intellectually, she could acknowledge Emilio’s need for security. On an emotional level, she felt as if she had exchanged one potential prison for another.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, TC shivered. Determined to banish the coldness that had become a part of her since the theft of Isabella’s Belt, she returned to her room and shed her clothes. A shower would warm her, if only temporarily.
The gentle pummeling of hot water evoked images of a man’s hands on her body. Large, tanned hands that moved with sensuous certainty over every inch of her until the coldness within her burned away and she glowed like a comet streaking through a midnight sky.
Ian’s hands. The hands of a murderer?
* * * * *
Breadcrumbs, TC thought an hour later. She stood at the intersection of three long and unfamiliar hallways and sighed. She should have left a trail of breadcrumbs when the maid, Pepita, led her to her suite in the guest wing. Frustrated that she’d let exhaustion override her normally infallible sense of direction, she decided to take advantage of the situation. After all, if someone found her in the wrong room, she could honestly say she’d gotten lost.
Taking the hallway to her left, she ambled along and studied her surroundings. Lights focused on museum-quality paintings by Carlos Jacana and Fernando Bolero lit her way down the thick carpet runner that muffled her footsteps. Reaching the end of the corridor, she opened a door and found herself in another bedroom, smaller than her own, but exquisitely appointed. Closing the hall door behind her, she went to the French doors and made sure no one on the outside could see into the room.
Satisfied, she quickly checked behind a print of bucolic flowers that hung on the wall. She huffed. Not that she expected to find a safe and Isabella’s Belt, in a guestroom. But she had hoped… What? To discover a sense of home in a house that felt more like a luxurious jail?
Disliking the path her mind seemed bent on taking—lately she had spent far too much time thinking about prisons—she glanced at her watch. Damn, she’d have to abandon her search and call for help before someone found her skulking about. Maybe tomorrow she could find the time and an excuse to explore the house. Resigned to the delay, she picked up the house phone and dialed for help.
Five minutes later, Pepita guided her through a maze of hallways to the grand staircase. There, the maid left TC to make her way to the red salon on the floor below.
A mirror at one end of the large room allowed her to see in while she remained out of sight. The classic Colonial-style construction, adobe and tile, accented the clean, austere lines. The furniture, gilt and red velvet, made her eyes hurt. The groupings, intended she supposed to make guests feel comfortable, were too formal, too precisely arranged around colorful rugs to feel welcoming. Unlike Hunter Hall, the flower-filled vases failed to lend warmth to the room.
Smothering her dislike of the setting, TC stepped into the doorway and took stock of the people gathered there. Seated on a red velvet settee Esmeralda Santana, Emilio’s wife, held court for the women. Her daughters and the wives of her sons, no doubt, they all wore elegant gowns in the shades of the finest gems—sapphires, yellow garnets, emeralds. In a corner, near a half dozen arches leading to the outside, Emilio stood surrounded by a group of younger men. Dressed alike in exquisitely tailored dark suits and conservative ties, they reminded TC of a gathering of IBM executives.
So much for dining en familia, TC thought, grateful she’d had sense enough to don a conservative cashmere dress that fell to just below her knees, while the cowl neckline dipped demurely. Only the color, a deep vibrant ruby, called attention to her.
At that moment a man appeared in one of the archways, a low-ball cocktail glass held negligently in his elegant hand. His wide shoulders seeming to fill the arch, he looked like a veritable Gulliver among Emilio and his kin. As if drawn by an overpowering force, the man’s gaze focused on her. TC felt the blood flee her face like a skier on a downhill race to the bottom of Pico Cristobal Colon, the highest peak in Colombia.
No! she silently protested even as she acknowledged him with what she hoped was a dismissive nod. Even if he is Emilio’s godson, it isn’t possible for Ian Soria to be here, her mind insisted. But her body throbbed with remembered passion, with remembered fear of the attempt on her life.
The blood returned to her brain in a rush that made her lightheaded. Her cheeks flushed hot. She wanted to run, but her feet felt as if they were nailed to the floor. With a shaky smile, she stood frozen while Emilio and Ian crossed the room. Thirty feet or more separated them, yet it seemed they were upon her in a single beat of her galloping heart.
“Here you are, at last,” Emilio greeted, his voice booming in the suddenly quiet room.
Over Emilio’s shoulder, TC saw the women scatter like brilliant butterflies on a spring breeze. Esmeralda Santana stood and TC fought a nearly hysterical compulsion to shout, “Please, stay where you are! I need to get away from him.”
Instead, held by pride, determined not to let Ian see that her legs were quivering like jellyfishes, TC watched the older woman’s coal black eyes sweep over her. While their expression remained neutral, TC thought she caught a glimmer of approval, as if Señora Santana knew what it cost TC to withstand the curious stares of a score of strangers, the stare of one who was not a stranger at all, but her enemy.
“Con mucho gusto,” TC heard herself say to the regal woman at Emilio’s side. She was pleased to meet Emilio’s diminutive wife. To her surprise, her voice sounded steady, merely a whisper throatier than usual.
“El gusto es mio. The pleasure is mine,” Señora Santana said, her accent as quaint as Ian’s.
“I believe you already know my godson, Ian Soria,” Emilio said, his heartiness sounding forced.
So, TC thought, her gaze irresistibly drawn to the tall, black-suited figure behind her hostess, Ian’s account of his history was true. As far as it went.
“We’ve met,” TC allowed and bit the inside of her cheek to quell the blush she felt seeping up from her toes. Any second now it would sweep over her face and reveal just how well she did know Ian Soria, albeit only in the biblical sense.
“Señorita Cartierri,” Ian said, making a sketchy bow. His grin announced he knew why she did not offer her hand for him to shake, that he knew her palms were hot and damp while her fingers felt like icicles forming in a sharp, cold wind.
Nor did she miss the fact that he now knew her real last name.
“Where is Rogelio?” TC asked for want of anything better to say.
“My grandson, the little scamp, begged to stay up, but exhaustion finally claimed him,” Esmeralda explained. She took TC’s arm, led her around the room and made introductions.
Held in the circle of their husbands’ arms, the wives sparkled like gemstones on black satin. To TC, they all looked alike and their names were also similar: Maria Consuela, Constanza Maria and Maria Elena. They all wore identical expressions of regret that TC trailed a tall, handsome, silent man in her wake.
The husbands on the other hand, looked smug and content at the pairing of the two gringos, a situation TC found disgusting. Ian’s attitude proclaimed a proprietary interest she intended to squash at the first opportunity.
Tonight, if she didn’t fall asleep in her soup.
The nap she had taken in the car had only made her realize how tired she was. Until the moment Ian appeared, TC had looked forward to a good night’s sleep. Now, she suspected she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Feeling a warm hand at the small of her back, TC looked up and glared at the man at her side.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her lips curled in a false smile.
“I could ask the same of you,” Ian muttered. Then, showing a familiarity with the Santanas’ home that rang warning bells in TC’s head, he continued. “What would you like to
drink?”
He must spend a lot of time here, she thought. He’s comfortable playing host. “A very dry double vodka martini. Shaken not stirred.”
“Ah, Ms. Bond. I had you pegged as Mata Hari.”
With that cryptic remark, he strolled away, only to return a few minutes later, her drink and a fresh one of his own in hand.
“What was that supposed to mean?” TC demanded, her voice too loud, too belligerent for polite company. With an apologetic smile to the room at large, she repeated her question in a whisper.
“Meaning I thought you the power behind the throne. The manipulator, as it were.”
“Manipulator!” TC squeaked, her upraised face heating with indignation.
“Perhaps we should discuss this after dinner. I would hate to ruin your appetite, Tiffany darling.”
“Nothing,” TC avowed in a huffy voice, “can ruin my appetite. Not even you.” With that she stepped away, then turned back. “And my name is TC!” Barely restraining her desire to flounce, she left him.
Two hours later, after pushing bite after bite of aromatic food around her plate, TC stomped upstairs to her room. Damn the man! He’d ruined her appetite completely.
* * * * *
Smiling grimly, Damian shoved his pocketknife into his slacks and opened the balcony door to Tiffany’s bedroom. A little surprised by the ease with which he had gained entry, he supposed Emilio’s perimeter defenses eliminated the need for sturdy locks elsewhere.
Hearing the sound of water running in the shower, Damian closed the drapes, turned on the bedside light and settled on the wide bed. Crossing his bare feet at the ankles, he leaned against plump goose down pillows, then tucked his hands behind his head.
“What the hell…?” he heard just as his eyelids closed and he found himself drifting to sleep. “Get out of here, you…you lowdown—”
“Now, now, Tiffany darling, do not say anything you will regret later,” he cajoled while he stretched and studied her from beneath his lashes.
He had figured her for a satin-and-silk kind of woman. She did not disappoint him, except that in place of a slinky negligee she wore cranberry-colored silk pajamas piped with hot pink satin. One slender hand bunched the lapels to her throat, the other lay at her thigh, the fingers tightened into a fist. He preferred her as she had been in St. Anton—Eve naked.
“For the last time, you arrogant ass, my name is—”
“Tiffany darling.”
Seeing him stand, she inched away. She wasn’t physically afraid of him—surely he wouldn’t risk killing her in his godparents’ home. Emotionally, he terrified her. Her traitorous body ached for his touch. Her lips longed for his taste. Her flaring nostrils inhaled his scent—fresh air and fine cigar smoke mixed with his own unique smell. His rumbling, throaty growl made her ears tingle, reminding her of how his breath felt so hot when he nibbled them. His eyes flashed heat as he strode to her, then captured her hands.
She opened her mouth to curse him or scream for help. His tongue sliding between her teeth smothered the words. He tasted like hunger and suddenly she was starving. Backed against the door, she fumbled with his belt and zipper, yanked down his jeans and briefs, then took his cock in her hand. Hard flesh, velvet smooth, seeped moisture on her fingers. She wanted that rigid flesh inside her. Now!
“Hurry,” she whispered as he jerked her pajama bottoms over her hips and buttocks. She wiggled free seconds before he tugged one leg over his hip and slid his cock into her pussy. Filled with him, she moaned.
His harsh grunt of satisfaction made her sigh into his mouth as he kissed her deeply, his tongue matching his thrusting hips. His first plunge rattled the door. Grinning, he shifted her to the wall.
“I hate this,” she said, wishing she had the strength to resist him. But every time he touched her, she melted.
He pumped deeper, making her moan again. “Liar. I can feel how hot you are. How wet you are. How greedy your tight cunt is. Shall we make a deal, Tiffany? Shall we agree to fuck each other’s brains out until we grow tired of each other?”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He pulled her pajama top over her head, then ravished her aching nipples.
“Merde,” she groaned, wrapping both legs around his waist and using his wide shoulders for balance.
“Say it, Tiffany. Say what your juicy cunt wants.”
She shook her head and strained to writhe up and down his glorious cock. His hands wrapped around her ass, holding her immobile.
“Say it.” He sucked her nipple into his mouth, drawing fire between it and her pussy.
“Fuck it. Fuck me.”
The words had barely left her mouth when he plunged deeper. It was like the first time he kissed her. Raw. Wild. Rough and untamed and…glorious.
“Harder,” she begged, grinding her pussy against his pelvis, rubbing her breasts against his wide chest. “Oh God. Oh! Oh!” She plunged her fingers into his hair, her tongue into his mouth and rode his cock as if her life depended on reaching climax.
Release slammed into her like a wrecking ball. A hundred, a thousand wrecking balls, destroying her utterly. When she felt her heartbeat approaching normal, she looked into Ian’s eyes.
“I like you hot and ready,” he said, easing her legs from his waist. “I shall look forward to tomorrow night.”
“Get out!” she growled, her voice barely raised above a whisper. “I don’t know much about your relationship with our host, but I doubt Emilio will appreciate having you thrown out at one in the morning.”
“And I doubt he will appreciate harboring an international jewel thief under his roof. Or did you neglect to inform him of that little tidbit?”
Having dropped that bombshell, Damian chucked her under her chin, closing her mouth, and left her. Would she run again? Or would she make a deal with the devil she believed him to be?
Chapter Six
The woman was a fool! An attempt on her life and still she hadn’t run. Damn her! He wanted her in Paris where she would be arrested, left to rot for years before she came to trial, the burden on her to gain her freedom. The French had such a lovely judicial system—guilty until proven innocent. With two murders attributed to her, the bitch would rot forever. Or lose her arrogant head.
Yes, he could picture that quite clearly. Such a lovely picture it made. Her being led up the steps to the guillotine… No, carried up them, all that calm composure shattered when she realized what awaited her. If only France still believed in the death penalty.
If he could, he would make her dream of her beheading, live it over and over until the terror of it frightened her to death. Influencing her dreams an impossibility, he could only try to lure her back to Paris. There, the French police would put an end to all her dreams. Permanently.
How could he make her run? She wouldn’t go haring off to Paris without good reason, so he would have to give her one. One so strong it would compel her to the ends of the earth if he deemed it necessary. All he wanted at the moment was to get her out of Colombia. He couldn’t let her keep sniffing around here.
So, a carrot and a stick.
The stick? Another attempt on her life. The carrot? Ah, yes, the carrot. What better lure than evidence to prove her innocence?
He toyed with the idea of calling her himself, but discarded it. Savoring the delicious irony of his plan, he picked up the telephone and dialed, routing his call through Lyons so Interpol would have a recording of it.
Chapter Seven
“What do you mean, Madrina, she’s gone?” Last night, hoping fear might make Tiffany open up to him, he had intended to frighten her. He certainly had not wanted to make her run away. Again.
Her patrician features composed, her black eyes alight with an unholy gleam, his godmother, Esmeralda Santana, motioned Damian to a chair and poured him a cup of coffee—rich, dark coffee from beans grown for generations on Santana lands in the Cauca valley.
Morning sunlight flooded the breakfast room. Suspecting she had
deliberately made him sit where he had to squint against the bright sun, he scowled at his godmother, but resisted the urge to cross-question her. Years of experience had taught him that the harder he pushed, the longer it took to get information from her. Instead, he buttered a galleta, a crisp, sweet breakfast cracker, and slathered it with marmalade.
“Well, Damian, are you going to arrest our lovely houseguest?” Esmeralda said as if asking if he took cream in his coffee.
“Not yet, Madrina,” Damian said smoothly, mentally cursing himself for coming here. Even off by themselves in the guest wing, there was no true privacy anywhere within the Santana compound. “Is that why she has run away, Madrina? You made her think I am about to clap her in irons and extradite her to France?” He did not correct Esmeralda’s assumption that he could arrest Tiffany. Nor could Michael, were he still alive. Only local authorities could arrest and hold her for extradition to France. Interpol, no doubt, would provide escort for her.
Esmeralda Santana had a raucous laugh, one completely at odds with her ladylike appearance and demeanor. The laugh was also infectious and Damian found himself fighting a chuckle of his own. The fact that his godmother was laughing at him filled him with relief, for it meant his quarry was still at hand.
“No, m’ijo, I did not threaten her in any way.” She took a dainty bite of her own galleta, chewed it thoroughly, then washed it down with coffee. “Ah,” she sighed with obvious satisfaction.
Fiddling with the grapefruit spoon at his place setting, Damian ground his teeth and wondered fleetingly if it would do any good to threaten her with its serrated edges. Probably not, he conceded when she flashed him a knowing smile, then refilled his coffee cup.
“Señorita TC,” she pronounced it Tey Cey, “was curious about our insignificant mining operation.”
Damian snorted at her phrasing. The Santanas prided themselves on never doing things by halves. Next to Muzo, their emeralds were the finest in Colombia. The hairs on his nape stood on end, his instincts shouting that any interest Tiffany Cartierri had in emeralds was not idle curiosity. The vixen would likely fill her pockets with the finest Santana gems, then flee the country.
