He lifted a shoulder. “Okay ... have it your way.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re lucky I’m a boy scout. Otherwise, this could be the blackmail you accused me of. I’ve got plenty on you, sweetness, all of it amazing.” After a pregnant pause he pushed off the wall as though intending to leave. “But it isn’t blackmail. I haven’t sunk to that, yet. It’s pretty clear you don’t want to deal on my terms, so we don’t have a deal. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Once again Randy watched Geoff Dias make an exit, this time out of his own office. She followed him to the door as he pushed it open and strode toward a vintage black Porsche parked at the curb. Within seconds he’d tucked his oversize frame into the driver’s seat, keyed the ignition, and driven out of her life.
Randy didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. Everything he did provoked her, even the way he’d just let her off the hook. Boy scout? If he was a boy scout, then Attila the Hun must have been his den mother.
Not knowing what else to do, she left his office. But as she started for her own car, she noticed the motorcycle he’d ridden the day before. It was parked in a stall between his office and the gym. She hesitated, feeling weak at the knees and hating the way her heart was knocking. The machine brought back so many memories, all of them frighteningly vivid. And all of them hot enough to make her want to spend the rest of her life in a cold shower.
She approached the stall slowly, coming to a halt as soon as she got close enough to see what was painted on the bike’s gas tank. Emblazoned in hot pink was a broken valentine’s heart and just beneath it were the words SURRENDER BABY.
If Randy had been clinging to a slender thread of hope that Geoff Dias wasn’t really her beautiful drifter, that thread had just snapped.
Geoff wound the Porsche down through its gears, reining in the surging car as he took the freeway exit that spilled into the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains. The whine and grind of harnessed horsepower brought a stirring of satisfaction to his soul. It felt almost as good as the quivering responsiveness of the gears tick under his hand.
He still got off on power and performance. There weren’t too many things that did it for him anymore. But powerful things, they interested him. More than that, he liked exercising the control that came with mastering power. Maybe that’s why she interested him. He’d meant it when he’d called her a pistol. He’d never met a hotter female, in every sense of the word. Her pain was as fiery as her passion.
Something hit the windshield with a crack, distracting him. It sounded like a rock, but all he could see was a huge tumbleweed rolling down the street straight at him. He cranked the wheel hard, swerving to miss it. The Porsche shuddered and squealed, leaving streaks on the asphalt before he got the car straightened out.
The devil winds were blowing again today, he realized, checking out the hilly terrain around him. Hot gusting Santa Anas moaned in the sycamores and whooshed through the car’s open windows, whipping at his hair. The air was saturated with the dense smells of sage, laurel, and road dust.
Moments later he was traversing the narrow road that snaked toward his small house in the backwoods of Coldwater Canyon. As he took the curves, he was aware of another scent, her perfume still clinging to his sweatshirt. It was a hot fragrance, earthy and spicy, redolent of cloves.
Yes, she did interest him.
He turned the sports car into his gravel driveway and let himself out, stretching to his full height and working the kinks out of his muscles. The wind pulled at his clothing as he walked to the ranch-style house he’d bought after leaving the Pentagon several years ago. He’d had two partners in those days, both of whom he’d met in the Marines. He and Johnny Starhawk had been recruited into the Pentagon’s Recovery Operations Unit by Chase Beaudine, their job description being to free American hostages and POWs. The three of them had quickly made international headlines with their exploits. Geoff still carried a snapshot in his wallet of their celebration in a Greek taverna after their first successful mission. Chase and Johnny had both had the sense to retire after a few years and take up normal lives. Geoff was the only one still playing soldier.
A stack of mail was piled up under the slot as he let himself into the house. Noticing a pale blue engraved envelope on top, he knelt and tore it open. His lips curved into a smile as he read the invitation to an anniversary party for Johnny Starhawk. Johnny and his wife, Honor, had been married a year.
“One year?” Geoff’s laughter was husky with affection. “And that crazy SOB thought it wouldn’t last. Good for you, Johnny.”
Crouched there, gazing at the invitation, Geoff was revisited by memories of both his former partners. Johnny had been a wild man in the Marines, driven by some inner rage none of his buddies understood, or dared ask about. Irish-Apache by birth, he had intuitive instincts and tracking abilities that had made him invaluable in recovery operations, but it was his keen intelligence, his analytical brilliance, that had ultimately led him to the career he’d been born for.
Geoff wasn’t at all surprised that Johnny had become a high-powered attorney, but a happily married man? That did surprise him, especially since Johnny’s golden-girl bride had been the source of most of his rage. She’d betrayed him when they were young, and Johnny wasn’t a forgiving soul.
Geoff fingered the invitation and smiled. He almost wished he could go to the party and see how they were doing. He’d had some firsthand experience with the volatile reconciliation that had led to their marriage. As far as he knew, no two people had had more reason to be together—or more heartbreak keeping them apart.
As for Chase Beaudine, the hell-bent Marine who’d recruited Geoff into recovery operations, he was as thoroughly roped and hog-tied as a man could be these days. He had a couple of kids already and was turning his small cabin in the Wyoming foothills into a ranch. His redheaded wife, Annie, a tiny woman with a huge spirit, was the perfect match for a hard case like Beaudine.
Geoff dropped the invitation back on the pile. A stab of something that must have been loneliness hit him as he thought about his two buddies, how they’d changed, how full and complete their lives must be now. He was happy for them, but maybe he was a little envious too.
A tall can of beer from the refrigerator went a long way toward easing his pain. By the time he’d finished it, he wasn’t thinking about Chase and Johnny anymore. His mind had returned to its more recent preoccupation. Randy.
He helped himself to another can of beer, then leaned against the closed refrigerator door, rubbing his thumb over the can’s condensation as he contemplated the mystery she presented. Women weren’t supposed to seduce men and disappear, that was a male thing. But it wasn’t just her knack for breathless seduction that made her so unforgettable. There was all the rest of it—the tears, the vulnerability, the way she clung to him, tucking her face into the hollow of his shoulder, making him want to ache with her heartrending sobs. She’d changed moods with dizzying speed that night, pounding on his chest one minute and railing at him for the sins of all men, and then before he could catch his balance, she was kissing him with more whimpering hunger and raw need than he’d ever known from a woman.
Hell, yes, he was interested.
He popped the beer can’s top and took a swig of the ice-cold brew, hardly tasting it. What man wouldn’t be interested in a beautiful woman who hit him like a cyclone and left him confused and gasping for air?
A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he wiped the moisture away, feeling the afternoon heat rise and thicken around him. It was going to be a hellacious night. The devil winds always kicked the thermometer up into the nineties, even in February. One of these years he’d have to get air-conditioning.
He stripped off his threadbare sweatshirt with his free hand and tossed it as he strolled out of the kitchen. The garment landed on the hand-carved molding of the antique grandfather clock that had been passed down through his father’s si
de of the family. It was the only thing he wanted from his parents’ estate after their deaths. And sometimes, when the chimes rang out, he wished he hadn’t taken it. The sound was so damn forlorn.
Needing to clear his thoughts, he walked through the cluttered living room and down the hallway toward the back porch sunroom he’d converted into a workout space. All distractions vanished when he entered the stark, monasterylike environment, all thoughts of the past, of women and sex. This was where he mastered errant impulses, anything that didn’t feed the source of his mental and physical powers. This was where he harnessed his own will.
He stopped at the doorway long enough to set down the can of beer and remove his shoes before he stepped onto the braided hemp carpet. The room was bare of furnishings except for a low table holding an oriental board game of black and white stones and a two-inch metallic sphere suspended from the ceiling on a thin rope. The objects were meant to teach mental detachment and to train the intuition. A solid oak support beam stood in the center of the room.
Geoff walked across the coarse hemp slowly, honing his concentration, gathering energy in the pit of his stomach. The oak beam was his sparring partner. It had broken his foot once, shattering countless bones. Over the years it had bruised and beaten him into submission until he’d found the part of himself that was the beam. Once he had mastered that part of himself, he’d mastered the beam.
Surrender, baby, he thought softly.
He stood very still, gazing at the beam until it appeared to move and undulate before his eyes. Feeding on the wood’s energy, he drew it into himself until the corresponding energy in the pit of his stomach imploded and surged through him.
With a hissing sound, he leaped, whirled, and kicked, striking out savagely with his bare foot. A shock wave slammed through his body as he connected with the solid oak. He knew instantly that he’d hit wrong, with the top of his foot instead of the blade. The pain that shot up his leg was staggering, blinding.
He dropped to his knees, letting the sharp throbs pierce him, willing himself to become the pain so that he could master it. There was no question in his mind what had gone wrong. His focus wasn’t perfectly honed. He wasn’t clear. He had freed himself of every conscious distraction except one. Her.
The seductress in a virginal white wedding gown.
She’d haunted his mind ever since that night. She was the one thing that he, who’d devoted his life to self-mastery, hadn’t been able to master. And the way she’d come back into his life, through a missing-persons ad to find her fiancé, was too dark an irony to be ignored.
It had been years since he’d seen her in the flesh, but now that he’d found her again, he wasn’t going to be diverted. He had something in mind for Miranda Witherspoon, the blushing bride-to-be. Something befitting the occasion.
A moment later he was on his feet, concentrating energy, gathering the storm inside him and locating its center, the eye of perfect stillness. A sound hissed through his teeth, snakelike. He kicked the post again, several times, perfectly, powerfully. As he felt the energy from his body reverberate through the wood, returning to its origins, a smile crossed his face. He was ready.
Randy pressed the button on her intercom. “Did that last applicant leave yet?” she asked as Barb picked up the phone. They both knew who she was referring to. The mercenary she’d just interviewed could have been an escapee from San Quentin’s death row.
“Only after I threatened to call in the military police,” Barb snapped. “Will you please stop interviewing these psychos. Randy? You’re endangering both our lives.”
“What choice do I have, Barb? Hugh’s lost somewhere in South America and no one seems to care but me.” But Randy’s pleading tone did nothing to mollify her assistant.
“You’ve already called the FBI, the State Department, the local police in Rio, and the consulate,” Barb pointed out. “They’re the experts on these things, for heaven’s sake. Why don’t you let them do their job?”
“I only wish they would. My wedding is two weeks away!”
“Well, just tell me one thing,” Barb shot back. “Are we doing this again tomorrow? Are we interviewing. Randy? Because if we are, I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest and crash helmet.”
“I didn’t know you had a bullet-proof vest.”
“Randy!”
“Sorry, I was just trying to imagine it with your gold jewelry.” Randy winced as the receiver banged down. She rose from her chair, determined to find a replacement for Geoff Dias. She’d seen four applicants before noon, one of them an ex-priest who had seemed promising until she learned he was allergic to his own perspiration and had to avoid humid climates. The applicants she’d met after lunch had seemed more interested in replacing her fiancé than in finding him. The last one had insinuated he could make her forget about Hugh in ten seconds flat if she’d sit on his lap and play horsey.
Maybe it was the Santa Ana winds, she thought, walking to her desk and picking up a framed picture of her and Hugh. Everyone got a little weird when the devil winds blew in. She traced the scrollwork on the antique silver frame with her fingers, touching the faint smile on her fiancé’s lean, bespectacled face. Hugh was such a serious man. Some even called him cheerless, but she’d never minded that about him. She’d always admired his drive, his single-minded desire to succeed. Everyone said they were an ideal match.
Hugh Hargrove, she thought, where are you? Your timing stinks. Disappearing three weeks before your own wedding!
Tears filled her eyes as she set the picture down. She was being unforgivably selfish, worrying about weddings when Hugh’s safety was in question. She ought to be pining for him, like any other fiancée would. But she’d never loved Hugh in that silly, senseless way that people do when the attraction is primarily physical. She’d never wanted to love a man that way.
Her mother’s relationships had cured her of any desire for a grand passion. Edna was always caught up in some devastating physical attraction or other, and all it had gotten her for her trouble was a string of tragic affairs with men who caroused and couldn’t commit to anything but their own selfish needs. Randy had been devoted to her mother. She’d loved Edna dearly, but she’d promised herself she would not repeat Edna’s mistakes. She would never let a man become everything in her life, especially a dishonorable man.
Randy’s intercom buzzed rudely. She picked up the phone to hear Barb announce that it was quitting time and she was leaving for the day. “Just so you know,” Barb said ominously. “I’m updating my resume.”
Randy decided not to take the threat seriously as the phone clicked in her ear yet again. Barb had a dramatic nature. She was always mumbling and grumbling about something. Secretly, Randy was sympathetic to her assistant’s concerns. The thought of even one more interview appalled her too.
Perhaps she should make the trip to Rio by herself.
As she sat down at her desk to clear up some priority items, that idea began to take on more appeal. Carlos Santeras, the man Hugh was last reported seen with, lived somewhere in the hills that bordered the city of Rio. It wasn’t as if she would have to trek through the jungle if she decided to pay him a visit; she could just make some discreet inquiries. At least she’d be down there instead of sitting helplessly behind a desk!
An hour later Randy was locking up to go home. The dimmed lights in executive row told her she was the last to leave as she made her way down the hall to the elevator. She rolled one shoulder and then the other, loosening tight muscles. The last few days had been exhausting, and she was running out of strings to pull to find Hugh.
The express elevator came and took her down to the subterranean parking garage. As the doors swooshed open, she stepped out absently, then hesitated. A sound that resembled laughter alerted her that someone was there.
“Who is it?” she asked an instant before spotting him. The large, shaggy-haired man who moved out of the shadows was the last mercenary she’d interviewed. “What do you want?” she asked.
He walked toward her, making a strange rattling sound that might have been laughter. It was hard to tell because he wasn’t smiling. But Randy didn’t have to ask her question a second time. It was obvious what he wanted by the malevolent gleam that lit his eyes. She stepped back into the elevator and jabbed the DOOR CLOSE button.
He rushed the door and jammed it with his body.
“Help!” Randy screamed as he caught hold of her arm and hauled her toward him. She jerked back frantically, kicking at him and trying to press the button at the same time.
“Let go!” she screamed, hitting him sharply in the shin.
“Come here,” he snarled, dragging her into his arms. The alcohol on his breath choked her as he plastered her against his massive body. He locked a beefy arm around her neck and jerked her head back, paralyzing her as he ripped out the neckline of her blouse. Randy screamed as seams popped and buttons went flying.
“Stop!” she gasped as he tightened the armlock. He was cutting off her breathing. She was going to black out! Her vision went spotty, static dancing wildly in her head, and her legs folded, sagging together.
She was slipping into unconsciousness as her attacker let out a roar of pain, then lurched forward. Randy was too weak to stop him as he tumbled into the elevator on top of her. They both crashed to the floor, the impact of his dead weight knocking the wind out of her.
Dazed, she saw the elevator doors close, sealing off her only route of escape. She struggled to get out from under him, but she couldn’t move. She was locked in the elevator with him! Her terrified shriek bounced off the walls.
Four
RANDY TWISTED AND SHOVED, struggling in vain to push the mercenary’s weight off her. Panic gripped her as she searched for some way to get free. He appeared to have been knocked unconscious, but he was beginning to stir. His soft moans told her he was waking up.
She spotted her purse and grasped for it, thinking to use it as a weapon. But as her fingers touched the chain strap, the elevator doors flew open and Geoff Dias surged inside. He dragged the man off her, slammed him up against the elevator wall, and reared back to hit him.
Surrender, Baby Page 4
