Breathless Encounter: Breathless EncounterThe Dark Side of Night

by Cindy Dees

  She wanted more of that. Lots more.

  She became aware of a faint sound carrying across the water from the north...the mechanical rumble of a boat motor incoming. Undoubtedly the Cuban navy.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 6

  A male voice shouted through a bullhorn at her in heavily accented English, “You have entered Cuban territorial waters. Turn around and leave or prepare to be boarded!”

  Kinsey squinted into the blinding glare of the floodlight they pointed at her. She called back, “My engines have conked out. I’m adrift. Can you tow me to someplace where I can make repairs?”

  She thought she made out scowls behind the floodlight, but it was hard to see. The man shouted back, “How many souls on board?”

  “Just me.”

  “Are you declaring a maritime emergency?”

  Ahh. The officialese so they could legally tow her ashore. “Yes, I am.”

  After a long pause, the voice called back, “We will send a man over to secure a towline.”

  What? As if she couldn’t tie a proper towline herself? She didn’t argue, however. If they thought she was actually helpless, all the better. The catamaran rocked as the Cuban vessel pulled up alongside. A sailor leaped across the gap between the boats, hauling with him the end of a heavy line. He didn’t tie the rope to the optimal tow point, but the one he chose wouldn’t capsize her, so she let it go. The Cuban sailor manned her steering wheel in silence for the slow ride to port, while she stretched out and made herself comfortable on the sundeck. The Cuban navy crew made no secret of enjoying the view of her, lounging in her skimpy bikini and sloppy T-shirt. Look all you want, boys. The more distracted they were, the less likely they were to think about searching her vessel for contraband.

  They pulled into port in Cienfuegos, a decent-size city on the south coast of Cuba. The navy cutter hauled her directly to a marina catering to pleasure craft. One of their men went ashore, and in a few minutes, they maneuvered her into a slip near the end of a long, wooden dock that had seen better days.

  What looked like a Customs official and maybe a policeman accompanied the navy man back to her boat. No surprise, the Customs guy wanted her passport. He disappeared back down the dock with it, mumbling about needing to work up an emergency visa for her. It made her nervous to see that vitally important document being carried off like that, but she wasn’t in any position to protest.

  The policeman announced, “I will need to search your boat. Any unauthorized vessel which comes ashore is required to be searched.”

  What else could she do? She shrugged and nodded her understanding, her mind racing. She had to stop him! But how? Anything she did to make the guy suspicious would make him doubly intent upon combing through the boat. Thankfully, he started in the cabin, which gave her a few minutes to think.

  When he stepped outside once more, she stepped into his path, subtly herding him away from the foredeck and the hatches to the pontoons. “Here. Let me unlock the map cabinets for you. They’re back here, at the pilot station.”

  She led the policeman to the rear of the vessel. As she’d hoped, he continued his exterior search of the boat from the aft end and worked his way forward. She even let him open the fore port pontoon hatch before she pulled out her cell phone.

  “Do you mind if I make a phone call?” she asked politely.

  “Who do you wish to call?”

  “My father. He works in Washington, D.C.”

  The reference to Washington brought a faintly surprised look to the cop’s face.

  She continued chattily, “I think I can get cell-phone coverage here. And Daddy has a satellite phone. He has to, so when a bill comes up in Congress, he can be notified to go vote.”

  That shot the policeman’s eyebrows straight up. In fact, it caused him to step away from her—toward the dock—and pull out his own cell phone. He held a quick, muttered conversation in Spanish. She edged closer to him twice, and both times, he moved away from her, closer to shore. The third time she edged closer as if to listen in, he actually stepped up onto the dock. Perfect.

  The Customs man came into sight, carrying some paperwork. The policeman finished his call, and Kinsey cheerfully pocketed her cell phone. “Not working. Looks like I’ll have to wait until I can get access to a landline. Any chance I can get a hotel room or something so I can clean up and make that call? Daddy will be terribly worried until I report in. Goodness knows who he’ll send after me if I don’t contact him soon.”

  The policeman answered nervously, “Uhh, certainly we can arrange a room for you, Señorita Hollingsworth.”

  “Thank you so much!” she gushed. “I could just hug you.”

  The guy seemed flustered at the prospect. He was saved from having to reply by the Customs official handing her back her passport. “The light blue paper inside is your temporary visa. It is good for two weeks. I assume your boat can be repaired and you can be on your way in that amount of time?”

  She batted her eyes at him helplessly. “Well, I don’t know. I’ll need a mechanic to have a look at things and make an estimate. But I hope I can be out of your hair in a few days. You are all being so kind to me. I really appreciate this. I was starting to get worried out there. I only had food and water for a day or so more. It never occurred to me that I might need extra supplies. I was only going out for a short sail.”

  Both men threw her looks that damned her ignorance of basic boating safety, and she took the looks of rebuke without protest. “I know. I know. Boating 101. I should’ve thrown a few emergency supplies on board just in case. I will from now on, I swear.”

  She put a hand on the policeman’s arm. “Now, about that shower. What do I have to do to sweet-talk you into leading me to some hot water and soap?”

  Both men reached out to help her ashore, and with a smile of apology at the Customs man, she took the

  policeman’s hand. “Is there someplace nearby so I can keep an eye on my boat and monitor the repairs?”

  “There is a nice place just up the beach. It’s called La Bonita. I will help you check in and get settled if you wish.”

  She let them lead her up the dock and away from the catamaran...and Mitch. Mission accomplished. She’d distracted the cop before he could finish his search. If she wasn’t mistaken, Mitch owed her one.

  She wasn’t clear on how Mitch was supposed to sneak ashore and hook up with her again. He’d told her they’d have to wing it once they got to Cuba.

  La Bonita was an old building, shabby, but in reasonable repair. And it had a lingering attractiveness. Like a Hollywood glamour queen who’d seen her prime thirty or forty years ago. The policeman was helpful—too helpful—in getting her settled into a “nice” room. She began to wonder if it was bugged or something, the way he insisted on getting a specific room on a high floor with a view of the water, ostensibly so she could keep an eye on her boat.

  Finally, the guy left. In case the place was bugged, she did exactly what they would expect of her. She didn’t actually want to talk to her father, so she called his office and left a message on his answering machine. Plus, the machine made it clear that she was, indeed, calling Congressman Hollingsworth.

  Next, she jumped into the shower. The pressure of the water wasn’t great and it smelled like sulphur, but it was hot and removed the feeling of salt crusted on her skin. Did she dare go back to the boat tonight to try to free Mitch? He’d said for her to sit tight, and knowing him, he’d get mad if she disobeyed his instructions. He struck her as that sort of guy.

  She flipped through the television channels. Her Spanish wasn’t up to the rapid-fire dialect of the programming, so she turned out the lights and went to bed. It took a while for her fraying nerves to settle down, but she eventually drifted off.

  How long she was asleep, she had no idea. But one moment, she
was peacefully resting, and the next, a powerful hand was pressed over her mouth. She all but jumped out of her skin as something heavy rolled on top of her, pressing her down into the mattress and immobilizing her.

  “It’s me,” a voice breathed in her ear. Mitch. Warm relief flooded her. She relaxed, releasing the panic clenching her muscles. And then the sensation of lying beneath Mitch in a blatantly suggestive pose exploded in her brain. His knee pressed between her thighs, supporting his weight, but also pinning her so she couldn’t possibly move out from under him. His eyes closed briefly. When they opened, the blazing sexual awareness in them all but lit the entire room.

  “Don’t say anything,” he gritted out under his breath. “The room may be bugged. Understood?”

  She nodded, and his hand lifted away from her mouth. He pressed up and away from her with swift power, and her body ached with sudden loss.

  She watched in silence as his dark silhouette prowled around her room, searching with ruthless efficiency. He stopped three times and pointed—once at a lamp, once at the clock radio and once at a hinge in the bathroom door. Great. So the two of them knew where the bugs were. Now what?

  He came over to the bed and lifted the covers. She was on the verge of getting up when he crawled in beside her. Stunned, she scooted over to make room for him in the narrow double bed. His muscular bulk took up most of it, at least until he turned on his side and gathered her close against him. Yowza. She liked this even better than before. She couldn’t help it. She snuggled up against him—in the name of giving him enough room, of course.

  It was like cuddling up to a brick. Albeit a warm, vital, sexy one. He pulled the covers over their heads and pressed his mouth to her ear. “Three bugs. Audio only. You need to get dressed and pack your stuff without making any noise. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, and his lips accidentally brushed against her neck. She all but groaned at the sensation. His arm tightened around her momentarily, but then he was gone, rolling away silently and disappearing into the shadows by the door. Her pulse raced, and parts of her throbbed that seriously didn’t need to be doing any throbbing just now. Lord, that man was magnetic!

  She tiptoed to her bag of gear and eased out a pair of black slacks and a dark shirt to match Mitch’s dark clothing. She didn’t want to risk closing the bathroom door, so she stepped into the shower to change and prayed Mitch didn’t do a drive by in here to see how she was coming. Although the prospect of him seeing her undressed made that whole throbbing thing start back up again.

  She tiptoed back out into the room and carefully repacked her overnight bag. Fortunately she hadn’t gotten much out of it earlier. Mitch picked it up and gestured for her to follow him. He opened the hallway door a crack and peered outside cautiously. He slipped outside quickly and she followed him as he raced down the hallway on the balls of his feet, swift and silent. Man, she’d hate to be on the receiving end of this guy’s predatory stealth.

  Down a concrete-and-steel stairwell and out onto a loading dock, she did her best not to make too much of a racket behind him. Still not talking, he waved her into an alley, which he sprinted down. He turned into a side street and darted across it, then down another alley with her in tow. Good thing she hit the treadmill on a regular basis. He was moving fast and showing no signs of slowing down.

  And then all of a sudden, he pulled up beside a vintage car that made her stare. It was big and black and sleek, all chrome and fenders and tiny windows. It looked like a gangster car out of the 1930s. She ventured to whisper, “What’s this?”

  “Our ride. Like it?” he murmured as he opened the driver’s-side door and tossed her bag into the backseat. “Slide in. I’ll drive,” he directed under his breath.

  The seat was cracked vinyl that scratched the back of her legs. The dials and needles looked original to the vehicle, yellowed with age and from another era. Mitch closed the door and started the car. He pulled away from the curb.

  “Where did you get this thing?”

  “I bought it. Like it?”

  “You bought it? How did you have time to get ashore and buy a car already?”

  He laughed. “I was off the boat before you stepped off the dock. Nice misdirect of that cop, by the way. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t distracted him?”

  “I’d scooted all the way to the back end of the pontoon and was behind the engine. He’d never have seen me unless he crawled into the pontoon, in which case...”

  “In which case, what?”

  Mitch sighed. “In which case, I’d have neutralized him and you’d have had to make some excuse to the Customs guy about where his cop friend disappeared to.”

  This man was a killer. Her mind knew the thought to be true, but her heart rejected the thought. She was attracted to him, darn it. Yet there was no denying what and who he was. Heck, she’d seen him kill with her own eyes. Although given that he had saved both her life and his, any murderous overtones were wiped away by the necessary self-defense of the act.

  Her half of the deal was complete. She’d snuck Mitch into Cuba. Now all he had to do was uphold his end of the deal and eliminate Camarillo as a threat to her. Then they’d be even. She would walk away. And then she’d face the unenviable task of figuring out how to get over wanting to leap on him and kiss him senseless.

  * * *

  Mitch drove for nearly an hour. Long enough to be well away from Cienfuegos.

  “Where are we going?” Kinsey asked from the passenger seat.

  “Nowhere in particular at the moment. Just putting distance between you and any authorities who know you’re on the island.”

  “What about your meeting with Zaragosa? Isn’t it back in Cienfuegos?”

  He shrugged. “It won’t happen for another day or two. In the meantime, I’m going to work on tracking down Camarillo.” The sooner he got Kinsey out of there, the better it would be for her. An unfamiliar twinge in his gut startled him, and he frowned. What was that about? Was he actually going to miss her when she left? The pampered princess? Nah. No way.

  At 3:00 a.m., according to his watch, he turned into a closed gas station and pulled around back beside several other vintage cars waiting for service. He turned off the engine and the lights. In the sudden dark, he pulled out his cell phone and called the Bat Cave. Jennifer Blackfoot picked up. What was she doing manning the phones at this hour? She had enough seniority that she didn’t have to pull shifts as the night supervisor.

  “What are you doing up so late, boss?”

  “Problem with another team,” she replied shortly. “What’s up?”

  She clearly had no time to chat, so he got straight to the point. “As my little green dot on the big screen no doubt shows, I’m ashore and with Kinsey. We’ve got a car and are about a hundred kilometers from Cienfuegos. What have you got for me on when and where I’m hooking up with Zaragosa?”

  “He says he can’t do it. He’s being watched too closely. Says for you to proceed to Havana on your own.”

  Mitch frowned, his mind racing. Why was the principal backing out of helping him? Was Zaragosa setting him up? Or was it exactly as the man said, a simple matter of it being too risky for them to make contact? He growled into the phone, “If I don’t have identity papers, it fundamentally changes the nature of this op. I’ll have to go underground and stay there.”

  “If the guy won’t play ball, there’s nothing we can do about it at this late date. If you were still here we could work up some fake credentials for you. But as it is, you’re on your own.”

  “That’s the problem,” he retorted grimly. “I’m not on my own.”

  “Did the Cubans give Kinsey a visa?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yeah. Two weeks. She’s covered. I’m the only illegal alien in this outfit.”

  “We
ll, then, Lancer, I guess you’d better not get caught.”

  “Hah. I never get caught.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” his boss snapped back.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He laughed at her.

  He disconnected. Kinsey was looking over at him expectantly. “Change of plans. We’re not going to meet Zaragosa after all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not much. We press on as briefed.”

  “Where’s Camarillo?”

  “No clue. I thought we’d head for Havana and poke around a bit. If we hit the right nerve, he may show himself.”

  “Do you really think it’ll be that easy?”

  He snorted. “Not a chance. But sometimes you get lucky.” He’d left out the part where Camarillo would come after them and try to kill them as soon as he got wind of them. But Kinsey didn’t need to know that.

  They drove across the island to the north shore, a short journey as the crow flies, but it took several hours. They wound along country roads through farming communities, up into the central highlands and back down the north slopes toward the Atlantic shore of Cuba. Stands of tropical jungle interspersed with fields in full summer growth, and the overall impression was of a lush, green country. By afternoon, it would be steamy and clothes would cling to damp flesh while beads of sweat rolled down foreheads and necks—and the valley between Kinsey’s breasts, his errant imagination had to pipe up and add. Oh, yes. A sexy country, Cuba.

  They came into the outskirts of Havana, a sprawling metropolis of several million people. The transition was abrupt. One moment they were cruising through rural acres, and the next, a high-rise city towered around them. Although aged and crumbling around the edges in this particular area, it was a vibrant place, full of noise and bright colors and bustling people.