“Damn straight.” He didn’t say another word, simply nodded with grim satisfaction as he set her back on her feet.
Then, as he turned on his heel to leave, he noticed Cap grinning broadly from where he stood behind his beaming wife’s chair. “Are we fucking meeting, or what?”
* * *
Stunned, Mari staggered to the chair Angie pulled out for her, and folded into it weakly while staring after him and wondering what had come over her calm, collected secret agent. She lifted trembling fingers to her swollen lips, still feeling the demanding pressure of his mouth. Well, she’d wanted a reaction and she’d gotten it, but never had she expected that. Rarely had she seen him angry, and never in this type of towering rage, and to make matters worse, he did it in a rapid, very odd mix of English and French so she hadn’t understood a word.
Lexie’s breathy, “Oh my,” whispered from beside her made her turn. “The French, so passionate,” she added, fanning herself with her hand.
Beyond her, she saw the dreamy-eyed expressions on each of her new friends’ faces. They were gazing dazedly after her man, or maybe it was their men, because they had fallen in line behind Cap who was still chuckling softly as he followed Arturo to the door.
Rick was the last one to leave, bending to place a kiss on the top of Regan’s head as he murmured with a soft laugh, “Another one bites the dust.” Then he also joined the other owners, less Jonas who was in Houston, to the aforementioned meeting.
“Oh my, my…” she heard repeated, this time from Mara. “There’s no mistake that he cares for you, honey, or you wouldn’t set him off like that.”
“Yeah,” Megan sighed, “and girlfriend, your resistance?” She shook her head. “Give it up now and save your strength, ‘cause you are toast.”
She couldn’t disagree because like everyone else, she knew she was in trouble with a big, fat, capital T. She’d known it before she’d stared up at him in utter stupefaction as he ranted, yes, ranted, then stalked off in a truly magnificent pique of rage—eyes blazing, jaw clenched tight, hands fisted in a white-knuckled grip—that oddly enough saturated her already damp panties, or maybe not so oddly considering the mere sight of him, even when he wasn’t fit to be tied, made her pussy wet. It dated back much further than tonight, or the weekend at the beach, or even the first time he’d taken her, driving into her hard and fierce while she was strapped to a cross in the dungeon. She realized it the first time she’d seen him, not his face, his magnificent green eyes or his smile, it had come from the confident command he had as he threw his whip all those weeks ago as she’d watched. That’s when she’d been toast and she’d started running scared. But no longer, she was past that and ready to surrender, completely.
“Dear heavens,” she murmured in a shaky voice. “Even if I wanted to participate in the dire acts I presume he just warned me against, I couldn’t, because I didn’t understand a word.” Her gaze swept the others. “Please, someone tell me you understood what he said.”
“Megan?” Regan prompted, blue eyes colliding with her twin. “You took French.”
Her sister’s eyes flew wide. “In school, a decade ago! I’m hardly fluent and he was so ticked he was speaking really fast.”
“What about all those stories about that French chef you trained with?” Regan challenged.
Meg turned to Mari to explain further. “I did study under Chef Michael, a French pastry genius for six months. Like Master Arturo, he had a long fuse, but when set off he became hot-blooded and his cursing was volatile. Some of the things he said would curl your hair.”
“If you recognized curses, you must have understood the gist of what Arturo said,” Lexie observed as she reached to refill her drink. “Even I know putain is the same as the f-bomb in France.”
“Please, Megan,” Mari pleaded, “I made out the f-bomb too, and tonight, ce soir, but even the smattering of English he mixed in was beyond me. Can you at least translate what you did get?”
Megan’s eyes flashed to the others for a moment. “I’m very rusty.” They all nodded in understanding. Still she hesitated, looking back to Mari briefly, then across at her sister and her friends with concern. “I don’t want to make matters worse if I get it wrong.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Meg, you got straight As for everything,” Regan cried in frustration. “Out with it, before we keel over from terminal curiosity.”
Her attention shifted back to Marilee. “Tu es à moi definitely means, you are mine.”
“I knew it! You’ve been claimed,” Lexie gushed with a grin.
“What else did he say?” Mari breathed.
Resolved to being a reluctant translator, a twinkle glinted in Megan’s eyes now. “He said, ‘Listen, Mari, and listen well. You are mine. If you even think about dancing with fucking Seth Benson, or anyone else tonight, there’ll be hell to pay.’”
The focus immediately came back to her, expressions ranging from sympathy to out and out glee, and each woman wore a smile, from small to full, broad grins. She knew all of them had once been where she was right now, falling head over heels in love with a gorgeous, seductive, dominant man despite his high handed, domineering, sometimes infuriating ways. But Mari found it endearing and his jealousy additional proof that she was more than just an assignment to him, that he really did care. She was elated, even though all of the therapists she’d seen in the past few years would have said she was fucked up.
With a silly grin on her face, her gaze swept the other subs and she echoed their collective opinion with a delighted, “Oh my! I think he really does want me.”
“Ya think?” came their chorus of response. In turn, each woman started to laugh until the whole group had tears flowing down their cheeks. The thunder and crash of a drum intro announcing the return of the band snapped them out of it.
Meg called out, “This calls for a celebration.” She stood to flag down their waitress. “We need more margaritas.”
“And lemon drops,” Lexie chimed in holding up her empty martini glass.
“And since Arturo won’t be back anytime soon and has put a kybosh on any dancing, I might as well have another arctic circle and get hammered,” Mari smiled, “and—”
Angie cut her off. “We know, hold the ginger ale.”
“Actually,” Mari corrected with a toss of her head, “I was going to say make it a double because I need it to ease the ache. Cap interrupted our scene and I’m horny as hell.”
Their titters of laughter continued until Elena squatted down on the edge of the stage and said to the group over the band, “I tried to warn you; next time listen.”
They turned to the stage and began giving her grief.
“‘French Kissin’ in the USA’?” Regan scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That was a little lame, you have to admit.”
“Usually she’s spot on,” Lexie said in Elena’s defense.
“Yeah, but tonight,” Megan agreed, “not so much.”
“Hey!” Elena protested. “How many songs do you know that scream ‘Watch out here comes an angry Frenchman?’”
“It got the point across,” Angie said with a grin.
“Maybe I should have gone with my next choice,” Elena said, second guessing herself for once.
“What was that?” Mara asked.
“‘Run for Your Life, Little Girl’ by the Beatles.”
“Now that would have been perfect!” Regan exclaimed.
Another roar of feminine laughter erupted from the table down front.
Chapter Twenty-One
“A Ford registered to Adriana Dunbar just turned onto Forrest Hills Drive,” Jonas reported from where he and Rick were running surveillance in a van down the street. “ETA three minutes.”
“Roger that,” Cap replied, as he looked over at Arturo, while crouched behind the boxwood hedge. “Check in.”
“Sean is go by the rear door.”
“Dex is go in the front.”
“T in the garage is a go, too.”
“Stand by
,” Cap ordered. “The subject is on her way in.”
“Any idea why she came back?” T asked. “She didn’t find what she was looking for twice now.”
Jonas answered that as a blue Focus stopped by the front door. “She placed a call this evening for assistance. This is the first contact she’s made with any associates.”
Lights came on as Adri used her key and entered the house, switching them on in sequence as she moved from room to room.
“Amateur,” Sean grumbled. “She’s got enough wattage going to light a small city.”
“Heads up,” Rick barked and all chatter ceased. “A black sedan just turned into the drive and is headed your way.”
“The assistance she requested,” Cap stated as the second car came to a stop behind the first in the circle drive.
“This is what we’ve been waiting for,” Arturo murmured, eyes locked on the two masked men armed with assault rifles as they hopped out of the car. The driver, also masked and in black, followed at a much slower pace, almost leisurely. Also armed, but with semi-automatic pistols in shoulder holsters, he entered the house a moment later.
“Get me something,” Arturo demanded.
“We’re running the tags now,” Rick said. “But I’m betting they’re stolen.”
“We’ve got audio,” Jonas cut in; then began to give them a play by play. “The first two are tossing the place, the big guy and the woman are arguing.”
“What about?” Cap asked.
“She’s asking for more time. He said she’s had three months.”
“For what? Any specifics?”
“Hang on, let me listen,” Jonas told them. Then, “Shit, he backhanded her and she hit the deck.”
“Should we move in?” Lil T asked.
“No. Stand by.” Arturo made the call. “They need her alive for some reason or they would have killed her before now.”
“The tracker is planted on the sedan,” Dex announced.
“They’re in the bedroom,” Jonas updated.
Rick cut in. “Plates are back. Stolen as expected, because that is no 2004 Honda Civic.”
Jonas continued acting as the eyes for the team without video. “The woman is showing him the safe which she hacked to shit earlier. The big guy shoved her aside and is— He knows about the false bottom. Fuck, he’s pissed, cursing and bellowing like an angry bear.”
“Guess what he’s after wasn’t there,” Sean commented wryly. “Hoffman obviously never told his lover about the safe deposit box.”
Jonas again: “He’s got her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. He’s shouting in her face, ‘Bloody well find it!’”
Arturo stiffened. “He’s British?”
“First slip of an accent I’ve noticed,” was Jonas’ reply after a short pause.
“Me too,” Rick agreed. “If he’s a Brit, he’s got a Texas drawl down pat.”
“They’re on their way out,” Jonas announced. “All but the woman.”
A few seconds later all three of the men had piled into the car and they sped down the drive.
“Do we have a signal?” Cap asked.
“Got ‘em, and Reed is on their tail. He’s hanging back, going soft for now. If he loses them, the GPS will guide us,” Rick added. “Although if they’re pros, they’ll likely ditch the car, or at least know to sweep it the first stop.”
“These are not amateurs like Hoffman and Dunbar.”
“Nor are they Middle Eastern,” Arturo said drily, putting the size of the leader, his build, and his use of ‘bloody hell,’ the common British epithet, all together. “I need to hear the audio, now.”
“What are you thinking?” Cap asked.
“I’ve got a hunch, which I pray to God I’m wrong about, but I’ll need to see and hear that video to be certain.”
They were on the move, invisible in the dark as they made their way to the street and the van.
“T, Sean,” Cap ordered further, “hang back and keep an eye on the woman.”
* * *
In a crouch, they ran along the side of the warehouse, Arturo and Cap taking position on either side of the window. It was muggy, and visibility was poor in the early morning fog, which helped provide them cover. Cap rose a few inches and peered around the window’s edge. He scanned the scene inside before ducking back down.
“Six armed men at nine o’clock.”
“Any sign of Dunbar?”
“Not from my position, but there are crates blocking my view.”
Mirroring Cap’s motion, Arturo peered over the sill. He spotted her immediately, the fool woman out in the open holding a gun on six men. Even armed it was incredibly bad odds and not in her favor.
“She’s there, as well as a man matching her husband’s description. There’s an open crate on the table but from this angle, I can’t see the contents.”
“I’ve got position up top,” Dex cut in. “It’s some sort of electronic device with a logo that clearly reads BSE. There’s also an open case of cash, lots of it.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Agent Munoz announced.
“Me too,” agreed Robinson, both agents known to Arturo as his FBI contacts for the past few months. They were also well acquainted with the Rossi group, having worked with them on operations in the past. “Let’s move in.”
The next few minutes could only be described as controlled chaos as men shouted, shots were fired, and Adriana Dunbar cursed a blue streak when tackled to the ground from behind by Dex as she tried to escape with the cash. When the dust settled, all the perps were cuffed and seated on the floor, surrounded by Houston PD and federal agents who were ready to take them into custody.
Arturo walked down the row of suspects, eyeing each one carefully. They were all Middle Eastern and not one of them had the size of the men they’d seen at Mari’s house the previous night. They all spoke little more than basic English, except their leader, and he did not have a British accent.
He moved to where Robinson and Munoz were holding a sobbing Don Dunbar who was spilling his guts as his bitch of a wife glared daggers at him.
“Shut up, idiot,” she hissed. “Wait for our fucking attorney.”
“No. Give me immunity,” he cried, “and I’ll spill my guts. It was her, she was behind it all.”
“We can talk about that,” Munoz said, “once we get to the station.”
“Give it to him if you like, but she’s not the mastermind. We saw him earlier tonight.” Arturo crouched in front of Adri who had suddenly gone pale. “What about you? Are you ready to save your skin?”
“He’ll kill me.”
Munoz and Robinson turned, moving closer; Don no longer of interest.
“Who will? Protecting him is not going to save you. If he is who I think he is and is out there, he’ll get to you.”
She shook her head.
He eyed the bruising around her left eye and the cut at the side of her mouth. “He give you that black eye and busted lip? That’s nothing if he suspects you’ll get scared and give him up.”
That got to her; he could tell by the fear, stark and vivid, that glimmered in her eyes, but still, she said nothing. He stood. “Let her loose and take him. If she won’t cooperate, we’ll make it known that she has anyway. She won’t last 24 hours once he thinks she’s spilled her guts.”
Robinson nodded. Seamlessly following Arturo’s lead, he moved forward as he reached in his pocket for his keys, as if ready to unlock her cuffs.
“No, please,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I don’t want to die.”
“A name and we give you protection,” Robinson said as he towered above her seated form. “Otherwise…”
“Ray Ashworth. He’s MI6,” her eyes cut to Arturo, “like you.” Both Munoz and Robinson turned to him in surprise.
“I suspected as much after seeing him earlier.” He cursed beneath his breath. “Where is he? Why isn’t he in on this deal?”
“This isn’t his deal,” Don answer
ed.
“Shut up,” Adri hissed.
“We’re screwed either way,” he screamed at his wife. “Ashworth was only involved in the urban stealth drone. Paid through the nose for the technology.”
“What about them?” Arturo asked with a nod at the six cuffed men behind them.
“That was all her,” Donnie boy spat. “She’s a goddamn greedy bitch.”
“Shut up, asshole!” Thrown under the bus by him, the greedy bitch screamed right back.
Arturo turned to Cap. “He’s still out there.” He twisted back to face Adri. “What were you looking for at Mari’s house?”
Don had the answer to that too. “Derek’s research. Ashworth suspects he’s implicated in the notes. Before he was killed Derek was talking about going to the feds with everything. That’s when Ashworth killed him.”
“We have video evidence of who tampered with his brakes. They were not British.”
“Hired job,” Don replied.
“You have a death wish, fool,” Adri said shaking her head in amazement.
“I don’t care. I’m tired of living in fear of you and your psycho terrorist friends. I might be dead, or be in prison, but at least I can get away from you.”
“He’ll go after Mari next,” Arturo predicted, “thinking she’s hidden it somewhere.”
“That’s right; stupid slut. She deserves what she gets.”
Arturo got in her face. “Tell us where he is, bitch.”
“She doesn’t know,” Don cut in. “Neither do I. He always made the first contact.”
Arturo stood and moved away, dialing Mari. “Straight to voice mail. Fuck.”
Into his headset, he spoke to Jonas. “Call your wife and have her tell Mari to stay put.”
“On it,” was the younger man’s immediate answer.
“I’ll send men over,” Cap said from behind him, also on his phone.
As he nodded, Arturo’s thumbs flew across the touch screen as he sent Mari a text.
Major developments in the case. Stay put until Rossi men get there.
Phone going to voice mail. Call me!
French Kiss (Decadence Nights Book 2) Page 22
