Hit Hard

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Behind his desk, a beautiful Chinese piece handcarved and embellished with gold leaf, was a TV. It was on a local station, and she found the remote and changed the channel to CNN. The reporter spoke in English, the Thai translation voicing over it. The camera panned the Kukule Ganga Dam, the destruction. My God. When did this happen? She focused on the dam, the people crawling over it like rock climbers. Viva moved closer to the screen, shoving a piece of miang into her mouth, then gasping at the spicy bite. Her gaze flicked over the camera shot, wishing they’d hold still, but the broadcast ended. She surfed the channels until she found it again, studying.

  “That wasn’t a pressure crack,” she said to no one. She’d been working with the U.S. Geological Survey when that dam was constructed, mainly because there was a really hot-looking engineer on staff and she’d wanted him. He’d been a dud, in bed and out, reminding her looks weren’t everything, but she’d learned enough from him to know how and where pressure cracks would start.

  The door opened and she turned, food halfway to her mouth.

  “My car awaits.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Wan Gai. Did you see this?” She gestured to the TV.

  “The dam, yes, so tragic. All those innocent people.”

  “When did it happen?”

  He looked confused for a second.

  “I’ve been on the dig for a couple months and the only news I had was a radio.” And her Thai translation skills weren’t that fast.

  He smiled like a patient parent. “A few days ago. In the middle of the night, I believe.”

  She nodded, frowning at the screen for another moment, then, after she washed her hands and sipped tea that was so sweet it’d give you diabetes, he led her out through the museum offices to the curb. Wan Gai’s assistant, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stood near the open car door.

  The curator handed over a receipt for the bracelet for Dr. Nagada.

  “Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” She stuffed the receipt in her pocket before his assistant ushered her solicitously into his car.

  Viva sat back in the leather seat, and let out a long, tired breath. Holy Grail delivered into safe hands, she thought. Now I can enjoy some me time in Bangkok before heading back to the dig. Her mind instantly went to Sam, and what he was really doing here that he needed British intelligence guys. Dangerous man stuff, she thought, and leaned toward the window, looking at the sky for the helicopter.

  It was empty.

  Tashfin Rohki sat in the luxurious room, feeding on grilled prawns and drinking strong Moroccan coffee. His favorite. It was placating. The generosity extended to the value of the stones and the people he represented. He procured weapons, handled finances and operations for the LTTE Tigers of Sri Lanka. A large portion of his organization’s money was riding on this deal. And he’d been late to this meeting, stalling for time to find enough stones to compensate for the one the Irishman had stolen. It was his largest, and alone worth millions. How the Irishman had slipped it from the sack still confused him. He died for it, Rohki thought as he remembered the flood.

  He tossed down a shrimp tail, wincing at the gust of pain from his broken ribs, then cleaned his fingers as he rose and walked around the room. It was all familiar now—and tiresome.

  “Mr. Rohki,” a voice said, and he turned sharply, his gaze shifting over the room, then centering on the speakers mounted near the ceiling. “Please be seated.”

  Rohki frowned as he obeyed. Theatrics, he thought, then a large screen on the wall blinked on.

  For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, then the silhouette of a shoulder told him there was someone in the shadows. “The stones are not as promised. You may leave, Mr. Rohki.”

  Rohki scowled at the screen. “You have what you demanded.”

  “You offered a large stone. One you failed to produce.”

  Rohki frowned at the man’s concern. “It was lost in the flood.” He’d spent days since gathering more to compensate for the loss.

  The figure in the darkness went rock still. “You tried to sell it.”

  “They’re mine to do with as I see fit. What do you care? You have the fee? Go back on your deal now and my people will spread the word.”

  A stretch of silence that was almost painful eased by. “You have met the requirements.”

  “And?”

  “While you like to believe you are an intrinsic part, you are not. You wanted to bargain, you have opened the door,” the man said succinctly. “Yours is not the only group that wants my product.”

  “Then I want proof of this weapon.”

  The man hesitated, then said, “In eight days”—the tone was ripe with arrogance—“the world will see its power. Now you may leave.”

  “A million in diamonds and I’m supposed to walk out with nothing?”

  “You do not have a choice.”

  Rohki stiffened when he felt the cold barrel at the back of his neck. He turned slowly, his gaze rising from the Sig Sauer to the man holding it. Zidane. The man who’d brought him onto the jet. Bloodthirsty bastard.

  Zidane flicked the gun and Rohki stood, wiped his mouth, and followed. Zidane stopped at the door and produced a hood, saying nothing. Rohki put it on. More theatrics, he thought. He heard the door open, and felt a push. He held rigid, testing the ground before him. He wouldn’t be so shocked if he were being pushed out a window several stories up now that they had the stones. A ride in an elevator, they handed him into a car, the sound of engines telling him there were more participants. No one spoke and he was tired of this secrecy. The promise of a weapon beyond all weapons had a potential he wanted, yet each additional buyer bidding on it risked failure.

  Eight days was a long time to wait for power over his enemies.

  Zidane perspired in his dark suit, the concrete sweating against the cooler stone of the underground parking garage. He stood back as the hooded man was pushed into the car. The car pulled away.

  “He has departed,” he said into the mike poised at his cheek.

  “Bring in the next.”

  Zidane signaled for the car, a smooth dance to keep the Pharaoh’s identity secret. It had been ongoing for three days. The buyers were contacted via e-mail, then picked up at a remote location, hooded, then driven in the maze of Bangkok streets before coming here.

  Only Zidane and two of his men knew each of the buyers by face. They were expendable, Zidane was not. The Pharaoh trusted few, and he did not take it lightly. The men, and sometimes women, who dealt with him were warned. Breaking his strict guidelines would have dire consequences.

  Zidane exacted them. Clean up. He kept secrets, buried them deep.

  Like Noor. His mind instantly filled with the dark, exotic beauty. Appearances were deceiving, he thought bitterly. While she was sleek and feminine, there was nothing womanly about her; no nurturing spirit, no need for anyone, except the Pharaoh. The man used her to his utmost advantage, knowing that she was nearly obsessed with pleasing him. A father figure, perhaps—Zidane did not know or care.

  Zidane shook himself, his unspoken attraction for her disturbing. She was a strange creature and considered sex a weapon of manipulation, torture, to be used to her advantage. Or misused. She had no concept that men would be grateful to find pleasure with her. To Noor, it was punishment, degrading to them. In that, she lost and didn’t know it. A weakness she hated and punished herself.

  Two men helped the buyer out of the car. The man adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and tried for dignity. Blinded by the hood, it was impossible. Zidane grasped his arm, ushering him into the lift. He knew who stood beside him, the tattoos across his knuckles a calling card. Law enforcement of the free world would like to see this man tortured for his crimes. Yet Zidane would keep this, another secret, and escorted the man into the suite, a controlled environment where the Pharaoh had every advantage.

  Above stairs, he pushed the candidate into a chair. As instructed, the man felt for, then removed the large pouch
from inside his coat, and set it on the table. Zidane opened it, spilling the contents into a velvet-covered platter. The uncut stones looked like misshapen ice cubes. Worth more than a million. The fee to enter the bidding. He picked up one, and with a jeweler’s loupe, inspected it, then he lifted his gaze to the cameras and nodded once.

  Zidane took a position behind the buyer, removed the hood, then retreated into the shadows. He mulled over the thousands of secrets entrusted to him, the names and faces, the value of the stones. Should he betray the trust, he would die.

  He almost wished Noor would do it.

  Outside the museum, Dr. Wan Gai fingered the small gold cuff in his pocket, his gaze on the black car moving down Na Phrathat Road—and the woman inside it.

  His personal assistant moved to his right, close but not crowding.

  “See that she vanishes.”

  Behind him, the man stiffened, the only sign he’d heard correctly.

  “She will sleep for several hours.” He had seen to it, and the waking would not be pleasant. “Delegate, Choan. Let someone else take care of her.” Wan Gai spun and walked back into the museum, his heels clicking.

  With the bracelet in his possession, his king would never know his crown was threatened.

  Six

  Ramesh Narabi covered his face and waited inside the small room of the hangar. He breathed slowly, the air dank, a searing heat rolling off the walls and coating his already wet skin. Aside a table and the chair beneath him, there was a single bottle of water left for his comfort. He’d emptied it hours ago. He’d been here since the plane landed, since he was stolen away from Sri Lanka. How long ago, he did not know. Time was meaningless.

  He leaned back, no less uncomfortable, the marks from the irons still fresh on his wrists, and sore. His throat still burned where they’d injected him with something. He’d remained unconscious through the flight and long after, yet he still could not understand why they kidnapped him. He had no money to pay a ransom, had no friends in the government. Blindfolded and bound till they left him in here. He’d no idea where he was nor what country. No one had uttered a word. The secrecy spoke of terrorists, the evil plague on all mankind. He wanted no part of it, had remained obstinate to the talk and violence. Now, he had no choice.

  His treatment already spoke of cruelty. If he refused them, they’d surely kill him.

  He stood and moved around the small confines, his chest laboring with fear, for breath, and he struggled for strength. His protection would arrive soon to take him on the next leg of this horrible journey. He knew because beside the water bottle was a slip of paper saying just that. The unknown terrified him. Who were these people? What did they want with him? What would they force him to do for their cause?

  He heard a key in the lock, the rattle of the door, and he stepped into the corner, ashamed of his fear. Vishnu, help me.

  The door swung open slowly. Silhouetted in the frame was a woman, slender, a black shape against the afternoon light.

  “Come.” She held out his work case. “Now,” she added when he did not move.

  Ramesh hurried around the table and took the case from her. Swiftly, she moved behind him and the skin of his spine squeezed down on his bones. She made no sound, not even breathing. For a brief moment, Ramesh glimpsed her face and he inhaled with shock. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  With deadly black eyes.

  Her lips hinted at a smile laced with pity and an anticipation so odd, the sight of it horrified Ramesh. Then she blindfolded him.

  Viva woke with a splitting headache despite the air-conditioning, a long, luxurious bath, and the best meal she’d had in weeks. She rolled over and looked up at the silk-draped ceiling, the rich Thai silk falling to the floor in soft puddles. The scent of fresh frangipani floated on the air, the silken feel of sheets sexy against her bare skin and making her think of Sam. What was he doing in Thailand, exactly? She didn’t consider looking for him. Aside that she didn’t have a clue where to start, he didn’t want her in his very dangerous business. It was time to get busy on her own, and that screamed girl clothes.

  She glanced out the window, disappointed to see that dawn was just breaking.

  Waiting for anything wasn’t one of her best qualities.

  She threw off the silk covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head throbbed and her stomach rolled, violent and sudden. This would just top off the last two days. She bent, waiting for the nausea to pass. It didn’t and she bolted for the bathroom and emptied her stomach in one horrible, wrenching purge.

  She staggered to the sink to wash and brush her teeth, then left the bathroom, latching onto a chair back till her head and stomach stopped fighting each other. Bad shrimp miang kum, she thought, though it couldn’t get any fresher than the docks a few blocks away.

  She prowled the suite, slipping on the hotel’s monogrammed silk robe, her sore feet pampered on the plush carpet. They’d given her one of the private cabanas on the grounds, a single story with a little sunning balcony above. The little houses were tucked inside a manicured spot overlooking a lotus pond and a pool.

  “Certainly better than the tent and cot,” she said, pausing to order tea and toast before she turned on the news. She plopped on the sofa, watching for news in the US, yet only hearing repetitive broadcasts about the dam break. Shutting it off, she climbed the short curved stairs to the upper balcony.

  The instant she stepped above, the sea breeze coated her, rippling the silk. The cabana was not far from the hotel’s main building yet even from this vantage point, the city stretched out before her, a subdued palette of white and gray. In the morning mist, high-rise buildings and small shops were sandwiched together, yet the noise of the traffic was muted, the Royal Bangkok Sports Club still glowing with night lights in the lazy rising sun. Bangkok was a packed metropolis, everything you could ask for within reach, waiting to be explored. It was hard to believe that just a few miles away lay the dense, dangerous jungle.

  Here there were no men with guns, no mafia stealing from the poor. No mutilated bodies.

  No luggage either, she thought, thinking she needed to shop today. She started for the stairs when movement to her left caught her eye, and she strained to look. The clouds shifted, bathing the side gardens in light. She inhaled.

  Sam. Alive and leaning against the white stone wall of the hotel, one ankle crossed, arms folded. Excitement swept through her. Her next thought was get a load of those bare arms, sculpted muscle twisting tight over long bones and big hands. His head down, she stared unobserved, her gaze moving over his legs in jeans, that snug navy polo shirt contoured to his chest. Even from here, she could see his snakeskin boots were polished.

  Then, slowly, he tipped his head back and across the distance, met her gaze. Her heart slid straight up to her throat, snagging her breath, and she felt trapped, that incredible, spine-tingling sensation trotting over her skin. When was the last time a man made her feel so much without doing a thing? She didn’t think about it. It would be examining a long trail of mistakes anyway.

  But this man had saved her life. A redeeming quality, sure, but Sam was just too badass to the bone. He’d proven it yesterday.

  What are you doing here? she mouthed.

  Seeing you.

  And he was, his gaze moving with the command of touch. Under the silk, her nipples tightened, and he arched a dark brow. He’s too aware of his power, she thought, making a face, wrapping her robe tighter. It was useless. Her body wasn’t listening.

  His lips curved in a bone-rattling smile that drove heat straight down between her thighs, gave her that tight pull low in her abdomen that she missed, and created all sorts of erotic images in her mind. Most of them of what he looked like naked, aroused and sliding over her. But whatever he was doing here was dangerous. He was dangerous, and her practical side spouted a dozen reasons to stay clear of him. None of them had to do with guns and diamonds, and all with wanting the feel of his hard body cover
ing hers, that exquisite moment of penetration, the slow, hot friction pulsing with the push of his hips.

  Please don’t come closer, she thought. It won’t take much.

  Sam felt his groin harden in the worst way. Publicly. He shifted, uncrossed his ankle, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Christ, was she telepathic? Yet he didn’t move, that sly look of hers turning him inside out in the space of a breath, making him vividly aware of his weakness for redheads. Especially that one, up there looking like a wet dream in ripe, round curves and the hot slide of sex.

  Even if she’d screwed up his plans and was an accident waiting to happen, he wanted her. He had a hard time breathing around her, just looking into her eyes stole everything from him, including the logic that said he should leave right now. Yet he couldn’t turn away, rooted to the wall and staring up at her.

  The wind molded the robe to her body, the shiny silk thin and enveloping her down to the vee between her thighs, the lush shape of her breasts. It moved her hair, layers tossing that “just rolled out of bed” look women paid a fortune to achieve—deep red and just past her jaw. And those eyes—smoky green and so damn revealing.

  She plowed her hand into her hair and gripped the back of her neck as if trying to keep her hands still. If she called him up there, he’d pole vault to the balcony. But she didn’t.

  Definitely trouble, he thought, and sex with her was just a fantasy he struggled to bury. Any more than just looking, and he’d put her in danger. There’d be no getting around it. Viva had already proven she was a woman who didn’t take bullshit from anyone. Even if it threatened her life.

  Sam let out a breath, acknowledged the forbidden fruit dangling in front of his face, and did the only thing he could. He touched the edge of his hat in salute and melted into the shadows.