by Cherry Adair
Her eyes widened. “Are you out of your mind? I am not sleeping with you.” Her feet planted on the floor by the chair.
Ten minutes ago she would have done any damn thing he’d wanted her to do. His dick leapt and reached out for her as if it had a mind of its own. Hunt ignored the clambering of his body, exerting his iron will. “It’s three A.M., and there’s only one bed.”
“I’ll get another room.”
“Got money?” He smiled.
“I’ll sleep in this chair.”
“Doesn’t look comfortable, but suit yourself. We’ll talk more in the morning. Give you time to rethink some of those answers.”
Seven
Taylor was hanging on by a hair. He might’ve forgotten what had happened in the still steamy bathroom not ten minutes ago. But she hadn’t. She had pulse points in places she hadn’t realized she had pulse points. A good night’s sleep would hopefully return some of her missing brain cells, giving her a good dose of smarts. A few hours without being under the gun would, please God, resolve the blindness problem.
God, she still couldn’t see. Pitch-black. No shadows. No light. No movement. Just pure colorless night.
She hated being this vulnerable. And she loathed being vulnerable with this man in particular. She knew he was playing with her like a very large cat with a very small mouse.
She didn’t hear him move, but between one breath and the next he’d crossed the room and plucked her out of the chair.
He carried her away from his body, and upright so her feet dangled above the floor. Like something he didn’t really want to contaminate his hands with. The man was not only a manipulative son of a bitch, but he was incredibly strong. Taylor took note.
“This is more expedient than waiting for you to be sensible.” Three strides and he dropped her onto the bed with a bounce.
She scrambled to get her bearings. “And where will you sleep?”
“Right here.”
Taylor rolled over and felt around for a pillow. She stuffed it under her cheek, turned her head and closed her eyes.
The mattress dipped as he sat down beside her. She ignored him, even as her body temperature zoomed up feverishly at the thought of having his hands on her again. His mouth— Stop it! she warned herself. This guy knew what the hell he was doing. He’s playing you as expertly as you’re trying to play him. Get a grip here and concentrate.
A drawer opened. Closed. A rubber? Her teeth ground together. She’d kill him with her bare hands. His arm brushed hers as he leaned over her. Lightning fast, he took her hand and wrapped her fingers around one of the metal bars on the headboard over her head. She heard a chink.
“Hey!” The cold bracelet of a handcuff snapped shut around her wrist. She inwardly sighed. “How could you?” She put a hurt quiver in her voice, though she didn’t blame him. She would have done the same thing in his position. It didn’t make her hate him any less. She was tired of trying to sound innocent and victimized.
“Who hired you?” he asked. Again.
“Nobody.”
Look helpless, she told herself. Pitiful. Sincere. “Nobody. I swear. I’ll give you Tony’s phone number. Call him and negotiate a—”
“No partner named either Toby or Tony.” Hunt shifted to wrap his large hand lightly around her throat. “Who has the contents of the safe?”
He squeezed gently.
She tried to pry his fingers away from her throat. “I tol—”
His hand tightened. “Think I won’t kill you?” he asked silkily, his breath fanning her face as he leaned over her. “Think again.”
She believed him. “I—ha—I can’t breathe.”
His fingers didn’t so much as loosen by a hair. “You can breathe just fine.”
Bullying bastard. “I have e-everything, damn y-you.” When he still didn’t release her, Taylor dug her nails into his fingers trying to pry them loose. “Tr-uth.”
He let go, shifting away from her. “Address.”
She rubbed her hand over her sore throat. “In a time-lock safe at Banco Central de San Cristóbal,” she lied smoothly. “The Costa del Sol branch.” A town three hours away. “It opens at seven A.M. I’ll give you the combination.”
“It’ll open now,” Hunt told her flatly. “Number?”
“Left twenty, Right sixty-two, Left forty-one, Right ninety-five.”
She heard him pick up the phone, wait a few seconds, then repeat what she’d told him. By car it would take three hours to reach the bank. By chopper, perhaps forty-five minutes total. She figured she had less than forty minutes to get away.
“Get some sleep,” he told her when he’d completed his call. “Knowing I’ll be right here beside you. Keeping you safe.”
“Watching me, you mean.” Taylor lay her head back on the pillow and shut her eyes as if mortally wounded by his betrayal. The cuffs felt like Stark 923s. Old-fashioned. Quaint, actually.
“Sleep,” he ordered, settling down beside her.
“My arm hurts,” Taylor complained, and felt not even a mild twinge of guilt when he bunched a pillow to support her forearm and wrist.
“Better?” His voice sounded strained. Irritated.
Too bad. She wasn’t feeling particularly happy with him either. “Much,” she told him sweetly, hoping the erection she’d felt earlier would get hard enough to cause his penis to fall off altogether. A girl could wish.
“Will you sleep?” He shifted a few inches away. No longer touching, but close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin.
“Yes.” She managed a nice big yawn. “I’m exhausted.” Wired. Sexually frustrated. Confused. “Is there a cover? I’m a little cool.” Taylor didn’t want him looking at her when she couldn’t glare back at him.
The sheet was light and scratchy as he impersonally dropped it over her. “You’ve had a busy night. Get some rest. We’ll talk again in the morning.” He almost sounded paternal.
“Sure.” Only if you have long distance service from San Cristóbal to the States. Right this second she didn’t have a clue how she’d pull off a speedy escape. But she sure as hell wouldn’t be here when this guy woke up. Taylor rolled over as best she could and whimpered because he deserved it. “ ’Night.”
“You’re safe here,” he said quietly into the darkness.
She was annoyed to feel the prick of tears behind her lids. “Thanks,” she said, meaning it. She couldn’t remember when, in twenty-seven years, anyone had ever said those words to her. It would be stupid to believe him of course, but just for that moment in time, the saying of the words made her feel safe.
She waited an eternity for his breathing to regulate and even longer before she felt the mattress give as his large body relaxed in sleep.
The headache had faded to a dull memory. Taylor turned onto her back in the surprisingly comfortable bed. She opened her eyes and stared at the orange drapes as she considered how long she should wait before she snuck o-
Blinked. Looked again.
Yes! Oh, God. Yes! She could actually see the limp fabric illuminated by the lamp on the table across the room. Her vision was a little fuzzy around the edges, but she could see. Thank you, Jesus.
She took a lightning-fast inventory of the room. Two doors. Bathroom. Exit door. One window.
They lay on a queen-sized bed with tangled white sheets and a brightly colored cotton cover. A couple of bedside tables, a cane-backed chair, two mismatched lamps, and a hideous hanging lamp near a table by the open bathroom door. Drapes hung over a narrow window in the far wall. The wooden floor, while bare of rugs, was spotlessly clean and polished to a dull sheen.
If she ever visited San Cristóbal again, she’d stay here, she thought with amusement as, noting escape routes and possible weapons, she turned her head to look at the sleeping man beside her.
Oh. What a fascinating face. She’d brailled the uncompromising jaw, rough with stubble. Seeing his features with her fingers, but now she could see him. Slightly hazy, but who was complai
ning? A strong Roman nose rose proudly from a face far too austere to be considered handsome. Deep-set eyes weren’t in any way softened by the brush of those short, straight black lashes. Man, oh man. This was one serious-looking guy. She couldn’t picture a smile breaking across those firm straight lips.
Taylor’s gaze lingered on his mouth before she tried to roll over. She was pulled up short by the cuff on her wrist.
She gave a small huff of amusement. As if— And freed her right wrist with barely a sound. Very carefully she held on to the cuff, still linked to the headboard, so it didn’t clatter. His hand was conveniently flung over his head. It would be a bit of a stretch, but she could snap the free bracelet onto his wrist in a heartbeat. She considered the necessary choreography for a few seconds. No. Her gut told her he’d be wide-awake and on her like white on rice if she so much as made a move in his direction.
Of course, there were moves and there were moves . . . Carefully, she rested the cuff against the headboard, then shifted to run her fingers lightly up Hunt’s chest, enjoying the crisp silkiness of his hairy torso. Yum. He didn’t stir. She leaned over and open-mouth-kissed his rock-hard six-pack, when she really wanted to take a big, painful bite out of him.
He hummed low in his throat, confirming her gut’s warning. His large hand came up to cup the back of her head. She nibbled her way up his chest to the steady throb of his pulse at the base of his throat, sliding her body over his like a blanket. She lay her cheek over his heart, listening to the slight elevation in his breathing.
His skin felt scalding hot beneath hers.
His penis rose to meet her.
She rubbed her chest against his, enjoying the friction against her nipples. His lashes fluttered and a tweak at the corners of his lips could’ve been the start of a smile.
Taylor did not want him smiling at her.
She kept one arm extended as though she was still cuffed to the headboard, and put her palm across his eyes. “Keep ’em closed,” she purred.
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was thick with desire as he shifted his hips beneath hers. His willpower wasn’t quite as rock solid when he was half asleep. She sat up slowly to straddle his narrow hips with her knees.
You are going to be so sorry you messed with me, Taylor thought, touching his face as she shifted up his body to sit lightly on his chest. She slid her knees into position over his biceps. His jaw was prickly with stubble. She wanted to run her mouth— Damn it. Concentrate! Every second counted.
Still stroking his face, she snatched up the lamp on the bedside table, at the same time pressing her weight onto his chest and pinning his upper arms with her knees. He froze beneath her, alerted to the movement.
Damn. With a hard swing, Taylor brought the heavy lamp down at the same time he jerked upright. Assisted by his own momentum, the heavy base of the lamp struck his temple with a dull thud.
The sound of ceramic on skull made her sick to her stomach, and she jumped off his limp body as if jet-propelled. She hoped to hell he’d been completely knocked out, because if he wasn’t, she feared for her life.
He wasn’t moving, and the blow to his temple had already formed a darkening knot, and bled sluggishly.
Heart in her throat, and feeling the urgency to get the hell out of there before he opened those pitiless eyes and looked at her, Taylor felt for a pulse under his jaw. Still steady. Still vibrant. He’d live.
Taylor swiftly handcuffed Mr. Huntington St. John to the bed, yanked the phone cord from the wall, and carried the lamp across the room to the table. She paused on her way out, then returned to the bed to look down at him.
He appeared no less menacing unconscious.
She brushed a finger across his straight lower lip. “Bastard,” she said softly.
Eight
AUGUST 11
LONDON
José Morales ensconced himself in his ornate London office. It was less than a day after the burglary, and his wife, Maria, was not happy she’d been left alone to deal with the polícia.
She reported they’d claimed to have captured a woman they believed to be part of the gang who had robbed him. But when José had demanded to interrogate the woman himself, they’d informed him that she had escaped. Tontos estúpidos! The bumbling idiots hadn’t caught anyone. They’d made the claim to save face.
José opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a bottle of prescription antacids, and shook four into his palm. He tossed them into his mouth all at the same time and swallowed them down with vitamin-enriched springwater. He twisted the crystal glass between his fingers, watching the light play on the precise leaded cuts.
When he’d discovered the empty, open safe in the upstairs den the night of the party, he’d excused himself and gone into his bathroom to vomit.
He’d been guaranteed, unequivocally, by both the safe’s inventor and the manufacturer, that the new safe was impossible to crack. It was everything-proof. Fire. Chemicals. Mechanical devices. The only way to open the thing was with an intricate combination of both numerals and letters.
He’d never have trusted something as invaluable as the codes to the safe in San Cristóbal if he’d had a second’s thought about the veracity of the men who had designed and built it.
They had sworn on their lives—and those of their families—that what they said was true. Only he had the combination, and he hadn’t opened the safe.
Somebody had helped the thief get into the safe.
Worse, somebody he trusted implicitly must have told the thief to take the disks, which had the codes on them. And there were only a handful of people who knew of the codes’ existence.
This thief had not only eluded his top security people patrolling the walled grounds of his estate, but that same thief had breached the inside security and violated his home. Then, with a house full of party guests, had opened an impenetrable safe and absconded with the contents, undetected. Impossible. But fact.
“ ‘But know this,’ ” José quoted out loud, “ ‘that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up.’ ”
He hadn’t stopped begging God for answers since the theft. He was doing His work. Surely God wouldn’t allow some criminal, no matter how clever, to steal his life’s work?
God had come to him in a vision when he was twelve years old. He had told him of a rise in religious belief. Prophets and saints would appear and lead the faithful to safety. God had decreed that his debt was to cleanse the Earth of the unworthy and wicked. In this way he could avoid Purgatory.
God had chosen Friday, October 13th, as the day. His day. Throat dry, José picked up the glass and drained the last few inches of water. If not punishment, a test, then. God was asking him to prove himself. José knew. In fifty-nine days, five years of careful, meticulous planning would change the world for the better.
“Matthew 24:35-36.” José quoted by rote: “ ‘Heaven and earth will pass away, but My words shall not pass away. But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone.” But God had shared the day and hour with José. José was to act as God’s hands.
On Friday, October 13th, he was going to rip the evil out of this world. The antichrist was alive and living in Las Vegas. And God had instructed him to kill the antichrist and all his followers.
The plan was assiduously thought out to the last minute detail. But to perform this mission, he had to have what was buried impossibly deep in the earth. And to access it, he needed the codes.
The codes on the disks that had been stolen.
The elaborate codes, on five tiny minidisks, held the means to fulfill his promise to God.
And God helped those who helped themselves.
Waiting for José on the other side of the ten-foot-high carved mahogany doors were his top six lieutenants, called in from their posts all over the world. It was dangerous to have them all here together in London.
Dangerous, but the most expedient way to handle the situation.
He stabbed the intercom button with a well-manicured finger. “Send them in.”
His people trooped in. Men who, to a causal observer, would appear to be nothing more than prosperous businessmen in their expensive hand-tailored suits and custom shirts and shoes.
They didn’t know why they were here, and they all looked slightly discomforted, but hid it well. He trusted these six men as much as he trusted anyone. But nobody was completely trustworthy. Everyone had a price.
He nodded to each man as they seated themselves in the waiting semicircle of chairs before his desk. “The safe in my San Cristóbal home was robbed last night,” he told them baldly. “In it were the codes to gain access to the . . . items housed in South Africa. Without the proper codes, the multilevel security system will prevent us from retrieving the merchandise. Any attempts to circumvent the system without the codes will result in immediate detonation of the facility and the contents.”
He waited a beat for the ramifications of this information to sink in. He was the only one with knowledge and access to the complex codes. He’d been to the location many, many times. But even with his brilliant mind, he couldn’t remember all those numbers and formulas. And his darling Maria, the love of his life, and one of his greatest rewards, could not be expected to memorize such things.
All his lieutenants knew was that the location was somewhere in southern Africa. Anyone and everyone who had ever worked on the ten-year construction project was dead. It was enough.
None of the men before him had been with him to the secret location. All they knew was that within the next two months all members of Mano del Dios must be ready for their largest display of God’s powers. Faith. They knew and lived it.
His hard gaze paused on each face. “I want this man found, my codes retrieved, and him killed. Slowly, and publicly. As a warning to any other would-be thieves.”
“The theft took place while you slept, or during the party?” Harold Sark asked, his eyes black and intent on Morales’s face.
