Fade the Heat

by Colleen Thompson

  She said, “I’m really glad you took me up on my invitation, Jack. I’ve been saving this Chianti for a very special occasion.”

  The tip of her tongue darted out to flick away a stray drop, but the action reminded Jack of a snake tasting the air.

  He put down his wineglass. “I hardly expected to catch you at home, what with the election coming up on Tuesday.”

  Gesturing toward a doorway down the hall, she whispered conspiratorially, “Oh, I do most of my work right here, from that room. You wouldn’t believe what I have in those files…secrets that could bring down a dozen politicians all across this country, stuff so juicy you’d give a testicle to see it.”

  Jack didn’t know about the testicle part, but the teasing note in her voice gave him the distinct impression that at least one of those secrets involved him. Was she offering to share it in exchange for his cooperation?

  “As good as it is to see you,” he said carefully, “I really came here to talk business. This business with the Trust for Compassionate Service, mainly.”

  She blinked three times in quick succession. “What’s that?”

  Playing along with her supposed ignorance, he related an account of his call from Isaac Mailer before adding, “It’s a fantastic opportunity. Practically tailor-made for both my sister and me. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

  “And you were wondering,” Sabrina asked in a breathy whisper, “how you could make it up to me?”

  God help him, the way she was leaning forward, he could see right down the front of her dress. For one insane moment he wondered what it would be like to fondle those lush breasts and bed this seductive woman who had clearly been with so many of the country’s rich and powerful.

  Sure, but how many of them has she ruined? his better judgment chimed in.

  Averting his gaze, Jack killed his body’s unconscious response by picturing his mama in her bathrobe waxing her upper lip.

  Worked every time. Except with Reagan, but with her, his attraction went so far beyond the physical that his willpower had never stood a chance.

  He cleared his throat in an attempt to give himself a moment to regroup. Intuition warned him that it might prove disastrous to insult Sabrina with a blatant rejection. If she had half as much influence—and a third as few scruples—as he suspected, she could destroy him and his sister as easily as she had convinced Isaac Mailer to toss them a life ring.

  “I’d love to make it up to you,” he told her. “But I told you before, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of getting involved in the mayor’s race.”

  “Maybe you’d change your mind if I could help you understand what a good man, what an honorable man, our mayor is, and how very much there is at stake.”

  He knew exactly what was at stake for those he had been helping. Using his influence as the city’s mayor, Darren Winter could see to it that the children of Las Casitas Village were denied medical treatment. How could he stack his personal discomfort over the idea of being used against the health—and perhaps even the lives—of innocents?

  Before he could capitulate, however, Sabrina wrinkled her nose and wriggled so provocatively that he had to look away in self-defense.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but this corset’s killing me. It’s such a distraction to the conversation. Would you mind if I go take it off?”

  “Uh, sure,” he said and wondered exactly how the hell he was going to escape this sin pit without swapping DNA strands with this woman.

  “You know, sometimes it’s really hard to get myself out of these things. If you’d like to…you know, help, I’m sure we could get it off much faster.”

  How did she say things like that with a straight face? But something else lurked behind the feigned look of innocence in Sabrina’s eyes. Instead of the wicked glint that Jack expected, was that fear he saw?

  Why? What could possibly be at stake if she couldn’t bribe or seduce her way to getting his cooperation? He knew the election was too close to call, but could the mayor and his secret weapon really believe that Dr. Jack Montoya’s endorsement would sway the vote? Did they make the mistake of believing, as so many white politicians seemed to, that Hispanics all voted as one block?

  And even if Mayor Youngblood lost to the windbag from hell, surely Sabrina McMillan’s past successes would earn her a new position in another major campaign. Instinct warned Jack that more than the obvious hung in the balance.

  Was the secret hidden in the files in Sabrina’s office?

  Still hesitant to directly reject her, Jack said, “You know, I’ve never been any good with that kind of stuff. I think I’ll just wait out here for you.”

  “Since you don’t want to help, this could take a while.” Her pouty look turned inviting. “If you get tired of waiting, you know where to find me.”

  She swayed off to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Predictably, Jack didn’t hear it lock.

  He made a beeline to her office and breathed a silent prayer that she would light some candles and lounge around her bed awhile, waiting for a complete hormonal meltdown to reel him in. Closing the door quietly behind him, he scanned the room and realized that compared to the sparkling perfection of the other rooms, her working area looked like the aftermath of a twister in a mobile-home park. Half-empty, lipstick-stained coffee cups littered the disastrously disheveled surface of her sprawling mahogany desk. Papers were everywhere, some tucked untidily in files while others were fanned out around an overflowing ashtray. Several of the file-cabinet drawers had been left open, and the bookshelves bowed beneath the weight of haphazardly arranged books on politics and campaign theory. Many of the volumes had loose papers sticking out which had been tucked between the pages.

  His heart sank. He could search this haystack for hours without ever finding the needle he suspected. He started shuffling through the desktop jumble with wild abandon, praying that the mess would hide his actions and that some relevant phrase would jump out at him.

  He ran through endorsements, accountings of entertainment expenses that seemed outrageous at first glance, and several marked-up drafts of what must be a political ad. His hands trembled as he worked, and his mind screamed, Get the hell back out there before she comes looking for you.

  And then he found it, in a dog-eared single sheet stamped in red letters Confidential: a memo reminding Mayor Youngblood of the agreement for flood remediation for the area surrounding the Plaza del Sol and Las Casitas Village apartments.

  “The Plaza del Sol flood project…” Jack whispered, and in the back of his mind, he could feel a lock’s dial spinning toward the memory of a recent conversation—one that clicked into place as his gaze caught the name of the apartment complex’s owner.

  He began rereading the memo more carefully, but his ringing cell phone interrupted. Praying that Sabrina wouldn’t hear it, he jerked it from his pocket and put his thumb over the power switch to shut it off. But a glance at the screen quickly changed his mind.

  He answered, speaking in a low voice. “I can’t talk now, Luz Maria. I’m—”

  “It’s a setup,” his sister interrupted. “The Trust for Compassionate Service is nothing but a front for BorderFree.”

  His world reversed course, spinning backward on its axis. “What?”

  “I tried the number on that business card you left me. The man who answered said he was Isaac Mailer, but that wasn’t who it was. It was Sergio, Jack. I’d know his voice anywhere.”

  “Sergio Cardenas?” Jack struggled to recall how Mailer had sounded, but he couldn’t resurrect the voice, nor any suspicion that it sounded familiar. Still, Luz Maria would know, wouldn’t she? After all, they had been lovers. Which might mean Sergio had recognized her, too. “Did he know it was you?”

  “I don’t think so. I hung up—and as soon as we’re through talking, I’m calling Special Agent Lambert to give him what I know. I can’t let this go any farther—can’t risk more people getting hurt, and BorderFree’s willing to
do whatever it takes to keep Darren Winter out of office.”

  Despite his situation, Jack felt something in him unclench at the realization that his sister had truly broken free of Sergio’s influence. “But what could Mayor Youngblood’s campaign have to do with Sergio and BorderFree-4-All?” he asked her. “And how the hell does any of this relate to Las Casitas—”

  At the sound of a metallic click behind him, Jack looked over his shoulder—and stared at a totally nude Sabrina McMillan. Though most men would have been mesmerized by the gravity-defying nature of her surgically enhanced breasts, what dried the spit in Jack’s mouth was the cocked revolver she held in her right hand.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As her own soft wheezing brought her back to consciousness, Reagan decided she’d give Darcy Gordon this: When that killer right of hers got through, there was no headache in the world to match it. It was simply sayonara, sister. Lights out for a while.

  But when Reagan cracked her eyelids open, no ref was standing over her and shouting down the count. And when she tried to push herself off the mat, she smacked her head against something hard, less than a foot above her.

  She fell back onto a shuddering, uneven surface, where she realized she wasn’t in the ring fighting Darcy Gordon. Instead, she had succumbed to a far more dangerous opponent—one who didn’t give a damn about the rules.

  And one who had locked her in a darkness so complete, she had lost all sense of whether her eyes were closed or open.

  Remembering what had happened in the parking lot at Las Casitas Village, Reagan fought the overpowering urge to scream. As long as the car remained in motion, she reasoned that her attacker was the only person who would hear her. If he did, he’d likely pull over and beat the hell out of her or worse.

  There’s no maybe about it. From the moment that bastard locked you in this trunk, you’ve been a dead woman. He’s only taking you to a more private place to close the deal.

  It surprised her, how calmly she was able to envision the likely outcome, as if she were watching a reenactment on one of those crime shows on TV. Suspect pulls into a dark and densely wooded area. Opens the trunk and drags his victim out. Shoots her or caves her skull in with a length of pipe, or maybe he strangles her instead if he’s the hands-on type. Could be he rapes her, too, before or even after. If he feels like it.

  Recognizing the onset of shock, Reagan then bit down on her lip so hard, she tasted blood.

  The spike of fresh pain catapulted her toward panic. She struggled for air, gasping at the thought that she was going to die once this car stopped—unless this cramped, foul-smelling space got her first.

  You’re going to die if you don’t figure something out, said a rational corner of her brain, one steeped in years of training and experience at the scenes of crimes and accidents.

  Once she forced herself to breathe at a more normal rate, the tightness in her chest eased slightly. Soon the flow of oxygen clarified her thinking.

  You aren’t some generic, made-for-TV “victim,” she told herself. And this is not some faceless bogeyman you can turn off with your remote.

  Since she’d been tossed into his car, she was almost certain this was the patrón she had heard mentioned at the complex. Belatedly, her subconscious came up with the translation, and she realized he was Las Casitas Village’s own landlord.

  And someone she knew. Reagan remembered having that realization when she had heard the voice, but for the life of her, she couldn’t take the memory one step further. He’d slipped up on her so fast, and her boxing skills had been no match for—

  Stop. Right now, it doesn’t matter who he is or what you did or didn’t do.

  All that mattered at this moment was escaping. But how?

  First off, try the obvious. Using her hands and then her feet and legs—thank God he hadn’t tied her—Reagan pushed as hard as she could against the trunk lid, only to find it firmly locked. She felt around next, long enough to confirm her suspicion that a car this old wouldn’t have a trunk release.

  Now what? She thought of prying the trunk open or dismantling the lock somehow, but she’d need tools for that, and illumination.

  So take an inventory. See if he missed anything when he went through your pockets.

  She reached for her breast pocket first, her hopes centering on her little flashlight. It was gone. Either her attacker had taken it or it had slipped out when he scooped her up. There would be no light.

  The darkness around her took on weight, like the crushing pressure of the blackness deep within an ocean chasm. Squeezing the air out of her lungs, the thoughts out of her brain, the—

  “Don’t,” she told herself, imagining how disgusted her old crew would be if she fell to pieces.

  But what the hell else would you expect out of a woman? she heard Beau tell them. Chuckles followed, building to a chorus, then a deafening crescendo of guffaws.

  Forget those idiots, Joe Rozinski’s voice said. And forget what you don’t have. Just figure out what’s left.

  With the flesh prickling behind her neck, Reagan wondered if she was dead already—or so deeply unconscious she could hear communications from a corpse. Shuddering, she thrust aside the thought to search the bottom of the trunk, her hands groping first for whatever hard and painful shape was jammed beneath her shoulder.

  A jack, maybe? It felt too big and cumbersome to use as either a pick or a pry bar.

  She didn’t stop, pawing through a couple of bags that stank of rancid grease—and made her swear off fast food—some empty cans that smelled like beer, a sack of nails, and what felt like a half-empty box of lightbulbs.

  What else could there be?

  As she groped around the trunk’s edges, the car turned sharply, then powered up to speed. Her body rolled to one side, jamming against what felt like the spare tire. That wasn’t so bad, but her hip banged against something painfully unyielding. Please, God, let it be a hammer or a screwdriver or a—

  She fished it out from under her, her hope plummeting at the discovery that it was nothing but a can, probably a quart-size paint container, judging from its ridged rim and its weight.

  After pushing it aside, she found a pen, which she gripped for all she was worth. It wouldn’t help her get out, but if her attacker popped the trunk, maybe she could stab him.

  A pen against a mountain, she thought disconsolately. Or even worse, a pen against a gun.

  “You have to go,” Sabrina told Jack softly, reminding him that, in his shock, he hadn’t broken the cell-phone connection.

  On the other end, Luz Maria said, “Jack, are you still there?”

  Sabrina made a circular motion with the gun barrel, which Jack took to mean he was to excuse himself and hurry up about it.

  “I’ll call you later, Reagan,” he said lightly. “I can’t talk about it anymore right now.”

  “Reagan? Is something wrong there?” Luz Maria asked him. “Jack, what’s going on—”

  He cut her off, hoping she would understand he was in trouble. Sabrina held out her free hand to him. Though it trembled, a vein of iron ran through her words. “Give me that. Right now.”

  Jack winced, but he knew better than to contradict a naked woman with a gun. Handing over his cell phone, he tried diplomacy. “Sabrina, you should know I really don’t believe it. About the mayor being linked to BorderFree-4-All. Thomas Youngblood’s too smart and too experienced to get caught up in anything so dangerous. So you don’t have to worry about me.”

  Sabrina’s expression darkened, her lip curling in a way that all but shouted Liar.

  Realizing he’d insulted her intelligence, he tried another tack. “Not that I’d give a damn if he was. What business is it of mine? I’m going to be running a clinic down in the Valley—a place so far from Houston, it might as well be in another state.”

  He saw her waver and realized that Sabrina expected his self-interest. Praying he was guessing right, Jack pressed his case. “But I have no intention of going
down there and living like my dirt-poor patients. I’ll need to take along a generous nest egg, say a hundred thousand dollars?”

  To him, it sounded like an outrageous amount of money, but she didn’t even blink. Instead, the handgun’s muzzle lowered. Now he was speaking the language she was used to: greed.

  “The money could be problematic,” she said, “if we lose the election…”

  “So you’d still like my endorsement?”

  “Only if it’s heartfelt. We’ll need to work together to come up with something especially persuasive, something to help your people understand what Winter means to do to them if he’s elected.”

  “It would probably be more heartfelt if you’d put that gun away.” He’d never been much of an actor, but he put everything he had into sounding lecherous as he edged closer to the desk that stood between them. His gaze dipping, he channeled every old James Bond movie he’d seen as a kid to say, “For one thing, it’s blocking an exceptional view.”

  A slow smile spread over Sabrina’s painted lips, and all at once, her gaze grew languid, heavy-lidded. This was a woman at least as well acquainted with lust as with greed—and far more comfortable with those weapons than with a pistol.

  She set the gun down on the desk, but close enough that she could beat him to it if he were inclined to try. She leaned toward him, balancing on her palms on the desk’s surface and bringing her shoulders forward to accentuate her breasts.

  Jack couldn’t help noticing the hardness of the nipples. Either she was a gifted pretender, or she was really as turned on as she looked.

  “You know,” she said, her voice a velvety whisper, “you’re selling yourself short. If we win this election, two hundred thousand wouldn’t be too much to ask. I can get it for you—as long as you keep your little friend from making trouble for us.”

  Reagan. Sabrina thought she knew, because he’d foolishly used her name on the telephone to warn Luz Maria there was trouble.

  “I can handle her.” The irony of his claim struck him, considering how badly he’d mishandled their last conversation.