And as she arched and writhed beneath him, Lisa suddenly understood, with helpless clarity, that she had fallen in love with this man. That, like it or not, she was his.
‘I’m going out now. To file my story,’ Sam said.
He pulled on one of his tight sweaters, lightweight, great for travel, and buttoned up his jeans. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, a T-shirt on, no bra. The sight of her breasts swaying a little under the cotton, her small bud nipples outlined, got him hardening slightly in his pants. Which was incredible, considering he’d just come twice in under an hour.
But then she was incredible. Her beautiful face still reddened from the glow of sex. He loved how the blood flushed to her cheeks when she got aroused. She was literally hot. And her hair, tousled from the bed. Her kissable mouth slightly open. God, she was the sexiest thing. What an idiot Steen had been, to think he could improve on perfection.
Lisa Costello was so brave, so beautiful. Sam knew that he had fallen deep. Craig would kill him: journalistic ethics, aiding and abetting, all kinds of laws and moral codes . . . all smashed to pieces, and he didn’t give a goddamn. Lisa was his woman. Simple as that. She was his woman, in a way no female had ever been before. And there was an idea fermenting in the back of his mind that one day soon he would make her his wife. But right now it was enough to look at her, remember her gasps and moans, savour how wet she’d gotten, how exquisitely responsive she was. And that they were together, and she was his.
‘You really have to go?’
‘If we don’t want them to add my name to the wanted list. Look, I’m driving to Switzerland, it’s ten minutes away. Then I file, I come back here. It won’t take long. We could use the money, too. They give me twenty-five thousand per instalment now.’
‘But you can’t get at that money anyway, you said. Once we use the ATM they can trace you.’
Sam pulled his passport from his jacket. ‘I’ve got this, and we’re in Liechtenstein. Home of discreet banking. I take this to my branch, make a withdrawal, nobody knows anything. It’s the best way to get money. We should have some cash, we’re getting low.’
‘OK,’ Lisa said. Reluctant. He looked at her, and she blushed. She was so exposed to him now. They both knew how she had gasped and clutched at him. God, she was the hottest lay he’d ever had. The faint stirring deepened. He should get the hell out of here.
‘How long will you be?’
‘I’ll try to keep it to under an hour.’
‘All right. Anything I should do? Go out, buy supplies?’
‘Go out?’ He stared at her. ‘You only leave the room with me. And only when we have to. The fewer people who catch sight of you, the safer we are. Don’t answer the door to anybody but me. And I’ll have the key so I’ll just let myself in.’
Anxiety crossed her features; he hated to see it.
‘Why would anybody else come here?’
‘They wouldn’t. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You just hang out here, shower, whatever you want. I’ll be back as fast as I can.’
‘I hope so,’ she said.
Sam looked at her, and felt that unfamiliar clutching around his heart again. God help him, he really was falling in love. Maybe she’d been right about the hookers. This was so incomparably different, this was what sex should be. He’d never pay a woman again.
‘What, you think I’d stay away from you? As soon as I come back, I’m putting you right back on to that bed.’
He walked past her to the door, leaned down, and cupped her breasts in his hands, feeling her nipples harden almost immediately, her breath quicken. A surge of testosterone rushed through him, and he kissed her full on the mouth, then walked out before he forgot everything and just took her in his arms again.
As Sam strode down the corridor, he picked up his pace. He had to do this, and he hated it. All he wanted in the world right now was to be back in that room with Lisa Costello.
Felix hung up the phone and spun his car around, smiling. You had to be lucky in this game, as well as good. Course, the more contacts you had in the field, the luckier you got. And luck was his first name.
The motel network. Old-fashioned, really beta-level spy stuff. But it worked. They’d been seen, together. Acting a john and his hooker. Paid in cash, but left together, in the same car. Felix shook his head. Sam Murray would never make a spy.
It told him a bunch of things. That they were together, that Murray was in the tank for her. That they were running. He also assumed Murray believed her. The form book on this guy didn’t lie; he wouldn’t throw away a million dollars just for a piece of pussy, no matter how sweet. A million bucks bought a lot of pussy. No, Sam Murray was a boy scout trapped in the body of a libertine. He was wading in to rescue the innocent woman. What a fucking idiot. It would be a special pleasure to kill him.
They’d headed north. Another classic mistake, running for shelter instead of staying laterally in one place, moving only slightly, making the hunt harder. Clearly Sam wanted to take her out of Italy. Switzerland had good banking, but Felix knew now that he’d gone one better. Gone to Liechtenstein. He already had names, numbers and locales for all Sam Murray’s best contacts; Lisa Costello didn’t have any. The girl was fucking friendless. At least that cut things down for him.
And Sam knew nobody in Switzerland, but he did have a contact in Liechtenstein, a former madam. Exactly the kind of bitch you’d run to in serious trouble. And secure banking. Sam had gone there to hide his woman. Felix had the address, and he had the time. And now he was sure he was going to get this finished. The woman was his. No journalist was going to stand in his way. This time, no loose ends - he would kill Sam Murray as surely as he would kill Lisa Costello. And the madam and her staff, just to make sure.
Marianne Vollenhaus sat at her desk. The receptionist, her cousin’s daughter, had left for home early, that gum-chewing bitch. Marianne sat alone, daring the phone to ring, daring any of the stupid fuckers to complain. She was angry. Her mood was black, bleak rage. Sam Murray had passed her on his way out, and smiled at her with such heartbreaking casualness. It was totally obvious that he didn’t want her. Years in LA, providing him with girls, laughing into the small hours, drinking, doing lines together. She had liked him then, wanted him. It could have been love, if he’d encouraged her. And they’d kissed and fucked once, a few years back, when he was half-drunk and she was at her lowest weight and eager. But he hadn’t mentioned it the next day, and he’d stayed away from her.
And now, even the friendship they’d maintained hurt her. He was here with another woman, younger, prettier and thinner. Marianne hated her. And the girl was upstairs, in her house, waiting for Sam. She wished she had never set eyes on him.
The bright, up feeling from the coke she’d snorted earlier had started to leave her, and she was jittery and cold. She thought about the girl. There was something familiar about her face. And she could tell from the set of Sam Murray’s shoulders that he was lying about her. Something he wasn’t saying . . .
Marianne drummed her fingers on the paper blotter and concentrated. She would get it soon. It would come to her, like these things always did.
Felix moved his car into the right lane. The customs guard asked for his papieren, and he gave him one of the fake passports he’d carried into Europe. Good ones. The man thanked him, and he was through the border post, into Liechtenstein, a pointless postal stamp of a country. Good for fuck-all except banking and hiding. And hunting, he thought, and smiled.
Vaduz was an easy place to drive through. He was almost there. He put his hand in his pocket, checking his weapons. There was the stiletto, the needle, the syringe. He wasn’t sure what he would use on the girl. His gun and silencer were sitting in the glove compartment, and they would get pulled first. But he wanted back-ups for close-combat work. He glanced at the Sat Nav. He was three minutes away.
Marianne clenched her fist and put down the porn mag she’d been flicking through. Of course, of fucking course. The girl - the
slut. It was Lisa Costello, the gold-digger who had killed Josh Steen, one of Marianne’s best former clients. Under other circumstances, she might have had a soft spot for Lisa. Girls who knifed the men who traded in them . . . Marianne might have turned a blind eye. Sure. Fuck ’em.
But in this case, the whore was here with one of her personal favourites. Not that she loved Sam; she never allowed herself the weakness of love. But she liked him, and she wanted her feelings returned. Which they were not.
For that, right now, she blamed this girl. And the girl was going to get it.
She considered calling US Weekly. But that was Sam’s magazine. Marianne was vaguely aware that he had some kind of big story there. She didn’t want to screw him over. It was the girl she wanted tracked. There was the Enquirer, of course, but why hand the big story to Sam’s rivals? LAPD? Marianne had enough contacts in her little black book to get listened to. But she had an ex-hooker’s natural distrust of the cops. She traced a pattern with her long, red nails on the desk. It would come to her. Exactly the right place to shop Little Miss Lisa. Because if she couldn’t have Sam Murray, Lisa Costello certainly wasn’t going to.
Lisa lay in the room, half-nude, for a few minutes, gazing at the door. Finally she reached for her clothes and pulled them on, half-heartedly: panties, leggings. She even slipped on her socks and shoes. She didn’t want Sam to find her naked when he got back. Her body was lightly dewed with sweat. She had no idea how to deal with the torrent of feelings rushing through her.
The bad ones were easier to identify. Guilt. Josh wasn’t two weeks in his grave and she’d just fucked her brains out with a guest at their wedding. The thought horrified her, and warmed her too. Josh had screwed Melissa back then; he could hardly ask for fidelity. But that was what death did for you, it gave you respect and sanctity. And she had seen his body, covered in wounds. He still meant something to her, lots to her. She was sorry they hadn’t worked out. It had looked good once. And now . . . she had barely met this guy, Sam, but felt like she knew him, had known him for ever. And the way he looked at her, not wanting anything from her other than herself, the woman. That was so attractive. He was so attractive. Was it retro, was it unfeminist, to fall for a man who was trying to save her life? Physically risking his liberty for her? And yet she had . . .
The way he looked at her. Dear God, she burned from it, even now. The aftershocks of her orgasms still rippled gently through her groin and body. No man had ever turned her inside out like that. His hands, his tongue, his cock inside her . . . his strong chest moving over her, his dark eyes locking on her, his mouth clasping on to hers . . . the memories stirred the heat in her body. But if she was waiting patiently when he came back . . . Lisa was afraid; she could not afford to lose herself in a love affair with a second man. Sam must not find her stretched out and eager. She’d have to fight to keep her identity straight.
She rose, trying to ignore the tendrils of desire trailing across her skin, and went to check their luggage, just for something to do. Sam said they needed money. How much had they got left? She herself had a couple of hundred euros. Curiously, she rifled through Sam’s small case. He had about forty-five, plus some coins. She shivered; obviously that line about needing more cash was real. God, it was strange, going from being Josh Steen’s fiancée, rotting in a gilded cage in Beverly Hills, never thinking about money from one day to the next, to running here, some basic hotel in the middle of nowhere, counting the notes and coins in a shitty little bankroll . . .
There was a sound in the corridor. Lisa’s head lifted. Somebody walking fast. It sounded purposeful, not like a guest padding along gently to their room. She knew instinctively that it wasn’t Sam. His footfall was familiar to her already.
It was someone else. The footsteps slowed. He was coming to her door. Lisa’s pulse raced, her heart started to thump. She put the euro notes in her pocket and moved quietly to the window, opening the latch.
There was a knock on the door, loud and confident.
‘Room service,’ the male voice said. ‘Compliments of Frau Vollenhaus. Can I come in?’
Felix stood outside the door. Excitement crackled through him. Any minute now he’d have this goddamn case put to bed. The stupid journalist had left his target. She was entirely by herself. Easy. God, sometimes it was just as easy as pie. Walking in to find reception deserted except for the old whore, hanging up the phone. Who had she been talking to? Felix didn’t know, but he could guess. Shopping Lisa Costello to the highest bidder. Honour amongst thieves, but none amongst whores. Not one ounce of professional courtesy. It was so simple to take out his silenced gun and have her tearfully confess everything, whimpering and choking, begging not to be killed. But what did that old bitch have to offer? Not even an enjoyable fuck with a gag in her mouth. He shot her, and dragged the corpse back into her office, stuffing it in a closet there. His dick was hard from the power. Those old familiar rhythms of the kill. Then he moved into the corridor where he knew Lisa Costello was. The man, Murray, had left her all alone. That was a nice bonus, after all the shit he’d been through. It was a much easier, cleaner job without male protection. Five decades of feminism meant fuck-all when a woman was faced with a man who wanted to do her harm; they found that out the hard way all the time. He could overpower a female, any female, in seconds, whether she’d done some pathetic self-defence class or not. Guns were for when time was short. Felix quite enjoyed the basic domination of the trapped woman, smashing them to the ground with nothing more than his fists, or his hands locked around their necks. Really, the biological disparity between men and women was absolute.
He enjoyed it. He was hard and he wanted to fuck. And Lisa Costello, gold-digging trophy wife slut, was in that room all on her own. She’d spent years wringing it out of that sucker Josh Steen; maybe it was time for a man to have a little fun with her. Either way, she was dead, but he saw no reason why he shouldn’t slam his dick into her first. And gag her while she was being raped, because who wanted to hear the choking moans and the cries? She could turn on the waterworks all she wanted, but her pretty head would be shoved on the bed and he wouldn’t see it. He smirked. He’d wanted that gorgeously shapely ass since Thailand. It would be a particular pleasure to nail her. And as soon as he’d come, with his cock still inside her, Felix thought he’d push her down on the bed, on her belly, falling on top of her, and strangle her, not withdrawing until he felt her go limp . . .
The thought stirred his groin. He loved this job sometimes. He couldn’t wait to call his client with the news. This was the door, Room 52. She’d be dead within ten minutes.
Felix raised his hand and knocked.
Chapter Nine
Sam walked down Oberdofstrasse, in Flasch, Switzerland. It was the nearest town to the border, and he’d come here before, wanting to call outside of the principality. There used to be a little phone kiosk on this street, right by the bookmaker’s. Yeah - it was still there. He investigated; it took cards. He had picked up several in Rome. A good reporter was never without them.
Uncharacteristically nervous, he shoved one in the slot. It wasn’t that he gave a fuck about what they did to him. But Lisa; he wanted to protect her, and she was a weak spot now, his Achilles’ heel. They could get her through him. Sam did not want to let a thing go. This call would be a delicate balancing act.
‘Let me talk to Rich Frank. It’s Sam.’
‘Oh my God, Sam.’ Sarah, the breathy assistant, sounded like she was having a coronary. ‘I can’t believe you actually called. He’s been climbing the walls. Hold on, OK?’
‘OK, but tell him to be fast. I’m working phone cards here.’
‘Wait up.’ A moment’s piped music down the phone, and suddenly he was greeted by the dulcet tones of big Rich Frank, barking at him like a rabid dog.
‘Sam fucking Murray. What the flying fuck? Where the fuck have you been?’
‘On the trail,’ he replied coolly. The nerves vanished. Rich Frank was a clown, and Sam could play
him. ‘I was making the story, so I was too busy to file one.’
‘Fuck you!’ screamed Frank. ‘We had to fill the last issue with stock photographs and quotes from her schoolfriends! At a quarter mil a story, I need something!’
‘I got you something,’ Sam said. ‘I met her.’
‘Bullshit,’ Frank breathed, and Sam could see the dollar signs in his eyes. ‘You met her?’
‘Yeah. In the Vatican. St Peter’s Square, where the Italian police have no rights.’
‘I fucking love it.’ Rich Frank was breathing heavily, like he was having an orgasm. ‘What a story. She’s some operator. The Vatican. What did she say?’
‘You want the headline? That she didn’t do it. And I’m thinking, guess what? Maybe she didn’t.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking with your dick again, Murray,’ Frank said crudely. ‘She’s a killer. Remember that.’
‘Why don’t you let me file the story? I got some juicy stuff. She called the airline to let them know about the girl in the closet, Rich. She wasn’t marked, no sign of a struggle. She thinks she was drugged. From what I saw that night, it could be true. She was lit, but she wasn’t fall-drown drunk.’
‘Man,’ Frank said. ‘The readers hate this chick.’
‘They’ll love a mystery better. I’ll report, they can decide. Water-cooler stuff; controversy will shift those copies, you know it.’ Sam toughened his voice. ‘I’m reporting it the way I saw it. You know any other eyewitnesses?’
‘No. No,’ his editor said eagerly. ‘When can I get it?’
Desire Page 22
