Cold Cruel Kiss: A heart-stopping and addictive romantic thriller

by Toni Anderson

  Lucy was not one of those people.

  She was working.

  It was late afternoon, hot in Buenos Aires. Thankfully, the AC blasted away inside, and Lucy positioned herself beneath one of the vents, grateful for the cool draft.

  Two sets of garden doors opened onto an incredible old-stone patio with a magnificent fountain as the main focus of attention. Brilliant jacaranda trees with their unique mauve blossoms provided a stunning backdrop.

  Everyone who was anyone in this town was in attendance today, including the Argentine president. Christmas Eve was a massive party in this country, and fireworks had been going off all day.

  Rather than pretty sparkles, Lucy was wearing a boring pant suit, the jacket two sizes too large. No one paid any attention to the mouse Lucy had transformed herself into over the past ten months. It wasn’t simply the drabness of her dyed, mid-brown hair which hung frizzily around her face from an unflattering center part. Nor the insipid paleness of her skin, nor the thick-framed glasses that hid her eyes. No, it was her lackluster demeanor. Her obedient compliance. The body language that clearly stated she was part of the furniture, not part of the festivities.

  It had been a huge adjustment for Lucy to not only be ignored, but to be completely unseen. She didn’t mind the shadows anymore. In fact, she preferred them.

  The ambassador’s husband raised his face to the ceiling and gave a belly-laugh at something the French ambassador’s wife said. The latter was wearing a sheer black and white polka dot number that was a lot more revealing than it appeared at first glance. The woman was witty and spoke with constantly moving hands. She was so animated, it was a wonder she didn’t spill her champagne.

  The ambassador looked over at her husband, and Lucy noticed a crinkle of the woman’s brow. Catherine Dickerson didn’t like loud but there was no way she’d chastise her husband. She didn’t pull rank on the domestic front. Lucy liked that about the woman.

  Lucy’s direct superior and the ambassador’s long time Personal Assistant, Miranda Foster, stood close to the ambassador, attentive to her boss’s immediate needs. The senior agent from the US Diplomatic Security Service (DSS) flanked the other side of the doorway from Lucy, along with a few other security guys who were all hyper-focused on the officials they were tasked with protecting.

  The ambassador was always adamant that she couldn’t do her job with a bodyguard hovering over her shoulder. DSS didn’t like it, but they’d learned if they wanted to keep the peace, they had to give Catherine Dickerson some space.

  Chandeliers glittered in the bright afternoon sunshine. Guests sipped expensive bubbly and snacked on caviar. The noise level was growing exponentially with the level of alcohol consumption.

  Lucy would rather eat a burger than fish eggs, but her stomach growled regardless. She’d covered for Miranda during the ambassador’s luncheon with her British, French, German, and Spanish counterparts, and it had been a long time since breakfast.

  Lucy pushed hunger out of her mind and instead admired the frescos on the far walls. This former palace now belonged to a Russian billionaire who’d made his fortune after the collapse of the former Soviet Union. Being here made her skin crawl.

  A flurry of movement in the corner of her eye caused her to glance left. Sure enough, the seemingly friendly and effusive Boris Yahontov had finally arrived with his family at his own party and was keen to make an entrance. He greeted a couple of friends near the doorway and began making his way around her side of the room, probably toward the Argentine president who held court near a dessert table that was complete with a melted chocolate waterfall.

  Lucy tried to sink into the wall as Yahontov drew closer, but his gaze fell on her as he neared her position. So much for blending. She bowed her head and stared at the gleaming hardwood floor, praying he walked on by.

  Yahontov straightened a chair at a nearby table, and she flicked a glance in his direction. A mistake. It gave him an opening.

  “You look familiar…” His accent had only a thin edge of Russian to it. He’d lived in the west for many years, assimilating. A smile was fixed on his lips as he stared at her. “Now where have I seen you before?”

  She stared down at the carpet. “You must have mistaken me for someone else, sir.”

  The man stepped closer and leaned toward to her ear. Alcohol-saturated breath brushed her cheek, although he didn’t appear drunk.

  “You were prettier in the photographs.”

  Ice-cold dread washed through her, but she knew better than to show weakness to a predator. She looked at him blankly. “I’m sorry, sir. I really think you have me confused with someone else.”

  “Of course. My mistake.” He laughed and threw up his hands in a jovial manner, but his eyes were appraising as they locked onto her for another long moment.

  Her knees wanted to sag, but she didn’t let them.

  Yahontov finally passed on by, leaving only the smell of vodka behind him. His hulking bodyguard followed like a giant shadow in his wake.

  Acid coated her throat, and Lucy swallowed repeatedly to get rid of the need to gag. Then she noticed her boss, Miranda, giving her a discreet wave of her hand indicating she needed her. Lucy thrust herself away from the wall.

  Yahontov’s glamorous wife, a former beauty queen and model, was greeting the ambassador. Lucy wondered what the woman knew, but her gaze didn’t even flicker away from her guests as Lucy approached.

  “How are the children?” Mrs. Yahontov gave the ambassador and Phillip, who’d joined his wife, air kisses on both cheeks. “You should have brought them with you. They could have played with ours.”

  Lucy subdued a frown. The Yahontovs’ kids were several years younger than Catherine and Phillip Dickersons’ two and had nothing in common with them.

  “Our son is at the age where all he wants to do is play video games, and our daughter is in the city with her girlfriends doing some last-minute Christmas shopping,” Phillip answered amiably.

  The group carried on chatting, and Miranda pulled Lucy aside and whispered in her ear, “What did Yahontov say to you?”

  Lucy looked at her vacantly. Of course, her boss had noticed their interaction. “Nothing,” she whispered back. “He’s been drinking and wished me a Merry Christmas.”

  “I hope he wasn’t inappropriate.” Miranda gave Lucy a worried look then let it drop. “The ambassador has a headache. Do you have any of her pills?”

  “In the car, but not on me.” Lucy kept a whole host of emergency supplies in the vehicle, but Miranda usually handled more pressing needs.

  “Go and ask DSS if they have any. If they don’t, please go and fetch something from the car.” Miranda gave her arm a squeeze in silent thanks.

  Lucy hurried away, ignoring the fact she was sure that bastard Yahontov was watching her. What did it mean?

  Humiliation wanted to rip her to shreds, but she’d known this would happen one day. She still had a job to do.

  Didn’t make it any easier.

  Lucy reached the Diplomatic Security Special Agent just as his phone buzzed, and he held up his hand in that authoritarian way he had about him and moved to the side where he could have direct access to the ambassador and still answer the call.

  Lucy sighed and stood to one side, hugging the wall while she waited for her opportunity to speak to him.

  The DS agent’s shoulders stiffened, and he covered one ear. “Repeat.”

  He was already moving toward the ambassador, and Lucy followed him, instinctively knowing whatever had happened was bad news. He pressed the communication button on his wrist. “Bring the car around. Now.”

  A second DS agent crossed from the other side of the room to meet them in the middle. Other bodyguards were taking note of the Americans’ actions, probably trying to figure out if there was a threat to their principals or not. The whole room seemed to tense.

  The agent reached the ambassador and leaned down to whisper in her ear. All color drained from Catherine Dickerson’s fa
ce.

  What the hell happened?

  Catherine grabbed her husband’s arm and spoke quietly into his ear. Phillip fumbled the champagne flute he was holding, and Mrs. Yahontov rescued it. Phillip gripped his wife’s free hand. “Where?”

  “Is everything all right?” Mrs. Yahontov asked with concern.

  The ambassador’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The usually calm and unflappable diplomat looked like she was about to faint.

  “We need to leave. My apologies,” Phillip offered.

  “If there is anything we can assist you with…” Boris Yahontov offered. He’d come over when the bodyguards had started to move.

  The ambassador was shaking her head, already backing away.

  The DS agents had the ambassador between them and hustled her out of the ballroom. Lucy rushed after Miranda whose heels clicked noisily through the now almost silent room, into the ornate hallway and out onto the private driveway, straight into the bulletproof limo.

  The driver, another DS agent, sped away from the palace as soon as everyone was onboard.

  “What’s going on?” Miranda asked breathlessly.

  “Kristen has been abducted,” the ambassador answered woodenly. Her eyes glassed over, but she didn’t cry. Phillip blindly clasped his wife’s hand, an unfocused look on his face.

  Lucy had about a million questions but also knew the ambassador probably didn’t have any answers yet. “Is Kevin okay?”

  The ambassador shot a look at the DS agent who nodded. “Back at the embassy. No issues at the soccer match.”

  The ambassador straightened in her seat. “I want to know exactly what happened. And I want to know what the hell the local police are doing to get my daughter back.”

  * * *

  As one of the FBI’s top negotiators, Supervisory Special Agent Max Hawthorne was used to being in the eye of the hurricane. At the center of the storm. He’d be lying if he said, most of the time, he didn’t enjoy it.

  No one noticed him step into the chaotic atmosphere of short-tempers and cardiac-arrest-inducing tension in the FBI’s Legal Attaché’s office on the second floor of the US Embassy in Buenos Aires. He let the mayhem roll over him and tried to gauge the players.

  Ten people. Six men, four women. People who’d normally be home enjoying family time or unwrapping gifts from under the tree. Instead, they dashed from one side of the room to the other, grabbing pens, paper, intent on some invisible but urgent task. Others were speed-talking on phones, voices cracking with tension. One guy, clearly in charge judging by how many people avoided him, leaned over a desk, staring at a loop of surveillance footage. The guy’s suit jacket was removed, tie long gone, shirtsleeves rolled up, cotton wrinkled and limp. He gestured sharply to the woman at his side and snatched the pen out of her hand when she didn’t respond fast enough.

  “Call CNU again. The sooner this asshole from Quantico shows up, the better. This situation is a freaking nightmare, especially with everything else going on right now.”

  “He’s due any time. We were lucky they had a negotiator so close,” the woman stated.

  Lucky for them. Less so for him, considering he’d been visiting friends in Cartagena.

  “Who the fuck vacations in Colombia?” the man muttered irritably.

  Max had cut his holiday short as soon as he’d gotten the call from Eban Winters at the Crisis Negotiation Unit in Quantico and had traveled all night on his buddies’ private jet to get here as fast as humanly possible. He let go of the door and let it slam shut behind him.

  The man swung around. His red-rimmed eyes swept over Max’s board shorts and faded green t-shirt featuring a character from his favorite video game.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

  “I’m SSA Hawthorne. The asshole from Quantico? Most people call me Max.” He held out his hand, a friendly smile pasted firmly on his face. “Sorry I’m late.”

  It took a fraction of a second longer than it should for the man to shake his hand. The agent didn’t apologize for his earlier words. He was either too arrogant or too jaded to bother. Or too something else. Max decided to reserve judgment for now.

  He lowered his duffle to the floor. “Who can bring me up to speed on recent developments?”

  “I’m the Legat. Brian Powell.”

  Legat was Bu-speak for “Legal Attaché.” The FBI’s official representative abroad. In this South American posting, Powell was responsible for Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. Max figured it was a cushy gig, the sort of posting he might go after on his way to retirement.

  “Any contact from the kidnappers?”

  “Nothing yet.” Powell swiped a hand through his thinning blond hair. “I can’t believe they haven’t called yet with their list of demands.”

  Max looked around the room at the other people who had paused in their activities to listen to their conversation. “It’s not unusual for hostage takers to wait a few hours, days, or weeks before they make contact. Leave the family frantic and desperate for information. Make sure they cover their tracks and get well away from the abduction zone to somewhere they feel safe and in control.” Argentina was a massive country, and the kidnappers could also have crossed one of the many international borders. “You have an agent with the ambassador?”

  Powell nodded. “We followed the instructions your boss at CNU sent us. One of the ALATs,”—Assistant Legal Attachés—“took some basic recording equip up to her rooms. He has some negotiation training.”

  “Great.” Max didn’t really consider Eban Winters his boss. They shared a place and were good friends. Eban was acting head of CNU though, so technically, Powell was correct.

  “At this point, all the guy needs to do is answer the phone and listen. Tell whoever is on the other end that he will pass on the demands to the family.” It was all listed in the basic instruction package the Crisis Negotiation Unit sent out following abductions and Eban would have emphasized the point over the phone. “I thought the US Ambassador to Argentina lived at Bosch Palace?”

  The Legat nodded. “Usually, but the palace is under renovation. Has been for months.”

  Max wondered if that was relevant to the current situation but doubted it. Security would be tight at both locations. “What can you tell me about the actual abduction?”

  “Take a look.” Powell sat down in front of a large monitor, and the woman sitting in the adjacent chair jumped up and offered Max a seat.

  “I can stand.” He smiled reassuringly at her.

  She shook her head almost shyly. “I need to stretch my legs. I’ve been sitting for hours.” Her eyes turned quizzical. “How come they let a Brit into the FBI?”

  Ah, the accent.

  He flashed her a grin, not flirting, but he knew how much further his charm got him than his rank. “Apparently, the Bureau was desperate for someone who spoke proper English.”

  She giggled, and Powell shot her a derisive look. Her cheeks reddened, and she murmured an excuse before escaping out of the room.

  “How did you end up in the Bureau?” Powell asked.

  Max sat in the chair and leaned forward to watch the screen. “Someone from headquarters requested that I apply. So I did.”

  Powell looked irked by Max’s minimalistic and slightly egotistical response, but Max had just gotten off a plane after cutting short his Christmas vacation with three of his best friends whom he hadn’t seen in years—without a single word of thanks or appreciation. And while it might not be necessary, it was good manners. And he’d been raised by a mother who believed in manners and courtesy as basic cornerstones of daily activity.

  Powell hit play on the video, and Max concentrated on the black and white surveillance film. It showed pedestrians walking down a busy shopping street. Time stamp said 18:01 yesterday when Max had been happily flirting with an extremely attractive cocktail waitress at a seaside bar. It was still light down here in Bueno Aires at that time though. A white van stopped on a road that intersected with a
pedestrian street, close to a small group of young women who were about to cross. Two men jumped out—not the driver. One man grabbed a young woman wearing jeans and a flowery shirt. He picked her bodily off the ground, and she kicked her legs, dropping her shopping bags as the two teenagers she was with scattered in fear.

  The abductor climbed back into the van via the side door with her, and the second man went to slam the door shut, but one of the other girls found her courage and grabbed his arm. He wrapped her in a bear hug and tossed her in the back of the van too. Slammed the door, opened the passenger door, and climbed in. The van shot off. The whole thing had taken under twenty seconds.

  The kidnappers all wore masks that disguised their features.

  “Were they caught on any other cameras?” Max asked.

  “We’ve asked local authorities’ permission to gather as much information as possible but being the holidays…” Powell raised his hands in frustration. “Trust me, I’ve been pushing all my contacts at Policia Federal de Argentina and so have the State Department and the Diplomatic Security Service. One of the Argentine comisarios was here earlier and promised to do everything possible to catch these people.”

  “Kristen Dickerson wasn’t assigned a bodyguard?”

  Powell shook his head. “DSS didn’t deem it necessary.”

  Max raised his brows but said nothing.

  “She was to keep her phone with her at all times, and DSS has a tracking capability with it.”

  “But the kidnappers dumped the phone ASAP. Correct?”

  Powell nodded, looking miserable.

  “Any idea how the kidnappers knew where the girls would be at that specific time?”

  Powell shook his head. “We interviewed the friend who was with her, but she was hysterical, and her parents were hovering and overprotective.”

  As parents should be under the circumstances. Max kept his thoughts to himself.

  “We need to find any surveillance we can of the women during the day. See if we can spot anyone following them.”

  Powell nodded. “You think someone had eyes on them.”

  “Either that or one of the shopping party is involved with the kidnappers, or they were being tracked in some other way.”