The Girl with the Golden Gun

by Ann Major

  “Yes.”

  “You will make love to me now in his kitchen.”

  “Y-yes.”

  A closed look came to his face as he held up his gun and examined it thoughtfully. “All night I think I kill him. So much has happened. Prison. I lose much money. Because of you, I kill Guillermo. I am full of hate. I need to kill somebody so much. But maybe it is good to make love to you first.”

  His gaze returned to hers, his black eyes glowing like a devil’s. “So be it. I will take what I should have taken so long ago.”

  He traced her cheek almost carelessly with a callused thumb, but she stiffened at the hint of possession in his touch. To have his rough hand on her skin so soon after Shanghai’s having made love to her was unbearable.

  She recoiled.

  Sensing her resistance, he wound her hair in his fist and snapped her head back cruelly. “Damn it. You will not think of him now! Not when you make love to Tavio.”

  She shuddered. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Say you love me. Say it over and over as I kiss you.”

  “I…love you.”

  “Say it louder.”

  “He will hear.”

  “If he comes, I will kill him.”

  His hands ruffled her silken hair as he caught her closer and with his hips pressed her buttocks into the counter. Behind her, she heard the faint clatter of his gun against the tile countertop as he set it down.

  Could she get it?

  Reading her mind, he laughed. Then he gripped the hand that would have gone for the gun and placed it on his thigh.

  She flinched at such intimacy. When she would have drawn her fingers back, he whispered, “Keep it there. Open your fingers. Stroke me. And say it. Tell me you love me. Tell me over and over again.”

  His lips caressed her throat tenderly.

  “I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she felt herself twisting and dying inside.

  “Again!”

  “I love you.”

  His mouth moved across her cheek toward her lips. When he pressed his body into hers, she felt so sick at her stomach bitter bile surged up her throat, threatening to strangle her.

  Frantic that she was about to vomit, she opened her eyes. They locked on Shanghai’s hard, dark face. Bare-chested, he stood in the doorway. He looked lost, as bewildered as a child who’d been punished unfairly by a loving parent.

  Her eyes widening, she gasped in horror.

  Then Hart stepped up behind Shanghai and aimed his gun straight at her heart.

  Twenty-Five

  “Freeze! Both of you!” Hart yelled.

  For a second or two, time seemed to flow in slow motion as Shanghai’s cold gaze remained on hers.

  His handsome, dark face was ashen. Wearing only a pair of jeans with the knees ripped out, his sculpted, brown body was rigid.

  A knot of fear tightened in Mia’s stomach.

  Then Hart and his agents began screaming commands, and her brain kicked into overdrive.

  Hart’s gun was still aimed at her. When she tried to push free of Tavio, Hart yelled, “Freeze!” again.

  Lunging for his golden gun, Tavio pushed her out of the way. “Bastardos! Don’t shoot her!”

  Tavio’s hand hit the gun at an angle and sent it flying across the tile at her as she fell. When she tried to grab it, she shoved it across the tiles onto the floor at her feet.

  Hart’s men burst inside and blew into Tavio.

  Tavio rolled, grabbing wildly for the gun as four agents tackled him. Almost as an afterthought she picked up the gun and then scooted backward to a far corner of the kitchen.

  Tavio snarled, bit and kicked like a savage animal. The fight seemed to be going his way until Hart strode up and kicked him in the jaw. When Tavio’s head hit the floor like a rock, Hart sat down on his chest and grabbed him by the throat.

  “You’re dirty, Hart. I tell everybody how…”

  Hart turned purple. “Bastard!” He slammed the butt of his gun against his jaw. When Tavio’s head crashed to the floor again, Hart stood up, holstered his gun and told his men to cuff him.

  “You don’t know how long I waited to get that bastard.” He glared at Mia. “Thanks for giving Shanghai the message, honey. But then I guess we all know why you didn’t.”

  She stood up slowly. As Hart’s men dragged Tavio’s limp body out of the kitchen, Tavio’s golden gun glittered darkly in her hand.

  Shanghai was still looking at her, his blue eyes ablaze with hatred.

  “Shanghai—”

  Light and shadow played across his carved cheekbones and stern mouth.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Hart called? Didn’t you know I’d eventually check for my calls?”

  Guilt washed her. He thought the worst of her—as always. “I—I was going to.”

  “When—for God’s sakes? Were you going to leave me a note…after you ran off with Morales?”

  Dead silence after that.

  “You wanted him to come for you, didn’t you?”

  “No! Of course not!” She was so upset from everything that had happened, she began to shake uncontrollably. She could barely stand, let alone speak coherently, especially now when all her dreams were going up in smoke.

  Why was it that the men she loved never believed in her?

  “Why would I want Tavio?” she whispered. “We’ve been through this so many times.”

  “Shut up. Don’t say anything. You’ll only make it worse.”

  “Shanghai, you have to believe me—”

  “I don’t have to anything.”

  What was the use? She was a Kemble. He’d always been dead set against her. She was tired of chasing him. She wanted to be chased and cherished and trusted.

  “I’m done with your lies,” he said. “I heard you tell him you loved him.”

  “I love you. I’ve always loved you!”

  At those words, Shanghai’s eyes flashed with a mixture of longing and fury.

  She wanted to go up to him, to touch him, but what was the use?

  When she lifted her chin, his body went rigid, his face tightening. “I won’t let you manipulate me with your clever lies ever again!”

  When she moved toward him then, he slammed his fist into the door so violently, the wood splintered. Then he yelled in agony, and his face went white with pain as he cupped his injured hand in his good one.

  “Shanghai, your hand—”

  “As if you give a damn—”

  She ran to him then, panicked that he’d broken a bone. “But I do! Of course, I do!”

  He jerked away from her.

  For a long moment she simply stared at him, drinking in his features, memorizing the line of his throat and the hard lines of his jaw, and the curve of his mouth that had brought her such ecstasy.

  “What are you looking at? Don’t pretend you care! Because we’re done, you and me! You’re safe from Tavio. You don’t need my protection anymore. I’m out of here, darlin’.”

  “I need your love.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Sucking in a breath, holding his injured hand close to his chest, he bolted past her out of the house.

  She sank to her knees. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me.”

  She let out a breath and forced herself to stand up.

  I can do this, she thought. I can do whatever I have to do.

  She’d survived her father’s rejection and Shanghai’s rejection after they’d made love in Vegas and Mexico. She’d survived Tavio.

  She could survive this.

  She wouldn’t chase him. She wouldn’t beg him. Not ever again.

  A buzzard soared low over the trees.

  Tavio saw it and flinched.

  Something was wrong. Tavio felt the wrongness of it in his bones.

  “You all go on,” Hart was saying to somebody, probably one of his agents. “I’ll bring him in.”

  When the front door of Hart’s truck opened
and then clanged shut, Tavio groaned. For some reason Hart had sent all his men in the other vehicle. Something worried him about that, but his ribs were cutting into his lungs so badly every time he gasped for air, he couldn’t think.

  His jaw burned as if someone had used a dull knife to peel his flesh off the bone. Raw nerves shot sparks down his neck and spine.

  Despite the pain, he sat up a little. Through the tinted windows he caught a glimpse of Angelita’s red hair as she was being led by the hand into the big house by her husband.

  Angelita! She was still in danger.

  He cracked a bruised eyelid wider, hoping to see more of her. But she had vanished into the house. Instead he saw a single buzzard perched on the chimney of the big white ranch house with its wings spread wide. The truck was parked under a live oak. The windows were cracked a little, so he could hear the roar of the cicadas.

  Even though it was a balmy spring morning, when Hart turned the key and started the big engine, Tavio sensed doom.

  His mother had been a famous witch. Curandera was the nicer word. Tavio had inherited her talent. Long ago he’d learned to trust his dark instincts.

  “It’s just you and me now, Morales,” Hart said as he tossed his cigarette butt out the window into the weeds.

  At the hint of malice in the agent’s voice, Tavio struggled to sit up. Then a loose rib stabbed his lung. When the pain cut off his breath, Hart laughed.

  “Angelita…You’ve got to go back….”

  “She must be one hot bitch!” Hart turned around and leered. His feral gaze gripped the trafficker with icy fear.

  Tavio knew well how to inspire terror. Now it was his turn to be on the receiving end of a sadistic bully.

  Tavio’s throat tightened.

  “You haven’t booked me,” Tavio snarled. “You haven’t read me my rights.”

  “You watch too much television, ignorant bastardo. Who are you to tell me what to do now? I call the shots now.”

  Hart laughed as he roared away from the ranch house, his truck spewing dust and diesel fumes.

  Tavio’s heart thudded more violently when after only a few miles, Hart turned onto a washboard road that led into a thicket of oak smothered with wild grapevines so dense the truck would be completely hidden from the road.

  Again Hart parked the truck in the deepest shade. Without a word, the agent got out. He took his time before opening Tavio’s door, but when he did, he smiled. Grabbing Tavio’s belt buckle, he yanked him out so roughly, Tavio screamed even before he threw him on the ground where he began to puke blood all over himself.

  Hart laughed, then fell on him and socked him in the temple so hard, everything blurred.

  Tavio had always known he would die violently, but he had dreamed of going down in a gun battle with a machine gun in each hand, taking ten bastardos with him at least, before dying himself.

  Not like this—with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “I didn’t come here to kill her,” he muttered. “I came here…”

  “Shut up!”

  “Listen to me….”

  Hart put a boot to his head and ground his face in the dirt and rocks so hard he bled. “No, you listen…. Look at me! I want you to see this coming!”

  Tavio looked up, but the blood in his eyes made it difficult to focus.

  Hart’s hand was lightning quick when he yanked his gun out of his holster. Jumping back, he aimed it at Tavio’s face.

  “You’re not one of the good guys anymore,” Tavio said.

  Hart laughed, but a little nervously.

  “You’re just like me. A drug whore. I bought you, paid for you. I made you famous. You’re killing me to shut me up.”

  Hart went purple. A vein began to throb along his brow.

  “I’m accomplishing what a huge, dumb-ass task force made up of more than half a dozen agencies couldn’t do. I’ll be a hero. The newspapers will love me. Terence Collins will love me.”

  “I didn’t come here to kill her.”

  “Right. You came here to fuck her, and she damn sure had a taste for it, didn’t she? Maybe I’ll have to do her myself to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Hart moved in closer and laughed. He was still laughing when he pulled the trigger.

  The bullet felt like a sledgehammer slamming between Tavio’s eyes and hurling him backward into the dirt. Stunned, his life blood pooling beside his head, Tavio lay on the ground staring up through the branches and vines to the dazzling patches of blue.

  Only vaguely was he aware of Hart standing over him now, his legs spread wide like a conquering hero’s.

  “Your britches are wet,” the bastardo said.

  Tavio didn’t care anymore. He was thinking of the dream he’d had when he’d started out as a young trafficker. He’d always thought he’d retire and buy himself a big cattle ranch in northern Mexico some day. He’d thought he’d be a big hacendado, somebody important like his white father. More important than Federico with all his factories and newspapers.

  He’d imagined a beautiful white woman like Angelita as his wife. He’d chosen Angelita because she was prettier and more elegant than his father’s wife or Federico’s. When he’d found her, he’d imagined the house they would have lived in, the children they would have had.

  Dreams…Did all dreams end badly? Were there no happy endings? Only fleeting moments of abandon, adventure and glory?

  Federico had won. It was all over.

  Now he was only a hunk of bleeding meat that would soon rot.

  His last thought was of Angelita and her long white legs and her satiny, flowing red curls. He remembered how wonderful she’d felt when he’d pulled her from the water and held her in his arms after he’d saved her. She’d nestled close to him then, seeking his protection. Her body had been ice cold at first, but slowly he’d warmed her with his.

  “Angelita,” he whispered.

  Hart lit a cigarette and smiled down at him.

  “Hart…Angelita…danger…”

  Hart leaned down and blew a smoke ring. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

  Tavio tried to speak but choked on the smoke. Then blood bubbled up from his throat.

  “Go back to the house,” he whispered.

  “Angelita…” As Hart shook his head in confusion, Tavio tried again to speak. But he was too weak. His body began to twitch, his cuffed hands clawing the dirt.

  He died with his eyes wide open. His last thoughts were agonized because he knew she’d die, too.

  “Shot while trying to escape? Something’s wrong,” Mia said in a neutral tone so she wouldn’t alarm Vanilla. “His hands were cuffed when Hart drove off.”

  Shanghai had been throwing his suitcases in his truck while Mia watched with Vanilla in her arms.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong—your lover’s dead.” He, too, spoke calmly.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Hart insisted on taking Tavio in alone?”

  “He wanted the glory, I guess.”

  “Or no witnesses,” she countered.

  “Why don’t we keep things simple? Hart’s the good guy. Morales is the bad guy. Personally, I’m glad the bastard’s dead, and you and Vanilla are safe.”

  Shanghai threw his camera and a couple of maps into the front seat. His Stetson with the lucky turkey feather was sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Feeling numb about Shanghai’s leaving her, Mia hadn’t been able to think. All morning she’d felt dazed.

  Even so she’d been stunned when Hart had returned with Tavio’s body and had asked if he could use their bathroom because he had a nasty cut on his cheek that was oozing blood all over his uniform.

  “What happened?” she’d asked.

  “I stopped to check a tire. Morales said he needed to urinate, so I let him. When I was unzipping him, the bastard tried to strangle me.”

  “But his hands—”

  “Somehow he got loose. I went for my gun and shot him.”

  “Good shot,
” Shanghai had said after he’d inspected the body.

  “He was all over me. I had no choice.”

  She’d stared at Tavio’s body that had lain so quiet and still at her feet on the lawn for a long time, remembering how vital and terrifyingly unpredictable he’d once been.

  “Right between the eyes, too. Wouldn’t that be hard to manage in a life-and-death struggle?” she’d asked.

  Hart had turned an ugly shade of purple. “It was self-defense. The bastard was trying to kill me!”

  She’d stared at Tavio for a long time. He’d held her life in his hands for a year.

  Even now, hours after Hart had driven away and she stood beside Shanghai, it was difficult for her to realize that Tavio was really dead, that there was nothing left of him but a body to bury.

  Would anything really change on the border? Another drug lord would take over. Life would go on, maybe a little worse than before.

  Except for me. The danger is over for me. I’m free to choose what I want to do with the rest of my life again. Maybe when Shanghai is gone and I’m my normal self again, even brokenhearted, I will appreciate having that kind of freedom.

  Now she could feel nothing because Shanghai was driving away again and wouldn’t return.

  She loved him so much. Why couldn’t she feel anything? Or say anything?

  He, too, had been silent for the most part since their parting argument. It was as if he were in a tortured haze all his own.

  They’d been civil, conducting themselves as if they were polite strangers as they said their goodbyes in full view of the big house and anyone who might be watching them.

  After Hart had bagged Tavio’s body, Shanghai had told the family there was an emergency at his ranch, and that he had to leave.

  “But you just got married yesterday,” Joanne had said, trying to reason with him. “I’m sure Mia needs you right now.”

  “With Tavio dead, she’s safe.”

  “But—”

  “It can’t be helped.”

  Playing the part of eager bridegroom, he’d pulled Mia to him and kissed her on the lips for her mother’s benefit. Instead of thrilling Mia, his cool, dry lips had stung more cruelly than ice ripping soft, wet skin.

  “Well—” Shanghai slung a final suitcase into the back seat of his truck as Vanilla clung sleepily to Mia’s neck.