by Cindy Gerard
Incompetence. He paid lavishly to insure that he did not have to deal with failure. He felt only loathing for these men who had paid for their ineptitude with their lives. Now he must dispatch more resources to clean up the mess.
He glanced at his watch, an elegant timepiece he’d purchased just this morning after a particularly successful night in one of the city’s many flourishing casinos. Just as the West had once had no influence in Macau, there had been a time when he had not owned a pair of shoes without holes in the soles. Now Macau was the gaming Mecca of the world, and the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar Blancpain was merely a token of the wealth Ryang had acquired.
Were he not so preoccupied with Valentina Chamberlin’s capture, he would have admired the Blancpain’s platinum case and jeweled detailing. At the moment, however, his attention was confined to the time.
It was nine p.m. in Macau. That made it early morning in Peru.
“Harder,” he ordered in Cantonese as the virgin whore’s attention lapsed and the pressure of her massage lessened.
He closed his eyes when she began again to properly apply herself, and let her expertly schooled fingers and the soothing steam rising from the tub clear his mind.
He had not attained his current level of power by allowing mistakes to define his reputation. It still irritated him that he hadn’t been able to fully capitalize on the fact that he’d been a favored agent of Kim Jong-il. In some circles, it had even been hinted that he, Ryang, was considered the leader’s choice to take over. Of course, that hadn’t happened. The control of the country and the million-man army had fallen to a child. A child that Ryang must constantly re-prove his value to.
But Kim Jong-chul was still playing with the reins of power. Ryang would wait. He would continue to prove his loyalty and dedication, and when the time came, he would insert himself into a valued position that would cement his leverage in the upper echelons of the government.
Everything he had worked for was still within his grasp—provided he rectified this situation immediately and insured that Valentina Chamberlin made her scheduled appearance in Sierra Leone next week.
Not only must he avoid losing face, everything he’d built to this point hinged on insuring the woman did not topple his carefully aligned network. She and she alone was the key to his significantly increased sphere of influence. She was the linchpin required to insure his plans were brought to fruition.
The consequences of not finding her would not only result in loss of business, but of his political status. Of his power.
That a woman—a Western woman—might be allowed to derail his machine was unthinkable.
He lifted the phone again, punched in a series of numbers.
“There have been complications with the delivery of the package in Peru,” he said in his native Korean when his second in command answered. “There was an unexpected intervention on its behalf. An American, it would seem, has interfered and intercepted.”
A man who seemed highly skilled in the art of guerilla warfare. Ryang considered what that meant. Was the man merely a stranger intervening on her behalf? Or could he be an agent assigned to protect her?
“Place a team on the ground at the last known location. ” His organization was well established internationally. He had resources in place, ready to deploy in every corner of the globe. Peru was no exception. The tracking devices he’d had implanted in all of his assets would assist the new team in locating the dead men and lead him to the woman.
“You must find them very soon. The delivery is scheduled for a week from today. You realize what is at stake.” He disconnected, confident Lee understood that failure was not an option.
Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the virgin whore. She was the perfect outlet for the rage that had been simmering since the first report of failure. Perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, she was older than he preferred, but she had the look of innocence he liked. And since virgins, even at this tender age, were becoming more and more difficult to acquire, she would do.
The fear she tried to conceal when he motioned for her to join him in the water fueled his arousal. She had reason to be afraid. He did not intend to exercise control over his fury any longer.
“Please me,” he demanded as she stepped into the steaming tub, then let her know with a measured look that her future was dependent on how well she performed.
He would have no use for her after he’d quenched his lust. If she pleased him, if she went to great pains to satisfy his appetites, he would see to it that she would never have to sell her body again. He would reward her with enough cash that she would be able to make a life for herself on her own terms.
But if she failed him . . . then she would suffer the hard hands of strangers—as he had suffered—for many, many years to come.
“Please me,” he repeated, one final attempt to let her know that she held her own destiny in her hands.
11
Cuzco was the gateway to the Sacred Valley and the stunning ancient Incan ruins of Machu Picchu, but Luke had never been impressed by the outer limits of the 11,000-foot-elevation settlement in the Peruvian Andes. They sped through the outskirts of the city, urban sprawl punctuated by the accompanying urban decay that would soon give way to the historical city center that had mesmerized Luke the first time Chewy had brought him here.
A persistent and uncharacteristic June rain beat down on them as they sped along, sharing the open bed of a rusted-out pickup with several bushels of—what else—potatoes.
He tucked Valentina closer to his side in an attempt to shield her against the icy-cold, relentless downpour.
“Almost there,” he said against her hair when she shivered violently against him.
It had been four hours since they’d stumbled onto a little-traveled road and the ancient, compact pickup had made an appearance. By the time he’d flagged it down they were already wet to the bone and freezing in the frigid morning air.
Only after he’d been satisfied that the man behind the wheel was exactly what he appeared to be—a farmer on the way to market—had Luke motioned for Val to come out from behind the rock where he’d insisted she hide out. And only after he’d produced a palm full of coins that he’d dug out of his backpack had the mestizo man made room for them in the truck bed.
He’d had to leave the rifle behind. Even in Cuzco, an automatic weapon was going to raise a few eyebrows. Since they hadn’t encountered any more bad guys, it had served its purpose anyway. The Glock, however, was still tucked in his waistband under his shirt. The grip poked into his ribs as the farmer managed to hit a pothole big enough to swallow a small pig.
The ride was rough, the potatoes hard, and the rain brutal, but it was a damn sight better than walking. Finally they reached the inner city and the Plaza San Blas, where intricate Incan architecture formed the bedrock from the Spanish conquistadores’ period and transported anyone with a little imagination back hundreds of years in time.
Here was where they got out. Luke tapped on the rear window of the truck’s cab and motioned for the driver to stop.
“Come on.” He helped Valentina down from the pickup bed, then dug into his duffle and handed the farmer the balance of what he’d promised him and what most likely amounted to a week’s wages.
Tucking Valentina under his arm, he rushed across the wet, ancient cobbled streets toward the Taypikala Hotel, where he generally stayed when he was in Cuzco for his annual stint with the medical team.
The two-story white building with its sheltering eaves, tiled roof, and large square windows was only four blocks away. But between the street vendors and the street shills constantly grabbing at them, insisting they buy anything from witch’s potions to fruit to pottery to guinea pig—a local delicacy cooking over braziers on crude wooden skewers—it was a good ten minutes before they reached the hotel.
Another time, Luke would have taken time to appreciate the local sounds, scents, and flavors of the Mercado de las Brujas, the witch’s mark
et. Now all he wanted to do was get Valentina out of sight, get her warmed up and dry, and contact his boss at Black Ops, Inc. to get them the hell out of here. There’d be time later to figure out who was after her.
He didn’t have any illusions about the danger she was still in. That hit squad from the train was the first wave. There would be more.
He had to also assume that the local authorities were looking for them. There were three dead bodies on that train. He was responsible for two of them, and there were a lot of witnesses. The policía were going to have questions. Since he didn’t have any answers yet, he had no plans of sticking around and being grilled.
Val was shivering almost uncontrollably when they finally walked into the Taypikala’s homey lobby with its wide arching doorways. Inca prints hung on walls drenched with warm yellow paint. Despite the fire burning in a huge fireplace, the faint, ever-present scent of mold and mildew permeated the building.
He registered using one of the many fake IDs he carried and made short work of booking a suite for “Adolph and Gretchen Krauss.” Then he hustled Valentina up to their second-floor room and locked the door behind them.
“Shower. Now,” he demanded, locating the wall thermostat and cranking up the heat.
She stood shivering with her arms around her waist, her sodden hair trailing down her back and her teeth rattling like dice on a craps table.
“Better yet, soak in a hot tub,” he suggested, physically leading her into the small bathroom.
“Jesus,” he muttered when a violent shiver ripped through her. “You’re an ice cube.”
He turned on the hot water full blast, adjusted the temp so it wouldn’t scald her, then set the stopper in the tub.
“Do you need help?” he asked, watching her with concern. She was at the brittle cold stage. He’d been there. During Hell Week in BUD/S training there’d been times he’d been so cold it felt like his eyelids would shatter if he blinked.
She shook her head, the movement jerky and stiff. “N . . . no. I can do it.”
No, he decided after a quick assessment. She couldn’t. He started unbuttoning the shirt he’d loaned her.
“Hush,” he said when she opened her mouth to protest.
His own fingers were stiff with cold but he worked as fast as he could, then stripped his heavy, wet shirt down her arms and tossed it on the floor.
Next came her turtleneck. He clenched his jaw then tugged it over her head, determined not to buckle when she stood there, naked from the waist up except for a filmy black scrap of a bra. Her nipples, puckered tight with cold, poked like pencil erasers against the transparent bra cups.
Focus, jackass.
With a deep breath, he dropped to one knee and went to work on her jeans . . . then damn near lost it when he finally managed to peel the wet denim down her legs. All that was underneath them besides the ace bandage wrapped around her knee was a tiny black thong.
A man could only take so much before he broke—and he was at the breaking point.
He stood, and abruptly headed for the door. “You take it from here.”
He made himself softly close the door, just to prove he had it in him. Then he sagged back against it and counted to ten. When the image of her standing there next to naked refused to roll on out of his mind’s eye, he thought, Fuck it.
Then he closed his eyes and let himself savor the memory. Every inch of goose-bump-covered, caramel-colored skin. Every sleek, sensual curve. Every delectable detail. Like the tiny, sexy mole high on the inside of her left thigh, where her skin was satin soft; and the little gold stud tucked into her belly button.
Hell, even her navel drove him nuts. He was a sucker for an inny. He wanted to dip the tip of his tongue into that indentation, then lick his way down to the sweet spot between her thighs. A shudder ripped through him when he relived the moment on his knees in front of her. His mouth had been inches away from tasting her.
The sound of sloshing water triggered yet another erotic picture. Valentina naked in the tub, the water lapping over the swell of her breasts, teasing her nipples, swirling between her thighs.
Fire boiled through his blood.
Jesus. What was he, fourteen again?
On the bright side, at least he wasn’t cold anymore. Hard as a damn anvil, but not cold.
He dragged a hand over his face, sucked in a controlling breath, then rapped the back of his knuckles against the door before opening it a crack.
“Use this if you have to,” he said, placing the Glock on the vanity. “I’ll be back in less than thirty minutes. Don’t open up to anyone but me, okay?”
Silence, then more sloshing, followed by a soft “Okay.”
He quickly shut the door, then shook himself to shed the erotic images of the two of them together. He didn’t bother to change into dry clothes. It was still raining and he’d just get soaked again. He dug some cash out of his pack and got the hell out before he did something stupid. Like kick the bathroom door off its hinges, pull her out of that tub, and take her against the wall.
Yeah, that would impress the hell out of her.
Swearing under his breath, he punched the lobby door open with the flat of his hand and stepped out into the rain.
Val had thought she was never going to be warm again. After several minutes submerged to her chin in the hot bath, however, she felt her blood begin to thaw. After several more, she gradually stopped shivering and started feeling human.
She had never been so cold. There had been that time on the beach at La Jolla in January when the photographer had insisted on twenty bikini changes and hundreds of shots before he’d called it a day. But there’d been a tent with a heater, hot coffee, and heavy robes in between each series of shots. She hadn’t been on the run since three in the morning then, either. Hadn’t hidden for over an hour in a mountainside cave, hadn’t killed a man . . .
Another violent shiver consumed her. She did not want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about how afraid she’d been when she’d heard movement outside in the forest, and knew it wasn’t Luke. How she’d instinctively sensed, even before they’d found her, that they would discover her hiding there.
How she had lain there, mouse quiet, hands shaking, and known that she might have to actually shoot that rifle to survive.
She closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrant steam rising from bubble bath. Yet she still smelled the acrid scent of spent gunpowder. Still felt the kick of the rifle slamming against her shoulder. Saw the deep crimson stain spreading across the man’s chest. Remembered thinking that his eyes had died even before his body had fallen.
She’d killed a man.
She sat up abruptly and uncapped the bottle of shampoo set on the rim of the tub. Then she scrubbed her hair vigorously, rinsed, and did it all over again. She managed to keep her hands busy for several minutes before finally making herself get out of the tub.
After lavishing on the entire mini bottle of body lotion she’d found in a basket on the vanity, she wrapped a bath towel around herself sarong style. She was using her fingers to comb her hair when she heard the hotel room door open and close.
She whipped her head around. Listened. Reached for the gun, wondering if she could make herself pull the trigger again if she had to.
“Valentina, it’s me.”
Her shoulders sagged in relief. She hadn’t realized how wildly her heart was jumping until she felt its hard beat beneath her palm. Hadn’t realized how vulnerable she felt until she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror, and saw the reflection of fear on her face.
Pathetic. Disgusted, she turned toward the door when Luke rapped it with his knuckles.
“Princess? You still with me?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Open the door, okay? I come bearing gifts.”
She clutched the towel tighter around her breasts and cracked open the door. Steam rolled out of the small bathroom; cooler air rushed in.
“Dry clothes.” He held ou
t a paper sack. “Hope they fit.”
She opened her mouth to thank him, but abruptly stopped. Something on the other side of the door smelled amazing. “Oh, God. Please tell me that’s food.”
“And not a raw potato in sight. Get dressed, then come out. But toss me a towel first, okay?”
She took a better look at him then and realized he was still soaked to the bone. Feeling guilty, she handed him a towel. Then, forgoing the wet underwear that she’d hung over a towel bar to dry, she pulled on a black sweater that was soft and warm and exactly her size. The jeans were a good fit, too, and the thick black socks felt like heaven.
She walked out of the bathroom tugging her damp hair out from under the cowl neck of the sweater, feeling guilty that she’d been soaking here in the warm hotel room while he’d braved the rain again.
Guilt was shoved out of the way by appreciation when she saw him standing with his bare back to her, pulling on a pair of dry camouflage cargo pants.
He’d slung the white hotel towel around his neck, leaving his broad shoulders bare. Leaving the tan skin of his torso that narrowed to his lean waist bare. Leaving her wondering at the scars that peppered all that exposed skin.
Zipped and buttoned, he tugged a tan T-shirt out of the backpack on the floor. And damn if her mouth didn’t go a little dry as she stared at his butt in all its tight, narrow glory. The man was buff. The man was . . . Oh God.
She gasped when he turned around and she saw the long, angry scar that ran under his rib cage and wrapped around his waist, where the insulted flesh was thickened and puckered, then disappeared into his pants near his navel. “What happened to you?”
She couldn’t keep the horror from her voice. Something that big, something that invasive . . . it could have killed him. Should have killed him.
You think I’m not scared?
His words came back to her with the clarity of a diamond. Back when they’d been hiding, he’d told her he got scared, too. She hadn’t believed him; had thought he was trying to make her feel better.
Maybe she believed him now.