“In two hours?”
“Two and a quarter, to be exact.” He tilted his head back and grinned at Heath. “And then I’ll have a few extra million in gambling money.”
Heath eyed the ring on Bratton’s left hand. He’d been hoping the group from Venezuela would come up with the high bid in Bratton’s little auction. After all the time he’d spent helping Uncle Sam engineer the coup against Chavez, he knew how this radical splinter group thought, the moves they would make. Even their desperate attack on the limo in Chicago hadn’t totally caught him by surprise.
But the Russians were a mystery to him, and since this was a personal project and not a mission for the red, white, and blue, Heath didn’t have any resources other than his own.
He had to take care of this and get out before they arrived. “I’ll handle everything.”
“Good. I’ll also need a new pair of shoes.”
“Very well.”
“And the girl. I want her waiting for me when the deal is over. I want to celebrate.”
“I will arrange for it.”
Bratton stretched out his feet, plunking them on the table and resting his head back, nice and relaxed. “I want a young one for real this time. Real young.”
Heath stopped directly behind him. “Sí, Mr. Bratton. That I know.”
“And she should be pretty. Fresh. A virgin would be good. Nothing better than busting a cherry, teaching her how to suck.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bratton. I’ll make sure you get exactly what you deserve.”
“You’d better. It’s your job.”
“Sí.” And now that Heath knew the time and place of Bratton’s meeting, it was a job he didn’t need anymore.
Heath leaned forward over the back of the sofa. Faster than Bratton’s brain could function, he snaked his right arm around the CEO’s neck, pinching the man’s double chins in the V of his elbow and grabbing his left arm below his biceps. Slapping his left palm to the back of Bratton’s head, he forced the cabron’s head down as he pulled his right arm against the man’s throat in a choke hold.
The position could be used two ways, both to cut off blood to the brain or air to the lungs. Heath went for the blood, compressing Bratton’s carotid arteries in his neck until little could eek through.
Bratton lashed out with his legs, shoes clanging against the coffee table, tipping it over. His hands came up, clawing at Heath’s arms, raking in the air for his face.
Heath held him fast. He struggled for only a few seconds, the movements getting more sluggish until they stopped completely, Bratton’s brain shutting down, his muscles softened, slumping into unconsciousness.
Heath held him for several minutes longer, and then released him with a sharp twist, breaking the man’s neck just to be sure.
For a moment, he stared at Dominic Bratton’s body, waiting for some kind of emotion that never came. As many times as he’d visualized killing Bratton over the past weeks, he didn’t get much satisfaction from it now. The man was not a challenge. And as much as he disliked him, he didn’t feel the need for vengeance.
It was the end of an annoyance, like swatting a buzzing mosquito, no more.
Turning away, Heath walked to the bathroom, gathered a towel and cloth, then returned to the body. He washed the CEO’s hands, scrubbed under his fingernails, and lathered up the soap until the golden ring slid free before toweling him off.
Next he took Bratton’s wallet, fat with cash and credit cards, slipped it into his pocket, then washed up his own arms. He had a few scratches from Bratton’s death grip, and carefully rolled his sleeves down to hide them. Then, wadded up towels in hand, he started for the door.
Heath was reaching for the knob when a knock sounded. He stepped to the side and resisted the urge to peer through the peephole. “Who is it?”
“Simone.”
She was here sooner than he’d guessed. A few seconds later, he would be gone and she would be a pleasant memory.
Now she was an obstacle; a beautiful and deadly one.
He opened the door. “Dios mio, look at you.”
She no longer pretended to be a young girl. Now dressed in a pair of black jeans, sandals, and a blue silk blouse, she looked casual and expensive and good enough to eat. She held a bottle of Patron Platinum in one hand and two snifters in the other. Not quite Burdeos, but still a step above. “Sorry to bother you, but I was concerned about Dominic.”
“Ah, yes. I bet you were.”
“How is he feeling?”
“Not well. A sore throat, I’m afraid. He’s staying in for the rest of the night, bonita.”
“Staying in? Then shouldn’t I—”
“No, no. He doesn’t wish to see anyone.”
“Not anyone, or not me?”
He pressed his lips into an apologetic line. “He has decided that you are older than you seemed.”
“I told you I should have left the pigtails in.”
“Sí, and you were right. But what’s done is done. Still you are in a nice hotel and have a nice suite, no?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“So this whole experience, it’s not so bad. You have a pleasant vacation, try your hand at some blackjack for real, and you don’t have to see Mr. Bratton again.”
“In that case…” Holding up the bottle, she handed him a snifter and shot him a coy smile that made his blood pressure step up a notch. “Want to share?”
“I thought you brought that for Mr. Bratton. It is an expensive gift for a bodyguard. I hate to see you throw away all your money.”
“If it makes you feel better, I charged it to my room. So you can thank Mr. Bratton for it, not me.”
Heath let a smile creep over his lips. “You never cease to arouse me.”
“Good. Because I was also hoping I could settle up my blackjack debt.”
Stepping out of Bratton’s suite, Heath closed the door behind him. He needed to disappear before the Russians arrived. With work left to do and only two hours until the meeting, he might be cutting it close, but the risk would be worth it and not just because he’d wanted to bed this woman since he first laid eyes on her. It would also give him a chance to tie up a few loose ends.
The first: discovering who Simone worked for.
The second: Simone herself.
“I was hoping you would feel that way, querida, because I am in the mood for a challenge.”
Chandler
“In the world of an assassin, there is no place for mercy,” The Instructor said. “Strike first, strike hard, and strike lethally. Kill or be killed. There is no other way.”
Heath zigged to the side and tossed a couple of towels into a maid’s cart before leading me to his suite one door over.
Within striking distance of Bratton’s.
All I had to do was take Heath out and get my hands on his key card, and this op would be as good as in the bag.
Heath’s suite was much larger than mine. We crossed an Italian marble foyer and stepped into a carpeted dining area. Beyond I could see a sitting room looking out over the bright lights of the Strip, and to the right, an open doorway led to the bedroom.
“I’m pleased with the Platinum, but would you prefer something else?” He gestured to the wet bar and held out his hand for the booze.
“The Platinum is fine. I’ll pour. Would you mind getting some ice?”
“You are not going to put ice in good tequila.”
I gave him a smile. “Of course not. The ice is for something else.”
As I’d hoped, he grabbed the ice bucket off the bar and made for the door immediately.
So far, so good.
I fished my mascara out of my purse, twisted off the cover, and tapped a good dose of powder into one of the highball glasses. Flunitrazepam, more commonly known as Rohypnol, roofies, or the date rape drug, came in pill form, but to get the substance to dissolve quickly, grinding the tablets into a powder was necessary. The pills were commonly dyed blue to prevent people from sneaking it into an unsu
specting victim’s drink, but Jacob had gotten me the uncolored variety, and he’d done such a good job of turning the pills to powder, that they dissolved as soon as I splashed tequila into Heath’s glass.
Flunitrazepam acted as a hypnotic, inducing sleep, but it also had the nifty side effect of causing anterograde amnesia. With the dose that I’d given him, Heath would sleep for a good long while and have a hard time remembering what happened after he ingested the drug. Instead of having to kill him, I would merely leave him with a bad hangover.
Just as I was pouring a healthy shot into a second glass, the door rattled, and Heath returned. He passed me, heading straight into the bedroom, and set the ice bucket on the nightstand.
I followed with both drinks and handed him his glass.
“To debts paid,” I said, raising my drink.
“To a challenge.” He reached up and unfastened the buttons of my blouse with one hand, spreading the silk open and revealing my bare skin. Then instead of drinking, he dipped his finger in the tequila and circled a nipple.
My body tightened, chills fanning out over my body.
“So responsive.” He followed with his mouth, warmth chasing the alcohol’s cool, first soft with his tongue, then sharp with his teeth.
An involuntary squeak issued from my throat.
“You like that, don’t you?” He dipped his finger again and started playing the game with my other breast.
At this rate, it would take him forever to finish his drink and start to feel the effects of the flunitrazepam. But with his mouth doing delicious things to me, I was having trouble convincing myself a small delay was a bad thing.
“It killed me to see Bratton’s hands on you when I knew you were meant for me.”
As if to prove it, he skimmed his fingers up my side, over my chest, and cradled the back of my head in his hand. Then he claimed my mouth.
His touch was gentle. His kiss was not.
He pressed hard against me, hungry, demanding, as if he wanted everything I had to give and still it wouldn’t be enough.
I tangled my tongue with his, the kiss more fight than tenderness, more desperate than loving. I fitted my body hard against him, every inch, and clawed his tie free with one hand. The buttons on his shirt came next, until we were finally standing skin to skin.
Next I went for his pants. My drink still in one hand, his fly took longer than I liked, and by the time I tried to ease it down, his erection pressed tight against the zipper. I lowered it as much as I could, and then reached inside and pulled him free.
I rubbed my abdomen against him and moved my hand to the back of his pants, as if to push them down his legs. When I slipped the wallet from his pocket, he didn’t seem to notice.
Moaning, he pulled away from me. “Drink.”
I downed the rest of my tequila and handed him the empty snifter.
Carrying my glass back to the bar in the dining room, he tipped back his head and downed his tequila, and I tucked the wallet between the cushions of a nearby chair.
He returned with a filled glass and gave it to me. In his other hand, he held the bottle. “It is more convenient this way, no?”
We each took a swig, then he set down both glass and bottle next to the ice and kissed me.
The taste of him mingled with the bite of tequila, and before I could think about it, our kiss had again taken on a force of its own.
Heat.
Hunger.
Desperation.
I wanted more.
I wanted everything.
When Heath finally pulled away, we were both out of breath. “You kiss like you are on fire, no? Are you on fire, bonita?”
He didn’t wait for my answer; instead he swept his hands up my sides and skimmed my open blouse off my shoulders. My jeans came next, and my panties. Then he took off his own clothes, quickly and efficiently.
I watched him undress. He was as fit as I was, defined and lean, almost as many scars and miscellaneous scrapes and scratches, and I felt a pressing need to touch every part of him. As far as sex drives went, mine had always been strong, but I was still surprised at my visceral reaction. I often felt the need for sex after completing an op. But sex in the middle of an op, at least sex with a man I really wanted to sleep with, was a bit more unusual. Whether it was the adrenaline or the man that had me this turned on was hard to say, but Heath was right.
I was on fire.
This time when I kissed him, I took him in my hands. He was already hard, and I reveled in the size of him, the weight. I pushed him backward until he hit the bed. Letting out a laugh, he sat on the mattress.
I sank to my knees, edged between his legs, and captured him with my mouth. Taking him deep into my throat, I moved my tongue down the underside of his shaft then slowly pulled back until I was flicking at the tip. All the while, I watched him, looking directly into his eyes, showing him how much I wanted him.
I knew many women disliked giving head, but I loved it. There was nothing more exciting, more empowering, than looking into a man’s eyes and knowing I had complete control. That for as long as I wanted, he was not only my plaything but my willing slave. The power rush was a turn on with normal men.
With Heath it made me feel invincible.
I circled him with tongue and lips then devoured him again. The third time, I brought my hand to him, stroking him, fondling his balls. I took an ice cube from the bucket and slipped it into my mouth, then took him as well, working the cold around him, over him, and then warming him again with my mouth. I arched my back and slipped him between my breasts, moving up and down his length, the tip of him emerging only to sink back down.
His eyes looked glazed, the muscles of his jaw slack. He let out a moan, a muffled querida, and several nasty curses in Spanish.
He grasped my shoulders, lifted me up onto his lap, and fitted my body over his. I sank down onto him, more than wet, more than ready, and as I took in his full length, an orgasm seized my muscles and shuddered through me.
But I didn’t stop. He wouldn’t let me.
He thrust up into me as I plunged down onto him. As the first orgasm subsided, another built. Sweat slicked my skin and stung the corners of my eyes. My breasts bounced with our movement, and he nipped and licked one nipple then the other.
I could feel his muscles tense, feel him start to shake, to shudder, then he grabbed hold of me and buried his face in my chest.
I clung to him, held him, shaking as hard as he was. Then our breathing slowed, and I could feel him relax inside me.
For long time he was still, and I wondered if he’d finally succumbed to the flunitrazepam. I kissed his forehead. “Heath?”
“Just regaining my strength. You took it out of me.” He rolled over and laid me on the bed, my head on the pillows. Stretching length to length, he kissed me deep and slow. He littered kisses down my neck and over my chest. “You have bewitched me, no? I need to taste all of you, querida, see all, so I can remember.”
Taste and see? Sure. Remember? Not so much.
He kissed me again, and then pushed himself up from the bed. Picking up my glass from the nightstand, he handed it to me, grabbed the bottle for himself, and took a chug.
I settled for a sip. Heath should be feeling his roofie cocktail pretty strongly by now, and I needed to keep my mind sharp, not clouded with alcohol. I hadn’t eaten since the appetizer in Chicago, and I could already feel my first drink sending a warm shimmer through my muscles.
Or maybe that was Heath’s still-hungry stare.
“Open, bonita. I want to see you.”
I spread my legs for him, cold air rushing over heated skin.
For a long time, he just stood there, exploring me as intimately with his gaze as he had with fingers and tongue and cock.
I had a great body, if you didn’t count the many scars I’d earned over the years, and I liked the feeling of showing it off to men. But somehow this was different, hotter, more intense than any exhibitionist thrill I’d ever had. I
felt out of breath, maybe even a little dizzy.
It had been way too long since I’d had this much fun. I wanted more. “Come back to bed.”
“In a moment, querida. Right now I am too mesmerized by your beauty to move.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Am I?”
I was starting to get impatient. “Yes. Now get back here and fuck me.”
“So demanding.”
“Afraid you can’t keep up?”
“I’ve already given you three orgasms, my greedy chica.”
“Afraid you can’t manage four?”
“I can manage more than that.”
“Prove it.”
He took another swig from the bottle, then mouth still fresh with tequila, he climbed between my open thighs and brought his mouth to me.
The first touch of his tongue sent ice through me, then as he slowly licked and teased, the sensation turned to flame.
It had been a long time, all right, and I felt giddy with sex, drunk with it.
I leaned my head back, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the grit of whiskers against sensitive skin, the fat, lazy strokes of his lips and tongue. The pressure built, only for him to pull away, and then kiss and caress and torment until it built again.
Another orgasm claimed me, coaxing a scream from my lips before I could choke it back.
“You are so beautiful.” Heath laughed, a warm sound, a nice sound. He moved up my body, grasped my chin with one hand, and claimed my lips.
His mouth tasted like the two of us, mingled until we were one, and for a second, I let myself give in; to the kiss, to the man, to the longing I tried never to acknowledge.
Then I felt the handcuff click around my wrist.
I yanked my arm back, but he’d already fastened the bracelet to the bed.
How did I not notice that?
“What? You don’t like your kinky game now?”
Of course, the handcuffs were from my purse, the ones I’d intended to use on Bratton if the need arose. I eyed Heath. If he passed out, and I was still cuffed to the bed like this…
“Let me go, Heath.”
“You don’t like?”
“No. I only use those if the john likes to be tied up.”
“Where did you get this?” He smoothed a hand over my abdomen and traced the small, white scar on the lower part of my belly button.
Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) Page 6