“If Moreau has bought off the police and military, are there a few honest members of the Haitian police? Is anyone brave enough to stand up to him?”
“There are a few. Not a lot.”
“We only need a few.” Rick handed Odney a legal pad. “Give us the names and contact numbers. I’ll need five men here tomorrow morning. Can you make that happen?”
Odney considered, and then wrote down the names. “I’m giving you the names of only the most reliable. You can count on these men.”
* * * *
Cat shivered with a foreboding chill despite the heat of the day, and the car melting in the California sun. Searching for some semblance of normalcy in her increasingly insane world, she fiddled with the sound system, and then plugged in her iPod. She’d been grateful to find the tiny piece of electronics stuffed deep inside the pocket of her E-reader case. She didn’t actually remember owning it, or making the mix that comprised the playlist. Did it hold some secret message which would clarify her missing weeks?
She tapped “play” and prayed for a revelation. The car drove itself as Cat sang along while weaving in and out of traffic. The music served as a soundtrack to bits and pieces of memories or fantasies? Vampires lived among mortals? She struggled with the recollections. Matt had been her boyfriend. She’d known he was a vampire, and yet, somehow not a vampire. He and Rick… Rick! Rick was a vampire, too! She remembered she had been convinced of it the night she’d awakened at the brownstone, and he’d ridiculed the assertion as “a strong dream!”
“A dream, my ass,” she muttered, and headed in the direction of the Consort Group’s Los Angeles headquarters.
If she’d hoped for some sort of epiphany when she saw the building, Cat was certainly disappointed now. She sat in the car, eying the elite traffic pulling into the shaded portico. Her heart pounded a drum beat staccato, and her spine felt like a string drawn taunt with some invisible master plucking a deep tone within her. She’d never consciously been here before, but somehow she knew this building, knew Rick’s office was on the top floor. Well, logically, wasn’t that always where the boss’s office was? She had been here with Matt before. She knew it, and things—unsettling things—had happened to her.
What the hell secrets did this fortress of power hide? She had to find out. She threw the car into drive, and then slid back into traffic, intending to give her car to the valet at the Consort building. At the last minute, she bailed and wound up circling the block several times as she struggled with the idea of actually going in. She avoided the turn into the portico, and she assumed there was a reason for that. She shouldn’t chance it. In the end, she settled for the registration drive of the hotel on the next block.
An elegantly uniformed attendant opened her car door, calling her solidly into the present. “Checking in, miss?”
She couldn’t afford this hotel, but the rental car intimated she could. Cat nodded and gave the key fob to the hovering man. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Her voice strengthened with each word.
“Luggage in the trunk?”
Cat dodged the question. “Please, just park it for now, would you?” She smoothed her hair into a twist with a clip and then dug for tip money in her pocket. “I’ll take care of the luggage later.” Much, much later.
Without deliberate thought, Cat found herself inside the glass and marble structure that housed Consort Group International’s financial headquarters. Icy air chilled the nervous sweat trickling down her spine as she observed the hive of employees clicking past her—strikingly dressed women in towering stilettos and serious men in black or pinstriped suits. She took a seat on one of the lush, low-slung leather sofas spaced across the lobby and watched the rhythm of the elevators as they ejected the anointed doing business with, or working for Consort Group.
One particular elevator stood alone without the steady opening and closing which kept the others occupied, nor did it have the usual call buttons. At this one, only a card reader stood sentry. Watching it, a song from the playlist pounded in her brain, Building a Mystery by Sarah McLachlan.
Dark and dangerous and… irresistible… things happened on the floor that elevator served. Cat was certain of it, just as she was certain Matt initiated her into its mysteries—into a world where control meant everything in the right hands.
That elevator had borne her into a realm where one partner could hold absolute control over another and lead them into sweet, painful ecstasy. One partner could sense the other coming by scent alone, if they were vampire. Surety thrummed through her, and with it, the knowledge that wherever he was, whatever had happened to them, Matt introduced her to a world few humans knew existed.
Snippets of conversation flew by her as Cat dragged memories up from her subconscious. As if she could make it happen by willpower alone, she visualized the stainless-steel elevator door opening to reveal the face she knew only in furtive dreams. Matt’s face. She longed to see the powerful build of the man she fantasized about when she touched herself in bed late at night. Bleakly, she acknowledged the sighting was unlikely.
Being here is trouble. Love is trouble, and I am a fool. I need to get out of here. She gathered up her shoulder bag and the sweater she carried in case of a chill, and then headed for the door.
Chapter 20
Matt loosened his tuxedo jacket as he strode masterfully onto the dance floor, keeping rhythm with the beat. He slid out of his coat with a flourish, and then hooked it over his shoulder, taking it with him for the few steps it took to approach Veronique.
He must become the ultimate alpha to wrest her attention from Dias’s dominance. He summoned all his knowledge and control to accomplish the task. Once he reached her, he hurled the coat away. He caught Veronique’s arm as it arched in a flourish. With one calculated snap, Matt yanked her from her partner’s embrace and stole the dance.
Veronique’s moss-green eyes widened when she found herself in the box of his embrace. A triumphant smile curved her lips. Before she toed back, she dipped and rose, sliding her pelvis past his, kindling arousal.
Matt splayed his fingers to comb down her bare arms, marking her flesh. She liked it when it hurt, he knew. Veronique’s exotic eyes flashed in challenge.
Matt remained coolly impassive as he commanded the dance. Posed at arm’s length, he grabbed a fistful of her dark silken hair and, in step with the score, drew her head back, revealing the café-au-lait length of her throat. His fangs dropped a tantalizing fraction. He summoned his fortitude. Had he ever demanded this much of himself? A quick lick against her mocha-colored throat was accompanied by a husky growl. Veronique shuddered slightly and eyed him curiously.
Matt knew submissives well enough to know if he bit her, sank fang into flesh right there on the dance floor, she wouldn’t be able to resist him. She was doing a good job of playing hard to get, but in the end, he knew he’d have her.
Matt’s audacious moves cleared away the other dancers, and the violins swelled. Wrapping her waist-length hair around his fist, he wound it end over end, arching her neck dangerously, and crashing their bodies together in an erotic rush. You can’t top me, Matt’s look insisted.
The violinist’s bow trembled out a refrain as Matt brushed his lips over her cool flesh, deliberately amping up the pheromones. She struggled against his strength to return the kiss, yet he cruelly refused to satisfy her. She pouted. “Let me love you,” all but pled from her pores. He yanked the fist he’d wound through her hair as he trailed the point of his tongue sensuously down to the crevice of her décolleté. His gaze stayed riveted on hers.
“Give in.” He snarled.
She gasped and arched toward him, but Matt cast her away, sending her skirt swirling wide as she spun half the distance of the dance floor. Satisfied at her look of dismay, he circled her like a predator as her billowing skirt settled around her.
I’m not as easy as you thought, am I? Matt reflected triumphantly.
Veronique’s disdainful ruby lips spat at him. He narrowed his eyes in
to a provocative glare while her hand rose and their fingers interlaced. Matt’s gaze locked on hers, beckoning her with a hint of desire, just enough.
Matt understood her hungry invitation. With a growl, he grabbed the back of her neck and snatched her nose to nose with him. She resisted him, pulling away and delivering a crisp slap across his handsome face. A classic move for a woman trying to top from the bottom. He would never allow it.
He countered by encircling her waist, lifting her to toss her away. Determined, Veronique clung to him, her hair whipping through the air, her laugh haughty.
Matt continued the battle for supremacy. He pried her loose. “You won’t top me. Don’t try.”
He flung her away, and she landed on her perfectly rounded bum and spun to an elegant stop. She buried her face in her knees as if in defeat, her lush locks spread over her shoulders like an ebony cape.
Before he could react, her pointed toe darted out, and she vaulted to rise on the balls of her satin pumps. Veronique licked her lips, her chest heaving. Very un-vamp-like, Matt thought, probably an indication of how aroused their battle of wills made her.
Matt stalked her, twisting her cape of hair into a rope. He felt her resistance waning. Pulling her into a deep dip loosed her hair and swept it along the floor as he bowed her spine.
Their furtive war played out to the music’s counterpoint marking, their bodies moved gracefully. Clear, repetitive pulses measured their steps and drove them tightly together. A piano plumbed the lowest notes, mirroring the lust exemplified in the dance.
Once more, Veronique lifted to kiss him, and again Matt rebuked her by spinning her away. Weeping, she hid her face with her forearms, her hands covering her head in a defensive pose. He watched her submit, knew his goal was within his grasp. Their dance was more a battlefield than a seduction, but that worked for Ronnie. He fought the betrayal of his own body. Her surrender was incontestably erotic.
Stepping behind her, Matt caught her shoulders. He shook her, demanding she snap out of her piteous pose. She anchored herself in firm defiance for a millisecond, and then his strength overpowered hers. He watched her yield, feeling triumph surge through his body.
Their fingers clasped and their foreheads touched—Matt hissed out his frustration.
“What?” Veronique inquired innocently.
“You know what,” Matt snapped, commandeering their steps.
“Why are you here?” she taunted. “Have you come for me?” Her eyelashes fluttered, instantly coy.
Matt’s gaze bore into hers. “What man doesn’t come for you?”
“Oh, Matt.”
“Don’t get cocky,” he ground out. “We need to talk.” Matt slid into the end of the dance, her leg between his, as he bent her back over his arm, nose to nose. “You’ve reneged on our agreement, you owe me.”
He drew her upright, and with a twirl, escorted her off the floor. “It was a circumstance beyond my control.”
“Really?” Matt was unimpressed. “Is that why you’re here with Dias? Discussing something beyond your control?”
“Jealous?”
“Head out to the balcony. I’ll show you what I am.” He tucked her hand over his throbbing erection, and she groaned.
* * * *
Rick smirked. By the time the Drug Enforcement Administration completed the raid on Moreau’s dockside warehouse the following morning, Moreau was only too willing to schedule the noon meeting with him. The authorities didn’t have enough to charge Moreau specifically, but the entire event was unsettling enough to make the ancient vamp rethink his current incarnation in Haiti. The better part of valor might be to sell his interests, and disappear to a more hospitable locale.
“There are some men at the hotel gate asking for you, sir,” Giles Paquet informed Rick as he turned from the phone.
Rick looked up from the television coverage of the raid. It’d been conducted immediately before dawn, and netted the Haitian Federal Police an estimated twenty-four million dollars’ worth of cocaine.
“Odney’s friends?”
“It would seem so, sir.”
Rick nodded with satisfaction. “Give them directions.” He looked around at the assault rifles laying in a row across the dining room table.
Five impressive men in uniform stood before Rick. If they were as loyal and competent as they appeared, this would work without a hitch.
“Moreau and three of his bodyguards will be here at noon,” Rick informed the resolute men, who fingered their new rifles and watched him with interest. “We’ll have the advantage of numbers and some uncommon weaponry. It’s crucial you give nothing away in your manner. Are you good poker players?”
The men before him broke into broad grins. “Mai oui, monsieur, we understand how to keep our poker faces,” Ricardo, their informal leader agreed.
“It’s vital,” Rick smacked his flat palm on the desk top. “My men will be outside, ready to trap Moreau and his guards.” As he spoke, he counted and stacked several gold Krugerrands on his desk before each man as payment. “You’ll be inside with them, armed with enough ammunition to stop them many times over.”
Ricardo’s eyes widened looking at the glittering stacks. “We will not let you down, monsieur, we’re only to hold them here in this room?”
“Why? You want to do more?” Rick grinned. “You won’t have a struggle for long, and they won’t have weapons. Are you up for it?”
The ring leader laughed. “With the greatest of pleasure.”
“All right then. When I leave you alone with them, the fun will begin.”
Rick dared not give them more information. The fact that their automatic weapons would be loaded with silver bullets would be an eccentricity to these men, but equally as deadly as lead, from their perspective.
His security team had completed work on the suite’s ventilation system long before sunrise. The powerful compressor, hidden in the lush foliage, stood ready to pump aerosolized silver into the air conditioning system. It would deliver more than enough to immobilize, if not kill every vamp in the room, including Papa Moreau. The beauty of it was it would have no effect on the humans. They probably wouldn’t even notice it.
At the stroke of noon, Rick came face-to-face with Moreau. He considered he might have played a more dangerous game of “chicken” than he anticipated.
* * * *
Cat’s leaving was arrested by a singular ding. As if summoned by an ironic goddess, that elevator opened to reveal a glamorous, black-haired woman dressed in a painted-on, black leather pencil skirt and vest, walking competently on shiny stiletto pumps.
The stunning creature was framed by the matte steel doors as if she were a living poster for a high-priced dominatrix. Suicide red lips pouted as she cautiously stepped out of the elevator’s dim glow. A Venus of sorts in full-grain leather, she glided across the marble floor, secreting an item in her elegant hands.
Venus stopped in front of a vulnerable-looking twenty-something man, who stood behind a podium meant to signify his authority as a security guard. He might have been the least authoritative figure Cat had ever seen.
Cat spied on them, pretending to read a magazine as she watched them through her lashes. The beauty carefully placed a stack of keycards before Junior.
“These are for the initiates,” her beautiful face was stern. “The ten o’clock event, got it?” She turned on her high heels.
Junior swallowed and straightened his shoulders, extending his five-feet-ten portly frame by almost an inch. “You bet.”
Venus stopped in her tracks. She turned slowly, watching the dork pick up the cards. Eyes narrowed, she tilted her head, the ends of her long, black hair playing tantalizingly around the V of her leather vest. His gaze followed the caress of her locks.
“Rephrase,” she demanded, her whisper dark and whiskey-smooth.
He gulped hard as his hands hovered over the cards. “I…I…mean, yes, Ms. Rawlings. The ten o’clock event. I understand.”
In his o
bedience, he seemed ten times more awkward. Venus stared at him as if judging his performance, and with a curt nod, accepted his response and was gone, clicking back to the reserved elevator.
The inept man let out a shaky breath, shuffling the cards and spewing them in all directions. Cat reflexively sprang toward the podium, placing a foot over one of the cards which migrated away from the rest.
Cat took advantage of his flustered state. The guard was still grabbing up stray cards when she spoke. “Hello, I’d like to see Rick, please, if he’s in?” She knew perfectly well he wasn’t, unless he’d stalked her to L.A.
“Rick?” Now the man behind the podium was flummoxed. He gaped at Cat and swallowed hard, his voice a nervous squeak. “You mean Rick Hiatt?” He held the unruly cards to his chest as he stared at her.
“Right.” She maintained unblinking eye contact as she dragged the foot covering the keycard closer, hoping he didn’t look down at her black patent pumps.
Wrestling the slippery cards below the podium prompted him to look down, and Cat struggled to keep his gaze front and center. Casually, she leaned her arms across the podium and rested her silky camisole and its contents within easy view. Predictably, he ogled her, the purloined keycard unnoticed.
“D-Do you have an appointment, Miss…”
His name badge read Brett. “No, Brett, I don’t.” She purred. He was entranced. Cat took a step back and shook her head. “You know what? It’s okay. I’ll call Rick, check in with him before I just show up.” She tipped her purse and keys off the ledge of the podium, aiming them toward the foot covering the card. “I’ll get it.”
Her bent-over position showed cleavage nearly down to her navel as a distraction. She scooped up the keycard along with her bag. Brett watched her hungrily, the contents of her hands the last thing on his mind.
Success! With a parting smile, Cat walked briskly to the door. She closed her eyes when the glass wall slid open. Will bells and sirens ring when I step out the door?
* * * *
Matt led Veronique toward a balcony door, Alejandro Dias stalking close behind them. Matt’s hand on the ornate door plate was arrested by loud, slow clapping. He turned to find Dias glowering.
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