Take It On Faith

by M. L. Rhodes

  * * *

  Amber Quill Press

  www.amberquill.com

  Copyright ©2006 by M. L. Rhodes

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  TAKE IT ON FAITH

  by

  M. L. RHODES

  * * * *

  ISBN 1-59279-515-3

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  Also By M. L. Rhodes

  After Hours

  Heat

  Masks

  Night Shadows, Book I: Night Shadows

  Night Shadows, Book II: Jonesing

  One Enchanted Evening

  The Bodyguard

  The Bounty Hunter

  Well Hung

  Writing as Karin Story

  Where Tigers Prowl

  DEDICATION

  This one's for you, M! With all my love.

  CHAPTER 1

  "Hey, Julio! Quién es la cocha, eh?"

  A huge, bearded, sweaty Mexican pushed his way through the crowd and bellied up to the bar ... literally. His bulk half-crushed Elizabeth Sandringham where she sat on a stool, and his body odor made a walk through Milton's fish and bait shop on the harbor back home in Boston seem like a perfume factory.

  Elizabeth nursed her margarita and concentrated hard on the chinks in the dark wood surface of the bar. She didn't know who Julio was, or what a cocha might be, but she felt Beefy-man's eyes on her. And that gave her a bad feeling he was talking about her.

  The taxi driver had dropped her off in this tiny town, El Piojo, saying it was as far from Acapulco as he could take her. Within moments of his departure, however, the hurt and anger that had driven Elizabeth this far began to wane as sheer physical and emotional exhaustion took over.

  Damn Lionel Thorndale. Two nights before their wedding, and he'd decided now was the time to confess he'd never be able to find satisfaction with her alone. How could he ever have thought she'd ... that she'd...? A shudder wracked her shoulders, and was followed by a sick ache in her heart and another in the pit of her stomach. Almost more painful than Lionel's revelation tonight was the fact she'd been so clueless. She'd always considered herself a smart, down-to-earth person. Clearly not smart enough. She felt stupid and used. And now, far away from Lionel, with her emotional shield tattering around her like shredded paper, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and cry over the miserable farce their relationship had been.

  She'd hoped to find a motel where she could stay until morning, but El Piojo was nothing more than a blip in the road. The best they had was a bar. So she'd called for transportation back to Acapulco, and decided to have a drink while she waited. Once there, she'd get a room for the night and catch the first plane back to the States in the morning.

  However ... at the moment, with the beefy man's BO clouding her senses, she decided getting something to drink hadn't been such a great decision. A woman, alone in a dinky Mexican town, and what did she do? She walked into the sleaze bar from hell.

  "She's a pretty one, eh?” said the bartender, glancing at her. “But too good for the likes of you, Ramirez."

  No, I definitely shouldn't be here. She tipped up her glass, drained the last of the margarita, and laid a couple of fifty-peso bills on the bar.

  But as she tried to rise off the stool to make a quick exit, a meaty hand clutched her shoulder and pushed her back down. “Get her another one of her fancy drinks, Julio. Put it on my tab,” Beefy-man said.

  "Thanks, but I have to go,” she mumbled, trying to pull away.

  He laughed, his breath a cross between dragon excrement and uncooked foie gras. “But I want you to stay."

  Elizabeth's heart pounded. “No, really. I'm going to go now."

  He just laughed again as the bartender set another glass in front of her. His hand was a vise on her shoulder. “Drink up, conejito. I insist!"

  "I-I can't. My fiancé's going to be looking for me.” She winced as she said it because it could be true. And Lionel was the last person she wanted to lay eyes on. Still, he made for a good excuse in this situation. “I, uh, expect him to pick me up any minute.” She forced a smile she hoped was convincing on her face.

  A new presence moved in behind her, a solid wall of flesh. With a swish, a cold metal blade pressed against her neck. “Ramirez says he wants you to stay, puta. I want you to stay, too,” said a voice behind and just above her head. A voice that had the consistency and tone of gritty desert sand.

  Elizabeth swallowed hard and tried to keep her heart from beating her to death. She had no idea who was behind her, and was too terrified to look.

  "Let the girlie go,” the bartender said, wiping the counter with a rag in front of her. “She's too sweet and americano for you boys."

  Ramirez laughed. “Just the way I like them. Sweet mouths to suck my dick. Sweet cunts to stuff full."

  The bartender shrugged and walked away, while Beefy-man dropped a meaty hand on her thigh and squeezed. “What do you think, conejito? You have room inside for la reata grande?” He cupped his cock through his grimy black pants and rubbed it against her arm.

  Bile burned in Elizabeth's throat, but the knife against her neck kept her from wrenching away. Her evening with Lionel was looking like a cake walk right now.

  A loud bang echoed through the room, and, almost like it was happening in slow motion, a chunk of wood from the bar directly next to Elizabeth flew through the air. She jumped, and felt the sting of the blade bite through her skin on the side of her neck. But before she could sort out what was going on, the bar erupted in chaos. People climbed over one another, screaming, running, crashing into tables.

  Ramirez moved like lightning for someone so huge and, before she could swallow, he held a gun in each hand, blocking her view of the door.

  Oh, God. I don't want to die.

  More shots were fired. She was thrown to the ground by the beast behind her, and she finally got a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye as she struck the floor. Bald head, dark goatee, leather vest over a bare chest that sported some kind of tattoo. He, too, held a gun. Something big and scary.

  "Stay down, puta!” the bald one hissed. He kicked her, his booted foot connecting with her ribs, as he let loose a spitting round of gunfire.

  Elizabeth clutched a hand to her chest. Tears welled in her eyes, but another blast of gunfire next to her jolted her into motion. Amidst the screams and crashing of glass and tables, she crawled on her hands and knees and tried to keep from getting stepped on and squashed by the stampede. Keep moving, keep moving.

  Loud shouts in guttural Spanish clashed with gunfire. The two men who'd cornered her stood side by side, spraying bullets at the door. The bartender had disappeared.

  Broken glass gouged into her hands, and her unruly dark hair, pulled loose from its ponytail, straggled into her face and eyes. Panting, she forced herself to move around to the end of the bar.

  She huddled behind it, hoping no one would notice her.

  The crackle of glass above her caused her to glance up. The moment she realized what was happening, she threw her arms over her head to protect herself as the whole wall of shelves behind the bar that held dozens of bottles and glasses, crashed on top of and around her.

  The last thing she remembered before blacking out was seeing the slow spread of red wine on the wood floor ... like a vivid puddle of blood reaching toward her.

  *
* * *

  Elizabeth came around to the feel of something hot and painful on her breasts. Something that ... ow! Something that pinched.

  She swatted the offender away and pried her eyelids open. But she snapped them closed again when everything around her swam.

  Grating laughter rumbled nearby, causing pain to shoot through her skull. Or maybe the pain was already there and the laughter made it worse.

  Then she suddenly remembered where she'd been when she'd blacked out.

  Oh, no!

  She jerked to a sitting position, but had to drop her head to her drawn-up knees because the shooting pain in her skull was so unbearable.

  More laughter. “Eh, conejito, did you drink too much tequila?"

  She was lifted into a broad, odiferous lap. When she opened her eyes once more, she winced against the glare of light.

  "Ah, our little rabbit is coming around,” Beefy-man bellowed. He squeezed her breast.

  Cold fear shot through Elizabeth as she blinked up into his jowly face. What had happened? Where was she? She glanced around, as best she could anyway caught in Ramirez's fleshy embrace, and tried to keep the room from swirling too fast.

  This definitely wasn't the bar. It looked like someone's house—such as it was. The furniture was battered and ratty, filth and trash cluttered the floor, the thin panel walls were stained with God knows what, and the stench of stale beer, cigarettes, and urine battled with Beefy-man's body odor.

  She gagged.

  "Hola, conejito,” Ramirez breathed into her face.

  "Where—Where am I?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

  "Welcome to our happy home.” A yellow-toothed grin split his face under his bushy mustache. “Now that you are awake, we can finish where we left off when we were interrupted by Galista's men.” His hand closed over her breast again, and she caught her breath as he gave it another vigorous squeeze.

  "Don't touch me!"

  "But you want it, little rabbit. Women love Ramirez.” He leaned her back in his arm, laughed, and groped her again until she was certain her breast would pop. Then he moved his hand lower, cupping her between the legs.

  She struggled and wiggled and clamped her knees together, but her head hurt and her actions proved futile.

  "You like to fight, eh?” Ramirez grinned. “More fun for me."

  Suddenly, her legs were spread so far apart she cried out in pain.

  The creepy, goateed, bald guy in the vest stood between her thighs. He took one last drag of a cigarette and tossed it aside. His eyes were emotionless black slits ... like something out of the worst nightmare in the darkest hour of the night.

  "Mine!” Beefy-man snarled, shoving the bald man in the chest.

  The bald one's expression never changed as he glared at Ramirez. But he drew a nasty-looking knife from his vest.

  A graveyard chill crept over Elizabeth. Jesus, they were going to rape her and kill her. There was no doubt in her mind.

  In a deft move, the bald man slit her shirt open from hem to neckline. Her bra fell open a split second later.

  Caught in Ramirez's grasp, she was powerless to do anything. She stared wide-eyed at the demon in front of her, realizing what he could do to her with that knife if he felt the urge.

  Ramirez pulled out a gun with astounding speed and aimed directly at the other man's heart. “I said she is mine, Christo!"

  The demon's unfathomable gaze slid smoothly from studying her bare breasts to meet Ramirez's heated glare.

  "Back away,” Ramirez ordered, his finger flexing over the trigger.

  Elizabeth stared, transfixed, at the long metal barrel of the gun poised only a few inches above her. Her heart raced like a ticking bomb.

  Christo's gaze returned to her, and she saw death in the bottomless pits of his eyes. His tongue forked out of his mouth, twitching in a lewd gesture. “You play now, fat man,” he said in a voice as dead and cold as his eyes. “But when you're done, I will take what is mine."

  "You'll die first.” Ramirez jerked her with him as he lumbered to his feet, his arm locked around her waist in a grip so tight she couldn't breathe. With his free hand, he pressed his gun into Christo's chest.

  A shot echoed.

  Elizabeth screamed and struggled to free herself from Ramirez's grip before Christo could shoot back and hit her.

  "Put the woman down!” The command boomed through the room.

  Ramirez turned, still clutching her under his arm like a rag doll.

  "Now!” the new, steely, deep voice ordered with such raw authority Elizabeth glanced up, startled.

  The devil himself had entered the room—a tall, imposing figure, dressed all in black. He held a gun in his hand pointed at the ceiling. He was the one who'd fired the shot? A glance up at the stained plaster showed his wasn't the first to have been fired in this room.

  "You will tell me what's going on.” He lowered his weapon. It hung casually at his side, but he had a wiry strength, like a panther, and Elizabeth felt certain he could aim and fire again before she could even blink.

  His very presence commanded attention. His glossy, dark brown, shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His face was a study in lean sculpture and raw sensuality. Sinewy muscles bulged beneath his black T-shirt. A solid chest tapered down to a narrow waist, and he was one of those men you just knew had a rippling six-pack under his shirt. He was clad in black jeans and black cowboy boots. And his eyes ... where Christo's were terrifyingly empty and cold, this man's, equally dark, shot sparks of fire.

  "I found her at La Tortuga,” Ramirez said, shifting her against him so her breasts protruded over his arm. “She was mine before Galista's men shot up the place."

  The man in black narrowed his gaze, then stared over Ramirez's shoulder at Christo. “And you? What's your story?"

  "I will take what is mine,” Christo's soulless voice said.

  "I'm not anyone's!” Elizabeth cried. Her stomach knotted at her foolish attempt at bravery, but before she succumbed to fear once more, she managed to add, “When the police find me, you're all going to jail!"

  Ramirez laughed. Christo's cold expression never changed.

  The man in black's gaze flashed over her. “I will not have a woman causing dissention among my men. Release her. Now."

  Ramirez swore in Spanish, but he dropped her onto the filthy, yellow linoleum floor like a sack of potatoes. Her left arm and shoulder took the brunt of the blow, and pain surged through her with a vengeance. She curled into a ball, trying to breathe through it.

  "She belongs to me—"

  "No more,” the man in black snapped, cutting off Ramirez's words. “Anything brought into esta casa is mine."

  "I found her!"

  A sharp slap echoed through the room. There was a scuffle, then a threatening growl.

  "Do not even move for your weapon.” It was the man in black's voice, low, deadly. “If you do, I'll shoot, and you will not be much of a man to any woman."

  Elizabeth dared a glance at the men. Even though he'd been ten feet away from Ramirez just a moment ago, the man in black was now inches from the beefy man, and held his wicked-looking black gun pressed against Ramirez's family jewels.

  "Don't think for a minute that I won't do it,” the man in black said, his voice dangerously soft.

  Ramirez's eyes narrowed into a hateful gleam, but his breathing labored in his chest. Elizabeth could feel his fear. If she hadn't been so terrified herself, she probably would have smirked to see the big guy suffer.

  Ramirez glared at the other man, but he finally nodded.

  "Wise decision.” The man in black slid his gun into the shoulder holster he wore. “Let it be known that from now on, as is my right as leader, esta mujer es la mía.” He took a step back, wrapped a firm hand around Elizabeth's upper arm, and dragged her to her feet. “No one else will touch her."

  He jerked Elizabeth against his chest, which smelled clean and magnificently male after the assault to her senses from Ramire
z, and dropped his mouth onto hers in a hard, invasive kiss. When he pulled back, her legs shook.

  "My woman. Understand?” he demanded of his men in a voice that sent a shiver up her spine.

  Christo banged open the front door and disappeared into the night.

  Ramirez grumbled, staring first at her, then at his leader. Finally he, too, lumbered toward the door. But he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. A smarmy grin lit his face. “He will never fill your bed and body the way I can, little rabbit.” He fondled the bulge in his pants as he spoke. “When you get tired of him, you come to Ramirez. I will make you scream with pleasure."

  Elizabeth's legs gave out as Ramirez's rumbling laugh boomed in her ears, but the man in black's iron arms held her steady.

  When the door slammed, she was bodily picked up in those well-defined arms. Her head lolled against her captor's shoulder, his warm, woody scent wafted around her, and long legs strode through the house, carrying her to meet her fate.

  * * * *

  She must have passed out again because the next thing Elizabeth felt was something cool on her forehead, and she thought she heard words of comfort whispered in her ear. She relaxed, feeling a soft mattress beneath her, and decided she must have been dreaming the whole nightmare. Thank God.

  Then needle-sharp pain shot through her palm. Her eyes snapped open and she jerked her hand back, cradling it to her chest.

  So much for the dream theory.

  The man in black sat in a chair next to her, his dark eyes unreadable, his forehead creased with lines, his lips turned downward in a tight frown. He appeared as immovable as a dark cliff of basalt.

  He drew her hand back toward him with a firm tug. “You have glass in your hands. If we don't get these slivers out, the cuts will become infected.” His voice was low but forceful, and didn't seem as accented as it had in the other room when he'd confronted his men. She couldn't decide if the sound scared the holy crap out of her or if she was beyond caring at this point.

  At least he wasn't raping her. Yet.

  Her hands did hurt, and she remembered, in a Technicolor flashback, crawling across the floor in the bar with shattered glass everywhere. Her jeans had probably protected her knees, but her hands were a different story.