Driven by Fire

by Anne Stuart

He looked at her in frustration. They’d been able to download most of the intel from the phone the night before, but the information still remained intact on the device itself. They couldn’t allow it to get into the wrong hands.

  “I don’t trust you not to hurt Soledad.” Her voice was barely audible, blurred as it was with tears and hatred.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d only hold me back.”

  “If you want Soledad and the phone you’ll need me with you. I’m the only one who can recognize his phone—it’ll look like a hundred others to you. Besides, you’re not going to do a thing to save Soledad unless I make you.”

  “Who says she needs saving?”

  “I do. And I’m not going to let my brother be sentenced to execution without anyone speaking for him.”

  “And you’re such a great judge of character,” he said, sarcastic. “Believe it or not I don’t shoot everyone who gets in my way. Your brother can rot in jail, just as he deserves. They don’t treat child molesters very well in prison, and your brother’s one step lower. He’s a child pimp, and he deserves everything he gets.” He headed for the door. “You can lie there and feel sorry for yourself for half an hour and no more. I could have done a lot worse. In a couple of days you’ll be fine.” Physically, it would be sooner than that—he knew exactly how much pressure to exert. Emotionally, it could take her a lot longer.

  She slowly began to uncurl, and she was pulling herself back together, he realized with amazement. There was nothing she could do about her tear-streaked face, but the expression on it was cold and furious. “I won’t help you destroy my brother.”

  “Your brother destroyed himself and you know it. And this isn’t a democracy. If you want to come with me to find Soledad, then I won’t stop you, but you’re in for a rude awakening. Soledad’s as dirty as your brother, and you’re just too naïve to see it.”

  “She isn’t!”

  “I’ll let you come because you’re right—only you can identify the cell phone. You’re the one who believes so strongly in Soledad’s innocence—if it were up to me she could rot in Calliveria.”

  “You think that’s where she is?”

  “I have no doubt, but I’ll have proof within the hour. If you’re coming with me, then you have half an hour to get ready or I’ll knock you out and carry you on board the plane. Don’t make me do that—I don’t happen to like hurting you.”

  Her derisive laugh wasn’t quite tear-free, but it was impressive anyway. “Don’t you think the flight attendants might notice?”

  “Who says we’re going on a commercial flight?” He shut the door quietly behind him. He could give her privacy to pull herself together—that was about all he could offer her. He could tell himself she’d survived the abuse a lot better than he would have guessed—she was already fighting back. It didn’t help.

  He headed down the stairs, refusing to glance at his reflection in a huge mirror on the landing. There were times when you couldn’t look yourself in the eye, Ryder thought, and this was definitely one of them.

  Jenny was freezing. She sat up on the bed, cradling her left arm with her right, trying to fight back the tears as her body shook. He’d kept telling her she was in shock yesterday. This was a lot closer to it.

  How could he . . . No, she wasn’t going to think about it. If she took slow, deep breaths, the lingering pain was bearable, and while her throat hurt from his grip, she wasn’t going to give in. She needed to get out of here, away from him, away from a man who could do such a thing, could hurt her, could hurt someone he’d just kissed the night before. The sick bastard probably enjoyed it.

  But then memory flooded her. He hadn’t enjoyed it sexually—there’d been no hint of arousal in his flat, dark eyes or his body. He’d hurt her because he’d told himself he had to do it. And if he ever came near her again she would kill him with her bare hands.

  She drew her knees up and pressed her forehead against them, letting the shudders wrack through her body. No one had hit her in over twenty years, when her mother put a stop to her father’s lessons in corporal punishment. Her father’s belt was probably worse than what Ryder had just done to her, she thought, trying to lift her arm. Pain seared through it, and she dropped it back down. Maybe not. Maybe he was even more of a monster than her father was. He was certainly more dangerous.

  Would she have told him the truth any other way? Probably not. It didn’t matter—he’d forced her to betray the one member of her family she still cared for. Her two older brothers were so deeply involved in their criminal lifestyle that they were practically strangers—they had no interest or time for the honest changeling in the Gauthier family, just as she had no interest in them. The less she knew about them, the better.

  But her father had sent her to save Billy, and everything had gone to hell since then.

  She took a deep, shaky breath, letting out the stress and tension, and realized in some small, dark way she was almost relieved that it was out in the open. She wasn’t made for lying, and now she wouldn’t have to worry about a slip of the tongue.

  No, all she had to worry about was Matthew Ryder putting a bullet between Billy’s eyes if he should find him.

  But if they were going to Calliveria, he’d be safe. Billy didn’t do third-world countries, and right now he’d be in Paris or Barcelona, conveniently forgetting everything he’d done or that his foolish sister had done for him.

  Slowly she dragged herself off the bed, then glanced down at her arm. She was still wearing one of his flannel shirts, and she yanked it off her like it was made with poisoned nettles, dumping it on the floor.

  She wasn’t a redhead, despite what Ryder had said a lifetime ago, but she had pale skin, golden freckles around her brown eyes, and the tendency to bruise if someone even looked at her hard. The marks were starting to show on her arm, and she was tempted to walk around flashing those bruises, just to make him feel guilty. But Matthew Ryder wouldn’t feel guilt—he did what he had to do, and the last thing she wanted was for other people to know what he’d done to her, alone in his bedroom.

  He was a monster, and she hated him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Somehow, some way, she would pay him back for hurting her. He would have done the same with poor Soledad if he’d had the excuse, and Soledad had already been through too much brutality. At least Jenny was able to survive such punishment without turning into a basket case.

  There was a mirror in the bathroom, and she walked in, checking out her reflection. The stain of tears was still on her face, so she splashed it with cold water, then looked back. A grim, satisfied smile curved her mouth. A few minutes ago she’d felt defeated, lost, shocked. Now she looked pissed as well. Her eyes were defiant, swimming with tears, her mouth stubborn, and if Matthew Ryder had any sense at all he’d be extremely wary around her. One thing was certain—he was never laying a finger on her again.

  A long, thoughtful shower finished the job of cementing her cold fury, and when she came out there was a pile of clothes on the bare mattress, all with price tags still on. She wondered who had brought them, but she doubted it was Ryder. He was kept for strong-arm work, not deliveries.

  She was good with numbers, and she mentally added up the cost of the new clothes as she went through them. Of course they were her size—she wouldn’t have expected anything less from Ryder and his “Committee.” Cargo pants, shorts, T-shirts and tank tops, sturdy walking shoes and sandals, and even a couple of sundresses, along with utilitarian underwear, plain white and boring. Her choice was to accept the new clothes or dress in Ryder’s cast offs, and she’d walk around the house naked before she touched his clothes again.

  The bruising on her arm was turning dark, and there were marks from his long fingers at the base of her neck. There was nothing she could do about that, but there were a couple of lightweight long-sleeve shirts among the clothing, and she pulled one on over the tank top and long pants. The less anyone saw of her skin, the better. She intended to make Ryder believe he h
adn’t hurt her, couldn’t hurt her. She’d been so vulnerable when he’d touched her, and she was determined she would never be vulnerable again.

  She ran into Remy on the second floor, and she braced herself for pity and even a joke. Instead he acted as if he knew nothing about what Ryder had done to her, greeting her in a casual voice. “Ryder’s in the office, making final arrangements for the plane. I see you found the clothes Emery brought you. She’s got good taste.”

  It was a relief to think a woman had chosen the plain white underwear. “I don’t have a passport anymore,” she said suddenly. “It was in my house.”

  “Oh, Ryder’s seen to it. He’s on top of everything.”

  Including me, when he hurt me, she thought, keeping her expression passive. “Good to know,” she said. “Are you coming with us?” At least Remy would provide a buffer between them, something to keep her fierce hatred at bay.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s just the two of you—you’ll have more luck in finding the little witch without bringing in an army.”

  “‘Little witch’?” she echoed, surprised.

  Remy’s grin was wry. “Well, she either escaped or was kidnapped right out from under me—it’s no wonder I’m a little pissed off at her.”

  “It was hardly her fault she was kidnapped,” Jenny said sharply.

  Remy shrugged, giving her his most charming smile. “If you say so.” He started past her, then paused, and she knew he was going to address the elephant in the room. She didn’t want him to, but she could think of no way to stop him.

  “Did Ryder . . .” he began, all trace of a smile gone from his handsome face.

  “I’m fine,” she interrupted him. “I told him what he wanted to know.”

  Remy didn’t look convinced. “He can be . . . determined when he needs to know something. I do know that he wouldn’t have enjoyed what he did to you.”

  Her smile was brittle. “That’s such a reassurance. Heaven knows Mr. Ryder’s feelings are what’s important.”

  “That bad, eh?” Remy murmured. “I’m sorry, cher.”

  “No worries,” she said, almost convincing. “I’ve been shot and had a house blow up on me and been clubbed on the head. A little bullying on Ryder’s part is child’s play compared to that.”

  It wasn’t, but he didn’t know it. Remy looked relieved. “Well, don’t let him get away with anything. He tends to think he knows best about everything, and he needs someone to set him straight.”

  He needed someone to stab him, she thought vengefully, but she wasn’t going to be the one. “Not in my job description,” she said lightly.

  “What isn’t?”

  It was his voice, and she could feel her stomach knot, her entire body freeze. She willed herself to relax, and by the time she turned to look at him she knew she looked completely unruffled.

  If she expected him to look guilty, she was doomed to disappointment. He looked as he always looked, not like someone who’d used well-refined torture to get her to betray the only member of her family she still cared about. She wasn’t about to answer him, but Remy stepped in.

  “I told her to keep you in line,” he said. “You’re an arrogant bastard when you’ve got something on your mind, and she doesn’t need any extra grief from you.”

  “You mean apart from what I already gave her,” he said, and it was all Jenny could do not to stare at him. He didn’t have the slightest bit of shame or remorse, to bring up his abuse so casually. “I don’t expect we’ll have any problem in Calliveria. We both want the same thing, and she’s smart enough to know that if she doesn’t do exactly as I say she’ll find herself in more trouble than she’d ever be with me.”

  Her small smile was icy. “I’ll do what you tell me to do.”

  Ryder just looked at her out of his wolf’s eyes, but she turned away, ignoring him. “I’m going to find something for lunch,” she said, trying to come up with a casual excuse to leave his presence. She was shaken, and the last thing she wanted was for him to notice, even if the thought of food made her nauseous. “Just let me know when it’s time to leave.”

  “That easy, is it? What if I told you I’d changed my mind and you couldn’t come with me?” he taunted, and she wanted to slap him. How dare he hurt her and then mock her, pouring salt on her literal wounds.

  “You said it yourself—we both have reasons to save Soledad, and frankly, I don’t trust you to take proper care of her. She’ll be in shock after being abducted again, and God knows what they’ll do to her. She’ll need me.”

  “Maybe,” Ryder drawled.

  “Leave her alone, Ryder,” Remy protested. “Give the girl a break.”

  Ryder turned to look at him, his eyes flat and hard. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

  “Don’t be a bigger asshole than you already are.”

  To Jenny’s astonishment he actually laughed at that. “That’s part of my job description,” he said, before glancing back at Jenny. “We leave the house at five. Be ready.”

  She almost told him to fuck off. She opened her mouth to deliver the stinging response, then shut it again, sudden uneasiness filling her. God damn that man. There was just enough of her that was frightened of him. She could face down her father, bureaucrats, corrupt policemen, and hanging judges without flinching, but all Ryder had to do was deliberately cause her pain and something had broken inside of her. She hated it, and she hated him.

  She couldn’t give him a docile response either. She made do with a simple nod, walking away from him without a backwards glance. It wasn’t until she reached the safety of the kitchen that she looked down and saw that her hands were trembling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ryder had almost hoped she’d be sulking. Not that she didn’t have every right to—he’d hurt her, simply because he’d had no choice, and in the safe cocoon of the United States, most women weren’t deliberately, passionlessly hurt. Thank God. With someone from Calliveria—Soledad, for instance—he’d have to do a lot worse to get her attention.

  But Parker was acting calm and passionless. Granted, she had a stick up her ass, but he certainly couldn’t blame her, and he treated her with distant courtesy, always the safest bet after the few minutes of cruelty.

  She wasn’t showing any sign of discomfort, but he noticed she was only using her right arm, which made sense. She’d be in pain for another day, and then the ache would begin to wear off. He could have done much worse, and he would have if she hadn’t broken so quickly. There was always the chance that when she began to heal she’d start to trust him again.

  Scratch that. That was never going to happen—he’d never be able to get near her again, which was definitely a good thing. He’d grown a little too fascinated with her recently, and not just because he suspected her of knowing something important. He’d liked watching her, liked her sassy attitude, liked her haughtiness.

  She said nothing when she climbed aboard the expensive private jet that Peter Madsen had designated for their use. It was a hell of an expense, but it turned out to be a necessity. Even though they were stationed in New Orleans, the Committee was worldwide, and they needed the ability to get where they were needed at a moment’s notice.

  If Parker appreciated the comfortable leather seats and built-in flat-screen TV and bar, she didn’t show it. She headed straight for the back of the plane, for the one seat that was usually reserved for a flight attendant, and buckled herself in, staring out the window in the darkness. He suspected she wouldn’t look at him during the entire trip, though he was tempted to make her.

  But he’d hurt enough people over the years, people who were basically innocent, and he knew she needed time to protect herself, to heal from the emotional shock of it. He could give her that much.

  Once the jet reached cruising altitude he took off his seat belt and headed for the bar. He didn’t tend to drink during an operation, but he’d been on edge ever since those few minutes with Parker, and a beer might tak
e the edge off. The bar came equipped with his favorite craft beer, and he noticed a frozen margarita mix. According to the detailed background check, Parker had a weakness for margaritas. It wouldn’t be much of a peace offering, and she’d probably throw it in his face, but he mixed it anyway, stalking toward the back of the plane and setting it on the table beside her.

  She didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence in any way, but she didn’t throw the drink at him, which he figured was progress. When he stole a glance at her half an hour later, the glass was empty.

  He slept, simply because God knew when he’d sleep again, and woke only when they touched down at the distant runway outside Calliveria’s small city of Puerto Claro. She was already out of her seat belt by the time he rose, keeping just out of his reach, waiting for him like a docile, abused wife, and he wanted to snarl. Whether it was at her or himself, he wasn’t quite sure.

  The air in New Orleans had been warm and humid, but this place was practically liquid. Calliveria’s geography went from rain forests up into the Andes, and Puerto Claro was down low in an area plagued with mosquitoes and disease. The sooner they were out of there, the better.

  She wasn’t going to like where they were going, but then, she wasn’t going to like a damned thing about him ever again. “You ready?” he said unnecessarily, because the charged silence got on his nerves.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” she said in a low voice, and his urge to snarl increased. He swallowed it and gave her a small, lazy smile that left her stonily unmoved.

  “So you are. And you’re going to do every damned thing I tell you to do, aren’t you?”

  “Will it save my brother?”

  “I doubt it. But it might save Soledad.” Whom he didn’t trust one bit, but Ms. Parker was far too gullible when it came to people—people like her brothers.

  “I’ll do what you tell me to do,” she said flatly. “Within reason.”

  “Reason has nothing to do with it.”

  “Then you should have left me behind in New Orleans.”