Driven by Fire

by Anne Stuart

  “You didn’t leave me much of a choice. You like being difficult, don’t you?”

  Again that shuttered look. The old Parker would have given him enough sass to amuse and infuriate him. The new Parker was muffled, faded, and it pissed him off. She’d given up fighting—she was a pale ghost of her former self, and it made him want to shake her.

  “Come on,” he said finally. “We can argue about it later.”

  “I have no intention of arguing with you,” she said.

  “Tough shit. I intend to argue with you.”

  He saw a flash of something in her eyes, and it could have been fear or anger. He hoped to God it was anger. He needed her to move past that slightly shell-shocked affect. She could be as pissed at him as she wanted, as long as she was alert and alive. Damn, he didn’t hurt her that badly, did he?

  The airstrip was miles outside of the town, a run-down field that had once been the staging ground for the last violent government overthrow. Nowadays Calliveria had a supposedly democratic president and congress, but the dissidents, the Guiding Light, were strong up in the mountains and a force near the rain forests. They no longer bothered with attacks on military installations—they spent their time kidnapping Westerners and holding them for ransom, in between their lucrative coca business. The question was, had their forays into capitalism included human trafficking? He wouldn’t put it past them.

  The ancient Buick was waiting for them, keys in the ignition, and Ryder headed straight for it, with Parker trailing along behind him. “What about the pilot?” she said when they arrived at the rusty vehicle.

  “He’s got his orders. It won’t take him long to get back here if I decide to get rid of you.”

  “If you decide to get rid of me you could just slash my throat and leave me to rot,” she said. “Why go to the trouble of sending me back if you’re just going to kill me?”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” he said irritably. “For what it’s worth I’ve decided you’re basically innocent in all this. You may have let a felon escape, but he was your brother. I can’t fault loyalty.” It was as close to an apology as she was going to get, but she didn’t look appeased.

  “How generous of you,” she said with a trace of bitterness, and he felt encouraged. If he could get her to fight back, then she’d start to make peace with what had happened to her. What he had done to her.

  “Get in the fucking car,” he said wearily. “If you’re waiting for me to come and open the door for you then I suggest you think again. You’re with me to find your brother’s missing telephone, and we’d better do it damned fast before they’re able to decode the damned thing.”

  “Decode it?” Her laugh was derisive as she climbed in and slammed the door, hard. “What do you think he has on it—state secrets?”

  “Why do you think someone wants it so badly? And that someone was willing to break into what should have been one of the most secure buildings in the city just to get it?” He started the car. Fortunately the engine didn’t meet the car’s battered appearance, and it hummed happily.

  “I was wondering about that,” she said with a flicker of life. “You can’t be nearly as good as you think you are when it comes to security.”

  “Someone had to have let him in. Since I know my people wouldn’t, I’m putting my money on you or Soledad.”

  She immediately sprang to Soledad’s defense. “She’d hardly let her own kidnapper into the house!”

  “So then one has to assume that either she wasn’t kidnapped, she went willingly. Or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Or that you let him in, that you’ve been holding on to Soledad for your own reasons, and you sent your man off with the phone so he could start up the shipments once more.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, showing more signs of life. “What good would the phone do?”

  Christ, she really was an innocent, he thought. “If people want it back so desperately, if someone was willing to break into Committee headquarters in order to get it, then I expect it would do a great deal. At the very least it would provide contact information for people involved in the human trafficking. They lost their kingpin and the crime family that ran it, leaving the human highway from South America empty for someone to pick up the slack. I’m guessing your brother’s smartphone will go a long way toward reestablishing the infrastructure.”

  “Next thing you’ll tell is that it was my brother who took Soledad.”

  “I don’t think anyone ‘took’ Soledad. But no, it wasn’t your brother. He was my first guess, but the intruder was too short to be your beloved Billy, at least according to our intel. Any ideas?”

  She said nothing, lapsing into the brooding silence again. God, women were a pain, he thought. The silent treatment was one of the most effective weapons he’d ever run across, at least with this one.

  He tried a few more times, then gave up. By the time they reached the outskirts of the small city, his temper had begun to fray. He would have been better off not sleeping at all on the plane—he was better off powering through with effective five-minute catnaps than a deep six-hour sleep. He was lucky Parker hadn’t stabbed him while he slept.

  He glanced over at her as he pulled up to the small inn he’d chosen as their headquarters. Her face was averted, and shadows danced across her still expression. He was going to have to do something about it, he thought. Dragging an emotional zombie around Calliveria would attract too much attention, and that was one thing they couldn’t afford. If he was to find the people who’d taken the phone and Soledad, they were going to have to fly beneath the radar, and Parker’s stiff, touch-me-not demeanor would have everyone’s attention, especially the men. The last thing he needed was to have people sniffing at Parker’s heels, though he couldn’t honestly blame them. There was something about Parker, some incandescent spark, that drew people to her. Just because he was thankfully immune didn’t mean that everyone else was.

  He put the car into park and turned it off. Time for Ms. Jennifer Parker, Esquire to come back to life.

  They stopped outside an American-style hotel on the edge of whatever Calliverian town they had flown into, and Jenny surveyed their night’s lodgings. The building was long and low, with doors leading from each room onto a veranda. It had seen better days—the paint was peeling and there was trash in the yard, but that bastard seemed to think it was the perfect place to spend the night.

  He was already out of the car, clearly waiting for her. She didn’t want to go inside with him—she didn’t want to do anything with him—but she didn’t have much choice. She’d insisted on coming this far, for Soledad’s sake. No, it was more than that. If Ryder found her brother’s phone, she had every intention of destroying it. She should never have held on to it—she’d thought it would give her some kind of leverage with Billy, but if she trusted his word she wouldn’t need it. If Ryder didn’t have it he couldn’t send her brother to prison, without proof he couldn’t kill him. Maybe. At that point she wouldn’t put anything past Ryder’s brutality.

  She climbed out of the car and moved toward him, careful to keep her distance. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, really look at him, or she’d be reminded of the man who’d kissed her in the kitchen, the man whose hard, warm body had pressed up against hers with undeniable need. As long as she didn’t look into his face she could pretend he was someone else, some brutal bully who didn’t care who he hurt in his effort to get information. As long as he didn’t touch her . . .

  He put his hand on her arm and she panicked, trying to tear herself away, but she should have known it would be useless. He was much stronger than she was, and he simply hauled her against his body, wrapping one arm around her waist. “We’re supposed to be a newly married couple on a really stupid honeymoon, and anything you do to make people think we’re not is going to put us and everything you want to accomplish in danger. So chill.”

  Chill was the operative word. His hand was on her waist, she rem
embered the pain that hand had inflicted, and it chilled her to the bone. Her sore arm was trapped between their bodies, and she couldn’t use it to push away. All she could do was stand still and try to disguise the fear that was leeching through her. She was trembling, and she bit her lip, trying to still the shaking, as he led her into the slightly run-down lobby of the hotel. He pulled her even closer, and for some unknown reason the heat of his body began to penetrate hers, and the tremors slowed.

  “That’s right,” he murmured. “Just relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She couldn’t help it—she let out a small, derisive laugh. His hand tightened as a warning on her waist, but he still didn’t hurt her. “Not again,” he said simply. “Never again.”

  His Spanish was better than hers, and yet when he talked to the desk clerk, his speech was halting, tentative, as if he couldn’t find the right word. Turistas, the man was obviously thinking, and harmless. Of course he had a room for the norteamericano and his esposa, and Jenny shivered again. One room. Of course it would only be one room if they were posing as husband and wife.

  They were back outside in a matter of minutes, and Jenny immediately pulled away from him, ignoring the fact that she was suddenly so much colder in the warm, tropical night air. “I want my own room,” she said stubbornly, knowing it was a lost cause.

  “Be grateful you’ve got your own bed. I have no intention of letting you out of my sight now that we’re down here. You’d probably take off looking for Soledad the first chance you got, and believe me, you don’t have the intel to even start to find her.”

  He was wrong about that. She intended to wait until he came up with the intel, and then bash him over the head and escape. It worked in the movies, and it should work in real life. If she happened to kill him then she could live with that.

  The room was small, bare, and thankfully neat. There were two double beds, a dresser, a small table, and two chairs in the beige room, and Ryder dumped her suitcase on the one farthest from the door. She didn’t bother to protest—getting away from him wasn’t going to be that easy. She’d have to wait until he went out to make her escape. But escape she would, no matter how determined he was to keep her prisoner.

  She sat down on the bed, kicking off her shoes. The bed sagged slightly, and it was too soft, but she didn’t give a damn. While he slept aboard the plane she’d been wide awake, trying to come up with a scheme that would lead her to Billy’s missing phone before Ryder could get to it.

  Finding Soledad seemed to be the only lead they had, and even in Calliveria, Soledad’s dark, sloe-eyed beauty would stand out. If she had come through this port city, and chances were she had, someone would remember.

  Ryder was watching her, but she leaned back on the bed and ignored him. If she could just get an idea of where Soledad was being held she could go after her. Ryder must have more than enough weapons on him that he could spare one. She’d learned to shoot years ago, at her father’s insistence when one of his enemies was making a power play, and she was a relatively good markswoman. She didn’t think she would hesitate when the time came, and if someone was threatening Soledad, after she’d already been through so much, then she’d shoot him without compunction.

  She realized that Ryder was simply staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She could always shoot him, she thought dispassionately. He deserved it, and if she were close enough she could avoid anything fatal. Just something that would hurt him, very, very badly.

  “Now that I’ve got your attention,” he drawled, “maybe you could stop formulating plans for revenge and concentrate on the matter at hand.”

  She didn’t want to talk to him, to pay any attention to him, but unbidden the words slipped out. “I was thinking I might shoot you.”

  “You could always try. If you had a gun, that is. Which do you prefer, a nine millimeter or a twenty-two?”

  He was calling her bluff. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as she thought he was. “Nine millimeter,” she said instantly. With a full clip they were easier to reload.

  To her astonishment he went to the travel-worn duffel bag he’d brought, opened it, and fished out a handgun, setting it down on the bed between them. She stared at it.

  “Go ahead. Take it. You could even shoot me with it if you were so inclined,” he said.

  “I would have thought you’d be smart enough to know when you were in real danger of that happening,” she said, eyeing the gun but not picking it up.

  “You want me dead after what I did to you today. I get that. I also get that, unlike me, you wouldn’t hurt or shoot anyone in cold blood no matter how much he deserved it. Pick it up.”

  “I’d watch it with the orders if I were you,” she snapped. “Is that the same gun you had on board the container ship? The one you used to kill all those people? The one you would have used to kill my brother?”

  “In fact, no. I’m keeping that one. It has a hair trigger and it would be too dangerous for someone not used to firearms.”

  “I’m used to firearms. My father insisted on it.”

  He looked skeptical. “And how many guns have you shot in the past ten years?”

  None, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She picked up the gun, balancing the weight in one hand, and then pointed it directly at his chest. “I could always start again,” she said silkily.

  He didn’t look the slightest bit perturbed. “Then you’d bring the local police down on your head. If you’re determined to shoot me, then wait until we’re out in the countryside and there are no witnesses. You could leave my body at the edge of the rain forest, and the scavengers would make short work of me.”

  She shuddered, suddenly horrified at the thought, and she tried to put the gun back down. Her hands were shaking too much. “You deserve to be shot,” she said in a voice that sounded frankly sulky to her own critical ears.

  “Many times over. Today was just one more blip in my life, nothing I haven’t done before or would do again. But not to you.”

  She didn’t believe him. “Why not me?”

  “I could tell you that I’m too tenderhearted to hurt you like that again, but you’d know that was a lie. I have no heart, tender or otherwise. But I also know that I got everything I need from you—you weren’t in a state to hold anything back. Therefore, you’re safe from my methods of interrogation.”

  “Is that what you call it? I thought it was torture.”

  For a moment she thought she saw him wince, then decided it was her imagination.

  “When it comes to torture, what I did to you was really quite tame. Trust me, you run up against anyone involved with the Corsinis and this morning would feel like a walk in the park.” He tossed her small bag to her. “Get into your nightclothes. There’s nothing more we can do tonight, but the sooner we get started tomorrow morning, the better.”

  “I’m not changing in front of you!”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, yanking the black T-shirt over his head. “Change in the bathroom, or under the sheets, or whatever uptight, prissy way you want to do it. Tell you what—I’ll turn my back and you’ll have my word that I won’t watch.”

  His actions suited his words, and she got a view of his tall, strong back, and for a moment she forgot everything. Forgot that she hated him, forgot that he was a killer, forgot that he’d hurt her.

  He had the body of a warrior. His beautiful golden skin was marred by scars, a testament to the abuse of a decade or more, and she felt a momentary softening of her rage. A man who had gone through that kind of physical torture would have very little hesitation in hurting someone else if he needed to.

  “Are you going to change or am I going to turn around?” he said, his voice bored. She heard the snick of his zipper, and she let out a little shriek.

  “You’re not taking off all your clothes, are you?” she demanded.

  “No, Parker. In deference to your maidenly modesty I’ll leave my shorts on. But if you don’t get moving . . .”

/>   “I’m changing,” she said abruptly, starting to pull the shirt over her head. Pain seared through her arm, freezing her, and against her will she let out a cry.

  He immediately spun around, to see her sitting on the bed in a totally ignominious position, the T-shirt half over her head, her arms stuck inside.

  “Go away!” she said between gritted teeth. “I can handle it.”

  She should have known she was wasting her breath. He took the hem of the T-shirt and slowly peeled it over her head, gently, relieving the pressure on her left arm as he did so. A moment later she was free, and she was sitting there in the plain-white cotton bra someone had bought for her, feeling totally exposed.

  He wasn’t looking at her breasts. He was looking at her arm, and she looked down to see the row of bruises his hands had left on her pale flesh. She almost opened her mouth to tell him that she bruised easily, then shut it in time. He deserved any guilt or remorse she could thrust on him.

  He turned his back without another word, picked his T-shirt off the floor, zipped up his fly, and walked out the door, closing it behind him. She heard the sound of the lock, and she stared after him in astonishment.

  She wasn’t going to get away from him this quickly, and besides, she needed some sense of where she needed to go. She’d have to spend at least one more day with him. Stripping off her shorts, she slid down under the covers. Whoever had bought her clothes had failed to provide nightclothes, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep naked. The underwear would do.

  She turned off the light between the beds, a pink ceramic monstrosity with writhing females all over it. He could find his own way back. She was tired, she was in pain, she was frightened, and she was mad. There were other emotions warring inside her, ones she didn’t want to examine too closely, and she needed sleep. Please God, she prayed she wouldn’t dream about Matthew Ryder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ryder walked out into the cool night, taking deep lungfuls of air. One look at Parker’s bruised arm and he’d felt oddly claustrophobic, as if all the air had been sucked from the room.