by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
So what else was new?
She kept her back to him, feeling it was a lot safer that way. "Mean by what?"
"That at least I had a mother."
He would have picked up on that, she thought in annoyance. Why had she let that slip? "I wasn't speaking in tongues."
There was something defensive in her voice. His curiosity peaked, he turned around, only to find himself looking at her back. He squelched the impulse to turn her toward him. No use borrowing trouble. "Didn't you have a mother?"
She didn't bother suppressing a sigh. The man was making things difficult for her on a whole host of levels. She tried to ignore the restlessness she felt, the kind she couldn't put a name to but bothered her nonetheless. "Are you getting paid extra to annoy me?"
"I'm not getting paid to do anything at all with you," he told her mildly. "For the record, I was just s being curious."
"Well, don't be."
Struggling with her exasperation, and the nameless feeling that insisted on continuing to grow within her, a feeling that might have been labeled attraction if she wasn't so damn sure it wasn't, she punched her pillow again, trying to add dimension to it. It couldn't have been flatter than if it had been run over by every single one of the wheels on an eighteen-wheeler. It was obvious that comfort was not the byword of this motel. Several attempts later, she bunched the pillow beneath her head, folding it as much as possible.
Cara stared at the rusted handle on the bureau. "No, I didn't," she finally said quietly.
He'd thought she'd lapsed into total silence. Hearing her answer, he turned back to look at her again. "Divorced?" he guessed.
She'd never known her mother or her father. She'd overheard one of the social workers say that she'd been found on a park bench when she was only several days old. Her parents hadn't even thought enough of her to leave her on a hospital or church doorstep. For all they knew, a stray, hungry animal could have come across her and ended her life before it ever began.
Cara's laugh was short and without any accompanying humor. "From me, maybe."
She could feel him propping himself up on his elbow by the movement of the mattress. There were going to be more questions. As she had done most of her life, going from one school system to another more times than she wanted to ever remember, Cara headed him off at the pass. It was always easier fighting on her own terms than waiting for the first jab to be thrown.
Refusing to turn around, to see pity in his eyes, she addressed the dingy mirror over the bureau.
"You're sharing your bed, so to speak, with a bona fide orphan. I spent the first seventeen and a half years of my life in foster homes. Sad music accompanying credits. End of story. Now go to sleep."
Her answer only raised another question. "Aren't you supposed to be in the system until you're eighteen years old?"
She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising. He was prying. Served her right for saying anything at all.
"Yeah."
"But you only stayed seventeen and a half—" He left the sentence open-ended, waiting for her to fill in the blank.
Annoyed, she finally turned around to look at him. Ryker seemed much too close for either their own goods. She pretended not to notice.
"I ran away for the last six months. When I was eighteen, the system was through with me." And so would life have been, if it hadn't been for Bridgette Applegate. Cara believed that from the bottom of her soul. "Now shut up and let me get some sleep before I really do shoot you."
He'd opened up old wounds. It didn't take a brain surgeon to realize that. Part of him wanted to ask why she'd run away, but he knew how dear privacy was, how precious it was especially when you were denied it. He'd been there. Had seen its effects on his mother when the press wanted to know how she felt about her husband's flagrant indiscretions.
It was in his mother's memory that he backed off. If Rivers wanted him to know the reason she ran away, she'd tell him on her own. If not, well there were a lot of questions in life that went unanswered.
Such as why someone as good and kind as his mother had remained with the likes of his father. And why his father had felt the need to indulge in cheap affairs when there was someone waiting for him at home who could love him unconditionally. Someone, according to what his aunt Gwendolyn, the queen, had once told him that the duke had loved in return. But he just couldn't conquer the lust that governed him.
Since both his parents were now gone, "why" was a puzzle he wasn't destined to ever solve. And one, heaven willing, he wouldn't be destined to repeat in his own life. For apples did not fall far from their trees and children were often doomed to repeat the sins of the fathers. He knew that he would rather remain unmarried all of his life than to bring the kind of grief to a woman that he had seen in his own mother's eyes.
Max laid down again, staring at the ceiling. "Good night, Rivers."
"Good night, Ryker," she growled into her pillow.
For some reason, her response made him smile. Max closed his eyes. They had to get an early start in the morning if they were going to catch up to Weber. Lying here, wondering about the woman beside e him wasn't going to help him do that.
He thought about her anyway. Eventually he managed to drift off to sleep.
* * *
The early-morning sun was just beginning to feed its way through the spaces in the curtains where the weave had thinned when Max opened his eyes again.
It felt as if he'd just closed them and he gradually became aware of his body. It ached as if he'd spent the night sleeping on a pile of stones. He supposed that getting up was actually a relief.
Stretching, Max sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to get his mind focused and into gear.
It was then that he realized the place beside him was empty.
Instantly alert, he looked to the bathroom. The door was closed. She was probably just in there, he told himself, but still, he was taking no chances. He knew better when it came to Rivers.
On his feet, he crossed to the paint-scarred door and rapped on it.
"Rivers, you in there?"
There was no response.
He put his ear to the door and heard nothing. No running water, no movement of any sort. An uneasy feeling got more than a toehold on him.
"Rivers?" he called again, more urgently this time. When there was still no response, he tried the knob and found it locked. Was she inside and playing games just to get to him? He had no idea how her mind worked, only that she was perverse.
"Look, if you're in there, open the damn door. Now." Still nothing. "Okay, I'm coming in. If you're in there naked, that's your problem."
Throwing his shoulder against the door, he nearly took it completely off its rusted hinges.
Cara wasn't in there naked. She wasn't in there at all.
Max cursed roundly. This definitely did not look good.
Spinning on his heel, he ran outside into the courtyard to where he'd parked his car. He knew that she could have just gotten up and was out, getting breakfast at the small cafe they'd passed on their way here, but somehow, he didn't think his luck was particularly running that way.
He was right.
The car wasn't where he'd left it. She'd taken it. Suppressing another curse, Max immediately checked for his keys. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he found them exactly where he'd put them.
How the hell had she managed to steal the car without the keys?
This woman appeared to have more hidden talents than a con game had angles.
Max looked around, hoping that he was wrong, that he'd somehow just forgotten where he'd parked the vehicle in the dark.
But there weren't that many places to look. He hadn't forgotten where he'd parked the car. It was gone and she had taken it.
Storming into the small office, he saw the office manager dozing in a corner, his head forward, small drool marks forging a trail down his faded shirt. The picture on his small television set was rolling so that it appeare
d the woman's waist was on her head as she pitched a set of knives guaranteed to cut through steel and the hardest man's heart with ridiculous ease.
Fisting his hand, Max rapped on the desk hard and the man jumped up, bumping his shins against a chair as he scrambled forward. Focusing on Max, the man blinked, then sank back into his semistupor state.
"What?"
Max knew it was useless to ask, but he did anyway. "The woman who was with me last night when I checked in, did you see her leave?"
The man stared at him slack-jawed. He scratched the stubble on his face.
"You mean she's gone?"
Well that answered that. Blowing out an angry breath, calling himself several kinds of a fool for not handcuffing her to the bedpost the way instinct had told him to, Max strode out the door.
"Does this mean you'll be checking out?" the man called after him, leaning as far over his desk as he could manage. "There's a half day charge after six in the morning, you know."
Max ignored him.
Trying to think, he walked into the courtyard again. He scanned the area, looking out onto the street, hoping against hope.
Hope died a quick, harsh death.
Rivers was nowhere in sight. Somehow, she'd managed to start up his car and make good her escape. The woman had too many hidden talents.
Hurrying back to their room Max took a fast inventory of what was there. Her things, including the laptop she'd brought in with her, were gone.
Rivers had played him for a fool.
Again.
Chapter 7
Stupid Americans.
Toying with his bourbon and soda, Jalil Salim looked up and studied his own face in the mirror that lined the back of the hotel bar. He watched his mouth curve in a self-satisfied smirk. It had been almost too easy. He would have enjoyed more of a challenge, wanted more of an adrenaline rush than what he'd sustained.
Did they really think they were going to catch me?
The thought seemed ludicrous. Salim raised the two fingers of amber liquid in his glass to his lips and drank deeply. He closed his dark eyes for a moment, savoring the bourbon's hot, raw burn as it made its way down his throat into his stomach.
Except for the bullet that had grazed his shoulder, the Americans had proven to be unworthy adversaries. A great deal like the fools in Montebello.
Salim set the glass down, wrapping both hands around it and hunching the thin, wiry body beneath the light gray suit, as if he meant to surround his glass. Idly he looked in the mirror and watched the people in the hotel bar come and go without really taking note of them. He was too busy congratulating himself on eluding capture.
The whole thing was rather stupid on his part, he supposed. He shouldn't have tried breaking into the Chambers ranch. It was beneath him. He should have left it to someone else. The brotherhood could have sent him someone to handle that. He had enough on his mind without looking over his shoulder, trying to elude being captured again by some would-be American law enforcement dolts. If he hadn't gotten out on bail because of a technicality, he might be rotting in jail right now.
Bail, what a foolish, foolish concept. That was why his country was so superior. It didn't have such things as bail. If you were believed to be guilty, justice was swift. It did not mince around.
Lucky for him the authorities here in the United States could be easily circumvented. Here people took you at your word and believed in an honor system.
As if they were on the same plain as he, Salim sneered into his drink. Why else would they have released him, believing that he would be back when the time for trial came. s
Idiots.
Jalil laughed to himself. If those poor fools only knew what his true mission here was, they would be stunned and horrified. As well they should be. He liked the idea of striking fear into people's hearts. Fear was a way of controlling people, of wielding power. The more fear you struck, the more powerful you were.
And he belonged to a very powerful organization. He'd been sent to this country to find a way to build up the depleted coffers of the Brothers of Darkness, the terrorist group he had pledged his allegiance to when he was just a boy. The organization was his mother, his father, his god and he would gladly die for it.
But not yet.
He sighed, frustrated. He needed to be in Austin by the end of the week. His contact would be there, the man who could put him in touch with others who thought the way he did, who believed in their cause. But it was moving far too slowly for his tastes. Finding a way to rebuild resources, to make connections that would allow a way for money to begin flowing back to his organization, took too much time.
And once that was started, he would go on to an even bigger mission. Killing the son of the king of Montebello. This time, for good. According to the intelligence network, Prince Lucas had escaped the jaws of death despite the plane crash.
But not for long.
Right now, though, Salim was getting bored, restless. From where he was sitting, he could see into a booth that was to his left. A man occupying it was there with a woman who was obviously not his wife. The man was running his hand up her skirt.
Salim shifted on the stool. He needed diversion. He needed a woman.
Being on the run this way hadn't left him much time for the simpler, necessary pleasures of life. A man needed to feel like a man once in a while and though these western women were inferior to the women in his country and far too stubborn for his tastes, with their big breasts and tempting hips, they had their uses.
A slight movement in the mirror caused him to look to his right, toward the bar's entrance. A dark-haired woman wearing a clingy white dress walked in. The wide folds of the short dress caressed her body with every step she took. She made his mouth water.
She seemed to smile right at him, though his back was to her. Their eyes met in the mirror.
A working woman, by his estimation.
He could smell them. High-class from the looks of her. A woman who knew how to work a room, who knew how to say the things a man wanted to hear. Do the things a man wanted done. Obviously a whore, but still infinitely superior to the ones he saw frequenting selected corners and streets, offering instant gratification in the time it took to pull down a zipper.
There was a time and a place for instant gratification, but not from a common slut ripe with diseases.
He liked quality, even in his whores. Salim was willing to pay if it meant that his needs would be pleasured, that the woman was clean and attractive, not used-looking or cheap.
The very word turned his stomach. He'd had enough of "cheap" hiding in those run-down motels, staying ahead of that bounty hunter who had been after him. But now the hunter was behind him, most likely gone for good. He was through running, through with the game. The next encounter, if there was to be one, would be deadly. And he intended to be the one walking away.
The stool beside him was empty. The woman in white had crossed to him, standing behind it.
"Is this seat taken?" she purred in a voice that seemed to have been dipped in honey.
He could feel his arousal beginning. This one he would have, first quickly, then slowly, until he was tired of her.
"If you sit down, it will be."
She took it as an invitation. Smiling, she sat down beside him, adjusting her skirt so that he could see her long legs, her bare, silky skin. As she turned toward him, the neckline of her dress dipped down. The firm cleavage that was exposed to his hot gaze rose and felt seductively with each breath she took.
Salim was fairly salivating.
"Would you like a drink?" he offered.
She lowered her eyes to the one on the counter. "I'll take a sip of yours," she murmured, her voice e low, husky. She took the glass from his hand. Slowly she ran the tip of her fingernail along one edge of the rim. "Is this where your lips touched the glass?"
He felt his throat and his loins tightening. "Yes."
As Salim watched, the woman pressed her own lips to the spot an
d took a long sip. Her eyes never left his. He found that his breath caught in his throat.
The drink was a particularly strong one. He expected to see her eyes water. Instead she merely smiled as she placed the glass on the counter.
"Smooth," she whispered. The word seemed to graze his very skin.
His arousal increased. He inclined his head toward hers. "Perhaps you would like to leave here for a little while?"
"Perhaps," the woman echoed. Her blue-gray eyes danced as they teased his. "Just what did you have in mind?"
She was being coy. It was part of the game. "I think you know."
Leaning her elbow on the bar, she rested her chin on her hand. Her eyes smiled up into his. "Why don't you tell me, anyway?"
He skimmed her bare arm with his fingers, envisioning his hands on her breasts instead. "We could go back to my room and I could appreciate you the way a woman such as you should be appreciated."
She exhaled a long, sensuous breath, as if she could read his mind, feel his touch. His excitement mounted. "Sounds good to me." Slipping from her stool, she watched him toss a couple of twenties onto the bar before he got off his stool. She nodded at the money. "Pretty free with your money. Are there any more like that?"
His smile broadened. He'd been right. A working woman. Well, he was going to make her work. "A great many." He placed one proprietary hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the entrance. "In my hotel room."
Her smile was inviting, seductive. "Then show me your hotel room." Slipping his hand from her shoulder, he took her arm. "That is not all I will show you." She leaned into him, laughing, filling his space with the perfume she'd put on only half an hour ago. "I'm counting on it."
* * *
Damn it, she was here. Intent on finding his quarry, Max had almost missed her. As if a body like that could be overlooked.
What the hell did she think she was doing?
Didn't she have any idea how dangerous the man was and what could happen to her?
Obviously not, Max thought in disgust.
The woman was a myopic fool.
Making his way out of the bar again, he followed them, keeping a discrete distance behind.