by Linda Bond
Sweat snaked down her skin. She couldn’t still be smelling burning tires. Burning wood maybe? What the…? As she hauled herself into a sitting position, a sharp sensation ripped through the left side of her chest. She froze, unable to inhale further. She held her breath until the pain passed.
In that brief moment of silence, someone else took a deep breath.
An electric wave of fear shimmied over her flesh. “Who’s there?” She sprang up, rocking back on her heels. “Dawg?”
No answer. Her heart stalled.
“Dallas? You okay?”
“My name is Antonio. Antonio Vega.”
She recognized the voice from inside the van. The man with the gentle touch. Still, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. “Who are you?” Her gaze darted back and forth. “What’s going on?” She felt like a cornered animal. Squinting, she tried to make out her captor’s face, but her eyes were still adjusting to the dark. “What do you want from me?”
“I need your help.”
“Are you kidding me?” Confusion whipped through her. “You kidnapped me. I’m the one who needs help.”
Laughter erupted, but at a distance. She stilled and listened. The other voices sounded male. To escape, she’d have to get past them, too. The other men were outside, but outside what? “Where are we?”
“In a tent in the Everglades.”
Hope for an easy escape evaporated. “That far?” They’d changed vehicles so they could hit the highway. Smart. The Everglades. Wow. That explained the heat and the smell of campfire. “How long have I been out?” She swatted away a piece of hair plastered to her cheek. The humidity was thick. Suffocating.
“Hours, Rebecca.”
He knew her name. Of course he did. “Okay.” She bit her bottom lip. What else did he know? “Why did you kidnap me?”
“You’re Cuban.”
Nausea churned her stomach.
“You know the language.”
Ay dios mío…
“You know the culture.”
She balled her fists until her acrylic nails pierced her injured palms, causing her to yelp. She hated where this conversation was going. “What happened to my photographer?” Her voice cracked. She needed water.
“He’s here. He came with you.”
“At gunpoint.” Not willingly.
“He’s fine.”
“Fine?” She looked down at her scratched-up hands. They stung, and her throat still burned from the chemical residue on that rag. “Fine, like, like, I’m fine?”
Antonio didn’t respond.
She ran her fingers over her left eyebrow, pressing them against her throbbing temple. “I want to see my friend. Please.”
“Not right now. You and I have business first.”
“You have a story for me.” She knew that much. Her eyes were starting to adjust. She could better make out her shadowy surroundings now. The flap to a large, houselike tent was to her left. Closed. You couldn’t lock a tent, right? “What kind of story?” She glanced back at her captor, hoping to see him better. Size up the enemy.
“You’re going to document a rescue.” This Antonio guy had a strong jawline and pronounced cheekbones. He was young. Maybe a little older than her, probably around thirty.
“What kind of rescue?” Keep him talking. She continued to study him. He had dark, disheveled rock-star hair, curly, almost to his shoulders, a thin goatee, and dark eyes. Now that she could better make out his features, he looked like a young Che Guevara, the infamous Latin American revolutionary. Handsome for sure. But maybe just as deadly.
She shuddered as a memory of her childhood crept in. She rubbed a flurry of goose bumps away, bullying the unwanted images down. “My photographer needs to hear these details, too.” Her head kept throbbing, right above her left eye.
“Not now.”
She swallowed. In the minimal light, she could feel the intensity of his stare. Her stomach was all knotted up. Could this Antonio guy sense her fear? Could he see her legs trembling? Uncomfortable with the silence, she shifted her gaze away.
It was definitely night in the Everglades. Little light to see the snakes and alligators until they were right up on you. She shivered, sweating at the same time. God help her.
Antonio sat in front of her, on some kind of metal box. He looked fit, rather muscular and lean. If she ran toward the flap he’d probably be on top of her in less than two steps. Besides, there were other men outside. And Dallas to consider. “Fine. Where is this rescue going to take place?”
“In Cuba.”
“Cuba?” Her idea of hell. “That’s it. I’m done.” She took off for the opening, almost diving in her haste. Stumbling and half bent over, she managed three steps when his arms came from behind and wrapped her into a bear hug. With one leg, he swept her feet out from under her, the momentum pitching her forward. Her knees hit the ground, but he used his own body to stop her from face-planting. Then, in a huff, he twisted his body so his back hit the ground first, taking the impact. He quickly rolled them both over, forcing the air out of her lungs as he settled atop her. He had the power, but he wasn’t hurting her. She was sure that was on purpose. It’s the why she wasn’t as sure of.
“Stop,” he growled into her ear. “I don’t want to harm you.” Instead of violence, he seemed to lean into her with a controlled firmness, as if he still held much of his weight and anger in check.
Her stomach fluttered.
“The swamp is a dangerous place at night,” he said.
“I can’t breathe.” Shivering again despite the humidity, she wiggled and adjusted her body beneath his, but moving only made it more difficult to breathe.
He pressed into her, his long body like a rock wall. “Even if you managed to get away, where are you going to run?”
There had to be a road somewhere, right?
“You’re in the middle of nowhere, unarmed, and surrounded by gators, snakes and panthers.”
And kidnappers.
“If you stay, you won’t be hurt.”
Her pulse rocked the side of her neck, and she became very much aware of his long legs wrapping her in a human cage. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.
“And it’s about to storm like hell.” His breath fanned softly against her neck.
“Get off me.” Pushing against him, she used as much strength as she could muster, but she barely budged him. “And I promise I’ll listen.” She forced the words out in short puffs. Her breath stilled. Something hardened against her hip. Oh, Jesus. Panic flooded her, and she bucked.
In a flash, he rolled to one side, but kept a hand clamped around one of her wrists, his breathing fast and loud enough to hear.
Her lungs expanded until it burned. “This is crazy,” she spat as she sat up. “I’m not going back to Cuba. Ever.”
His grip on her tightened. “I understand your hatred for our country.”
“Your country, maybe. Not mine.” She attempted to scoot away.
His grip tightened, but not enough to actually cause her pain. Interesting how he could control himself like this. Holding her, but not hurting her.
Still, she jerked against his show of power, her gaze scurrying around again.
“We’ll be in and out quickly.”
“Right.” She snorted, and then covered her mouth with her free hand, heat rushing into her face. “I meant I won’t be able to get into Cuba quickly. Even with all the changes and loosening of travel restrictions, I’m still a reporter, and the Cuban government still controls who reports in the country.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the tent, slapping harsh shadows across Antonio’s face, but even the hard light couldn’t mask his striking features.
Jesus. His pupils are so black. Maybe it was just the dim light. Either way, his eyes only made him look sexy. Strange that she would be thinking that in light of what he was putting her through.
The ominous rumble of thunder followed, vibrating through her. She had to get through to him.
“Look, even if I wanted to go to Cuba, and I want you to understand that I don’t, my family members were not friends of the government. So forget it. I’ll never get an entry visa as a working member of the media.”
She paused, her gaze memorizing his defined cheekbones and prominent nose so she could eventually give police an accurate description. He was almost too good-looking to believe he could be a bad guy. She looked away knowing that thought wouldn’t help the police. Or her.
“You’re not going to need a visa for this mission.” His fingers dug into her flesh, dragging her attention back to him. “We’re going in undercover.”
“If we go in illegally and we’re caught, you will be hurting me. We could go to prison. It doesn’t matter that Cuba and the U.S. are all of a sudden making nice.” Then a harsher reality punched her in the gut. “We could be killed. Used as an example, or we could just disappear.” She tried to plead with her eyes. “Please tell me you don’t believe all those recent photo ops out of Cuba. The government there still isn’t cooperating. It needs our help but isn’t willing to really change its ways to get it.”
“I know.”
Her throat tightened. “And you still want to go?” He’s crazy.
“I’ve got no choice.” His chest rose and fell as if he’d just run an obstacle course. “I have to rescue…my sister.”
His sister. The hesitation in his voice, the soft, tortured way he’d said those two words, connected with something deep in her core. Someone he loved was trapped on that poor, isolated island, which time and former allies had all but forgotten. She was sorry for that. Could even relate to his pain. But she wasn’t going to help him. She could lose too much. Everything she and her mother had spent a lifetime working toward. And then there was her father.
Words boiled up and burst free before she could swallow them. “I’ll never go back. Those government bastards killed my dad. Just for what he believed in and had the courage to say out loud in public. For telling the damn truth.” Hot tears burned her eyes. “Damn it.” Flushed and paralyzed at having shared a secret she’d held so tightly inside with this stranger, she rolled her lips inward and pressed them together, determined not to let more details slip out.
Despite the rush of blood through her veins, she fought to sit still. The tent became so quiet she could hear footsteps outside and feel the buzzing of a mosquito whizzing by her ear. A hissing sound, and then another flash of lightning lit up the tent. She jerked back. Scary shadows danced across the siding.
“What makes you think your father is dead?” Antonio finally asked.
Thunder rattled the tent poles.
What the hell was he talking about? “My mother told me the Cuban government killed my papi.” He’d been a hero, jailed, tortured, and murdered because he spoke out against political atrocities, and because he believed in free speech and a free press. Her mother wouldn’t have lied to her about that. That truth had been the foundation on which she’d built her entire career.
“I have proof your father is alive and still living in Havana.”
Her heart skipped. What? Antonio couldn’t have dazed her more if he’d thrown a left into her chin. She couldn’t breathe. The air was suffocating her like a thick, warm blanket. She studied him. Years as a journalist had taught her to assess and sum up people’s veracity quickly. He didn’t look away. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t wring his hands.
As Antonio’s words settled in, despair slowly transformed into hope. Her heart picked up its pace. Her father might still be alive. Alive! She might actually get a chance to meet him. “Show me the proof.”
He let go of her wrist and sat back, a slight rise to his left eyebrow.
He must have known his words would paralyze her. She couldn’t run now, even if her life really did depend on it. She had to know the truth. If her papi still lived, why hadn’t he tried to contact her at least once in twenty-six years? She bit her lip. Maybe her papi was still imprisoned?
As a kid, she’d worn a fatherless child’s insignificance like a dirtied coat off the rack of their neighborhood Goodwill. She’d spent years shedding that feeling of worthlessness.
A ball of emotion lodged in her throat. If she could find a solid object, she would launch it at the stranger, hurting him for bringing all these buried emotions back to the surface, raw and blistering.
And yet he was also offering her the possibility of a new future, one that could erase the hurt of her past. If her father still lived, if he was a prisoner of the Cuban government all these years, she could find and rescue him, maybe even bring him to America now that the two countries were trading prisoners. Her life story could become one of her greatest news stories.
“Here’s the deal, Rebecca.” Antonio’s smug voice signaled his confidence.
He knew she’d take his bait. Instantly, she hated him for his arrogance.
A knowing smile played on his lips. “I get your cooperation in exchange for my information.”
Chapter Three
The reporter was staring at him like a caged animal on the verge of a breakdown. Her long, dark brown hair fell partly over her flushed face, and her full lips remained partly open, and fuck if she didn’t look sexy. He looked away, annoyed by another unexpected physical rush of attraction.
He had to focus on the plan. She hadn’t known her father was alive. That he was sure of. Should give her a good reason to work with him in Cuba without being a pain in his ass.
He studied her again and watched hate flash in her eyes. Good. He’d expected as much. In fact, he was counting on it. Hate, he knew well. He could deal with it. Made it easier to predict a person’s actions.
Lightning lit up the tent. He counted to five before the roll of thunder followed. Damn it. He glanced at the buckling tent flap. The storm was approaching faster than he’d anticipated. He still had work to do outside.
Rebecca hadn’t jumped at the lightning this time, but she did pull her legs to her chest. She was resting her chin on her knees with her eyes closed, rocking back and forth, her lips moving like she was talking to herself.
He clenched his fists as a wave of regret slugged him. He didn’t want to cause any woman this kind of emotional distress, and he certainly would not physically hurt her, but leaders did what leaders had to despite the toll it took on others. He looked away. I’m not watching this. She’s going to cry. If she didn’t hate him now, she’d want to kill him when this trip was over.
Another burst of brightness lit up the tent. He had wanted to be on the road to Miami before dawn, but none of them would be going anywhere in this weather. So he leaned back against the storage unit he’d set up in the center of the tent, letting his gaze drift slowly over his “guest.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows bunched together, and her lips rolled inward as if processing the bomb of unexpected information he’d launched at her.
She was skinnier than she looked on TV. Fragile even. He hoped she could endure the rugged terrain and lack of basic necessities required to accomplish his mission. They weren’t going to be staying at the Ritz.
She opened her eyes, and her gaze locked onto his. Despite the darkness, despite the distance, they connected. Something in his center shifted. There was a question mark in those big dark eyes, like she knew she shouldn’t trust him. Smart girl. “Okay.” Her voice sounded firm and resolved. “Tell me what you know about my father.”
Okay? He looked back at her, surprised she’d gotten on board so easily. Maybe she’s bullshitting me.
She wiped the back of her hand across her nose and mouth and then squared her shoulders. Okay, so she was probably pretending to be brave and unaffected. That’s good. She was a decent actress.
“Tell me about my father.”
“Not yet. But to prove to you I’m not playing around…” He pulled a picture from the right pocket of his jacket. “This is a recent photo of your father.” He leaned toward her, holding the picture out, holding his breath.
“A picture of the man
you think is my father isn’t proof.” Rebecca reached for it.
Antonio jerked the photo away from her. “This man is your father.” She had to understand who was boss here. “Does the name Arturo Menendez Garcia mean anything to you?” Antonio dangled the picture just out of her reach. “This is him, and there’s no denying your blood connection. You’re his spitting image.”
Rebecca seized the photo, bringing it close.
He reached into the storage unit behind him and pulled out a lantern. “You’ll strain your eyes.” With the twist of a switch, artificial light filled the tent. Antonio wanted Rebecca to see the similarities, like the shape of their dark eyes, the same full lips, high cheekbones, and thick hair.
She squinted. Blinking a couple of times, she held the picture at arm’s length. Her eyebrows snapped together. “This is all the proof you have?”
Are you kidding? She had to see the resemblance. “You’re the reporter. When we get to Cuba, you find more proof. Or find him. If you’re good enough to track him down.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Finding him has to be part of the deal.” Rebecca’s shoulders flew back, but she held her facial features in check.
She had a poker face. Important, if they were to succeed. Antonio cleared his throat, a guilty taste lingering in his mouth. He knew so much more, details she wouldn’t want to hear about her dad. He hated these kinds of games. And he really had no desire to damage her. He just needed her. It could be no one else.
He was going to rescue his sister with this reporter’s help, or die trying. It was time.
Another yellow stab of light exploded outside the tent. South Florida thunderstorms always kicked up the earthiness of the Everglades. The aroma of damp dirt and burning wood smelled like home to him. The air was so heavy now he knew it was only a matter of minutes before the skies would burst with the weight of the rain. He had to get moving.