I glare at my captor, who’s getting more drunk by the minute, thanks to harassing the flight attendant. I should have more patience. He hasn’t hit me once, and if he smells of whisky and hair product, that’s better than a punch to the mouth.
But I swear, if he looks down the front of my blouse one more time, I’m going to lose it.
“Come on,” Afonso says, waving the deck at me. “Pick a card.” He keeps trying to do magic tricks. I’m not sure if it’s a euphemism for something or if this is more of the daddy-daughter shtick, but it’s creeping me out.
For what feels like the millionth time in a row, I pick a card. The plastic gloves on my hands make it difficult to pull one out, but I manage. Two of clubs.
He shuffles the deck and gives me an exaggerated wink, then slaps a card against his forehead. “Is this your suit?”
It’s a diamond. “No.”
He frowns and looks down at his card. “Eh?”
I show him mine. “Maybe I jinxed it.” I’m pretty damn unlucky.
“No, it just needs the touch of a real hand,” he says, nodding at my gloves. “Those are messing up the flow. They, like me, need the touch of a real woman.” And he gives me what I suppose is a lady-killer wink.
Gross. I smile politely and wiggle my gloved fingers at him. “I’m sorry. I’m going to keep wearing these. My hands are my livelihood.”
He snorts.
Lightning flashes out the window, and I nervously peek out again. The clouds below us are an angry, thunderous shade of black, and I can see lightning flashing. We’ve been in the air for less than an hour, and it feels as if all of Peru is covered in storms. It makes me nervous. “I’m a hand model,” I tell Afonso for the millionth time. “Hand and foot, but mostly hand.”
“You’re protecting them from sunlight, yes?”
“Sunlight, other people, you name it,” I agree. Right now, my gloves are full of shea butter. I’m moisturizing up since we’re on the flight and I’ve got nowhere else to go for the next few hours. Plus, it sounds weird but moisturizing relaxes me. It’s part of my routine and it’s soothing, and lately I’ve needed a hell of a lot of soothing.
Afonso now gives me an assessing look. “Your hands, they are soft, eh?”
My creepster meter goes through the roof. “Yep,” I say flatly, and turn back to my window. It’s a cue for him to leave me alone, and I wish I had one of those eye masks so I could put it on and pretend like my “dad” isn’t here.
The tiny plane has two rows of seats on one side, and one solitary seat on the other. I’ve got the misfortune to be in the center of the plane with Afonso. What’s weird is that there are a ton of seats open. The plane seats thirty or so, I’m guessing, but other than the stewardess and three men in the back, there’s no one else on board. Pucallpa must not be a hot Sunday flight spot.
I’m the only one with a seatmate, too. Lucky, lucky me.
Afonso could easily take an empty seat in a nearby row, but he’s content to bother me and spend the flight time peering down my shirt.
Claustrophobia hits me and I feel sick to my stomach. In my hotel room, I was alone for the most part. Here? Afonso is in my space and he won’t go away. His hand grazes my thigh, and my stomach clenches nervously. Rape hasn’t been on the table yet, but suddenly, I’m not ruling it out.
And that frightens the hell out of me.
I need to get away for a few minutes, if only for a breather. Thunder rumbles outside of the plane. “I need to use the restroom, Afonso. If you’ll let me out—”
“Don’t be in such a rush,” he tells me, and gives me what I assume is supposed to be a sexy grin.
“Really must go,” I say, standing up in my seat. “Stomach upset.” And I groan emphatically, my gloved hands squishing as I fist them tightly and press them to my stomach.
He frowns and gets up to let me out, though I’m pretty sure I feel his fingers drag over my shoulder and down my thigh as I shimmy past. Shuddering, I make my way down the aisle to the plane’s small bathroom at the back of the passenger compartment. The purse is slung over my arm, and I enter the tiny cubby sideways to ensure I don’t smack it against the door. Once inside, I lock the door behind me, put the lid down, and sit down on the toilet.
I don’t have to pee. I just need to breathe.
I practice deep breathing for a few minutes, trying to calm the panic rising in my throat. They’re moving me to a new city. Fouquet is getting rougher, and Afonso is getting more forward by the hour. If ever my life felt like it was hanging by a thread, it’s now. I think of Rose. Poor, poor Rose. What are they doing to her? Is she safe?
I’m trying, Rosie. I’m trying so freaking hard.
My hands tremble for long minutes and I stay in the bathroom until I’m completely calm once more. When I finally open the door again, one of the men in the back immediately stands up to go to the bathroom.
His gaze meets mine, and I freeze.
It’s a handsome man with familiar piercing eyes. Mendoza. He’s here. As I watch, he lifts a finger to his lips, indicating silence.
And he smiles.
CHAPTER SIX
RAFAEL
Ava is startled by my presence but hope streaks across her face. She thinks I’m here to save her. Unfortunately the most I can offer at this point is that I won’t rape and harm her, but I need the information she has. In this controlled setting with only the small dark-haired man watching her, I can easily make the switch. Five different-colored folders with only a few pieces of paper. Our duplicate isn’t perfect because we haven’t been able to get close up. The best we’ve got are telephoto shots of the papers, which reveal what appears to be intercepted emails and transcripts of telephone calls. We aren’t sure.
Bennito made up a dummy replacement in about an hour. The matching purse was purchased by Norse the day before at a local high-end shop.
I pick up the decoy purse, setting it on the seat behind me so Ava doesn’t see it.
“Sorry.” The turbulence of the plane dislodges her footing and she falls into me, her handbag tumbling to the ground.
Instinctively I wrap my arm around her waist to steady her but the action only brings her closer to me. The smell of scented lotion and woman invades my lungs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath so that I can imprint her in my mind.
There’s the plush feel of her tits against my hard chest. Her small hands grip my forearms, and one of her legs has settled between my thighs. Shit¸ a little adjustment and I could be rubbing my increasingly hard cock against her cloth-covered pussy.
But there’s no time for that. I use the jostling of the body of the plane to cover up the switch. With my arms around her middle, I quickly push her purse under a seat and then hand her the dummy.
She doesn’t notice the switch. Her eyes widen, taking in my face, visible beneath the low brim of my cap. The swift intake of breath is surprise and recognition. “Are you that guy? The one they’re afraid of?”
“Shhh.” I place a finger over my lips and tip my head toward Afonso. She snaps her mouth shut but her eyes are pleading with me to help her. “Who is with you?” I jerk my head toward the front.
Her eyes fill with tears. “His name is Afonso. Are you from the U.S. government? Who sent you?”
The plane makes another bounce and I take advantage of the moment to reposition us. Her hand goes to my chest.
I shake my head. “Do you have the package with you?”
Disappointment sets in. “Go to hell,” she spits. She struggles in my grasp and I let her go.
“Filha, come here,” Afonso orders. His daughter? My ass.
“Be strong,” I murmur and release her, shoving her hard down the tiny aisle. I shut out her stricken face and get the purse—the correct one—out from under the seats and then slam the lav door closed. Whatever hope she had that I am here to save her is now dead. I have my orders. Steal the information, intercept the buy, free my man.
Nowhere in the plan did it allow for
rescuing a sinfully soft body and a pair of gorgeous mismatched eyes. I don’t look at the mirror, because I can’t face myself right now. I place the stolen purse on the toilet lid and unzip it. Inside are the folders, complete with tabs and sticky notes. I pull those out and take snapshots of each. I dig through the cosmetics and the useless key ring, then shove the folders back inside. Fuck.
The information isn’t here. It’s somewhere else. The only thing the buyers are getting is a bunch of paperwork. I should have known that Fouquet would set up a two-part sale. By selling the information in parts, the buyers are kept from taking the information and running without payment. But that complicates my plans by a hell of a lot.
I pull a small black nylon bag from my back pocket and wrap it around the purse to disguise it, and then exit the lav. The plane is bouncing like a carnival ride. The two men in the back are breathing into puke bags.
Over the top of the seats, only Ava’s head is visible. Afonso is missing, probably using the forward lav. I settle into a seat two back from Ava. She doesn’t turn around but the plane is noisy. Or maybe she hates me now and wishes the bottom of the plane would open up and the sky would suck me out.
I shove the stolen purse under my seat and reach for the in-flight magazine. Outside the sky is nearly pitch black despite it being early afternoon. The wings are lit up, in part from the onboard lighting and in part from the lightning.
Ava’s head bobs and weaves and then dips forward. She must be getting sick. Afonso staggers out of the lav and drops into one of the front seats, away from Ava but close to the bathroom.
The plane feels as sturdy as a tin can held together by twine. The seat belt light is blinking furiously. Overhead the speakers turn on and a strained pilot reports the obvious.
“This is the captain speaking. We are experiencing some unexpected turbulence. Please stay in your seats with your seat belts fastened until further notice.”
If I lean out of my seat, I can see Ava white-knuckling the armrest. If I thought for a second that she’d welcome my comfort, I’d crawl up to her row and hold her hand or finger or toe or whatever body part she’d allow me to touch.
Lightning flashes again and the plane rumbles with the thunder, the vibrations shaking the fuselage. Another flash, and an even louder clap of noise echoes through the body of the plane. The men in the back start yelling in panic.
“Oh my God! The wing is on fire!” Ava screams. She points and even Afonso notices. Across the small aisle we watch in horror as the engine explodes and the wing shears away. The plane tips violently to the left. Overhead, the luggage racks open and the oxygen masks drop out. The stupid purse rolls my way. Ava yelps and reaches down to grab it, unbuckling her belt.
The fucking plane is falling out of the sky and she’s worried about the goddamned purse. Worse, it’s the fake one that I traded out. She’s not risking her life for that. I grab the stolen bag and rip the nylon cover off of it.
“Ava, climb into a seat and buckle in. Got me?” I yell at her.
“I need that bag,” she cries.
“I have it.” I pick it up and despite the tilt of the plane manage to make my way to her seat. “Here.” I hand her the real bag. She hugs it to her body and releases a sob of relief.
“How do you know my name?” Ava blurts out.
“What?” I answer her distractedly. I’m not looking in her direction.
Afonso has my attention now. He’s somehow found a parachute. I lean across Ava and see the limp arm of the stewardess nearly brushing the floor of the plane. Fuck. That goddamned asshole shot the stewardess to get access to the emergency chute. Her dead body sprawls in a nearby seat.
I glance back at Afonso and the parachute. Ava and I need that chute. Afonso turns to the exit door and starts tugging. Dumbass. He’s never going to get the door open. Cabin doors can’t be opened when the landing gear is up but he apparently doesn’t know that. He struggles with the door, pulling hard on the handle.
How long would it take me to get to him? I unbuckle my belt and press my finger to my lips so Ava won’t give me away. Inching forward, I creep toward Afonso but he hears me and pulls his gun from his waistband and shoots.
I duck back but a sting hits my eye. I brush it and realize that his bullet must have caught part of the metal of the seat, which ricocheted and struck me in the face. I blink rapidly and brush away the blood. He must have caught a vein over my eye. Those wounds bleed profusely. Shit.
“Stay here,” I shout to Ava. The rattling of the plane has reached epic levels.
“I’m not going anywhere, asshole,” she snaps back.
I can’t stop the grin from spreading. That she’s chippy is a good sign. We’ll need attitude to survive this.
I push off with my legs and launch myself toward Afonso. He brings his gun up and shoots again but the plane pulls to the right suddenly. We go flying, my body slams against the seats, and Afonso crashes into the opposite exit door. Near Afonso lies my emergency kit. I reach for it.
“Mendoza, the wing. The wing is gone,” Ava screams. I right myself and look out the window. She’s right. I abandon the stolen bag, Afonso, the parachute, the Boy Scout pack. My only chance of making it out is to belt in and hope that the seats break our fall into the Amazon. Afonso grins wildly and grabs the purse, looping it over his arm. When we land, I’m finding him and gutting him.
With both wings gone, the plane starts a free fall. The rumble inside the tube is deafening. Hand over hand, I climb back toward Ava’s seat and manage to fling myself into the seat. She reaches over and helps me buckle in.
“Your eye,” she gasps. “You’re bleeding like—like—”
“Like I’ve been stabbed in the eye?” I finish. Now that I’m upright and can feel my laceration-free forehead, I realize that the shard must have pierced my eyeball. The hazy vision in my left side isn’t due to blood but because I got a piece of metal in my eye. I turn to her. “Is it bad?”
“I don’t see anything,” she frets. Her hands pat my face and even though we are hurtling toward our death in a metal can, I can’t help but think of how soft her hands feel. They’re like flower petals or silk sheets. They are the softest goddamned things in the world, and the last thought in my head before I black out is I wonder how they’d feel on my dick.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AVA
I wake up with my face pressed against a warm, broad chest and my legs tangled in the leaves of a tree. Somewhere close by, I hear birds chirping. There’s sunlight dappling my face and everything feels damp.
Everything also hurts.
I’m dazed and my head is ringing with pain, and the sun is beaming right into my eyes, which is freaking annoying as hell. I rub a hand across my face and it takes me a few moments to realize that I shouldn’t see the sun at all if I’m inside an airplane.
Then I remember the storm. The thunderous boom as the plane was hit by lightning. Screams. The wing catching fire. The chaos of Afonso with his gun. Free-falling through the cabin, my grip on the seats the only thing keeping me from flying through six thousand feet of empty air.
Mendoza’s hand ripping out of mine when the cabin depressurized. The screams of people going silent.
Mendoza.
I remember him, too.
A noise from somewhere nearby catches my attention. It sounds like heavy breathing. I open my eyes and look around.
I’m still strapped to my seat. There’s a portion of the plane underneath me, and the two seats Mendoza and I buckled into are still together.
He’s next to me, the broad chest I’m currently draped across. His eyes are closed, dried, crusted blood around the injured one. He’s got an enormous bruise on his forehead and his arms are around me, as if he was trying to protect me even as we fell.
“Mendoza?” I ask, sitting upright and pulling out of his arms. Sitting up makes everything in my body scream with pain. My ankles hurt, but I don’t know if it’s because they’re seriously injured or because th
ey were tucked under the seat in front of me, which is also still attached. I test my legs, untangling them from his longer ones, and wince at the pain shooting through my body. It feels like I’ve been trampled in my sleep. My ribs hurt, and my right arm radiates agony.
But . . . I’m alive. I sit up a bit straighter and look at my right arm. The purse I’ve carried for days is gone. The skin is puffy and turning purple. When I flex my fingers, the pain brings tears to my eyes. I look away from it, faint and sick to my stomach at the sight. It’s not just the pain but what it represents. I’m a hand model. I can’t do a thing if my hands are jacked up.
Not that it matters right now.
“Mendoza,” I say again, because I’m about to panic, and panic hard. “Wake up. Please.”
He doesn’t stir.
Fear clutches me, and I grab his shirt with my good hand and give him a shake. “Mendoza?”
That doesn’t wake him, either. I press my cheek to his chest and listen for a heartbeat.
It’s slow and steady. Whew. I sit up and examine him again. The knot on his forehead is huge. Maybe he just got knocked out. I’ll have to figure out how to wake him up once I figure out where we are. It looks like our section of the plane somehow separated from the rest of the wreckage, which is why we’re alive and not a skidmark on the ground.
I shift in my seat and the world tilts. My eyes go wide and I freeze in place, then look around.
I can see trees overhead, and sunshine, but it’s just now occurred to me that we’re not on the ground. The chairs are tilted and everything shakes when I move.
I’m pretty sure we’re in a tree. Clutching at the arm of the chair, I sit up carefully and look around.
I see nothing but air and leaves, green vines and dappled shadows. In the distance, I hear the sound like heavy breathing again. I look at Mendoza, but it’s not him. Oh God. Is it Afonso? Is he still here? Biting my lip, I crane my neck and try to peer down below. We’re at least twenty feet off the ground.
It’s like the wreckage has been swallowed up by a wall of green. Green and wet. On the jungle floor, there’s more greenery and what looks like smoking wreckage. Pieces of the plane are scattered all over the forest floor, along with a few scattered suitcases. In the distance I see another row of chairs, this one facedown in the dirt. The heavy breathing starts again, and this time I see the source: a jaguar, stalking through the wreckage.
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