Seal of Surrender

by Traci Douglass

  Chago ignored the question and walked to the table. Delicious aromas wafted around him and his foul mood improved slightly. Luther always had been a great chef. His Ottoman heritage lended itself toward rich dishes ripe with exotic spices, similar to Chago’s own Basque homeland. With his taste buds now fully engaged, he took a seat at the table and stuffed a napkin into the collar of his shirt to prevent messy spillage. There was no sense taking out his rotten mood on his host, so he forced a smile and tucked into his food. “Damn, I’ve missed your fine culinary skills.”

  Luther shot him a wide grin and slid into the opposite seat. His pastel shirt contrasted with his mocha skin and looked right at home in the Dallas heat. “Well then, eat up. It’s getting cold.”

  Chago stuffed a large forkful of eggs into his mouth and grabbed the sports section of the newspaper from the center of the table. “What are you doing in Dallas?”

  “Besides helping you? Xander’s got me profiling several members of this Omega Consortium.” Luther’s words were muffled by an enormous bite of toast. “Turns out they’ve got ties to all kinds of nefarious stuff. The whole mess stinks of corruption.”

  No surprise there. Chago shook his head and devoured the rest of his eggs while refocusing on the basketball scores. “Barron sent me an invite to some fancy dinner tonight. Want to come along?”

  “Sorry, I can’t. I’m supposed to meet with Xan. I’ve got a special assignment.”

  “Damn. I was hoping you’d keep me out of trouble.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just remember not to punch anyone and keep your knives sheathed.” Luther chuckled and jerked his head toward a black garment bag draped over the arm of a nearby chair. “And Xan had me pick that up for you. Said it should be just your size.”

  “I refuse to make any promises regarding violence.” Chago glanced at the leather case embossed with the name Armani and slumped in his seat. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough.

  He stood, checked the time, and placed his dirty dishes in the sink. There were still several hours to waste before he had to put on the dreaded designer monkey suit and perform. With excess energy to burn and an overwhelming desire to escape his homesickness, Chago stalked into the living room and sat on the sofa. “What’s there to do around here?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Luther said, joining him. He switched on a large flat screen TV and tossed Chago a game controller. “Care for a simulated battle?”

  “Si.” Chago unbuttoned the neck of his polo shirt and reached for the remote with an air of supreme confidence, glad for the distraction. “Prepare for doom, brother. You’re about to have your ass whooped.”

  Chapter 2

  Chago handed his invitation to the attendant stationed at the door and entered a large ballroom. Before him lay a vast expanse of linen-adorned tables festooned with elaborate floral centerpieces and mismatched china patterns. Three humongous chandeliers hung down the middle of the room; their dangling crystals caught the light of scattered candelabra and sent an otherworldly sparkle over the mingled patrons. The rustle of expensive fabric and the odor of money mixed perfectly with the blank boredom of the idle rich.

  After a quick adjustment to his crisp black bowtie and an unnecessary straighten of his already immaculate tuxedo, Chago stepped into the proverbial lion’s den. A small group of people gathered around a fully stocked bar against the far wall of the ballroom and he headed in their general direction.

  “Champagne, sir?” A thin waiter stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “No, thanks.”

  He pushed past the man and ignored the admiring stares of the women he passed. His height gave him advantage over most others and allowed him to spot the back of his target’s pale blond head. A rotund partier blocked his sight of the rest of her.

  At the bar, Chago ordered bourbon neat then turned to regard Ms. Soldan from beneath the shield of his lashes. From his vantage point, the long-sleeved, high-necked black dress she wore appeared almost matronly beside the garish carnival of bright silk and taffeta ball gowns. Then she pivoted away and stepped into full view.

  Big improvement. The demure scrap of material morphed into a backless wonder, held together by only two small, jeweled buttons — one at the back of the turtleneck collar and one near her tailbone. The barest suggestion of a mark or tattoo peeked from below the draping material near her waist. Her showstopper frock left quite an array of creamy smooth skin on display. So much for conservative. He smiled and downed the contents of his glass in one gulp then ordered a second.

  Another patron approached and shoved into position beside him. The new arrival barked his drink order to the bartender with the entitled tone possessed by only the super wealthy. “Two vodka martinis.”

  Chago fought back the urge to run screaming from the building and away from pompous pricks like the one standing to his left. Instead, he picked up his drink and fidgeted with his tie for the umpteenth time, trying to avoid any contact with the person beside him.

  “Not a formal dress aficionado, eh?” The man tugged at his own lapels while giving Chago a glance. “Drake Benedict, Omega’s CEO.”

  He stared at the man’s extended hand and enjoyed the last moments of freedom before the mission got underway. “Chago.”

  “What’s your occupation, Mr. Chago?”

  “Just Chago.” He shoved another twenty to the bartender, and faced the crowd again, hoping to end the conversation before it started. No such luck.

  “You don’t have to tip them. I’m paying for their services.”

  “Good service always deserves a reward.” Chago decided to play nice, at least for now, and pointed to his bowtie. “You’re to blame for this?”

  Drake regarded him with an odd mix of boredom and challenge. “You never told me your line of work.”

  “Consulting.”

  “Oh? On what?”

  “Military operations, weapons, those sorts of things.” He pivoted to check on his target’s location, only to find her gone. Fuck.

  “There you are.” A female voice, tinged with a vague hint of Eastern European flavor, carried through the air. “I wondered what happened to you.”

  Chago glanced up to meet a pair of pale blue eyes, narrowed and assessing.

  “Allow me to introduce Irena Soldan. She’s one of my top researchers and fresh off the plane from the conflict in Syria. Irena, this is Chago.”

  He eyed the proprietary hand Drake draped across her shoulders as he made the intro and her slight scowl as she brushed it off. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Soldan.”

  She accepted his handshake. A thrum of electricity shot up his arm and, if her confused expression was any indication, hers too. “Likewise, Mr. Chago.”

  “Only Chago. No mister.’”

  “Please, call me Irena.”

  His thumb stroked across the soft skin of her wrist when he released her hand. “Syria, huh? That’s rough terrain. I bet you saw some heavy action.”

  Her smile faded and a flicker of sadness crossed her features. Irena took an extended gulp of her martini. “You have no idea.”

  “I’ve heard the civilian casualty reports are much higher than what’s being reported.”

  “It’s one of the worst regions I’ve been to.” She placed her drink back on the bar and Chago noted the slight tremor in her movements as her fingers traced an absent pattern on the stem of her glass. “People are being slaughtered daily by the very government charged with protecting them.”

  Chago hid his urge to comfort her behind a flippant question. “The spoils of war?”

  Irena’s answering tone held both sorrow and resignation. “Exactly.”

  “C’mon, babe.” Drake nudged her in the side. The movement caused part of her martini to slosh onto the bar. “Let’s not talk shop tonight, eh?”

  The guy’s condescending endearment grated on Chago’s already raw nerves worse than a dull razor. Apparently he wasn’t the only one. Drake kissed Irena on the
cheek and slid his hand down her back to cup her butt. He didn’t miss Irena’s flinch or the heated glare she shot her boss.

  “Hey, the congressman’s over there. I need to talk to him for a minute. Be right back,” Drake said before hustling away through the crowd like a bargain hunter on Black Friday.

  “How’d you get involved in this line of work?” Chago forced his attention from Irena to the crowded ballroom. “It seems an unusual choice for a young woman.”

  “I grew up with war.” She, too, swiveled to survey the dance floor. “I’m Croatian.”

  Chago glanced down at the top of her head and smiled. So far, she’d stayed on course with the bio Barron had provided. And she’d been truthful. He liked truthful. “I’m impressed you’ve made it this far.”

  “I’m a lot tougher than I appear.”

  “I’ve no doubt.”

  “And what do you do, Chago? Besides making all these women swoon.” Irena tilted her head to indicate a group of nearby gawking ladies.

  He faced the bar again. Heat rose beneath the collar of his starched shirt as he wrestled with his bowtie and lost. “I guess you could say I’m a consultant. Military intelligence, combat.”

  And eager as hell to change the subject. He shifted position and noted the abundance of male interest directed at his bar mate and hitched his head to the side. “You seem to be drawing your own share of attention in that attire.”

  Irena gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Sell the sizzle, Drake always says.”

  “Oh, that’s what he says?” Chago ran an appreciative gaze over her from head to toe. “Mission accomplished.”

  “Thank you. Ditto.”

  He couldn’t halt his reciprocating smile and realized he’d not been this comfortable in a woman’s presence since … He severed the trail of his thoughts before any painful memories surfaced. The last thing he needed were old, immutable heartaches to cloud his judgment. Not with Archon on the prowl.

  “What’d I miss?” Drake returned to the bar and slid a possessive arm around Irena’s waist. She shifted and his hand fell away. His reciprocating stare could’ve melted steel.

  “We were discussing your business model,” Irena said, darting a quick glance at Chago. “Right.” Drake took a healthy sip of his Martini before grabbing her arm. “C’mon babe, we’ve got funds to raise. Nice to meet you.”

  They exchanged a handshake before Chago shifted his attention back to Irena.

  Drake was already too busy choosing his next victim to pay either of them any attention. With a frisson of orneriness riding him hard, Chago grasped Irena’s fingers and bent to brush his lips atop her knuckles. He couldn’t resist shooting her a wink before he straightened. “Go sell that sizzle.”

  The couple walked away and he leaned back against the bar. This mission could prove more enjoyable than he expected — once he got out of tuxedo-clad hell, of course. He ran another finger inside the stiff collar of his shirt and caught the admiring stare of a woman across the way. He smiled and her mouth fell open. She started toward him only to be stopped by her partner’s restraining hand. Sometimes the game was too easy.

  His cell phone vibrated, interrupting his diversion. He pulled out the device and scanned the caller ID. Barron. “Si?”

  “What’s up, dude?”

  “I want to get this damn evening done and go home, that’s what’s up dude.”

  “Are there any hot chicks around? I did some snooping and boy is your target F-I-N-E. Lucky bastard.”

  “Is there a purpose to this call or was it only to annoy the piss out of me?”

  “You know me, all business, all the time.” Barron’s deep chuckle resounded through the wireless connection. “I’m going to send you some schematics for the Omega building. Xander says to use them to plant the bugs.”

  “Perfect. Then I’m leaving. I can’t wait to get this damn suit off. Gracias, brother.”

  Chago disconnected the call and checked his e-mail, studying the blueprints as he tossed back the last of his bourbon. Alcohol had little effect on his immortal senses, but the warm taste of the whiskey reminded him of home. He placed his empty glass on the bar and headed toward an exit on the far side of the room. On his way out, he gave the crowd a final onceover and spotted Irena.

  As if sensing his gaze, she turned to meet his direct stare head-on, flashing him a small smile before returning her attention to the man across from her.

  Drake also seemed to take notice of their small exchange. His gaze narrowed on Chago and held until Irena grabbed his arm and tugged him away.

  Asshole. Chago pushed through a side door into the hallway beyond. Periodic overhead signs split the darkness and guided him forward. One final check of his watch confirmed there was no time for the stairs.

  He pushed the elevator button and the doors slid open. Once inside the compartment, Chago regarded the keyhole beside the penthouse button. Generic Seventies pop blared through the PA system, the perfect accompaniment to his less-than-stellar night. Removing a small leather pouch from his trouser pocket, he jimmied the security panel and after a series of tiny clicks, the lock’s tumblers fell into alignment and the car jerked upward.

  Chago considered the intriguing woman he’d sworn to protect during his ride to the top floor. Irena Soldan presented quite a dichotomy. Si, she was beautiful, but in his experience many gorgeous women were born with an aversion to toil and a love of money. Irena seemed to have neither. She should have married rich and lived like a queen. Instead, she sought to aid the most downtrodden of humanity.

  Her age meant she would have grown up amidst the tail end of the Croatian civil wars. He wondered what other atrocities she’d suffered to drive her into her chosen career. Such horrors always left deep scars.

  In the span of a heartbeat, his memories shifted and his mind flooded with images of a different woman, this one also beautiful and brave and fierce in her loyalty. Yana. His mate’s name echoed through his mind like a distant choir.

  No. He clamped his eyes shut and willed the debilitating ache in his chest to disperse. Distractions and dwelling on his past failures would only make him less functional. Chago took a deep breath and forced his attention back to the present. This time he could not afford to fail. A bell dinged to signal his arrival on the top floor.

  The doors opened to reveal an expansive, darkened foyer. He checked the area for security cameras and disabled them before proceeding to the end of the long hallway. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the twinkling Dallas skyline. With no time to spare on the gorgeous view, he pulled out his phone and studied the drawings of the penthouse offices.

  Several doors lined the hallway. Chago oriented himself before crossing the hall and retrieving his tools to pick the lock. Without a sound, he slipped through the door marked CEO.

  • • •

  “I need to speak with you.” Drake gripped Irena’s elbow and pulled her aside. “In private.”

  She clutched her purse tighter to her chest. What the hell could he want now? So far, she’d managed to avoid any alone time with him this evening. Seems her luck had run out. “What’s up?”

  “Not here.” Drake guided her toward a side exit. “Let’s go up to my office.”

  “This must be something important.” She followed him out into the dim hallway.

  “You have no idea.” His vague, predatory smile sent tension skittering through her gut. She stood behind him, just out of arms reach while they waited in silence for the elevator.

  Drake clasped his hands behind his back, tapping an impatient drumbeat on the tiled floor with his expensive leather loafer. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d slept with him. What the hell had she been thinking? Oh right. Rational thought hadn’t entered the picture. Lots of alcohol and a reaffirmation of life near the temples and pagodas of Mandalay? Yes. An abundance of clear, decisive introspection? Not so much. As one-night stands went, the experience hadn’t been awful, but it wouldn’t be happening again in this l
ifetime.

  She supposed he was handsome enough. His brown hair gleamed beneath the overhead lights and his tan exuded health and vitality, but she was beginning to see an edge of cruelty that skimmed just below his cool surface, a lethal switchblade hidden by easy, affable charm.

  Irena glanced over and caught his gaze. He smiled as the elevator dinged. The doors opened and she stepped inside then moved to place her back to the wall while Drake sidled up beside her.

  Maintaining her focus on the steady rise of numbers on the display, she steadfastly ignored the tickle of his fingers on her forearm and the moist heat of his breath fanning against her cheek. Irena hazarded a sideways glance toward him, only to look away fast when she confronted the naked hunger in his eyes.

  “I want you again.” His voice held a dark, raw urgency. “Now.”

  She recognized that tone. The same commanding snarl the guards of the prison camp used when they’d led her father away.

  Drake threw his arms around her and his lips clamped down over hers. The wet thrust of his tongue pushed against the seam of her mouth, seeking entrance and submission. Her lungs ached with lack of oxygen and soon her involuntary systems took over. Irena gasped in a breath. Drake used the moment to his advantage and slipped his tongue inside her mouth, a vodka-laced invasion. His hands gripped her ass hard and jammed her into his erection. She remained motionless, stunned, as the events unfolded like an out-of-body nightmare.

  Drake fumbled for and hit the stop button.

  “See how much I want you?” His hips ground into her, pressing his swollen cock against her stomach, his panting breath searing her ear. “Let’s fuck in the elevator.”

  The assault continued. Greedy hands plunged inside the back of her gown, oblivious to her lack of response. Hard fingers closed tight around her buttocks and squeezed.

  Pain, paired with his crude words, finally snapped Irena back to reality. She shoved him hard and knocked him off balance, enough for her to push away and straighten her dress. Let’s fuck in the elevator? How romantic.