Kiss the Enemy (Slye Temp)
Page 6
Did he know this woman?
Was she an operative he’d encountered somewhere before? He didn’t know those eyes, but she was wearing purple contacts.
Determined to flush her out, he pulled out his Russian accent and laid it on thick. He could replace it with an Italian, French, British or American slant at any time the need arose. “Mr. D is clearly busy.”
“In that case, his loss. Make sure you tell him there will be no second invitation.”
Ah, hell. This had to be the contact. “Follow me.”
“Where?” Violet’s eyes narrowed inside the mask.
“Somewhere private.”
Those lips barely moved into a Mona Lisa smile, taunting him. “I’m not paid to do the hired help.”
Did she think she was going to meet with Dragan alone? Not happening. “That is good, because I am not interested in the hired help either.”
Her mouth ticked with a tiny flinch.
Shit, now he felt like a bastard. And he was a liar to boot. His fingers itched to remove her mask and see the rest of that face. He’d never been much for blonds or brunettes. He preferred the fiery personalities that came with all shades of red.
In a different situation, he’d make an exception for this one. She raised his curiosity and his dick at the same time. No woman had done that in a while. Definitely not a prostitute. “Follow me to the elevator.”
“No.”
Had she just refused him? “I thought you wanted to meet Mr. D.”
“I’ll go somewhere private with him.”
“It does not work that way,” Logan told her with no sugar coating but kept his voice down. “I am here for a reason. First, you follow me to his suite. Once I know it is secure, I will bring him up.”
“Are you going to stay at that point, too?”
“Probably.”
She didn’t have to look up much to meet him eye to eye. “No one told me Mr. D preferred ménage à trois.”
He wanted to chuckle at her obvious fishing trip, but put plenty of steel in his voice when he said, “What Mr. D does in private is no one’s business. Now, do you still wish to meet with him or not?”
Her gaze glanced past his shoulder, staring at what he recalled was a mirrored wall at his back.
What had drawn her attention?
Logan searched past her shoulder and caught the bartender looking their way while he spoke into the mic at his collar, nodding, then he turned and started toward the far end of the bar where he’d be able to walk around to exit. The last thing Logan needed was a nosy bartender telling this Violet to stay away from the bodyguard and make herself available to the real clients.
Before he could come up with a way to convince her to leave with him, she said, “What are you waiting for? Lead away.”
Never look a gift horse, or a compliant contact, in the mouth.
He walked toward the elevator, sliding a look at Dragan—Nitro—as he did. Nitro lifted his hand to his right ear, the sign that he’d noticed and plan A was in effect.
Nitro would continue talking to his bevy of women—as Dragan—for the next thirty minutes in case this didn’t turn out to be the contact. If Logan hadn’t returned at that point, Nitro was to move to plan B, which was basically get the hell out of the building any way he could since plan A was FUBAR.
At the elevator, Logan told security he was going up to examine Mr. D’s suite.
Security had been informed of Logan’s position in advance, so the man stepped into the elevator car and used his key card to activate access to the top two hotel floors. As he did that, he spoke to another person through his mic, explaining that Mr. D’s personal security was on his way up to Mr. D’s suite with one of the ladies.
The ride up was quick, the whole point of an express elevator to the top floors.
Violet held herself in check the whole way.
Security led Logan the short distance to Mr. D’s penthouse suite and unlocked the door, telling Logan he would be at the elevator if Logan needed him. In other words, no return without keycard access, but Logan didn’t plan to be here very long.
He held the door for Violet, who walked in ahead of him and stopped in front of the wall of glass. On the other side, a clear night back-dropped an impressive balcony lit with a hundred candles, a pool with blue lighting beneath the surface and decorative trees scattered around the perimeter.
She turned as he strode up to her.
He still needed confirmation.
He had twenty-three minutes until Nitro would have to find his own way out if Logan didn’t return. This was the point where Logan hoped he hadn’t left Nitro’s back exposed, but if the Banker was ready to meet, then Logan should be the only one at risk once he explained that he was Dragan Stoli, not Nitro.
Violet clearly hadn’t anticipated being separated from Dragan, but she probably figured once they had an agreement, she’d have Dragan isolated up here on the second floor with no escape route.
“Aren’t you going to secure the suite?” Violet asked, letting him know he was imposing on her time.
Logan didn’t like turning his back on this one, but he moved away carefully. He checked every room and closet, including the bath, before returning to the living room where she’d seated herself.
He confirmed, “All clear. Time to talk.”
“I’m not paid to talk.” She waved her hand at him, sending him away. “Hurry back down and bring up Mr. D. He’s paid dearly for this opportunity and deserves a full service.”
When Logan failed to move, she made a huffing sound. “If Mr. D doesn’t come up here soon, Sergio will come for me. So either take me back down or bring him up. I need this job too much to let a paranoid bodyguard screw it up.”
Tell me I didn’t fuck up and bring one of the whores up here. There was no time left to spend on playing any more games. He crossed the room to her and bent down, noticing that she didn’t flinch.
Not the least bit intimidated by him.
Why did he find her cool poise so fucking hot when it was frankly getting in his way right now?
That was it. He knew what he could do to make her show her hand.
He’d take five minutes to find out one way or the other if she was the Banker’s contact. He dropped his voice into one he used in the bedroom. “Here is how this will work. My employer prefers his women ready.”
She snickered. “Doesn’t get much more ready than the Trophy Room.”
“Stand up.”
Her eyes narrowed. He wanted that mask off, but the rules were that the victor unmasked the woman. She wasn’t standing. He spoke in a soft voice, but the power behind his words made it an order. “Stand. Up. Or this meeting is over.”
Her gorgeous mouth lost all playfulness. She popped up easily, even in that gold fuck-me dress and on stiletto heels. He still had a couple of inches on her, but hot damn, what a woman.
“Is this ready enough?” she said with just enough threat in her voice to let him know not to confuse her with a submissive woman.
He leaned closer until he could smell her skin and whispered, “You are not even close to what he considers ready.” Logan ran the back of his finger lightly along her jaw and slowly, very slowly, down her neck. “You will be once I peel you out of that dress and bend you over the back of this sofa. When I lean in close, you will feel me, feel how hard I am for you and know that you cannot have me.”
Her nostrils flared. Anger and passion riding a razor edge.
He let his finger glide along the smooth skin of her shoulder and kept explaining. “I will cup your breasts and carefully pinch those nipples that already pebble in anticipation. My fingers will slide between your legs and tease you until you are wet and begging. If you ask nicely, I might even push them inside just to feel how tight you are.”
A muscle ticked in her jaw. Her breathing gave her away, coming in shorter pants.
He was so hard his dick ached. He wanted her.
That hadn’t been the plan.
Fuck this. If she touched him right now, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t give her everything he’d just promised.
One thing that always worked with the enemy was to threaten them. While he still had her caged between him and the sofa, he said, “If you have a message for Mr. D, then spit it out or prepare to be disappointed.”
Everything about Violet shifted subtly into the calm, defensive mode of someone ready to kill if necessary. She had steely nerves found in those who had faced dangerous situations enough times to wait for the right moment to react.
He’d been right. She was no fucking prostitute. Time to cut the pretense on both parts and get down to business.
Echoing her words, he shifted into an American speech pattern and said, “I’m here for one reason and talking to you isn’t it. Tell your boss that I’m Mr. D. If he wants to meet then let’s meet. If not, I’m leaving. What’s it going to be, because you’re running out of seconds?”
Her eyes widened with understanding the mask couldn’t hide. He could swear her lips moved with the word shit.
Real concern crawled up his neck. Something was off. Way off.
When she spoke, her voice held enough chill to frost the windows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Move. I have to go back downstairs. My boss isn’t going to be happy that I walked out with you instead of a client. And if you’re telling the truth about being the real Mr. D, my boss is going to be pissed because he doesn’t like to be played.”
She sounded so unbelievably natural.
Thoughts were having a train wreck in his brain. He’d never been this far off fingering an operative. She had to be one. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Move.”
Logan glanced at his wristwatch. In nine minutes, Nitro aka Dragan had to get out of this place alive. What if the real contact was down there right now with Nitro, taking advantage of no bodyguard to get Nitro out of the room?
“Let’s go.” Logan grabbed her arm.
She snatched her arm away, but not before he felt her strength. “Don’t touch me again unless you think you can still bodyguard with one arm.”
“Take off that mask.”
“Dream on.”
“You have ten seconds before I take it off of you.”
“Your insurance had better be paid up,” she scoffed back at him.
Harming a woman galled Logan, but he’d fought alongside skilled females who could take down a terrorist cell. Still, he could unmask her without doing much more than bruise her. He reached for her mask.
Her hand shot out to stop him.
Glass exploded into the room from the balcony at the same moment the door to the hallway burst open.
Four figures cloaked entirely in black, including their heads, entered. Two from each point, weapons drawn, but not shooting.
Violet yelled, “You take those. I’ve got these.”
Was she crazy? Logan grabbed her and swung her around behind him, backing her up to a wall. Violet shoved him aside and yanked up a lamp and swung at the two men coming in on Logan’s right from the balcony.
Why didn’t they shoot her?
Why weren’t any of them shooting?
Logan didn’t have time to find out because he had his own two to battle and lunged at the pair who had entered from the doorway. Thuds and grunts were the only sounds. He slammed a fist and connected with bone, but something hit him across the back that felt like a club.
The room lights went out.
The suite fell into shadows, but he caught a blur of Violet kicking one of her attackers backwards on his ass. The other one grabbed her by the hair that ... came off?
A right hook caught Logan across the jaw. He stepped back, but it took more than that to put him down. Shoving forward, he hammered blows at the one who’d cocked him on the jaw.
Violet had one of hers in a chokehold, but the one on the floor was back up on his feet, a black shape moving fast. He raised his hand and whipped it down in a stabbing motion.
She froze, weaving, then tumbled forward.
Logan shoved his guy aside and went for her.
A sharp stab hit him in the side of his neck.
Adrenaline kept him moving, but when he reached her, he fell forward on top of her with one last thought.
She wasn’t breathing.
CHAPTER 8
“Time’s up,” Nick declared into the lapel mic on his comm set. It reached all his men covering exits from the hotel and garage. “Dingo, you and Ryder get inside the garage and down to the private parking. Check the trunks first. Tanner, go into the hotel and create the disturbance.”
“Ten four.”
Men were calling back to Nick after each order, confirming their positions and next moves.
Tanner broke in. “I hear sirens coming this way. Might be nothing, but...”
Nick heard something else. A helicopter. Who had called the cops? That might be good news.
Sabrina could get Margaux out of jail.
Sirens screamed and strobe lights flashed from police cruisers racing up to the hotel.
“Pull back,” Nick called to the entire team.
The beat of the helicopter blades picked up volume, getting louder as it approached.
What were they hunting for? Nick dove into his rental and snagged a set of binoculars. He focused in on the helicopter hovering over the roof, but Josh had called back with a structural breakdown of the significant parts of the building.
No way a helo could land.
Nick couldn’t see anything that indicated there was a problem at the roof that would bring the cops in by air.
More police cars poured into the scene. Two fire trucks blew their horns to clear the way.
Guests poured out the front doors to the hotel. People on the street were crowding into the area to see what was going on.
Dingo spoke into Nick’s ear, “There’s a fire in the basement and someone’s dead.”
Nick didn’t say a word, too focused on the chopper that came into view moving slowly around the roof. Orange-yellow lights from the hotel’s interior illuminated the jagged spikes that capped the building. The helicopter lifted up and pulled away at the same time. A shape dangled on a cable beneath it, silhouetted against the roof and rising in sync with the chopper.
The long, black shape was just the right size to be a container for a body.
Nick would bet his Ferrari that Margaux was in that container.
CHAPTER 9
Screeching that would irritate the dead hurt her head. Margaux jerked awake and moaned. Pain clawed her body.
More shrieking sounds. Monkeys.
She sniffed. Rotting vegetation and mildew stench.
And the noxious smell of her body sucking into itself, dehydrating.
Oh, yes. Memory was booting up. Slowly.
She was in a jungle. Naked, lying on the dirty floor of a hut. Locked inside. She blinked her dry eyes. Been here for one day? Two? Head hurt. Body hurt. So tired ...
Her eyes drifted shut. Blurred images of men came at her, shouting in some language that wasn’t English. They dragged her naked body through the mud to a building. Tied her to a chair. Fists came again and again. Then the skin on her arm burned.
She jerked awake, gasping. The world was spinning.
Someone coughed close by.
Turning her head took effort. She dropped her cheek back down on the filthy floor. She focused on a hole at the base of the wall.
That hole was her connection to ...
More coughing. A hoarse voice called out, “You there, Sugar?”
Sugar? Dragan.
Relief flooded her. She wasn’t alone. Now she remembered. Dragan had been captured, too. He was still alive.
He’d used his fingers to tear a small hole in the rotting base of the boards in the wall between them.
She tried to lick her lips that were parched and cracked. No saliva. “I’m here.”
His lips had to be right against the hole. His sigh shuddered hard. “Good.”
“How long have we been here?”
“Two days.”
“Got any plan?” She was struggling to stay awake. Her body wanted to shut down and quit, but they had to escape.
Dragan coughed and whispered, “Working on it, Sugar.”
“What’s with the Sugar?”
He chuckled then grunted. Must have hurt to laugh. He said, “The name Violet ... doesn’t fit you.”
She started to ask why not then heard someone approaching.
Her mind raced, remembering who that would be.
Were Lurch and Tattoo coming for her?
She’d named the tall guard with the square head, hair shaved on the side and thick curly mat of black on top, Lurch. He always arrived with a short, sturdy guy whose eyes hit her chest high. She called him Tattoo after the guy who played on Fantasy Island years ago, which wasn’t fair since the real Tattoo had only been two-foot-eight and was a lot more entertaining in those old reruns.
The Tattoo in her living nightmare was a bit of a neat freak, constantly knocking dirt off his shoes and wiping at insects that landed on his clothes. Both guards wore jungle cammies and boots, but Tattoo kept his arms covered in long sleeves. Lurch had a dull look in his black eyes and a cigarette dangled perpetually from his dark brown fingers. Tattoo’s narrow Latin eyes tilted up with a constant smirk.
If Margaux had to guess her location based on those two being locals and speaking Spanish, she’d say South America.
She started breathing fast, anticipating.
Dragan said, “Rest. Not your turn.”
The sound of a door banged open on his side.
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to call out words of encouragement, but they’d figure out that Dragan had dug a hole through the rotting boards so she could talk to him.