"Okay."
She expected victory. A smug smile at the very least. What she got was disappointment and a frown.
"I thought so."
She turned back to the limo, to Pepe still waiting discreetly beside the door, not even bothering to shift into their native tongue. Not only did Tom speak Spanish, they both knew Pepe understood English. "Wait for us at the cathedral." There. She should be able to withstand four blocks alone with this man, especially since they wouldn't really be alone.
Not as soon as they left the alley.
Tom tossed his jacket to Pepe. "Hang on to this."
Pepe's frown dug deep, but he complied. She waited as he dumped Tom's jacket into the back of the car before slamming the rear door shut and opening his own. Her apprehension locked in as Pepe closed it again and started the limo, slowly driving up the alley until his blinding headlights began dogging the group of drunks. She had to lock her knees to keep from running after the men for help, and then the limo's taillights turned and disappeared from view.
Silence filled the alley, thickening the night air.
"Relax, honey, I don't bite. Not unless you want me to."
She swung around. "Just give me the pills and go."
"And leave you to walk to the park alone? At night, in Casco Viejo?" He shook his head as that infuriating tsk of his grated across her ears. "Now what kind of date would I be?"
"A good one."
He actually laughed. A deep, hearty chuckle that reverberated off the buildings around them. The brief sound seemed to startle him as much as it had her. "This coming from a woman who sent a hooker in her stead." By the time he shook his head, his humor had already begun to ebb. "I have to confess, I've had some lousy dates in my day, lady, but I can honestly say this is the first time a woman has invited me to go home with a prostitute instead of her."
"I doubt it'll be the last."
He tipped his head. "Touché."
"Good, now reward me."
"The hell I will." His sudden shift back to vehemence stunned her. Then again, it wasn't so sudden was it?
It was also her incredibly rotten luck. Her cousin had to hire the one thug with a serious hang-up about drugs. And this man did have a problem with drugs, as well as alcohol. Since the moment Tom had refilled his shot glass and lined it up beside that newly opened bottle of Scotch—exactly as the other glass and fresh bottle had been lined up the night before in his hotel room—she'd known he wouldn't be finishing off a second round. Instinct told her he never did. The same instinct, she suspected, that had Tom obsessing over the bottle of pills he'd taken from her purse.
Or had he?
He could have left them in his suit jacket. A jacket that was now sitting in the back seat of Luis's limo in the middle of La Plaza de la Independencia. If he'd even found the vial at all. He could be guessing. Heck, even she'd had trouble locating the hidden latch inside the purse Foster had shipped to Sam's just before the surgery. Evidently Foster only wanted her hooked, not dead. Small enough blessing, but she'd take it. She reached inside her purse and fingered the latch, praying for a major miracle. As usual, she came up empty. The compartment was empty. Tom might not be willing to show her the vial, but he definitely had it. And if he got a look at what was inside that vial besides those pills—
Her hand shook.
"What's the matter. Need another already?"
She closed her eyes against the taunt. "No."
Yes.
"Which is it, sweetheart?" There was no amusement in the smile that accompanied that one.
"Dammit, I am not addicted."
"Really?" He reached inside his trouser pocket, retrieving the opaque prescription bottle she'd give just about anything to get back, and not because of those goddamned tablets. He held the vial between them, turning it to scan a label she was certain he'd long since memorized. "According to the doctor who ordered this prescription, these pills were intended for a woman named Maria Herrera. She had it filled yesterday as a matter of fact, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, of all places. Shortly before your plane departed. Talk about coincidence. Quantity? Thirty pills. Recommended dosage? One to two tablets every four to six hours for pain." He stared down at her, hard. "You got any pain you'd like to cop to, Ms. Shale?"
"Yeah, in my butt. Would you like his name?"
His lips twitched grudgingly. "Score another for the lovely lady. Still, even a pain as large as…me would only require eight, maybe ten, pills since onset. Which would be yesterday at the hacienda, yes? Leaving twenty, twenty-two tablets in here. A simple count ought to solve our argument." He palmed the lid. "Shall we?"
The soft pop that followed ricocheted through her.
Her hand snapped out before she could stop it, clamping down directly over his. "Why do you even care?"
"Someone has to."
"Why you?" Like her hand, her mouth opened before she could stop it. The words spilled out, "Because you couldn't save her?" It had been a guess, but an educated one. Earned through the school of hard knocks. She'd planned on hoarding it. But maybe it was for the best, because he stiffened. Stared. And she knew she had him. She no longer needed Foster or Sam to find a chink in this man's armor. She'd located a major one on her own. Before the knot in his throat finished bobbing, she went straight for the jugular.
It was the only way to save herself.
"You think you're the only one who's smart enough to do homework, Mr. Wild? What do you think I was really doing in your hotel room last night? In that bar just now? Observing you. Just like you've been observing me. Would you like to know what I've figured out?" She didn't wait for his answer, she kept drilling even after she heard the cap snap back on. "A lot. You can't even stand to take a second drink. But you can't stand to put it away, either, can you? You need that reminder. You thrive on it. Hell, you couldn't keep your eyes off it. In fact, I think you need to not need that shot of Scotch even more than you think I need those damned pills."
His scowl deepened. "You finished?"
"No." He waited, seethed. She didn't care. She slung her purse over her shoulder. "You've spent all night trying to dig into my past. Well, now it's my turn. I'd like to know who you're really trying to save, because it sure as hell isn't me. Who sucked down the booze like it was water, Mr. Wild? Who couldn't get enough of the pills, the needle or the rocks? Your mother? Your father? A sister? A brother? An old lover?"
He didn't answer.
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm not her or him."
He grabbed her arms, the capped vial digging deep into her left arm as he hauled her dangerously close. "No, you're not. There's still hope for you."
On the contrary. Even she was beginning to think there wasn't. Especially after that phone call with Foster. Oh, there might still be a chance she'd survive this mess, but she wasn't going to have a life left when it was over. Or a career. Unfortunately, she couldn't tell him that.
So she said the only thing she could. "I'm a traitor, remember? The lowest of the low."
"The hell you are."
Tom compounded the shock exploding through her as he lifted her several inches into the air and whirled her around, her heels scraping across the cobblestones and then the trio of steps as he stalked down into the bodega's concealing doorway, effectively shielding them from the next gaggle of patrons heading into the alley to the Iguana. The vial of pills fell out of his hand, clattering down dusty bricks at her feet. "You're right about one thing, though, I have been observing you. You want to know what I've learned tonight? That you're no more a traitor than I am."
"What?" The nausea roiled. And it wasn't due to jarring aftershocks or the swirling dizziness.
"Oh, please. Don't take me for that NCIS moron who investigated you at the embassy. I've known since last night that something didn't look right. Turns out it looks a lot like Percocet. Exactly like Percocet. You're hooked, lady, whether you're willing to admit it or not. Based on the fact that you can't stick to the purchase of a handful of
pills anymore—even though you're clearly terrified of Luis finding out—I'd say you've been hooked for months. How does it feel to have sold out your country and not even remember doing it? To have been so stoned that your cousin walked into your office and culled classified information right off your desk? Do you sleep at night knowing you're responsible for a bust that went so bad it left three Panamanians and an American soldier dead? And what about the guy I replaced? The one you stood by and watched your cousin murder with that pen? Do you see their faces in your dreams? Is that why you like those things so damned much? Why you want to reach down and snatch that bottle out of the dirt, rip off the cap and swallow one right now? So you can anesthetize yourself against them?"
"Yes."
She flinched as the truth spilled out. She hadn't meant to actually say it. Only imply. But after that relentless barrage of his, she couldn't have stopped it any more than she could stop her heart from pounding against her ribs, the pummeling roar drowning out even the throb within her breast. But again, maybe it was best this way. Anything to keep him from ripping that cap off that vial in his temper and upending it for her. At least, that's what she told herself. She dropped her head back against the bodega's wooden door, hoping to ease the strain of staring straight up into that thunderous gaze. Hoping to ease the strain of everything.
It didn't help.
She closed her eyes and sighed at the weight of it all. At the cold, clawing guilt. Drawing on all the excuses she'd created and then force-fed to herself all those years ago.
Until Sam had caught her.
"It's just a way to relax. Why can't you understand that? It's like having a glass of wine with dinner. A couple of beers after a lousy day, a six-pack after a completely crappy week. It's a way to feel good again. A boost when you're not sure you ever will. Why does it have to be anything else? Why does it have to be more?" She opened her eyes, but it was too dark in the alcove to see into his. He'd moved in too close. By the time the rest of her whisper poured out, she wasn't pretending anymore. She really wanted to know. "Haven't you ever wanted to forget all the pain and just let go?"
He leaned closer. Instead of answering, he kissed her.
She inhaled sharply, stunned as he eased into her, his head sinking down so slowly, so steadily, their lips merged before she realized what was really happening. He caught her soft, startled gasp and pulled it into his mouth. She felt him taste it, savor it, before he breathed it back into her. The warm, soothing kiss that followed seduced her from the inside out, pulling her under gradually, yet more firmly and more completely than any of those pills had ever done. By the time Tom skimmed his hands up her bare arms and then her throat to hook his thumbs beneath her jaw and tilt her face further, she was reaching up into him. Lulled beyond thought, she wound her arms around his neck and slipped the tip of her tongue into the hot, intoxicating recess of his mouth. He growled. A split second later, everything changed.
Their kiss ignited. Her world ignited.
And she burst into flames. Sensation after heightened, torrid sensation exploded around her, on her and in her. She absorbed every one of them and came back for more. The subtle hint of musk, the barest lingering trace of the smoothest Scotch. The thick, roping muscles of his arms flexing beneath his shirt as he lashed her to his chest. The crisp linen of his collar, the slippery silk of his hair as she raked her fingers through the shorn strands, the rasping shadow on his jaw as he razed his lips down her throat to nip hungrily at the hollow at the base of her neck before he returned to her lips. The slick, solid scrape of his teeth as he shifted to gain better, deeper access to her mouth. And especially the dark, heady smoke in the groan that followed.
His groan.
She gasped again, deeply this time, as Tom pressed his groin into hers. She felt his erection grow harder and thicker as he dragged his hands down her sides, stopping just below her rear end. He wedged his fingers between the door and her dress, gathering the fabric together until the hem was bunched up in his right hand while his left delved completely beneath. The calluses on his fingertips and palms scraped against the back of her thighs as he teased and caressed her naked flesh. Right then and there, she knew she hadn't pitched her nylons months ago because of the stifling heat. She'd been waiting for this man. For his incredibly seductive hands.
She sucked in her breath as his fingers slipped beneath the lace of her panties, the driving need within her belly growing stronger and more insistent as he began kneading the rounded cheeks of her rear. She struggled to hold tight to sanity, to the reality of where they were, even if they were hidden from view—until she caught another gasp and realized they weren't.
Tom stiffened along with her. A split second later, he released her, smoothly and discreetly tugging the hem of her dress back down over her thighs before he turned to face the couple who hadn't had the decency to quietly acknowledge what they'd interrupted and leave. They should have.
The woman definitely should have. Because she was the same woman, the same prostitute, Anna had met in the restroom earlier and then sent out to Tom.
The hooker didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Her smirk said it for her and in a language as old as the woman's profession. You're just like me after all, chica. You're just not honest enough to admit it. Fortunately the hooker's customer—a young American—appeared as experienced as Tom had professed to be in retaining this woman's particular type of service. The kid took one look at Tom and chickened out. He spun around and fled. Anna knew the feeling. Especially when the hooker turned and followed suit, albeit at a more leisurely pace.
Leaving her to deal with Tom.
He turned around slowly, carefully tucking the tail of the shirt she hadn't even realized she'd tugged from his waistband back into his trousers. He didn't bother fixing his open collar and loose, twisted tie. She wished he would. It might help kill the erotic charge still sparking around them. In them.
He was right. She was attracted to him. Incredibly attracted. No point in denying that now, was there? Least of all to herself. At least she couldn't quite make out those eyes within the shadowy alcove. She accepted the meager blessing. Though this time, a true miracle had clearly accompanied it. If they hadn't been interrupted, there was a damned good chance they wouldn't have ended that unexpected but extremely passionate encounter until they were both completely sexually sated. From the stiff set to Tom's shoulders, he was as shaken by the realization as she was.
But why? After all his attempts to seduce her right into the compromising position they'd just been in, why regret it now? When he glanced down, she knew.
The pills.
He stared at the bottle that had settled beside the leather tip of his left dress shoe for a full fifteen seconds, and then he leaned down and scooped it up. Silently.
She held out her hand. Silently.
He shook his head. "I can't. I won't."
"You have no choice."
"Wrong. I do and I'm exercising it."
"Even if it means your job?"
For a brief moment, she actually thought he was going to answer yes. But then he shook his head. Instead of handing the vial over, he crossed his arms. "Fortunately for me, you can't follow through on your threat."
"It's not a threat, Mr. Wild. It's a promise."
Evidently the attempt to return him to mere employee status after what they'd just shared didn't sit well with him, because he stalked forward, backing her up into the bodega's door once more as he loomed over her in the dark. But this time, he wasn't there to kiss her and she knew it. Strangle her perhaps, but not kiss.
She blessed the shadows that concealed her face along with his as she swallowed firmly. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be, honey. You should be."
"Give me the damned pills."
She didn't need to see his brow hike to know it had. "Or what? You'll go running home to your big bad cousin Louie and tell him Tommy stole your stash?" She didn't need to see his grim sneer of victory either
. "I bet that'll go over real well in his study at the hacienda. Given his temper and how he expressed it with—what was his name…? Manuel Morales?"
He had to have heard her next swallow. She did.
She also knew this entire square-off was pointless. Arguing hadn't worked. Pleading wouldn't work either. Not with him. The Scotch had told her that. Nor could she tell him the truth. Only action would work. As cruel as it would be to use those actions against this man given what she'd learned—and what she suspected—she'd have to follow through to the bitter end. She had to get that bottle back. And not because of those pills. She forced herself to bide her time until she heard it. Them. A large group of locals heading down the alley, to the bar. From their raucous conversation, still sober enough yet already worked up enough to provide the precise type of backup she desperately needed. She waited exactly three seconds longer and then did what Tom least expected.
She slipped out from his imposing chest and left.
He grabbed her arm on the second step of the bodega. Fortunately they were far enough into the alley that they'd gained the group's attention. The men stopped.
All eight of them.
Unfortunately, Tom was undeterred. "Where do you think you're going?"
"To see your friend."
"The hell you are."
She smiled coolly as she shifted the arm he still held hostage, jerking it noticeably to make sure the men could see.
"¡Oye, chica! ¿Necesita usted alguna ayuda con el gringo?"
She stared at Tom. "Do I need help…gringo?"
The Canal might have reverted to Panamanian control five years ago, but enough anti-American sentiment still simmered around town that a simple sí right now, right here, would light the spark. Eagerly. At least with these eight men and, big, bad, ex-Army Special Forces thug or not, Tom knew it.
He released her arm.
But there was still the group of locals to contend with. She waved them off politely. "Soy vale. ¡Gracias!" Luckily, the men complied, no doubt chalking Tom's temper up to a lover's spat. A temper that still seethed as she turned back.
A Dangerous Engagement Page 10