Last Man Standing

by Cindy Gerard

  RISK NO SECRETS

  Wyatt Savage’s and Sophie Baylor’s story

  “It’s unfortunate that you picked such a difficult time in Sophie’s life to visit San Salvador,” Montoya said as he walked Sophie back to Wyatt’s side, effectively reminding Wyatt of his outsider position.

  “Wyatt’s here because I asked him to come,” Sophie explained, which told Wyatt that none of their private conversation had been about him. “He’s helping me search for Lola.”

  That’s right, asshole, Wyatt thought when a knowing look crawled across Montoya’s face. I’m the lowly hired muscle ready to take the heat so nancy boys like you don’t have to worry about getting their hair messed up.

  “Señora.”

  A uniformed waiter appeared at Sophie’s side, surprising her. “Sí?”

  He gave an apologetic bow of his head and extended a silver tray holding a sealed envelope bearing Sophie’s name. “I am sorry to intrude, but my manager directed me to deliver this to you.”

  Puzzled, Sophie reached for the envelope. “Gracias.”

  “Wait.” Wyatt stopped the waiter when he started to walk away. “Who sent this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I do not know. Apparently, it was left on the reception table. As I told you, the manager asked that I deliver it to Señora Weber. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other guests I must tend to.”

  Wyatt decided the waiter was either in the dark, as he stated, or a damn fine actor. Either way, he couldn’t question him further without making a scene, so he let him go as Sophie unfolded the note and scanned it. She shot Wyatt a quick glance and slipped it back into the envelope.

  “From an admirer?” Montoya suggested with a teasing tone. “Tell me, cara, do I have competition?”

  Wyatt had seen the swift flash of alarm in Sophie’s eyes. She recovered quickly with a smile that answered Montoya’s playful look as she tucked the envelope into her small purse.

  “As if anyone could compete with you. Someone found a bracelet and recognized it as mine,” she said.

  Wyatt knew she was lying through her perfect white teeth. She hadn’t been wearing a bracelet when they’d left the house. He would have noticed, because he had noticed every minute detail of her appearance.

  He found it interesting that she felt the necessity of hiding the contents of the note from Montoya.

  “The clasp must have broken,” she continued smoothly. “I can’t believe I didn’t miss it. Anyway, they’re holding it for me at the reception desk. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for a moment, Diego.”

  “I’ll accompany you,” Montoya said.

  “Thank you, but there’s no need. I know you have many hands to shake tonight. Wyatt will go with me.”

  Just try and stop me, Wyatt thought, directing a hard look Montoya’s way.

  Montoya got the message and conceded with a forced smile. “Save a dance for me, querida. I will find you later.”

  She gave him a brilliant smile. “Count on it.”

  “What?” Wyatt asked when they were out of earshot.

  She glanced around, then pulled him into an empty alcove. “Looks like you were right about coming tonight.”

  Her eyes were wide with excitement as she dug the note out of her purse and handed it to him.

  South side of the rear terrace. 10:45. Tell no one. Come alone. Make certain you’re not followed.

  “This has to be about Lola,” she said, clutching his arm.

  Wyatt figured it was, or there wouldn’t be a need for all the cloak-and-dagger crap. It also explained why she hadn’t wanted Montoya to know. The instructions were explicit that she tell no one.

  He checked his watch. It was ten sixteen. “Come on, let’s walk toward reception in case Montoya’s tracking you. Tell me about the layout of the terrace.”

  “Let me think. It’s . . . it’s a big open area. No roof. Surrounded by palms and, I don’t know, flowering shrubs and vines, if I remember right. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, let alone wandered around the grounds. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that I don’t like the ‘Come alone’ part of this invitation.”

  She stopped walking. “What choice do we have? I can’t take a chance that whoever sent this will bolt if you come with me.”

  “And I can’t take a chance that it’s a setup and you end up with a hood over your head, carried off, and thrown into the back of a van.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Hedge our bets,” he said, and told her how it was going to go down.

  WITH NO REMORSE

  Luke Colter’s and Valentina’s story

  They probably should get moving again but, damn, he still couldn’t catch his breath. The thin air at this altitude was a killer. She was having the same problem. Five more minutes—then they were out of here while their luck held.

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked.

  He couldn’t stop a confused blink. “Are you for real?”

  She blinked right back.

  “Because you need help, for God’s sake,” he said when her silence demanded an answer. “Well, not you, as in Valentina, but you, as in a kid who looked scared to death. Was I supposed to just sit there and watch them do whatever they planned to do with you?”

  “So, you’re what . . . a natural-born hero?” The sarcasm in her tone was outdistanced only by her doubt.

  He was surprised by the sarcasm; not so much by the doubt. Hell, he doubted himself. “Actually, I have to work at it these days,” he admitted. Until those bastards had shot that defenseless man, he’d been determined to save his own ass and to hell with anyone else’s.

  But back to the sarcasm. WTF? Was there a raving shrew lurking beneath the goddess façade?

  Please, God, no. Don’t burst my bubble.

  He studied her perfect angel face. No, he told himself decisively. No way. He couldn’t have been wrong all these years. She was just scared; he got that.

  “Who exactly are you?”

  The last time Luke had been given the third degree, he’d been tied to a chair with a gun pressed against his temple. He hadn’t liked it then. He didn’t much like it now. But because she was scared, because she should be wary, because she was Valentina, he cut her some slack.

  “Luke. Luke Colter. But my friends call me Doc. And I guess now’s as good a time as any to confess that I’m a huge fan.”

  Crap. That had sounded so much better in his head. From the way she scooted a few inches away from him, it was pretty clear that not only had he sounded like a dumbass of epic proportions, but he’d also spooked her.

  He raised his hands to show her he was absolutely no threat. “Let’s take a little time out, okay?” he suggested, still keeping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t interpret fan to mean stalker. I’m just aware of who you are. Thought it might reassure you. My bad.”

  Her gaze darted away, and he could see that she was thinking about running.

  Yep, he’d spooked her good. Hell, she’d just been chased off a train at gunpoint. She’d seen him slit one man’s throat and bash in another one’s head. And in his grubby jeans and two-day beard, he looked more like a derelict than a Boy Scout.

  She didn’t know him from the Unabomber, so from her perspective, what was to say he wasn’t the biggest danger in these mountains?

  “Valentina,” he said quietly, shifting to look her in the eye.

  Her head went down, but not before he saw the full-out terror on her face.

  Aww, hell.

  “I know you’re scared, but you have nothing to fear from me. I’m one of the good guys.”

  She still didn’t look at him.

  “Let’s try this,” he suggested. “What do you want to know about me? Just ask. I’m an open book.” Sort of. Right now she probably couldn’t handle the full truth about The Book of Luke.

  She still didn’t say a word, which meant that spooked didn’t begin to cover it.

  Man, he was blow
ing this.

  “Okay. How ’bout I cover the basics for you? I’m an Aquarius. I love long walks on the beach, soft cuddly kittens, and my red Jimmy Choos. Fave movie—The Sound of Music. Favorite food—”

  Her narrow-eyed glare was as good as a stop sign. Okay, humor wasn’t going to work, either. So how the hell was he supposed to make her relax?

  “I’m from Montana,” he said, shifting into earnest mode as he swept another glance around them. “Grew up on a ranch, just like John Wayne. Cows. Horses. Big dumb dog who loved me.”

  He left out the part about being voted “most likely to kiss the girls and make them cry” his senior year.

  “John Wayne didn’t grow up on a ranch. He was born in Iowa,” she said, sounding accusatory.

  “I know that,” he said, working for reasonable, but it came out sounding testy. “You weren’t supposed to, though. Give me a break here; I was just trying to find some level ground. So. Seriously. What do you want to know?”

  She looked away, then back, her eyes narrowed. “You’re a doctor?” she asked, sounding doubtful.

  “Doctor?” He rolled back the tape on his clumsy introduction. “Oh. No. Not a doc—a medic. Corpsman, if you want to pick nits. In the Navy. SEALs, actually.”

  “For real? You’re a SEAL?” She didn’t want to be impressed but he could see that she was, marginally—if she believed him.

  “I was a SEAL.”

  “And now you do . . . what?”

  How did he explain that he worked for a private contractor whose business was taking out terrorists, and not lose the little ground he’d gained?

  “A little of this. A little of that.” He flashed his brightest smile, a tactic that had distracted a helluva lot of women over the years.

  He should have known it wouldn’t work on her. “Your open book has a lot of blank pages.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at the exciting first book in Cindy Gerard’s new series!

  Coming soon from Pocket Books

  Mike “Primetime” Brown’s story

  Lima, Peru

  El Tocón Sangriento—the Bloody Stump—was a back-alley, low-rent cantina that hadn’t changed in clientele or decor since he’d set foot in the dump eight years ago. The class of women, however, seemed to have catapulted to new levels.

  Mike Brown turned his back to the bar, a shot of pisco in one hand, and watched one particular woman move sensuously on the dance floor to the beat of a slow, Spanish guitar.

  He squinted through the tobacco and ganja haze at the dark-haired beauty stirring up trouble and testosterone with the sultry, seductive sway of her hips. She was way too hot for this dive. And he didn’t have a clue why she was directing her flirty smile his way, but he wasn’t going to question his good luck. Just like he wasn’t questioning the reason he was tying one on like there was no tomorrow.

  He tossed back the shot and grabbed another from the neat row of soldiers lined up on the bar behind him. Screw the fact that he’d been clean and sober for 364 consecutive days—a record he never seemed to beat. Tonight, like every other May fifteenth since Operation Slam Dunk had gone south, he was getting flat-ass drunk.

  The end of days. That’s how he thought of the debacle in Afghanistan eight years ago.

  Sobrietious interruptus. That’s how he thought of his annual commune with alcohol and self-pity. He was holding a post mortem. Conducting a wake for the friends who’d lost their lives. For the life and career he’d lost.

  Call it whatever you wanted—a guilt trip, grief, suppressed rage, self-destruction—he didn’t give a rip. The only new wrinkle in his annual bender was that it was starting to look like he might also get laid.

  Talk about poetic justice. He was already fucked-up in the head . . . might as well make it a clean sweep.

  Eyes on the prize, he slammed back one more shot, pocketed the bullet-ridden playing card, and pushed away from the bar. Then he tried like hell not to stumble as he crossed the room toward the hot little tamale who seemed to only have eyes for him. Big, dark eyes. A little sleepy, a little slutty, a lot interested.

  Damn, she was something. Centerfold something. Long, satin black hair escaped in sleek, bed-mussed strands from the silver clip she’d used to secure it in a loose knot on top of her head. Elegant neck, smooth, bare shoulders, and a lot of soft, caramel skin. And that red bustier—its B cups not having a lot of luck harnessing a generous pair of C’s—worn with black spandex pants that stopped at her ankles where the straps of her four-inch stilettos took over, was playing hell with the fit of his pants.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said. Because she was. And because he was too wasted to come up with anything original. He moved in close. Smelled sweet musk and raw sexuality.

  “Hey,” she said with a demure smile and pressed those amazing breasts against his chest. “Nice bling.” A long-nailed fingertip—slick, shiny, red—tapped the diamond stud in his left ear, then lingered at the tip of his lobe.

  “Nice, um . . .” He let his gaze slide down to that magnificent cleavage before easing back to her face. “. . . smile.”

  She laughed and tilted her head to the side in blatant invitation, giving him an even better view of all that dewy, soft flesh.

  “Wanna take this outside?” he asked, cutting straight to the chase.

  The lady knew what she wanted. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Her hand was small and warm when she took his and led him toward the back door. He followed like a love-struck puppy, mesmerized by the smell of her hair, the sway of her hips, and the way her sparkly bag hung from a silver chain looped over her shoulder and rhythmically bumped her gorgeous ass with every step she took.

  Outside, the alley was as shadowy and dark as the desire that ripped recklessly through his groin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a warning bled through his lust-induced fog, telling him to slow the hell down, reminding him that if he hadn’t been so drunk, he might have asked a few more questions. That maybe, if he added two and two together he might come up with something other than four-nicate.

  Just because he wanted her to be a working girl, didn’t negate the fact that she had way too much class for that gig. And just because he was drunk, didn’t mean he should let his guard down. He was starting to rethink this entire thing . . . but then she leaned back against the wall, gripped his T-shirt with both hands, and pulled him flush against her.

  Good-bye presence of mind.

  She was all hot wet open mouth and ripe breasts rubbing up against him, her left leg wedged super sweet between his thighs and moving up and down over his rapidly expanding package.

  He groaned and scrabbled for a hold on his sanity. “Maybe we should take this someplace private, wild thing.”

  She laughed a husky, naughty purr and bit his lower lip. “That comes later . . . but you’re gonna come right now.”

  Holy mother.

  When she reached into her purse, he experienced another flicker of alarm.

  “Condom,” she said with that dimpled smile, and damn if he didn’t almost weep with gratitude.

  What the hell. It was dark. He was gone. And all this sultry woman heat had him damn near hypnotized by the prospect of her doing him, right here under the flashing neon Quilmes sign.

  He skimmed his palms down her sides, pressed the heels of his hands against her breasts then slid them lower again, gripping her hips and rubbing her against his raging erection.

  All the while, she had one hand on her purse, while rooting around inside with the other.

  “Damn, darlin’. If you don’t find that thing soon the party’s gonna be over.”

  Just then he got wind of a scent . . . and got sober real fast.

  He grabbed her wrist, pressed her hard against the wall, and pulled her hand out of her bag: a set of handcuffs dangled from her red-tipped nails.

  “Talk about bling. Now, I’m all for kinky sex, but there’s no way in hell you’re going to slap a bracelet on me.”

  She wasn
’t smiling now.

  He shoved her harder against the wall. “And nice perfume. Eau du le gun oil?” He felt the outline of a pistol inside that sparkly purse. “Shoulda gone for Shalimar, chica . . . the smell of that stuff makes me stupid.”

  “That’s not all that makes you stupid,” she muttered, and jammed a knee hard into his gonads.

  He doubled over with a roar of pain, helpless to fight her when she slapped the cuffs around his wrists.

  “We can do this easy,” she whispered close to his ear as he gasped in agony, “or it can go real hard on you.”

  Well, of course, he wasn’t going to go easy.

  He drove a shoulder toward her stomach—which she easily dodged—and landed on his face in the alley’s pocked, filthy pavement.

  By the time he felt the prick of the needle in his arm, it was all over, except for the headache he knew he was going to have when he woke up. If he woke up.

  Which, unfortunately, he did.

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  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18