by Odell, Terry
“Take us to your leader?” Elle whispered. “Aren’t you laying it on a little thick?”
“Hell,” he whispered. “I’m sure the reference was lost on these two.”
They exited their prison chamber, and followed a short corridor to a steep staircase that opened into the passenger compartment of a private aircraft. Instead of rows of seats, the inside of the plane had been configured into more luxurious accommodations. Sitting areas, work tables, dining areas. He suspected there’d be a bedroom, too.
Their captors nudged them to the front of the plane, out a door, and down a typical metal airline ladder.
“Hey, slow it down,” he shouted. “You try navigating these steps without your hands. And barefoot. They’re hot.”
“Then you must take care,” Gun Man said. “It would be a shame to report you had the accidente.”
It didn’t sound as if Gun Man would be heartbroken at delivering damaged goods.
If the gangway stairs had been hot, the tarmac was blistering. He spotted a battered old Jeep Wrangler about fifty yards away. “Is that our ride, Flash? Because if it is, I hope you’ll pick up the pace before the soles of my feet are covered in third degree burns.”
Assuming he wouldn’t be shot in the back, Jinx moved faster, overtaking Flashlight Man, then broke into a high-stepping trot until he reached the Jeep. He heard Flash close on his heels, but the man kept pace, arriving at the Jeep within seconds of Jinx.
“I call shotgun,” Jinx said, and hopped from foot to foot alongside the front passenger door, waiting for Flash to open it. Not surprised when Flash didn’t object—after all, it made sense they wouldn’t want him and Elle together in the backseat—he clambered onto the cracked leather seat. “Your personal ride? Surely your patrón wouldn’t be seen owning this piece of crap.”
“You will—what do they say in your country?—shut the fuck up.”
“Hey, I’m calling them like I see them. You ever thought about breaking things off, finding another patrón? Because from where I stand, yours doesn’t pay very well.”
Gunny arrived with Elle and helped her into the backseat from the driver’s side. A little too helpful, Jinx thought.
“Hey, watch where you’re putting your hands. That’s my fiancé.”
“I’m fine, Snookums,” Elle said. She settled into the seat. “Let’s go, please. The sooner we get to your patrón, the sooner we can straighten out this misunderstanding.”
Damn, she sounded perfect. He wondered if she was as nervous on the inside as he was. Gunny climbed in beside Elle, Flash got behind the wheel, and they roared off the tarmac. Jinx pressed his feet against the floorboard, bracing himself against the acceleration. And inside, he braced himself for whatever he’d find at the end of this ride.
Chapter 9
Elle steadied herself against the door of the Jeep, not only to keep from falling over, but to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man beside her, who was undressing her with his eyes. At least he didn’t smell too bad. A little heavy-handed with the cheap cologne, but it beat the stench of his unwashed predecessor.
“You look not so happy, chica,” he said. “You do not know it is an honor to be chosen by Patrón. You will want for nothing.” He gave an evil laugh. “Until he is done with you and ready for another. The man, his atención, it is short. And then we will have our time together, no?”
No. Not on your life, she wanted to say, but she pretended she was working the streets. She flashed the seductive smile she used to attract unsuspecting johns. “I will be waiting.”
He ran the knuckles of his hairy hand down her cheek. She kept the smile on her face, shifted her tone to rich, warm honey. “Are you sure you don’t want to undo my wrists, big boy?” she asked. “It’s not fair you can touch me but I can’t touch you.” And boy, did she know how—and where—she wanted to touch him.
The driver snapped an expletive she’d heard on the streets, although she couldn’t give it a precise translation. Her seatmate winked at her, made disgusting kissing sounds, and moved to the other side of the bench seat.
She let her gaze linger on his for a second or two before facing the window. They were bumping along a winding, tree-lined dirt road that appeared as if it had been bulldozed out of a dense rain forest. The air blowing through the Jeep was heavy with moisture, and filled with the scent of tropical vegetation.
The Jeep veered onto a muddy two-track. After about twenty yards, they approached a wrought iron gate set into a flagstone wall that had to be at least eight feet tall. The driver braked to an abrupt stop, throwing Elle against Steve’s seat.
“Your last name wouldn’t be Andretti, would it?” Steve said.
The driver turned his head toward Steve. “No, it is—” and Elle could almost see the brain synapses firing. He guffawed. “Oh. The race car driver. You make the joke.”
The driver leaned out the window and said a word or two in Spanish into a speaker box. Shortly thereafter, the gates swung open. Leadfoot shoved the car in gear, but this time Elle was prepared for the rapid acceleration.
As they passed through the gate, it was as if they’d entered another world. Oasis came to mind, although Elle wasn’t sure the term was appropriate in a rain forest.
Instead of the rough two-track half overgrown by jungle vegetation, they drove along a smooth ribbon of asphalt surrounded by a lush, palm-tree bordered, well-manicured lawn scattered with flower beds edged in angled bricks. At the top of the rise, an imposing edifice overlooked the property. Elle recalled trips to Los Angeles, driving along mansion-lined Sunset Boulevard through Beverly Hills on her way to Trish’s condo near the beach. This place would fit right in. Gleaming white stucco, red barrel-tiled roof. Multi-storied, wrought iron balconies. Colorful tiles outlined the iron-barred windows.
Their driver seemed to respect the grandeur of the property and eased off the gas. The Jeep rounded the semi-circular driveway, slowing to an easy stop at the base of a flight of flagstone steps, which climbed to an expansive porch leading to a massive set of carved teak doors.
Steve jumped out of the car. “I don’t suppose we’ll be allowed to freshen up a bit before we meet your patrón? If he’s as important as you say he is, I’d hate to make a bad first impression.”
“I would appreciate the use of a restroom,” Elle added. Reluctantly, she tolerated the hand her seat partner offered. Best to stay on his good side. “Gracias.”
He gripped her elbow as they strode up the stairs. The left-hand door opened silently. Elle managed to control her reaction to the Latina standing in the doorway. Late twenties, early thirties. Long, dark hair hung to her shoulders. Heavy-handed with the eye makeup—thick mascara, silvery shadow. Bright red lipstick framed white, even teeth. But it was the French maid uniform that boiled Elle’s blood. Low cut black top, skirt barely covering her privates, and a frilly white apron. Black stilettos. What century was this patrón living in?
The woman’s smile was friendly enough. “Welcome. We have been expecting you.” Her English was excellent, with only the slightest accent. “My name is Maria. I will show you to your quarters.”
Maria said something in Spanish, and Elle’s guard slit the tape on her wrists, then Steve's. The guard turned and left without a word.
Elle and Steve exchanged an incredulous glance. He shrugged and followed the woman through a terracotta tiled entryway and up one arc of twin oak staircases. Probably with his eyes glued to her derrière, which swayed a little more than the stilettos mandated as they clicked up the stairs.
Was Maria a prisoner? Or had she decided whatever kind of life she had here was worth playing dress-up? Would she know where Trish was? Elle longed to ask, but she needed to learn what team everyone was on before revealing anything other than she was Steve’s fiancé and had been abducted by mistake.
Maria turned left at the top of the staircase, then down a wood-paneled hallway. Half-round cherry tables punctuated the corridor, each with a crystal
vase holding fresh-cut flowers.
“The patrón lives large,” Elle muttered. Artwork framed in ornate gilt hung on the walls, each illuminated by a small brass light, as if on display in a museum. The pictures were landscapes and still-lifes. Elle was no judge of art, but it looked expensive.
Maria twisted the brass knob on a door near the end of the hallway. “This will be your room.” She motioned Elle inside. “Since you are not yet married, it is inappropriate for you to share. You may have twenty minutes to prepare.” Elle heard the snick of the lock as Maria closed the door behind her and disappeared with Steve.
Despite the extra-efficient air conditioning, sweat trickled down Jinx’s armpits. He hadn’t realized how much Elle’s presence had reassured him until Maria had locked her away. He presumed the same would happen to him as Maria opened a door across the hall and two doors down from where she’d left Elle.
“Twenty minutes, Señor Brand,” she said. Her smile was warm enough, but it did nothing for him. Come to think of it, neither had her ass—and by any standards, it was very fine. Fine enough to make his top ten list, but zilch on the response scale. Likewise when she did a sort of half-bow thing, revealing her deep cleavage. Had whatever drug they’d given him left him with anti-libido side effects? But then he remembered his response to Elle in the plane.
Had she grown on him that fast? Enough so he didn’t give a damn about a hot babe displaying her generous assets for his benefit? Appreciate them, yes. But give a damn? No.
Shit. He’d deal with that later.
He took in the room. Shiny red tiles peeked out from under thick Oriental area rugs. A super luxury hotel room—or at least what he imagined one would look like—rather than a home. A huge four-poster bed, covered in a puffy, pale blue comforter. Lots of throw pillows in other shades of blue, beige, and yellow. The patrón lost points for that decorating detail. Jinx never knew what to do with them when it was time to go to bed.
There were lightweight tan slacks and a tropical print shirt on the bed along with those pillows. Boxers, too—someone hadn’t done his homework—and on the floor, a pair of leather sandals. He assumed that was to be his attire when meeting the patrón. He went through the closet and dresser and found a full assortment of clothing, not much different from what Grace had provided, but a whole lot more. Did this guy have an entire shopping mall in the basement? And did he think Jinx was going to be here long enough to need that many clothes?
He wondered what the patrón would think if he chose something else to wear to their first meeting. And decided it wasn’t worth testing.
Bright sunlight shone into the room from tall windows overlooking an expanse of grass, with more trees and flower beds lining flagstone paths. Jinx stepped closer, and discovered the windows didn’t open. He was sure his host would explain it was because of the climate and the air conditioning, not to prevent escape. Of course, there was the matter of the bars, so it didn’t really matter.
He tried to appear nonchalant as he surveyed the rest of his quarters, searching for hidden cameras and listening devices. The space wasn’t as large as his suite at the resort, but it did include a small sitting area with a love seat, coffee table and television set, and the furnishings were more elegant. If you liked the museum exhibit look.
A remote sat on an end table beside the loveseat. He wondered what kind of programming they got out here in the middle of next-to-nowhere. He figured Stephen Brand would be curious, too, so he clicked the power button before continuing his exploration. Since his cell phone hadn’t made the trip, he would assume the room would be bugged. It wouldn’t surprise him to find a camera hidden in the television. He ran through the limited number of channels, all in Spanish, and turned off the set.
He stepped into the bathroom, which was nearly as large as the bedroom. Marble floors, brass fixtures—at least he assumed they were brass. They could be solid gold for all he knew—or cared. Huge shower, whirlpool tub, separate room for the toilet—and he sure as hell hoped they hadn’t bugged that compartment, since he was in dire need of the facilities. He shut the door behind him and took care of things as quickly as possible.
Swallowing any modesty, he turned on the water in the shower. Hot, to fog up any possible cameras, he hoped. He waited for the mirrors and shower door to get steamy, then stripped. He winced at the near-scalding temperature when he stepped under the spray, but he sucked it up, lathered, rinsed, and got out. The towels were plush and the size of bed sheets. He dried off, slipped St. Chris around his neck, and wrapped himself in the equally plush robe hanging on a hook behind the door.
Jinx rubbed his jaw and decided he’d go all the way in the making himself presentable department. He shaved, used the provided deodorant and after-shave, then went to the bedroom for his new clothes. Which fit perfectly, though he thought twice before slipping into the boxers.
He had nine minutes before he was due to be presented before his majesty the patrón. His nerves kicked in again. He wondered what Elle was doing. And how he could do what he was supposed to do and protect her at the same time? Or would she end up protecting him? Not all that manly, perhaps, but she was a cop and could probably handle herself.
He opened the small refrigerator, which was stocked with fruit, cheese and cold cuts as well as beer and half-bottles of wine. Tempting, but he wasn’t stupid enough to get buzzed when he was supposed to be working. Jinx found a bottle of designer water and cracked the top. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the icy liquid ran down his throat, and he drained the contents as he paced the room, trying to prepare for all the possibilities.
Was he in the right place? Had Fozzie’s plan worked? How many other people were locked behind the doors he’d passed on the way to this room? Could Crystal Montlake be here? Elle's sister? The whole damn Blackthorne team, enjoying the luxurious accommodations while they waited to be rescued?
He was still trapped in the spiraling maelstrom of questions when the door to his room opened.
Chapter 10
Jinx stopped pacing. Maria stood inside the doorway, still wearing that sexy maid costume. The patrón’s version of the Playboy Bunny, he guessed. Good lord, had this kind of an outfit been laid out for Elle? And what would she have done if it had? He could see her ripping it to shreds—although he’d like to see her in it before she did.
He didn’t bother with a greeting, merely straightened his shoulders and strode across the room.
“It is good you are prompt,” she said with a broad smile. “You found everything to your liking?”
“Where’s my fiancé?” He’d decided Stephen Brand would be worried about her, and he’d already shown Maria he wasn’t interested in any of her charms.
“She is waiting downstairs.”
Jinx trailed Maria along the hall to the staircase. Then, instead of following her down—since her ass still didn’t do anything for him—he trotted ahead of her, waiting at the bottom.
“I know your arrival here wasn’t planned,” she said when she reached his side. “But I think you will be pleased with what Patrón offers.”
“Excuse me for not overflowing with gratitude, but being drugged, blindfolded, and tied up isn’t how I want to arrive anywhere—planned or unplanned.”
She faced him. “I apologize for Patrón’s methods.”
“I prefer to hear that from your patrón himself. I assume that’s where we’re going.”
“Yes. This way.” She turned left, her heels clattering on the tile floor. They passed through the entryway and down another corridor before she paused outside a set of wood-paneled double doors.
“I suggest you show him respect,” she said. She tapped on one of the doors, then pulled them open. “You may enter.”
“Thank you. Gracias,” Jinx said. Maria clicked away in the direction they’d come.
Jinx sucked in a breath. “Showtime,” he muttered to himself and entered the room.
The first thing that hit him was the cold—even chillier
than the rest of the house. Next was the cigar smoke. Not entirely unpleasant—Jinx’s grandfather had smoked cigars, and there were good memories associated with the aroma.
“Please, join us.” A quiet male voice floated across the room. Two oversized red-leather wing chairs were angled to face an expansive flagstone wall, at least fifteen feet high. Jinx skirted a polished wooden banquet table surrounded by ornately carved wooden chairs with red leather seats and backs. The table was spread with an assortment of cheeses, fruits, meats, fish, and breads. Along another wall was a sideboard displaying a variety of cakes, cookies, and pastries.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and meandered toward the voice. As he got closer, he heard the crackle of a burning fire. Rounding the end of the table, he saw the flagstone wall housed a huge fireplace. In full action. Tongues of red and yellow flames licked the logs. That would explain the air conditioning running full blast.
A man rose from an oversized chair, a crystal goblet half-filled with a ruby-red liquid in his hand. “Welcome. I am Alejandro Sanchez Aguilar. May I offer you something to drink, Mr. Brand? The port is excellent, but I can speak well of the Cabernet as well. I also have a 2008 Contador Rioja.” The voice matched the one that had greeted him. But the man it belonged to definitely didn’t match the one Jinx had expected.
Jinx averted his gaze so as not to show his surprise. He’d been expecting the man Crystal’s friends had described. Tall, dark, and studly. This man was short, grey, and portly. “Um… thank you. Whatever you recommend will be fine.” The man picked up a damn bell from an end table and shook it, sending a melodic chime through the room, then plopped back into his seat.
Jinx checked the occupant of the other chair. Elle.
She smiled. “I’m so glad to see you, darling.” She tilted her head, as if expecting him to greet her with a kiss.