Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Odell, Terry

  “But they speak Spanish, don’t they?”

  “Not all of them. Ramon’s got lots of friends from all over. Had a guy from Scotland once. A regular romance-novel Highlander—at least that’s what I was pretending while he was getting his rocks off.”

  “How long have you been here? How did you get here?” Elle asked. The woman seemed resigned to her fate, didn’t seem upset about it. Had she been brainwashed?

  “How long? Can’t rightly say. You know what the date is?”

  “November twelfth,” Elle said.

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Really? I got here in April.” She gave a wry laugh. “You know what they say. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  “What about the others? Does anyone ever get out?”

  “When they get too old, or when nobody wants them.”

  “Where do they go?”

  Her face sagged. “I don’t rightly know. I’m thinking it’s to another place like this, only a less fussy clientele. Doin’ the same kind of thing, but without the fancy trimmings.”

  A quick, low hiss, like a disturbed snake, filled the room. The woman flipped onto her back and rested her head on her hands. “That will be our guard. Shh. The after-breakfast guy’s as ornery as a two-headed bull.”

  A different man entered the room and clomped through the narrow aisle to the chair. He held a plastic box, about the size of a shoebox, on his lap. “Buenos dias, senóritas.”

  There was a low rumble of buenos dias in return. The guard gave a wicked grin and tapped his watch. “You.” He pointed at the woman in the farthest bed on the right. “You may be first today.”

  The woman reached under her bed, pulled out a small plastic box identical to the one the guard held, and took it toward the bathroom. She paused at the guard’s chair, opened the box for his approval. He grunted, tapped his watch and, after unlocking her chains, motioned her into the bathroom. She disappeared from Elle’s line of vision. A cabinet clunked. Water ran.

  “You.” The guard pointed at Elle. “Come.”

  Elle complied, hampered by the leg irons around her ankles. They were long enough to allow relatively normal strides, but the clamps dug into her skin if she didn’t shuffle across the floor like a sleepwalker. She approached the recliner, stopping a good foot or two away. “Yes?”

  The man opened the box and handed it to her. “These are yours. Take care. No lose, comprende?”

  She peered inside the box. A small container of deodorant. Toothbrush—in the package, thank goodness. Toothpaste. A wrapped bar of Ivory soap. A small box of tampons. A travel-sized hairbrush and comb. A washcloth. Two pairs of white cotton grannie panties. Wonderful. “Towel? Shampoo?”

  “Towels under sink. You bring to bed to dry. Shampoo on Fridays.”

  Elle’s scalp crawled at the words. Washing her hair once a week? Not while she had a bar of soap. Might not be the best for her hair, but at least she’d feel clean. She returned to her bed, clutching her box.

  A short while later, the first woman came back. She went straight to her bed, where she arranged her damp towel and what Elle assumed were freshly-washed panties over the foot rail. The guard reshackled her, this time to the leg of the bed. Then he pointed to another woman, who repeated the ritual. Elle's skin turned to gooseflesh when she thought of Trish, confined to a virtually motionless existence.

  Earlier, when the guards had demanded Elle remove her clothes, she had managed to hide the packet of meds under the mattress, but what good would they do if she couldn’t get them to Trish?

  When the guard pointed at her, she rose. She presented the box to the guard again, not that he could possibly think there was anything different in it. He grunted. Tapped his watch. Held up his hand the way the guard had last night, spreading his fingers. “Five minutes.”

  She hurried into the bathroom and turned on the water for a quick shower. A lukewarm trickle. She’d hoped to be able to question the women, but apparently bathroom visits were restricted to one person at a time. And if there was going to be a guard in the chair all day, she doubted she’d even be able to verify whether the woman across the room was Crystal Montlake. She wondered what would happen if she started singing in the shower. Probably not a good idea until there was a greater chance Fozzie’s voice recognition program would pick up on it.

  She finished in the shower, although she hardly felt clean, and took care of the rest of her bathroom necessities. Without a clock, she couldn’t be sure how long she’d taken, but it hadn’t felt anywhere near five minutes. She replaced everything in her box, slipped into one of the pairs of underpants they’d given her. A size too large, but it beat going commando. They’d let her keep her bra. Did they provide any sort of laundry service? If so, how often? The towels were clean. Had yesterday been laundry day?

  She hadn’t had enough sleep to deal with all these questions. She draped the towel over her arm and padded to her bed, hanging the towel over the metal foot rail as she’d seen the others do. The guard shackled her to the bed. In that instant, as he clicked the lock shut, she had the first genuine feeling of panic she’d never get out of here.

  Jinx snapped his mouth shut. Cigar Man twitched his head, indicating Jinx should come with him. Jinx swung around on the bench and sat, still trying to process what he had seen. A bunch of bedraggled, beaten-down women. Totally subservient. Even Elle had been complacent. Were they drugged? Elle’s eyes had looked normal in the split second he’d caught them before she lowered her gaze like the rest of the women.

  This was not good. Then again, Ramon hadn’t come storming in after him, so maybe the firing squad wasn’t next on the agenda. Which was a darn good thing, because when he went, it was not going to be with a lousy bowl of corn flakes and powdered milk as his last meal.

  A quick chill ran down his spine. Had they mixed the milk powder with the local water? Because in that case, he might not need a firing squad. Montezuma would exact his revenge instead.

  Cigar Man barked more Spanish. Jinx clambered to his feet. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your effing horses,” he muttered. He followed the man to Ramon’s study where Ramon seemed to be holding court. He sat in his big leather chair as if it were a throne. Three men stood before him, hats in hand, eyes downcast. Cigar Man hung back, propped against the wall next to the door, studying his shoes.

  What was it with eye contact in this place? Were people afraid they’d get zapped by an evil eye if they met anyone’s gaze? Jinx squared his shoulders and stared at Ramon. If Ramon thought he was intimidating, he hadn’t known the pleasure of facing Horace Blackthorne. Now there was a man who could hold court. However Blackthorne’s… subjects… respected him. Ramon’s men feared him.

  “Good morning,” Jinx said. “Buenos dias. And gracias for the delightful repast. I haven’t had a meal like that in longer than I can remember.”

  Ramon frowned, tilted his chin toward the door, and the three men backed away before scurrying off like little mice. Ramon looked as if he hadn’t understood Jinx. “Good day to you as well. I trust you are refreshed.”

  “Nothing better than a nap and some grub,” Jinx said. “Now, may I please see my fiancé.” The please was tossed in there, but he kept any pretense of making it a polite question out of his tone. He concentrated on his role-playing. No groveling. No pandering. Not from Stephen Brand.

  Ramon gazed down his nose at Jinx, which wasn’t all that easy to do since Jinx was standing and Ramon was sitting, but there was no mistaking the arrogance.

  “Your story has not yet been confirmed,” Ramon said.

  Which, Jinx thought, must be a good thing, because then it hadn’t been denied, either. Fozzie’s mischief must still be working. And maybe Aguilar wasn’t the sort of man who’d admit failure. Maybe he’d corroborated Jinx’s BS to save face. If Ramon had even checked with Aguilar. The vibes Jinx was getting said the two were rivals, not collaborators.

  “Then bring me my woman,” Jinx said, his tone firmer. “What’s
it to you if we have a little quality time while you’re waiting? You’re a man. I’m a man. You must understand these things.”

  Jinx hoped Ramon couldn’t hear his heart doing the flamenco in his chest. How did Dalton do it? He could scam or schmooze his way in and out of anywhere. Jinx was sure every lie he told was flashing across his face like the lights on the strip at Vegas. But he forced himself to hold Ramon’s eyes. If everyone else kow-towed in deference, maybe keeping eye contact would call the man’s bluff.

  After a few heartbeats of uneasy silence, in which Jinx began to wonder whether it was the milk or nerves that had his gut churning, Ramon burst into laughter. “You have the cojones, Stephen.” His expression shifted faster than an Indy 500 driver. “I shall give you final moments with your woman.”

  Jinx refused to dwell on the word final and concentrated on woman. Once he and Elle were together, they’d work something out. They’d done it before, hadn’t they?

  Jinx’s mind whirled as Cigar Man escorted him to the room he’d been in earlier. The bedcovers and pillow still held the indentations from his body. “You worked here long?” Jinx asked. “What about the women I saw at breakfast? How long have they been here?”

  “You ask too many of the questions,” Cigar Man said. “I expect to be here until I am an old man. For you, I cannot say the same.”

  “Might as well enjoy what time I have left, then, right, amigo?” Jinx figured the man meant he didn’t think Jinx would live much longer. Jinx preferred to think he was going to get out of here, intact, before either of them died.

  Cigar Man took a ring of keys from his pocket and twisted one in the padlock on the armoire. Definitely not a weapons stash if he was unlocking it. He yanked on the lock, letting it dangle in the hasp. He turned to Jinx with a lascivious leer. “For you and your woman. You will wait here.” Although he left the room, Jinx figured he was stationed outside the door.

  Curious, Jinx lifted the padlock from the hasp and eased the armoire doors open.

  Holy crap.

  What kind of kinky was this? Leather? Whips? Handcuffs? And an assortment of more conventional garments. Black lacy negligees. Red lacy negligees. White lacy negligees. Silk robes. He bent and opened one of the drawers at the base of the armoire. Massage oils. Silk boxers. Thongs, both silk and leather, male and female. An assortment of battery-operated toys. Jinx wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or turned on at the thought of using any of them. He fingered a leather bustier, imagined Elle’s breasts spilling out over the top.

  Definitely turned on.

  He wasn’t into pain, but the handcuffs—even though they were lined in fur—pink fur—might come in handy in a non-sexual situation. Like securing their captors. He thought about Elle and Indiana Jones. He toyed with the whip. Could she have expertise with it as a weapon? It wouldn’t surprise him.

  Fozzie wouldn’t be back for hours. Jinx had time to kill. Better than being killed. A little brain disconnect might ease the stress. He grabbed a pair of silk boxers and matching robe, and went into the bathroom to freshen up and change.

  He’d finished brushing his teeth and shaving when he heard the bedroom door open. And close.

  Jinx pulled the robe tightly around him. Shit, he was so stupid. Why did he trust Ramon to deliver Elle? It could be anyone out there, and here he was, already half-aroused. And wearing silk leopard-print boxers. Or was it jaguar?

  Great way to meet your maker, Jinx, my man.

  He opened the bathroom door a crack and peered out. Relief swamped him when he saw Elle. He opened the door a few inches wider, trying to see if her escort was inside.

  Nope. Jinx stepped out. Elle wore the same tee and flip-flops she’d had on at breakfast, but the shackles were gone. Her lips were flat, her eyes narrowed. He realized he was back-lit and she might not have recognized him.

  “Elle? It’s me. Jinx,” he whispered.

  She hesitated, but only for a second, before racing across the room and throwing her arms around him. “Jinx. They didn’t say—just follow—I thought—the others—”

  “Hey, take it easy.” Jinx rubbed her shoulders, ran his fingers through her damp hair. She smelled like Ivory soap. He held her close, felt her tremble against him. Was she crying? He’d never seen her lose control, and he didn’t think she’d appreciate him fussing over her.

  So he stood there, holding her, waiting for her to relax. Trying not to let his arousal—which was a lot more than halfway now—become conspicuous.

  She pushed away, ducked her head, wiped her eyes. “Sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary.”

  She paced, her fingers clenching and unclenching into fists at her side. “The women this morning. They keep them in a communal room, chained to their beds. Sedated. Everything is regimented. Like prison. So much time for this, so much for that. It’s—it’s inhumane.”

  “They put you there? With them?” Jinx hadn’t given it a thought, even after seeing her this morning. He’d assumed—stupidly—she'd been in a room like his.

  She nodded. “They sent two of the women out this morning. They use them as prostitutes. And can you believe it? The women look forward to being chosen because they get some luxury time. Baths, good food. But they have to put out. I thought—I thought when they called me, I was—they didn’t say I was coming to you.”

  “Aw, Sweetheart. You’re here, I’m here, and we finally have time to ourselves. Shall we make use of it?” He took her by the hand and led her toward the bed.

  Chapter 27

  Elle’s knees shook, whether with relief or anticipation, she wasn’t sure. Part of her said her arousal was a normal survival reaction. Another part—and she thought it was a much bigger part—was Jinx holding her hand and walking toward the bed. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She wrapped her arm around him, the sleek, silky robe smooth against her palms. She walked her fingers down his spine, resting at his hip.

  He stopped at the side of the bed. She had a million things to say, but dealing with them now battled with the emotions surging through her. She wanted him. But was this the smart thing to do?

  Sometimes thinking is highly overrated.

  She sat on the bed. Fingered the hem of her tee. “If I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be without making love with you.”

  She studied his face. She hadn’t said she wanted to have sex with him. She’d used the L word. Had he noticed? Because even though she’d met him less than two days ago, her feelings went deeper than physical attraction. And if it all ended once they got out of here, back to their normal lives, if it was nothing more than two strangers thrust into an impossible situation, so be it. She knew she wanted—needed—the closeness only lovemaking could bring.

  His robe fell open. She stared at the leopard print boxers, and the undisguised evidence of his arousal. Her nipples peaked, sending tingles to her groin. Which was encased in perhaps the ugliest pair of underpants known to man. Her thin cotton tee was about as erotic as an old dishrag.

  Wearing nothing but a towel would be better than this. She glanced toward the open bathroom door. “Um… I’d like to slip into something more… comfortable.”

  He laughed out loud. “Sweetheart, if you think you’re not turning me on in that outfit, think again. But you can check the armoire. I’ll go grab protection from the bathroom. Do you have a preference for colors? Or flavors?”

  Her face grew hot at the thought. “You pick.” At least the crazies who ran this place had a modicum of safety in mind.

  On the way to the armoire, she kicked off her flip-flops, which instantly made her feel better. The doors were half open, and she stood there, staring. Not really shocked, but stunned at the array of choices. She opened the doors, putting everything on display. A faint smile found its way to her lips. What the hell. According to her guard, she had two hours. If they ended up being her last two hours, she might as well enjoy them.

  She slipped a full-length, black silk-and-lace negligee
from its hanger. She didn’t hear Jinx approach, but all of a sudden, he was standing behind her, his fingers on her shoulders, kneading the taut muscles of her neck. Half turning, she held up the nightgown for his approval.

  He moved her hair aside and nuzzled a spot behind her right ear. “Wasn’t my first choice, but we’ll save that for later. I hope you don’t expect to be wearing it very long.”

  She turned, smiled, and flipped the gown over her shoulder as she made her way to the bathroom. “We’ll see.”

  She closed the door behind her and gripped the vanity. Stared into the mirror. Guilt at what she was doing—putting her own selfish pleasures first—gnawed at her.

  What else could you be doing?

  Asking the woman if she was Crystal Montlake.

  The guard brought you here. And even if you were still in that room, you couldn’t talk to her. Wait for Fozzie.

  So, why hadn’t she told Jinx she thought they might have found Crystal? Because she was afraid they’d leave without finding Trish? Or because she wanted to forget everything, including her sister, and escape to a happy place where she could put herself first?

  They gave you two hours. With a man who wants you. And you want him. Take it. Sometimes you have to set the job aside when there’s nothing else you can do.

  She wasn’t sure she was a hundred percent on board with her rationalizations, but she saw the chance to feel like a woman for a couple of hours. She took off her clothes, balled them up, and tossed them onto the tiles. She lifted the negligee, let the silk float down her body, let herself enjoy the sensuous feel as the sleek fabric made contact with her skin. She spritzed herself with perfume, brushed her hair out, and stared into the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, which were red from lack of sleep and that stupid crying jag.

  A drawer held an assortment of lipsticks, eye shadows and other female enhancements. She rummaged through them, then shoved the drawer shut. Why waste the time? Jinx could take her or leave her.