Her skin prickled. If Grant couldn’t read her mind, if he couldn’t know her intentions, he knew something was up with her. And if she told him, declared it, he’d argue. She didn’t want to. Had no energy for it. Just wanted to get on with her investigation and end it. Soon.
“I’m not going to ask what you’re cooking,” he said as he tossed his phone to the opposite chair. “If you can’t tell me, that’s one thing. If you don’t want to, that’s a problem.”
“I know.” She walked to the bathroom. Her failure to tell him all he needed to know three years ago had cost them their trust in each other, their pride and endless days of misery.
Dropping her clothes to the cool tiles, she stepped into the huge shower and let the three jets train hot water on her face, her breasts and her back. Hands to the wall, she closed her eyes and flexed her muscles. Soon, she felt the supple cover of Grant’s taut body to her own. His fingers teased one nipple and she sighed. His other hand cupped her, pressing her tightly against him. And she undulated. Burying his fingers in her folds, he inserted his cock between her thighs and slid his length along her seam.
“All of you is mine,” he told her gruffly, his mouth near her ear. “And I’m yours.”
“I know,” she whispered, her voice raw with sadness that she’d defy him.
He surged inside her. “Then tell me everything. No hiding. No secrets.”
She sank her forehead to the cool tiles. How could she?
He pulled her around to face him and press her to the wall. “I can see you thinking, churning. I love you, babe. Badly. Deeply. And I want you forever.”
Overjoyed at the declaration she had wanted from him for years, she tried to kiss him.
But he caught her, his hand cupping her nape. “You let me inside your sweet body, but you and I aren’t gonna make it through this or have any future at all unless you also let me inside your big clever mind.”
She smiled at him with trembling lips. “Grant Warwick. I am amazed how well you know me.”
He clamped her to his side and turned off the jets. Then he led her outside the shower to stand on the fluffy rug. Snagging a huge towel from the hook, he wrapped it around her, rubbed her down and picked her up in his arms. In their bedroom, he stripped back the coverlet and laid her down. Hovering over her, he brushed her wet hair from her cheeks and met her gaze with his own. He slid to the floor, to his knees and parted her thighs. With gentle fingers he opened her to lick her and fondle her until she moaned. At the sound, he rose, lifted her legs around his hipbones and filled her.
She throbbed around him and he gave her the hot sure rhythm that assured her that love that she’d lost was now delicious love found. She came, easy and sure as waves on the shore, soft as the wind, deep as the sea. As the thrill receded, she sank into the blissful recognition that this was how they would be together. Peaceful and assured of each other from this moment on.
Minutes later, she curled against him, her fingertips stroking his chest.
He buried his lips in her hair. “Now’s the time.”
“I have to go into that house, Grant. You know it. I do. I’ll get pictures of them and get out fast. I’ll make a positive ID. And I’ll finish this forever.” She told him why she had the cat suit and how she’d used it twice before. “All the ballet made me agile. It’s a skill I can use. I know what I’m doing. I’m good, quick and precise. I wouldn’t stop you from doing your job.” She looked up at him, declaring with a firm resolve that he could not challenge her on this. “Don’t stop me from finishing my own.”
In the dim light streaming through the draperies, his handsome face was a study in grim acceptance. “I’m going with you.”
She rose up and kissed his lips. “I like a man who recognizes when his woman is right.”
He rolled her over and tickled her until she screamed in laughter. “The things a man has to put up with.”
She wiggled her brows at him as she slid from under him. “The sooner we go, the sooner we get back here.”
He swatted her on the ass. “I do like the way you think.”
Chapter Eleven
She and Grant drove up the hillside to the villa, parked a half mile away, then made their way on foot up the lonely lane, obscured by old olive trees and wild rose bushes.
Grant kissed her goodbye and she made off through the grove of pines toward the house.
Finding an advantageous spot on the hill, she tucked her tiniest camera into the skin-tight turtleneck of her black cat suit and turned toward the cover of trees where Grant waited.
“Be back in a flash,” she mouthed, knowing he had night vision binoculars up watching her.
A hand to her balaclava, she patted one stray curl beneath the thin black fabric. Her blonde hair was now fully concealed. She inhaled. Ready, Coco. Go.
At the foot of the wall obscured by trees, she threw up a grappling hook to the balcony railing, felt it latch on to the concrete and hold. Tugging to secure its tautness, she shimmied up the line and remembered years of climbing thick hemp ropes in gym class in grade school. Elementary, my dear Coco. She’d always been a whiz at this kind of thing. Little did she ever think she would do it to save her father’s golden record as a diplomat. Or her own country—and her own life from radicals.
Hand over hand, she reached the banister. One foot to the wall for leverage, she pulled herself up and over the railing, then slithered to the terrace floor. It was covered in dried leaves from the autumn. Unswept, she thought. Bad housekeepers. Wincing that stepping on them might make undue noise, she crept carefully toward the balcony door. Extracting a pick from her inside wrist pocket, she jimmied the lock open. Carefully. Slowly. She slid open the door and peaked inside. Dim. Dark.
Good.
She hustled inside. Closed the door silently. And paused.
Voices. Male. Three different ones rose from the first floor.
She drifted toward the far door to the hall. Back against the wall, she closed her eyes and listened to the conversation. Arabic between two men. One baritone, one bass. Then a longer discussion in Italian, engaged in by all three. The one native Italian speaker whom they called Bando dominated, switching back and forth from Italian to English, talking about business in America and problems there to be cured soon. Coco couldn’t fully understand their discussions. But whatever those were, the two who spoke Arabic shared a brief aside in their native tongue about Bando and someone that even in Arabic they called capo. Coco lifted her brows at the astonishing words.
Tough luck, Bando, buddy. These two Arabs don’t like you, insult your intelligence and cast a few nasty aspersions on the purity of your capo’s virginity. Wow. A female is the head of this group? A mafioso capo!
But more interesting—and more frightening—to Coco was the topic they settled into—a discussion of shipments they’d recently sent to ports in New Jersey. Women. Ukrainians and Georgians. In cargo containers, they had stored over one hundred women. All destined to become prostitutes in the United States, undocumented, illegal aliens. Another eight cargo containers were on their way to Jersey, too, filled with uncut heroin.
These were all slated to fly right off the docks and into circulation because this group of smugglers had perfected their system through that East Coast port. With longshoremen on the take and customs officials looking the other way, plus a few moles in the U.S. government, these guys were congratulating themselves on their cleverness. All with the help of a federal official in Washington. A woman.
Coco wished she had a tape recorder with her. She could remember a lot but the details of this conversation were intricate and useful. She had to get closer and hear more!
True, her control would just have to be happy with what she told her—and what she showed her. Pictures, Coco. Pictures.
So move your ass!
She heard no one else moving around in the house. Hadn’t since she entered.
Now was the best time, before any of the men left the living room to go to b
ed which, she reminded herself, might very well be up here.
She reached out and pushed open the door slowly, learning immediately that the damn thing creaked. She froze a second. Tested the door’s hinge. Got no sound and pushed it wider.
As she slithered through the space she’d made, she let her eyes become accustomed to the light refracting up from the living room below. Realizing she would be on an open balcony with free view to the living room, she was overjoyed. But she also knew she’d have to be very careful how she lifted her face, how much of her eyes might show and how much of her slithering black-clothed body she exposed to them below.
She elbowed her way forward along the tile floor, headed for the carpet runner, and hoped she could settle there, take her pictures and leave.
That’s when she felt the butt of a gun at the back of her head and a hand clawing at her balaclava. Ripping it up over her face, her captor snapped her head back and had Coco reeling.
“You will rise now!” ordered a woman with a scratchy contralto Italian accent. Distinctive. Harsh. “Look at me, Miss Dalton.” Coco got to her feet and turned to face her captor. “It is what you came for, si?”
Coco blinked. She couldn’t believe her eyes. This woman was the person Coco had been searching for all these years. Not a man. But a woman! With the same sharp features, the hell-black eyes and an android-like body that moved like a machine. Part Italian? Part Egyptian? But one definitely related to the one Coco had sent to the black site. The one she had sent by mistake.
“Ernesto!” the woman called, her smug gaze glued to Coco’s. “Muhammad! Ibrahim! Come up here and look who visits us! The American woman from the meeting in the desert! Just as we thought she would come, eh?”
Exclamations of delight drifted up the stairs. Coco willed herself to remain expressionless. Footsteps on the stairs brought all three men to stand beside their capo and view this intruder.
“You tried to follow me today,” sneered the short, fat one with an Italian accent.
My Mr. C. Chubby. And aligned with Mafioso mafioso to boot, if I get got all the conversation correct.
“But I eluded you.” He walked around her and grinned at her, his smile sharp as a ferret’s. “It is good to have her come to us.”
“We shall see,” snapped the woman as she thrust the butt of the gun in Coco’s guts. “What do you wear, Signorina Dalton?”
Coco rubbed her stomach, scowling at each of them in turn, working on remaining silent until she had to speak of consequential things.
One of the Arab speakers casually stepped forward to pull a bit of the fabric. But it was so taut that he had a tough time grabbing it. He finally gave up and rubbed a few fingers over her arm.
“We should get this,” he told the woman. “What does it do?” he asked Coco.
She stared at him, mute.
He back-handed her across the mouth.
She staggered, but caught herself against the hall banister.
“I asked you. You will answer!” he yelled.
Very well. “The material is hypo-allergenic.” Which it is. Among other things.
“And this means?” He turned to his friend, the one who must speak Arab as well.
“It means it is very useful for intruding in areas where substances might harm the body.” This one stepped forward and Coco recognized him as the one who must be the brother of the man from Madrid. Irritated and imperious, this one ran his hands down Coco’s body. From her throat to her shoulders, to the swell of her breasts, her waist, her hips, this man felt every muscle she had. “You are very fit.”
Coco glared at him. And you are a dog.
“Ibrahim, stop this!” commanded the woman. “She is not here to pleasure you. We have work to do now that she has taken our lead and arrived.”
Coco did not move, fighting the trepidation that rose in her mouth.
“Muhammad, get the rope in the garage. We will transport her as we planned.”
Coco braced herself. Where are we going?
“Ernesto,” the woman said with disgust, “you secure the ropes. Years on the docks mean you are more expert than Muhammad.” She stuck the butt of the gun in Coco ribs. “Let us go downstairs. Oh, and give me that camera from inside your suit, Signorina. You will not take any pictures ever again.”
* * *
Grant waited among the pines, more anxious by the minute. Coco was taking too long. The lights were still on downstairs. At least, no changes there. But he worried.
He ran a hand over his head. If he had hair, he’d be pulling it out.
Christ. Could he have stopped her from doing this?
Once they got out of this, he was going to take her away for years, decades, damn it and keep her safe and warm. Married. He grinned. Yeah, that, too.
He heard a whistle. A robin’s call.
He turned toward the sound. Mark.
He answered with another call.
In a minute, Mark was standing in front of him. Camouflaged in greens, the two of them checked each other out..
“Shall we follow her up?” Mark asked.
“Yes. She’s been in there too long.” Grant turned and led the way.
The two of them ran through the woods, dodging fallen tree limbs and trunks, crushing deep piles of needles.
At the foot of the hill where Coco had hoisted herself up her tether, Grant threw a grappling hook up to the same railing so the two of them could climb at the same time.
“Wait!” Mark whispered. “The garage!” He pointed toward the wide doors that rumbled open. A dark Mercedes, four door, lights on, screeched out of the driveway, around the curb to bounce into the street and careen down the main road.
“Shit!” Mark cursed.
“Come on! We’re going after her.”
The two of them ran back toward their van, on the other side of the line of pines.
They threw themselves in the front seat and slammed the car doors. In a turn, Grant had the engine up and they were pulling away in a flash.
“Take this!” Grant dug his cell from his shirt pocket and threw it at him.
“What the hell?” Mark caught it, took a look at the lit screen and shot Grant a pained look of delight.
“Read it, tell me where I’m going.”
“Roger! I see the beam. But how the hell did you do that?” Mark held up the device in his palm.
Grant grimaced. “She’s got a tracker on. But she doesn’t know it.”
“Where the hell does she have a tracker on in that damn tight suit?”
Grant pressed his fist to his chest. His heart hurt and his stomach rolled as he thought about what these assholes might do to her if they found the answer to that.
Minutes later they were winding on along a narrow lane up the side of Mount Vesuvius where small villas gave way to larger ones. Grant had dimmed the headlights when the Mercedes had turned into a dirt lane and he was hugging the steering wheel trying to keep them on the road.
“Might be faster if we ditch the car and walk,” Mark suggested.
“Maybe, I just don’t want to lose them.”
“There! Look! They’re pulling off. Slowing. Pulling into the driveway of that villa. Stop here.”
Climbing out of the car, Grant and Mark ran closer. But they paused when they heard men talking.
Grant lifted a hand to Mark to listen to the conversation.
Damn. I know Arabic when I hear it, but tonight I need Italian!
Mark elbowed him, made a hand signal for one woman and three men.
Shit. Grant wondered if this was the total number or how many more might be inside. He and Mark would have to strike like lightning to get Coco out.
Grant watched through the branches as two men hauled Coco out of the back seat and led her inside the house. From Coco’s lazy gait, he could tell they had given her a sedative. Or beaten her. He ground his teeth. Gazing at Mark, he tilted his head and indicated the two of them should pick their way through the scrub and analyze the entra
nce and exits to the house. Close to the walls, they each took a path round it in opposite directions to meet once more.
“On my side, easiest way is in through the back door on the ground level,” Mark told him.
“No entry on my side. Let me see the GPS.” Grant leaned over Mark’s shoulder to watch the screen with the beam rising to the second story of the house. “Not good. It’ll be tougher to get her out from up there.”
* * *
Coco felt as if she were floating. Oh, she saw her feet climbing the steps. Knew the Italian man and his buddy who spoke Arabic were the ones who held her up. Understood she was going to meet someone important. But whatever the Italian had pumped into her in that syringe in Naples had washed through her like a giant wave of euphoria. Morphine? Cocaine? What?
“Too much,” she told them and stumbled on the next step. If they hadn’t caught her up in time, she would have hit her head, been down and out.
“Put her there,” declared Lady Capo.
Coco felt herself pushed into a soft leather chair. Thank god. She closed her eyes.
“Look at me!” commanded the Italian man.
Coco’s eyes drifted open and locked on his dark ones.
“Ernesto!” Lady Capo cursed at him. “I warned you! You gave her too much.”
Sweet, whatever it is. Even if I shouldn’t love it. Coco yawned. Closed her eyes again.
Strong fingers captured her jaw and lifted her face, then in Arabic, someone new cursed the Italian.
This voice I know. Coco bit her lips and forced herself to look up at the man who spoke.
No. No. That’s not right. She shut her eyes and shook her head. Tried again to look at him.
Oh, yes. I’m not that drugged to mistake this man. It is Jamal.
But why?
Is Nasar here, too? She glanced around. Yes, in the chair in the far corner. Nasar. I once thought we were friends.
“Did you find your Sunni poem?” she asked him. “The Guardia didn’t want Grant or me to find it. Why not, hmm?”
Nasar cursed in Arabic.
Tall, Hard and Trouble Page 21