“Arturo.” It was Jonas. “Bad news, bud. Lexie said Mari left a half hour ago in your Porsche.”
“Fuck,” he repeated, running his fingers through his hair in agitation.
“That’s good news and bad news,” Cap said. “They don’t know she was in San Antonio or that she’s on her way back, which gives us over two hours to find him.”
“I’ll have the control room keep trying her and send her right to the hotel,” Jonas said.
“He’ll stake out her house and business, don’t you think?” Munoz asked.
“If we’re lucky.” Arturo nodded. “We’ve got both places covered.”
“We’ll take care of this bunch,” Robinson put in, “and join up with you in the search for Ashworth once they’re processed.”
Arturo barely grunted in agreement, already having turned toward the door, Cap at his side. He glanced at him, a brow arched in question. “What was the bad news?”
“Uh, bud, didn’t you hear? She’s driving your Porsche.”
“Well, good god damn,” was his very Texan reply. Still, he’d take a burned up clutch any day if he could only get Mari on the phone and safely under his watch. As they walked out of the Clifford Drive warehouse into the humid Houston morning, his gut clenched with unease.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Porsche lurched and made a gritted teeth-grinding noise as she downshifted and searched for second while pulling into the lot behind her shop. She switched off the ignition and heaved a sigh of relief, thankful that the trip from San Antonio was at an end. The commute had been dicey in the stop and go city traffic at the beginning and end, due to the clutch, which was a far greater challenge to her coordination and memory than she’d expected. In between had been a blessedly long stretch of highway where the gearshift wasn’t even a thought, well, except once.
While tootling along about an hour outside of Houston, enjoying the smooth ride and the practically abandoned I-10 corridor on a Sunday morning, her heart had nearly stopped when flashing blue lights appeared out of nowhere in her rearview. Glancing down at the dash, she hit the brakes, realizing that she hadn’t been going eighty miles per hour, which was the posted speed, but had hit one hundred. But really, the speedometer was in kilometers. What red-blooded Texas girl, or guy for that matter, could convert kilometers to miles in their head? She had asked the trooper that question, hoping to get a little sympathy, but she, yes, she—darn her rotten luck—had been anything but amused as she heartlessly wrote out the $250 ticket.
Mari eyed the crinkled up citation sticking out of her purse. Arturo was going to pitch a fit, especially after his parting words to her last night.
“I don’t suppose you can drive a standard?” he began hesitantly.
“Of course, I can,” she had told him. “I learned to drive in my dad’s Ford Ranger 4X4 when I was sixteen.” She didn’t mention that had been the last time she’d driven one. But it was like riding a bike, surely. Once you knew, you knew. Right?
He held up his keys. “If I’m not back, drive home in the morning. Don’t go home; go straight to my hotel and valet park.”
“Seriously? All right,” she’d said as she reached eagerly for the keys. She’d wanted to drive his 911 turbo since she’d first seen it. When she tried to take them from his hand, however, he held on, looking a little green around the gills.
“It’s not a truck, it’s a finely tuned machine. It’s got power, and rides as smooth as glass, which can be deceiving, so be careful and keep to the speed limit.”
“I will,” she’d told him, stopping short of rolling her eyes. She’d been driving for twenty-two years; how hard could it be?
“I don’t want to, but I’ve got to go.” After sweeping her into his arms, his kiss was surprisingly gentle, his tongue tracing over the soft fullness of her lips before he released her.
“Be careful,” she urged. “And don’t worry. I’ve got this.” Famous last words.
The look on Lexie’s face earlier that morning was almost a mirror image of his as she watched Mari lurch out of the driveway.
“Do you want to take my Highlander?” she’d offered, as Mari stalled halfway down the inclined drive, rolling several feet when she hit the clutch instead of the brake. When she had finally stopped, both pedals practically embedded in the floorboard, Lexie approached her window and tried again. “Mari, hon, I can drive the BMW until one of the guys heads back to Houston, or until Arturo can come to get his car.”
“No.” She waved, sounding a lot more confident than she was, but she was determined to do this. “I’m just a little rusty,” she assured her friend through gritted teeth. After several greenhorn fits and starts, she made it out of Lexie and Jonas’ sprawling subdivision and thirty minutes later, reached the four lane highway in one piece. Well, at least his six-figure baby seemed none the worse for her abuse, so far as she could tell, but her nerves were shot. Still, she breathed a sigh of relief knowing that ahead of her was a straightaway, about two hundred miles worth, with no stops until she reached Houston proper.
Except the one.
“I’m really going to catch it for this,” she muttered to herself while she gathered her purse, tucking the canary yellow carbon copy of her lesson in metric conversions deep inside. As she opened the door and slid out, she caught a whiff of something hot, or burning. She leaned toward the hood, sniffed, and groaned aloud as the odor got stronger.
“Fan-freakin’-tastic. If I’ve burned up his clutch that’s even more fuel for the fire, which will undoubtedly be applied to my butt.”
She slammed the door and bit her lip, circling the expensive car looking for smoke or other visible signs of damage. Finding none, she decided that whatever she’d done wasn’t going to get worse while parked and started for her shop, every other step stopping to tug at the hem of her too snug borrowed skirt that kept riding up, everywhere.
It had been a decade since she’d worn a denim skirt, let alone one so short, her dress last night being club wear and an exception, not to mention worn deliberately to tick Arturo off, knowing word would get back to him. That he’d seen it was a surprise and she suspected part of the reason for his passionate reaction. But unprepared to stay the night left her selection of clothes that morning limited. Lexie was a couple of inches taller and model slender, so she hadn’t a prayer of squeezing into the younger woman’s jeans, not with her mother-of-two hips.
In hindsight, maybe she should have opted for sweats, but in either case, she had decided to swing by the shop first. No way was she schlepping into the Four Seasons in track pants and a tee shirt, or a short jeans skirt that better suited her eighteen-year-old daughter. Doing the walk of shame in her dress from yesterday was also out the question. If any of her gossipy customers who frequented the hotel saw her, word would spread so fast, whether by calls, texts or social media, they would undoubtedly overload the cell phone towers, melt servers far and wide, and likely crash Facebook for good.
All of which brought her to here and now, at her boutique in search of something decent to wear and clean underwear. She hadn’t been allowed to pack a bag for her extended stay with Arturo, so a quick stop here to gather essentials was the perfect fix. She hesitated. The message he’d sent through Jonas had said straight to the hotel; but the shop was safe, monitored 24/7 by Rossi. Still, a nagging feeling made her wary, and she glanced around.
Adri’s car wasn’t there, not that she wanted any more awkward conversations with the traitorous woman, but it was nearing noon and she should have been there hours ago to open. The nagging worry got worse. Something wasn’t right. A quick check in with Arturo was needed before she headed inside, just in case. She dug in her purse and pulled out her phone. It was off. She had done so deliberately to save the 10% remaining battery power. Again, not expecting an overnight stay, her charger was at home and Lexie didn’t have one that matched her phone. So, to conserve battery power for emergencies on the road, she had powered it off.
As soon as it rebooted, i
t started buzzing and dinging with all sorts of alerts. There were three missed calls from Arturo, two from Lexie and one from Jonas, as well as a slew of texts. She checked the most recent one first.
Why aren’t you answering your phone, dammit? Major developments. Go
directly to the hotel. Absolutely no stops. Call me when you get there.
Uh-oh. She dug back into her purse for her keys that she’d dropped inside while searching for her phone.
“Marilee Hoffman?”
She spun around to face the owner of the deep British accent. Fifty-ish, handsome, for a big man he moved softly. She hadn’t heard him approach. Tall and thickly muscled, he needed no padding to fill out the shoulders of the suit coat he wore, which looked like it was custom made to fit. It had to be to encase that wall of muscle, even if it was a little snug in the seams. She preferred Arturo’s less obvious power and strength, but a man like this drew a lady’s notice. She couldn’t make out his eyes behind the dark shades he was wearing, but he had a friendly smile.
“Yes, I’m Marilee,” she answered, still digging deep in the bottom of her bag where her keys always seemed to sink. “I’m sorry. If we’ve met, I don’t recall.”
“I was an associate of your late husband.”
“Oh?” That put her on instant alert. If he worked at BSE, maybe he was after Derek’s intel as well. The words ‘major developments’ rang in her head, as did ‘absolutely no stops.’ Was this what he’d been afraid would happen if she did? Her phone started ringing in her purse.
“Durand, most likely.” His chin dipped down, and although she couldn’t be sure with the dark glasses, she knew he was making a slow assessment of her body, especially her bare legs, almost the entire length of which were exposed in her borrowed skirt. The bad feeling worsened and she took a step back.
“You know Arturo?”
His grin turned from friendly to malicious. “Oh, yeah. Me and Artie, go way back.” The sneer in his voice when he said Artie told her they were definitely not friends. Alarm bells went off as she turned to run, but he reached out and grabbed her arm while he yanked her purse off her shoulder. Without its protection, what little it had offered, he stared at her breasts in Lexie’s snug tee shirt, lewdly licking his lips. “Durand always did have good taste in pussy.”
She flinched, twisting her arm to get free. Surprisingly, he released her, but his big hand came out and laid flat on her chest right below her throat as he pushed her hard against the outside wall of her shop.
“Don’t even think about running,” he threatened as he brushed aside his sport coat to expose a gun tucked into his belt. She froze. Her gaze shifted from his weapon to his hands as he began to dig through her purse.
Growling in frustration a moment later, he dumped the contents out on the pavement. He bent and sifted through it, clearly not finding what he wanted. “Where is it?” he demanded.
“Where is what? I don’t—”
“The disc or jump drive you retrieved from the bank the other day.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit!” he barked, taking a threatening step forward. “Don’t lie to me.” As he advanced again, Mari sidestepped, but his long arm reached out and his huge paw-like hand clamped painfully around her upper arm, yanking her back.
She screamed, but he seemed not to care as he hauled her up against him.
“Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll help if I can.”
“You will help, or I will hurt you. I’ve already searched your shop and found nothing. So, we’re going to take a little drive, during which you’re going to lead me to where you stashed what you took out of the safe deposit box.”
His hand slid up into her hair. Grabbing a handful, he tugged on it sharply until her head fell back. Pinned against his chest, she struggled, despite the tears pooling up in her eyes as the movement stung her scalp. He chuckled as he easily contained her. Then, his other hand swept along her spine, moving all the way down to the back of her skirt, where it was bunched, riding up as she fought him. He palmed her cheek through a thin barrier of lace.
“If you don’t tell me what I want to know, things are going to get more intimate.” To prove how much so, he slid his hand between her thighs from the back, his fingers gliding along the gusset of her panties. “And more painful,” he added as his hand reared back and came down hard, twice against each cheek.
“No, please,” she sobbed, pushing futilely against his chest. “Let me go.”
A door slammed. “Hey!” Helen Dryer, the owner of the shop next to hers called out from her rear stoop. “Leave her alone or I’m calling the police.”
“This is not bloody happening,” he growled, releasing Mari so suddenly that she stumbled. But she didn’t fall, due to the hold he retained on her wrist. With breathtaking speed, he withdrew his weapon and pointed it at her would-be rescuer. Helen screamed and fled. Who wouldn’t? But she left Mari with only the hope she was at that moment calling 911.
Grumbling about bloody interruptions, he started dragging her across the lot to a black SUV, parked in the shade. So focused on wrangling Arturo’s Porsche, she hadn’t noticed it when she pulled in. Had it been there the whole time?
“Stop,” she pleaded, digging in with her heels, but it made no impact as he hauled her forward. “I don’t know anything about Derek’s side business, I swear. He didn’t tell me about his work.”
He opened the driver’s side door and practically stuffed her in. “Move over,” he ordered gruffly; but she wasn’t ready to give up, kicking him square in the chest before she turned and tried to scramble across and out the opposite side. But he grabbed her ankle and landed a blistering hot slap on her bare thigh.
“Any more trouble from you, missy, and I’ll get the ropes and gag I put in the back specially for you. Artie isn’t the only one who knows how to bind a woman and tie her up in knots.”
She gasped. His smile deepened. How could she have ever thought it was friendly? Malevolent was more like it.
“Surprised? I didn’t expect your dom to mention his old friend Ray, but I told you, me and Art go way back. Has he introduced you to his bullwhip yet? Who do you think taught him that crap?”
Squealing tires cut him off as several vehicles sped into the lot. He jumped into the vehicle beside her, pushing her legs roughly out of the way. He slammed the door a split second before a bullet embedded itself in the window—bulletproof apparently. He still flinched, though he recovered quickly and started the engine, spinning the wheels slightly as he peeled out. More shots rang out, but no more hit the windows or body of the SUV.
“They’re shooting at the tires.” He laughed as he drove, taking the curve out of the lot at a high rate of speed, enough to make the back wheels fishtail. “Must be your French lover boy not willing to risk his beloved taking lead. Dumb fuck. He used to be a good agent. Nothing stood between him and his mission—especially not pussy.”
“Who are you?” she demanded to know, hanging on as he turned another corner sharply, grunting in pain as her body went slamming into the center console.
His arm came out and pushed her back in her seat, not out of concern for her safety, but to get her off the gearshift that her hip had knocked into neutral.
“Raymond Ashworth, SIS at your service. You know us better as MI6.”
She stared at him in utter disbelief. “You’re an agent, like Arturo? Are you insane?”
“Not like Arturo,” he spat in disgust. “Durand has gone soft. Talking about retirement when he’s got years left ahead of him. That’s bullshit. When you sign up, you sign up for life. There’s only one bloody way to get out.”
“Oh my god! It’s been you all along. You killed those agents.”
“You’re quick, love. Not Artie’s usual type. Oh, you’ve got the tits and ass that he likes, but a brain is not usually required.”
“What are you going to do now? You can’t possibly go on working for your government after th
is. You’re done now too.”
His hand came out and took hold of her throat, pinning her against the side window, uncaring that he was careening wildly through traffic or that he had cut off her air. Choking for breath, she clawed at his arm, but that didn’t seem to faze him, only propelling him to squeeze harder. Mari saw colored spots dance in front of her eyes.
“That stupid cunt Adriana is to blame for this. And her pussy husband. Where is the data file?”
“Can’t… breathe…” she managed to choke out, and he relinquished his hold the tiniest bit. With air allowed to pass through her throat into her lungs again, she coughed and gasped for precious oxygen.
“Tell me where, dammit, or I’ll crush your pretty throat.”
His fingers tightened again, but she managed a ragged reply. “My house.”
“Liar. We searched there.”
“Not well enough.” Of course, she was bluffing. Arturo had the jump drive, but she wasn’t about to tell him that, certain that it would be the end of her usefulness, and likewise, the end of her. But she needed to buy time for whoever was chasing them—hopefully Arturo and the Rossi team—to formulate a plan and carry out a rescue. She clung blindly to the hope that would happen during the twenty minutes it took for them to drive to her home from downtown, because once they arrived, she had nothing.
“You better not be bullshitting me.”
Slamming on the brakes, he did a one-eighty amidst shrieking tires and blasting horns in the middle of busy Westheimer Road. He laughed maniacally as the three black SUVs in pursuit braked, making sharp U-turns while he shot past them in the opposite direction.
Mari knew she had pegged him correctly when she’d called him insane, for he was reckless and had obviously snapped. Perhaps it was the danger and stress of his job that brought on the weird light in his eyes saying plainly he wasn’t operating on all cylinders. And, if he was killing agents he thought betrayed the badge, or their oath to the queen, or whatever British secret agents swore to, which by his own deeds made him an agent no longer, it made him not only dangerous, but scarier than hell because he had nothing to lose.
French Kiss (Decadence Nights Book 2) Page 23