Cherry Adair - T-flac 03 (16 page)

A magnetic tide of arousal swept through her body. She pressed down uselessly on the cracked vinyl seat.

"Where are we going?" Anything, even trying to talk civilly to Kyle, was better than thinking about her demanding body parts.

"A small, clean hotel over on the other side of town. Be there in about forty-five minutes."

She could feel his eyes on her. A surge of heat flared on her skin. Even the sound of his baritone sent shivers of anticipation zinging through her. First the close confines of the helicopter, and now this tiny little jeep. It wasn't fair.

Pressing harder against her throbbing breasts with her crossed arms, she focused outside where road workers paused in their digging to watch them drive by at the speed of sound. The road was rough and uneven with patches of vegetation growing through the packed red dirt. Jungle pressed in on either side.

Green danger.

Just like Kyle's eyes.

They reached the city just before dusk.

"Lock your door," he instructed as they drove into the center of town. She complied, staring at cars and pedestrians alike as they moved like frantic ants through narrow streets clogged with traffic. Everyone drove at a breakneck speed, often using the curb as part of the thoroughfare.

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Kyle didn't even bother to tap the brakes. With nerves of steel and a total disregard for the red traffic light, they shot across a busy intersection. When Delanie opened her eyes again they were safely beyond the snarl and on a narrower side street.

"A red light here means 'go'?"

"It's dangerous to stop for lights." Kyle slowed to let a rowdy pack of children cross the street ahead.

"More often than not drivers get robbed if they're not fast enough."

She let her gaze roam the streets of the city. Green wooden balconies bright with orchids and peonies jutted over narrow cobbled streets. Small bright spots in an otherwise dingy, depressing place. The poverty here was palpable.

Half-naked children by the dozen dashed between cars and pedestrians alike.

"Where on earth do all those children come from?" There must have been twenty or thirty of them.

Delanie turned to look back, but the kids had disappeared into a narrow opening between the buildings.

"No birth control." Kyle turned onto a wider street. He indicated another yelling mass of skinny arms and legs on the sidewalk. "
Gamines
. Ratpacks of homeless kids. There're thousands of them here." He accelerated. "The parents can't afford to feed and clothe them so they're sent out to fend for themselves.

They end up begging or selling whatever they can lay their hands on just to stay alive."

"That's appalling."

"The rich get rich and the poor get poorer. The only thing the drug trade has done for those kids is give them bad teeth from habitual cocaine use or put them to work in prostitution."

It was impossible to worry about her own list of complaints when presented with such bare, harsh facts.

Delanie shivered despite the heat, sick to her stomach.

She'd pretty much raised Lauren on her own from when she was a kid herself. Their mother needed a caretaker, too. She was beautiful, and fun loving, and had the attention span of a hummingbird. But Delanie had always known her mother loved her. When she and Lauren were growing up they might've been dressed strangely, but they had never gone without shelter or food.

What she saw in the streets of San Cristobal horrified and saddened her.

And nothing in her unconventional life compared to what was happening to her now. Suddenly she was surrounded with the pitiful dregs of a society. Where the buying and selling of drugs—or people—was a way of life. Here human frailties were used as weapons and Montero was lord of it all.

She'd been brutalized, threatened, and drugged.

And she was going back for more.

"Are you still determined to do business with Montero?" Delanie asked flatly.

"I know what I'm doing." A muscle twitched in Kyle's jaw. "You're just going to have to trust me."

"Oh, absolutely. You have such a sterling track record."

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"Do you really want to dig up that corpse now?"

She swallowed roughly. Bracing herself for the next wheelie round a corner, she asked tightly, "What do you
want
from me, Kyle?"

"I want you to damn well trust me, even when your brain says you shouldn't."

An old man, wearing a blanketlike
ruana
despite the heat, was sweeping the sidewalk as Kyle cruised to a stop, not waiting for her answer. Which was a good thing. He'd have a long wait.

He parked with two wheels on the narrow curb as she scanned the face of the building. The "clean" part of "hotel" wasn't obvious to her. Perhaps dusk wasn't the optimum time to be viewing the neighborhood.

She climbed out of the car and stretched cramped muscles.

"Is it okay for you to wear that out here in the street?" She tilted her head to indicate his shoulder holster.

"You think they have carry laws here in San Cristobal?" His lips quirked. "I believe in advertising. Come on, let's get inside."

There were no streetlights to speak of. The shops were either abandoned or their owners just didn't give a damn. The Villa D'Este looked suspiciously like the dozens of other derelict hotels and businesses lining the city.
Gamines
of all ages and sizes ran wild here, too, dodging vehicles and fists alike. The common denominator was filth.

"Welcome to the Ritz," she muttered, keeping a tight hold on her bulging canvas bag. On spongy legs she followed Kyle into the dimly lit, grungy vestibule of the hotel.

The man behind the counter glanced up and broke into an enormous smile, showing several gold-capped teeth as he spared a moment to ogle her tight jeans. His stained T-shirt stretched over an impressive beer belly.

Delanie gave him a steely look in return.

He averted his gaze and hastily folded his newspaper to greet Kyle in effusive and rapid Spanish while she paced back and forth across the scarred linoleum.

Finally he handed Kyle a key from the wooden rack behind him.

"Let's go." Kyle took her arm and hustled her up a dark stairway. There wasn't much point protesting.

She swallowed convulsively as her mouth filled with saliva. Icy sweat prickled her skin as the queasiness she'd felt in the car increased.

Their footsteps echoed loudly as they emerged onto a landing. Peeling brown paint and the smell of urine were the high spots in the decor. He unlocked a door halfway down the corridor and nudged her into the dark room.

"It's clean." Kyle found the light switch. "Gil can send someone over to the cantina for you later if you get hungry."

She had her room and a locking door; now all she needed was a little privacy. She tossed her bag onto
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the neatly made bed.

Kyle snagged her arm as she walked past him. "First things first. Now I want to—"

She shook him off. "—throw up," she finished, striding to the open door of the bathroom. Slamming the door, no lock, she sank to her knees before the bowl.

Throwing up with nothing in her stomach was painful. Retching, sweating, and shivering, she prayed for this to pass. It didn't help that Kyle was right on her heels. She tried to wave him out of the tiny bathroom, but instead he ran water in the sink.

She couldn't talk and didn't waste time trying. He held a cool, damp washcloth to her forehead, effectively holding her head up for her as she hugged the porcelain for dear life.

"Good girl, get the rest of the poison out." He braced her body as he supported the anvil weight of her head in his cool palm.

She wanted to curl up and die on the spot. Instead she accepted the brief reprieve from hostilities, letting him help her up when she was done. With shaking hands she fumbled through her bag until she came up with a travel-size bottle of Listerine.

"Hell, is there anything you don't carry in that thing?" He handed her a plastic glass filled with cold water.

She gulped most of it before swishing and spitting, feeling as though she'd been ridden hard and put away wet. Not a bad analogy, all things considered.

"Drink a couple more glasses of water," Kyle instructed.

Delanie was happy to oblige. Every cell in her body felt parched. She drank three glasses of tepid water, with Kyle watching every gulp, before she set the empty glass on the toilet tank.

Kyle waited silently as she dug around in her purse for a toothbrush and sample-size toothpaste, and brushed her teeth.

"Ready?" he asked politely when she threw everything back in the bag and slung the straps over her shoulder.

"Not really." But she stepped out of the small room anyway.

He followed her into the bedroom, then scanned her face. She must still look green around the gills; she certainly felt it. He had the appearance of a man about to restart the interrogation.

She held up a hand. "Give me a minute." Still shaky, she carefully sat on the bottom of the queen-size bed with its crisp white sheets and brightly colored cotton cover. There were a couple of bedside tables, a cane-backed chair, two mismatched lamps and a hideous hanging lamp near a table by the open bathroom door. Heavy drapes hung over a narrow window in the far wall. The wooden floor, while bare of rugs, was spotlessly clean and polished to a dull sheen.

"Gimme." He indicated her wrist. Delanie held it up like a paw and waited while he took her pulse and probably concluded she was half dead.

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"You'll live."

"Where's your room?" she asked as he cupped her chin firmly in one hand and used a gentle finger to lift her right eyelid. She held her breath as he peered into her eye. His breath fanned her face, and his mouth tightened into a hard line as he lifted the other lid.

He swore, then released her to stroll over to twitch the heavy drapes more tightly across the window.

"This is it."

"Oh no, it isn't!"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Still got the itch?"

"I believe you flushed the rest of it, thank you very much." What a humiliating experience. Just the fuzzy memories of what she'd demanded he do to her caused her cheeks to flame. The things
she'd
done to
him
made her inwardly cringe, and her skin ignite.

She rummaged in her bag for the small pack of saltines. They were in crumbled pieces. She picked out the largest chunks and let the salty crackers dissolve on her tongue.

Starting to feel considerably better, she glared up at him, said in her firmest voice, "I am not sharing this room with you."

"You didn't protest when we left Montero's."

"I didn't know what I was—Don't change the subject," she snapped. "I didn't want to leave there in the first place, damn it."

"That's right, you didn't." He sat down in the chair, watching her with those disconcerting pale-green eyes. "But here you are." He said it with enough satisfaction that she wanted to slap him.

"And now, my horny Miss Eastman, you are going to tell me exactly what the hell you're doing mixed up with Montero and his merry little band."

Perfectly at ease, he stretched out his long legs, leaned back, and rested his clasped hands on his flat stomach. Relaxed, but still dangerous.

"I want to know the what, the who, and the why. When you're done answering
those
questions you can take a nice cool shower and get a good night's rest before I put your sweet little ass on the first plane back to the States."

"Or else
what
?"

"Or else this, sweetheart."

She didn't even see him move. One moment he'd been sprawled in the chair across the room, the next he had his hand around her throat. He squeezed gently. She coughed on a crumb, glared at him, then swatted at his arm. His fingers tightened. She felt the pressure behind her eyeballs.

"You won't kill me," she managed with more bravado than belief.

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He gave a small brutal smile, and said gently, "Don't bet on it, sweetheart. There are far more important things at stake here than your interfering little neck."

"Don't be—" She had to lick her dry lips. He watched her with a total lack of compassion. This was
not
the face of a man who was kidding. "Let me go, damn it, I'll tell you."

His thumb traced the strumming pulse at the base of her throat as if he were contemplating the best spot to press. He was a doctor. He'd know exactly where to exert pressure—

The blood drained from her head. She kept her eyes steady on his face, praying he couldn't read the sheer panic in her features. He hesitated a beat too long before he withdrew his fingers. She gave him a dark look, then flopped back down on the edge of the bed to rub her neck.

"Now, what wild hair scheme made you hook up with someone like Montero?" He propped a shoulder against the bathroom jamb and folded his arms across his chest, trapping the long rope of his braid against his black T-shirt. He observed her through hooded eyes.

She got up and walked over to the window, shifting the drapes. The last rays from the setting sun filtered through a thin layer of fog over the squalor of the city, giving it a mellow, romantic aura it didn't have in the hard clear light of day. The hotel had been built on a hill; she had a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of San Cristobal. Over the red-tiled roofs the last rays of the sun danced on the aquamarine waters of the crescent bay. Large white yachts were diminished to dots. She turned back to Kyle.

"He has my sister. Lauren worked for him at the Cobra in Vegas." She tried to slow down, to sound competent, but it was too late for subtlety, and she was so far out on a limb, rationality had long since passed her by. "He has my sister," she repeated brokenly.