Deadly Embrace (6 page)

Unaware of her tender age, but well aware of her beauty, men began
coming on to her.

She shuddered at the thought of being with a man. Dashell, her
illustrious father, had put her off men forever.

Many nights she lay in bed experiencing nightmares about the
things he'd made her do when she was younger.
Touch this, stroke
that, lick this
.

His vile words and actions remained her secret.

She willed herself to put the disturbing memories out of her mind,
but there were times the nightmares were too vivid to disappear.

Now she was a little girl in a big city, and at last she was
learning how to survive.

Never let 'em see you sweat
, Madison thought, recalling the
line from a stupid TV commercial. For a moment she almost smiled.
Then she realized what a potentially dangerous situation she was
caught in, and that a man had just been shot.

The gunman had herded everyone to the side of the room near the
kitchen, and now they were taking stock of one another as the man
continued to wave his weapon in the air. There were about twenty-five
people in all. The oldest was the woman who'd been sitting next to
them, and the youngest seemed to be a skinny teenage girl with
freckles, who looked like she was about to burst into tears. And who
could blame her if she did?

Madison glanced across the room at the burly man who'd been shot.
He was lying on the ground quite still. "Do you think he's dead?" she
whispered to Cole, dreading the answer.

"Who knows?" he said, shrugging.

"Can't we do something... maybe try to stop the bleeding?"

"Are
you
gonna get up and go over there?"

"No, but perhaps I can ask one of the gunmen to help him."

"Yeah," he said sarcastically. "I'm sure they're ready to do
that."

Realizing that Cole was probably right, she tried to imagine how
Jake would handle a situation like this. Hmm ... knowing Jake, he'd
probably whip out his camera and start photographing everyone.

Damn! She wished he were there with her. And then she began
wondering if he was all right, and when she'd see him again. Jake was
a very special man; she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. He
was also a very smart man, and if he was in trouble in Colombia,
there was nobody better at talking himself out of a bad
situation.

"You okay, kid?" Cole asked.

"I'm okay," she murmured, thinking how when she and Natalie were
in college, Cole was just a punk teenager up to no good, and now he
was calling her "kid." Strange how things changed. "It's your sister
I'm worried about."

They both glanced at Natalie, who still seemed to be in a
catatonic state, which was so unlike her. Natalie was the one who
usually couldn't stop talking.

Reaching over, Madison squeezed her arm. "We'll get through this,"
she whispered. "You do know that."

Silently Natalie nodded.

"Shut
the fuck
up!" the gunman yelled. "No talkin'. Down on
the floor all of you. Down.'
Down
!"

Madison sank to the floor with the rest of them. She was writing
the story in her mind, aware that once they got out of this mess, it
was important to remember every detail.

"It's gettin' hot in here," Cole muttered, sweat beading his
forehead. "They must've turned the air-conditioning off."

"Who'd do that?" Madison asked, slipping off her jacket.

"The cops. They've probably got this place surrounded."

"So we're hostages?"

"Well,
yeah
," Cole said, shooting her a look as if he
couldn't believe she'd said something so stupid.

"I know I sound dumb, but shouldn't someone be trying to
communicate with these guys?"

"They will," Cole said grimly.

"Anyway," she whispered, "why would the cops turn the air
off?"

" 'Cause they want to make it as uncomfortable as possible."

"That's comforting to know."

"It's not such a great plan."

"How's that?"

" 'Cause it'll mean these guys'U have to take their masks off, an'
it's better if we can't identify 'em."

"I guess I should applaud you on your great choice of
restaurants," she whispered, attempting to lighten the situation.

"Hey—I figured you'd had a boring time in New York, so I
thought I'd make this evenin' fly."

"I'M NOT SAYIN' IT AGAIN!" the gunman screamed. "SHUT THE FUCK
UP."

The older woman raised her hand as if she were in class. "I have
to go to the bathroom," she said in a quavery voice.

"Piss your pants, lady," the gunman growled. " 'Cause you ain't
goin' nowhere."

Then, to everyone's relief, they heard a voice on a loudspeaker
coming from outside. "Put down your weapons, walk out, and nobody
gets hurt. Do you hear me? Hands in the air and come out."

"Mothafuckers!" muttered the gunman. "They got shit for brains if
they think I'm doin' that."

No, Madison wanted to say,
you're the one with shit for
brains
.

But she kept quiet for once. She knew it was the only way to get
through this.

* * *

"What is it you wanted to show me?" Andy Dale mumbled, already bored
as he slouched around Vincent's expensively appointed office.

Vincent sat behind his impressive mahogany desk and stared at the
short, insignificant movie star. "My books, my pictures, my objects,"
he said, gesturing.

"Yeah, well, does one of your
objects
have some coke
sittin' in it?" Andy asked with a maniacal little laugh. "'Cause if
it doesn't, you lost me."

"Why do you do drugs?" Vincent asked, leveling the actor with a
cold stare.

"Why
d'you
get up in the morning?" Andy Dale retorted,
slumping into a leather chair.

"Here's what I have to tell you," Vincent said in a low, even
tone. "You put your hands on my wife one more time, and I'll break
your chicken neck. Do you understand?"

"You talking to
me
?" Andy Dale said, startled, because
nobody
spoke to him that way.

"I don't see anyone else in here," Vincent said mildly.

Andy Dale narrowed his eyes. "You got any fuckin' idea who I
am?"

"More important," Vincent replied coldly, "do you know who I
am?"

"What?" Andy Dale said, nose twitching, face blank.

"Look in the mirror and who do
you
see?" Vincent said.
"Because I'll tell you who I see when I look at you. A moronic,
coked-out movie star who thinks he owns the world. Only,
I'm
here to tell you that you don't."

"What the fuck
is
this shit?" Andy Dale spluttered.

Tip making it real for you, Andy," Vincent said. "I couldn't
give
a damn
how
many people worship your skinny ass. My
wife
is not one of them, and if you touch her again, it'll be
a move you'll live to regret."

"Are you
threatening
me?" Andy Dale asked, outraged.

"No," Vincent said calmly. "Simply telling you the way it is."

"An' I'm telling
you, asshole
," Andy Dale retorted, leaping
to his feet, "that when my manager an' my agent hear about this,
they'll bust your freakin' nuts."

"How old are you?" Vincent asked.

"Old enough to do what the fuck I want," Andy Dale replied
belligerently.

"Nobody does what they want," Vincent said. "There are always
compromises." He rose from behind his desk. "Now, you're coming back
to the table with me like a good boy, and when you get there you'll
behave yourself. Because if you don't..." His words trailed off, the
threat implicit.

"Whaddaya think this is, a freakin' Pacino
movie
?" Andy
Dale exploded, red in the face.

"Care to test me?" Vincent said, heading for the door. "Go ahead.
Only, you'd better believe me, Andy. One more hand on my wife and
we'll see whose balls get crushed."

"Where have you
been
?" Jenna asked, directing her question
to Andy Dale,
not
her husband, which was a big mistake on her
part.

Ignoring her, Andy clicked his fingers at his exotic model
girlfriend, who was sipping an apple martini and wondering who a girl
had to fuck to get out of there.

"Up!" Andy Dale said, glaring at her, his voice tense.

"What?" Anais said blankly.

"We're going."

"Where?"

"For
crissakes
!"

Getting the hint, she slid from the booth, flashing plenty of
well-toned, chocolate-hued thigh in the process, plus a whisper of
well-trimmed pubic hair because wearing panties was
so
out.

"Why are you leaving?" Jenna asked, her voice a plaintive
whine.

Anais shrugged. Andy Dale glowered. Jolie gave a knowing
smile—
she
knew why they were leaving. Vincent had no
doubt given the studly movie star the "hands off my wife" speech.

"They have someplace to go," Vincent said brusquely, sitting down
next to Jenna.

"Where?" Jenna persisted, her pretty face pouting with
disappointment.

"Do you care?" Vincent said, fixing her with a steely look.

She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and
shut up. Vincent was in one of his moods.

Andy Dale stormed off, girlfriend in tow.

"Nice work, Vincent," Jolie murmured, caressing the stem of her
champagne glass with elegant hands. "I'd bet money on you
anyday."

"Where does Nando
find
these punks?" Vincent asked, shaking
his head. "And not only does he find 'em—he dumps them on
me."

"Jenna didn't seem to have any complaints," Jolie said, stirring
the pot.

"Jenna's too young for her own good."

Meanwhile, Jenna had transferred into sulky mode, and was tapping
her freshly manicured nails on the table, preparing to throw a fit.
She didn't know what Vincent had said to Andy Dale, but whatever it
was, it wasn't good. After all, what harm was there in talking to a
movie star? How many times did she have
that
kind of
opportunity?

Damn
Vincent and his jealous streak. She wasn't his
possession, she was his wife—big difference. And Jolie was so
annoying with her smug smile and knowing expressions. Jolie was
simply jealous because Andy Dale hadn't come on to
her
.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," Jenna announced, getting up.

"Don't be long," Vincent said.

"Want to come with me?" she responded in a challenging tone.

"Y' know, sweetheart, a smart mouth doesn't suit you," he
answered, thinking it was about time he knocked his wife up, got her
good and pregnant so she'd stop this nonsense.

"So...," Jolie said, once Jenna was out of sight. "What
did
you say to him?"

Vincent shrugged.

"Having movie stars around is good for business," Jolie remarked.
"Nando won't be pleased if you've frightened Mr. Dale all the way to
another casino."

"Perhaps if your husband had joined us, this wouldn't've
happened," he said, ordering a scotch on the rocks. "Where is Nando
anyway?"

"He had a business meeting," Jolie said, wondering if Nando was
telling her the truth. Perhaps "business meeting" was a euphemism for
"assignation." Vegas was crammed with beautiful, ambitious, easy
women. She should know, she used to be one of them. And Nando was a
big catch.

"Business, huh?" Vincent said, and their eyes met for a long
moment.

"Oh dear," Jolie sighed, trying to decide if Vincent was in on
Nando's infidelities. "Sometimes I think I chose the wrong
partner."

"Now don't start," Vincent said, fully aware of how Jolie felt
about him.

"Start what?" she asked innocently, reaching for a cigarette.

* * *

Growing up with a brother eighteen years older had
some
advantages. Sofia remembered Vincent teaching her self-defense when
she was a lanky eleven-year-old.

"Gotta kick 'em in the balls an' gouge their face with your
nails," he'd informed her. "An' don't screw around. Be forceful."

"Where
are
their balls?" she'd asked, with a puzzled
expression, as if she didn't know.

"Here," he'd said, pointing between his legs.

Quick as a flash she'd kicked him hard. He'd roared in pain an' as
soon as he'd recovered, he'd chased her around the house yelling that
she'd ruined him forever.

When he finally caught her, they'd rolled on the floor and he'd
tickled her until she'd screamed for him to stop.

She'd never before had to use the "kick 'em in the balls an' gouge
their face" form of self-defense; however, tonight was obviously the
night.

Paco had a hard-on; she could feel it digging into her thigh as he
pawed at her breasts. The other one was shrugging off his white
jacket and unzipping his pants, preparing for action.

Yeah
, Sofia thought, remembering her big brother's advice.
Like, you've got no chance, morons. One way or another I am out of
here
.

The front door might be locked, but the double glass doors leading
to the roof terrace were wide open—she knew that, because
earlier they'd all been drinking out there. And as far as she could
recall, the terrace overlooked a swimming pool.

There was no way she was going to allow herself to be sexually
abused or, even worse, raped by these two jerks. It was unthinkable.
She was Sofia Castle, she could look after herself. She always
had.

As Paco lunged once more, she brought her knee up, jamming it into
his balls. Surprised, he gave a yelp of pain. She followed up with a
swift kick in the same direction.

Startled, the other man leaped forward. Without taking a beat she
raked her nails down his cheek, drawing blood, and then, for good
measure, kicked him too.

"
Bitch
!" he shouted. "American
bitch
!"