In Enemy Hands (3 page)

With any luck, he would get in there and take Nadia before Nick Branson knew what was happening. But if that wasn’t possible, he had a cover story ready. He’d get her one way or another. He picked up the phone to call Vandergriff. The man seemed ecstatic when Dante told him he was taking the case. Dante asked a few more questions, then threw his bag over his shoulder and headed out.

Piece of cake
, he thought again, and locked the door behind him.

Dante strode into the diner, ignoring the stares of the other patrons. A man of his size was guaranteed a certain amount of attention, even without the shaven head and tattoos.

Especially in a town like Sewanee, Tennessee.

He scanned the room before removing his sunglasses, then pulled up a stool at the counter. He noticed Nadia immediately; it would take a blind man not to. She was even more of a knockout than her pictures suggested.

She sat in a corner booth with another girl and two boys who could’ve been pinups in a teen magazine. He felt her gaze on him as the waitress handed him a menu.

Dante allowed himself a glance at her, and nodded when their eyes met.

Another little rich girl trying not to look rich in her tight, faded jeans and purple tank top.

His body tensed in awareness of her, though he tried to act casual. Maybe she was attracted to him, too, because she was still staring.

When the waitress returned, Dante ordered the Hungry Man special and carried his coffee over to the ancient jukebox in the corner.

A ceiling fan with a missing blade beat above his head with a dull whup-whup-whup, stirring the warm air. It carried Nadia’s scent when she slipped up behind him. The spicy, oriental fragrance of her perfume tickled his nose and stirred his libido.

“R 20,” she said, and he caught a flash of silky black hair in his peripheral vision as she leaned against the jukebox. “That’s my favorite song.”

Wordlessly, Dante punched the number in. Her voice was huskier than he’d imagined it would be, the kind of voice that made a man’s thoughts wander.

Amazingly, it was a song he liked.

He glanced at her and she smiled, white teeth flashing against tan skin.

Damn, but she was flawless.

Looking at her was a little like looking into the sun, and Dante Giovanni, lady killer extraordinaire, found it suddenly hard to breathe. Her eyes were green, the palest green he’d ever seen, and he could bet she knew full well the effect those eyes had on a man.

“Where are you from?” she asked, while she fiddled with the strap on her tank top.

Though it took every ounce of his concentration to keep his voice neutral, Dante said, “Not interested.”

“What?” She looked taken aback, obviously not used to hearing those words.

“I’m not interested in little girls.”

Instead of the anger he expected, she looked amused. The corner of her mouth quirked and Dante had to tear his gaze from those full lips.

“I’m no girl.”

“Let me rephrase …” By an act of sheer will, he forced his eyes back to the jukebox. “I’m not interested in little princesses. Go back to your pretty boys over there before they start to cry, or break into some top 40 song or something. You’re not ready for a real man, princess.”

She chuckled—a deep, throaty sound that made the hair on his arms prickle. Suddenly, his mind revolted, shattering the coolness he was trying to project, when he pictured her beneath him in bed and wondered how she’d sound, screaming out his name.

“Ah, you know a real man you could hook me up with?”

Dante sipped his coffee, hiding his grin behind the cup. He’d always had a weakness for smart-mouthed women.

A shiver of warning raced through him, both hot and cold, and he wondered if he was getting in over his head.

When he leaned down to punch in another selection, she slid in close. Her hair dusted his shoulder and her warm breath tickled his ear when she whispered, “You presume too much, Slick. If I wanted you, I could have you. I always get what I want.”

A shot of pure electricity jolted Dante when she gently caught his earlobe between her teeth. She laughed and turned away, leaving him with only the fleeting sensation of the warmth of her mouth and a faint tingle in his earlobe when she sauntered back to her table.

As if she controlled his head by remote control, it swiveled to watch her walk away.

Dante’s heart slammed in his chest. So much for playing it cool.

Damned if he wasn’t
shaking
.

He stared at the faded, frayed waistband of her low-rise jeans and the tattoo that peeked over the top of it.

Wild Child
He wondered if it was real.

Taking a deep breath, he punched in one more song and, even though he’d already put in his money’s worth, he pretended to look over the other selections, because he didn’t trust himself to walk.

Keep it cool
, he told himself.
She’s just another little rich girl. You can’t be thinking like this
.

He forced himself to calm down and strolled back to the counter, where the waitress was setting his plate down.

Hungry man special. Right.

A puny pork chop, two eggs, a couple of biscuits and some mysterious white stuff the waitress called gravy.

“I’ll be needing another one of these, and you can hold the gravy,” he told her.

She laughed and raised her eyebrows.

“What?” He smiled. “I’m a growing boy.”

The princess was over by her table, dancing in her bare feet with one of her boy-toys. To a song that he’d paid to hear. For some reason, the thought irked him. Then he caught a fleeting glance from her and almost smiled.

She was putting on a show for his benefit. Dante tried to force his attention back to his plate.

The bell above the door tinkled and he looked at the noisy group coming through the door. Farm workers, judging by their faded jeans, flannel shirts and boots. Three whites and a couple of Mexicans.

After seating them at a table to Dante’s right, the waitress poured their coffee and took their orders. One of the workers, a big, hayseed-looking blond, ambled over to the counter. He tapped Dante on the shoulder.

“Can I borrow that creamer, man?” he asked.

“Sure.” Dante held out the brown container.

“Appreciate it.” The blond grinned.

When he reached for it, Dante noticed his hands. They were too clean and too soft looking. His nails looked like he’d just had a manicure.

Definitely not farm worker hands.

Dante had learned to trust his instincts, and they were screaming that this was all wrong. Something was about to go down.

He glanced at the girl. She stood, tucking her purse under her arm and slipping on her shades.

Getting ready to leave.

The workers stared at her when she walked by their table.

Who wouldn’t? Dante thought, but his nerves were jumping.

Now he was noticing more. The tense way the men held themselves, the baggy outer shirts they wore over their T-shirts …

All the better to conceal weapons with, my dear.

Dante gauged the distance between himself and Nadia, wondering if he could get to her in time.

She caught his stare and blew him a kiss. “See ya later, slick.”

“See ya, princess,” he replied, but his mouth was dry. The workers glanced at him and he turned his head, pretending not to notice.

As soon as the door swung shut, three of the men jumped up and headed out the door. They were going after her.

Dante got up and headed the other way, toward the bathroom. At the last moment, he pushed through the swinging doors into the steamy kitchen.

The lone cook had his back turned to him. He was yelling into the phone and scribbling something on a notepad and never even looked around. Dante strolled through the kitchen and casually picked up a heavy, wooden-handled skillet full of gravy on his way out.

He strode outside and waited.

When Dante saw the blond head of the farm worker peek around the corner, he swung. The big blond screamed, crashed to his knees and wiped frantically at the steaming mess on his face. While his partner gaped at him, Dante spun and kicked the gun from his hand. Grabbing the man by the collar, Dante slammed him against the side of the building, once, twice, until he slid to the ground, unconscious.

With those two incapacitated for the moment, Dante ran around to the front of the diner, jumped into his car and took off after Nadia. Roaring out of the parking lot— he saw a redheaded man slumped over the steering wheel of a gray sedan.

The narrow country road twisted like a snake, but Dante floored it, looking for any sign of the girl. He followed a cloud of dust and what he saw up ahead made his stomach clench.

A little red sports car lay on its side off an embankment. A Suburban he assumed belonged to her pursuers was parked haphazardly on the hillside. Dante didn’t see any movement anywhere.

He left his car idling on the road and scrambled down to the sports car, his gun drawn. Her three companions crouched in the backseat. One of the boy-toys screamed when he saw Dante’s gun.

“Where is she?” Dante shouted.

Nobody answered.

“I’m here to help her,” he said.

“She’s not here!” A girl lifted her head high enough to peek out the window and point toward a section of the forest. “She took off running in that direction and those guys chased after her.”

Dante scanned the tree line and saw nothing. He checked the clip in his gun. “Are you guys okay?”

“We’re fine. Go help Nadia,” the girl said. “I’ve already called the police on my cell. They’re on their way.”

Nadia.

Her name beat a refrain in his head while Dante slid downhill and sprinted toward the trees. The moment he plunged into the forest, a round of gunfire blasted through the quiet. He skidded to a stop, his heart sinking. Although he’d only spoken a few words with Nadia, she had already made an impression on him. The thought of her dying in the woods at the hand of some goon filled him with rage.

With his pulse pounding in his ears, Dante ran toward the sound, scared of what he would find waiting.

When he drew close, Dante saw something that made him check up in confusion. Two men burst through the trees to his left, fleeing uphill in the direction of the Suburban, and another lay writhing on the dark forest floor, clutching his leg. Before Dante could fully process what he was seeing, he heard the unmistakable click of a safety. He slowly raised his hands when a warm barrel jabbed against the base of his skull.

“You’ve got three seconds, Slick, to drop your gun and tell me who you work for, or I’m going to see what the inside of that lovely bald head looks like.”

Nadia.

Dante’s relief was so great that he dropped his hands.

She nudged him hard with the barrel. “Hey, I didn’t say Simon says! Put those hands back up.”

Dante did, glad she couldn’t see his grin.

She sounded awfully mad.

“Hey, princess, I’m not working for anybody. I saw those guys rush out of the diner after you, and I figured you might need a knight in shining armor.”

She grabbed his gun and said, “Yeah, well, you ain’t exactly Prince Charming and I’m no damsel in distress. Turn around … slowly!”

Dante laced his fingers across the back of his head and turned to face her. His humor died when he saw the blood streaming down the side of her face.

“Hey! Are you okay?” He dropped his hands, ignoring her gun while he examined her head.

Surprisingly, she didn’t shoot him.

“I banged my head in the car, but it’ll be okay.” She glanced at Dante and lifted her eyebrows. “I thought you weren’t interested in little princesses.”

He laughed. “Well, let’s just say you got my attention.” He tugged his black tank top over his head.

“Holy pectorals, Batman,” Nadia said.

She stared at his chest with such unabashed admiration that Dante’s groin tightened and heat crept up his neck. Mottled sunlight shone through the trees, bathing one side of her face in a golden hue. One pale green eye glowed up at him like a jungle cat’s.

Swallowing hard, Dante tore his gaze from her face and concentrated on the cut on her head.

“You talk all the time, princess?” he asked, using the shirt to gently scrub the blood from the side of her face.

“Yeah. My mother said I started talking at eighteen months and never shut up. Do you think I’m going to need stitches?”

“Maybe a few.” He pressed his shirt to the wound. “But I don’t really think it’s too bad.”

They were standing too close. Her warm breath stole across his bare chest, making his nipples tighten. She was so tiny. At 6′2″, he was a full foot taller than she was, but Dante knew that only a fool would underestimate the woman staring up at him.

A bullet whizzed by, exploding into the tree behind them.

Dante threw Nadia to the ground, ignoring the root that jabbed painfully at his knee as he attempted to shield her with his body. Nadia pressed his .38 back in his hand, and his fingers closed around the grip.

“When I say ‘go’, you run for that tree,” he whispered in her ear, and pointed at a thick oak a few yards in front of them.