Redemption (13 page)

She bit his shoulder and his hips rocked.

“Jesus, Hope.”

“Glad it’s you I’m making love to.”

He pulled his gaze from her swinging breasts to her face. “Me too,” he said.

She touched his shoulder where she had bit him, rubbing the tender skin. “I’m clean. Jerry’s the only one—”

He touched her lips with the tip of his finger, having no desire to hear about Jerry Kemper. “Enough said.” He nudged her off him and shrugged out of his shirt. As she lay on the bed, her hands brushed his back. He knew the moment her fingers encountered the thick, raised skin because she stilled. He paused, fighting the instinct to hide behind the walls of his defenses.

He’d seen the scars. They weren’t pretty and, worse, they were a reminder of all that his life had been. And what it couldn’t be. They stared at each other in the silence of the night, their breathing in sync, their gazes locked on each other. He fully expected her to either ask questions or get up and walk away.

She continued her exploration of his back, stopping for a moment at each strip of scarred skin to investigate it before moving on.

“You’re a beautiful man,” she whispered. “Both inside and out.”

His chest tightened with a feeling that scared the crap out of him. He battled it down, forcing it into submission and away from his thoughts. It was a mixture of tenderness, protectiveness and he could have sworn love. Of course he was mistaken.

“Make love to me, John Callahan.”

She smiled and slowly he pushed his way inside her. She was tight but so wet he slid in easily as if they were made to be together. Her face contorted and he stopped. “Am I hurting you?” He had to hold his breath and battle the urge to push forward. He began to pull out but she shook her head and grabbed his hips to stop him.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, John.”

“Oh, Hope.” If she only knew just how much he feared hurting her.

She winced again. He gathered her in his arms as best he could and rolled until she was on top, looking down at him. “Better?”

She smiled, her hair falling forward, tenting them. It brushed against his nipples and the feeling was erotic. Sensual. “Much,” she said.

She rose up, then came down. Up, then down until he was gritting his teeth, barely holding on to his weakening control. Her heavy breasts swayed and he touched the tip of one, inciting a moan of approval from her.

Using both hands, he pressed her breasts together and raised his head to lick and suck. Hope grabbed his hair and pushed her chest into him, moving faster until he was just at the brink, then the minx would slow, giving him time to catch his breath.

The little sounds she made drove him crazy, pushing him closer to release, but he refused to go without her. Hope leaned forward, braced her hands on his chest and moved faster, crying out as she came. She milked his orgasm from him, her muscles clenching around him, squeezing. He groaned as he came inside her, thrusting deep. His release was more than physical, more than mental, bordering on spiritual. He knew, after tonight, that he would never be that same man who had dragged an unconscious Hope from her car.

Suzanne tried to tune the battery-operated radio, listening for any mention of her escape. Damn Manco. She was paying him two—correction,
four
—million dollars. The least he could do was put her in a decent hotel instead of an abandoned one with no electricity or running water.

Except for a small blurb stating the manhunt was ongoing, there was nothing. She’d been replaced by a snowstorm that had crippled Denver. At one time, she’d made headline news on a daily basis and no snowstorm would have dared upstage her. Sometimes she longed for that part of her life. It was still a little surreal she had to spend her energy on more crucial pursuits, like staying one step ahead of the authorities and keeping Garcia from killing her. She wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked back and forth.

It had all seemed so easy. All she’d had to do was use the complicated snail-mail system Garcia had set up when she first started selling arms to his organization. If the guards at the prison monitored her mail, they’d see nothing but an innocuous letter to an old friend. Never would they suspect they were reading code for a prison escape.

The lure of two million dollars had been too much for Garcia to ignore. And, being the greedy terrorist, he’d instantly replied. He’d do anything for money. He’d do anything his twisted mind thought was entertaining, and Garcia’s idea of entertainment was worlds apart from hers.

Images of a beaten and nearly comatose John Callahan instantly came to mind. Callahan’s wounds had been inflicted by Garcia for the sheer enjoyment. He’d wanted revenge against her for involving the US in his business and potentially exposing their agreement.

Garcia had no qualms torturing women as well. There’d been that prison cook. What was her name? Angela? No, Angelina. Suzanne had never seen what Garcia had done to her, but she’d heard stories that stood her hair on end. She didn’t hold much faith in God and didn’t believe in His revenge, but if she did, this would be a perfect example. She was caught in the clutches of her own making, having handed over the reins of power to a man who would easily, and without second thought, eliminate her.

She heard voices outside, first muted then growing louder. She slid off the bed and tiptoed to the window to peek through the crack in the draperies. Outside the door, Garcia was deep in conversation with his sidekick, Ramon. Tómas exited the room beside her, suitcase in hand, and headed for the car.

She yanked the door open. “Where’s Tómas going?”

Garcia glanced around but there was no one about. He’d picked her prison well away from civilization. “Get inside, Susanita, before you are seen.”

“Where’s Tómas going? Why does he have his suitcase?”

This had been her worse fear. That Garcia would get tired of waiting for his money and return to Peru. She was well aware he wouldn’t leave any evidence behind. Namely, her.

He hustled her into the room. Ramon followed, shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Suzanne’s gaze bounced from the blocked door to Garcia.

“I have business in my country,” Garcia said with a Gallic shrug. “It is time I leave.”

“You can’t leave me here.”

Garcia tilted his head, his dark eyes nearly glittering. “I should take you with me?”

“Yes. Take me with you.”

His hand whipped out and caught her on the temple, causing her to stumble back. Her vision went white with pain and she cried out.

“You play me for a fool. Two weeks I have been in this country. I risk everything to get you out of prison. You promise payment but so far I have worthless excuses.” He advanced on her, spittle flying, face flushed with something that went beyond rage.

Suzanne retreated, feeling the wall behind her with her hands as she slid along it. “Please,” she begged. “Please don’t go. I’ll do anything you want.”

With a muttered curse, Garcia pulled out a weapon—a deadly looking Glock with a black barrel. She froze as he checked the slide for ammunition, the schnick of well-oiled metal on metal loud in the quiet room. He balanced the weapon in his palm, and for a crazy second, she wondered if he was going to shoot her with a gun she’d sold to him.

He glanced back at Ramon who nodded. Suzanne lurched forward, fell to her knees as she grabbed Garcia’s legs. “Please. Please don’t do this, Manco. I’ll get your money. Five million. I’ll give you five million. You can buy a lot of weapons with that.” She’d stashed the money for emergency purposes and damn if this wasn’t an emergency.

For a moment, Garcia stared at her in a mixture of horror and curiosity, then he fisted his hand in her hair and lifted her off the ground until she stood on her toes. She winced and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Tears of pain blurred her vision.

His eyes were fierce, angry and contemptuous. “Talk.” He shook his arm and she cried out. “Beg me, Susanita. Beg me for your life.”

“Okay, okay.” She thought frantically. “Hope Stewart. She has to have friends. Someone she’d run to for help. If we find those friends, we find Hope. And we find the money.”

Garcia let go and she stumbled back, rubbing her aching scalp and staring at him with a mixture of hope and fear. “We searched her
casa
. There was
nada
.”

“What about an address book? Letters? Tómas and Ramon, they don’t read English well, yes? Have them bring all of those things and I’ll find someone. I swear to you, Manco, Hope couldn’t have disappeared on her own.”

Garcia seemed to think for a moment before turning to Ramon. “Tell Tómas to search the
puta’s
house again. Tell him what we are looking for. And tell him to hurry. If he’s not back in an hour, we kill the woman and get out.”

Ramon opened the door and spoke in rapid Spanish, then shut it and leaned against it again. Suzanne sagged against the bureau. She’d bought herself an hour at least.

“Now,
querida
.” Garcia stepped closer. “Since I have no money to show for my effort, it is time for you to begin paying your debt.” He reached for the fly of his pants. In the heavy silence, the zipper sounded loud and ominous. Her gaze went to Ramon who straightened in interest.

Garcia grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her knees in front of the open fly of his trousers. She winced at the pain in her scalp and her stomach turned in dread. “You said you would do anything, yes?”

“Y-yes.” What pride she had left, evaporated. She’d do anything to stay alive.

Anything.

***

Hope shifted again. John rolled onto his back and stared at the shadows of the pre-dawn sun on the ceiling. He was still astounded he’d actually made love to her without drawing back. Without turning away. Without losing control. This was the first morning he’d awoken free of the burden that had become so heavy he could barely make it out of bed in the morning. He felt like a whole man and not some freak with a yawning black hole inside him.

Hope moved again, then turned on her side and tucked her hands under her cheek.

“You okay?” he asked.

“It’s the baby. My back’s been bothering me too.” Under the covers, her hand snaked up to his chest and rested there. “Quit frowning,” she said. “It’s been like that for the last month or so.”

He covered her hand with his. “Tell me about it.”

“About being pregnant?” Her voice sounded surprised in the dark.

“My sister had three before…” He cleared his throat. “Before I left. She complained a lot. Is it really that bad or was she playing for some sympathy?”

“It’s not that bad, but then you need to ask me in three months when I’m bigger than a whale and can’t get around.”

His smile slipped. He probably wouldn’t be around in three months and the thought of Hope all alone and in pain had his gut clenching.

“At first,” she said, “feeling the baby move was…weird. Like little bubbles. It’s hard to describe. But lately, those little bubbles have graduated to kicks and stretches. Sometimes I think he’s wearing boxing gloves.” She took his hand and moved it to the side of her stomach where the little devil was sparring even as they spoke. Awed, he kept his hand there, eagerly awaiting the next kick. There was a smile in the tone of her voice. “But I love it,” she said. “If I don’t feel a kick every now and then, I worry.”

When it was obvious the baby had expended all its energy and had gone back to sleep, Hope drew their hands out from beneath the sheets and raised them up. The morning light had strengthened, filtering through the gauzy curtains and bathing the room in lighter shades of gray.

Remarkably, he felt no compulsion to pull away as she studied his scars. She kissed his knuckles and laid their clasped hands between them. “Tell me what happened.”

There was no dread inside him at her words. Last night he’d known the question would come and had dreaded it, but this morning was different. This morning
he
was different. “Like I said, Suzanne called me down to Peru to help with some terrorist activity that supposedly threatened the United States. Apparently she was playing both ends, appeasing the president by sending me into a trap while making her deal with Garcia.” Hatred, strong and putrid, roiled inside him. He did this every now and then, went through periods of hatred, wanting to hunt down Garcia.

“Who’s Garcia?”

He forced himself to remember, forced the words past a throat quickly closing. So much for being different. Baby steps. He had to accept that his return to normalcy would take place in baby steps. “Manco Garcia is second in command of the People of Light, a terrorist organization in Peru.” A man who possessed a vitriolic hatred for Americans but somehow justified dealing with them when it came to procuring weapons for his organization. John had encountered many different people in his line of work, but no one came close to the evil living inside Garcia.

“So Garcia kidnapped you and held you hostage?”

“Yeah.” It was as simple and as complicated as that.

“How long were you there?”

“They say three months.”

“They say? You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember much.” Just the humiliation and degradation. The nearly daily beatings. The prayers to God to let him die. And Angelina.

He’d been at the end of his rope, hanging on by some stupid life force, when Luke had arrived, negotiating to take John’s place. What a stupid fool Barone had been, but John owed him his life. Some days he didn’t know if he should curse Luke or thank him.

“Tell me about Angelina.”

He stiffened, his hands ceasing their endless motion on her arm. He closed his eyes to stop the memories, but all he could see was blood and Angelina’s body thrown carelessly into the corner of his cell. At first, he’d thought he’d killed her. His hands had been bloody and, like a roadmap, the trail of blood had gone from him to her.

Seeing her battered body mutilated almost beyond recognition had pushed his mind over the edge. He’d started screaming. Guards stood at the door and laughed as one lone figure stayed back from the rest, his beady eyes taking it all in, his face impassive.

John had crawled to her, gathered her close to his chest and rocked her cold, lifeless body. Her blank eyes had stared up at him, clouded with the terror of what she’d endured because of him. If he hadn’t talked to her, if he hadn’t touched her…

Cool fingers touched his cheek, brushing away hot tears. “It’s okay,” Hope murmured.

With the images of Angelina in his mind, he quickly let go of Hope and tried to scoot away, but Hope tugged him close.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t…” He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t voice the horror. Didn’t want to burden her with the mental image of what had become of a wonderful, bright, cheerful woman who had made the mistake of caring for him.

“I’m not Angelina,” she said, her voice strong. “Look at me, John.” She clamped her hand on his chin and turned his head her way. “Look at me. What do you see?”

He saw eyes spitting flames, a face fierce with determination, rosy lips murmuring his name. He saw hope.

“I’m not Angelina. Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

Slowly he relaxed against her, feeling a determination he hadn’t felt since he’d first been taken prisoner. He might never be the man he once was—Garcia had taken too much from him—but he could still be a man.

When he emerged from a steaming shower later that morning, Hope was at the oven, flipping bacon with a fork, wearing an old flannel shirt of his that came almost to her knees. She’d rolled the sleeves several times but they still hung below her elbows.

He stepped up behind her and pulled her against a sudden erection. He slipped his hands beneath the shirt and cupped breasts that seemed heavier and fuller today than they had last night. One hand rubbed the smooth, tight skin of her stomach and felt a small kick in response. He chuckled, his lips pressed against the back of her neck.

“I thought I bought you clothes.”

She tilted her head to the side and he nuzzled, inhaling the scent of bacon and coffee. “I liked this shirt better.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said against her skin.

“You’re welcome. All I had to do was hold my nose while I scooped the grounds into the coffee maker.”

“I appreciate it.”

She placed plates of bacon and eggs on the table and motioned for him to sit while she poured his coffee then joined him. “Tell me about these overseas accounts,” she said as she scooted her chair in. “I don’t understand how my father could use an account Suzanne opened.”

John collected his thoughts, trying to remember all he’d been taught. “In the United States, if you deposit a large amount of money into your account, the IRS requires documentation and forms to be filled out for tax purposes.” He dug into his eggs and took a bite, then continued after swallowing. “But in certain overseas countries, there’s none of that. I think the type of account Suzanne has is untraceable. Basically, whoever holds the paperwork, whoever has the debit card with the PIN, owns the account.”

“And that would be me.” She pushed her full plate away.

“That would be you.” He pushed the plate back at her. “Eat.”

She picked up her fork and spread the eggs around on her plate.