Smoke and Mirrors (16 page)

He would have to be watched.

"I grow impatient, my friend." The sly smile faded from Vilas's eyes, replaced by the cutting, ruthless one that rendered him one of the most feared men in his country. "Cat and mouse is one thing, but I am beginning to question your loyalty."

Loyalty had nothing to do with the game they were playing. "No need to worry,
Amigo.
Everything is unfolding according to plan."

"Then perhaps you should share this plan with me."

He enjoyed a slow smile. "What's the matter? Not sure how you'll keep your cover after the conference ends and your cronies fly the coop?"

Vilas laughed. "Ah, my friend. Who are you trying to fool? Not me, I hope. We both know I have no cover."

Vilas reached into the inside pocket of his black sports coat and withdrew a silver case, made an elaborate production of opening it and carefully selecting a long thin cigarette.

"So you're staying?" His gaze on Vilas, searching for the faintest flicker of a hidden agenda, or betrayal, he withdrew a lighter from his own pocket.

But he didn't offer the flame. He instead held the silver cylinder in his hand, just out of reach.

Vilas's eyes narrowed to tiny slits of coal. "I am an international businessman," he stated in an accented voice full of confidence and warning. "No one tells me where I can or cannot visit. If I decide to stay in
Chicago
a few extra days, then so be it."

A satisfied smile twitched at his lips, but he was careful to keep them a bland, thin line. Santiago Vilas was both feared and revered in his country. Sometimes it was easy to understand why; more often it wasn't. The man acted more like a spoiled three-year-old than the ruthless, vindictive front man for an international cartel of fortune, power and corruption.

"Now, if you will excuse me," Vilas clipped, "I have a party to attend."

More than ready to be free of the wiry man's company, he flicked the top of his lighter. A brilliant flame sprang free and Vilas leaned closer, but he held the lighter inches out of reach, for a carefully timed moment, letting the fire flare between them.

Vilas's eyes hardened. Only then did he offer the flame to the tip of his thin cigarette. "Be my guest."

A sardonic smile twisted the Latin man's lips. "I already am."

Minutes later, when Vilas had disappeared into the activity beyond the alley, a skinny black cat slunk by, a very dead mouse dangling from its mouth. And he laughed.

The cat continued his stealthy journey into darkness, pleased with the outcome of his hunt, eager to enjoy the fruits of his victory.

The heir to the Stirling Manor could relate.

* * *

Laughter and cheers blasted from the ballroom. A middle-aged man staggered out, a luscious redhead draped over him, and tottered toward the elevator. Their laughter was of the intimate variety, their intent obvious.

Cass headed toward the closed doors. The bankers appeared to be a conservative group, with their tailored suits and starched shirts, but give them alcohol and cigars, and inhibitions vanished. The casino party had been in full swing for hours, but Vilas had just arrived. She and Gray had been watching him all week, tossing his room on three occasions, yet the wily man had done nothing to raise suspicions. Until tonight.

For the first time in days, a sense of certainty settled over Cass. This was what she needed. A rededication to work. She was here to do a job, and as long as she focused on that, everything else would fall into place. No more contact with
Mansfield
outside the hotel, no more intimate scenes, no more sexual encounters.

No more dangerous longings.

The conference, their best chance at zeroing in on Vilas, was drawing to a close. She and Gray had been certain he would make contact with
Mansfield
, yet nothing had been confirmed. They'd been conspicuously absent from the hotel tonight, but Ruth had seen Derek leaving with Brooke. Vilas had strolled out shortly thereafter, only to return less than twenty minutes later.

The chief would not be happy. Not only had she and Gray failed to find hard evidence, but she was beginning to doubt
Mansfield
's involvement. There was no denying his littered past, yet that didn't make him the bastard responsible for piping cocaine and heroin into the upper-echelons of
Chicago
society. The Stirling Manor could merely have been a distribution point—or a setup.

Either way, Cass had no proof.

And soon the chief would pull the plug, and her involvement with
Mansfield
would come slamming to an end.

Inhaling deeply, she eased into her best Cassandra LeBlanc persona and sauntered into the ballroom.

The dichotomy almost had her laughing out loud. One minute she'd been standing in a nineteenth century manor house, in the next she was shoving her way through a crowded casino. Slot machines. Roulette tables. Card tables. Dealers in tuxedos. Waitresses in skimpy cocktail outfits.

Cigar smoke and drunken laughter filled the room. The lights were low, the crowd thick. She maneuvered around the tables and deeper into the room, past the cash bar, back toward the craps table. More men here, less light. The perfect hiding spot for Vilas. It was time for personal contact.

"Hey, little lady. Lemme buy you a drink."

She offered the balding man a smile, but shook her head in refusal. "Thanks all the same, but I'm on duty."

"Ah, that's okay, gal," boomed another man, this one taller than the first. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes glassy with drink. "We won't tell anyone."

Cass smiled even brighter at him. She didn't have time to be detained, but as hotel management she had certain responsibilities. "I appreciate the offer, but I have several more hours ahead of me. No drinking on duty, you know."

The taller man grinned at the balding one. "You're a friend of Ashford's, aren't you, Len? You don't think he'd mind if we borrowed his gal here, do you?" He returned his leering gaze to Cass. "You are here to
serve
guests, aren't you?"

A nasty sense of déjà vu stole over her. Not quite two weeks had passed since Chet and his cohorts had pawed all over her. That night drugs had been responsible—she wasn't yet sure about tonight.

"If you'll excuse me, I really have to go." She moved away from the two, but the crowd pushed her back.

"Adam," the balding man slurred, "I think the little lady is shunning us." He raised a fat cigar to his mouth. "I distinctly remember old man
Stirling
bragging to my daddy that his staff provided any luxury a man could want."

"Well, well, well." Adam made a deliberate display of licking his lips, like a wolf moving in for the kill. "I definitely see a luxury I want."

Cass held herself rigid, but adrenaline raced. The bastards were talking about her as though she was a zoo animal up for auction. "Look, you're drunk and I'm—"

"A saucy one at that." Adam and Len closed in on her, trapping her against a back wall. All around her the party revved on, completely oblivious to her plight.

Plight. The word infuriated her. She was a cop, damn it. She'd graduated top of her class. She could take care of herself.

This helpless female role was for the birds. Adam reached for her braid, what had been an erotic action when instigated by Derek was one that disgusted her now. He pulled it to his face, leaving her no choice but to follow close behind. The man reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke.

The woman in her disgusted, the cop incensed, Cass stomped her sharp heel down on his foot. His glassy eyes widened as he collapsed to the floor, cursing.

Len glanced at his friend,
then
turned furious eyes to her. "You little bitch," he swore, his beefy hands closing around her shoulders. The weight of his body crushed her against the wall. "I'll have your job for that."

"But not until I have
her."
Adam staggered to his feet. "You want it rough,
then
by God, rough it will be."

Diplomacy, firmness and martial arts down the toilet, Cass reached for the hidden pocket of her jacket.

"Oh, no you don't," Len chuckled, grabbing Cass's arm.

Adam took over, grabbing her other wrist and taking the one Len held to pin them above her head. His free, hand closed around the collar of her jacket and yanked. Hard.

Black buttons popped free and clattered across the floor.

Fury tore through her. "Take your hands off me!" she growled. She again stomped her foot down on his, but he smiled more maliciously than before. "I don't really think you want to spend the night in jail," she warned.

"Finally, something we agree on." Leering, Adam pawed at her. "The only place I'm spending tonight is in bed with you."

"Now that's where you're wrong."

The low, menacing voice surged through Cass. She had no time to think before Adam was wrenched away and thrown mercilessly to the ground. His body jerked once,
then
lay completely still. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Len charge forward, then freeze dead in his tracks.

Derek.
He stood there, dark eyes blazing with fury and challenge. "Cass," he said deliberately. "Come here."

She wanted to find relief in his appearance, but the dead calm of his voice triggered a surge of something far different. She went to him slowly, mechanically, gaze married to his. Her lungs worked frantically to process oxygen, but nothing could keep up with the frenetic beating of her heart.

The second she was within his reach, he pulled her to his side. Only then did he look away from her to where Adam lay unconscious on the ground.

"Call security," he barked to Gray in his bellman uniform,
who
had raced in behind him. "And get these bastards the hell out of here, before they end up spending the night at the bottom of the river."

Not a word was spoken as Derek dragged her from the deathly quiet ballroom. The card tables were vacant, slot machines still, roulette wheels deserted. Bankers and dealers and waitresses alike parted like the
Red Sea
to give them room.

Cass held her jacket together with one clenched fist. She stumbled after Derek, her
straight,
tight skirt no match for his long, furious strides.

"Derek—"

He glanced back at her, his eyes hotter and harder than before. Never had she witnessed such potent rage. The blue of his eyes, normally a seductive shade of cobalt, bordered on black. Every angle of his face looked sharper.

Never had Cass feared Derek Mansfield.
Not in the way a cop fears a suspect with a high-powered assault weapon, nor
the way a woman might fear a man. But never had she seen him like this, like she had done the unthinkable and crossed an uncrossable line.

Her heart slammed against her lungs.

He held her hand clenched in his and led her down the spiraling staircase and across the hardwood floor, toward the elevator room. Not even when Cloyd said hello did Derek utter a word. With a curt nod he strode into the elevator and closed the door before the older man could join them.

He pressed the button for the penthouse and stared straight ahead but didn't say a word.

Instinct warned Cass the real danger had finally begun.

Chapter 9

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^
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H
e stood with his back to her. In one hand he held a tumbler of whiskey, but other than that first hearty swig, he'd not brought it to his lips. He just stared out the window, feet shoulder width apart, body alert.

Cass had no way of knowing what he saw there, the darkness of the night or the darkness of something else.

Adrenaline surged through her, delivering a sickening sense of destiny. Events building toward this showdown had been put in place long ago. Month by month, week by week and, more recently, day by day, the dominoes were crashing down.

The tension in the room stretched strong and thick, almost drugging. And because of that, Cass couldn't believe her life was in danger. A man like Derek would never be satisfied with something as simple as life or death.

Betrayed, he would settle for nothing less than her soul. "Are you going to say something," she asked, "or just
stand
there all night?"

"You don't want me to talk right now."

The timbre of his voice, deathly low though it was, soothed more than it should have. "Then perhaps I should leave."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that."

Her heart raced toward a destination she couldn't conceive. "I'm on duty. I should be down with the guests, not playing truth or dare with you."

"On duty," he repeated silkily, but wouldn't look at her. "I wonder why that thought didn't pop into your pretty little head before you pranced into the
ballroom?
"

Look at me,
she silently seethed. "I was doing my job," she said through gritted teeth.