Deadly Embrace (12 page)

Jenna nodded, and face flushed with anticipation, she set off to
apologize to Andy Dale.

* * *

"Don't hurt me," Dani gasped. "Please don't hurt me, I'll do whatever
you say."

Her heart was thundering in her chest as the intruder held her
from behind. He was strong and tall, she could feel the power in his
arms.

Without saying a word his hands dropped to her breasts.

Oh God! Was he going to rape her? Was this what it was about?

Why hadn't she invited Dean up to her apartment? If he was with
her this would never have happened.

The intruder flicked open the front clasp of her bra, releasing
her large breasts.

The tips of his fingers began caressing her nipples.

To her horror, she felt herself becoming aroused.

His left hand stayed on her breasts while his other hand reached
down and started pulling up her skirt.

"No!" she said sharply. "Please! No!"

"Why not?" he said. "You told me you'd do whatever I said."

"Michael!" she exclaimed, recognizing his voice and spinning
around to face him. "You
bastard
! How
dare
you scare
me."

"I wanted to see if you'd fight back," he said, laughing.

"You're not funny," she said, reaching for the light switch. "I
could've had a heart attack."

"Who, you?" he said, still laughing. "You're strong as a
horse."

"I can't believe you did that to me," she said, fastening her
bra.

"And I can't believe
you
were out on another date with Mr.
Perfect. Doesn't that jerk ever give up?"

"Just because you've hated Dean for years, there's no need to be
rude. If
you
wanted to run my life, you should've married
me."

"If I'd married you, we wouldn't still be having sex, would
we?"

"We're
not
having sex."

"Says who?" he said, coming after her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, pushing him away. "I don't
hear from you in months, and all of a sudden you appear in the middle
of the night to scare me."

"I'm here. Isn't that enough?"

"No. You treat me like crap, Michael, then you expect me to fell
gratefully into your arms like you're God's gift."

"It seems to work for us, doesn't it?" he said, walking into the
living room. "How many years is it now?"

"Long enough for me to know better," she said, wishing he didn't
look so damn good.

"Want a drink?" he asked, strolling over to the bar.

"Help yourself," she said sarcastically, taking another long look
at him. Yes, he was still the most handsome man she'd ever set eyes
on. His dark hair was only slightly flecked with gray, he was in
excellent shape, and he'd always been a great dresser. Tall, dark,
and handsome. Her weakness.

He fixed himself a hefty scotch on the rocks. "Sure I can't make
you something, baby?"

"I'm not your baby," she said stiffly.

"You've
always
been my baby," he answered. "You're the only
one who's been there for me through everything."

"Y'know, Michael, you use me," she complained.

"What?" he said, frowning.

"The only time you come here is when you need something. The rest
of the time I'm by myself."

"That's bull-"

"No!" she interrupted. "It's tact. And another thing—the
moment I start a relationship, back you come to ruin everything."

"Don't mean to."

"Yes you do."

"It's a little late for regrets, isn't it?"

"Not at all," she said heatedly. "I've a lot of good years
left."

"Sure you do, sweetheart," he said, soothing her anger. "You're
still an extremely beautiful woman."

Determined not to fell for his flattery as she usually did, she
thrust out her jaw. "I repeat—
why
are you here?"

"You want the truth, or how about I make something up?"

"The truth would be nice for a change."

"Okay, you asked for it," he said, gulping down his drink.
"There's a warrant out for my arrest."

"You're kidding!"

"Wish I was."

"For
what
?"

"Here's the deal," he said slowly. "I'm being accused of shooting
Stella and her boyfriend."

She stared at him for a long time. She'd heard so many stories
about Michael and his wife, Stella. Quite frankly, she didn't know
what to believe. "Did you?" she asked at last, her throat quite dry
at the thought.

"What do
you
think?" he answered restlessly.

"I think you're a man who's capable of anything."

"I didn't do it, Dani, okay?" he said sharply. "You can take my
word on it."

"Have you seen a lawyer?"

"Lawyers," he said, his voice filled with contempt. "Show me a
lawyer an' I'll show you a guy who sits in a fancy office runnin' up
big bills while screwing his secretary
and
his clients."

"You're very cynical, Michael."

"No shit."

"So," she said, sighing. "What you're telling me is that there's a
warrant out for your arrest, and that you're a fugitive. Right?"

He nodded.

"And since you're here, in my apartment, doesn't that make
me
an accessory?"

"I guess so," he agreed, nodding again.

"And I'm supposed to protect you?"

"That's about it."

"Oh gee, thanks," she said fiercely. "I don't get you as a
husband, but I
do
get you as a fugitive."

"What's with this marriage crap?" he said irritably. "You and me,
sweetheart—we've had a longer relationship than any dumb
marriage."

Suddenly she'd had enough of him. Once again he was coming to her
because he was in trouble, and it simply wasn't fair. "Screw you,
Michael," she said, turning away so he couldn't see how much he
affected her.

"That's exactly what I had in mind," he said, moving in her
direction.

"Of course you did," she sighed, giving up.

And as he came toward her, she knew there was no way she could
resist him.

Michael was an addiction—one she'd never been able to
overcome.

* * *

Time stood still for Sofia as she flew through the air, waiting to
see whether she hit water or concrete.

Holy shitl
she thought.
What a way to die. Escaping from
two homy old Spaniards. This isn't the way it's supposed to
be
.

If I make it
, she promised herself,
I'm going home.
Enough of this crap
!

Then she hit water, and the relief was overwhelming.

She felt herself sinking, sinking, sinking...

Was she about to crack the bottom of the pool? Smash her skull?
How far did she have to go before she started coming up?

Oh man! This was, like,
so
insane.

Then suddenly she was surfacing, gasping and spluttering for air,
her lungs filled with water.

I made it, I made it
, she thought triumphantly, splashing
to the side of the pool and hauling herself out onto the cold
concrete, where she collapsed.

Holy shit, I made it! I made it
!

She lay on the ground for a moment, gathering her strength. Then
she rolled over and glanced up.

Paco was leaning over the terrace, a look of amazement on his
face.

"Screw you, asshole!" she yelled. "I'm calling the freaking cops.
And if
they
won't do anything, I'll get my father, and he'll
beat the crap out of you. You
bastards
!"

She wondered if he understood her. Probably not. The jerk didn't
speak English.

What was she supposed to do now? Walk home? Her purse with
everything in it—including her passport and money—was
still in the penthouse.

She remembered seeing a hall porter when she'd entered the
building, so as soon as she felt she could stand, she got up and made
her way around to the front of the building and into the lobby.

The concierge stared at her in alarm as she marched up to the
front of the reception desk.

She knew she must be a strange sight, dripping wet with an angry
gleam in her eyes. "Go to the penthouse," she commanded, "and get my
purse. If the assholes in the apartment won't give it to you, tell
'em I'm calling the police."

"
Que
?" the man said, twitching nervously.

"Penthouse. My purse," she repeated. "You go get it."

He still didn't understand her.

She began shivering uncontrollably. She might be half drowned and
unable to speak the language, but she was mad as hell, and if this
suckface didn't move soon, she was about to start screaming and
really
cause a riot.

"Do it!" she yelled. "Do it now.'"

"Who's that girl?" Michael asked, his gaze following the willowy
blond with the knockout body high-kicking at the end of the chorus
line.

Manny Spiven didn't even bother looking. "Just another Vegas
cooze," he chortled, amused by his own choice of words.

Michael shot him a look. He didn't like Manny, but business was
business, and since he was now working full time for Vito Giovanni,
he had to deal with him.

This was his third trip to Vegas in so many weeks. He was kind of
getting off on being Vito's trusted courier—because basically
that was his job, hand-delivering packages. He didn't know what was
in them, although he suspected it was money, and that was okay; there
was nothing wrong with shifting cash from state to state.

Things had changed considerably in the last few months. Vinny
selling the shop and the house had been a big blow. "You gotta get
out on your own now," Vinny had informed him. "Your grandma spoiled
you—made you soft. It's time you toughened up." Shortly after
that charming speech he'd handed his son three hundred bucks and run
off to Florida with all the money from the sales.

At first Michael couldn't believe it. Grandma Lani would turn in
her grave and then some. She'd never imagined Vinny would sell
everything and leave him out in the cold with only three hundred
lousy bucks.
She'd
wanted
him
to have the shop
and
the house, not Vinny. Fortunately, he'd stashed away some of
his profits from the last couple of years—it wasn't much, but
it was sure better than nothing.

Max had come through for him, persuading his mom to let him stay
at their house for a few days while he found somewhere to live. He
had no clue what he would do next. Three hundred bucks plus his
savings was not about to take him very far.

Then Marnie Giovanni had invited him over for dinner, mainly to
inform him that Vinny was a no-good bastard— always had
been—and she wasn't surprised that he'd behaved like a selfish,
greedy prick.

A week later Vito had summoned him back to the house and suggested
he work for him full time.

"Doin' what?" he'd asked suspiciously.

"Anythin' I want," Vito had replied with a crafty laugh.

"I ain't gonna be one of your bodyguards," he'd said boldly. "Not
my style."

Once more Vito had laughed. "A punk like you—forget it. I
got other things in mind for you."

When he'd told Max about his new job, his friend had recoiled in
horror. "He's a freakin'
gangster
, Mike. Whad-daya wanna get
involved with him for?"

" 'Cause I need t' make money."

"You gotta consider the consequences."

Screw the consequences. He'd needed a job, and Vito was the only
one offering.

A week later, he was on a plane to Las Vegas—a place he'd
only ever seen in movies.

Vegas blew him away. The long parade of neon lights and the huge
gambling palaces—not to mention the unbelievably gorgeous
showgirls and dancers, vast hotels, and lavish shows.

Manny Spiven was his contact at the Estradido Hotel, where Vito
conducted business. They hated each other on sight. Manny was short
and overweight, with greasy brown hair, pockmarked skin, alarmingly
large ears, and a permanent limp. The limp was Manny's claim to fame.
The rumor was that he'd gotten shot in the thigh protecting Philippe
Estradido, the hotel owner, from a mob hit. Manny had been a parking
valet at the time. After that, his fortunes had taken a turn for the
better, and now he worked full time for Mr. Estradido, doing this and
that.

At twenty-two Manny was a couple of years older than Michael, and
he used his seniority like a sword, claiming that
he
knew
everything and Michael knew nothing.

"If you know so much," Michael asked, shifting his attention from
the delectable blond dancing at the end of the chorus line to Manny,
"what's in the packages we exchange?"

Manny's small, squinty eyes darted this way and that, fearful of
being overheard. "You shittin' me?" he spluttered.

"No," Michael said, wondering if Manny actually knew.

"That's not the kinda question you're supposed to ask."

"Do you know, or not?"

"Fuck
you
," Manny mumbled. "Wouldn't tell ya if I did."

"So you don't know."

"Fuck you," Manny repeated, scowling.

They were sitting at a front table in the Starburst Lounge,
watching the lackluster show, which consisted of a tired black
singer, a not very funny comedian, and a chorus line of hard-feced,
over-made-up women—with the exception of the blond on the end,
who was something else. He might only be nineteen, but Michael had an
eye for picking the best, and this one was a peach.

He'd only gotten laid once in Vegas, and that was on his first trip.
It had turned out to be an unfortunate experience; the girl had given
him a dose of the crabs, and the subsequent itch in his crotch had
driven him crazy until he'd gotten some foul-smelling cream from the
pharmacist, which he'd had to plaster all over his pubes. After that
particular incident, he'd decided that all the girls in Vegas were
probably crawling with sexual diseases. Too much action, too many
players. Besides—who needed them? He had enough girls in New
York to keep him busy for the next five years.