In the Teeth of the Wind (14 page)

cheek.

"Well, babe." Joe sighed as he got to his feet and held his hand out to Sonia. "We'd better call it a day.

I promised Tina I'd teach her how to drive the stick shift tomorrow."

"The car's all right, isn't it, Joey?" Rhianna asked. She worried about Joey's daughter.

"Works better than my old clunker," Joe answered. He pulled Sonia into the circle of his arms and

wobbled his chin on the top of her head, chuckling as she dug a playful elbow into his belly in protest.

"You gonna be all right, then?"

"I saw him," Rhianna said. "I won't let him in, Joe."

"Saw who?" Sonia asked, twisting her neck to look up at her husband. "Joe? What didn't you tell me?"

Joe frowned at her. "C.C. He was hanging around down the block this afternoon."

"I kept expecting the bastard to come down and help, but I should have known better," said Trip.

"I don't think he meant for any of us to see him." Rhianna shrugged. "Some surveillance guy he is."

Joe frowned. "You should be careful, Rhee. If he comes to the door, don't open it."

"As a matter of fact," Trip put in as he got up from the floor, folding the pizza box as he did, "Lock the

porch door, too, so if he comes knocking, you haven't got him right in your face."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Are you worried about him, Joey?" Sonia asked. Her lovely face was creased with concern.

"Let's just say I don't trust him, Sonny."

Rhianna followed the three of them to the door and stood on the porch as they walked to their cars.

She nodded and waved when Trip reminded her to lock the screen door. Making a production of it for

his benefit, she flicked down the steel latch, shook the door, then held up her hands. "Eleven o'clock and

all is well, Constable Triplett!"

"Get your ass back inside and go to bed!" Trip waved a dismissive hand then climbed into his Jeep.

"I don't see Corbettson's car," Joe said, looking around them.

"Maybe you're just worrying for nothing," Sonia said as she watched Rhianna closing the front door.

"You've never liked the man, Joey."

"I've had reason not to like him, doll," Joe replied as he opened her car door. "Irish didn't like him,

either."

Trip tapped gently on his horn as he pulled away from the curb in front of Rhianna's new home and

made a wobbly U-turn in the street.

"Where's the damned cops when you need one?" Joe chuckled. He skirted his car, swept his gaze as

discretely as he could around the neighborhood. Satisfied Corbettson wasn't lurking about, he got in the

car and started the engine.

Rhianna waited until Joe and Sonia drove away before flipping off the porch light. She turned from the

door, stopped, and then decided it wouldn't hurt to engage the deadbolt. Not that she was afraid of

Corbettson or worried that he would break in. Irish's neighborhood was probably one of the safest in

town, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

After checking the back door, sliding its deadbolt into place, she made a final check to make sure the

coffeepot was turned off and the faucet wasn't dripping. As an afterthought, she locked the door which

led down to the basement even though the only entrances into that cold, dark cavern were through two

small windows set at ground level; only a child could squeeze through those openings. Her evening

reconnaissance done, she sighed wearily and headed for her bedroom and the bath she was dying to

take.

One*

The Colombian pulled up a chair and sat down. He folded his arms, crossed his legs, and cocked his

head to one side. "How are you feeling, brown eyes?" His dark eyes glittered with vengeance.

Conor Nolan was huddled against the wall, shivering so badly he couldn't speak. His eyes were wild;

his knees drawn up; his arms clutched around his quaking body. He was whimpering: pitiful little bursts of

helplessness that would have touched even the hardest heart, but the Colombian was amused by the

sound.

"I saw your lady today."

At the mention of Rhianna, Conor flinched. His pale, sweaty face was partially obscured by the filthy

mop of tangled hair. His shuddering breaths grew quicker for a moment then held as he waited, wanting

news of her even if it hurt him.

"She is extraordinarily beautiful," said the Colombian. "Is it a wonder she has a new beau so soon?"

The words were like spikes gouging into Conor's brain and he turned his head so that the side of his

face was pressed against the silo wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled into himself even more. If he

had learned anything about the man who held him captive, it was his propensity for torture. Conor knew

there would be more.

"He is a rather handsome man," the Colombian stated, smiling. "She likes men with brown eyes,

doesn't she?"

Conor knew no answer was expected. He reached a trembling hand to run the back of it under his

runny nose. He hurt so bad, and had for so long now, he wished he could wipe out his own life as easily

as he wiped away his snot. He had no idea what day or even what month it was. The horrible

enslavement to the heroin had all but driven him over the edge of sanity. What difference did it make

what day or month or even what year it was?

"Do her lips taste as sweet as they look, brown eyes?"

Conor groaned. _Oh, God, yes!_ His body was on fire with a need far more imperative than the

sexual longing that had long since left him. Rhianna's lips had been as sweet as honey against his; her

mouth soft and yielding, pliant and welcoming.

"She is living in your home."

That was one piece of news that made him smile despite the godawful agony squeezing his gut. The

burning pain in his veins was momentarily forgotten at hearing that news. He had wanted her out of that

chintzy apartment for so long and living with him. They could make a home together; could make a life

together. "There is a problem with Corbettson, though."

Conor's head came up and he turned his hopeless eyes to his tormentor.

"Don't worry,
amigo,"
the Colombian said. "We will not let him harm your lady."

Tears formed in Conor's eyes and he nodded, understanding that Rhianna was safe.

"Do you want me to make you feel better, brown eyes?"

He knew better than to ask. If he asked, it would be longer still before they brought in the drug. The

Colombian took great pleasure in denying him. It had been too long since he'd known any peace.

"I will give it to you, but you know how it must be." Just as he knew when not to ask, he knew what

was expected of him now. He looked at the man, trying to gauge his sincerity, his intent, and saw the

mirthless, cruel smile, which stretched the rubbery lips.

There was no sense of self-worth left in Conor Nolan. No pride. No dignity. No self-respect. He had

long since been humbled. His spirit broken when he had been forcibly brought down into ruthless

submission; made to abase himself to the Colombian and whoever felt the need to humiliate him. He was

mortally ashamed of his meekness. It shredded his manhood and made him understand he was nothing;

lower than the lowest creature scuttling on the earth.

"I am waiting, brown eyes," the man cooed.

Conor pushed away from the wall and crawled on his hands and knees like the animal he had become,

stopping at the Colombian's feet. With a quaking hand, he reached out and touched the highly polished

boot.

"P… please," he begged, his head down, his hair covering his face.

"Look at me," the man said in a softly commanding tone.

Conor lifted his head, his chin quivering. He was on the verge of crying again, sobbing hysterically, for

he feared the man would get up and leave, taking the blessed relief with him. It was all he could do to

hold the tears at bay, to press his lips together so that the cries would not escape.

The Colombian liked what he saw, the too-thin face sweating profusely, the sunken eyes, the trembling

lips, the hopelessness. "You are pitiful, do you know that?"

Yes, he knew and he hated himself for what he had become. "Yes, sir," he replied.

For a long moment, the man stared at him, distaste evident in his hard, cold eyes. He ignored Conor's

hand on his ankle, caressing him almost as a lover would, pleading silently for the surcease from the

hideous pain. The Irishman had learned the hard way not to break eye contact, not to look away, not to

turn his face so that the ravages of the drug could not been seen in his lost eyes.

"Well?"

It was a game and Conor knew the rules, had learned them the hard way. He didn't give himself time

to think about what he was doing, he just did it. Lowering his head, his kissed the man's boot. "Please,

sir," he begged as he had been taught. "May I have some more?"

After a pregnant pause, the Colombian nodded. "All right,
amigo.
I will give it to you." He reached

into his pocket and withdrew a syringe. He held it up, squirted some of the liquid into the air to dispel any

air bubbles then glanced down at his prisoner and smiled. The Irishman was licking his lips, his eyes so

eager, his face so expectant, it was hard not to feel sorry for the bastard.

But there was no pity for Conor James Nolan in the Colombian's heart and never would be.

Two*

Trip looked up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk as Corbettson loomed over him. A hard

scowl slipped over Trip's face. "Whatcha you want, C.C.?"

"What time is Marek's plane due in?"

Neville Triplett's jaw clenched and he looked down at the file he'd been working on. "Whatcha want

to know for?"

"Just curious."

"Don't be," Trip snapped. "I'll be there to pick her up this evening." He glanced up, then away,

dismissing the man.

Corbettson grinned at the other detective, then returned to his desk. He had no intention of telling

Triplett that Marek had left a message for him this morning that she'd taken an earlier flight home.

****

"Flight 3725 now arriving from Cincinnati," the announcement came, and Corbettson nodded. That

was the connecting flight from Atlanta on which Rhianna Marek was due to arrive. He'd seen the 757

jockeying into position at the jetway as he walked through the terminal waiting area. His arrival was

perfectly timed.

The door opened and the first class passengers began streaming from the jetway. Their chatter hurt

Corbettson's sensitive ears, but he was learning to block out much of the white noise that constantly

abraded his hearing. Standing off to one side in the dimly lit waiting area, he crossed his arms and leaned

against the wall.

He didn't have long to wait.

The moment she spied Corbettson, Rhianna Marek stopped in the jetway's entrance, barely feeling the

bump of the man who collided with her from behind.

"Excuse me," the man mumbled stepping around her. Rhianna tore her attention from Corbettson in

time to see the stranger glance curiously at her. His dark brows knit together in a concerned frown. "Is

everything all right, Ma'am?" he asked in a soft, southern drawl.

"What?" Rhianna managed a strained whisper, staring at him in confusion.

"My name is Franc Boucharde. Are you having trouble?" Concern clouded his good looks.

Rhianna recoiled at the hostile determination and possessiveness evident in Corbettson's quick stride.

As he came toward her, she looked back at Boucharde, too stunned to answer.

"Ma'am?" Boucharde questioned and stepped closer. "Are you afraid of him?" Turning to face the

charging Corbettson, immediate dislike showed on Boucharde's face.

Rhianna sensed the primal male instinct to protect as he shifted position so that she stood slightly

behind him. "Can we help you?" he inquired, taking Rhianna's elbow and leading her out of the way of

disembarking passengers.

"Did you have a nice visit, Rhee?" Corbettson asked, joining them in the wide aisle just beyond the

waiting area.

"Where's Trip?" Rhianna snapped. "What's happened to Trip?"

"Trip's fine, darling," Corbettson said, reaching out to touch her. Rhianna suppressed a smile when the

strange male stepped between them blocking Corbettson's move.

"Leave her alone," he ordered.

"Who the hell do you think you are, scumbag?"

"Someone you'd better not tangle with," Boucharde answered in a low tone.

Corbettson sneered. "Say what?" He took a threatening step toward Boucharde.

"I wouldn't if I were you, fellow," Boucharde advised, reaching inside his breast pocket. He pulled out

a black case and flipped it open. The gleam of a gold shield brought Corbettson up short.

"FBI."

Corbettson scowled at the shield then swung his murderous glower to the man holding it. His chest

puffed out in what Rhianna recognized as an effort to intimidate the Fibber, but the attempt had the same

effect as arrows flung at a solid stone wall. They bounced harmlessly aside.

"Where is Trip?" Rhianna repeated. Ordinarily the macho posturing would have amused her, but she

knew nothing short of Neville Triplett being confined to a hospital bed would keep him from picking her

up. Nothing short of total incapacitation would have made it possible for Chuck Corbettson to be here.

"Why don't you answer the lady's question?" Boucharde ordered. He met Corbettson's scowl with

one equally as dark.

"He was busy," Corbettson mumbled, eyes narrowed. He tried again to unnerve the stranger and still