Mission: Out of Control (6 page)

Not that Brody would be any better at holding it together if he found out. He'd be furious if he figured out she'd slipped out of her room—although she'd caught a whiff of that pizza and nearly turned around to chase after him.

But Damu Mubar's birthday came only once a year. And she hadn't cultivated a flirtatious friendship with the man just to derail it for a deep-dish pizza.

Oh, it probably had mushrooms…

And lots of sticky cheese…

She stopped a waiter, grabbing a sushi roll. Brody was probably holed up in his room, enjoying his pizza with the two other gorillas.

Okay, that wasn't fair. She did like Luke. And Artyom.

And after today, she would be on her best behavior. It was only tonight that she'd be trouble. She'd snuggle up to Damu, grab his cell phone, swipe the V-chip, copy it in the cute little device Bishop had left in her welcome basket, and then return it.

Transmit to Bishop and he'd do the rest.

See, nothing to get ruffled about, Brody.

And she didn't know why he had to get so uptight about her attire. She saw less clothing on the women here than on some remote islands in Indonesia. One woman walked by in what looked like two napkins and a placemat. Another wore a leopard-print scarf wound round and round her skinny frame.

She raised her glass to a Vonya look-alike—white wig, policeman's hat. Although she would never wear those strips of leather that doubled as a dress. Sorry, but she liked more material than that. Even her wings came with a blue, full-bodied leotard under it.

With everything inside her, she longed to be back in her suite, playing Mario with Lyle or reading the end of
Pride and Prejudice
. Or even watching Leah blog about their day on VonWatch.

Or enjoying a pizza with—

Stop. He wasn't her friend. Even if he thought he was.

There. Standing on the balcony, chatting up a shapely
blond. Damu Mubar had no problem making it as a tabloid favorite thanks to his creamy dark skin, the charisma of his smile, the gym-honed frame and the millions of dollars he wore in his silk suits, his Italian shoes, the diamonds on his fingers.

The only son of General Mubar, Damu had reached out to Vonya during her first tour to Zimbala three years ago, when he graciously offered to be her tour guide and then led her expertly away from his father's child-soldier training camps and his more vocal dissenters. She'd picked up more quickly than the rest of the world that Mubar's “rescue” of the oppressed just meant turning his guns on those who opposed him.

But for Bishop's and Kafara's sakes, she'd kept her mouth shut.

She slipped out onto the balcony. “Damu, you aren't boring this poor girl with your car collection, are you?” She looked at the blonde, who couldn't have been a day over eighteen, and winked.

Damu turned, a smile already shining as he held out his arms. Vonya slipped into his embrace. “My friend, Vonya. I'm so glad you came. And looking…yourself, as usual.” He kissed her cheek, his chuckle low.

The blonde gave her a pout and headed back inside.

“I've missed you, Damu.”

“I knew you couldn't stay away from me.”

“I hope you saved me a dance.” She ran her finger around her champagne glass. Yes, she'd felt his cell phone, a small rectangle in his jacket pocket, right side. Bingo.

He took her champagne, set it on the tray and took her hand.

A wooden dance floor had been set up in the center of the room, where she saw all manner of gyrations that passed for dancing. She took the floor, thankful for the dark lights and for the lessons Bishop had taught her in lifting a man's wallet—or in this case, cell phone. She danced around him, measuring the music, letting her hands find his arms, his waist, and then snake into his pocket to lift it out.

She palmed it into the sleeve of her dress, keeping her hands lifted, then twining them around him and pressing a kiss to the well of his sweaty neck. Ew. But she'd do it for Kafara. For freedom.

For the information locked in Damu's cell phone.

“I'll be back,” she said, and swayed a little, just for effect. Damu patted her backside as she twirled off the dance floor.

She sneaked into a bathroom off one of the bedroom suites, the pulse of the night slipping under the door, banging against the tiles. Or maybe it was her heartbeat. She'd done it. She shook the phone from her sleeve.

Oh, no. Not a phone—a microcomputer. She turned it on and a password prompt filled the screen.

No. She needed the phone. With the V-chip. Only the phone had the contact information of the man Damu planned to slip diamonds to on their final leg of the journey to America—diamonds that Damu had smuggled out of Zimbala. Agent Bishop and his team needed the contact info to intercept the shipment and shut down Mubar's money flow.

And Ronie needed to complete the mission in order
to keep her end of the deal with Bishop—a deal that ended with Kafara being rescued from Mubar's army.

She turned and stared at herself in the mirror. Sooty-black hair, bloodred lips, and fear in her eyes. She had to go back out there, slip the computer back into Damu's pocket, and find his cell phone.

Her hands shook as she slipped the phone back into her sleeve.

She took a breath.

Opened the door.

And wouldn't you know it, there stood the Boy Scout on the other side.

“Gotcha,” Brody said, without a hint of a grin on his face.

O
f course she'd run to Damu Mubar's birthday party. Because of all the places Ronie could run off to—a disco, a concert, even a late-night sushi place, the den of Damu Mubar, the son of the man who had threatened to kill her, seemed the most crazy.

Apparently, Miss Schizophrenia was back.

“This is off the charts, even for you, Ronie.” He blocked her exit from the bathroom, even as she tried to step around him.

Yep, he now recognized the starlet from the elevator and wanted to throttle her—or himself, perhaps—for not seeing right through her “I'm so tired, I just need a good night's sleep” routine.

“Get out of my way.” She stared up at him and for a second, fear flashed into her eyes. Wait—was she afraid of him?

No, there was something else, too. She held herself strangely, her arms around her waist. “What are you hiding?”

Again fear, covered fast by anger. “Nothing. Except not wanting to be antagonized by my bodyguard. I told you to stay out of my way.”

“No, you told me you were going to bed. You lied to me.”

A muscle pulsed in her throat as if his words actually hurt her. She again tried to step past him, but he backed her into the bathroom and shut the door.

She moved backward into the shower, her eyes wide.

“Oh, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you.” He winced even as he said it—didn't she know him well enough by now?

Apparently not well enough to trust him. She still had her arms wrapped around herself. “What's going on? What are you doing here?” He tried to keep his voice low. It came out more wolf than whisper.

“I—I—Damu is a friend. He invited me.”

“He's the son of the man who wants your father dead. Didn't you think, for one second, that this might be a trap? That he's been using your friendship to bait you? C'mon, Vonya, be smarter than that. Or aren't you?”

She flinched. “You…can't talk to me that way. You…you're
fired.
”

Her words lacked in oomph, but the hatred in her eyes made up for it.

Well, so be it. They weren't supposed to be friends, anyway, and he'd been only fooling himself by letting down his guard.

Wow, was he an idiot.

“You can't fire me. That's the point. Now, we're leaving.”

Outside, the music pulsed, the beat loud. He'd been nearly frantic when he arrived at the penthouse door, probably something that worked in his favor in
convincing Mubar's bouncer to let him in. Trying to find Vonya in the mass of humanity out there—well, it was a good thing he'd seen her on the dance floor. With Damu.

Which nearly made him lose his mind.

“Get out of my way.” She came at him again.

“Not on your life, Party Girl. You're leaving. Now. With me.”

That set her jaw on edge. She narrowed her eyes at him. And for the first time since he'd stopped her at the threshold, she seemed to stop trembling.

“Brody, I know you won't understand this, but I have to stay and dance with Damu. It's…important. I promise, I'm not in any danger.” She took a breath. “Please?”

Really? She thought he'd fall for that? He couldn't help it—a chuckle escaped. “Wow, you're good. I nearly bought that. But…uh…no. What kind of woman walks right into danger?” She opened her mouth but he held up his hand. “The kind who needs her head examined. Party's over, honey. Don't make me carry you out of here.”

Her eyes widened at that. “Brody—please.”

And right then, he was back in a hot, dusty desert, the dirt kicking up around Shelby as she said,
“Brody—please!”

No, no,
no,
he wasn't going back there, wasn't going to let some woman led by her emotions run into her own death and drag him along with her so she could die in his shaking arms. No, no,
no.

What was it with him attracting women who didn't
mind looking death in the eye and shaking their fists at it?

“I'm not leaving,” she said, in a voice that might break another man.

Not him. “If that's how you want it.”

He didn't spare her dignity when he advanced on her, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She slammed her fist into his spine, a solid blow that might have buckled him if he hadn't been powering on sheer fury.

He opened the bathroom door, let her kick, and then decided on prudence.

Walking through the party with Vonya over his shoulder just might be a surefire way to end up in the tabloids.

“Promise to come nicely.”

“Put me down.”

“Von—”

She kicked again—wow, she was strong. Clearly she wasn't going to cooperate.

Fine.

“Make a hole!” He charged out of the bathroom and then the bedroom, hand out, not caring who he banged into, not caring that she was beating his back as he went. Not caring about the stares he got, or even some laughter from those who recognized, well, probably her backside. Which, really, he apologized for inside, even if she'd never know it.

He marched her past Damu, who looked up from the blonde he was dancing with and even came toward them. Brody held up a hand in warning and Damu's eyes flashed.

Brody guessed he had about ten seconds before this thing went south.

He aimed straight for the door and blew right past the bouncer, who gave him a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

Not that kind of party, dude.
Brody wanted to put his fist into the guy's face.

He set Vonya down right outside the elevator, steadying her on those high heels. And proving that they'd advanced oh-so-far in their relationship, she reached back and let loose with a bone-jarring slap.

And once again, as the elevator door opened, the paparazzi managed to catch it all in a blinding flash of white light.

 

In the stone-cold silence between them in the elevator, Ronie realized something had died.

The only word she could put to it might be…
friendship.

She hated that she cared. That she'd actually looked forward to the morning macchiatos. The chocolate pastries. Seeing his dark eyes on her during rehearsal. Measuring. Protecting.

She hated the fact that she liked it—all of it.

For a second, seeing the anger in Brody's eyes, her throat burned, and she'd wanted to rewind back to the moment when she opened the bathroom door and saw him standing there.

Like he'd come after her. To rescue her. And in a crazy moment, she'd wanted to—

“What were you thinking?” he said.

She folded her arms and set her jaw.
I was thinking about saving someone's life,
she wanted to say.

“Did you not care that you might get, oh, I don't know, killed?”

“Damu wouldn't hurt me. We're friends.”

“Apparently you don't know the meaning of the word.”

Ouch. She nearly leaped through the doors as they opened. She stalked back to her room and knocked on the door.

He inserted the key into the lock for her. She pushed through and turned to slam the door, but of course he charged in, caught the door, and shut it behind him with a soft click.

Leah looked up from where she was working on her computer at the glass table. Lyle's door was closed, light pulsing from it, evidence of a television on in a dark room.

“Get out,” Vonya snarled.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he said softly.

Leah closed her laptop. “I'll see you in the morning.” She eyed Brody and shook her head before closing the bedroom door behind her. Perfect.

“I'm fine now, you can go.”

“So you can leave again? I'm done trying to figure you out, or even trust you, Ronie. Congratulations, you have a new roommate.” He turned, threw the dead bolt on the door, then walked over and sat on the sofa.

Seriously? “Listen, Brody, okay. I'll stay here.” The lie slipped through her teeth, tasting sour even to herself. “I've learned my lesson.”

His explosion of laughter rocked her back. “Okay, darlin'. What was I thinking? Of course you will.” He walked over to the closet, opened it and grabbed the
extra pillow from the shelf. Then he tossed it down in front of the door. “I think I'll just sleep right here if it's all the same to you.”

She stared at him, at his set jaw, his dark eyes.

“Oh, of all the overreactions. Fine. Suit yourself.”

Her room had a door, too. She marched into her bedroom, turned on the light and locked the door behind her. Then she went to the outside door and flung it open.

“Going somewhere?” Luke turned and smiled, his arms folded against his chest.

“Just down the hall for some ice.”

Luke looked at her empty hands.

“Fine!” She slammed the door, turned and sank down against it. Nice. Perfect.

She'd stolen Damu's computer. And when he found it missing, it wouldn't take him long to figure out who had taken it. Which meant that General Mubar would discover someone was onto him and send the smuggler deeper into hiding.

She'd never get Kafara out of the Zimbalan army.

Stupid hot wig. She yanked it off, threw it across the room and ran her fingers through her short, mousy hair. Then she pulled the computer out of her sleeve and turned it on.

That same annoying password prompt lit up the screen. She tried
Damu.
Incorrect.
Mubar.
Incorrect.

She stared at it, shaking it in her hands. “Why?”

“Are you okay in there?” came Brody's hard voice.

“Leave me alone.”

“Not on your life.”

She wanted to hurl the computer at him, but, well,
that wouldn't quite get it working, would it? But she was itching for something—someone—to hurt.

This much of her father, yes, she had in her.

Instead she climbed to her feet, set the computer on the bureau.

She walked to the window, staring down onto the street. Bright lights shone on the Brandenburg Gate, underlighting the Quadriga on top, the four horses drawing a chariot as if emerging from battle. She still found it hard to believe that this city had once lain in rubble. That even this hotel had been nothing but stones and rebar before they'd rebuilt it to its original grandeur. She wanted to linger every time they passed through the lobby and listen to the pianist, maybe belly up to the piano herself and plunk out a tune.

There had to be a way to figure out how to get into that computer.

Leah might know—she acted as her computer guru. Or even Lyle. The kid seemed to know how to make her cell phone do things she never dreamed it could do.

No, she needed a serious techie.

What about Artyom? Okay, her synapses simply weren't functioning. She needed someone who wouldn't shut her down—like one of Bishop's contacts.

She dug her phone out of her bag and texted him.

The CIA couldn't kill her if she was trying to solve her problem, right?

She waited a moment and when no reply came she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

She always did prefer to do her crying in the bathroom.

She scrubbed off the black eyeliner, the red lips, the
pasty makeup. Soon, plain old Ronie stared back at her in the mirror, those unimpressive eyes now bloodshot. And, of course, now she was hungry. Which meant she'd have to order room service, when what she really wanted was that pizza.

But she'd die of starvation before she'd ask Brody for a piece.

But how had he found out she was missing? She'd only conjured up the plan after a week of behaving exactly how she had tonight—wishing him good-night and going to her room. He never came to check on her, never camped out in the hall.

He'd trusted her.

And she'd betrayed him. Doubly betrayed him, because it came to her then that he'd probably come to the door…with the pizza. After all, he'd been delivering all sorts of goodies to her all week. Like they might really be friends.

No wonder he came charging into the party with both barrels loaded.

And that accounted for why he'd looked wounded when she opened the door and nearly plowed into him.

And yes, seeing him that angry had shaken her.

Because ever since the plane, well…something about him made her think she wasn't alone. She'd given him a part of herself and he hadn't wasted it.

He actually made her feel as though someone actually…
saw
her.

Or at least was trying to. And what would that be like, really? To have someone look beyond Vonya, or even Veronica, to see the real Ronie? Truthfully, did she
even know that girl? She'd died, perhaps, right alongside Savannah.

Along with her sense of self-preservation.

What kind of woman walks right into danger?

No. she refused to believe Damu meant her harm. He was just a playboy, spending his daddy's money. Besides, Bishop would warn her if she was in real danger.

A knock at her door. She stiffened, checked her face, then took a breath and opened the door.

Leah stood in her pajamas and bathrobe. “Can I come in?”

Ronie hauled her into the room and wrapped her arms around her.

Leah unwound Ronie's arms from her. “I tried to lie, but he saw right through me. And…well, he's sort of intimidating.”

“What did he do to you to make you tell?” She saw his face the second before he tossed her over his shoulder.

“Nothing.” Leah winced. “I admit, I was worried about you, too. So…I caved.” She flopped onto the bed. “I'd make a horrible spy. I'm so sorry.”

“Shh. He has his minions parked everywhere.” She pointed at the door to the hallway.

Leah clamped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. So did you get it?”

Ronie lifted the computer from the bureau. “Not exactly. It's a computer—one of those PDAs with toys on it. It's protected by a password.”

“Do you think it has the information you need on it?”