No One Lives Forever (2 page)

Whether he trusted the man or not, he couldn't ignore the compelling intel. Although it would take time, he'd verify what he could, but shortly it wouldn't matter.

His mysterious comrade made a big show of this being their last venture together, even giving him a special encrypted phone to take with him, for emergency contact only. The phone would work where they were going. And the man had made it worth his while with the American too. Mario would soon return a hero to his beloved home and provide well for his people. Nothing would make him more proud.

Far enough away from the lowland heat, his childhood village had been located at the base of the rocky outcrop known as the Chapada dos Guimarães. Now a distant memory, it had overlooked the flat plain of the Paraguay River and the marshlands of the Pantanal. Still vivid in his dreams, Mario longed for the misty cool of those folding hills. Its pillared rock formations were dotted with the ancient caves of his ancestors. And only the hand of God could have graced such stunning waterfalls.

But too many tourists and the far reach of his own government left him torn apart from his memories. Years ago he relocated his tribe to a spot deeper into the jungle, far from civilization and its corrupt influence. Yet there were days when resentment swelled in his belly like a virulent cancer. He would compromise no more. After today, maybe he wouldn't have to.

"Até o nosso próximo encontro"
he said in a hushed tone, then watched three of his men escape from the balcony, leaving as they came.

He'd depart with his accomplice, similarly dressed in a hotel uniform. They'd brazenly haul the American to a service elevator. Once in the parking garage, an inconspicuous van awaited for the rendezvous with his men. Soon he would be on his turf, among his own people.

But before Mario left the extravagant hotel suite, he knelt by the side of the Asian-looking woman who had fought so bravely.

"Para o bem do seu amigo, você tern que obedecer as nossas ordens."

He tossed an envelope of hotel stationery on her chest and lightly tapped the side of her cheek. By the time the beautiful woman warrior awoke, they'd be long gone. And she would know what to do.

He only hoped she also knew how to follow orders.

Searing light blinded her. Jasmine squinted and the effort sent electrified shards of glass into her brain. She felt the left side of her face throb, swollen and hot. Yet the night air in the room prickled her skin. The sensation made her aware of a metallic tang in her mouth. With a brush of her tongue, she found the source of the blood.

Unwilling to move, she lay perfectly still, waiting for the pain to subside. It only dulled and spread through her body like venom. Soon her eyes concentrated on the elaborate chandelier overhead. Its iridescent prisms swirled rainbow luster . . . until the shimmer stopped dead center, coming into focus.

Oh, God . . . she had been so careless.

"Nicky? What—"

As she rose up from the carpet, her head nearly exploded. She planted an elbow beneath her weight to keep from collapsing. Nausea churned her stomach. She held back a strand of dark hair and heaved, spitting up pale yellow foam. Her vision dotted with pinpoints of light from the exertion. Signs of a concussion.

Yet Jasmine knew she deserved far worse for her failure.

A dismal ache centered deep within her chest, spreading its heat to her face. She had failed Nicky, allowed him to be taken. For all she knew, he was already dead. She envisioned his handsome face, strangely passive in death. His violet blue eyes glazed in milky white. The image would be forever branded in memory for her sin of failure.

Love blinded her, made her weak and neglectful. And Nicholas had paid the price. Splaying a hand against the carpet, she lifted her body to a sitting position. Her fingers touched a different texture.

An envelope.

The note inside the hotel stationery provided little information, given the many questions looming in her mind. The instructions were brief and to the point. She had ten days to comply. The ransom to be wired to a Swiss bank account listed in the note—or Nicky would be killed.

Yet with the instructions in English, it left her wondering who was in charge. Did the uniformed man know exactly what Nicky had said in English and only pretended ignorance? Or had someone else pulled the strings? For these men to kidnap Nicholas Charboneau, ignorance would be the least of their problems. They obviously had no idea the extent of their offense.

Once more she stared at the note. No organization laid claim for the abduction. And the ransom was far more money than she had access to. She held no special authority over Nicky's affairs. By outward appearance, he was her employer. End of story. Yet her heart could claim so much more. If only she had disclosed her feelings to him. Now she might never get the chance.

For the first time in her life she felt completely powerless. That was inexcusable.

Her mind began to formulate a strategy. Due to Nicky's reputation, she was not sure how her demand for help would be received. She would direct the attention of the local law enforcement, overseeing the efforts herself. The nearest American consulate would be contacted tonight, the U.S. State Department tomorrow. Time was of the essence.

Surely she could garner support, even in this uncivilized corner of the world. And if money were required, she knew how to get it.

Christian Delacorte owed her a very big favor. Despite Nicky's orders to the contrary, perhaps it was time for Christian to learn about his rightful connection to Nicholas Charboneau.

Downtown Chicago
Three days later

An odd sensation contributed to Christian Dela-corte's fitful sleep, a steady unyielding feeling.

Lying in bed, restless, he stared into the twenty-foot wooden rafters of the old warehouse, an arm wedged between his head and the pillow. Deep shadows edged the pale light of wall sconces he left burning through the night, a necessity since he was ten years old.

Long ago he learned to stay attuned to his feelings, to trust them. Like a sixth sense, his intuition served him well. But this persistent feeling of expectation had been haunting him for days, making sleep almost impossible. He glanced at the red digital clock on his nightstand. Five-twenty in the morning.

Damn! Shake it off, Delacorte.

Maybe it was his new place. Taking a deep breath, he raised up on his elbows to gaze upon his unique accommodations. He had only recently purchased the old three-story building in downtown Chicago off Michigan Avenue, renovating it for his use. He made the top floor into his living quarters. The middle floor was converted to his personal dojo, filled with martial arts weapons and workout gear. And the ground floor held his new business venture. Delacorte Protective Services offered executive protection to wealthy clientele. After quitting Dunhill Corporation as head of security, it was the next logical step—even if logic had little to do with his decision to leave the international conglomerate.

He ran fingers through his dark hair and heaved air from his lungs. A futile attempt to expel the doldrums. Despite the success of his burgeoning enterprise, he felt like a stranger in these surroundings. The old warehouse was not yet home. That would take time. His newfound independence had an empty feel to it, in spite of the fresh start.

Most days, he endured a disconnection from it all. Living near the Chicago Loop with its cultural offerings, exclusive shops, and the yacht club nearby, he watched the energized downtown hurl past him as if he stood still. Adrift under the influence of a strong current, he sensed its pull out to a turbulent sea of an uncertain future. He didn't have the will to stop it. Mindlessly, he took one day at a time to reinvent his life. It was the best he could do.

Barely out of boxes, his personal possessions were close at hand, giving him an anchor of stability. His former home had been a small yet comfortable cottage situated by the pool on the pristine grounds of the Dunhill Estate, a heavily guarded fortress set in the countryside north of Chicago. In his new urban locale, only the red brick walls defined the open living space. A stainless steel kitchen glistened at one end, with a large bed on the other. A seating area separated the two with a leather sofa and chairs sitting on a colorful Persian rug.

Taken from the estate, his unique collection of ornately framed oil paintings and oversized tapestries adorned the massive walls of rough brick, the artwork glorifying ancient battles and death forever frozen in time. As his eyes drifted from one piece to the other, the violence depicted conjured up savage imagery from his past. A dark memorial to mind-numbing loss.

When his somber mood threatened to influence his entire morning, a faint scent kindled his senses with a remembrance.

Her perfume.

He closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the fragrance of Raven Mackenzie. The subtle aroma of her skin, mixed with perfume, created an intoxicating blend. An image of her dark eyes possessed him even when she was not around—eyes capable of great passion, fiery anger, and unforgettable good humor. Feeling like an addict, Christian reached for the pillow next to him, holding it to his face for a fix. He cradled its softness to his bare chest.

God, she's burrowed under my skin!

In his life, serenity was a fleeting commodity. She had been a welcome change, a lush tropical oasis set amidst a fierce, sun-baked desert. Rare and refreshing like a pond of cool water in a thousand miles of hot sand.

Even with the recent upheaval of his past and the misery it launched, Raven's growing influence dominated his well-being. Saying her name aloud had become his mantra to calm his anxiety when he woke up drenched in sweat from another nightmare. And the touch of her cool fingers on his scorching flesh would sweep through his system like a panacea. Somehow, she made all the changes in his life bearable. Using compassion and gentle persuasion, she wielded a power over him unlike anyone else.

"Raven," he whispered as he opened his eyes. Her name was like a morning prayer—or a beckoning.

His phone ringing on the nightstand drew him from his thoughts. Only one person would call him at this hour. He had a smile on his face when he reached for it, and before he had a chance to say hello, her sultry greeting teased his senses.

"What are you wearing, hotshot?"

His smile broadened to a grin. Blood rushed to his cheeks.
And elsewhere.

"Nothing . . . but a smile." His body reacted to the honeyed sound of her voice. He moved under the sheets, a morning erection inspired by Raven. "I missed you this morning."

"Oh, I like the sound of that. And have I ever told you how much I love your sleepy voice?" Her deep sigh teased his ear, as if she were next to him. He imagined the hot velvet of her skin driving him to the brink of sanity. But the reality of her job, as homicide detective for the Chicago PD, broke the spell.

"Tony and I got called out on a domestic turned bad. Open and shut homicide, but the paperwork still adds up. Not sure when I'll finish here, but I'm heading your way when I'm done, honey. And I'll bring breakfast. Keep the light burning for me?"

"Always. And I'll unlock the elevator, send it down. I'm gonna work out, so look for me in the dojo."

"You should save your strength for my kind of workout," she purred, whispering another suggestion into the receiver. "Maybe we can compromise. When I get there . . . keep the blindfold on. I love a man of mystery."

Christian was a sucker for her blindfold game, Raven's sensual idea of foreplay.

"Can't wait." He laughed softly at her teasing directed at his workout routine.

She had witnessed how he immersed himself in total darkness with a blindfold to hone his hunting skills. His self-contrived method to overcome his fear of the dark had been his redemption and his curse, isolating him from others. But Raven never criticized him for his fixation. She accepted him—demons and all. One of the things he loved most about her. Only one item on a growing list.

After hanging up the phone, he threw the covers back and sat on the edge of his bed, his thoughts lingering on her.

Yet even she couldn't distract him enough to shake the feeling that had plagued him for days.
Anxious
would not begin to describe the hollowness he felt— or the inexplicable anticipation. The combination punch of dread and exhilaration manifested itself in waves of nervous energy and lack of focus. Something had to give. He needed a workout in the worst way. Only complete exhaustion might remedy the unsettling sensation.

Dressed only in his pa jama bottoms, he headed for his bathroom. A faint murmur forced him to stop. A premonition tugged at his awareness. Surrendering to the moment, he looked back over his shoulder until his eyes found what he searched for with his heart.

A black and white photograph of Fiona Dunhill hung on a far wall.

Her eyes found his from across the room. The noise he heard earlier held a familiarity. It had sounded like the whisper of a woman, or perhaps merely a distorted recollection. It nudged his consciousness, more of an illusion with words indistinct. Whatever headed his way had something to do with the woman he recently discovered was his mother. As he gazed at her photo, the feeling of dread swelled in his chest and confirmed his suspicion.

He feared the worst. One of his many demons stood at the threshold of his mind. And Christian felt certain it wouldn't wait for an invitation to walk through the door.

A cool morning breeze swept off Lake Michigan and through the city, stirring vitality in its wake. The pale orange dawn prodded the last vestiges of the night sky aside, leaving the wakening sun to spear its brightness across the skyline of downtown Chicago, spreading its warmth. Raven Mackenzie squinted as she stepped out the glass door, the front entrance to Central Station, with Tony Rodriguez at her side. It had been a very long night, but her partner was working off a caffeine high in his usual fashion, sharing his unique view of the world.

"All I'm sayin' is, you should take a vacation together. Now that's a real test. Maybe a little heart-shaped hot tub action in the Poconos or helping each other pick sand out of every nook and cranny on Waikiki beach, slathered in coconut oil. If you survive that, then maybe it's meant to be."