Sky's Lark (3 page)

He began to backpedal into the shadows once more. "Go on, dove. You're free." In between blinks, he disappeared, his tall, sturdy frame vanishing into the darkness.

Lark shook her head, still off balance from the encounter. He called her dove. Pretty close guess at her name. Dang lucky on his part.

Her fingers brushed over her slightly puffy lips. Definitely a talented kisser. She couldn't recall a single man that knocked her off her feet with a mere chaste meeting of lips. Too bad he was a jerk and a thug. The former she could deal with, the latter meant
hasta la vista
in her list of relationship rules. All the sexual prowess and abilities in the world couldn't stand up to a man with honor and courage. In her dreams, all those qualities combined into a single hunky Adonis of a male specimen, while reality fell short time and time again. Pretty faces covered not-so-nice inner workings more often than not. She fell into that trap once and promised herself to never play in muck again, especially where her heart was concerned.

Shoving the sobering thought aside, she trotted up the stairs, eager to hit the hot water spray and turn into a mush of pudding for the rest of the night.

Chapter 3

"I want her found. Immediately," Santora snarled at the agent dressed in a charcoal gray suit as he slammed his fist on the table. His face pinched in fury, his nostrils flared as he sucked in air.

Instead of going straight to jail after his abduction, a DEA van had transported him to his present holding cell, a small room surrounded by glass windows with a sole locked door. A wooden table sat in the center of the area with three metal chairs. An interrogation chamber if he ever saw one, better than a torture room, but duller and full of limitations with the stark exception of the man presently sharing the space.

"You've got bigger problems than a dumb chit." The blond man known as Thomas shook his head. "Someone wants you either put away for life or dead."

Santora threw up his hands in agitation. "Someone always wants me dead. The price you pay for doing business. That's why I hire men, men like you, to protect me and ensure I remain alive to make money."

"If it's another drug lord, we haven't found the connection. This order came from higher up, someone with power and the ability to make heads roll." Refusing to sit, Thomas stood against one wall, his face devoid of expression.

"I don't give a fuck if it came from the Pope himself. No one double crosses me and no fucking
puta
gets away with crushing my nuts." He turned to fix the American with a stare. "Find her. I don't care how you do it or how much money you put on her head. She must be brought to me alive as we have unfinished business to attend to."

"Bring her to you? You're in the middle of the DEA office. I suppose one of your gang will simply march her in with a red bow around her neck like a Christmas puppy?"

"My lawyer will have me out today. They will bring her to the compound. Offer up a million for her unharmed return." He patted his lips with long, thin fingers.

"I'm not sure even your lawyer has the ability to get you out," Thomas admitted wearily.

"What? You are in charge around here, is that not right? Make it happen, bastard, or I'll find someone else that can. Those who are no longer useful feed the fish." His words were clipped through tight lips, leaving no doubt what the price of failure would be.

Standing, Thomas gave a quick nod, running fingers through his short hair. "I'll get to work on it." He knocked on the soundproof door to catch the attention of the guard across the room monitoring the outside door. With one more look, he slipped out, presumably to arrange for Santora's release.

"She will pay for her audacity." The quiet promise carried across the vacant room.

He possessed money, influence, and connections galore, every tier from the lowliest street walker to the DEA supervisor. They all jumped when he yanked their strings.

Once more he thought of the petite blonde who had flirted outlandishly, then teased mercilessly before nearly unmanning him in the backseat of his car. Under ordinary circumstances he might consider keeping her for a while, plundering the depths of her body while flexing the muscle of his dominance, forcing her submission and willingness to obey his every wish.

But now she would pay as no other before her. She and whoever sent her as bait like the sirens that lured men to their death. The tables would turn this time, leaving her at his mercy.

The thought put a smile back on his face.

Chapter 4

Bryce "Sky" Winters watched the petite blonde trot up the stairs with ease despite the four-inch stilettos that would send most women to the emergency room. Her svelte form held strength, much more than he would have given her credit for. Bold blue eyes and cropped blonde hair accentuated her eye-catching looks. In another time and place, he could see her cheering for her local high school football team, flashing pompoms as she danced and pranced in front of a crowd of spectators.

DEA, she claimed. He mentally shrugged. Could be. She spoke too well and held far too much confidence to be a prostitute, no matter what story her clothing told. For that matter, she could have just as easily been a secretary, waitress, or librarian, although he never remembered seeing a single librarian that looked and dressed like that even on a night off.

Waiting until the door clicked behind her, he clung to the shadows, ensuring the little trick made her way safely inside before the other group members got further ideas in their heads than a simple bet that he couldn't steal a kiss from the blonde bombshell.

A damn fine kiss in his opinion, surprising as hell considering the situation and an innate belief that the woman wanted to kick his ass for making such a demand. She possessed the fortitude to try, anyway. Not that he bought into the jazz that women were weaker and men dominated. Growing up with three sisters, he knew better. Women weren't weaker, they were sneaky and quick, and could usually dance around a lust-sick man with ease.

A lamp in the upstairs window clicked on, throwing dim light farther across the dark lot. But no silhouette teased him with brief glimpses of the superb female body he had held close. It was just as well. The kind of distraction she presented was the last thing he needed in the middle of the most critical and dangerous undercover job he ever ventured into. If he didn't keep on his toes, he'd end up floating in the ocean instead of pursuing a pretty blonde filly after he completed the present assignment. As it was, he almost let the cat out of the bag by confessing his undercover status to counter her DEA claim. Only his old-school training clamped his mouth shut before he uttered words that could be used for blackmail or lead to his immediate elimination from the party. There were plenty of other women around that might lead him on a merry chase before he lassoed them, probably not as fine as the one that just left his arms, though. All would have to wait.

Turning, he strolled confidently back to the small group of men hanging back at the street corner, a good hundred yard dash from the apartment building. Pasting a haughty expression on his face, he addressed the young man that had staked the bet. "Pay up, Valez."

Valez dug into his pocket, pulling out a small wad of bills. "She pretty
puta
, huh?"

Bryce shrugged. The sooner he could steer the gang's focus off of the woman, the better for her. Taking the money offered up, he stuffed it into his jeans pocket without bothering to count the bills. First, it would be an affront to the small bunch, and second, he never took his attention off the men longer than a few seconds.

A new figure crossed the street, his gaze locking on Bryce. "You're just standing around? Not working?"

Bryce shifted his focus from one of the youngest and least powerful members to the unofficial leader, known for his outgoing audacity, in-your-face arrogance, and merciless leadership. No one in their right mind trusted the Latino, yet no one dared disrespect him, either. Not if they wanted to keep all their body parts in place and live to see another dawn.

Rodriguez grinned, showing a large gap between his front teeth, while others appeared broken, chipped, or plain missing. A scorpion tattoo covered one side of his neck, while other random ink spread across his forearms, presumably a reminder of his younger gang days before he rose to a mediocre position within the Santora organization.

"Give me something to do. Standing around doing nothing makes me antsy," Bryce complained.

A month ago, his supervisor had pulled him into the district office to offer a new assignment. The DEA needed a favor, and due to his heritage, experience, and background, they singled him out. The hush-hush assignment, known to only three men including Bryce, would flush out the minor dealers, middle management, and those with power and money pulling the puppet strings within the authorities to allow easy work for Santora's goons.

A day later, he was officially on loan to the Phoenix DEA. An old informant with connections positioned him in a local group with direct ties to the drug lord known as Santora. The group took a while to thaw to his presence, testing him time and again, but after a few sessions of going head-to-head with Rodriguez, he gained their respect if not their trust. Thus, he was fairly secure in his position to watch and learn how Santora got drugs to the local dealers and why the local police looked the other way.

He knew names and rendezvous sites of everyone from the corner street dealer to the delivery men. What he didn't have was the big wig greasing the wheels of Santora's operation while raking in millions in pay off.

"Relax, amigo. Soon, perhaps tonight, we will hear."

"You go after that woman, Marks? If no, I may." A teenager, fairly new to the group taunted, using the name the informant tagged on him at the beginning of the operation.

"Probably not bright. She mentioned pepper spray and a cop boyfriend." Bryce shifted his weight, longing once more for the comfort of his old scuffed up cowboy boots rather than the plain black tennis shoes that matched his attire.

"No problemo. Local cops, they ignore us." The teen waved his hand dismissively.

"Mess with a cop's old lady and they may start paying attention. Way too much attention. You wanna explain to the boss why the cops are tailing your ass?" Rodriguez took up the argument, effectively shutting down the kid and conversation at hand.

Bryce flicked his gaze over the three remaining young men, noting they didn't speak, hands in pockets, submissive in stance as well as attitude. He almost felt pity for the younger members emerging from the projects with no money, little home life, and absolutely no idea of how to survive in the harsh reality of their world except through gangs, drugs, and stealing. Too many of them fell through the cracks at a young age, leaving them little choice and a predicted lifespan of less than twenty-one years full of violence, need, and desperation.

A cell phone ring cut through the impromptu silence. Rodriguez answered on the second chime, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Less than a minute later, he shut the phone. "Pickup time."

With that declaration, Rodriguez spun and strode off, the other men hard on his heels.

Bryce brought up the rear, keeping each one where he could see them, stalking silently across the pavement. He remained alive by practicing near-paranoid caution. Slipping behind enemy lines, snaking through compounds and enclosures during his military years had taught him well. Caution was a requirement as he reinvented himself in order to go deep undercover, to learn the ways and means of a new group, necessary to feed information to his superiors and take down high-stakes operations from the inside. His honed skills, multilingual abilities, and raw determination had landed him his current position and would hopefully pull him out—skin intact—sooner rather than later.

Chapter 5

Lark grabbed her duffel bag before marching out her apartment door and into the early morning light. She glanced around the immediate area, finding no sign of the man she had encountered the night before. A mixture of relief and disappointment settled over her as she headed down the stairs and to her waiting Mustang.

For some reason, he stuck in her mind like bees to a beehive. Each time she confidently shoved the memory aside, it crept back, tantalizing her with intrigue and curiosity, not to mention the sizzling hot kiss.

Boy howdy, he could kiss.

Men came and went in her life, some faster than others. She liked it that way. No strings, no attachments, no man sitting his butt on the couch hollering for her to bring him a beer as he watched hour after hour of football on the TV. She controlled her life, did as she liked, and answered to no one. A girl's dream, in her opinion.

But this guy caught her interest. Not just the handsome face attached to a drool-worthy frame, but the innate delicacy in his handling of her. Any other guy would have used force and brute strength to dominate the situation. Instead, he chose the opposite tactic, completely surprising her into stillness and guaranteeing she would stand steady for the moments needed to complete his goal. She would give him credit where credit was due. However, that didn't alleviate the problem at hand; his thug status trumped the rest of his persuasive sex appeal.

For a brief moment she considered trying to locate him so she could persuade him to fall on the right side of the law, reform himself into a model citizen. Just as quickly, she discarded the idea. People had to change themselves, and for bad or worse, he chose this profession. It took rare strength and courage to rise above humble beginnings, to dig out of generations of poverty, to swim against the current until you caught a tenuous foothold on a faraway beach, full of marvelous opportunities to those motivated enough with hard work and dedication to claim the prize. Unless an individual set his goal along those lines, with boundaries of steel, they tended to stray back to what they knew: crime.