The Wrong Hostage (16 page)

T
IJUANA
E
ARLY
S
UNDAY EVENING

G
RACE SLEPT FROM
E
NSENADA
to Tijuana. The sound of traffic became part of her, transformed into a relentless, primitive beat. Maybe it was exhaustion that let down her barriers, maybe it was simply that she fell asleep breathing the same air as Joe Faroe, but she slept deeply, dreaming of him. The images and sensations were frank with sexual need. Hot. Heady. Hungry. She woke up with flushed cheeks and a feeling of disorientation.

Faroe was driving in four-abreast traffic on a three-lane street. Newspaper vendors, flower hawkers, and lottery shills danced in and out of the stop-and-go traffic. Astride polished Harleys, pairs of big-bellied cops tried to maintain order. Cars parted around them like water around river boulders.

Many laws were ignored, yet beneath the appearance of chaos there obviously was an informal system understood by the drivers. The result wasn’t orderly or neat, but it worked well enough to keep traffic moving.

Off to the north Grace saw the blazing lights of San Diego, a few miles and half a world away. She longed for a bath, longed to strip off the years and start all over again in a new, raw world, where past lies wouldn’t exist.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Ah, she lives, she breathes. How do I know this? She asks questions.”

She smiled, found herself watching his mouth, and flushed, remembering her dream.

“We had such a good time at the Encantamar that I thought we’d try a new hotel,” Faroe said dryly. “We’re going to the Hotel del Fiesta Palace. It’s out by the world’s most famous dog track.”

“Are we meeting Hector at the hotel or the track?”

“The track, in about three hours. The hotel offers a good view. I’ve worked the track before, so I’ve got the layout memorized. But the hotel room will give me a chance to make a long-distance recon before I meet with that crazy bastard.”

“We,” she said. “I’m going with you.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be in the same room with him.”

“I don’t. So what? I didn’t want any of this, but here it is anyway.”

They drove on, fighting into the Zona Río traffic. As they negotiated the roundabout at the foot of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, Grace spotted the Plaza Río.

“Hector is a clotheshorse,” she said. “Ironed jeans, pristine white shirt, ostrich-skin boots, and a hunk of neck jewelry that would choke a horse.”

“So?”

“If this is all about macho and command presence, we lose. We look like dog crap. Is there time to shop?”

Faroe looked at himself in the mirror. Dog crap looked back. “Good point. We can afford half an hour.”

He drove to valet parking and slipped the attendant half of a twenty-dollar bill.

“Half an hour,” Faroe said to Grace as they got out.

“Do we synchronize our watches?” she asked sardonically.

“Better move,
amada
. You’re wasting seconds.”

She left him behind before they reached the entrance. He started to follow her, then remembered how he looked and went shopping instead. He barely made it back to the valet stand in time. She was already there, three shopping bags on her shoulder, waiting for him. He handed the valet the other half of the twenty and showed another five.

The Mercedes appeared with impressive speed. Not a scratch, a nick, or a dent anywhere.

Even so, Faroe breathed a sigh of relief after he’d fought through traffic to the thirty-story Fiesta Palace and handed the keys over to a bellman.
Nobody who knew what Faroe knew drove a car as expensive as Grace’s SUV into Mexico and expected to bring the vehicle home intact.

The hotel’s stainless steel and gleaming glass turned the reflected skyline of Tijuana into something mysterious and beautiful. While Faroe checked them into the hotel, Grace stared at the colors of the city. They rippled and flowed, unearthly, and she was floating with them, everything spinning away.

A shower. That’s all I need. A long hot shower. Then maybe a short nap
.

Or something
.

The hours between now and the meeting with Hector stretched in front of her like an eternity. Nowhere to go. No way to forget. Nothing to do but wait until waiting was an animal eating her alive from the inside out.

Lane, are you all right?

“Stop thinking about your son,” Faroe said.

Her head snapped toward him. “How did you know?”

“The way you looked. Thinking about him doesn’t do any good and can do a lot of harm.” He took her arm and led her toward the elevator.

Grace’s hands clenched. So did her whole body.

“See what I mean?” Faroe said. “You went from looking blindsided by life to vibrating like a wire stretched to the breaking point. You’re wasting energy.”

“How do you not think about something?”

“Do you want to hurt Lane?” Faroe asked, sticking the key in the lock.

“No!”

“Then think about something else.”

Like how much I want to touch you?
Grace thought raggedly.
And how much you don’t want to touch me? God knows you’ve had plenty of opportunity
.

And every time, you don’t follow through
.

She’d done the same, but she wasn’t feeling charitable about it at the moment. Given the choice of thinking about Hector, Lane, or Faroe, Faroe was the least of the three evils. It was easier to feel angry than rejected, so anger was the flavor of the moment.

Faroe opened the door and nudged her into the suite overlooking the
dog track. He dumped her packages in one bedroom and his own packages in the other and went to stand at the side of the window. After a long look, he turned and walked to his bedroom.

“Shower,” he said without looking at her. “That’s what I’m going to do. No dog crap allowed near Hector Rivas Osuna.”

Without a word Grace went to her bedroom, walked straight into the bathroom, and began stripping. Moments later she was alone in a fancy marble and chrome bathroom with an orgy-sized, double-headed shower.

She told herself that it didn’t matter to her that Faroe hadn’t even tried to talk her into sharing a shower. Her body told her that it did matter, and that she was a fool to be lathering herself with fragrant French milled soap just to crawl into bed for another nap.

Alone.

But it beat the alternative, which was to lie awake trying not to think about things she couldn’t change.

Right. Think about Faroe
.

The son of a bitch
.

She washed her hair with French shampoo from the suite’s complimentary supply. Then she washed it again. Like the shampoo, the conditioner smelled like sin and sex in paradise. She wanted to rub it all over her body, but settled for just her hair and hoped that the body lotion was half as appealing as the rest of the toiletries.

It was. Cool, fresh, perfumed but not overpowering, the lotion vanished into her skin.

Eat your heart out, Mr. Feel-Nothing Man. Shower alone until you turn into a pink prune
.

She toweled her hair thoroughly, shook her head, and finger-combed the result. Her ancestors had given her smooth, thick hair that required only a good cut to behave.

Faroe knocked on the bathroom door. “Supper’s ready.”

Obviously he didn’t linger in the shower, wishing that he wasn’t alone
.

“Okay” was all she said.

“Better hurry. It’ll get cold.”

In the presence of a deep freeze, what wouldn’t?

Part of Grace knew that she was being unfair, that she hadn’t exactly jumped Faroe’s bones or even tried to. But most of Grace just wanted to smack Faroe for never following through on the smoldering looks and equally hot touches.

Screw him
.

She almost laughed out loud. That was the problem, wasn’t it? She could hardly screw an unwilling man.

With a muttered word, she pulled on one of the hotel’s terry-cloth robes, buttoned it at the neck, and cinched it firmly around her waist. Barefoot, she walked into the suite.

A candlelit meal for two waited. The golden flames flickered over plates of steak, salad, fruit, cheese, and puffy rolls. The scent of food told Grace that she was hungry for more than sex.

You’re a high-octane woman
.

As usual, the son of a bitch was right.

The SOB in question was sitting deep in the shadow of an easy chair he’d dragged over to the window, staring through binoculars. The floor-to-ceiling glass looked out on the grandstands and the dirt track of Hipódromo Tijuana. Beyond, the city fell away into the bright lights of commercial and high-end real estate. The dimly lit shadows that pocked the glitter were
colonias
and barrios, where trash and poverty, rage and hope lived in unholy matrimony.

The candlelight wasn’t for a romantic dinner. It was to keep anyone from seeing Faroe at work with the binoculars.

“See anything useful?” Grace asked.

“Not yet.”

She sat at the table, poured herself a little red wine from the uncorked bottle, and began eating. A bite of steak told her that it had been seared over a wood fire. The Caesar salad was delicious and authentic down to the raw egg in the dressing. The wine was a Mexican varietal she didn’t recognize but liked at first taste.

Faroe walked over, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat across from Grace. A single look told her that he’d showered, shaved, and was dressed in new jeans and a dark green guayabera that was the exact color of his eyes. The same soap she’d used must have been in his shower, too. He
smelled of sin and sex.

One out of two ain’t bad,
Grace told herself bitterly.

Silently the two of them devoured the food. Not until the last savory bit was gone did Faroe say a word.

“We have two hours until we meet Hector,” Faroe said. “Unless whatever you’re keeping from me is really complicated, that should be plenty of time.”

Grace’s head snapped up. “What are you talking about?”

“You. You’re hiding something, something that has to do with this case. Not good. Not good at all. I don’t want to go up against Hector with a partner who’s lying to me.”

Her stomach knotted. She pushed away from the table so fast that she nearly knocked over her wine.

“Where are you going?” Faroe asked.

“To get dressed.”

He moved quickly, blocking her, forcing her to meet his eyes. She backed away like she’d been burned.

“What is it?” he asked. “You’re acting like you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m the one who tracked you down, remember?”

He shrugged. “You were desperate. I was the only outlaw you knew.”

She watched as he took a gliding step toward her. Candlelight flickered over his face, his eyes, heightening the intensity that was so much the core of him. She wanted to back up more. She wanted to step forward until she could taste him.

She didn’t move.

“At first I thought that it was the outlaw in me that scared you,” Faroe said, watching the pulse in her neck. “But the longer we’ve been together, the less that flies. You’re not a woman to be frightened without reason.”

“You’re an intimidating man.”

“Bullshit,
amada
. Not where you’re concerned. You wrap me around your little finger with a smile or a tear.”

Her eyes widened. “You could have fooled me.”

“I could have, but I didn’t. And I won’t. Can you say the same to me?”

She was in the middle of the room and she felt like her back was to the wall.

“I thought so,” he said softly, watching her frantic pulse. “What are you hiding from me?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

She just shook her head.

“When we face Hector, there won’t be any room for secrets or games between us,” Faroe said. “It’s called divide and conquer. Don’t do that to us. Don’t do that to Lane.”

T
IJUANA
S
UNDAY EVENING

S
ILENCE GREW, STRANGLING
G
RACE.
Numbly she watched Faroe circle her, blocking any escape to the hallway. She couldn’t move. She could barely think.

Then rage burned through the numbness.

He could have made this easy
.

He didn’t
.

“I misjudged you,” she said through thin lips. “You’re brilliant, ruthless, skilled in things I’d rather not imagine, and a blind idiot who couldn’t see the truth when you put your arm around it!”

Faroe picked through her words, looking for meaning. “I don’t understand.”

“Ya think?” She glared at him and thought of how sweet it would be to just smack the ignorant, arrogant man.

Faroe blocked Grace’s open hand before her palm hit his cheek. Then his fingers circled her wrist and held it, restraining her without hurting her.

Shocked, she looked at her hand as if it belonged to someone else. “I wanted to smack you, but I can’t imagine I actually tried to. What’s happening to me?”

“Good things.”

“Good?
Good?
I tried to hit you!”

“I didn’t know how hard I was pushing you. Now I do.” He kissed her
hand and gently forced it back to her side, held it there, keeping her close. “You’re too tightly wrapped,
amada
. You’re going to explode if you don’t let out whatever is eating you alive.”

“Whatever is—my son is a hostage! Isn’t that enough reason?”

“I thought so. I was wrong. Tell me the rest of it.”

She tried to wrench her hand out of Faroe’s grip. He was too quick, too strong. She tried to turn against his grip. His arm circled her, held her still.

Close.

“And the next time you want to clock someone,” he said, smiling slightly, “don’t think about it. Just do it. That way your body language won’t telegraph your intentions.”

He was only inches away. She could feel his breath across the damp strands of hair that clung to her face. The dreamy, delicate kiss he brushed over the curve of her neck made her shiver. In the shadowy light his expression was calm, focused, and his eyes watched her much too intently.

She wasn’t as good at cat and mouse as he was.

“A long time ago, you told me that you weren’t a very good liar,” he said. “Remember?”

“No,” she lied.

“You said you doubted that you could fake anything important, particularly not in bed.”

A ripple of emotion went through her. She closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t betray herself.

Her lies.

“That was a long time ago,” she said in a low voice. “Things change.”

“Not everything. Not your core.”

His hand opened the button at the neck of her robe, then dropped to the sash. The bowknot came undone with a single tug.

She grabbed the lapels of the robe, holding it closed. Part of her wanted Faroe so much she ached. Part of her still wanted to smack him. All of her was in chaos. Caught between conflicting emotions, she trembled.

Faroe’s left hand tugged at the edge of the robe and pulled it slowly aside. The terry cloth was rough against the back of his hand. Her skin was
smooth, warm, her nipples dark pebbles eager to be touched.

“You were right,” he said. “Your body doesn’t lie.”

“Damn you,” she whispered.

“I can live with damnation if I have you.”

He shifted so that both hands cupped her breasts, teased her nipples. Then his right hand slid down and across hot curls, found moisture, dipped lightly, then again. Heat spilled into his hand.

“This is truth,
amada,
” he said against her lips. “In this we don’t have secrets and never did. That’s why you haunted me. No other woman came close to what you gave me in those few days.”

Grace didn’t have to say there had been no other man like Faroe for her. The truth was hot and wet in his palm.

“See?” he murmured, brushing kisses over her lips, her chin, the taut tendon in her neck. His free hand took one of hers and pressed it against his erection. “No secrets. I want you. You want me. Same as sixteen years ago. One look and neither of us looked anywhere else.”

Her eyelids lowered halfway as she slid her palm down his hard length. She didn’t try to conceal the hunger shivering through her.

“The only difference between now and then,” he said against her mouth, “is that I’m smart enough not to let you slip through my fingers again. This time I’m going to see where it goes.”

Grace took his kiss and gave it back to him with interest, until both of them were breathing raggedly and struggling to get closer still. Then she tore her mouth away.

“Is this what you want?” she asked.

“You know it is.”

“Is it all you want?”

He smiled almost sadly, kissed her eyelids, tasted the faint salt of tears she hadn’t shed. “No. I want the rest of the truth. Sixteen years ago I believed you set me up. It was the only thing that made sense, until after the trial, when I was quietly told the setup came from my side of the street.”

She leaned her forehead against his chin. “I know. Now.”

“My fault,” he said, rocking her slowly in his arms. “I went crazy when they put the cuffs on me. I had a lot shorter fuse back then. Prison taught
me to keep a lid on it.”

She almost laughed wildly. She really hoped he’d learned, because when she told him about Lane…

If she told him about Lane.

When
she told him about Lane.

This gentle, tough, sexy son of a bitch was right—they couldn’t face Hector when there was a time bomb ticking between them.

“
Amada,
I don’t know what you want from me,” Faroe whispered into her hair.

She lifted her head and looked at him. He saw clarity and fear, sadness and determination.

“I want to make love with you,” she said. “I want to forget for just a little while what year it is, what hour. Then no more secrets. But you have to promise me one thing now.”

“Name it.”

“No matter what the secret is, you won’t walk away and leave Lane in Hector’s hands.”

“I can’t think of anything you could say that would make me do that.”

Her smile slipped and turned upside down. “I can. Your word?”

“Yes.”

Grace didn’t wait for Faroe to change his mind. She undid his jeans and slipped a hand inside, burrowing and rubbing until she freed him from his clothing.

And all the while she kissed him the way she wanted him, hard and deep and hot.
Now
.

“God,” he said hoarsely.

After that he saved his breath for what they both wanted. He pulled a condom out of his jeans, unwrapped it, and sheathed himself. Then he lifted one of her legs around his waist. She made a wild, hungry sound and climbed him until she could feel his erection sliding close to home. A wall slapped against her back. She welcomed it because it forced her closer to him.

She came when he entered her, came again as he drove into her to find his own fierce climax, came a third time while he leaned against her and tried to breathe past the wet fist squeezing him, pleasuring them. She gave
a final shudder, tried to speak, couldn’t. Her legs slid bonelessly from him. She would have kept on going to the floor if he hadn’t been holding her between himself and the wall.

He laughed as he felt his own strength returning, but the bed was still too far away. He let them slide down the wall onto the thick rug, and began moving inside her again.

Her eyes opened. They were dark, dazed by spent passion and the new need building in her.

In him.

“Joe?”

“Like I said,
amada
. For some things, once just isn’t enough.”