Echoes (20 page)

“I can't do this.” In the whispered words, he heard both guilt and shame. “I'm not strong enough.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“How can you say that? You haven't even known me a week.”

He had no answer. In five short days he'd completely revised his opinion of her. Granted, his first impression had been less than charitable, based on her similarity to Nikki, but the woman in his arms was light-years different from the one he'd married, and not just in looks. The soft curves pressed against him masked a strength of character and depth of feeling completely foreign to Nikki Lewis.

***

Callie could feel the slow, steady beat of Mac's heart beneath her cheek. His solid warmth was comforting, and she pressed herself even closer, amazed that he thought her strong. Under normal circumstances, she would agree, but now . . . she'd never felt less competent, less in control. Without him, she'd be dead. And now she was relying on him to save Erin as well. She pulled away slightly to ask him how long he thought it would be before they heard from the kidnappers, but when she looked up into his face, the words dried up and her brain short-circuited.

In her need for stability and comfort, she'd somehow managed to forget the man's overwhelming sexual impact. The eyes that met hers were alive with desire, and a shock of heat so intense it was almost painful speared through her. He took the cell from her suddenly nerveless fingers and laid it on the television next to him. Moving slowly, he slid a hand beneath her hair to stroke the nape of her neck with one, calloused thumb. The caress echoed through her entire body. She drew in a shuddering breath, and his gaze fixed on her slightly parted lips.

“Callie,” he murmured roughly, her name both plea and warning.

She leaned in, rising to her toes, and pressed her mouth to his as she ran her fingers up his torso to tangle in the waves of his hair. With a groan that sounded almost like surrender, he dragged her closer still, wresting control of the kiss, devouring her with lips, tongue, teeth. She could feel every muscle of his chest through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, and through the denser fabric of his jeans the evidence that his desire matched her own. Instinctively, she wrapped one leg around his waist, trying to draw him even more tightly against her. Without removing his mouth from hers, he anchored her with an arm about her waist, then reached down and urged her other leg up, so that he supported her totally. The skirt bunched around her middle, and for a moment, reality intruded—Callie was no lightweight; how could such a position possibly be comfortable for him?—but then he shifted, cupping her nearly bare butt in one hand as he began to walk toward the bedroom, and conscious thought was sucked away on a wave of sensation.

He laid her on the bed, then stood looking down at her. His breathing was ragged, his eyes bright, but he didn't join her.

“Are you sure?” The words were harsh, sibilant, spoken with a locked jaw and clenched teeth. It cost him, that nobility, and if Callie hadn't already been certain, it would have been the clincher. In answer, she rose to her knees and reached for the button fly of his jeans. She fumbled awkwardly with the stiff material, managing to loose only the top button as he shed his shirt.

With hands both rough and gentle, he pushed her back, then strode to the living room. She saw him reach for something on the desk, but before she could make sense of the move, he had returned, a small packet in his hands. He tossed the condom to the nightstand and joined her on the bed, rolling so she sat astride him. Unclothed, his shoulders and arms seemed impossibly muscular, wide chest covered with only a slight dusting of hair that arrowed down, irresistibly drawing both her eyes and hands.

As her fingers trailed his skin, he shuddered and reached up to tug the elastic from her hair. He slid his fingers through the braid, unraveling it until her unruly hair hung completely loose and free.

“Better,” he murmured. “God, I love your hair.”

She could feel the heat of a blush stain her cheeks.

“Oh, yeah, and that, too.” He ran a long finger down her throat. “Let's see where that starts.” He gripped the hem of her shirt and quickly stripped it over her head. Her bra followed in short order, at which point he reversed their positions, pinning her beneath him.

His mouth found hers again, but this time he didn't linger there, moving on to her jaw, her neck. When his bristled chin rubbed her nipple, every muscle in her body tensed and a mewling cry like nothing she'd ever uttered escaped her throat. What was he doing to her? She'd never reacted this way to anyone. Not ever.

His tongue soothed the abraded skin of her breast, and she found herself sobbing, begging for she knew not what. His mouth, wet and feverishly hot, moved to her other breast while he hooked his thumbs through the waistband of her skirt and panties and, in a single, fluid move, dragged them from her body. Once again she reached for the buttons of his jeans, but once again the heavy fabric defeated her. Impatient, he pulled away and shucked them—and the briefs beneath them—himself.

She had only a moment to marvel at the sheer, masculine perfection of his body before it once again covered her own. He pressed against her, trapping her legs between his own, holding them together, but she wanted more. She wanted him inside her, immediately, if not sooner. When she twisted, trying to separate her legs, to draw him in, he chuckled softly, the rumble passing from his body into hers.

“Slow down, sugar,” he murmured against her lips. His drawl was thick and honey-sweet, but the underlying rasp excited every nerve ending in her skin.

“Please,” she whispered. “Mac, please.”

In reply, he kissed her, fast and hot, then reached for the packet. When he ripped it open, the prosaic sound brought her halfway back down to earth (What was she doing? How did he happen to have protection handy?), but she was too far gone to heed the concerns that seemed so distant, and the moment he had the condom out, she stole it from him and shoved him to his back. Her hands shook as she rolled the thin sheath down his hot length. It was an act she'd never performed before, and the sight of her own fingers sliding down his body transfixed her.

***

Mac lay perfectly still, almost afraid to move. The sensation of Callie's delicate fingers on him was bad enough, but the expression on her face could be his undoing. The rapt attention laced with greedy anticipation almost had him coming in her hands. He'd had no shortage of lovers, but he couldn't remember a woman ever looking at him in quite that way.

When he could take it no longer, he reversed their positions. She was panting, her body twisting beneath his, pushing against him. The wild mix of desire and innocence gave him pause—she was clearly running on instinct, not experience. But her long legs parted, and her hesitant fingers positioned him, and he could no more prevent himself from plunging into her than he could stop the world turning on its axis. She drew in a sharp, hissing breath, which she let out on a little sob, and he took her mouth again, mingling breaths as they mingled bodies.

He was completely attuned to her, his body mirroring her every tremor, every inhalation, every stroke and clench and arch. When he felt the convulsions begin deep within her, he tried to hold back, to control his reaction, but it was impossible. He followed her over the edge.

It seemed hours later he came back to himself and slid from her body, then from the bed to clean up. When he returned, she had drawn the covers up. Her eyes were closed, her wildly curling hair covering most of her face. She wasn't asleep; she was hiding. He rounded the bed and slipped in beside her, pulling her close and positioning her head on his shoulder.

“Too fast,” he murmured against her hair. “Sorry, sweetheart, next time will be better.”

***

Better?
Callie almost choked. For him, maybe. For her, she couldn't imagine better. She was wrung out, completely destroyed. Better would kill her. Callie had never imagined herself capable of the kind of passion Mac inspired. He made her want in ways she'd never believed possible. She couldn't help but wonder whether that was a good thing.

And the fact that he just assumed there'd be a next time . . . She wasn't at all sure how to take that, either. The guy was a self-confessed adrenaline junkie; would he even be interested in her if buildings weren't blowing up around them? Would she want him if she didn't need him? He'd been married to her half sister, for crying out loud. How could she ever believe he saw her for herself?

The phone beside the bed rang. She reached for it, but Mac beat her to it. “Be right there,” he said after listening for a moment. When he hung up, he told her to get dressed, that Nash was on his way up. She started to climb out of bed, assuming he'd do the same, but he held her fast for a moment, then kissed her roughly before letting her go. She escaped to the bathroom on shaky legs.

Mac yanked on his clothes in record time and went to wait for Nash in the suite's outer room, closing the bedroom door to give Callie some privacy. She'd locked herself in the bathroom, and he could hear the shower running. Again. He hadn't had a chance to shower once, and probably smelled less than appealing, but there was nothing to do about it now.

Down the hall, elevator doors opened, and Mac saw Nash coming toward him, a grim set to his shoulders and mouth. He stepped aside to let Nash into the suite, then checked the hall before locking the door behind him.

“Hal's dead,” said Nash.

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah? You don't look sorry. You look like you spent the time he was bleeding out on the operating table fucking the woman responsible.”

Mac didn't think; he just reacted. His hands fisted in the collar of Nash's white, button-down shirt and slammed him into the wall. Nash made no effort to stop him, his gray eyes narrowing but remaining cool.

“This is not Callie's fault,” Mac said once he was sure he had Nash's attention. “She didn't ask to be hunted, and neither one of us asked you to get involved. You want out now? Take off. We'll figure it out on our own.”

“Stop it!” The door to the bedroom swung wide, and Callie stormed out. Mac loosed Nash and stepped back. “What the hell is going on?” She glanced from one man to the other.

“Nothing,” Nash assured her. “Just a little difference of opinion.”

She snorted in disbelief and turned her eyes on Mac for clarification.

“Hal died,” he said. “We're tense. It's nothing. Really.”

Callie scowled, obviously unconvinced, but let it go. “I'm sorry to hear about Hal. You had him watching Erin?”

“Yeah.” Nash rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then twisted his head to the side until the bones cracked. “I had word from some of my other contacts, though, and I'm beginning to get a sense of the shape of this thing. It's not pretty.”

“Not pretty?” Callie's voice was hard. This was changing her. She'd been the softest, most honest thing Mac had ever known when he sat with her that night on the beach, but that woman was disappearing before his eyes. “Don't you think ‘not pretty' is an understatement? My best friend is missing, and her boyfriend and your friend Hal are dead. Women have been murdered. Your building was almost blown up.”

“The world's a brutal place,” said Nash.

“Why don't I order us some coffee,” Mac interrupted before Callie could explode. “I suspect we could all use that and a bite to eat.”

“Before you do,” said Nash, his voice casual, his eyes on Callie anything but, “tell me what you know about Henry Falcone.”

He expected the name to mean something to her. Mac could see it in his expression. But after a moment's thought, Callie shook her head. “I don't know him.”

Nash studied her for a long moment.

“He took Erin? He's working for John?” Callie asked.

“I suspect it's the other way around. At least, I suspect he's provided the funding and some of the manpower. I've been chasing him for more than a decade.”

More than a decade. Nash had been aware of Falcone while still in the Army. Had Falcone been involved in the assassination of their commanding officer?

“Your Moriarty? Are you certain you're not just imagining his involvement? It seems terribly coincidental. This is my best friend's life we're talking about. I can't let you blow this because you're seeing something that isn't there.”

Mac would bet good money it was the first time anyone had dared question Nash's intel in a long time.

Nash, however, appeared unfazed. “Food,” he said. “Let's order before we start talking, because this is going to take some time.”

Mac called down an order for sandwiches, coffee, and assorted snacks, and they all settled in the living room. Mac didn't speak, letting the silence grow until Nash felt its weight and broke it.

“Henry Falcone is an arms dealer. I can tell you that, and swear it to be true, but I can't prove it. He's forty-seven years old and has been providing weapons to various parties for at least twenty-five years. He's sold to groups on terrorist watch lists in every country in Europe as well as to more traditional buyers, like several factions in civil wars in South America and parts of Africa.

“Falcone was born in Italy. His mother was a Florentine prostitute who hooked up with an American businessman of some sort in the 1960s. They settled in Miami, where both he and his mother became involved in drug trafficking. By the time he was eighteen, Falcone had been arrested twice for dealing, and had gotten heavily involved with various Colombian interests.

“He moved to Colombia for good in 1990 after he graduated college and took up with a man known to the DEA as a major player in the drug game who posed as a coffee plantation owner. Before Falcone turned thirty, his mentor died, and Falcone took over the whole operation. According to rumor, he was tired of employing people who used the products they were supposed to be selling, so he began shifting the drug portion of his business over to a lieutenant, focusing his own interest on weapons.

“There was plenty of opportunity for him at home in Colombia, and that kept him busy for a good five years. But his mentor was already on the CIA's list when he died, and despite his care, Falcone ended up there, too. Especially once he began selling weapons to various Middle East interests.”

Afghanistan. That had to be where Falcone had run afoul of Nash.
Hard on that thought came another.
Was Nash really Army when they were stationed together? Or was he CIA?

“How on earth is someone like that connected to John Lewis?” Callie asked.

“We're not sure. We're never a hundred percent positive of anything where Falcone is concerned, but here's the little we've sussed out. In the past ten years, three men we have pegged as top people in Falcone's organization have stayed at the Paradis. All of these guys have legitimate positions in society as wealthy businessmen. There's no reason they shouldn't stay at any resort they want to, but they've all chosen the Paradis, repeatedly. And virtually every time they stay at the hotel, some kind of gala event brings boats from all over the Caribbean. For all intents and purposes, it's a foolproof cover—no one can even track, let alone search, all that traffic.

“HSE has connected two of the three definitively to weapons sales, and we'd pass along the information we have to any government interested if we could tie them to Falcone. But as important as they are, they're middlemen. There's no point in taking them out of the game; it's better to be able to watch them.

“That's connection one. Connection two comes in the form of a contract killer who turned up in the East River Monday with a bullet between his eyes. He's an Argentine national, Hugo Americh, known to have done many jobs for Falcone over the years. He flew into JFK airport two days after you reported Nicole missing. No one knows where he spent the next week.”

“The gas leak,” Callie murmured. Mac nodded and passed along the details to Nash.

“That works. Quiet kills were Americh's specialty. Ostentatious ones, on the other hand, are Sonny Juarez's. Juarez operates out of Miami. Again, lots of unproven ties to Falcone, mostly through the Colombian population in Florida. Juarez flew into New York Monday, probably with orders to kill Americh for his failure. A simple miss wouldn't be a problem under normal circumstances, so we have to assume that either there was some outstanding friction between Americh and Falcone to start with, or he's having control issues generally and wants people to see what happens to those who cannot fulfill their contracts with him.”

A knock signaled the arrival of their food. Mac stood, reaching for the pistol on the coffee table and tucking it into his jeans at the small of his back before he walked over and peered through the peephole in the door. Satisfied that nothing more dangerous than bad coffee had arrived, he pulled the hem of his T-shirt over the weapon and admitted the waiter.

***

Callie couldn't quite get past Nash's matter-of-fact tone as he recited the information he'd uncovered. How had she gotten mixed up with people who took for granted that contract killers operated along a spectrum from quiet to ostentatious? Nash's employee, possibly his friend, had been killed, but he'd somehow managed to put that away after his initial outburst. She, on the other hand, could devote only half her attention to the picture he was painting, the rest of her mind consumed with Erin's abduction and Tommy's death. Emotions washed through her, and she found herself battling them back constantly, forcing herself to focus on Nash and Mac, who seemed her only hope of taking back her life and her friend's.

The waiter rolled a cart into the room. Mac signed for the delivery and ushered him out, then poured three cups of coffee, handing one to her. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting warmth seep into her veins. The air-conditioning in the room was not particularly strong, but the conversation had chilled her.

“Even if John is involved with Falcone, what interest would a man like that have in me?” she asked after a couple of sips.

“I was hoping you'd have an answer for that. Lewis probably called Falcone and asked him to lend a hand getting rid of you. If the Paradis is functioning as a transfer point for illegal weapons, the last thing either man wants is for it to pop up on law-enforcement radar, even for something like a previous owner's peccadilloes. Despite Americh's failure, Falcone probably thought he had everything under control until you escaped his men in St. Martin.”

Nash sighed and rubbed the back of his neck again. He took a drink of coffee, then pulled a club sandwich off the tray of food, took a bite, and chewed it slowly. He seemed disinclined to speak until Mac prompted him.

“What aren't you saying?”

“I pulled you out of there. And as much as I've followed Falcone, he's followed me. If he wasn't sure whose helicopter chased his men off, a quick check of the records of ownership for the building his man bombed in Tribeca would give it away. I've caused him a fair number of problems over the years, both during my stint with the DEA and in my work with HSE.

“Falcone doesn't have friends. He had a wife and daughter, but they were killed in a DEA op gone wrong. His allegiances are . . . temporary and expedient. It wouldn't occur to him I might have sent someone to get the two of you without having been in touch all these years. He'll assume Mac's been working for me, that I somehow organized his placement at the Paradis in order to poke around in the arms business. He no doubt considers the two of you far more dangerous and knowledgeable than you are.”

“Well, that's just fucking great,” Mac muttered.

“You'd rather I'd let him blow you to smithereens out there in the middle of the Caribbean?”

Again, Callie wondered at the apparent tension between the two men. It prickled along her skin, a nagging reminder of how little she really knew about either of them. She needed both, but they were operating with diverse agendas. Could she trust either of them?

“We appreciate your help,” she said in as diplomatic a tone as she could muster.

“You do,” Nash corrected, but the left side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “But I am not insensitive to the fact that I've complicated an already difficult situation. Still, I don't see any other way to have handled it.”

“No. But what do we do now?”

“Unfortunately”—the half smile disappeared—“all we can do is wait for them to call.”

“What do I say when they do?”

Mac took over. “First, you tell them you want to speak to Erin. You tell them you will be asking her three questions that only she can answer. If the answers are wrong, you'll know it's not her and you'll hang up.”

“It doesn't need to be such a production. I'll recognize her voice.”

“The questions are security,” he explained. “You have to have an interactive conversation, not something they can prerecord or get someone to imitate her voice for. But it's more than that. You need to show them that you have some idea of what they're up to, that they can't fool you. I know you feel powerless, but you can't afford to let that feeling show. They have to believe you'll hold up your end of whatever deal they propose; that will only happen if you let them think you think you're in control. They won't mind dealing with a difficult negotiator, but if they consider you some kind of emotional wildcard, they may . . . choose a different path.”

“You mean they'll kill her.”

Mac didn't answer, but when her hands started to shake, he pried the mug from them and laced his fingers with hers, lending her his strength. She couldn't look at him but held tight as she turned to Nash.

“You think this Sonny Juarez is the one who took Erin?”

“It's possible, though kidnapping is out of his usual comfort zone. The real question is who gave the orders. There's no doubt in my mind Falcone's men—whether Juarez or someone else—did the actual work, but he may have lent them to Lewis. If we could figure out who was pulling the strings, we'd have a better idea what they might want. And if we had a handle on that before they called, we'd be in a better position.”

The prepaid cell sitting on top of the television rang. Mac retrieved it, looking at the caller ID, and handed it to Callie. “It's a local cell. Maybe Erin's.”

Callie recognized the number and nodded. With a deep breath, she accepted the phone and hit the button to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Miss Pearson.” The faintest hint of an accent colored the man's voice.

“Where's Erin?”

“All in good time.”

“No.” Callie steeled herself, remembering Mac's words. She had to appear in control, no matter how she felt. “I want to speak to her now.”