Femme Fatale (25 page)

She untied the pretty fabric bag that held a tangle of bright chains and shiny earrings. Watch, yes. Necklace, got it. All she needed was—

She frowned, poking through the glittering pile with her finger. They were here. They had to be here. Panic skittered under her skin. Silly. They were right— She patted another pocket, ran her fingers along a seam.

Where were they?

“Looking for these?” Bishop drawled.

Her stomach sank. She met his eyes in the mirror for a long, significant moment before she turned.

He held out his hand. Winking in the center of his palm were two big gold earrings.

She took a step forward.

He closed his hand. “Are they yours?”

Don’t overreact.
She moistened her lips. Flashed him
a smile. “Since you got them out of my bag, I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I? Besides, they match my dress. May I have them, please?”

He didn’t withdraw his hand, but he didn’t open his fingers, either. “Where did you get them?”

“They were a gift.”

“Who gave them to you?”

She tilted her head. “Jealous, cowboy?”

“Suspicious.”

“It’s because of your job,” she told him. “It makes you suspect everybody.”

“Actually, it’s because of yours. And this.” He nudged one of the earrings with his thumb, flipping it to expose the back—the open back, with the transceiver inside.

Okay, this was bad, she thought, staring down at his palm. How bad? How did she make it better?

“I can see that brain of yours working from here,” he said softly. “Why don’t you make it easy for both of us and tell me the truth?”

She took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what you’re doing here.”

“You’ve already made up your mind about that. ‘Score a few lines, notch a few bedposts.’” She bared her teeth in a smile. “Remember?”

“I was wrong about you,” he said. “You’re not what you seem.”

His admission might possibly have made her feel better. If she’d thought for a minute that he believed it. Or if she believed it herself.

“Very nice,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. I used to be.”

He frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Used to be what?”

A cokehead slut.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said
again. “I have to go. Primo is expecting me. May I have my earrings, please?”

Silently he gave them to her.

She clicked her tongue over the broken back. “Didn’t your mommy teach you to be careful when you played with other kids’ toys?”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he offered. “If you tell me where you got it.”

“Nice try, cowboy.” She bent the seal back in place with her fingernail. That should hold the transceiver. Now if only it worked…

She really needed to talk to Barbara.

“You’re thinking again,” Bishop observed.

Tory flipped back her hair and inserted an earring. “You have a problem with women who think?”

“Only when they let emotion cloud their judgment.”

She tilted her head to fasten the other earring. “You still haven’t forgiven me for that flagpole thing, have you?”

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, regarding her in the mirror. “Is that why you did it? You figured if I couldn’t forgive you, I wouldn’t follow you?”

Her hand jerked and she poked the back of her earlobe. “Ouch.”

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, angel?”

“That wasn’t the truth,” she said coldly. “It was my earring.”

Bishop met her eyes in the mirror and smiled, knowing and slow. As if he really saw her and liked what he saw. Tory’s heart beat faster.

Stupid.
All he saw was an image of her.

And that was all she was going to let him see.

She combed her still damp hair with her fingers and turned. “How do I look?”

Her challenge sizzled the air and fired Bishop’s blood like lightning on a summer plain.

Her red dress was cut high and low, revealing too much leg, too much breast, too…much. She looked magnificent. Staggering. Like a barbarian queen who accepted blood sacrifices. Hell, if she asked him, he’d open a vein himself.

And she was going downstairs in that dress to let Primo Valcazar put his murdering hands all over that smooth, soft, golden skin….

Bishop’s gut formed a quick, hard knot.

“Those your working clothes?” he asked.

If his reaction offended her, she didn’t let it show.

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

And she was gone.

“Y
ou didn’t tell me when you recruited me for this job that I’d be spending all my time in the bathroom,” Tory said wryly to mission controller Barbara Price. After dinner, she’d holed herself in Primo’s elegant first-floor powder room to make her sit rep—situation report.

“Is your location a problem?” Price’s calm voice was only slightly distorted by the loss of one transceiver. Bishop’s tampering had apparently broken more than the back.

Tory cupped her hand over her remaining earring. “Not at the moment. Tell me where I’m going.”

“Valcazar’s private office is on the second floor of the east wing at the end of the corridor.”

Tory sat on the edge of the closed toilet seat. “Access?”

“The French doors to the balcony on the courtyard side of the building are double-locked,” Price said. “Much too time-consuming. And they’re visible from the guard post
in the garden. Your best chance is the door leading from the second-floor hallway. There’s also a connecting door through his personal suite.”

“Bedroom?”

“Bathroom.”

“Well, that’s something,” Tory muttered.

“Is the bedroom a problem for you?” Price inquired.

Tory fluffed the ends of her hair. “Are you asking about my sex life, Barbara?”

“I’m asking if you can handle Valcazar.”

“I can handle him. I just don’t want to wake him up when I break into his office.”

“Which you will do tonight.” Price’s statement was carefully balanced between order and question.

“I’ve got to, don’t I?” Tory said, and her question wasn’t a question at all. “Unless you’ve managed to access his accounts from your end.”

“Tokaido is working on it,” Barbara Price said. “He’s doing a data search of all six major clearing banks in the Cayman Islands.”

“I thought Valcazar’s accounts are legally protected in the Caymans.”

“They are. But if we can trace the money back to Egorov, a known terrorist, we have the go-ahead to seize or freeze it clandestinely. Assuming you can get behind the firewall Valcazar installed on his own system.”

Tory made a face at the gilded cherub floating at the top of the mirror frame. “No pressure, though, right?”

“Not unless you consider that if you can’t identify and isolate Egorov’s millions before they’re integrated into the world markets, the fallout of his financial empire could go to fund literally hundreds of terrorist cells and splinter groups.”

Tory’s stomach hollowed. “Gee, I’ll try to remember that.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Now she asks,” said Tory. “Yeah, can you get the DEA to suspend their operation here until I’m in and out?”

Her transceiver was silent. Tory tugged her earlobe. “Hello?”

“Stony Base here. Can you repeat, please?”

“The DEA. They have an agent on the inside. I want to close down the Colombians as much as anybody, but I don’t want this guy to spook Primo. Or get in my way.”

“The DEA is not conducting an operation in the Caymans.”

“They’re not after Primo?”

“I didn’t say that,” Price corrected her. “Valcazar was implicated in the death of one of their agents two weeks ago. Certainly they want him. But as long as Valcazar stays off American soil, any investigation has to be coordinated through international law enforcement and his host country.”

“Well, maybe somebody forgot to tell them that, because they definitely have a man here. Bishop Tyler. Used to be in the El Paso field division.”

“I remember Agent Tyler.” There was a new note in Barbara Price’s voice, aware, amused. “He was the agent in charge when you ran the Guerrero sting.”

Tory squirmed. She sometimes thought Stony Man’s mission controller was all-seeing and all-knowing. It was too much to hope that the handcuff incident had escaped her notice. Tory could only pray that Price hadn’t also picked up on how swiftly and how hard one of her key female operatives had fallen for a cowboy from another agency. “Right. Anyway, could you find out what he’s
doing here, please? And tell Tokaido to be ready. I’ll open the port tonight.”

She should be back by now.

Bishop’s jaw clenched. The back of his neck throbbed with tension.

Don’t wait up for me.

Hell. He was good at waiting. His job demanded it. He’d used the time to search her room for bugs and cameras, to search her luggage for false bottoms and high-tech toys. The room was clean. The larger suitcase had a slim-line computer, similar to a Toshiba mini laptop, sewn behind the lining of the side. He was impressed with both the gadgetry and the hiding place. He’d almost missed it, and he was a pro.

Which meant that she was…

Trouble.

He had enough doubts about what he was doing here. He didn’t need a distraction, too.

Fists in his pockets, he stared through the slats in the white louvered windows at the darkened courtyard. The decorative torches around the perimeter had almost burned out. At three in the morning, Primo’s party was finally winding down.

A solitary waiter, his shoulder holster spoiling the fit of his white jacket, lounged against the empty bar. A lone swimmer—male, blond, fiftyish—plowed doggedly through the pool, his body silhouetted by the underwater lights. A guard with a Russian-designed, Chinese-made semiautomatic SKS held casually at the ready smoked in the shadow of the palms. Most of Primo’s guests were asleep or drunk or stoned, in their own or someone else’s bed.

And Tory? Where was she?

Bishop had a sudden, burning vision of her, her hot, lush body licked by her flame-red dress, and pushed it away.

It was time to go. Valcazar was probably in bed, too, alone or with—

Hell. If Tory was with him it was just one more factor to deal with.

And he would, Bishop thought grimly. Deal with her. When the time came.

He was wearing black: black shirt, black pants, black jacket. The outfit had helped him blend in with the guests around the pool. Now it would help him blend in with the shadows. He had a Colt .38 Super in a holster at the small of his back and a set of lock picks in his pocket. He went out the way he came in, silently, through the windows and over the roof.

He knew the way. He’d had a long time to study the layout when he was lying on the roof tiles that afternoon.

The building was laid out in a rough U around the pool with the dining room, kitchen and staff all housed in the truncated west wing and Valcazar’s private suite opposite. The second floor was dotted with tiny balconies like a hotel. Apparently Valcazar figured his security was good enough—or his reputation bad enough—to discourage housebreakers.

His mistake, Bishop thought as he flattened himself behind a gable to evade the cursory inspection of the guard below. Not the first mistake Valcazar had made, but maybe his last.

Swinging himself over the gutter, Bishop dropped quietly to the balcony outside Valcazar’s office window.

And saw…her. Tory.

His jaw clenched and then relaxed. His breath expelled with a hiss.

She wasn’t in the drug lord’s bedroom.

In fact, she wasn’t with him at all.

She was sitting at his desk, her back to the long windows, her bare shoulders gleaming silver in the light of his computer screen. Her long-fingered hands moved with elegant authority over the keyboard. Either she knew what she was doing or she’d been coached by someone who did.

Bishop slipped lock picks from his pocket.

Inside the dim room, the display vanished abruptly. Tory leaned back as numbers scrolled on the screen too fast to be read, almost too fast to be seen.

Bishop slid a diamond pick down the keyway and worked it out again gently. Four pins. No problem. He tapped them softly, rapidly, as he scooted the pick back in and out of the lock. The plug rotated, and he grinned a wolf’s grin in the dark. One down.

Tory missed the faint click, her attention apparently focused on the computer monitor.

And one to go. He pressed with the tension wrench, raking the pins with the pick. Nothing. Gently, almost absently, he let his hands flow through the motions and combinations they knew, trying to finesse the lock. Still nothing. He set his teeth and tried again.

He glanced up as Tory tapped another series of commands and hit the enter key.

About a third of all locks simply couldn’t be picked. What would he do if this was one of them? Knock on the glass and demand she let him in?

He eased the tension on the lock and felt for the pin stack with the most resistance. He pushed it up above the shear line—not too hard, not too far,
gently
—and let it fall. When all the pins were free, he exerted pressure on the latch until he felt it give.

He was in.

He waited until he saw the guard in the courtyard cup his hand to light another cigarette. And then he cracked the door and slid inside.

He didn’t make a sound. But Tory’s head lifted. Her shoulders stiffened. She swiveled slightly in her chair until he guessed she could just see him from the corner of her eye.

She spun all the way around.
“You,”
she said in soft disgust.

He stepped in front of the black leather couch that jutted from the wall so he was no longer visible from the window. “You were hoping maybe for Valcazar?”

“Valcazar is busy.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I saw him go into a guest’s bedroom. With the guest,” she added, in case he missed the idea. “I figure even Primo can last for twenty minutes. Longer, if he’s been drinking.”

He refused to concede her point. “I still could have been a guard. Do you want to get into trouble?”

“I want you to stop sneaking up on me.”

“And I want you to stop poking in where you don’t belong.”

She stuck out her chin. “Guess neither one of us is going to get what we want, then.”

He looked her over in the silver glare coming from the computer: her reddish-brown hair haloed by the screen behind her, her gleaming bare shoulders, her smooth bare thighs disappearing into the curve of her skirt.

He’d come for revenge.

But he wanted
her.

At the moment it seemed he could have one or the
other. But what if he could have both? What if he could have her and use her against Valcazar?

He met her eyes, letting her see the heat in his, and drawled, “Don’t bet on it.”

Her chin went up another notch. “Stop trying to distract me. You don’t belong here, either.”

“I have business with Valcazar.”

“Not official business.”

Bishop narrowed his eyes. “How would you know?”

She hesitated. Rehearsing lies, he bet. But she surprised him.

“I’m not going to tell you,” she said.

Okay. She wasn’t lying. She just wasn’t telling the truth.

He smiled grimly. “Fine. Let’s talk about what you’re doing in Valcazar’s office instead.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“We could help each other.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“But you do need my cooperation.”

“And what are you going to do if I refuse? Yell for the guards?” She shook her head so that the ends of her hair brushed her shoulders. He wanted to touch her. Her hair. Her skin. “They’d shoot you on sight,” she said.

Bishop regarded her thoughtfully. If she wasn’t moved by bribes or threats…

“You could try trusting me,” he suggested.

She snorted and turned her attention back to the computer screen. “Oh, yeah. Like that ever worked.”

He scowled. “You never gave it a—”

He stopped and lifted his head like a wolf scenting danger.

“Never gave it a what?” Tory demanded.

And then she heard them, too. Footsteps, a long way down the hall.

She swiveled and reached for the keyboard. She’d already opened the port that would give her access to Primo’s files. But if he became suspicious—if he shut down and restarted the firewall for any reason—she would lose it. She was still in the process of setting up her backup device, a WiFi connection between the firewall and the main computer on the backbone ethernet.

Bishop lunged and grabbed for her wrist.

“Wait,” she said.

“Now,” he grated.

She resisted his grip long enough to exit the program. Bishop dragged her from her chair.

Too soon.

She stumbled toward the tall dark windows.

The door handle turned.

Not soon enough.

He pushed her down behind the couch and fell on her like a ton of bricks. Heavy. Hard. Tory swallowed a grunt. She watched light spread across the floor as the door to the office opened. Who was it? A guard on his rounds, alerted by the dim glow of the computer or the murmur of voices? Or Primo, doing a little late-night money laundering?

Dark shoes crossed her field of vision. Go away, she thought at them.

Her heart thundered. Her cheek pressed the carpet. Primo really needed to talk to his housekeeping staff about the dust under his furniture.

Oh, God. What if she sneezed?

The guard paused by the window. Would he notice it was unlocked?

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about sneezing. Bishop lay on top of her, a deadweight.

Not dead.

She shivered. She did not want him dead. And anyway, he felt warm and alive as he crushed her to the carpet. His breath rasped in her ear. His scent—musky, male—enveloped her. With her eyes closed, all her other senses were working overtime. She could feel the edge of the computer disk sharp against her breasts and Bishop’s belt buckle hard against her spine and the bulge of his arousal hot against her bottom.

She sucked in her breath. Was that really—? Oh, yes. It definitely was. He was physically aroused.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Any second now they could be discovered. Captured. Killed. This was hardly the time to be thinking about sex. She squirmed slightly and felt him twitch in response. She opened her eyes. Maybe it was a testosterone thing?

The dark shoes left the window and crossed the carpet to the desk.

Tory breathed through her mouth, trying not to inhale carpet fibers. Maybe it was adrenaline. Because as embarrassing as it was to admit, she was the teeniest bit turned on herself. Instead of distracting her from Bishop’s hard, hot body, her sense of danger actually heightened her awareness. His solid weight pressed on top of her. His warm breath caressed the side of her face. His hard erection nestled against her soft bottom.