Femme Fatale (27 page)

“Who is? The cartel?”

“No. Look, I’d tell you, but—” She bit her lip.

“Then you’d have to kill me?” he suggested with heavy sarcasm.

She glared. “Not funny.”

“You want me to play by your rules, you have to explain the game.”

“Right.”

He waited. And maybe she wasn’t as immune to the silent Indian routine as she liked to pretend, because eventually she said, “Ky—one of my associates recently re
covered information linking Primo Valcazar to Kopach Egorov. Heard of him?”

The name was familiar. “Isn’t he into drug trafficking?”

“Drug trafficking and arms sales. Also extortion, kidnapping, murder, espionage. If it’s bad, Egorov has probably done it. He used to be a spymaster for the KGB. Now he works—worked—for anyone who can pay him.”

“And you think Valcazar hired him.”

“I don’t think Primo could afford him. Egorov isn’t cheap.”

“So what’s the connection?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. Egorov has disappeared. Word is he’s dying from a new strain of virus he was financing for sale as a biological weapon. Which would be good news, except he’s leaving a fortune in dirty money, and nobody knows where that is, either.”

He remembered the numbers scrolling in the dark and Tory’s pale, intent face. “And you think Valcazar might be the key to getting the money.”

She nodded.

“You’re the big computer expert. Why not just hack into his system?”

“Believe me, I tried. But Primo’s security was designed by a real genius—a cracker named Scherba, who also worked for Egorov. The only way I could access Primo’s files was to get on-site and open a private port in his firewall.”

Bishop had only the dimmest idea what she was talking about. Except for the “on-site” part. He got that.

“That’s what you were doing in Valcazar’s office tonight?”

“Yes. Only we were interrupted before I finished in
stalling my backup connector. So I’m stuck here until the job is done.”

“How long will that take?”

He could wait a few more days to kill Valcazar. He had two weeks’ leave before he was due back on the job.

Assuming, when this was all over, if he survived and Valcazar was dead, he had a job to go back to.

“I don’t have long,” Tory said. “Electronic communications and financial transfers happen incredibly fast. If my agency can’t access Primo’s accounts for even a few days, he could move enough of Egorov’s money that we’d never find it.”

“Move it where?”

“To whatever groups Egorov designated. Groups considered enemies of the United States.”

He tried to understand what she was saying and what she was plainly, carefully, not telling him. “Terrorists, you mean.”

Another nod.

Hell. Bishop had been a DEA agent for ten years. He knew all about the unholy triangle of drugs and guns and terror. He couldn’t act in any way that furthered the causes of terrorism or put innocent lives at risk.

Even if it cost him, well, everything. His revenge. His honor. His heart.

“Then you’d better get to work,” he said. “I’ll watch.”

Just for a moment, she looked at him the way he’d once dreamed she would, like he was Eliot Ness and Cochise rolled into one.

And then she shrugged and moved toward the bed. “Do what you want. There’s not much to see. Unless you get off watching megabyte money transfers.”

He bit back his disappointment.

“Not me. I don’t even do my checking online.”

He got a glimpse of inner knee, a flash of upper thigh, as she climbed onto the bed. His mouth watered. He hoped to God his tongue wasn’t hanging out.

She balanced her computer on her thighs and then twisted to punch the pillows behind her. “Why don’t you come lie down? There’s room on this bed for both of us.”

Another poor schlub might have been fooled by her warm-voiced invitation and think she had something other than a nap in mind. But Bishop knew better.

You shouldn’t judge on appearances.

Victoria Grayson was a talented operative. She might dress like a high-priced hooker, she might call herself an accountant, but the United States government didn’t send out party girls or number crunchers to catch a guy like Egorov.

She had a job to do.

The least he could do was get out of her way.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll pass, thanks. Last time I went to sleep with you, I woke up handcuffed to a flagpole.”

She laughed. It was a good sound. So good it even made him feel better for a while.

She turned her attention to her laptop and got to work.

“Y
ou don’t look happy,” Bishop observed several hours later. “Got a problem?”

Tory pressed her fingers to her eye sockets, trying to push back her headache and rub moisture to her eyes at the same time. Too bad she couldn’t massage her brain while she was at it.

Did she have a problem?

Oh, yeah. She had several. In fact, right now her second-biggest problem was unfolding himself from the chair by the window and strolling toward her, looking big and dark and disgustingly sexy for someone who had been up all night. His eyes were hooded, he needed a shave, and she wanted to drag him down beside her and—

Right. Like that would help solve anything. Lack of sleep was clearly affecting her brain. And her hormones.

“Maybe. A small one,” she said.

“Want to talk about it?” His voice was amazingly gentle.

She didn’t want to talk at all. She wanted him to touch
her. And that was such a really bad idea, it made even talking seem okay.

“How much do you know about money laundering?” she asked.

“I know it has three stages,” he said, surprising her. “Placement—that’s when the dirty money, usually cash, enters the system. Layering. And—what’s the third one?”

“Integration. That’s when the money has been moved around electronically until people like me can’t tell where it came from. Once that happens, the money can be used without fear of seizure.”

“And that’s your problem?”

“No, that’s the pattern. The problem is the things that don’t fit the pattern. I’ve traced infusions of cash to Egorov, but the money is only transiting through Primo’s accounts. If it were going to fund terrorist groups, which is what I was told to look for, then the money would go through almost a reverse process. That is, I should be able to track transactions where the money is leaving legitimate financial investments and going back into the black market.”

“Dirty to clean to dirty,” Bishop said.

She sighed in satisfaction. “Finally, a man who understands.”

His black eyes glinted. “I understand you better than you think. So where is the money going?”

She sat up against her sagging pillows. “That’s the part I don’t get. The money’s being moved by a computer virus in the banking system. The virus is yanking the bulk of Egorov’s criminal fortune, funneling it through Primo’s accounts and then depositing the money into a bunch of different accounts. But when I trace those accounts, they all belong to Shane Dellamer.”

Bishop raised his brows. “Shane Dellamer who owns
Dellamer Enterprises? Shane Dellamer who’s running for the senate?”

“Congress. Yes. But why would a rich guy politician from New York be laundering billions of dollars for a known terrorist and arms smuggler?”

“Put it another way,” Bishop suggested. “Why would a dying terrorist and arms smuggler be leaving billions of dollars to a legitimate businessman?”

Tory shook her head, too tired to think clearly. Pearl-gray light was beginning to streak the louvered doors. “The connection has to be the virus. There’s something familiar about its encryption style. But—”

“Either way, now that you know Dellamer’s crooked, can’t you take the money?”

“Not without setting off widespread panic in the stock market.” Tory rubbed her temples again. “I need to talk with Barbara.”

“Who?”

“Barbara Price.” She touched one earring. “My mission controller.”

Oops. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him that.

I’d tell you, but—

Then you’d have to kill me.

But Bishop simply shrugged. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Tory opened her mouth. Closed it. It was ridiculous. She’d bared her soul to this man, but she couldn’t call her boss with him listening.

Bishop held her gaze a moment. His mouth tightened as he recognized the reasons for her silence. “I’ll go in the bathroom while you call. But when I get out, angel, we talk.”

He should have known she’d find some way to frustrate him.

By the time Bishop finished his shower, Tory was
asleep, huddled in the big white bed like a little girl. Her knees were drawn up. Her arm bent beneath her pillow, cradling her head.

Tenderness punched his chest. And yet there was nothing childlike in the curve of her hip rounding the covers or the swell of her breast beneath the red strip of silk.

Contradiction flowed into contradiction, each teasing his curiosity, feeding his hunger. He let himself study her, exposed in sleep: the faint scars under her strong jawline, the lines of strain around her lush, full-lipped mouth, the purple shadows beneath her heavily mascaraed eyes. The long red nails of her outstretched hand caressed the computer keyboard.

He wanted her. He always had. The puzzle of her called to the cop in him. But her appeal ran deeper than that. He wanted to understand her, take her, have her, keep her.

Keep her?
Where had that sprung from?

Once, maybe…

But he couldn’t think about a future with Angel Perez or Victoria Grayson. He didn’t have a future. Going after Valcazar would pretty much kill his career.

Hell, it might kill him.

He started to cross to his chair by the window. Tory turned and sighed, displacing the computer. He caught it before it slid to the floor and then stood there, like an idiot, looking down at her.

There’s room on this bed, she’d told him.

There was.

And the chair was damn uncomfortable.

With a shrug, he shucked his pants and shirt and crawled into bed beside her. Only for the night. One night. To sleep. That’s all he wanted.

He lay beside her, listening to soft whisper of her
breath, smelling the wild perfume of her hair and the deeper notes of her skin.

God, he was such a liar.

His mouth was hot and unexpectedly gentle.

Tory parted her lips and arched against the mattress, mindlessly seeking more of his heat. Her body throbbed. Her breasts tingled.

Bishop was in bed with her, kissing her, and it was wonderful, but she wanted more. More heat. More weight. More pressure. Restlessly she slid her legs against the wrinkled sheets. She lifted her hips in invitation.

His warm mouth glided down her throat to her breast and found her nipple. He suckled her hard, and she moaned.

“It’s all right,” he said, his voice husky. Concerned. “It’s only a dream.”

Only a dream.

Tory opened her eyes. Her body was tight. Swollen. Achy. Her red dress was up around her waist.

Bishop was in bed with her, leaning over her, hard and hot and close, his weight depressing the mattress. He smelled wonderful, like soap and something musky, male, that suggested sleep and sex. But his mouth wasn’t anywhere near her breast.

Only a dream.

“Darn,” she said.

His black eyes narrowed. “You were having a nightmare.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was dreaming about you.” She blinked. “You and me.”

She felt his sudden tension. “Was it a good dream?”

She moistened her lips. His gaze followed the movement of her tongue. “It was…pretty good.”

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“What was I doing?”

“Well, you—” Her heart hammered in her chest. “You kissed me.”

He raised one dark eyebrow. “That’s it?”

She squirmed, embarrassed. Defensive. Turned on. “My breast,” she said. “You kissed—”

Her hand lifted to brush her right breast, the one closest to him. The nipple poked against the fabric, unmistakable, insistent.

“Like this?” He lowered his head and suckled her through the silk. His mouth dampened the fabric, drew on her breast. She felt the pull all the way to her womb.

She gasped. “No.”

She pulled at her neckline, pulled the scarlet strip of silk aside, exposing herself to him, her darkened areola, her tightly beaded nipple.

“Like that,” she begged him.

His eyes flamed. He lowered his head and tasted her in one slow lick. She moaned. He took her in his mouth, teasing her with his teeth and tongue, feeding greedily on her breast. His knuckles brushed the soft side. His hand, she realized vaguely, was clenched.

His head jerked up. A flush stained his harsh cheekbones. He was breathing hard. “Was that all?”

She touched him with her fingertips, relearning his face. His skin was firm and warm. His lips were soft. “I’m afraid so.” She rubbed his jaw experimentally. His light beard prickled the pads of her fingers. “It was pretty disappointing, actually.”

“Disappointing.” His tone was flat. Dangerous.

She grinned. He was so easy to tease. “Yes. And then I woke up.”

His expression turned predatory. His hand left her breast and slid over her stomach.

She sucked in her breath. This wasn’t teasing. “Bishop?”

He pressed his hand between her thighs, parting them. “I can’t leave you disappointed.”

This wasn’t play. The desire in his eyes, the clamor of her senses, the hunger in her heart were all real.

“Bishop, no. Really. Bishop—”

He tugged the elastic of her panties, stretching them out of his way. She was already wet, swollen and soft with desire. They both shuddered as he found her with his fingers. He touched her, stroked her with undeniable skill and devastating intent, real and rough and urgent.

Her head fell back against the pillows. He moved over her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, and pressed his mouth to her scars. She trembled. She could feel him blunt and hot against her hip, heavily aroused. He wanted her. Knowing what she was, knowing what she had done, he still wanted her.

The knowledge seared her heart. Her blood drummed in her ears. His breath labored. And then…and then…

And then she heard it. A soft knock on the door.

“Señorita?”
A woman’s voice. “Are you awake?”

Bishop froze like warm, hard marble above her.

“Don’t say anything,” Tory whispered, her fingers tightening on his shoulders. “And she’ll go away.”

Maybe.

Another discreet knock.
“Señorita?”

Tory held her breath, straining for the sound of footsteps. Keys jingled in the hall.

Bishop swore and rolled away from her, grabbing for his clothes.

“Just a minute!” Tory called, sitting up. She looked wildly around the room. Where the hell was her computer?

Bishop shoved something at her. Her fingers registered the hard, smooth shape of her laptop. She shoved it under the duvet as he loped barefoot toward the bathroom, carrying his pants, and shut the door.

Just in time.

A stout woman in a plain black dress pushed her way into the room, a big chrome tray in her arms. “Good morning,
señorita.
I have brought your breakfast.”

“That’s great,” Tory said weakly, maneuvering the laptop to the foot of the bed with her toes. “Thank you. Just put it on the—”

The maid deposited the tray with a thump. “And fresh towels for your bath,” she said, making briskly for the bathroom door.

“No!” Tory cried, lurching half out of bed.

The woman stopped, her square, plain face radiating disapproval. “No towels?”

Tory yanked hastily at the top of her dress. Last night’s dress. She could just imagine what the woman was thinking.
Dirty slut.

“No, I meant—” She sidled toward the breakfast tray. “Is that fresh orange juice?”

“Sí.”

“Wow.” Tory took a sip. Tried a smile. “Terrific. Thanks.”

The woman’s face relaxed slightly. “You are welcome. Now I will just put these towels—”

“You know, a shower’s probably a good idea,” said Tory. “Thank you so much.”

She plucked the towels from the astonished maid, bolted past her into the bathroom and shut the door in her face.

Bishop stood in the claw-footed tub behind the shower curtain, zipping up his pants. She held up the towels like a trophy.

He leaned closer, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Get back out there.”

His soft words raised goose bumps up and down her arms.

“Why?”

“Do you want her to make your bed? Search your room?”

She sucked in a breath.
No.
Dropping the towels, she burst back into the bedroom.

The maid looked up, startled, from fluffing the pillows at the head of the bed.

“I changed my mind about the shower,” Tory announced sunnily, helping herself to a roll from the tray. “I decided to have breakfast first. Uh, in bed,” she added, since the woman showed no signs of moving away.

The woman’s mouth snapped shut like a change purse, with a disapproving snap. “You wish me to come back later?”

“Oh, no. I’ve been trouble enough.” Tory smiled determinedly until the other woman smiled back. “I’ll put the tray in the hall when I’m done.”

The maid’s reply was blurred by a faint vibration in Tory’s ear.

The transceiver. Barbara.

“Thank you so much,” Tory said. She took a pillow from the maid and tossed it on the bed. The unmade bed. Did that bulge at the bottom hide her laptop?

“I just love the orange juice.” She shepherded the stout woman to the door. “And I won’t forget that tray!” she promised, nudging her out into the hall.

She closed the door and leaned against it, listening for footsteps. One, two, three…

“You’re good at getting rid of people,” remarked Bishop.

She should be getting used to the way her heart bumped
whenever he appeared. Of course, it would help if he didn’t sneak up on her all the time.

She shot him an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “Some people.”

He came up behind her, resting one arm on the wall beside her head, trapping her between his hard, lean body and the door.

“You want to get rid of me, angel?”

Her knees weakened. Yes.
No.

“Would it make any difference?” she asked.

His amusement was a puff of warm air on the back of her neck. “Not this time.”

He ought to go. She ought to make him go. For the sake of his career, for the sake of her mission. For the sake of his soul. And yet…

The transceiver vibrated again, a reminder and a warning.

There were agents in the field who swore Barbara Price saw everything. Kind of like God, or that annoying second-grade teacher who always caught you with gum in your mouth or notes in your desk. It was true Stony Man’s mission controller had access to satellite video relays with thermographic overlays that allowed her to see through most buildings.