Her Three Protectors [The Hot Millionaires #3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (20 page)

“Nice try, bitch, but I ain’t no pushover.” The guy pulled her to her feet and slapped her face hard. “Quit fighting. You’re coming with us.”

Porcha was very much afraid that this time he might well be right, because she had no fight left in her.

* * * *

Beck screeched to a halt outside their house. Troy was out of the truck before it even stopped and growled when he saw their broken front door swinging open and all that it implied.

“We’re too late,” Adam said, stating the obvious.

Troy dashed inside, closely followed by the others. They each took the stairs three at a time, barely noticing the mess in their living room, but the sight of a man bleeding out on the study floor, not to mention the broken desk, did get their attention. Troy felt for a pulse and found none.

“Mexican?” Beck asked.

“Looks that way.”

Troy felt in the dead man’s pockets and found a photo of the three of them standing on Porcha’s doorstep in Tampa. They’d been photographed, obviously by the watcher, when Troy took his shades off so Porcha could identify him. A long-lensed camera had got a perfect shot of his profile.

“Now we know how they found us,” he said, grinding his teeth. “We obviously looked as though we’d been sent to protect Porcha. They only had to show this around people in the know, throw a bit of cash at the problem, and someone would have identified us sooner or later. We’re quite well known.”

“Figures,” Beck said bitterly. “Loyalty ain’t what it used to be.”

“And a lot of people have waited a long time to get one over on us,” Troy reminded them.

“How we gonna get Porcha back?” Adam asked.

Beck kicked the dead man with the toe of his boot. “And who killed this guy?”

“Let’s find out.”

Troy pressed a button that controlled the camera in the study. The only sound as they waited for it to whirl back to the time of Porcha’s call to Troy was their heavy breathing. The screen flickered into life at the appropriate place, showing a completely empty study. Then Porcha flew into the room, gun in hand, and hid behind the desk.

Adam shook his head. “Stupid place to hide.”

“She should have stood above the stairs and shot the bastards through the open slats as they came up,” Troy said.

“She must have been terrified,” Beck pointed out. “No time to think straight.”

There were grim grunts of satisfaction when the dead guy walked into the room and Porcha stood up and popped him.

“Atagirl!” Beck punched the air.

In spite of the grim realization that Porcha had been stolen from beneath their noses, all three guys briefly smiled when they saw her throw the guy over the desk. They watched until she was led away, and Troy switched off. He took a picture of the dead man on his cell and sent it to Georgio. He then pressed the button on the speakerphone and rang him, filling him in on the events. None of them wasted time on voicing regrets. They were too focused and professional for that, although right then Troy was questioning their right to call themselves professionals. They’d been led by the balls on this one, start to finish. He should have gone with his instincts and not let Porcha out of his sight.

This was all his fault. He’d acted on assumptions and hadn’t bothered to check his facts, simply because he was emotionally involved, desperate to keep Porcha safe. He thumped his thigh with considerable force. He was every sort of arrogant idiot that ever lived, all rolled into one.

“Do you know the guy?” he asked as soon as Georgio got the picture his end.

“No, can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Hang on, Adam’s downloading a picture of their leader from the video feed here.”

As soon as the picture went through, Georgio inhaled sharply. “Ah, shit!”

“That bad?” Troy asked, hitching one buttock cautiously on the edge of his broken desk.

“Worse. He’s head honcho for one of Sal’s main rivals in the drugs business. Does the name Sanchez-Punto mean anything to you?”

“So they’re not working for Woollard?”

“Doesn’t look that way. This isn’t good, Troy.”

Troy exhaled sharply. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You heard on the news that Sal’s body’s been found?”

“Yeah, we heard. They’ll be a lot of jockeying for position now.”

“Why would Sanchez-Punto want Porcha?” Adam asked.

“Perhaps he really does think she knows where Sal’s diamonds are.”

“Any idea where they’d take her?”

“Miami, I should think. That’s Sanchez-Punto’s patch, and he’d feel more comfortable there. He has a warehouse that he uses for his legitimate business. Of course, if he takes her to a house rather than his place of business then we’re fucked.”

“See if you can find out what other places he has in Miami while we head on over there,” Troy said. “Oh, and can you get someone over here to fix our front door, get rid of the rubbish, and stay here until the place is secure?”

“I’m on it.”

“One other thing, Georgio. Do you have a phone number for Sal’s house in Jupiter?”

“Sure.” Georgio reeled it off, and Troy programmed it straight into his cell. “Why do you want it?”

“If Woollard isn’t behind this and it was Sanchez-Punto who popped Gonzalez, then he might want to help us get his boss’s wife back.”

“What if he doesn’t give a shit about her?” Adam asked. “Porcha hates him, and she thought the feeling was mutual.”

“That’s a chance we’ll just have to take.”

“Besides, we need some inside help,” Beck added. “We know fuck all about the drugs hierarchy.”

“Be careful,” Georgio warned. “These guys don’t fuck about.”

“Nor do we,” Troy said in a tone of steely determination as he cut the connection. “Come on,” he said to Adam and Beck. “Let’s go get her back.”

“This way, madam,” the thug said with exaggerated politeness.

Porcha felt blood trickling down her arms as he pulled her to her feet and propelled her in the direction of a Cadillac with blacked-out windows. Every bone in her body hurt like hell, and it felt as though she’d lost half the skin from her forearms. Her face was red raw where the guy had whacked her hard enough to make her teeth rattle, and she was as mad as hell for letting herself get caught.

But at least she was still alive.

The guy pushed her facedown over the hood of the car, pulled her arms behind her back with enough force to make her eyes water, and bound them with duct tape. It was broad daylight. Surely someone, some nosy neighbour, must have seen what was happening and called the police? But there was no sign of life in the street and no twitching drapes that indicated someone alive still felt a sense of civic duty. Not that she would have expected much else. This was a residential area, and it was a normal working day. No one was at home or, if they were, they were minding their own damned business.

Porcha was pushed into the back of the car. Without the use of her hands, she fell awkwardly onto the seat and only just avoided colliding with the person already there. The goon whose arm she’d broken was barely conscious but still muttered a stream of curses in Spanish when he saw her. At least there was a wide armrest between him and her so she didn’t need to get too close. Even so, his fetid breath and evil expression made her gut roil. They might have been ordered not to kill her, but she got the feeling that given half a chance this guy would take his revenge any way he could get it. If word of him being outsmarted by a woman did the rounds, as it probably would, his reputation as a hard man would be impaired beyond redemption.

She turned away from him and stared out the window, assessing her situation, wondering what she could do to help herself. There had to be something. The boss was in the passenger seat, and the only remaining able-bodied goon was concentrating on driving. That made it one against one. Only problem was, she didn’t have a weapon, nor did she have the use of her hands.

“In case you’re wondering, Mrs. Gonzalez,” the boss man said conversationally, “we’re taking you to Miami to have a little chat with our boss.”

“Woollard,” she muttered beneath her breath. “I can hardly wait.”

“Woollard?” He turned to look at her, genuine surprise in his expression. “Don’t imagine that he’ll help you.”

“But I thought—”

“What did you think?” The guy curled his upper lip. “That you’re a beautiful woman, so every man on the planet puts your welfare before his own business?” His cruel laugh echoed round the interior of the car. “You just enjoyed the protection of three tough men, but that didn’t do you much good, did it?”

“Where are they?” she asked before she could stop herself. “What have you done to Troy?” she added, almost to herself.

“Troy?”

Damn, he’d heard her. She said Troy’s name because she thought of him as their leader, but she cared desperately about them all so shouldn’t have displayed weakness by letting on.

“He’s someone I employed to help me.” She expelled an expansive sigh. “You just can’t get the help nowadays but then…” Her gaze flitted over the guy with the broken arm. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

The guy looked thoroughly pissed off to be reminded about the reduction in his numbers. “If Troy is one of the guys from St. Pete, then I guess they’re chasing their tails looking for you. But I wouldn’t hold out too much hope if I were you. We’re on my turf now, honey.”

“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”

Porcha breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. If the guys had been hurt, this bully wouldn’t be able to help boasting about it.

“Forget them. There’s nothing they can do for you now. You’d be better off telling the boss what he needs to know.”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “He only has to ask. There really was no need for all this strong-arm stuff.”

He flashed her a probing look, like he hadn’t expected that reaction. “Glad to learn that you’ve come to your senses. I think you’ll find that the days when men were prepared to go that extra mile for you died with your husband. Oh…” His vile smile revealed the yellowing teeth of a heavy smoker. “I almost forgot. My condolences.”

Porcha barely heard him. She’d been so intent upon evading capture that only now did it dawn on her that if Woollard wasn’t behind the attempts to kidnap her, then someone else had to be. The same someone who’d killed her husband, presumably.

“Does your boss have a name?”

“Mr. Sanchez-Punto is most anxious to make your acquaintance.”

She shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“He was one of your husband’s main competitors.” That self-satisfied grin again. “But not anymore.”

“What does he want with me?”

“What do all men want with you?”

“I’m selective.”

The guy roared with laughter. “That’s not what I heard.”

It appeared the conversation was over since the guy turned back and stared at the road ahead. The injured goon next to her seemed to be asleep, and Porcha was grateful for the quiet. It gave her time to think. All that business about her knowing where Sal’s diamonds were had to be true. This Sanchez-Punto character was keeping her alive because he thought she had information that he needed. Until she could find a way out of this, or until Troy and the guys came to her rescue, she’d just have to try and perpetuate that myth.

She really didn’t have any other choice.

* * * *

Beck was behind the wheel of the truck as they crossed the Sunshine Skyway Bridge and headed for Miami. In the passenger seat, Troy hit the number for Woollard that he’d programmed into his phone, seething with impatience, even though someone at the Jupiter house answered on the first ring.

“I need to talk to Woollard,” he said without preamble. “It’s about Mrs. Gonzalez.”

“Just a moment.”

Troy nodded at the guys. “They’ve gone to get him.”

“Just like that?” Adam sounded surprised. “No third degree.”

“They’re obviously desperate for news of Porcha.”

“That’s what worries me,” Beck said. “I’d almost rather they had her than this Sanchez-Punto character.”

“Woollard,” came a brisk voice over the line. “Who am I talking to?”

“You want Mrs. Gonzalez back?”

“Of course. You have her?”

“She’s been with us for the past couple of days.”

“You make it sound as though she no longer is.”

“Is this line secure?”

“Yes.”

“We believe she’s in the hands of Sanchez-Punto.”

An angry hiss sounded down the line. “Shit!”

“My feelings exactly.”

“Where are you?”

“On our way to Miami. We’ll be there this afternoon.”

“We need to meet.”

“Yes,” Troy agreed. “We do.”

“Come to the house in Jupiter.”

Troy laughed. “Not a chance. We’ll meet somewhere neutral.”

“You have my word that nothing will happen to you.”