Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

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 Hipodromo 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.”

TIJUANA

SUNDAY EVENING

SILENCE GREW, STRANGLING GRACE. 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.”