Criminal Instinct (8 page)

“But not like this,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Saven asked from behind her.

Ana shook her head.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, please.”

The second he slipped out of the room, Ana hurried to straighten her dress and hair. She gave the computer and desk a wary glance—maybe another time. She found the gizmo to the wall elevator and punched in the code.

Nothing happened. “Come on you
piece
—”

Eyes closed, she pictured the number sequence and tried again. The door glided opened. She took it down, while her heart beat against her rib cage at maximum speed.

She was afraid Saven would see her leaving…and afraid he wouldn’t.

She pushed through the crowd, retrieved her coat at the door and ran like there was no tomorrow.

Jonas opened the door, prepared to apologize, when he saw Ana was gone. He took long strides to the door connecting to his private room and cursed. The room was empty, as well as the bathroom. He went to the cameras and scanned each one. He spotted Ana stepping out the exit. “How the hell—”

He took the elevator, grabbed his phone, cursed at the list of numbers, then pressed the first one. “A young Latina—black hair, black dress—is leaving the club. Stop her.”

One voice called in an affirmative.

Don’t let her get away
. He didn’t delve into the thought that it wasn’t just not finding out the goods on Dolini that bothered him.

As he stepped out of the elevator downstairs, people called his name. He was in too much of a hurry to be polite; he could mend those fences later.

He finally careened through the front entrance, his gaze flying right, then left.

Not a sign of her through the line of customers.

Joseph came up to him, shaking his head. “Sorry, Mr. Saven.”

Jonas nodded, rubbing the tense muscles at the back of his neck. Was he losing his touch—or his mind—over this woman? And just who was she?

He didn’t know, but he’d find out.

Friday night
Midnight

The cool night air seeped through his clothes and a small cloud of mist formed in front of Billy Donavon’s mouth. The fog blanketing the old junkyard floated heavy, opaque. Only the sounds of cars passing from the highway broke through silence. He and Jay-man were tense from waiting.

Two sets of car lights peered through the fog.

“They’re here,” Billy said.

Jay-man shifted beside him. Likely feeling for his nine in the waistband at his back.

The headlights glared across their faces and stopped midway down their bodies when the vehicles halted.

Each vehicle carried two men. Rico and Tomas Garcia exited one. Two other unknowns strapped with Uzis exited the other.

The Garcia brothers stopped about six feet away. Billy couldn’t make out the expression on their faces, but he knew the brothers were taking in every inch of him and Jay-man, probably considering how much of a threat Jay-man could be. The big guy could be one hell of a threat. And right now Billy wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Who’s your friend, cracker?” Tomas asked.

“Name’s Drew.” Billy gave Jay’s alias. “He’s okay, he’s backup. Since we didn’t part on the best of terms.”

Tomas grinned. “Just a test, cracker. Needed to be sure you were as tough as you acted. This is Rico.”

“What are you looking for, white boy?” Rico asked.

“Looking to score some prime Yola. If the deal goes smooth, I’ll be ready to score some X.”

Rico gestured for his men. Billy tensed.

“My
hombres
are going to check for listening devices. Can’t be too careful these days.” After they were frisked and no wires found, Rico allowed Jay-man’s guns to be returned. A sign he took the business, and Billy, seriously. Rico stepped closer. “You looking to start your own business in Frisco?”

“Not here, I’d relocate further south. Wouldn’t want to step in anyone’s territory.”

Rico remained silent for a moment as if contemplating the possibilities. “How much Yola we talking?”

“Right now all I got is a few grand. I’m willing to pay a lot more for the X. If you can’t supply what I need, maybe you know someone who can.”

“Anything’s possible for the right price. Let’s take a look at my goods in the trunk.”

Billy nodded. They were in.

Saturday

His tongue glided across my lips, fingers sliding through my hair. I shuddered. My arms wrapped around his firm shoulders as he pressed his body flush against my bare skin.

His touch brought heat, felt too good. Pleasure pulsed from my center. He glided inside me, and my breath caught.

I pulled long strands of hair away from his face. Amber eyes burned into mine. Cold, filled with disgust.

I flinched.

He lifted his hand.

He held my switchblade.

The blade slid out and he smiled. Sly. Cruel.

Blood from the blade dripped onto my chest.

My heart pounded, pounded in my ears. I shoved him away, rolled…

…off her damn bed.

Thump.

“Crap!”

Ana glared up at the bedside digital clock sitting on a couple of stacked milk crates covered with a white pillow case, the worn wooden floor cool beneath her. Nine-fifteen.

What a dream
.

The chill of the room made her shiver. Kicking off sheets tangled around her legs, she stood and rubbed her sore butt. With her brain still foggy with sleep, she leaned down, pulled the sheet tight across her twin bed and tucked in the corners. Then she picked up her comforter from the edges and flared out the blanket. After she’d smoothed out the creases with her arms, she jerked back.

“Damn it!” She thumped the bed with open palms, grabbed the covers into clenched fists and yanked. The neat covers turned into a twisted heap.

She shut her eyes in disgust. In every state home she’d been trapped in, one rule seemed to trail her everywhere: to immediately make her bed when she awoke.

Maybe it was immature to fight the ingrained habits pushed on her as a child, but some things couldn’t be shaken off so easily. Sarge’s ironclad contract restricted her enough. She would rebel against authority wherever she could in the rest of her life.

She washed up, brushed her teeth, then returned to turn on her mini boom box sitting on the floor beside her bed. Prince burst out with “Purple Rain.” She began to stretch. Arms overhead, she bent at the waist to touch the floor. The tug in her thighs released built-up tension. She’d always been limber and the stretching helped clear her head. She followed with knee lunges, arm and hamstring stretches, and then began her daily workout.

Push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, high air kicks, light weight lifting.

Exercise was an ingrained habit she obliged. With her fragile appearance and the situations she found herself in on the streets, she needed to maintain self-defense tactics as well as keep in shape. This hadn’t just started when she’d been thrown in SIDE; she’d always been active and fit. Keeping her face from being smashed had been a priority from day one in foster care at age six with her first family.

Mr. and Mrs. Davenport had thrown clothes and toys at her feet and allowed her to play with other rich kids as long as Ana followed their rules.

Mrs. Davenport had stood in front of Ana with her perfectly coifed red hair, her elegant hands folded in front of her. And her dark eyes cold. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not soil your clothes. Do not put your hands on Mr. Davenport or me for any reason. And do not sit on the front room furniture without permission.” She raised her finger and pointed it down at Ana. “And listen, girl. Only English will be spoken in this house. Do you understand?”

With her hair pulled back in a severe braid, Ana had shifted in her shiny Mary Janes. “Yes, Mrs. Davenport.” But she’d wanted to ask, “What’s ing-lesh?”

Mrs. Davenport had been the first in a long line of many to assume she spoke Spanish. Sure, Ana had picked up a few words of Spanish slang through the years, but she never felt comfortable speaking them. Why would she, when she didn’t consider herself a real Latina?

At that young age, she had felt the sharp shame of having dark skin as opposed to her white family. And because of that hurtful feeling, she could honestly say she’d tried to follow every rule while under the Davenports’ roof. Maybe the arrangement would have worked out if the couple hadn’t told everyone about Ana’s past, making her fresh meat for the other white rich kids to pick apart with their taunts.

Look at her skin, and her weird eyes! My mommy says she’s nothing but a wetback from the wrong side of the tracks…

The living arrangement hadn’t lasted long once physical attacks began to accompany the verbal taunts. The way Ana figured it, she could either get pounded into dirt or defend herself.

It had been Ana’s second taste of reality. The first had been her mother’s not wanting her. Now she’d found out that nobody without her Mexican background ever would, either.

Exhausted, Ana ran her hands through her hair and tugged up her slipping boxers. Taking two steps, she entered her miniscule kitchen area. She poured herself a cup of water from a lukewarm gallon jug sitting on her counter and drank. Then she tossed the plastic cup in the sink and turned to her compact refrigerator.

Opening the door, the quiet hum of the cooler mocked her as she took stock. “Butter, ketchup, expired milk, a Chinese carton that’s seen better days, and whipped cream.” Not the greatest selection. “I’m even out of The Doctor.”

Resigned, she grabbed the whipped cream and shut the door with her hip. After giving the can a hardy shake, she took an experimental taste. Still good to go. She filled her mouth with a hefty squirt.

Leaning against the small counter in her kitchen area, she examined her closet. It was a compact storage space, but perfectly proportioned to her studio apartment. No door covered the tossed-in boots and clothing dangling from wire hangers, but visitors were rare—only Digit, who picked Ana up on the way to SIDE headquarters each morning to make sure she got there on time.

Today being Saturday, they weren’t due at the firehouse till noon. She nibbled on her bottom lip. After she showered and dressed, finding Skates would be next on the agenda. Wouldn’t it be nice if she found the kid asleep at home?

Pushing off the counter, she walked to her closet and retrieved the cardboard container placed on the top shelf—a Nike shoebox on its last leg, held together with various pieces of tape and daps of glue.

Settled on the scarred floor, Ana lifted the lid. Because nobody would see, she smiled.

Buzzzzz.

She flinched at the interruption of her intercom. Quickly, she shoved the box under her twin bed and stood with the can of cream, her heart pounding from the unexpected visitor.

The visitor might be Digit, or even Skates, saving her a trip to his pad to check on him. That wouldn’t stop her from giving the kid a piece of her mind, though.

She pushed the talk button and called out, “Your ass is grass!” Then she pressed the button to unlock the lobby door. She took a moment to kick a few scattered clothes into a pile.

When she heard the knock, she was filling her mouth with another serving of her pitiful whipped cream breakfast.

She opened the door, and sputtered in surprise. Blobs of cream spewed from her lips.

The action sprayed the front of Saven’s gray V-necked sweater and the very tip of his chin with speckles of melted cream.

What the hell is he doing here?

Shifting on the balls of her bare feet, she braced her body, instincts on full alert.

Saven stood frozen, both hands tucked in his black corduroy pants pockets. His gaze riveted on hers. Last night’s intense make-out flew through her mind.

Her face slowly heated from his complete and total attention.

He knew what she was remembering.

“I-I didn’t expect you.” She broke eye contact and did a quick search for a towel. If he’d wanted to harm her, he would have done so by now.

“You don’t say,” he murmured.

No rag. No napkins. She picked up a T-shirt that lay on the floor, then reached up awkwardly, dabbing at his sweater. Of course, the material was probably something like cashmere.

Hesitant, she looked up. There was a gleam of humor in his eye as that tongue that had danced in her mouth last night, flicked out, licking a dot of whipped cream from his lip.

Ana took a slow breath, deliberately trying to ease her nerves. She studied the mess on his sweater. Splotches of cream seeped into the fabric. He would make her pay for this, no doubt. Her eyes veered to the tan skin exposed by the V of his pullover. Below his throat a few curling hairs lay against his chest. She’d never been too fond of hairy chests. Saven had just the right amount.

“I’m sorry, really,” she said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your sweater.”

“I’ll know next time not to surprise you like this.” His tone was easy-going. He took the makeshift rag and cleaned himself, as if being spit at happened to him regularly. “Don’t worry, it’ll clean.”

She stared at him. He seemed to be taking the incident in stride. Weird. Not the reaction she was accustomed to from people with money.

“What is it?” he asked. “Do I have more cream on my face?”

Despite her tight nerves, she forced a smile. “No. You’re just lucky whipped cream is all I have. After sundown, I’m holding pepper spray.”

He eyed her can. “I believe you. Can I come in?”

Reluctantly, Ana stepped back. Alone with Jonas Saven again. Great. She went to her boom box and turned off the music.

“Prince,” he said, as he closed the door at his back.

“Yeah. He always makes me want to hit things. So I listen to him when I work out.” Actually one of the girls from the group home absolutely loved Prince, and the guy’s music had eventually grown on her.

“Ah.” His lips twitched.

Her cell phone rang. She strolled over and grabbed it off the milk crate. Sarge.

Not now.

She flicked her phone to silent and set it back on the crate, then surveyed Saven as he in turn observed her none-too-clean room. His expression was bland. She didn’t own much: a bed, an ugly green chair and a beat-up circular table she’d found at a garage sale to eat her meals on.

She shifted her weight to her right foot, whipped cream still in her hand. On her left, she moved her thumb over each knuckle, searching for one to crack. For the first time in her life, she felt embarrassed by how someone might think of the way she lived.

Saven was way out of his element here. Last night in his posh office, he’d looked part of the surroundings, sleek and polished. She worked the streets most of the time and hadn’t had the time or the energy in the last few months she’d lived here to fix up the place. As a rule, she couldn’t care less what anyone thought of her home. Why should anything change now? She’d take this place over a nine-by-nine cell any day.

“So, what brings you here?” she asked, taking the dirty shirt from his hands and throwing it and the whipped cream bottle—oops—in the corner with the rest of her dirty laundry.

He turned to her, his eyes traveling to her chest. Following his gaze, she realized she still wore her pajamas. A well-worn white cotton tank stuck to her breasts with perspiration, not leaving much to the imagination. She wasn’t really stacked enough in the chest department to care how much showed, but her tracker rose slightly under her skin, and she crossed her arms. Usually she had any evidence well covered, but with her tank so thin, she worried he would notice.

“If you’re here for a continuation of last night,” she said, “you’ve wasted your time.”

He searched her face. “You disappeared on me.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?”

His eyes flickered with annoyance. “Cut the attitude, Ana.”

“There is no attitude,” she lied, looking away. “How did you find me?”

“The address on your I.D.”

She nodded. “Right.”

“I was curious how you disappeared. The elevator’s coded. You saw me punch in the code once.”

Hard to gauge how he felt about that. “I have quick eyes.”

“Must fall into the category of how you were able to lift my wallet.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need to explain my actions to you, Saven.”

He stuffed his hands inside his pants pockets, his expression detached. “I didn’t come here to make you uncomfortable.”

“Why did you come here, then?”

He stared at her, his full lips in a brooding line. “There was a connection between us last night. If you don’t want to admit it, there’s nothing I can do.” He started toward the door.

Ana watched his retreating shoulders, her stomach tightening. If she let Saven leave, she’d lose her chance of getting any inside information on him and Brooks. But asking him to stay would give him the impression she wanted him. After last night’s evidence of the effect he had on her, she couldn’t let her hormones blind her from her objective. But, crap, what the hell to do?

“Saven. I mean, Jonas.” He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t turn. She studied how the cashmere curved the strong line of his back. If anything, she should be honest about where they stood on an intimate level. She’d never been one to beat around the bush. The problem was, how much did she tell him without letting him know her true intentions?

“I think we hit it off, too,” she said, quietly. No matter how brief last night’s kiss had been, it would be branded in her memory for the rest of her hectic life. “I don’t want you to think I kiss everybody like that… It’s a little disturbing how quickly it came on and—and it was fun, okay? But we should leave it at that. I mean, you and me, we’re different.”

Big understatement
. She cleared her throat. “Is there any way we could be friends?”

He had turned about midway through her speech, looking a little taken aback. She got the impression he didn’t usually hear that last question from women.

Not a surprise. Men who looked like him, who had females throwing themselves at him at every opportunity, probably didn’t have time to keep a woman strictly in a platonic relationship.

When he still didn’t answer, she offered another suggestion. “Acquaintances?”

He shook his head. “You think that’s possible after last night?” He walked toward her, steps slow and precise, eyes suddenly heavy. “I’ve had a taste of you, Ana. And your flavor is sweet and hot.” A soft smile lingered on his mouth as he stopped in front of her. “It didn’t taste like friend or acquaintance.”