Fade the Heat (24 page)

With that spot of light, she saw that the car was the avocado green she had expected, the exact shade of the sedan she’d spotted leaving Jack Montoya’s clinic two weeks earlier. Moving around to the front, she ignored the Oklahoma plates—probably stolen—and stared at the same grill that had come so close to running her down in the clinic lot. She repositioned her light to find several spots on the chrome bumper that were scarred with bright red paint.

Paint from Jack’s Explorer, unless she missed her guess.

Her breath hissing, she took a step back—a step directly into something huge and solid that exploded into motion, wrapping a thick arm around her throat.

Adrenaline surged through her like a jolt from a defibrillator. Unable to scream, she fought like the hellcat Peaches had once named her, striking backward with her elbow, bringing her booted foot down hard on his, and biting the bastard’s forearm until she heard him scream.

“
You bitch!
” With that, he slammed her forward with such force that her body folded over the sedan’s hood and her forehead slammed against the wind
shield. She must have hit her mouth, too, for it flooded with a wash that tasted like hot metal. Spitting blood, she struggled to push herself upright.

Run now. Scream
, her brain ordered her aching body, but before she could do anything, her attacker’s big hand gripped the back of her neck, and her legs went loose as ribbons.

“He was fucking right,” the man screamed in her ear. “Fucking right I shoulda killed you.”

Deep and booming, the voice reverberated around the inside of her skull. The sound made Reagan want to vomit. There was a terrible groan, like metal twisting or an animal dying.
She
was the source, she realized, hurting so badly that it barely registered when he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her as if she were a sack of grapefruit. As her body drooped forward at the waist, Reagan’s vision grayed out.

“He goddamned
always
has to be right,” he muttered as he half carried and half dragged her. “I never should’ve let myself feel sorry for the bastard.”

A second wave of panic overwhelmed her. Now that she’d stopped screaming, the voice sounded familiar—and the suspicion that she knew her attacker convinced her she was in even worse trouble than she’d feared. Was he putting her in his car, taking her away to—? God, he would have no choice now but to kill her.

Would Magoo come out and save her? Or maybe the pumper and the paramedics she had called? Or someone, anyone who might help—even her earlier tormentors with their lewd suggestions and their bottles.

Her attacker stopped abruptly, and Reagan felt huge hands all over her body. With a cry of protest, she jerked toward full awareness and began to struggle. He clamped down on her throat again, cutting off her
air, as his free hand finished emptying her pockets, taking her wallet, keys, inhaler, and God only knew what else.

But her hopes that this was merely a robbery faded when he hurled her things into the tall weeds beyond the parking lot.

An instant later, she felt herself tumbling forward. She held on to consciousness by a hairbreadth as the gray haze darkened to an inky blackness. Reagan groaned more loudly and lifted her arms in the hope of attracting someone’s attention as the brute lifted her and threw her into the car.

Her hands struck something solid. Nails tore as she scratched the metal over her head—along with the surface of the horrifying truth.

Her attacker hadn’t simply thrown her inside the old Ford. He had dumped and locked her in the trunk, she realized—a split second before she heard the rumble of the engine turning over…

And the crackling pop of tires as the car began to move.

“When I didn’t hear from you before,” Sabrina McMillan told Jack from across the candlelit table of her beautifully appointed high-rise condo, “I was afraid that perhaps your little friend had been spreading nasty gossip.”

It took him several beats to realize the mayor’s campaign manager was talking about Reagan. She was many things to him: beautiful, good-hearted, vulnerable, and stubborn, but his
little friend?
Laughing at the notion, he shook his head at Sabrina. “Why would she do that?”

Sabrina smiled seductively over the rim of her crystal wineglass. Waterford, she’d told Jack, apparently hoping he’d be bowled over by her good taste, as well as the condo’s panoramic view of the treetops of Hermann Park by moonlight. Jack tried to imagine Reagan in Sabrina’s place, her full lips painted the same crimson, her more toned and slender body hugged by the same form-fitting, sapphire-blue halter dress.

Dream on, Montoya,
the fantasy-blonde told him as she donned a pair of boxing gloves. Probably to pop him.

“I was afraid she was a little jealous,” said Sabrina. “I sometimes have that effect on women. They rarely seem to like me.”

Well, duh,
Reagan’s disembodied voice said from the sidelines.

Ignoring it, Jack told Sabrina, “Poor you.”

If she wanted to take it as flirting, he could live with that. The truth was, he wouldn’t touch the woman with asbestos gloves.

This time, her smile was as knowing as it was naughty. But this time, despite the candlelight, the expression clued him in that she was perhaps a decade older than she looked. Probably around forty, maybe even older, but still a gorgeous specimen in anybody’s book.

She said, “I’m really glad you took me up on my invitation, Jack. I’ve been saving this Chianti for a very special occasion.”

The tip of her tongue darted out to flick away a stray drop, but the action reminded Jack of a snake tasting the air.

He put down his wineglass. “I hardly expected to catch you at home, what with the election coming up on Tuesday.”

Gesturing toward a doorway down the hall, she whispered conspiratorially, “Oh, I do most of my work right here, from that room. You wouldn’t believe what I have in those files…secrets that could bring down a dozen politicians all across this country, stuff so juicy you’d give a testicle to see it.”

Jack didn’t know about the testicle part, but the teasing note in her voice gave him the distinct impression that at least one of those secrets involved him. Was she offering to share it in exchange for his cooperation?

“As good as it is to see you,” he said carefully, “I re
ally came here to talk business. This business with the Trust for Compassionate Service, mainly.”

She blinked three times in quick succession. “What’s that?”

Playing along with her supposed ignorance, he related an account of his call from Isaac Mailer before adding, “It’s a fantastic opportunity. Practically tailor-made for both my sister and me. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“And you were wondering,” Sabrina asked in a breathy whisper, “how you could make it up to me?”

God help him, the way she was leaning forward, he could see right down the front of her dress. For one insane moment he wondered what it would be like to fondle those lush breasts and bed this seductive woman who had clearly been with so many of the country’s rich and powerful.

Sure, but how many of them has she ruined?
his better judgment chimed in.

Averting his gaze, Jack killed his body’s unconscious response by picturing his mama in her bathrobe waxing her upper lip.

Worked every time. Except with Reagan, but with her, his attraction went so far beyond the physical that his willpower had never stood a chance.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to give himself a moment to regroup. Intuition warned him that it might prove disastrous to insult Sabrina with a blatant rejection. If she had half as much influence—and a third as few scruples—as he suspected, she could destroy him and his sister as easily as she had convinced Isaac Mailer to toss them a life ring.

“I’d love to make it up to you,” he told her. “But I
told you before, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of getting involved in the mayor’s race.”

“Maybe you’d change your mind if I could help you understand what a good man, what an honorable man, our mayor is, and how
very
much there is at stake.”

He knew exactly what was at stake for those he had been helping. Using his influence as the city’s mayor, Darren Winter could see to it that the children of Las Casitas Village were denied medical treatment. How could he stack his personal discomfort over the idea of being used against the health—and perhaps even the lives—of innocents?

Before he could capitulate, however, Sabrina wrinkled her nose and wriggled so provocatively that he had to look away in self-defense.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but this corset’s killing me. It’s such a distraction to the conversation. Would you mind if I go take it off?”

“Uh, sure,” he said and wondered exactly how the hell he was going to escape this sin pit without swapping DNA strands with this woman.

“You know, sometimes it’s really hard to get myself out of these things. If you’d like to…you know, help, I’m sure we could get it off much faster.”

How did she say things like that with a straight face? But something else lurked behind the feigned look of innocence in Sabrina’s eyes. Instead of the wicked glint that Jack expected, was that fear he saw?

Why? What could possibly be at stake if she couldn’t bribe or seduce her way to getting his cooperation? He knew the election was too close to call, but could the mayor and his secret weapon really believe that Dr. Jack Montoya’s endorsement would sway the vote?
Did they make the mistake of believing, as so many white politicians seemed to, that Hispanics all voted as one block?

And even if Mayor Youngblood lost to the windbag from hell, surely Sabrina McMillan’s past successes would earn her a new position in another major campaign. Instinct warned Jack that more than the obvious hung in the balance.

Was the secret hidden in the files in Sabrina’s office?

Still hesitant to directly reject her, Jack said, “You know, I’ve never been any good with that kind of stuff. I think I’ll just wait out here for you.”

“Since you don’t want to help, this could take a while.” Her pouty look turned inviting. “If you get tired of waiting, you know where to find me.”

She swayed off to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Predictably, Jack didn’t hear it lock.

He made a beeline to her office and breathed a silent prayer that she would light some candles and lounge around her bed awhile, waiting for a complete hormonal meltdown to reel him in. Closing the door quietly behind him, he scanned the room and realized that compared to the sparkling perfection of the other rooms, her working area looked like the aftermath of a twister in a mobile-home park. Half-empty, lipstick-stained coffee cups littered the disastrously disheveled surface of her sprawling mahogany desk. Papers were everywhere, some tucked untidily in files while others were fanned out around an overflowing ashtray. Several of the file-cabinet drawers had been left open, and the bookshelves bowed beneath the weight of haphazardly arranged books on politics and campaign theory. Many of the volumes had loose papers sticking out which had been tucked between the pages.

His heart sank. He could search this haystack for hours without ever finding the needle he suspected. He started shuffling through the desktop jumble with wild abandon, praying that the mess would hide his actions and that some relevant phrase would jump out at him.

He ran through endorsements, accountings of entertainment expenses that seemed outrageous at first glance, and several marked-up drafts of what must be a political ad. His hands trembled as he worked, and his mind screamed,
Get the hell back out there before she comes looking for you.

And then he found it, in a dog-eared single sheet stamped in red letters
Confidential:
a memo reminding Mayor Youngblood of the agreement for flood remediation for the area surrounding the Plaza del Sol and Las Casitas Village apartments.

“The Plaza del Sol flood project…” Jack whispered, and in the back of his mind, he could feel a lock’s dial spinning toward the memory of a recent conversation—one that clicked into place as his gaze caught the name of the apartment complex’s owner.

He began rereading the memo more carefully, but his ringing cell phone interrupted. Praying that Sabrina wouldn’t hear it, he jerked it from his pocket and put his thumb over the power switch to shut it off. But a glance at the screen quickly changed his mind.

He answered, speaking in a low voice. “I can’t talk now, Luz Maria. I’m—”

“It’s a setup,” his sister interrupted. “The Trust for Compassionate Service is nothing but a front for BorderFree.”

His world reversed course, spinning backward on its axis. “
What?
”

“I tried the number on that business card you left me. The man who answered said he was Isaac Mailer, but that wasn’t who it was. It was Sergio, Jack. I’d know his voice anywhere.”

“Sergio Cardenas?” Jack struggled to recall how Mailer had sounded, but he couldn’t resurrect the voice, nor any suspicion that it sounded familiar. Still, Luz Maria would know, wouldn’t she? After all, they had been lovers. Which might mean Sergio had recognized her, too. “Did he know it was you?”

“I don’t think so. I hung up—and as soon as we’re through talking, I’m calling Special Agent Lambert to give him what I know. I can’t let this go any farther—can’t risk more people getting hurt, and BorderFree’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep Darren Winter out of office.”

Despite his situation, Jack felt something in him unclench at the realization that his sister had truly broken free of Sergio’s influence. “But what could Mayor Youngblood’s campaign have to do with Sergio and BorderFree-4-All?” he asked her. “And how the hell does any of this relate to Las Casitas—”

At the sound of a metallic click behind him, Jack looked over his shoulder—and stared at a totally nude Sabrina McMillan. Though most men would have been mesmerized by the gravity-defying nature of her surgically enhanced breasts, what dried the spit in Jack’s mouth was the cocked revolver she held in her right hand.