Savage Secrets (Titan #6) (7 page)

He walked by a magazine stand. The tabloids and magazines beckoned to him, and a selfish hunger urged him onward. Some organizations pushed for renewal in faith of the almighty Allah. Some strived for governmental power. Maybe a decade or two ago, that was the case for him, but then he got a taste of power and fear. When he’d earned the name El Mateperros on the banks of the Spanish coast, all had changed. Yassine Harhour was meant for greatness. Born to be famous. On tabloid covers and the lead story on nightly news segments. With the Big Ben bombing, Yassine would come out from behind his closely guarded identity and take ranks as
the
most sought after terrorist in the world.

And surely Allah could not fault him that.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jared sat at his desk, his bulldog at his feet and his wife in his lap. Thelma the Bulldog chewed on a three foot rawhide that Sugar had dropped to the floor when she’d popped in. She smelled like gunpowder and perfume, a mixture he would never get tired of.

“So what are you going to do?”

It was the second time she’d asked and the second time he didn’t have an answer. Doc Tuska had called him again, but not just with bad news. It’d been shit-on-the-bottom-of-your-shoes bad news. After Rocco’s poisoning in New York City, he’d been hospitalized and detoxed from a mystery hallucinogen. The hospital sent it off for testing. It turned out that poison was a government-sponsored experimental drug gone wrong.

Clinical trials were brought to an abrupt halt when what was supposed to be a truth serum presented as an acid trip. But the kicker was, weeks later, almost every test subject reported full blown and random hallucinations. Some tests subjects had no recollection of what happened when they tripped, and others had varying lengths of time between episodes before it appeared to clear out of their system.

Jared played with Sugar’s hair and considered whether Rocco had either not told him or didn’t know. Jared had to act fast before dude got himself killed. Sugar readjusted on his leg. The little minx probably did it just to draw attention to her leather-clad legs and those spiked heels she trounced around in.

“You can’t just pull him out.” She popped a piece of bubble gum.

“I know that.”

“But you can’t let him run all over England tripping his ass off if he doesn’t know.”

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and into his hair. “Agreed.”

“So you need to tell Caterina.”

He stopped rubbing his hair, hand frozen on his scalp. It was a possibility, but how much did he know about Caterina? Enough that he could trust her with one of his men’s greatest weaknesses? “That’s an option.”

“An option?”

“I trust the girl to a point, but giving her that kind of intel? That’s a nuclear option. Last resort.”

“She’s trustworthy.”

Jared chuckled. “Oh she is, is she? Cut this BS, Baby Cakes. How do you know that?”

“I can read people. We had a good conversation.”

“And I’ve known her the better part of her life.”

“Trust her, Jared.” Sugar kissed his lips and tasted bubble gum. “Feel Rocco out, then reach out to her.”

“Eh…we’ll see.”

She pecked him once more on the kisser and jumped off his lap. Thelma stood, ready to follow her newish mistress out the door.

“Traitor.” He rubbed the dog’s wrinkly head. “A few dog bones, and your loyalty waivers.”

Jared picked up the phone to call Caterina. First try. Second and third tries. No answer.

Guts churning, he hung up his phone. Sooner or later, Rocco would check in, and he’d feel him out.

But just in case everything was going wrong, he picked up his phone. “Roman. Get in here.”

***

It was happening. Caterina didn’t know exactly what
it
was, but Rocco going from normal to nuts before she could turn around was unnerving. He’d run out the door, and she wouldn’t let him get too far. She grabbed her key card then went to the door, slowly opening it and sneaking a glance down the hall. If she hadn’t known better, he could’ve been any man hurrying through the hallway. He wasn’t falling all over himself or licking the wall. But he was off, acting drugged, looking at his feet, staring at the wall, dragging himself down the corridor.

It only took her seconds to get to him, and Rocco was slowing down, clearly in another place. His eyes weren’t focusing on her. His words didn’t make sense. Babble, babble, some numbers, and more babbling.

“Rocco.” She sidled up to him, not wanting to surprise him. Not that he would hurt her…but it seemed prudent not to sneak up on a man of his size and stature. “Roc, babe.”

His head lulled in her direction. Power ticked in his jaw. Shadows danced in his eyes, but there was no recognition. The man she’d known for a short while was gone.

More babble about numbers and he threw the door open, nearly knocking it off the hinges. One hundred percent of his power twitched in his muscles. They contracted and released. His hands flexed into fists, and then his fingers splayed. Daring against danger, Caterina hesitantly touched his forearm.

“Angel,” he mumbled.

She didn’t completely understand his gibberish, but his eyes held her, pleading and screaming for help. How could she possibly walk away from the kind of vulnerability?

He blinked hard, scrunching his face, mumbling again. He didn’t say Angel. But whatever it was, it was on repeat. He took off, several stairs at a time, and she clung to his arm, determined to stay with him. Shoot, she needed to get him back to their room. He wasn’t in any kind of shape to be out.

Rocco paused on a landing. Caterina rested her hand on his shoulder, sliding it down to his elbow. Stepping forward, he moved so disjointedly that it was easy enough to pull him back to a standstill. “Hi. Can you hear me?”

His eyes focused on her, glancing at the lights and the wall behind her, then back to her face again. Sweat beaded on his forehead and temples. Relief washed across his face. The tension melted from his muscled arm.

“You’re back.” Raw and harsh, his words were painted in a tornado of agony and relief.

She had no idea what he meant. She’d never left, but it was a good thing, and she’d take it.

“Come on, babe. Back to our room.” Tugging six-foot-something of two hundred pounds of brawny man was impossible. “Please, Rocco. You’re scaring me.”

Too many things could happen. El Mateperros’s people could be staking them out. There was a laundry list of people who wanted to kill her. Him probably, too. To be out like this, in the open and out of control, was dangerous, and heaven help her, she wouldn’t let anything happen to either one of them right now.

Rocco’s forehead wrinkled in deep concentration. “Five. Twenty. One.”

He watched like she should know what that meant.

“
Que
?”

Vapid stare in return.

“Rocco, what are you telling me?”

His hands found hers, bringing her alongside him. Fingers interlacing. Palms kissing. It was a handhold. A death grip. Life support. And everything in between.

He flinched at the lights, studying his feet as he walked. At the landing for the fifth floor, they stood by the door. Rocco watched the number five.
Five
?
Five twenty-one
?

“Five twenty-one?” she asked.

His head rolled down and up like he couldn’t hold it up, but he nodded. Sort of. She opened the door, and he plodded forward, watching the numbers on each door, leaning back and growling at the wall.

He had to be hallucinating.

Finally, they stood in front of room five twenty-one. The do not disturb sign hung on the door handle. What now? They were going to scare the bejesus out of whoever—

He pushed the door, and it opened. The lock hadn’t been engaged. No one screamed as he barged inside. Hulking toward the bed, Rocco got there in three long strides, tearing off his shirt, and collapsed onto the bed. She stood by the door, taking in the drastically smaller room. One bed, two windows. No baggage, luggage, or personal effects. A few bottles of water were on the nightstand.

Rocco had another room? Because of this? This, this, whatever this was. Whatever was happening to him…

Her heart sank, and her arms ached to hold up a man who easily doubled her in weight. He was too proud, too strong, too… just too much of everything to be brought down like this. So vulnerable. It killed her.

“Rocco.” She stepped in, and the door shut behind her. “Is it okay that I’m with you?”

Unburying his face from the pillow, he looked up. No response. Just a look that acknowledged she’d said something. The whites of his eyes were red. The pupils fought dilation. The corners and his lashes twitched. She knew that look better than anybody. This was man under siege and out of control. Completely tortured.

She sat on the edge of the bed and cracked open a water. “Take a sip.”

He did, still silent, and barely picked his head up off the bed. Power idled in his bare shoulders. The column of his neck was defined in corded strength, feeding into his shoulder blades and sculpted back. Tattoos covered each shoulder. Military. The kind that said he lived for something. He watched over others, a watcher, protector, savior, defender. Tears blurred her eyes. The tattoos spoke to her, and she couldn’t even see them clearly through the burning mist welling in her eyes.

Rocco flinched. He stared at the alarm clock, then stopped, angry, apparently losing a standoff with it.

“Are you—”

He roared forward and slammed the clock off the nightstand. When it hit the floor, he growled. Deep. Guttural.

Long seconds passed as he perched on the edge of the bed. Old scars marred his perfectly carved chest. A more pronounced, fading pink scar stood out. She wanted to stare, but he dropped back toward his cocoon of bedding and pillows. He settled down, and she inched closer, testing their boundaries with a careful touch, just enough to let him know she was there, then withdrew her hand, careful not to startle him. “I don’t know what to do. Tell me. Please.”

Jerking his arm, Rocco’s hands found hers, clasping so tight it almost hurt.

She squeezed back. “I’m here.” Sighing, he went still again. Soothed.
Gracias a Dios
. “There you go, Handsome. I’ve got you.”

Not knowing what to do, she hummed as if he really were a baby in need of soothing. Petting his head, singing a song, she prayed this would be over soon.

His breathing slowed almost to normal. He had been a mountain ready to crumble, but each limb, every straining fiber of muscle, softened and relaxed. Caterina had never been a comforter, only the opposite. Her job—she wouldn’t apologize for it—had always been an outlet for the deep darkness of her own tortured, guilty soul. Besides, intel gathering was for the greater good. A bumper sticker was needed: waterboarding saves lives. Whatever. She wasn’t an awful person, just a product of her environment and her obsession.

Still holding Rocco’s hand in hers, a respite upon him…

He groaned and flinched away from an imaginary assault. Caterina held tight to their connection, refusing to let go, and his moan made her chest seize up. She hummed again and decided not to let go of him until this ride was over.

Being as careful as she could, she crawled onto the bed and leaned against the headboard. As if his strength had become that of the baby whose song she’d stolen, he was easy to move and reposition. His head in her lap. Her hand stroked his hair, his neck and shoulder.

“Well, Mr. Locke. Not how I pictured our first time in bed.” Leaning down, she kissed his cheek. “And I hope it’s not our last.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The starched pillow case rubbed against his cheek as Rocco worked his jaw. All his muscles were tired, and he felt as though he’d been sucker-punched. But that hadn’t been the case, not if he was in this hotel room, his safety zone. It hadn’t even been a day working with Caterina before he ran out the door, and if she was smart, she’d have called the whole thing off. Jared would bust his ass, and Rocco would have some explaining to do.

The alarm clock was on the floor, reading a little after midnight. It’d been one hell of a day. Red eye to London. Met up with Caterina, agreed to be hitched. Moved into the honeymoon suite, and tripped out of his mind. He’d been out longer than usual, his jam packed day probably contributing to the time he’d been knocked out.

He rolled over to his back and stared at the ceiling. Man, now that the end had arrived, he didn’t want this job to be over with. Fancy clothes and the lack of C-4 had initially put him off, but it’d been a roller coaster of a day and he didn’t want the ride to stop.

So he wouldn’t let it.
Get up. Get moving
.

Rocco looked at his sock-covered feet and the crumpled blanket next to him.
Great
. He was getting proficient at hallucinating, to the point he was making himself comfortable. His shoes were by the bed. He got up, slipped them on, and grabbed the only remaining bottle of water. He groaned, pinched the bridge of his nose, and hit the head. A few minutes later, he was on his way back to the honeymoon suite, where his bags were likely packed and waiting. His head pounded, and he was hungry enough to eat an entire box of MREs. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, front and back, Rocco came up empty handed. No keycard. Only his phone.