Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller) (19 page)

They both laughed.
 

Cooper finished his Coke and set the can on the counter. “On that note, why don’t we go give my new girlfriend and Warlock a hand?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They searched Favreau’s suite from top to bottom looking for a data chip of one kind or another—every cupboard, every drawer, every closet, every nook and cranny. Under sinks, behind air conditioning grates, between mattresses, sofa cushions, under throw rugs, tables, table legs, and lamps. They searched every inch of Favreau’s suitcase and clothing, including the lining, before carefully returning each item to its proper place.

And they found nothing.
 

No canisters or tubes of toothpaste with hidden compartments. No secret pouch sewn in the hem of a jacket. No false bottom in a bag—

—Not. A. Thing.

They gathered in Favreau’s living room at three a.m., exhausted after a long night, and Cooper finally called it. “That’s it, we’re done. Looks like Warlock was right. Either Favreau’s storing the information somewhere off campus or on the cloud. This almost makes me miss Istanbul.”

Warlock said, “No worries, mate. If it’s on the cloud, he’ll have to access the data through his computer and I’ve already cloned it. If there’s a connection point, I’ll find it.”

“But what if you don’t?” Deuce said. “We’ll be up a creek without a motorboat.”

Alex shook her head. “Sooner or later he’ll sew up the deal with Valac and make his move. We’ll just have to be there when he does.”
 

Cooper nodded and said to Warlock, “How are we on cameras?”

“Two in every room.”

“And his jammers?”

“I found one in here and one on the nightstand. I reprogrammed them to let our feed through.”

“Won’t he notice?” Deuce asked.

Warlock looked at him as if he’d asked the stupidest question ever. “This is not my first time in the field,
Mr.
Jones. No, he won’t notice.”

“But if he does?” Deuce persisted.

Before Warlock could answer, Alex said, “If he does, he’ll likely think it’s Valac’s men. He’s already suspicious of them.”

Deuce grunted. “He’s suspicious of everyone, including you. You’d better watch your back around that toad.”

“It’s the front I’m most worried about.”

“That, too. Did I mention he wears tighty whities?”

Alex groaned. “Just kill me now.”

F
AVREAU
’
S
HEAD
HURT
.

It was nothing too painful, just one of those underground headaches he sometimes woke up with when he hadn’t slept all that well. Yet, oddly enough, he felt as if he’d gone down hard last night and stayed there.
 

The last thing he remembered was making a move on Alexandra Barnes on her living room sofa. But the champagne, along with the scotch he drank at dinner, had done a number on him, and he could barely even visualize the moment, like it was some crazy dream that was already slipping away from him.

What he did remember was the robe she was wearing, and the way her breasts had moved around beneath it as she walked, and that face of hers with those exotic brown eyes. She was the complete package, that one, coming from a whole different planetary system than the strippers in that club yesterday, and he couldn’t quite believe a woman of her breeding would pay any attention to him without having a wad of cash dangled in her face.

When he returned to his suite after their encounter on the beach, he had checked into her and she seemed legitimate, but he couldn’t shake the feeling she wanted something from him. That maybe she had decided to hunt for a sugar daddy in her spare time while she was here in St. Cajetan, and he had seemed like an easy mark.

Or maybe she worked for Valac. Some whore hired to spy on him. Try to steal the merchandise while Valac pretended to mull over Favreau’s latest counter offer.

Favreau trusted that son of a bitch about as far as he could throw him.

The thing was, Alexandra Barnes didn’t strike him as a whore. At least not the kind someone like Valac would be associated with. She was a class act, top to bottom—no pun intended. He couldn’t imagine Reinhard Beck going to all the trouble of hiring some call girl just to save a few million bucks.

Whatever the case, Favreau wished to hell he knew where the night had gone. He remembered pushing her against the sofa cushions and going in for the kill…

But after that? Nothing.

And now here he was, naked in his own bed and—

Wait a minute.

Was
this his bed?

He looked down at the tangled sheets then scanned the room. While it looked a lot like his, the artwork on the walls was different. The one above the dresser was a reprint of Vuillard’s
Le Corsage Rayé,
and if he remembered correctly—and who could tell at this point?—the one in his room was a Marval.

So this definitely
wasn’t
his
bed.

He looked toward the closet and saw a handful of dresses and beachwear on hangers, including the dress Alexandra had worn to dinner last night. Then his eyes caught the infamous robe in a pile on the floor, and close by a lacy thong, carelessly discarded.

Holy shit. They’d done the deed, all right. His move had been successful and then some.

But why the hell couldn’t he remember it?

He turned and looked at the spot beside him and saw that the sheets had been thrown back. He squinted at the clock and saw it was just after seven a.m.

Yawning, he ran his fingers through his hair, then swung his legs around and sat up on the side of the bed.

Jeez, he felt a little nauseated, and his head was really starting to pound now. Hung over, for sure.

Had he had more to drink than he thought?

Taking it slowly, he got to his feet and resisted the urge to upchuck all over the carpet, convincing himself that the nausea was more psychological than physical. He shuffled into the bathroom and stared at his booze-battered face in the mirror as he took a long, much-needed pee. Then he went back into the bedroom, searched the floor for his own clothes, and found them strewn along the foot of the bed. They looked as if they’d been flung there in a hurry. Being that close to jumping Alexandra’s bones, he’d undoubtedly wanted to make sure he got the deed done before she changed her mind.

He just wished he could remember it.

He found his briefs, pulled them on, then felt a sudden stab of panic as he stared at his slacks lying on the floor.
 

His wallet. Had she lifted his wallet?

Snatching up the pants, he dipped a hand inside the pocket, relieved to find the wallet still there. He pulled it out, checked that everything was where it should be, including the money, then returned it to his pocket, stepped into the slacks, and buckled his belt. Next he grabbed his polo shirt and pulled it on.

He heard a laugh from the other side of the door and thought he smelled coffee. Forgetting about his shoes for now, he went into the living room to find a couple of Alexandra’s crew members in the kitchen. A big guy in a green Hawaiian shirt, and a soldier type in T-shirt and jeans, both sipping from hotel coffee mugs.

Favreau wondered if they were both gay or only one of them was. Probably the one in the T-shirt. The other, not so sure.

“Well, well,” T-shirt said to his buddy, “check it out. The man of the hour is awake.”

Favreau rubbed his face. “Yeah, and I feel like a dog’s ass. You think I could get a cup of that coffee?”

“How do you like it?”

“The blacker the better.”

T-shirt nodded, went to a coffee maker, and poured some into a mug as Hawaiian shirt silently checked out Favreau.

“Where’s Alexandra?” Favreau asked.

“She’s in the spare bathroom,” T-shirt said. “Getting ready for the shoot.”

“Shoot?”

“We’re filming a bunch of segments today.”

Favreau bobbed his head but immediately regretted it. “She feels anything like I do, good luck with that.”

“Believe me, I already read her the riot act.” T-shirt pointed at the coffee table. “You guys had quite a party last night.”

For the first time, Favreau noticed the overturned champagne bottle and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting next to the two glasses.

Did they actually drink all that?

No wonder he’d had a blackout.

“Jesus,” Favreau murmured.

T-shirt handed him his coffee. “I don’t think Jesus had much to do with it, but I guess somebody up there likes you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be crawling out of my correspondent’s bed at seven in the morning.”

Favreau sipped. Maybe he wasn’t the gay one after all. “Is that a problem for you?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. I like her to be alert and ready to work. Instead she’s been dragging her ass around here ever since I woke her up. I won’t even get into all the racket you two made.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Hawaiian shirt said with a grin. “Sound familiar?”

As he and T-shirt laughed, Favreau wished it did sound familiar. What was the point of bedding a stunner like Alexandra if you couldn’t remember a thing about it?
 

Not that he’d admit it to these guys.

“What can I say?” he told them. “I guess I have a gift.”

“That was the sound coming out of
you
,” Hawaiian shirt said, and he and his friend laughed again, this time louder and harder.
 

Favreau didn’t normally blush, but he felt heat in his cheeks and suddenly wanted to punch both of these bastards. Not that he had the energy. Instead, he laughed along with them, and was about to tell the big one how hilarious he was when Alexandra emerged from a hallway and said, “What’s so funny?”

That sobered them up fast.
 

T-shirt said, “Your friend just told us a…” He paused. Frowned. “What the hell are you wearing?”

She looked down at her clothes, a pastel green V-neck and a pair of white shorts. She had a tan, toned body Favreau couldn’t get enough of.

“You don’t like it?” she asked.

“I told you to wear the yellow bikini top. It looks good on camera.”

“I know, but—”

“Come on, Alex, we didn’t hire you for your opinion. Bikini tops get page views, okay? That’s what it’s all about. Now go change before we head out.”

Favreau understood what T-shirt was saying—any moron would—but he didn’t like the way the guy was talking to Alexandra, and could clearly see she didn’t, either.

“Hey, pal, jump back a little, all right?”

T-shirt shot him a look. “Excuse me? I didn’t realize you were the producer on this shoot.”

“I’m just saying there’s no need to—”

“To what? Are you her manager now? Her agent? You bang her one time and think you can come in here and tell me how to do my job?”

Favreau glanced at Alexandra, who had averted her eyes in embarrassment. “No, but—”

“Then get the hell out of here. You’ve already done enough.”

Favreau felt his blood pressure rise. He put his coffee mug on the counter. “You’d better watch your mouth, pal.”

“I better watch
my
mouth?” T-shirt glared at him for a second. “You’ve got a helluva nerve. You show up here, get my talent stinking drunk, you keep her up all hours of the night making enough noise to wake up the rest of us, and now she looks like crap. If the way I’m talking upsets you, I’m sorry,
pal
, but I’ve got a living to make, and at the moment it unfortunately depends on her.”

Favreau struggled to keep from launching himself at the prick, but knew that was probably suicidal, considering his current condition and the size of the guy standing next to T-shirt.

“Just so you understand,” he said. “I know people who would happily cut you up into tiny little pieces on my say so.”

“Ooooh, you’re scaring the hell out of me.” T-shirt turned to his partner. “Is he scaring you, too, Sticks?”

Hawaiian shirt grunted. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

That did it. Unable to help himself, Favreau shot forward—

—but it was Alexandra who intervened. She jumped between them and put a hand on Favreau’s chest, holding him back with more power than he’d expected.

“He’s right, Frederic. Stop.”

“He’s
right
?” Favreau wanted to tear these guys apart.

“People are paying me good money to represent TPL, and I blew it last night by partying too hard. Believe it or not, the camera sees a lot more than we think it does.” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry you got in the middle of this. But we have work to do, so why don’t you go get your shoes, and I’ll walk you to the door.”

Favreau glared at the two men, struggling to regain his calm, then returned his gaze to Alexandra. “You’re sure?”

“You look like you could use some more sleep.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “All right, then.”

He sucked in a deep breath and let it flow back out as he gave them all one last look before heading into the bedroom for his shoes.

A couple minutes later, Alexandra met him in the foyer. She was wearing the yellow bikini top now, and damn if soon-to-be-fish-bait hadn’t gotten it right. She looked amazing in the thing.