The Spy Who Loves Me (14 page)

Finn stiffened, fighting a spurt of unwanted arousal. The woman whose touch he craved was on the other side of the plane, unconscious. But he'd watched Tatiana for too long, fantasized about her too many times for his body not to react to his imagination rather than the reality of the situation.

“I'll thank you to get your hands off me,” he said. Considering the woman had drugged and kidnapped him, he probably should rethink the tough-guy response. But he'd responded out of instinct, and right now that was all he had to go on.

“Nonsense,” she purred. “You'll thank me to continue. Believe me, men always do.” She kept one hand on his chest and waved dismissively with the other. Like good little lap dogs, the two men moved forward into the cockpit, closing the door behind them. “How nice that we're now all alone.”

“Nice isn't the word I would have chosen,” he said.

She didn't respond in words. Instead, she trailed her hand down, pressing her palm against his crotch. A wave of revulsion washed over him, and any fear that his body would betray him—would spring to attention at this woman's touch—evaporated. He didn't know what she was up to, but he knew it was no good.

She pressed her lips against his neck. “Don't fight it, Mr. Teague. You know you want me.
I
know you want me.” She pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes. Her lips pursed into a perfect, glossed kiss. “I've seen you watching me.”

He said nothing, just turned his head away.

Her tongue flicked lightly over his ear. “Why do you watch, Mr. Teague?”

Play it cool, Finn.
He took a deep breath. “Maybe I just like the view.”

She laughed, the sound surprisingly sweet. “Of course you do. You're a man.” Her lips brushed over his, and Finn stiffened, fighting the urge to jerk back away from her. “But that's not the only reason you watch, is it?” She took his bottom lip in her teeth and tugged, the pressure both gentle and insistent. Finn clenched his hands into fists. “Tell me who you work for,” she murmured.

Now,
Finn thought. Tell her the truth and then get the hell out of there.

But he didn't. As much as he wanted to believe he could simply tell Tatiana that this was all a big misunderstanding, he knew better. The woman believed he knew her secrets. And considering ZAEL had entered the picture, he could imagine just how sensitive her secrets might be. The company was renowned for its communications satellites, but lately it had expanded into space-based weapons systems. Both defensive and offensive.

The kind of technology any self-respecting terrorist would love to get his—or her—hands on.

If Finn told her the truth, one of three things would happen. She wouldn't believe him, and he'd be right back where he started. She'd believe him, and let him and Amber go, dropping them back off at the apartment and giving them a bottle of vodka in apology for all the trouble. Or she'd believe him, and then she'd have one of her two goons open the door while the plane was somewhere over the Pacific…and Finn and Amber would end up fish food.

Finn knew door number three was the most likely scenario.

And so he kept his mouth shut. So long as she thought he was a spy—so long as she believed he might have discovered some key bit of information and passed it along to his superiors—she'd keep him alive. If only for the purpose of torturing him until he spilled everything he knew.

Unfortunately for Finn, he didn't know a damn thing. And he wondered how long it would take for her to figure that out.

Her hand stroked his cheek, her touch light, like the caress of a lover. “Tell me,” she crooned. She lowered her hand to stroke his inner thigh. “Tell me, and we can make this very, very pleasant.” She nipped at his earlobe, the intensity of the bite making him wince. “Tell me, and we won't have to resort to more painful forms of persuasion.”

He stared straight ahead, hopefully projecting the illusion of a superspy rather than a clueless civilian.

The cockpit door swung open and the gorilla with the missing earlobe stepped through. “Give it a rest, Diana. The guy's a professional. He ain't caving. From the look of it, even one of your famous blow jobs wouldn't suck the information out of him.”

As she pressed her lips together, her eyes flashing, Finn said a silent thank-you. At least now he knew her name. Considering he supposedly had the goods on her, that was probably useful information.

For a moment Finn thought she was going to ignore the lug, but then she slid off his lap and returned to the bar. She downed two shots, then faced him, still ignoring her counterpart. “You should have talked,” she said to Finn. “I would have put in a good word. As it is, now you have to face Drake alone, without any help from me. Or anyone.”

The gorilla laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said to Finn. “You'll need it.” He turned to Diana. “What about the broad? Want me to relieve the plane of a little ballast?”

Finn tensed, not entirely sure what he was going to do if Diana said yes. Considering he was cuffed and still woozy from drugs, the opportunities for chivalry were severely lacking.

Diana shook her head. “No. We'll take her with us. Our Mr. Teague might be immune to my charms, but I doubt he's immune to an innocent woman's pain. If we need her, she'll be handy.”

The gorilla lumbered toward Amber, and Finn didn't like the leer that crossed his face. “And if we don't need her, well, maybe I can have a go.”

Finn strained against his bonds, but Diana just laughed. She waved a hand toward the thug. “Go ask Prado what the holdup is. Why haven't we started to taxi?”

“That's what I came back here for. We're taking off.”

As the gorilla returned to the cockpit, the plane started to move. Diana headed toward an empty chair, patting Finn lightly on the cheek as she passed by. “In the event of a water landing, darling, your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device.” She strapped herself in, then pulled a copy of
Vogue
from a side pocket of the lush, leather seat. She opened the magazine, flipped the page, and utterly ignored him.

Finn blinked. The entire situation was surreal, and he wondered if he could somehow capture and bottle it. The FBI said he was too old, and the CIA had flat-out rejected his application. If he and Amber got out of this alive, could he resubmit and put this day down as work experience?

The engine hummed, the plane rushing forward. The force pressed him back against the seat, and he settled in for the ride.

If Finn couldn't go to espionage, espionage, it seemed, would come to Finn.

S
o he really was a spy.

Amber resisted the urge to open her eyes and look at Finn. She had to give him credit. His cover story had fooled her. She'd been almost certain he was a civilian—not positive, but close.

And while she hated being wrong, she was happy to know she had a trained ally in this current predicament. If everything she'd heard about Drake Mackenzie was true, escaping from the maniac's grip wasn't going to be easy.

Fingers of pain shot through Amber's body, the unfortunate side effect of laying silently on the couch—her shoulder throbbing and her muscles cramping—for the duration of the flight.

No one expressed any surprise that the drug had kept her out of commission for so long, which only confirmed Amber's belief that not only had they given her a large dose of Narc, but they also assumed she wasn't worth worrying about, except as a possible torture victim to entice Finn to spill secrets. The torture thing aside, that wasn't a bad position to be in. Being presumed a civilian meant that she was practically invisible. And that could result in a very tangible advantage.

For that matter, she'd be wise to keep her identity secret from Finn as well. Just because they shared an enemy didn't necessarily make them allies. And at the moment, she was in the perfect position—able to listen unobtrusively while Finn watched her back.

The plane banked sharply, and Amber was lucky she didn't tumble off the couch and onto the floor. Time to wake up. She wanted a look at her captors—and at Finn—before they got off the plane and, possibly, separated. With calculated movements, she stretched her legs, then wiggled her fingers. She raised herself slightly on her elbows and conjured a low moan.

“She's coming around,” Beltzer said.

Footsteps, and then someone grabbed her roughly by the arm, pulling her into a sitting position. Amber blinked, peeling her eyes open to find Diana peering right back at her. The other woman let go, tossing Amber back like so much garbage.

“She's awake,” Diana said, moving away. She gestured toward Beltzer. “Check her out.”

“Wh-where am I?”

“Shut up,” Beltzer said. He slapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm and pressed his finger to her wrist.

“Finn?” she said. It was no work to keep her voice hoarse. She'd been faking unconsciousness for hours. Her voice was raspy, and she would've traded state secrets for a glass of water. Well, not really. But she was pretty damn thirsty.

“I'm here,” he said. She turned, widening her eyes in mock surprise when she saw him in the chair on the far side of the cabin.

The movement gave her the opportunity she needed to scope out the plane and its passengers. The cabin was lushly appointed, all leather, hard-woods, and crystal. The couch was framed by two small windows. A table, antique from the looks of it, was perched near the end of the couch, between her and the cabin door. Its mate was bolted to the floor between her and Finn. She let her gaze drift over both tables, searching for any knickknack that might be useful as a weapon, but the tabletops looked bare.

From what she could see, the rear of the cabin fed into a lavatory and, possibly, access to a cargo hold. If possible, she'd check it out before they began their descent. But escape wasn't her primary concern at the moment. After all, if what the pilot said was true, they were over water and there was nowhere to go. Besides, Diana was being kind enough to take her to Drake. It would be rude to skip out of the party.

“Well?” Diana asked.

“She's fine,” Beltzer said. He caressed her face, curling a lock of hair around a finger as Amber fought back a gag. Mackenzie had done good recruiting this guy; Beltzer's breath alone could fell an army. “Hell,” he added, “she's more than fine.”

Amber jerked away, and Beltzer laughed.

“I'd advise you to leave the lady alone,” Finn said.

Beltzer snorted. “You gonna make me?”

“I might.”

“Yeah? You and what army?”

Diana held up a hand. “Just leave her alone,” she said, but it was said without conviction.

“Please,”
Amber said, throwing herself into her role. “Tell me where I am.”

“You're on a plane, sweetcakes,” Beltzer said.

She licked her lips. “Why?”

“A fun-filled vacation package,” Beltzer said. “Lucky you.”

“Well, hell,” Finn drawled. “And me without my suntan oil.”

Amber fought a smile. Damn, but she liked that man's style.

 

Less than an hour later, they landed. In the meantime, Diana had permitted no more questions, instead demanding silence as she flipped the pages of
Cosmopolitan, Vanity Fair,
and
Maxim.

Amber had wrangled an escort to the lavatory, but she'd learned nothing of import during the trek. For that matter, the only revelations during their entire time in the plane were that Finn was some sort of operative, and that whoever had decorated the plane had excellent—and expensive—taste.

The plane rolled down the tarmac and Amber peered out the window at paradise. Lush green hills peppered with palm trees sparkled in the dawn's light. And when she turned slightly, she saw that they were on a plateau, high above the island. Below them on one side, she could make out a crystal-clear lagoon. The plane turned again, and Amber realized that a large building covered most of the plateau not taken up by the airstrip, one side essentially forming an extension of the cliff. The view, of course, must have been amazing. On top of the building, Amber saw a helicopter. Probably Drake's primary form of transportation.

The plane continued to taxi for a few yards, then turned, shifting her view and revealing a smaller building she hadn't noticed before. This one was nestled against a hill on the far side of the tarmac. The building was topped with a satellite dish, eerily illuminated in the dawn's light. The plane came to a stop, and Amber turned from the window to face Finn. He met her gaze, his eyes serious. She knew what he was thinking—this was it. Time to enter the dragon's lair.

Diana stood, dusting her white slacks to remove nonexistent lint. The engine died, and the plane stilled, the low thrumming of the engine quieting. After a moment, the door to the cockpit opened and a tall blond man in an Italian suit stepped out. Prado, Amber presumed.

“Let's get these two into the truck,” he said. “Wouldn't want them to be late for their appointment.”

“Certainly not,” Beltzer added. “That would be what they call a social fox paw.”

“Faux pas,”
Diana said. “Take care of them, and then come back for our little package in the cargo hold.”

Prado took Amber's left arm and yanked her to her feet. Fire radiated out from her shoulder, shooting all the way to her toes.

She stumbled slightly. She would have liked to say that she'd been playing a role, but the truth was that her muscles were sore and cramped, and with her hands cuffed behind her back, her sense of balance was even more compromised. Diana had led Finn toward the door, and now he was at her side. His smile was reassuring, and she returned it, trying to psychically let him know that whatever he had planned, he should count her in.

The cabin door was open, the fold-down kind that created a set of stairs leading to the tarmac, which reached out to touch the horizon. A truck painted in familiar green and brown camouflage loomed large before them.

Diana held what looked like a small stick in her hand, and as she stepped onto the stairs, she flicked her wrist, opening a small paper fan. As she descended, she waved the fan, creating her own personal cross-breeze.

Amber and Finn stayed put at the top of the stairs, Beltzer and Prado behind them. When she reached the ground, Diana looked back up at them, gesturing toward the truck as if she were Vanna White showing off one of the fabulous prizes. “Do hurry, you two. Your limo awaits.”

As Beltzer jabbed his finger between her shoulder blades, Finn met her eyes. “Don't worry,” he whispered. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

Her skin flushed warm and Amber smiled. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. But for once, she had to admit, it felt nice to be on the receiving end of chivalry.

 

He was gonna die. Oh, god, he was gonna die
.

Bernie shivered under a thin wool blanket. His nose was dripping, and he didn't have a tissue. He rubbed the blanket under his nose, but it was rough, and his upper lip was already cracked and split.

The room was made of cinder blocks, and had one heavy metal door with a tiny window blocked by three iron bars. The only furnishings were a cot and a chamber pot. Bernie eyed the second with distaste. Pretty soon he'd have to use it, and the thought made him gag.

He knew why he was there; he wasn't stupid. It was just his dumb luck that the one thing in the world he was good at was something terrorists and thugs wanted to get their hands on.

He'd always known his job was risky. But when the word came down that he was being reclassified to the lowest level and reassigned to data processing, he thought he'd be safe. Hiding in the open kind of thing.

Considering he was now stuck in a cell, that brilliant plan to keep him off the bad guys' radar screen apparently hadn't worked too well.

But he'd keep his mouth shut. Bernie Waterman wasn't a traitor. He wasn't talking. Not even if they ripped out his toenails. No sir, no how.

He shifted his bare feet under the blanket. Surely they wouldn't rip out his toenails….

He snuffled, then blew his nose into the blanket. He let his head fall back and breathed through his mouth. He felt like shit.

But he had a feeling he was about to feel a whole lot worse.

 

Amber paced the room, noting its dimensions. Ten by ten, constructed of cinder blocks covered with plaster, with eight-…no, nine-foot ceilings. She glanced at her fingernails. Not in the best of shape now that she'd used them to scratch a section of plaster away, revealing the concrete blocks below.

But it had to be done. She needed to know how dire her situation was, and her meticulous inspection of the room had confirmed what she already knew—pretty damn dire.

The room was sparsely furnished with a cot and a stainless steel toilet with no seat or lid. Bummer. Not the best of weapons, but either one would do in a pinch.

As it was, there wasn't even enough water in the bowl to drown a man. And her wish for a mirror was sadly ungranted.

Too bad. Not only was she willing to trade seven years bad luck for a deadly shard of glass, she also wanted to get a look at her aching shoulder. Not gonna happen, though, and she pushed the wish, and the pain, out of her mind.

She dropped to the floor by the cot and scooted under on her back, tilting slightly to the right so her left shoulder didn't scrape the ground. She felt a bit like a mechanic taking a look at a car's suspension, only she didn't intend to repair anything. At the moment, she was deep in destruction mode.

Unfortunately, there wasn't anything to destroy. She'd hoped for a tensile spring. If nothing else, she could sharpen the end on the concrete and hide the makeshift knife in her cleavage. But Drake had thought of everything. The cot base was made from tightly pulled webbing. Not a spring to be found.

She considered busting off one of the metal legs, but that was so obvious. Still, she hated being unarmed….

She grabbed the edge of the cot and flipped it over, taking some satisfaction in the clatter as it bounced, then settled on the hard floor. She slammed her foot against the cot's leg. One, two, three times.

The metal bent, and she squatted for a closer look. Good. Just one more time.

She lifted her leg, ready to slam it down one last time and free the metal cylinder, but then the door burst open and Beltzer strode through.

“Getting cocky, there, princess?”

“You have no idea,” Amber said, eyeing the open door behind him and making her decision in a split second. She twirled around, thrusting her leg out and up in a move that would have made her sensai proud. She caught him in the jaw, and his head flew back, knocking him off balance so that he fell to the ground with a satisfying thud.

Too easy.

She was at his side in an instant, going for the gun in his hand. In less than twenty seconds, she was armed and in the doorway, Beltzer groaning and half-conscious behind her.

She stepped into the hallway, allowing herself just the tiniest sigh of relief.

“Drop it.” Prado's voice.

Amber closed her eyes, her relief short-lived. The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against her temple, and she knew she was out of options. For now.

She tossed the gun on the ground, grimacing when Prado kicked it out of range.

“You're out of your league, babycakes,” he said.