The Virgin's Night Out (10 page)

It had been bothering him, that talk, for the past few weeks.

“Would you like to hear my news?”

Boone shoved thoughts of Sloane out of his mind and looked over at the woman. Her eyes rested on his. “What kind of news do you have?”

Now she smiled.

Then she reached up and touched his mouth. “This news…we should talk about it outside.”

He shrugged. “I’m still drinking my beer.”

“Bring it with you.” She leaned in closer. In the dim light, he could see the smooth texture of her skin, smell her, even. “Come with me.”

She slid off the stool.

Boone wanted nothing more than to stay there, with his beer as he continued his brood about Sloane.

But he’d spent the past two weeks in this armpit, looking for somebody with news.

Now it was time to get his head out of his ass and work.

Get my head out of my ass…

Boone jolted awake, that thought the one clear thing in his head.

Surrounded by darkness, a nasty, foul stench clinging to his nasal passages, his instincts screamed at him.

Even before he realized he had a bag over his head, he knew he had big problems.

His hands were bound behind his back—it felt like somebody had used a zip tie on him. Okay, that he could handle. Of course, he was also buck-ass naked, so any of the weapons he could have used were gone, but if he had the time and the opportunity—

“You’re awake.”

The voice was low and feminine.

Familiar, too, and Boone wracked his brain as he tried to figure out who it was.

“Awake enough,” he said after a quick mental debate. She already knew he was awake. No point in faking it.

He heard the rustle of clothing and then warmth of her body.

Wherever he was, it was cold and he’d been there long enough that his skin was chilled. When she reached out to touch him, the heat of her felt like a blast from a furnace.

He didn’t let himself react.

She smoothed her hand up his shoulder, the curved it around his neck. “You are…incredibly attractive.”

“If this is your idea of asking me out on a date, let me save you the trouble.” Boone fought to see through the weave of the bag, but it was too dark. The darkness was
all
he could make out. “I’m not interested.”

“Are you so sure? You’ve caused me a lot of trouble. If you cooperate, I could be persuaded to forget some of it.”

“Cooperative isn’t really in my repertoire.”

Nails scraped over his skin, a teasing, feminine touch.

Setting his jaw, he forced his body not to react.

“But if you don’t cooperate, I can’t let you go.”

“You’re not going to do that anyway,” he said bluntly.

She sighed. “Killing you doesn’t help me. And what I need is simple. It’s about the precious little princess you came to Mexico to find.”

Precious little princess
—

Fuck.

“Since I haven’t been able to find her, I don’t know what can of help I can offer.”

“That’s easy.” A hand moved behind his head, tugging the hood off.

Now, just barely, he could make out a woman’s face. She was—

The fucking bar
.

He’d been sitting down, brooding over a drink and watching for his contact. His
late
contact.

And she’d slid onto the stool next to him.

“I guess you’re not a whore after all.”

In the darkness, her eyes glittered. “No.” Her lips curved, beautiful, sexual promise humming just below the surface. “I am not. But I would be happy to…service you if you will just assist me in this one manner.”

“I don’t need servicing, but thanks.”

She stiffened slightly, but relaxed so quickly he would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking. “Are you so certain? If you make me happy, your lifespan will be much longer than it currently is.”

With a gusty sigh, he rolled awkwardly into a sitting position. She continued to watch him, not pulling back even when he leaned forward. “Is this is the part where you threaten to kill me? If so, just make it easy on us both and do it already.”

“You want to die?” Her eyes were black in the darkness.

“Not especially, but I don’t plan to tell you shit, either.” He managed a clumsy shrug. “So why not just do it?”

Her lips compressed. “Your brave banter will not last long.”

Boone held still as she leaned in. “Tell me what you’ve learned about Shiarra Kahl.”

Spoiled, rich little princess who took off into Mexico after her father refused to help her out of her latest legal problem. She runs a pregnant mom off the road and almost kills her—the woman loses her baby and the brat figures she can pay the woman off to make her be quiet.

All of that ran through his mind. He’d been trying to locate Shiarra for her father for weeks and he knew more about her than he wanted to.

With a crooked smile, he said, “Never heard of her.”

“Is that really the story you want to go with?”

Boone vomited.

Still naked, he all but hung from the chain dangling from the ceiling. His wrists, arms and shoulders burned from the drag of his weight and at some point in the last hour—or had it been longer—his vision had gone blurry.

Now, soaked with too much of his own bodily fluids, he half-choked as another spasm hit him.

“Do it again.”

He didn’t even look up at her voice.

He had just a few seconds to brace himself, and that didn’t do shit anyway. A prod was jammed up against his testicles and he screamed as pain exploded through him.

It lasted for what felt like days.

It was seconds or minutes, but long after the prod was removed, he continued to twitch.

“Are you ready to talk?”

He didn’t have the energy it took to tell her to fuck off so he just hung there.

Over the roar of blood pounding in his ears, he barely heard the footsteps, hadn’t even realized anybody else had approached until he heard a hard male voice.

In heavily accented English, the man asked, “Has he told you anything?”

“No.” The woman’s words were mournful. “He takes pain very well. Look at the mess he has made—but he won’t give me any information.”

There was a grunt and then, aware that he was being watched, Boone looked up and found himself staring Eduardo Rosa Gonzalez. Boone’s stomach sank.

The man in front of him was one of the head of one of the largest drug cartels in Mexico.

He was also the man reputed to be last seen with Shiarra Kahl.

“You must enjoy this, the pain,” Eduardo said, his black eyes bright.

“Breaks up the routine,” Boone said, his throat raw.

“Routine.” Eduardo smiled. “Your routine has landed you in a bad place, my friend.”

“Not the first time.”
Probably the last time, though
.

“Will he talk?” Eduardo asked the woman who was pacing around them.

“No.” She flicked Boone a dismissive glance. “I do not believe he will.”

Eduardo rubbed his chin and then came closer. “Tell me what I want to hear and you may leave here. My word.”

Boone’s laugh was a strangled, choked noise.

Shaking her head, the woman moved to stand at Eduardo’s side. “
Mi hermano,
he will not tell us anything. Shall I just kill him?”

Mi hermano
?

My brother?

“No, no.” Eduardo stroked a hand down her arm, smiling as the slight reaction Boone hadn’t been able to stifle. “What do you think of your host? My sister Luce. She is quite extraordinary.”

“Sure.” Boone looked at her. “For a crazy bitch.”

Her face tightened in rage but when she went to move forward, Eduardo caught her arm. “No, Luce. He wants to anger you into killing him.”

The thought
had
occurred.

“You won’t die,” Eduardo said. “I promised my beloved I wouldn’t kill you.”

Now Boone stared at him, hard.

“She is upset by the violence. Women.” He looked at Luce with a fond smile. “With the exception of my brilliant sister, very few are able to handle the harder realities of life. But this is an easy promise to offer. You won’t die—not at my hand.”

Eduardo’s eyes flicked past Boone.

He didn’t even have time to brace for the blow that drilled into the back of his skull.

The fetid air stank of human waste and unwashed bodies.

Boone sat with his back to the wall, lashes lowered. To the casual passerby, he might look asleep.

But he was watching.

In a cell with eight other men, he had to watch. If he wanted to live.

He’d woken up in the back of a van and the
policia
had refused to answer his questions. After he’d tried to ask a second time, the butt of a Sig Sauer clubbed him in the mouth.

That had been four days ago.

The cut on his lip was slowly healing, but he had other wounds now. Scraped knuckles, a vicious black eye and he was pretty certain he had two broken ribs.

He was well aware that every time he closed his eyes, it might be the last time.

He was an American in a Mexican jail.

The jails in this place were rough for anybody, but a lone American made a prime target and he had a bad feeling his days were numbered.

A ghost of a memory swam up from the back of his subconscious as his tired body tried to nudge him into sleep once more.

Sloane.

He closed one hand into a fist.

If he had any regrets at all, it was that he hadn’t had more time with her.

If I get out…

He cut the thought off before it could finish.

It was a sweet dream, but even if he
did
get out, nothing would change.

She’d told him not to come back and he understood why.

It seemed like that one night had happened in another life and now more than ever, he wished he’d tried for…something.

* * * * *

With a hand on the firm little mound of her belly, Sloane slipped out of the bedroom.

Pregnancy was going to drive her crazy.

For the first three months, she hadn’t been able to eat.

Now all she wanted to
do
was eat.

Usually weird things.

Almost always in the middle of the night when her body wanted to be sleeping, but the hunger pangs got in the way.

Ever since she’d moved back home, Taylor and Ellen had taken to fussing over her and the fridge was always stocked with the weird things she’d taken to craving. Horseradish pickles on a peanut butter sandwich was her current favorite and if she didn’t get one right now, she might go nuts.

Usually, at midnight, the big, sprawling house was quiet, but as she neared the kitchen, she heard voices.

And there was light.

A familiar voice, rough from a lifetime of smoking, said, “He’s nowhere to be found, Taylor. I had my best looking and he’s just vanished.”

“He’s not dead.” Taylor’s voice was hard. “Boone is—”

Boone
!

She rushed into the kitchen and three sets of eyes turned toward her.

“Boone…” the word tripped out of her and she felt a sob building up.

“Honey.” Ellen rose from her chair.

Taylor turned away, swearing.

Hal Morris, her brother’s former boss—the man who’d stepped in to help raise them after her mother’s death—closed his eyes.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. The quaver in her own voice didn’t go unnoticed. She was two steps from crying.

Ellen flicked a look at Hal.

As Taylor turned around to study him, Hal sighed and then he nodded.

“Boone…” Taylor paused, sucking a hard breath. Then he finished. “Boone is missing. He was on a job and nobody has heard from him in weeks.”

“
Heard
from him? Are you waiting for a phone call?” she demanded.

Under her hand, the baby fluttered.

The baby
…

Boone’s
baby
.

“Go find him!” she half-shouted, looking at Hal. “Send a team and go
find
him.”

“Sloane.” His voice was gentle. “We
have
looked. We’ve been looking for three weeks. He’s just…”

No. She covered her ears with her hands and turned away.

The room started to spin around her as she wrapped her arms protectively around herself, covering the small, helpless life within.

Black dots swirled in front of her eyes and she staggered.

Taylor jumped to catch her.

But she never noticed.

She passed out.

“They cut you good this time, D.B.”

Brooding, the man stared ahead at the wall while the other stood behind him, cleaning the deep laceration that ran across D.B.’s left shoulder.

Somebody had tried to come at him from behind.

Again.

That somebody was now dead and D.B. was leaking blood all over the floor.

“You going to let me put stitches in this time?”

“No.” His voice was broken, rough and gravelly. He didn’t know if he’d always sounded that way, but he had a scar around his throat, fading now, so he suspected that injury—probably another attempt to kill him—was responsible for the harsh sound of his voice.

“One of these days, you will remember and tell me why you don’t like needles. You can take a knife to the gut and live, but no needles? Loco, my friend.”

D.B. had been called worse than crazy. In the past four months, he was pretty sure he’d had every insult imaginable hurled his way and some of the men watched him with fear when he wasn’t looking.

Some of them were the reason he’d had to defend himself—with force—the first few months he’d been in the prison.

He didn’t know why he was there, barely remembered anything from his past, but his roommate, a skinny man by the name of Hector, said he hadn’t been in the prison long before he was injured.

That he’d survived was nothing short of a miracle.

He owed Hector his life. Hector, and the man’s boss.

D.B. was in Hector’s debt. That wouldn’t rub him raw, but the idea of owing Luis Mendez Castillo—head of one of the largest drug cartels—burned his ass.