Xtreme (11 page)

If she were ever to share these details with Vega, she had no doubt they would be added to the case he was building against Ricardo. That Vega would paint him as a sick sadist who lacked a conscience and enjoyed hurting women. Hell, Chelsea herself might have believed the same if she hadn't been there herself.

But after sharing countless hours in his arms, after experiencing how carefully he gauged her needs and responses, how he guided her to the darkest corners of her own psyche rather than imposing his own on her, Chelsea had a very different view. Ricardo had been giving her what she wanted. What she begged for. He took her to the limits of
her capacity for emotion and sensation and then pushed her beyond, to release so powerful it went beyond her body, into her mind and heart and her very understanding of her self.

And while she was certain that her needs meshed brilliantly with his, that Ricardo was as purely Dominant as she was naturally submissive, she knew that many of the things he did for and to her were selfless. That for all the intensity and occasional brutality of their sessions, each moment was carefully planned to take her higher, to bring her release. Forcing her to serve him was Ricardo's gift to her.

Vega continued to hammer away at the details, reminding her of the crimes to which Ricardo's name had been linked, forcing her to look at photographs of dead men, lists of stolen artifacts, grainy images of him caught on security cameras in the world's busiest airports and glittering palaces and desperate slums. He painted a picture of the future she had narrowly avoided, of being enslaved to a criminal kingpin who would destroy her life if she crossed him and toss her aside when he tired of her, showing her one photograph after another of women he'd been linked to in the past.

Chelsea didn't even try to argue. It was pointless. Vega's case was compelling, and the facts were clear.

But it didn't change what she felt in her heart and, as the afternoon wore on, in her treacherous, needful body. Knowing everything, she was desperate for Ricardo's touch. She longed to see him, to hold him, and—yes—to fuck him again. Knowing she probably never would stripped away her will, and as Vega drove the final nails into the case he was building to take Ricardo down, she grew listless and monotone.

Hopeless.

Because even if the FBI could guarantee her safety, even if they locked up not just Ricardo but everyone in the violent world he inhabited, she couldn't manage to feel any desire to return to her old life. His absence was bigger than any dream she'd held dear, and she despised herself both for being able to overlook his sins and for helping bring him down.

At a little after six o'clock, when Agent Bledsoe returned for the night shift, Vega gathered all of his papers, turned off the recording equipment, and called it a day. “Tomorrow, with any luck, de Santos will be in the county jail. With the help you've given us, by the end of the week, maybe, we'll have locked up some of the rest of the major players.” He smirked, oblivious to the pain his words caused her. “Maybe they'll resolve their differences in the prison yard and save the taxpayers the trouble of sending them to death row.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea said listlessly. She knew that Vega was just doing his job, that he was driven by a thirst for justice and a duty to the innocent. She was even clear that she'd had no choice but to help the investigation to prevent further bloodshed, even if it meant that Ricardo lost his freedom forever. But even though she could accept that her lover was a thief and a killer, she still couldn't accept the idea that the passion between them was wrong.

“Listen, Chelsea,” Vega said, his voice suddenly serious. “I know this has been difficult for you. But while you were cooped up with me in this hotel room, Everson's been out there hunting down Huber. I know it may seem like too little, too late, and I wish to God we'd been able to bring that bastard down years ago, but when you walk out
of this hotel, tomorrow or the next day with any luck, you're never going to have to be afraid again.”

“Thank you, Marco,” Chelsea said. “I…appreciate what you're trying to do.”

What she didn't say was that as long as Ricardo was behind bars, she wouldn't ever feel safe.

Without him, she feared she wouldn't be able to feel anything at all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chelsea and Agent Bledsoe—who insisted that Chelsea call her Tabby—were sharing a deluxe take-out pizza and a liter of 7UP and watching television when Tabby's phone rang at a little after nine o'clock.

“Excuse me,” she said tersely, rising from the sofa and cupping her hand around the phone. “Agent Bledsoe here.”

There was nowhere in the hotel room to go to have a private conversation, so Chelsea could hear the voice—if not the actual words—on the other end. A man's voice, speaking quickly and urgently.

“Yes…uh-huh…oh my God!”

Tabby glanced at Chelsea, who saw shock and distress in her expression. Had they captured Ricardo? Had something gone wrong? Chelsea felt her entire body go tense with fear, and she strained to hear the conversation.

“Is he dead?”

Ricardo—he must have fought back, or tried to resist. Had they shot him?

Or had he harmed someone else? The fear inside her curdled to poison, and her throat closed with panic. Chelsea had been struggling to make her peace with the history of violence that followed her lover, who had had to defend his family by spilling blood as a child and, now that he was a grown man, had killed in order to protect himself and for revenge.

This was hard enough to take. But she would never be able to forgive him if he had hurt one of the FBI agents—if he'd killed an innocent man.

Maybe the distinction was meaningless to others. A court would convict him either way. But it made a huge difference to Chelsea.

Tabby was gripping her phone tightly, her face screwed up in an expression of horror. “Yes…yes, I will…okay…”

“Please,” Chelsea tried to ask what was happening, but the word came out as a weak croak.

“All right. Please, keep me posted.” Tabby wiped at her eyes. “I'll be praying.”

She hung up.

“What happened?” Chelsea demanded.

Tabby turned toward her, misery plain in her eyes. “There's…been a complication.”

“Is it Ricardo? Is he dead?”

“What? No, oh my God, it's not that.”

Chelsea's hands shook with dread and she jammed them underneath her legs to steady them. “Did he…” she swallowed, almost unable to get the words out. “Did he hurt someone?”

“No, Chelsea, this has nothing to do with that case. It's Stone. Oh, God…Huber stabbed him.”

#

Tabby reluctantly shared what little she knew, once a second call an hour and a half later had confirmed the sketchy information she had received. Stone Everson had
apprehended Roy Huber in his apartment building in Las Vegas. Roy had run, and Stone had pursued him, tackling him in a culvert near a pork processing plant. Stone had easily taken two guns off him—but somehow missed the knife he'd concealed in a leg holster.

He'd managed to call for assistance before losing consciousness from several stab wounds to the neck and chest and was in critical condition in a hospital in Las Vegas. A manhunt had been launched for Huber, but so far he had not been apprehended.

“Stone was my training officer,” Tabby confided shakily. “He used to put in extra hours on the range with me before my quals. Without him, I never would have passed.”

“He…was always there for me, too,” Chelsea said, knowing she could never repay the kindness he had shown her after she'd finally run away from home, the diligence with which he had pursued her stepfather.

“We'll still get Huber,” Tabby promised. It was nearly midnight and there was nothing more to be accomplished tonight. Stone's supervisor had promised to keep Tabby apprised of his condition, and the entire squad was on high alert until Huber was apprehended. “The Las Vegas office has sent a team to augment the search. There's no way he'll be able to elude them for long.”

Chelsea wasn't so sure. Huber was evil, but he was also crafty, with a genius for self-preservation. The fact that he had eluded Stone for so many years was proof that he didn't make the kind of stupid mistakes that caught many offenders flat-footed.

But she wanted desperately to believe. She wanted Huber to pay—not just for what he'd done to her, but now, for what he'd done to Stone Everson.

“You should try to get some sleep,” Tabby said. “I'm here all night. No one's getting in this room. You're perfectly safe.”

“Thanks,” Chelsea said, “but I'm not sleepy.” How could she explain that it wasn't her own safety she was worried about? Several hundred miles away, one of the few people who'd always cared for Chelsea lay fighting for his life. Meanwhile, some of the best agents in the world were hunting for Ricardo.

The violence that had erupted between Stone and Huber was a reminder that Ricardo wasn't likely to be taken without a fight. Earlier in the day, when Vega was grilling her, Chelsea had managed to convince herself that at least he would be safe in custody. Neither the Chechens nor the Russians would be able to harm him if he was detained by the FBI.

But she'd been deluding herself. If he were cornered, Ricardo would fight; if he were wounded, he'd keep fighting to his dying breath. And now that one of their own men lay in critical condition, the agents searching for Ricardo would not be in a conciliatory mood. It was only human nature to want vengeance, and she feared that might translate into even greater risk for Ricardo. If he fought back, they would have little incentive not to destroy him.

She couldn't bear the thought that she might have sealed his death warrant by giving the FBI the information it needed to find him. Somehow, she had to at least warn him that she had talked to them. That might level the playing field, give him a fighting chance of survival.

But Vega had taken all of her personal belongings and had a female agent search her before bringing her to this hotel. In addition to Tabby, there was a second agent posted outside the room, making sure that no threat breached the hotel—and that she didn't leave.

Somehow, she had to get a message to Ricardo. But how?

An idea began to take shape in her mind.

“I'm just so worried about my dads,” she said.

“Your…who?” Tabby said.

“Sorry. I call them my fairy godfathers—the two men who took me in when I left home. They're really all the family I have.”

“Oh, you mean Donny Alvarez and Rufus Stanton,” Tabby said.

Of course their identities were part of the background information she had been given. Since Chelsea had been a part of Stone's investigation for the last eighteen years, she imagined that her official file contained a lot of information about her personal life.

“Yes. Donny isn't in the best of health, unfortunately,” Chelsea lied. “And I'm terrified that Roy might try to threaten them.”

“I don't know,” Tabby said doubtfully. “That seems like a stretch. Besides, we have someone watching both of their apartments.”

“That's good,” Chelsea said though it made it even more unlikely that her plan might work. “But if I'm not in touch with them, they'll be frantic.”

“You know I can't allow you to contact them,” Tabby said reprovingly.

“I know.” Chelsea kept her gaze downcast, feigning sheepishness. “I just wonder…do you think it would be possible for someone to go talk to them? Just to reassure them that I'm all right? I just feel like if they saw the badge and understood that the FBI was involved, they'd realize I'm safe. I can fill them in on the details later.”

Tabby thought about it for a moment. “I think that would be all right,” she finally said. “Are you sure, though? It's the middle of the night. Wouldn't you rather wait until morning, so we don't wake them up?”

“But that's just it. Between his heart medication and not knowing where I am, Donny won't get any sleep at all.” Chelsea let a quaver slip into her voice. “I'm terrified that he'll have another heart attack.”

Tabby appeared to come to a decision. “I think I've got this,” she said. “Give me five minutes, and I'll try to run down the shift supervisor.”

Chelsea thanked her in a small, tremulous voice that didn't reveal what she was really feeling.

If she knew Ricardo as well as she thought she did, she was about to send him an important message.

#

A few miles away, in an area of Los Angeles that was becoming popular with artists and tastemakers, a well-dressed man in a parked dry cleaning van watched a young male FBI agent knock on the door of the building he had been watching for the last twelve hours. When the door opened and the agent disappeared inside, the man made a phone call.

Ricardo answered before the phone finished its first ring, despite the fact that it was nearly one thirty in the morning.

“Yes?”

“Smith here. The federal agent has gone inside Donny Alvarez's building.”

There was a brief silence while Ricardo digested this information.

“Interesting.”

“Do you want me to try to apprehend him when he comes out?”

“No need. I have a device in the apartment. Whatever's going on, I'll know soon.”

Neither man bothered to say goodbye before hanging up. Smith was neither surprised nor offended that Ricardo had built an extra level of security into his surveillance. Smith's expertise was unmatched, but Ricardo was a close second, and it made sense that Ricardo had built in this extra precaution when he became serious with Chelsea Ryder, a woman whose intimate details he might not wish to share.

Smith resumed his watch, distracted only slightly by thoughts of the woman. Had his boss asked, he would have certainly advised him to do as he himself did: enjoy the company of as many women as he felt like while never getting close to any particular one. It kept everything uncomplicated—and safe.