I slid past him and ignored the sensual chills that swept through my body when my arm grazed his chest. I ignored his menacing presence behind me as the overhead lights flickered along the lonely hallway.
“Take a right,” he said. “Up the stairs.”
Were we in the basement? I didn’t remember going down any stairs.
I walked up a flight and exited through a set of heavy steel doors that led outside. I paused to figure out where I was. It was nighttime now, and the roar of airplane engines filled my ears.
I glanced back at King. Even now, standing on a windy, noisy landing strip, having rescued me from whatever-the-fuck that had been back there, he looked so calm, like an elegant gentleman on his way to a power-meeting to talk numbers and sip cognac. Did anything rattle his cage? Anything at all?
“This way.” He jerked his head toward a private jet parked alongside a small hangar. I followed him across the asphalt, up the Jetway stairs, and boarded, shocked as hell when I saw my belongings neatly deposited in the first row of black leather seats.
“How did you get my stuff back?”
King ignored my question. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d been run out of Mexico City four weeks ago?” he snapped.
“You didn’t ask.”
A frigid glaze washed over his gorgeous, supremely masculine face. “I shouldn’t have to. And let’s get one thing clear, Miss Turner, if you keep something from me again, your brother won’t be the only person missing. That’s not a threat, by the way, but a warning. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”
I glanced down at my feet, holding back that something horrible building inside my chest. “There’s not much to tell. They were wearing masks. They broke into my hotel room and told me to go home, to stop asking questions.” That’s when it hit me. That agent’s voice had sounded familiar. “I think it was that Guzman guy.”
King dipped his head and drilled me with his pale gray eyes which said, No shit, woman. Instead, his mouth said, “Did they touch you?” His gazed quickly flashed to my breasts. It made me feel vulnerable and naked, like he could see right through my snug white turtleneck.
I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away. “No. Not really. They just threatened to.”
King hiked up his sleeve and looked at his watch again. My eyes gravitated toward that tattoo, but he was too quick to let me see it. “Anything else I should know?”
He already knew about Justin’s phone call and the calls from the embassy. Aside from that, there wasn’t much to tell. “No.”
“Very well.” He dipped his head. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Pleasant? That’s all he had to say? King and I had made a deal. He would find Justin, and I would work for him. Indefinitely. It was a deal that I didn’t fully understand or know what would happen if I didn’t keep it, other than something bad, but I’d made it anyway, dammit, and it had cost me my job and apartment. I’d given up everything just in the hopes that King could help me find my brother. Instead, I’d lost three entire weeks of precious time! Waiting! I’d been left to stew inside my head, playing Pong with my imagination. Justin’s not dead. Yes, he is. Just wait, King will help you. No, he won’t. If you push, King won’t lift a finger. But if I do nothing, Justin will die.
“Goddammit, King!” I screamed, no longer able to contain the toxic emotions. “What the hell is going on? Who were those people? How did you find me?”
The clean air inside the cabin seemed to vaporize into a sour, poisonous gas. I could barely breathe.
“Answering your questions, Miss Turner, isn’t part of our deal,” he growled.
He turned away, and I grabbed his arm. It was as hard as a block of cement.
He effortlessly slid from my grip and glared down at me. Though he was about six-three, which made him seven or eight inches taller, he felt like a menacing giant five stories tall.
Still, I didn’t care. “I’m changing our deal!” I screamed.
“You think you can?” he responded calmly. “You think you’re in a position to challenge me? I own you, Mia. I control what happens to you. I can arrange to have you thrown right back in that interrogation room.”
He had spoken to me as if I were his dog. No. Even lower than that. He’d spoken to me as if I would be the luckiest person in the world if he bothered to let me lick his perfectly polished, black shoes. And it seriously set me off. I wasn’t worthless. I wasn’t his…his…
“Fuck you, King. I’m not one of those whores you bring to your office. I’m not going to bend over and take it from you.”
He laughed coolly into the air. His broad shoulders shook beneath his fine black suit.
“What’s so funny?” I fumed.
“You. You’re funny. I just saved you, and you accuse me of treating you poorly.” His deep smile lines faded back into his cheeks as he smoothed his hand over his raven black hair, not that anything was out of place. Everything about the man, on his exterior anyway, was spotless perfection, right down to the evenly groomed growth of black stubble on his perfect jaw.
His hard gaze landed on my tearing eyes, then drifted down to my chest again. “Besides, if you were my whore,” he said with the crisp pronunciation of a well-bred gentleman, “right now you’d be sucking my cock, not telling me to fuck myself.”
He turned away, clearly knowing his sharp words had shocked the fight right out of me. “I’ll see you at Palenque.”
“Where are you going?” I blurted, knowing he wouldn’t answer and wondering why I cared.
To my utter shock, he stilled and looked over his shoulder at me. I noticed the muscles of his square jaw ticking. “I have some unfinished business with Agent Guzman. I take offence when people touch what’s mine.” He disappeared down the stairs.
Touch what’s his? Did he mean me? Was he going to do something to that Guzman guy?
“You should be careful,” said a strange male voice.
I jumped in my skin.
A man with short, messy, blonde hair, in his mid-thirties, wearing a short-sleeved pilot’s shirt and black slacks, hovered in the doorway of the cockpit. His thick, heavily tattooed arms—banners with names and dates—were on full display as he gripped the frame of the doorway overhead.
“Sorry?” I said.
He flashed a boyish grin. “Questions piss King off almost as much as when people fuck with his stuff.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man looked at his watch. “It’s time to go.” He smiled again. “I’m Mack. And you’d better buckle your seatbelt; it’s going to get bumpy.”
Going to?
~ ~ ~
Shortly after takeoff, the pilot, who flew alone, made a quick visit to the cabin and checked on me. That meant ensuring me he’d switched over to autopilot—yeah, I may have freaked out a little—before pointing me to the snacks, blankets, and safety equipment. It felt surreal flying in a fully loaded private plane—six rows of reclining black leather seats, a large flat-screen TV, and full bar.
Of course, I immediately went for reinforcements: whiskey. I drank two shots and poured a triple. My head hurt, my heart hurt, and my body ached from overexposure to violence-provoked adrenaline. However, closing my eyes was the last thing I wanted; I might see images of those men in the airport threatening to do the unthinkable. Or I might see Justin crying out for me as someone brutally ended his life. No. I mustn’t close my eyes, even though they burned like hell.
I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. The whites of my eyes were red, making my normally pale blues appear electric. My wavy, blonde hair had certainly seen better days, too.
I laughed at myself. How inane to be worrying about my looks after that horribly fucked-up situation. But you’re intact, Mia. Nothing bad happened. Thanks to King. And what had I done? Yelled at the guy. Okay, he was a cold-hearted, controlling man, but that didn’t mean I should become him.
Just let it go. You can thank him later.
/> I returned to the cabin and hovered in the doorway of the cockpit. “So. How long is the flight to Villahermosa?”
Mack called back from his seat, “We’re not going to Villahermosa. We’re heading straight to Palenque. There’s a small private airport there.”
“Oh.” My original flight had me going to Villahermosa, where King’s email said I’d be “collected and transported to Palenque,” like an object.
“King asked me to apologize about making you fly commercial, but he and I needed to be in Mexico City to take care of some business. We weren’t sure what time things would wrap up,” Mack yelled. “By the way, talking over my shoulder isn’t my specialty. Why don’t you come up front?”
For a second time that evening, I felt ashamed for my criticism of King. Apparently, he didn’t mind sharing some things; he’d had a legitimate reason to put me on another flight. Had I misjudged him about other things, too?
Maybe. But it seemed easier to keep on hating him. If I started to soften towards him, where would that land me?
“You sure this is okay?” I peeked inside and held up my drink, wondering if it was safe near the equipment.
“Ah, I see you found the Macallan. King had me stock it just for you. He said you’re a whisky girl; although he only has scotch—the good stuff.”
Another gesture of thoughtfulness? At this rate, King might be out of the gutter and rated as an actual human being by day’s end. But…how the hell did King know what I liked to drink? Had he been spying on me? Interviewing my friends?
I looked down at my glass. “Well, this is much better than the swill I usually drink,” I said to make polite conversation.
Mack laughed. “For twelve thousand a bottle, I sure as hell hope so.”
“Twelve thousand? I better sip slower, then.”
“Don’t worry. He’s got a warehouse of that stuff he took as payment. He jokingly calls it the ‘cheap stuff.’”
King joked? Another surprise. And I wish I’d known that King accepted liquor as payment. I could’ve said “no” to working for him and offered him a bottle of the “good stuff.” Not that I’d be able to afford it. Maybe he would have gone for some liquor-filled chocolates?
“So,” I took a sip of my drink and sat in the empty copilot seat, “how long have you worked for him?”
Mack flashed a glance my way. “A while.”
“How did you meet?” I asked.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Did King tell you about my brother?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then can you really blame me?”
“No, I guess not.”
“How do you know him?” I asked again.
Mack stared ahead, thinking before answering my question. “I needed something. He helped me.”
All right. King had snagged Mack in a moment of desperation, too. “So once you had what you wanted, why didn’t you just go?”
I knew my questions were forward, but I was in no mood to pretend or beat around the bush.
Mack shrugged his golden brows. “Not that I would, but no one reneges on a deal with King. No one. King takes every deal seriously. To the letter.”
My heart thumped against my rib cage. “Meaning?”
Mack stroked the corners of his mouth. “Use your imagination.”
I suppose I didn’t have to. My gut already knew. It knew the first moment I’d laid eyes on King that he was not the sort of man who took deals lightly. He was cold and dangerous, and if you crossed him, he wouldn’t hesitate to crush you. He’d basically said so, and I believed him.
“But if given the choice…” Mack was about to add something else, but stopped talking.
“What?”
“I guess if I could do it all over again, I would. King pays well. There is no bullshit agenda. And no one messes with you. Ever.”
From the way Mack spoke, it sounded like he had an extreme amount of loyalty towards King. And once again, I found myself poking holes in my “King is a heartless devil” theory. That said, what was it that they did where “no one messing with you” was a perk of the job?
“But…who is he?” I asked.
Mack simply shrugged. “He’s a businessman. He’s also good at finding stuff. For a price.”
I was beginning to grow tired of that explanation. “He hasn’t found anything for me yet.”
Mack laughed. “He will. Just give him time.”
Time…It had been the one thing I’d watch slip through my fingers since I agreed to this arrangement. Justin was either dead or damned close to it. “I’m out of time.”
And I could only ask myself one question: Why had I made this deal with King? Why? I’d given up everything—my dream job and, therefore, my home—and it had gotten me nowhere.
Because you were fucking desperate, Mia. There was no other choice.
CHAPTER SIX
After landing at a small airstrip surrounded by jungle somewhere outside the town of Palenque, a driver in a black SUV with tinted windows showed up to transport Mack and me to our accommodations for the night.
I asked the driver if he knew the address where my brother lived, thinking it would make sense to see if anything there could tell us more, but Mack quickly shut me down. “Trust me, King had people go through your brother’s place with a fine-toothed comb weeks ago. If there was anything worth finding, he already found it.”
What? I’d had the impression that King hadn’t lifted a finger in three weeks beyond finding out about those phone calls.
“King also gave clear instructions to meet him tonight at the excavation site.”
I looked at my watch. It was close to midnight already. “Tonight? Are you sure?”
“Yep.” Mack didn’t seem to think that was at all strange. “You have about an hour to rest, shower, eat, whatever. This car will be waiting for you.”
I looked at the driver, a portly man with thick, curly, black hair who hadn’t said a word to either of us. “Does he work for King?” I whispered.
Mack smirked. “You think King would leave you in the care of strangers?”
I had no idea what King would or wouldn’t do.
“The answer is no, Mia,” Mack clarified. “He is very protective of his possessions.”
Possession? “I’m not his possession.”
Mack didn’t respond.
“I’m not.”
Mack shook his head as if amused, but I chose not to get into a debate. They clearly lived by a different moral compass than my own.
Ten minutes later, the SUV pulled up to the hotel—a luxury resort with colorfully lit fountains and decorative pools, nestled in the jungle—where a bellhop in a tropical-print shirt immediately greeted us.
Mack slid out. “See you in the morning.”
“Wait? Aren’t you coming with me later?”
“I fly planes, and I do it better when I’ve had a little sleep.” He winked and sauntered off.
I glanced back at the driver, who still faced forward. “Ummm…see you in about an hour?” I said to him.
The driver nodded.
Wow. Friendly.
The bellhop had extracted my small overnight bag from the back and waited for me. “Right this way, Miss Turner. Your room is ready.”
I looked around at the open-aired lobby’s fountains and beautiful floor-to-ceiling modern sculptures. I hoped King was paying for this place. I’d had the extreme pleasure of traveling extensively—Latin America, Asia, Europe—for work. I knew what five-star hotels cost, and King wasn’t paying me. I was paying him. With my life.
He’s the goddamned devil, I swear to God.
Well, someday this would all be over, and I’d get my life back. Someday. But today, I needed to play by his rules to save Justin.
~ ~ ~
Like one might expect to find in a five-star resort, my room was an oasis of doting comfort. Mini-bar fully stocked with nothing but reinforcements—aka, abundant whiskey—French milled soap, fluf
fy white robes and towels, and a large jet tub. And, also like one might expect, I didn’t lie down on the king-sized bed to take a breather. Instead, I headed straight for the shower to wash away the smell of Guzman’s cigarettes in my hair. Disgusting pig. I hope King has you arrested.
I turned up the hot water and let the forceful jets beat against my neck. I closed my eyes and inhaled the soothing scent of the lavender soap, pretending it was a magical potion that could erase any fear lurking inside my mind. But magic didn’t exist. And soap couldn’t do anything more than remove the dirt from my skin.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I found a large plate of bread, cheese, and fresh fruit laid out on the table. A card had been left beside the gleaming silverware.
Eat well. You will need your strength. – K
King had someone come into my room while I showered? I tightened the terrycloth belt around my waist and checked the deadbolt on the door. I hadn’t locked it? I could’ve sworn I had.
You’re tired, that’s all. And yes, I was hungry, too.
I hovered over the freshly baked bread bundled in a cloth napkin. The warmth and aroma immediately triggered violent hunger pangs. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.
I sat and attacked the bread, smothering it with butter and thick creamy cheese. I moaned in culinary ecstasy as the salty, sweet fat melted away in my mouth.
Oh God. It couldn’t possibly taste any better. There’s something about the flavor of food when you’re truly hungry that makes your taste buds feel like they’re on steroids.
I grabbed another thick slice of bread and repeated the hedonistic act, piling on more butter and cheese. My eyes rolled in my head. So good. So, so good. The only thing missing was a glass of wine.
I glanced over my shoulder, toward the mini-bar, thinking I could make due with whiskey; however, next to the flat-screen on the dresser was an uncorked bottle of champagne and an empty flute. Oh. That’ll do! But why had he ordered champagne? Wasn’t that more of a celebratory drink? Seemed a little strange, but it really did look delicious.
I popped from the chair and held up the bottle. It was French, obviously, and looked expensive, but I wasn’t a big champagne connoisseur. I only drank it on special occasions or at parties.