Gideon Page 3

  How he knew anything about high-powered computers, he had no idea, especially since they’d never had any such equipment at the compound. Also, he sought continued, unfettered access to a powerful search engine like ZAG, so he could correlate memories with hard data. He stopped and shook his head; what the hell was a ZAG search and why did that term come to mind so easily? Just another mystery, to pile on to the others. His father, Carlos, had run the Abadinista National Liberation Front until his death seven years ago. Sin had worked closely with him as his first lieutenant until his death, when he’d taken over as jefe, according to Mama and the others.

  Too bad he didn’t remember any of it.

  And he had absolutely no memories of his father.

  He carried around a torn-out page from an old magazine he’d flipped through when he’d gone to the dentist in Abad a couple of months earlier. A couple of guys looking hale and hearty, healthy and happy. They looked…not unfamiliar. He had no idea who the guys were, but there was something about their obvious connection to one another that made him want to know more—and that was just plain damn weird. Yet he kept the page so he could do a ZAG search on the image or at least on the magazine, which had most of the pages missing, and no front cover. Still, he’d track down the publication, and ID the men. See if there was anything there to jog some real memories.

  Sin massaged his temple where the months-long headache throbbed. Mama’s home-brewed medicine helped some, but it also made him feel distanced and foggy, as though he were viewing things through a shifting, smoky pall. He’d secretly stopped taking it a few weeks earlier, preferring to have his brain clear, even if it did hurt like hell. Weird dreams came with the pain. He’d give his left nut for the chance to sleep dream and pain-free.

  He had questions, and no one he trusted enough to give him answers. Not even Andrés. And certainly not Mama. Which was disconcerting. He didn’t have any basis for not trusting them, but his gut now said not to and in the jungle, he’d learned to trust his gut. Always.

  There was so much in his life he was uncertain about. At least he was sure he’d get some answers from the mystery woman.

  “Might as well open your eyes, querida,“ he murmured in Spanish. “I know you’re awake.”

  Not so much as an eyelash flickered. Rising from the chair, Sin leaned over her, his long hair obscuring his features. Inhaling the feminine scent of apricot soap and shampoo and female, he skimmed his fingers down her cheek. Warm, damp silk. He paused for a reaction. Nada.

  He was pretty sure she’d returned to consciousness five minutes earlier, right after he walked in. But surely to God, if she was awake, wouldn’t she be screaming the parrots out of the trees by now? Yet she remained limp and unresponsive. He hadn’t gotten where he was now, nor stayed alive, by not being able to read people. Whoever she was, she had remarkable control over her body. The woman had nerves of steel, he’d give her that.

  He stroked her eyelids, brushing his thumb across her long lashes. She didn’t so much as quiver at the contact. How far will you let me go, before you react? With the tip of his thumb, he explored her features, climbed the short jut of her nose. He bent his face to her as his thumb skated down to lips like dewy petals, soft. He inhaled deeply as he hovered over her slightly parted lips. Her breath smelled sweet.

  An old memory, his imagination maybe, surfaced. Tic Tac. Yet Sin knew he’d never seen the candy, let alone tasted it. How could he know the smell, or even the name, for that matter? The steel band of the headache tightened around his temples. He wanted to taste her mouth to see if that would jog his memory.

  Her features were maddeningly enigmatic in sensual repose. By the slight elevation of her heartbeat beneath his fingertips, he knew she was conscious, but she gave every appearance of deep sleep.

  He wanted to fuck her.

  Balls-deep.

  Wanted to get naked himself, spread her legs, and take her. After he had his fill, he’d lie beside her on the narrow cot, skin to skin. Imagining how it would feel to come inside of her and the sweat that would bind them together, he groaned. But having sex with a comatose prisoner—even when encouraged to do so by Mama—was grossly unappealing. Especially when encouraged to do so by Mama.

  Yeah, he wanted her. But awake, responsive, and receptive.

  Another goddamn mystery to him was why he hesitated. Why awake meant anything in this context, and why responsive and receptive were even words in his vocabulary, when it came to this woman and fucking her, was beyond him. Because if he was half the man Mama said he was, with a woman this gorgeous he should be on his second time by now, even if she was comatose and knocking on death’s door, and even if Mama walked in for the show.

  Well, she was awake…

  Damn, he was hornier than he realized. Sin splayed his fingers against her throat. The contrast of his large and dark hand against her pale gold skin made his heart hammer and his mouth go dry. He stroked his palm up the tight cords of her arched neck. Lowering his head, Sin brushed his mouth to the dark bruise just below her collarbone. Her warm skin felt tantalizingly smooth as he lingered over the flub-dub-flub-dub of her heartbeat at the base of her throat

  Definitely awake.

  Savoring the tension, he slowly explored her satiny skin with his lips while he skimmed his fingers down the taut plane of stomach. Stroking his parted lips across the plumped swell of her breasts, he painted her skin with his tongue as his pinkie ventured into the crisp dark hair at the juncture of her thighs. Her nipples beaded against his tongue. A glance at her face showed her eyes still closed.

  “Open your eyes,” he repeated, this time in English, voice implacable. “I know you’re awake.”

  A shudder racked her body.

  When he lifted his face from her breast it was to see brown eyes, large and long-lashed, pop open to give him a cold look. “Are you done groping me, you son of a bitch?”

  Irises so dark brown as to be almost indistinguishable from the pupil telegraphed her anger. She tugged at the ropes binding her wrists to the rusted, paint-chipped headboard. The metal rattled against the wall. Mama had tied those ropes. They held.

  Coiling a long tendril of her hair around his fingers, he absently rubbed the silky strands between the rough pads of his thumb and index finger. “For now.”

  “Then you can let go of my hair.”

  He slowly uncoiled the hair and pushed the dark skein behind her damp, bruised shoulder, letting his fingers linger on her soft skin.

  She shrugged as if that would shove his hand off her. “Did you rape me while I was unconscious?” she demanded, a faint tremor in her husky voice. There was no such hesitation in her eyes before she dropped her lashes, however. After a moment she dragged in another breath, then returned her wary gaze to his face.

  “No. I was waiting until you decided to wake up.” He gave her a thin smile. He liked her awake, naked, and helpless. Every male predatory instinct urged him to crush that sweet-scented mouth under his own, as he lay on top of her supple body and plunged into her wet heat.

  He knew his reputation. Knew that he raped women for sport. Didn’t have a memory of doing that, but the way people looked at him with fear in their eyes told him the stories had to be true. God only knew he was a badass, and had living proof of just how far he’d go.

  But he wasn’t going to rape this woman.

  All things considered, that could change on a dime, however. He went back to the chair and planted his ass four feet away from her enticing body.

  She had cause to be afraid, yet she didn’t draw up her long legs in a show of maidenly modesty. She didn’t hide behind lowered lids. In fact, she acted as though she were fully clothed. He studied her mouth, eyes, the calm pace of her respiration. Her cheeks had no flush of pink, angry defiance. If anything, as she watched him let his gaze do the touching his fingers craved, she looked…bored.

  Absolutely fucking amazing.

  “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  She gave him a cool, stead
y look. “Do you really give a damn?”

  “Only if you’re bleeding internally and die before I get some answers.”

  Her lashes fluttered as she looked up at him without expression. “Maybe it’s a slow bleed.”

  “If it’s a slow bleed, you still have time to answer my questions,” he said, tone wry as he bit back a smile of admiration at her cool cockiness. She was acting as though she had the fucking advantage. Such bravado in such a desperate situation either came with serious training or inbred stupidity. This woman certainly didn’t look inbred or stupid. “Who are you?”

  If Sin hadn’t been watching so closely, he would’ve missed the infinitesimal hesitation before she said, “Riva Rimaldi. Who are you?” Now she sounded nervous.

  Was that her real name? And if not, why lie? “Sin Diaz.”

  Long lashes fluttered and her facial muscles flinched, then smoothed out almost instantly. She recognized his name and he guessed that Maza’s enemy wasn’t who she’d been hoping for.

  Tough shit.

  Between himself and Maza, Sin was the lesser of the two evils. But not, he acknowledged, by much. Both he and his nemesis were at the top of the bad guys list from Argentina to Venezuela and well beyond. The United States of America shit their pants every time there was an uprising in Cosio. The control they thought they had over his country was about to come to an abrupt and bloody end. Whichever side won, it would be extremely bad for the free world.

  Unfortunately, for the moment, Maza had the upper hand. More men. More weapons. More contacts worldwide funneling money directly into his coffers. Sin, though, had something Maza wanted. Sin and the ANLF had the jungle with its emerald mines. The mines were largely untapped, a resource just waiting to be exploited. Right now they were distributing samples on the international market, testing demand. For the color and clarity of the samples they had sold, the demand was bigger than huge. Another reason the SYP wanted in. Maza couldn’t know where all the mines were; he might be trying to figure it out, but he didn’t know. Yet.

  The SYP was a well-oiled machine. Maza’s people were well trained. But they didn’t know Cosio’s jungles like Sin and his men did. They didn’t understand the lore and the people. What the fuck were they doing in Cosio? For fucksake, the SYP had control of drug distribution for half the free world. The ANLF was slowly but surely gaining ground in the other.

  Maza apparently wanted it all. Too fucking bad; so did Sin.

  And since it looked as though the SYP was in Cosio to stay, the only way to rid himself of the problem, Sin knew, was to kill Maza and assume control of his army.

  Easier said than fucking done and he was goddamn tired of saying it without doing it.

  All he had to do was find the man. And while the woman was enticing and certainly intriguing, unless she drew Maza to him, Sin didn’t plan on wasting time with her. The ANLF had a prison where they kept kidnap victims awaiting ransom payments. He could toss her in there, broadcast some photos of her, and see if Maza took the bait.

  The woman’s biceps flexed as she shifted slightly, her weight on her wrists. Bruises marred the smooth skin of her hip, and an ugly scrape streaked down her thigh. Didn’t look as if stitches were necessary, but it must hurt like hell. Mama had slapped some noxious yellow salve on it to stave off infection. Out here in the jungle, even the smallest cut could lead to blood poisoning if untreated.

  Every muscle and bone in her body must be bruised from the long drop, but she had yet to complain.

  “What kind of name is Sin?” she asked in English. “Is that short for something, or your predilection?”

  “What are you doing in the middle of the jungle, Riva Rimaldi?”

  She still didn’t try to draw up her long legs to partially cover her nakedness, or tug at the binding. Merely laid there, watching him warily from dark, steady eyes. “It’s hardly fair that I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and you’re…” Dark eyes ran up his naked chest. “Almost dressed. Return my clothes and untie me. This is a ridiculous way to have a conversation.”

  With her long dark hair, dark eyes, and pale olive skin she looked more Hispanic than he did. Thanksgiving turkey indicated American. No discernable accent, however. She could be anything. Spanish, Italian, Iranian… “I guess when it’s your party, you can designate a dress code. Here, you’re attired exactly as I want you. I repeat, what are you doing hundreds of miles from civilization?”

  She looked at him blankly. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

  Sin switched to English. “You visit my country and don’t speak the language? How rude.” He repeated what he’d said.

  “The helicopter I was in was shot down,” she answered. “Did anyone else make it?”

  “No. Who were the others, and where were you headed?”

  “To Santa de Porres with fellow aid workers.” She rubbed her cheek on the mattress to get a strand of hair off her face. Her breasts shifted enticingly. He dragged his gaze back to her face as she asked, “Did you do the shooting?”

  “What makes you think the chopper was shot down?” Not something the average person would even think of. Sin suspected she was far from average. And considering Mama had set aside a SIG and utility knife among other things found on her person, he doubted she was who she said she was. Which left him with a few intriguing possibilities. “Maybe it was an engine malfunction.”

  “Sure.” Her tone was dry. “That makes more sense than seeing a projectile strike the tail, feeling it hit, and then the helicopter exploding. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Pretty damned confident when both bare-assed naked and physically restrained. Her sass both worried and amused him. In this neck of the woods her attitude would get her killed. Why that mattered bothered him, but within a second of becoming aware that he was bothered by that possibility, he became bothered by the fact that he was bothered. He immediately repressed the thought, because it was very likely he was going to be the one doing the killing.

  Sin kept his features even. Hell, maybe he didn’t know how to smile. He didn’t remember when last he’d felt anything as benign as amusement. Her presence in camp was a dangerous minefield, with opportunities for disaster too numerous to count.

  “If you’re holding out for your white knight to swoop in to save your tight little ass, I’ll disabuse you of the notion. First, Maza-“

  “Who?”

  “Escobar Maza won’t step foot in my compound unless he has a death wish. Second, don’t pretend you don’t know who he is, because you were onboard his chopper.” He smiled. “Which I took down. There’ll be no rescuing or help from him. He’ll think you died. The animals make short work of fresh meat, there won’t be a trace of his people, and he wouldn’t expect it. Third, if you think Maza is a white knight, I can disprove that theory by showing you the bones of villagers in the last mass grave he populated.”

  Her stony look told him fuck all.

  “You’re damn lucky to be alive—it’s a fucking miracle, really. You dropped a hundred feet and not a broken bone.”

  She gave a small shrug. “I’m fortunate I’m not chopped salad right now. I took a chance.” She glanced down her body. “Are you sure I didn’t break anything?”

  The tree canopy had been kind, breaking her fall and saving her from the final fate of her associates. “The day’s still young.”

  “Ah. A professional comedian. How long do you plan to keep me tied up?”

  Until I decide what the hell to do with you.

  He’d prefer to get what he wanted out of her before Mama expected a different kind of interrogation. In his aching head, he heard the metronome ticking. “What is it Maza wants of you?”

  “No matter how many times you ask me, I still don’t know who that is.”

  Perhaps she was a spy of some sort. Or from some obscure and useless branch of Cosio’s puppet government. El presidente was scared shitless of a coup. If the president of Cosio was stupid enough to send a spy in to see what he was hatching, he
was playing a dangerous game.

  Maza was a lot stronger, his army considerably bigger and better armed than the one controlled by the Cosio’s leader. No, he didn’t think el presidente was that foolhardy. Attacking Maza—and he would see that kind of move as an attack—was the equivalent of kicking over an anthill filled with fire ants, just to see what would happen. Not a great idea.

  The logical deduction was she was here to do something for Maza. Which meant she was bringing a special skill to the table. She was no puta. Maza was no fool. No ordinary woman was worth this effort, when the country was full of beautiful women who would gladly spread their legs for a man as powerful as Maza.

  Which meant that whatever that skill was, Sin wanted her. It.

  Night blackened the single window. Without cross ventilation, the air felt thick. Inhaling the humid air was second nature to him, but her labored breathing indicated she was having difficulty sucking in oxygen at this high altitude.

  “Delightful as it is to look at your tits, I feel it my duty as your host to lay out the rules of the house.”

  Her eyes flickered to the bare room, the vines growing through the cracks in the cement block walls, the dirt floor. The narrow cot on which she lay had a thin pad for a mattress—it was as uncomfortable as hell. The metal slats beneath her would be digging into her shoulder blades and pelvis. He knew. It was his bed.

  Not that he did a lot of sleeping. Mostly he lay awake. Waiting.

  She opened her eyes wide. “This house has rules?” she murmured in a light, innocent voice that didn’t fool him for a second. She was summing him up and checking out her surroundings. “Fascinating. I must get the name of your decorator. Go ahead. I’m hanging on your every word.”

  Sin shoved the chair back to take the few steps necessary to tower over her. Her head swiveled to take in the length of his body, then came to rest at eye level with the bulge in his jeans.