Dare Me, page 5
No middle ground. But this. This was nice . . . She drifted.
Her hair felt cool on her shoulders as he lifted the strands and let them sift through his fingers. "Your hair always reminded me of a night sky. Did I ever tell you that?"
"No," she said and hoped he never realized how many shades of Miss Clairol she had to use to get her color just right.
"Well, it does." His voice was low, husky with want and tenderness. It brought tears to her eyes. "One of those really black nights—no stars, no moon. Just the open sky, going on forever."
"Sounds pretty," she admitted.
"I should have given you pretty words before," he murmured.
"Jon . . ."
"They were always there, Dani," he said. "Inside me." He rested his forehead against hers.
"I know," she whispered and pressed a kiss to his breastbone. Beneath her lips, his heartbeat throbbed and she shivered at his response to their lovemaking.
And experiencing this tenderness along with the amazing things he could do to her body made Danica ready for more. Ready to be a part of him over and over again. Ready to feel his body invade hers and stay there.
She trailed her hand down the center of his body, from the crisp hair covering his pecs, down his six-pack, then closed her fingers around him, loving the way his body reacted to her touch.
He groaned, turning to her to cover her mouth with his.
They made love again. Slowly this time, as if they had all the time in the world. Outside, that world moved on. Here, in this room, time stood still. For this one night, they were together, as maybe they'd always been meant to be.
But Danica knew from experience that she couldn't count on anything more than this one perfect moment. She had him in her arms right now. It would be really, really stupid to wonder for how long.
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The bedside phone rang. Danica, sprawled on Jon's chest, lifted her head. His eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. She'd never met anyone who needed as little sleep as he did.
Jon reached over her head and snatched up the receiver, putting it to her ear, but in such a way that he could hear as well. Not sleeping and nosey as hell. Situation normal, she thought wryly. "Yes?"
"Your uncle is on the line, Miss Cross," the operator said in accent-inflected English. "He's quite insistent that he speak with you immediately. May I put him through?"
Danica frowned, still holding Jon's gaze. "My uncle?" Unless her only uncle was calling from his grave, she had no idea who— Jon nodded. "Ah, sure. Put him through."
"Danica?" An unfamiliar male voice spoke in her ear.
"Hi, Uncle ....'?"
"It's Samuel, sweetie. Your aunt Martha and I are just worried sick about you. How're you doin', baby?" Without waiting for the answer, he said briskly, "Never mind. Put that husband of yours on the line. We don't want you getting all upset after your ordeal."
She glanced at Jon but made no move to shift position. Both of them would keep listening. "It's Uncle Samuel, honey."
He figured it would be. The State Department, the FAA and NTSB must be spitting nails by now. Join the crowd. "Yeah?"
"Hey, my boy," the guy said with forced jocularity. "Just wanted to say take damn good care of our girl there. She's become a valuable commodity right now, ya know what I mean? The family is right concerned about her after that ac-ceedent an' all. In fact, we want her home right now, this very minute so we can get her to our own physician toot sweet."
"Is that right?" He lifted one eyebrow, arid Danica smilingly shook her head at her "uncle's" accent.
"You betcha. They say the doc back in Miami doesn't want her to get overexcited by too many visitors, ya know what I mean?"
Hell, no, Raven thought, absently reaching out to take Danica's hand in his to prevent her from scratching a welt on her neck. The problem with talking in code was that most of the time the speaker made no sense at all. Of course, it didn't help that Danica was mouthing questions at him while scratching. Jon shook his head at her, then deliberately concentrated and sifted through what the guy was trying to tell him.
He guessed their benevolent "uncle" was military. Planning an extraction, perhaps? Which made his own suspicions valid. He didn't give a shit who they were if they could get Danica clear of the highly guarded palace and out of this little shithole of a country. "Yeah, well, she'll be out of here on Saturday. Guess you heard they're giving her the keys to the city?"
"Fuc— No way, boy. No way. Her aunt will be just devastated if she doesn't see her right now. Like, I mean right now. Why, it might just kill her if that doesn't happen."
Danica frowned at him, but Jon didn't have time to reassure her at the moment. He was too busy fighting a soul-jarring surge of tangible fear. Enough of this two-on-a-phone thing.
Gripping the phone in a white-knuckled fist, he gently moved Danica aside so he could sit on the edge of the mattress and focus. "Is Aunt Martha with you?"
"Son, we're all here. The whole family got into the act to come down here and check on little Danica. This is a big deal to us."
"And where is 'here' exactly?" Jon muttered, stretching the cord of the phone so he could reach down and pick his clothes up off the floor where he'd tossed them. He started dressing one-handed, a sense of urgency making his heart pound and his brain go a mile a minute.
"Why, boy, the whole family's right here in San Cristobal," Uncle Sam said tightly.
Jesus.
Jon shot Danica a glance, and he saw the worry on her features. A ping of regret staggered through him. Seemed that no matter when they were together, something always happened to stir the pot. Damn it. He wanted Dani. And he wanted her safe. Now.
"Her aunt got all upset during our plane trip down here," Uncle Sam was saying. "She reminded me of all the times we told Danica that flying in a plane was a dangerous job. There are some places people just don't belong. With what's happened fresh in her mind, you should tell her to get out and come home with us. Uh-oh, Dani's aunt's rubbing her chest agin. Her poor heart cain't take much more. Bring her to Martha as .soon as you can, boy."
Crap. He got it. Subtle this guy wasn't. His fingers tightened around his T-shirt. "You're in town?"
"Not too far from you, son. We're real anxious to meet up with you and our girl. And I know none of us will eat or sleep 'til we get to see Danica with our own eyes."
"Breakfast good enough?" Not that he planned to hang around until then. The feeling of urgency was crystal clear. And if this guy, whoever he represented, was nervous, Jon was ten times more so.
"Hell, no. We're pretty dammed hungry right now. What say you two come on over and we all head right out for a late supper?"
Raven glanced at the dial of his watch. Twenty-four hundred hours. "How will we find you?"
"There's a real nice little place on Route 84, just north of town. Why don't we meet there?" The line went dead.
Followed by a small click.
Great. Just fucking great.
"What did Uncle Sam want?" Danica whispered.
He motioned for her to get out of bed, and she nodded. Staring around the plushly appointed room, Jon wondered if, despite his search, the damn place was bugged. Maybe he'd missed something—in which case they'd certainly given somebody an earful. It was the presidential palace in the country of Paranoia, so he was willing to bet it was. Either way, no point taking chances.
"He's worried about you, honey," Jon said tightly, and wagged a finger at her to get her to come to him. Guiding her into the bathroom, he turned on the water while he said, "Why don't you take a nice hot shower? Helps with the aches and pains."
With the water running loudly, he closed the door and bent his head close to hers.
"I don't know who that was, but I sure as hell recognize a warning when I hear one."
"About what?"
"We don't know and we're not sticking around to find out. So follow me and keep quiet. Let whoever might be listening think you're in the shower."
Then he opened the bathroom door as quietly as possible, strode across the room and grabbed the duffel the tin soldiers had brought up at the same time as their coffee and uneaten sandwiches. He hadn't needed to check for his weapons; he'd known by the weight of the bag that they were gone. Pulling out the jeans and dark blue T-shirt he'd bought at the airport, he thrust them into her hands. "Get dressed," he whispered. "We're leaving."
"It's the middle of the night." Her voice was hardly more than a breath.
"As good a time as any to make a run for it," Raven told her grimly, moving about the room to collect what he'd chosen earlier as possible weapons. They'd taken his guns, but they hadn't taken his creativity. Simple things, even a phone cord, could be a lethal weapon. "Chop-chop, sweetheart. Time's a-wastin'."
* * *
"It would've been nice if you'd thought to buy me some underwear," Danica mumbled as they ran across the manicured lawn like thieves in the night. Jon, having adjusted his speed to accommodate her shorter legs, held tightly to her hand, preventing her from falling half a dozen times. She'd never seen such blackness. Not a star, not a glimmer of a moon. The enormous palace behind them was dark. How he could see where he was going she had no idea.
"No Victoria's Secret at the airport," he said very quietly. "Veer to the left, then straight for another two hundred feet."
Heart in her throat, as it had been for what seemed like hours, Danica glanced behind them. Every step of the way she'd expected to hear dogs barking or gunshots. But other than the cick-cick-cick of a distant sprinkler and the soft shushing of fronds in the hundreds of palms and shrubs on the grounds, everything was quiet. So quiet she could hear the pounding of her own heart.
The balmy night air was redolent with the thick, sweet scent of jasmine, citrus blossoms and the green smell of the jungle just beyond the city. Jon's hand in hers was warm and strong, and despite the fear trumpeting through her body, she felt safe with him. She always had. He was infuriating and frustrating and had the innate ability to irritate her like no other human on the face of the planet.
But she trusted Ton more than anvone else she'd ever known. With her life at least. Trusting him with her heart was a little trickier.
The palace guards might be prepared for anyone breaking in, but it never occurred to them that someone would break out. Or that's what Jon had assured her as they sneaked out of her room. They'd moved through the empty, dimly lit corridors, down the wide marble stairs, through the kitchens and out of the building. Undetected—or so she hoped.
She wanted to believe him. But she still kept waiting to feel a dog's canines embedded in her leg. Or the slam of a bullet in the back of her head as they ran.
Keeping close to the thick tangle of foliage bordering the gardens, they were, according to her partner in crime, heading toward a side gate and freedom.
She'd love to believe that he was overreacting. She'd like to think that "Uncle Sam" was reading danger that wasn't there. But either her own intuition was kicking in big time or Jon's paranoia was contagious. An elevated sense of urgency had completely trumped her personal sense of propriety. Under normal circumstances, she would never rudely dash off without so much as a farewell. Especially when she was the reluctant guest of honor. Until she'd seen Jon's eyes. Looked deeply and seen danger. Real, immediate danger.
"Okay?" Raven whispered.
"Define okay," she whispered back, sarcasm in her voice.
"Almost home." Metaphorically, if not in reality. The black wrought-iron fence enclosing the estate was only a couple hundred yards away. They'd managed to elude the palace guards without breaking a sweat. The best he could say about them was that they wore cool uniforms. He'd debated taking down one of them to get a weapon, but doing that would bring attention to their departure earlier than necessary.
They passed beneath an arched arbor, its shape defined by the pale blobs of spicy-scented roses flowing over it.
Danica was breathing heavily, and even though he knew she must be in some discomfort from the crash, she hadn't uttered a word of complaint. And she hadn't slowed down. He knew she was scared. This was as far away from her element as it was possible to get. She was a Sunday-with-the-Miami-Herald, walk-on-the-beach-at-dusk, cuddle-up-on-a-rainy-day kind of girl.
How had she of all people ended up in a plane crash, kidnapped and drugged? And more important—why?
As a security specialist, he rarely encountered violence, although he and all his employees were certainly highly skilled and trained for any eventuality.
Up to and including terrorism. But most of his clients were Fortune 500 companies, museums, technical and medical installations that required state-of-the-art security hardware. Valuing brains above brawn.
Even so, it made him sick to think his business might have had anything to do with why Danica had been targeted. But the fact that Uncle Sam knew about Danica but asked for him by name made sense only if he was an important element in all this.
Still, it just didn't make sense. No matter how he looked at it. However, he did not believe in coincidence. So if it wasn't his present security business that had drawn them into this mess . . . maybe it was something from his past.
Something to think about once they were clear.
Once Danica was safe.
He wished to hell he carried a weapon. A real weapon, not a makeshift shiv and a travel-size can of frigging hair spray.
A movement up ahead caught his attention. In a heartbeat he swung Danica behind him, the shiv readied, protruding between his index and middle fingers. Every nerve and tendon in his body poised to fight.
"Jon Raven?" A male voice whispered.
"ID yourself," Raven demanded in a low voice. There were seven men that he could see. Barely. But they were there, blending in with the vegetation. Raven smelled their sweat, gun oil from their weapons and the black grease stick on their skin. Yeah. Military for sure.
"DSS. We have a vehicle waiting to transport you and Miss Cross. This way, sir."
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"No," Raven told the Diplomatic Secret Service guy ten minutes later. "We travel together or not at all." They'd run a mile to a secure location where several beat-up trucks were parked. Now these guys wanted to separate him and Dani. Uh-uh. Wasn't gonna happen.
"We need to get Miss Cross to the clinic ASAP. Our orders are to take her there. You'll be—"
Raven wrapped an arm about Danica's shoulders. "Right next to her, pal." His eyes narrowed as the man moved off, then spoke quietly into a radio. DSS was under the auspices of the State Department. What the hell did they want with him?
Or was it Danica they wanted?
Something around here stunk. Something was . . . off. He should be feeling relief that they'd been picked up by the good guys. But his uneasy gut feeling warned him that things weren't what they seemed.
The second the soldier came close enough, Raven stepped up to him and demanded, "What clinic?"
"I'm not at liberty to—"
"Then take us to someone who is at liberty to tell us what the hell is going down."
Danica had never seen this Jon Raven. She wasn't the least bit afraid that his fingers were cutting off the circulation in her hand where he held it so tightly. It was the expression on his face that chilled her blood and made her fiercely grateful that the expression wasn't focused on her.
The soldier looked as though he wanted to refuse. Instead, he nodded briefly. "We'll take you to Uncle Sam."
"That'll do. For starters."
Flanked by half a dozen men, they walked to the first truck, and he helped her inside, then got in beside her in the front seat. His eyes, reflecting the dash lights, looked almost demonic in their intensity as the trucks moved smoothly onto a dirt access road behind the palace.
"What's our destination, soldier?"
"I'm not at liberty—"
"I'm going to liberate you with my fist in about ten seconds," Jon stated. Too calmly, she thought. Deadly calm. "I'm not in the mood to screw around with you."
"Yes, sir," the soldier replied. "I appreciate that, sir. But I have orders."
"Which are?" Danica asked, trying to angle in order to see more clearly and make out the painted face of the driver. Up to this point, she'd been largely ignored by the soldiers. "Why are they so hell-bent on taking me to a doctor?"
"Just a little while longer, ma'am."
Fifteen minutes later—or it might have been five hours; Danica was so tired her head had rested on Jon's shoulder most of the way while she rested her eyes—they pulled up at a two-story warehouse on the outskirts of town.
Escorted by the men who'd come to get them, they followed their driver into the building. The large doors clanged shut behind them with an ominous thud. "What is this place?" Danica whispered.
"Let's ask this guy," Jon said flatly as a man in a dark suit emerged from a room down the corridor.
Even to her inexperienced eye, the man was every inch a soldier, although he wore no uniform, nor was he carrying a gun like the others. At least not one she could see.
He came forward, hand extended to Jon. "I'm Special-Agent-in-Charge Donovan."
"In charge of what?" Jon countered.
"For the moment, you. Please," he began in a tone that bordered between evasion and condescension. "Come this way. Can I get you something to eat or drink while you wait?"
"Wait for what?" Jon demanded, halting Dani's automatic footsteps as she started following the man to . . . wherever.
In a hurry, and clearly annoyed by the questions, the man continued striding down the corridor, but turned to glance back. "Wait while Miss Cross is prepped for surgery."
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"Surgery?" Danica repeated blankly at the same time Jon said, "Whoa! Say what?"
