She dropped her purse and threw her shoes after it, one after the other, pulling them off and tossing them onto the roof, doing some sort of squirming rumba while he was holding her, his hands simply all over her, cupping her ass, one hand gripping her thigh, pressing her up against the wall.
She swore under her breath and, as best she could, shimmied her dress up and over her hips, hitched her knee over the sill, and scrambled the rest of the way out of the window. Her feet barely touched the roof before he landed beside her.
Geezus. What was he? she wondered. Spring-loaded?
“Rocket boy,” she muttered, jerking her dress back down.
Damn. This had not been her plan.
“White cotton?” was his only reply, his tone slightly disparaging… or maybe that was disappointment she was hearing.
Tough, she thought, leaning over and quickly slipping back into her shoes. Her underwear wasn’t any of his business.
When she wobbled a little, his hands were there, one on her arm, one on her waist, steadying her, hurrying her up.
Besides, everyone knew white cotton was best next to the skin.
“They’re organic.” It wasn’t any of his business, but there wasn’t anything plain about her underwear. Quite the contrary, they cost a small fortune, the cotton grown on a farm in Alabama, the panties delicately stitched by hand in Tuscaloosa and shipped to a specialty shop in San Francisco.
He muttered something she didn’t quite hear, which was probably just as well, so she ignored him, and by the time another loud crash sounded from inside the building, they were on the far side of the rooftop, with him helping her drop into the safety of the alley-a steaming, reeking, disgustingly garbage-strewn alley.
“Oh.” The little gust of sound escaped her on a gasp. The stench was overwhelming, and she’d landed on something soft, and rotten, and squishy something that oozed up over the sides of her peep-toe pumps.
He didn’t give her much time to worry about her shoes, though, only about a second and a half before he took her arm and started hustling her along, heading down the alley and away from the gallery.
“Dammit,” she swore under her breath, and it wasn’t because of her damn shoes. Everything going to hell in a handbasket was unacceptable, especially when somebody else was suddenly and unexpectedly doing the driving.
All she could guarantee was that he wasn’t going to be doing it for very damn long-oh, hell no.
Yeah, Dax was swearing, too, because he was an idiot-a stone-cold, no-excuses idiot.
This woman…
He swore again.
This woman, the one he had his hand wrapped around like he wasn’t going to let go, the one wearing freakin’ organic panties, she was trouble. He needed to take her to her hotel, pack her and her white cotton undies up, and put her on a plane out of here. Whatever she thought she was doing, and whoever in the hell she was working for, they’d all been wrong.
Wrong to send her to fucking Ciudad del Este.
Wrong to hook her up with a loser like Jimmy Ruiz.
Wrong to put her within a hundred miles of Esteban Ponce, Levi Asher, and fucking Erich Warner.
And damn wrong to put her up against a guy like him, and in this kind of game, there was always a guy like him.
He tightened his hold on her, which was ridiculous. She didn’t need him holding on to her. He knew it. She’d been getting around on her own for thirty-two years, most of it in three-inch heels, and as far as he’d been able to tell from his investigation, she’d never even scraped a knee, let alone broken a bone.
And yet, for reasons that were damned annoying and had nothing to do with anything even remotely resembling logic, he’d suddenly decided it was his damn job to keep her that way.
From his vantage point in a rented room high up on the seventh floor of the Pioneros Building, the shooter watched the bust go down at the Galeria Viejo.
Christ. He checked his watch. That hadn’t taken long to go straight to hell, and his target, Erich Warner, hadn’t even shown up. Esteban Ponce had, though, which meant that the rumors, and the intel, and the trail, had run true. Remy Beranger had the Maned Sphinx of Sesostris III. The fuckup youngest son of Arturo Ponce wouldn’t have shown up for anything less, not at some dive gallery in Ciudad del Este.
A four-thousand-year-old statue with the power to grant everlasting life, that was the prize on the block, and with his old man croaking out the last few weeks of terminal cancer, Esteban must have figured he could save the day-and it was that kind of thinking that made him the fuckup son.
The other players in Beranger’s were unknowns, but he’d taken their pictures and, with a little luck, would have them identified by tonight, the sooner the better. If one of them was acting as a proxy for Warner, he needed to pick them up and shake them down. The bodyguards were unimportant and easy to pick out, but that still left a short fat guy in a pale blue suit; the taller, solidly built guy who’d been watching the gallery from the Mercado for the last couple of hours; and most intriguingly, the woman that guy had just hustled out of the building and down the alley.
She was stunningly beautiful, but that wasn’t what had caught his interest, at least not initially. He’d been watching her through his rifle scope when she’d lowered her sunglasses to glare at one of the men Ponce had left at the gallery’s front door, and for an instant, when he’d first seen her face, she’d actually stolen his breath, stopped it cold in his chest.
It was about the only damn thing in the world that unnerved him, having his breath stop cold in his chest-for obvious reasons.
He checked back through his scope, and for a moment just enjoyed the easy roll and sway of her hips as she walked down the alley.
She had, by anybody’s measure, a world-class ass.
But she was headed out of there, and he needed to head in, find out what was going on, and if the situation was as it appeared, take the damn Sphinx and get the hell back out. Rumors of the statue’s appearance on the world stage had been percolating for four months and then spread like wildfire over the last couple of days, when it had supposedly arrived in Ciudad del Este, sporting a price tag of a million dollars cash just to get into the party. The auction would start from there. Anyone who was listening knew it was here.
Warner was listening, guaranteed, listening hard, getting desperate, and rightly so-the German’s days were numbered.
Leaning forward, he snapped the lens covers closed on the scope, and in under a minute, well under, he had his M91 BDR.308 broken down and stowed, each piece of the rifle placed snugly into the foam core of a hard case. Next, he checked the charge on his TacVector, a nonlethal weapon of his own design that he carried in an extra-long holster rig under his right arm. Under his left arm, he was packing a.45, a Springfield 1911-A1, cocked, locked, loaded, and by anybody’s measure, supremely lethal, especially in his hands.
The Memphis Sphinx.
Sonuvabitch.
That bastard in Washington, the spymaster, the shooter’s nemesis par excellence, had actually done it: concocted a trap of near-Machiavellian dimensions and baited it with the one thing guaranteed to draw Erich Warner out into the open, the promise of everlasting life-and that was a real bad deal for old Warner, the cool million aside, because in this game, the German was just another piece of bait.
CHAPTER SIX
São Paulo, Brazil
Erich Warner read the text message on his phone, then settled back into his chair and shifted his attention to the young iguana tethered next to him. With an absentminded grace, he slowly ran his finger down the reptile’s comblike spine. They were on the wide front porch of an exquisitely restored plantation house, overlooking a cerulean ocean. A jeweled leather collar encircled the beast’s thick neck, with a linked chain running from the collar to the railing where the animal basked in the sun. It wasn’t much of a chain, not quite a meter in length, not quite enough to keep the youngster from hanging himself if he fell off the rail.