Scout nodded, holding the gold and granite sphinx close to her chest. She was worried, he could tell, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to save him-tonight or any other night.
“I should go with you,” she said.
“No. I might need to cover a lot of ground. Relay any information Jo-Jo comes up with. I’m heading back to the Posada Plaza.”
“What you need is somebody to watch your back.” She stood her ground. “You’re not alone out there, and you know it.”
Yeah, they both knew it. Two guys had been on his ass for months, staying out of sight, just on the edge of his radar, moving through the shadows, moving like he moved, following him, but keeping their distance. He didn’t know who in the hell they were, but he knew they were here, in Ciudad del Este. He could almost smell them.
They hadn’t been at Beranger’s, though. They didn’t give a damn about the Memphis Sphinx. They were in Paraguay for one reason-to kill him, like the others before-and like the others, they didn’t have a clue what they were up against.
And like the others, he’d bury them in this damn country.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ciudad del Este
Oh, God. Suzi hurt everywhere.
She followed Dax up the stairs to his room in the Posada, dragging her feet, every muscle in her body aching. Three hours of moving junk around in the gallery had taken its toll. She was tired, hungry, wet, and far from done for the night.
Hell, five frickin’ flights, and then she had to ditch him. It wasn’t going to be easy. The boy was in full-out rescue-the-woman mode. Under any other circumstances, she’d be charmed senseless, but she had only one card left in her deck of tricks, and she would need to be on her game and alone to play it-the Levi Asher card. Levi was the only piece of live bait left in this town, if he even was still in this town.
It wouldn’t take her long to find out, no more than a couple of phone calls.
Oh, yes, she had her Plan B all mapped out, the sexual pervert plan. The thought alone was enough to exhaust her.
At the fifth landing, they stumbled onto the Posada Plaza’s welcoming committee, the Latino transvestite tag team of Marcella and Marceline, which was about the only thing to go her way all day. The two elevator specialists played right into her one-card hand, and there they were, coming down the hall, front and center, dressed to kill in buckles, snaps, and bustiers, fake white lace and tight black polyester, flowered scarves and stiletto heels.
Beautiful.
“Hola, chico,” one of the “girls” called out to Dax.
“Marceline,” he said with a short nod.
“Chica, cariño… “ the other “girl,” Marcella, crooned, her warm amber-colored eyes rimmed in thick black eyeliner and sweeping over Suzi from her head to her toes.
“Hola,” she said, a little uncertain, then turned to Dax. “What did she say? I didn’t get that last word.”
“Hey, darling,” he translated.
“Cómo estás, chiquita?” Marceline added.
Suzi gave Dax a little poke in the side.
“How you doing, baby?” he said, reaching back and taking her hand, keeping them moving forward.
“Can you tell her I’m fine?”
“Liar,” he said, tightening his hold on her as they passed the Latinos in the hall.
“Bueno,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. Good. She was doing good.
Marcella shook her head, tsk-tsking, then rattled off a few comments.
“He’s calling you a liar, too,” Dax said, “and he wants you to know that you can tell him everything. He’s your new best friend.”
“I could use a friend,” Suzi said, barely keeping up with him, stride for stride.
“Not that one, babe. Marcella would just as soon sell you as hold your hand.”
Actually, Marcella was exactly the friend she needed, once she ditched Dax, and yes, she had a plan. She was a girl, she needed things, and he was a guy, he’d go get them. She wasn’t going to be an idiot about it, but it was simple, and simple plans usually worked.
The two “girls” had turned to follow them and were catching back up. In a couple of steps, Marceline slid in next to Suzi and started making conversation, smiling and obviously asking questions, her heavily made-up eyes alight, her head cocked slightly to one side, her tone deeply inquiring-and, well, just deep all around.
“What should I say to her, help me out here,” she said, giving Dax’s hand a squeeze.
“He,” he used the gender pointedly, “wants to know what… uh, happened to you. Why you look so…disheveled, when you left here looking like a princess on a, uh, cake, or something to that effect.”
“Princess?” Suzi said.
“On a cake,” he repeated. “And he thinks I’m a real jerk for letting you get in this condition. Cálmate, Marceline.”
He tightened his grip on her hand when they stopped at his door, and with his other hand, he dug in his pocket for the key.
“Gringo?” Marcella said.
“Sí?” He jimmied the key into the lock and got the door open without bothering to look up.
Before Suzi stepped inside, the “girl” rattled something off in Spanish and blew her a kiss-and oh, my God, just like that she racked up another new low, getting hit on by a guy in a miniskirt wearing eyeliner.
Dax closed the room door behind them, then locked it, bolted it, and used the worthless chain, and throughout the whole security procedure, such as it was, he held on to her hand.
More telling, she held on to his-and at this point in the day, that was about all the encouragement he needed, for all the good it was going to do him right now.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got something to drink?” she asked.
“Sodas? Water?” He had a few things.
“Gin martini?”
He grinned. “Kentucky gold.”
He let go of her hand and walked over to the small duffel bag he’d set on the bedside table. Behind him, he heard her cross the room and open the balcony doors. When he found his flask, he unscrewed the top and walked over to where she was standing, looking out onto the street.
He handed her the flask, and she took a small sip, holding it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing.
“Bourbon,” she said.
Whiskey, neat.
He took a bigger swallow when she handed it back, and then he gave her the flask-and my, wasn’t this cozy, just the two of them, having a drink. He had a plan, and in a minute or two, he was going to put it in motion.
But for a minute or two, he was just going to enjoy the view.
“What did Marcella say?” the view asked. “There at the last, when she was running on?”
He could have made up half a dozen things, but went ahead and told her the truth.
“First, Marcella is a ‘he,’ not a ‘she,’ and he goes both ways, and if there were three ways to go, he’d go that way, too, for a price, and he said you have the most perfect ass he’s ever seen.”
Dax tended to agree, but he didn’t think this was the time or the place for his opinion on the subject, not when she was close enough for him to see the amber highlights in her eyes, the sheen of dampness on her skin-and something he shouldn’t have missed.
His brow furrowed.
“When did this happen?” he asked, turning her face into the light. She’d been scratched, high up on her cheek, almost into her hairline.
He carefully smoothed the auburn strands of her hair away from her face.
“When we came out of that window at Beranger’s.”
“Hell,” he muttered, sliding his thumb across her cheek, just below the injury. “I thought I was more careful with you than that.”
“It’s just a… uh, scratch,” she said, her voice breaking just a little, and yeah, he understood. They were alone, and safe, and suddenly close enough to make something happen, and he was touching her.