She stepped silently over to her sleeping roommate. After surveying him closely it appeared the only wrinkle out of place was on his left front trouser pocket. It would be tricky to explore, especially with a mark lying down. But she knew she had the lightest touch in the business. Her hand slid smoothly into his pocket. Her two middle fingers closed on the bills. She began to withdraw them, very gradually. The paper hit the slightest snag of cloth.
Steel fingers closed on her wrist and nine-millimeter death was suddenly staring her in the face. She caught her breath and froze. Her eyes crossed as the Browning Hi-power’s muzzle brushed her nose. There was a terrible moment of peak tension, then Morgan’s fingers relaxed on her arm and he lowered his automatic to the floor next to its shoulder holster.
“Sorry,” Morgan said with an apologetic grin. “Trigger nerves.”
“No kidding.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re out,” Morgan said, standing and stretching as if the incident had never happened. “Are you about ready to get on the road? I think I got everything we need.”
Felicity found his casual demeanor, after sticking a gun in her face, a little disconcerting. She backed away, trying to push her brain into the new conversation.
“I appreciate the gesture, and this stuff is nice, but you don’t really think you can shop for me, do you?”
“Why not?” Morgan answered, pulling dresser drawers open. “Look. Jeans, tee shirt, shoes, two purses, skirt, blouse, sunglasses, a bra and panties, plus what you’re wearing. Let’s see, comb, brush, toothbrushes and a suitcase. My clothes are in the closet.”
“Wait a minute,” Felicity said. “A bra? You think you can look at me and…”
“Thirty-seven C,” interrupted Morgan calmly. “Waist twenty-five. Hips thirty-eight. Ankles about seven. I never miss when it comes to judging distances. In any form.”
He had stopped her. Felicity stood with her mouth partially open, unsure how she should react. Not only did he hit every measurement exactly, but she could not think of anything else she needed.
11
Marlene Seagrave sat in front of her vanity mirror, dressed only in a full-length slip, brushing her shoulder length blonde hair. She wasn’t pleased with what Anton had done with her hair this time, but that was only the leading edge of her unhappiness. Her image in the mirror was certainly not ugly, but it did not please her.
They used to say she had soft brown eyes, like a fawn, but now narrow lines were growing under them. Just thirty-two years old, and she was already considering botox shots. And she had just found her first gray hair. Why that should move her close to tears, she did not really understand.
Her arm movements became more and more forceful, although she knew no amount of brushing would make that gray hair go away. Besides, it was just one indicator of what was happening to her entire body. Six years ago she did calisthenics or aerobics almost every day, swam twice a week, and watched her diet very carefully. Then she married Adrian and all that changed. She went from starving model and Hollywood hopeful to society lady. Because of Adrian’s money she dined at the finest restaurants and drank the best liquor. Life was so much fun when it all began. She was the belle of the ball, and Cinderella never had it better. How she loved him then.
Then?
Now, the best clothes, the best hair stylists, manicurists and makeup could not make her the woman she was before. And with time, her view of the man she loved had only become clearer. Her luxurious apartment seemed cold to her now, as did their king size bed. For this Cinderella, happily ever after was the hard part.
The bedroom door whooshed against the deep burgundy carpet as it opened. She turned, an automatic smile brightening her face.
“Adrian. I didn’t know if I should expect you home tonight. That business meeting…”
“Life isn’t all business, baby,” Seagrave said with a slight slur. He approached her wearing only a silk robe that was too long for his squat form. After six years of marriage, she could tell by his walk how many drinks he had gotten under his belt. Seeing him standing there at the edge of drunkenness, she could not help but compare him to her six-year-old mental picture of him. His complexion was rougher now and his brown hair thinner, but that was all superficial. More importantly, his eyes had grown harder. In them she could see that he looked at her less as a lover and more as a thing, a possession.
Still, she stood as he reached out to put an arm around her. She wanted to give him the love he deserved. He was, after all, her husband.
“Take a look at this, baby,” Seagrave said as he pulled a large velvet jewel box from his robe pocket. Her smile became more genuine as she accepted this unexpected gift.
“Oh, Adrian, what is it? What’s this for? I mean, it’s not my birthday or anything.”
“Open it,” he said, giving her a crooked smile. “You’ll know.”
Her eyes widened to saucers as light glanced off her new prize. “It’s magnificent,” she breathed. Her heart pounded with a flush of renewed love. He was trying to make things better, and she would try too. She knew they could make it like it used to be.
Her moment of euphoria passed a moment later as she recognized the brooch. That perfectly facetted diamond with its halo of matched pearls set in its marbled green base was unmistakable. It was the brooch she had casually targeted weeks ago at a party as part of an absurd negotiation. Her eyes dropped to meet his, showing only a hint of suspicion.
“Honey, how did you ever get this? I can’t imagine any woman being willing to part with such a beautiful piece of jewelry once she had it. Besides, it must be worth a fortune.”
“Don’t you worry about how I got it,” Seagrave said. “You just get ready to wear it to that party Saturday night. You’ve earned it. Or you will.”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, not really wanting the answer.
“I told you, baby.” There was an edge on his tenderness now. “Whatever you want, you get it. As long as I get what I want.” His stubby fingers slid up her thigh, around the curve of the hips she had begun to think of as too full. His breathing deepened as hers became shallower.
“Oh, yes. We were talking about starting a family, weren’t we?” she said, backing away slightly. “I wasn’t sure you were serious, dear. Why don’t you get us a drink and we’ll talk about it now.”
“Had a drink,” he muttered low in his throat. “In fact, had a few. And we already talked. We’re going to have a son. And we’re going to start on it right now.”
His strength always surprised her. Gripping her upper arms he pulled her in to a hard, rough kiss. Before she could regain her balance he had spun her around and pushed her toward the king size bed that dominated the room.
Marlene stumbled on the carpet. Her thighs smacked the edge of the mattress and she felt her nipples scrape across the chenille bedspread. Her fingers curled into the spread as she heard his knees thump to the floor behind her and felt her slip roughly pushed up around her waist. She was staring at their ornate walnut headboard and, above it, the cheap velvet painting of a matador she had always hated. She clamped her eyes shut, trying hard to call up a more romantic image and relax so it would not hurt so much when he entered her.
12
Morgan awoke at an elbow nudge from Felicity. He had warned her that he generally made it a habit to fall asleep whenever his attention was not needed for anything. He knew she’d wake him at the end of the flight. He leaned forward to look past her. The view out the window told him that their 747 had gone into its holding pattern over Los Angeles International Airport.
At the airport in Merida, Morgan had been pleasantly surprised at the efficiency of the customs personnel. They were even fairly pleasant once he made it clear that he was more familiar with the applicable statutes than they were. No one at the airport questioned his international security officer credentials or his redundant multinational carry permits. Of course, he still had to endure an ungodly amount of hassle to get his working tools to travel with him. It was worth it, he supposed, for his machete and knives to be stored in the baggage compartment. Customs officials also forced him to pack his pistol in three separate cases, which naturally they provided, for a price. One case carried all his ammunition. Another contained the bolt from his pistol, while he packed the remaining harmless receiver and barrel in a third. All in all, he imagined it was less of a hassle than the hotel maid would go through when she found the bits of his disassembled submachine gun under his pillows.