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“Yes,” Cal replied, then jerked the wheel to avoid a man on a bicycle. “Jorgie Perez. Although I doubt it is his real name.”
“How do you know him?”
“Cain MacAlister gave me a rundown on most of Delgado’s men. I recognized Jorgie from a photograph.”
“When were you going to share Cain’s information?” She asked the question in a quiet voice, but Cal wasn’t fooled.
“You’ve done your research, remember?” he responded wryly. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Jorgie knew you were on that flight. He made contact too quickly otherwise.”
“Our aliases came from Labyrinth, right?”
“Yes.”
“So whoever had access to Jason’s files also has access to Labyrinth’s,” Julia concluded. “That means we can’t trust the good guys.”
“Exactly,” Cal admitted, impressed with her reasoning.
“Including Cain?” she asked quietly.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“So what now?”
“We switch identities one more time. But the next one we use is from one of my private sources,” Cal replied. “And we keep to ourselves for a while.”
“You mean no more contact with Labyrinth.”
A development that worked well with Cal for the moment. His phone call with Cain had hit too close to home.
“You’ve already told me my job is to keep you out of danger and to find Jason. Whatever it takes,” Cal reminded her. “It would help if you told me why Delgado wants you here. It’s not because of the money.”
“I told you, I don’t know,” Julia said, uncertain. “The obvious reason would be that I work for the President and have access to top clearance files.”
“If that were the case, he’d want you back in Washington where you’d be more use to him.”
Cal took a hard right and headed down another main street.
Suddenly, car tires squealed behind them.
“We’ve got a tail.”
Julia caught the dark sedan in her side mirror. “Delgado’s men?”
“Probably.” Cal swerved into the far right lane to avoid a motor scooter. “Hold on.” He crossed two lanes of traffic and skidded into another left turn.
A screech of tires followed a blare of a car horn. Within moments, the sedan appeared and sped down the street after them. “Which hotel were you going to stay at, Julia?”
“The Gran Paraíso.”
He glanced at his rearview mirror and ran through the red light. Julia grabbed the dashboard, held on as Cal swerved to miss oncoming traffic. Suddenly, he hit the brake and fish-tailed into a nearby alley.
A minute later, the black sedan rushed past.
“Delgado owns the Gran Paraíso and several others in the area,” Cal remarked, his gaze on the rearview mirror.
“I know that. I’d counted on my alias.” She leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart before it burst from her chest. “You sound like you know Delgado personally.”
“I’ve had my run-in with his people in the past,” Cal said noncommittally. His gaze swept over her sleeveless cream-colored blouse and burgundy skirt. “What else did you bring to wear?”
“Not much. A pair of slacks. Some shorts. A few cotton shirts.”
Julia looked up, saw Cal’s eyes on her, felt her blood heat, her skin turn pink. “Why?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Julia.” Cal drove the car down the alley and turned onto the next main street, heading in the opposite direction of the black sedan.
“Somehow I don’t think you’re complimenting me,” she said wryly.
“I’m not. Men notice beautiful women, and then remember them. You can bet Delgado’s men have pictures of you. I’ve been thinking about it since the plane trip.” Mainly because every male that Julia passed took a lingering second glance, annoying Cal. “You’re going to need a new image.”
He parked the car on a nearby street. Cal grabbed their bags. “We’re going to need to alter your appearance a bit. Something more suitable for the drug-smuggling business. We’ll make a stop at a few local shops. Then I need to make some phone calls.”
“Delgado must not have trusted me to follow instructions.” The lie slipped over her tongue, but left a bitter taste behind.
“He’s Colombian Cartel,” Cal reminded her, then waved another taxi down. “He doesn’t trust anyone. Not even his wife.”
ROSARIO CONCHITA DE LA Delgado y Martínez shifted away from the body next to hers and closer to the wine glass on the nightstand.
She tipped the glass upside down, let the few drops fall to the carpet. Annoyed, she reached for the bottle nearby and poured the remaining burgundy into her glass. The buzz from her recent high had all but disappeared, forcing her to make do with alcohol.
“Isn’t ten in the morning a little early for drinking, even for you?”
“Nothing is too early for me.” Rosario took a long sip from the glass, not so much enjoying the bite, but needing the burn of it on her throat and in her stomach. Take the edge off the cravings until she scored more cocaine from Cristo’s guest supply. “What do you care, darling?” She scooted back against the headboard and pulled a silk sheet up over her ample breasts. “It won’t interfere with our little rendezvous.”
Solaris glanced at the woman in the bed. Over a dozen years younger than her husband, she’d been bargained for and bought at the age of eighteen. It had taken her several years, and quite a few miscarriages before she produced the treasured male child for Cristo.
No longer able to have children, she served little purpose in her household. And held little more value than the fine china or Persian rugs.
“What are you thinking about?”
“How beautiful you are,” Solaris replied smoothly. “And how much other women must envy you.”
A delicate brow rose in spite of his sincerity. “And you’ve known many women.” Still, her fingers loosened, allowing the sheet to slide a few inches toward her waist.
Despite her drug habit, her body reminded him of a nineteen fifties starlet’s. The long, ebony hair that draped and curled over golden skin and satin curves. The plump, pouty lips made simply to drive men mad.
Solaris grew hard in anticipation.
Rosario’s gaze drifted down to his lap. “Twice isn’t good enough for you?” She let out a small, female purr. But the breathlessness was there, too, inciting both of them.
Slowly, Solaris tugged on the sheet, the whisper of it seductive as the material slid over her skin until she lay completely exposed.
“I have to be back shortly after eleven. Any later, we risk discovery.”
Fear edged her words, but arrogance made her chin tilt upward. They both knew if found out, they’d die. Or worse.
He dipped his index finger into her glass, then traced one pink nipple with the red liquid.
A soft sigh slipped from her lips. Her hand slid behind his neck, her nails scratching just enough to get his attention before tangling themselves in the hair at his nape. She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes.
“I think …” Smiling, he lowered his head, enjoying the feel of her fingers flexing against his scalp. “… some things in life are worth the risk.”
Chapter Five
Most times I scare myself.
Cal’s earlier words drifted through Julia’s mind, leaving her wondering what he’d meant. Even at their worst moment together, he’d never sparked fear in her, only anger. She stifled a small shiver. That was then, this was now.
After they abandoned the car, Cal flagged down a taxi and took her shopping most of the afternoon. She’d tried on nothing, drew no attention to herself, not that it mattered.
From the moment they walked into a store, he’d taken charge. He ignored her suggestions and made his own choices.
Bold, jeweled colors, thin materials, admittedly feminine styles. But all at prices that would put her bank account in arrears for a whole year.
“Still pouting?”
“I don’t pout.” She never had, but if she could, today would’ve been the day. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and looked down her nose. A tactic that served her well in the Oval Office.
Cal laughed. “Could have fooled me.”
He set their shopping bags on the floor and opened the door to a high-rise apartment.
“Stay here.” He grabbed his gun from its holster and disappeared past the doorway.
“Jerk,” she muttered.
“I bloody well heard you,” Cal admonished from somewhere in the apartment.
After sounding the all clear, he appeared at the door. “If you’re going to call me names, at least do it to my face.”
“Why, when I take so much pleasure in doing it behind your back?” Julia snagged the shopping bags, then slipped past him through the doorway.
“What next?” The blast of air-conditioning felt good against her skin. She set the packages on a nearby couch, lifted the hair from the nape of her neck and closed her eyes.
She wore her hair shorter now, styled into a sleek cap of sable that was parted at the side and cut into a blunt slant. It brushed against the smooth line of her jaw, drawing the eye down the delicate line of her neck.
“That depends on you.” The underlying edge had her eyes open, but whatever she thought she heard was gone. He shoved the pistol into its holster behind his back, then slipped off his jacket.
“Are you going to start sharing information with me?” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, leaving the strong column of his neck and a bit of his chest visible.
“For instance?” Julia glanced away, ignoring the skip in her pulse, the desire that tickled the back of her throat.
“We can start with the bank accounts that you placed the money in.”
“No.” Her hand fell away, the hair settled once again on her nape. “And before you rip into me, I’m not keeping it from you out of spite, Cal. It’s my insurance. I need to be part of this mission.”
“Since when has this become a mission?” Cal asked wryly. “I consider it a wild goose chase.”
Julia sank onto a matching love seat, then resisted the urge to slip off her leather sandals and fling one at Cal’s head.
Instead, she settled for a small toss under a nearby coffee table and studied her new home.
The apartment reflected the romantic elegance of a century-old Spanish villa. Rustic reds and muted greens threaded the room, enhanced the oversize adobe fireplace and exposed-beam ceiling. Linen drapes of a pale, buttery-yellow billowed gently against the open windows and balcony doors. The scent of the warm Caribbean breeze tugged at the senses, tempting those inside to wander out, she was sure, to the sun-warmed balcony and the ocean view beyond.
“Why didn’t you tell me Jason was your friend?” she asked. “We were together for nearly six months and you never mentioned it.”
“Because Jason and I weren’t friends,” Cal answered. “We weren’t anything.”
“And yet, you owe him.”
“I owe a lot of people many different things, Julia. And some owe me. It’s the nature of my job. You’ve worked in politics, you’ve seen Jon Mercer operate. The man borders on being one of the best con artists of our time.”
He crossed over to a small glass bar beside the balcony doors. “Want something?”
“No, thanks.” She loved Jon like a father, so it was hard for her to be at odds with him now. Even harder to believe the worst of him.
Stubborn Irish, his wife Shantelle called him in private. With his charming ways and wicked words.
Approaching his midsixties, President Mercer defined the term “larger than life” with a set of strong, broad shoulders, an even gait to his walk and, on most occasions, an even temperament. He was quick to laughter, quicker when the joke was on him, but swift and scathing when it came to dispensing his more difficult duties.
Jon Mercer saw only the black and white when it came down to the laws. Of humanity or the land. He compromised out of necessity—for the people who entrusted him with their lives and the well-being of their children. But on a deeper, personal level, there existed no gray areas.
And Julia admitted silently, that was what she feared the most.
Restless, she stood and walked to the window. The sun sank toward the ocean, painting the beach in tangerine hues, shaping the waves until they tossed and turned with the incoming tide.
“You’re like him, you know.” She turned to Cal. Frustration scraped at her nerves, even while its cause evaded her. “I never really understood that until now.”
“Like who?” Cal opened a cabinet underneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
“Jon Mercer.”
Cal’s lips twitched with amusement. “You’d bloody well better be joking, sweetheart. I haven’t aged that much since you’ve last seen me.”
“I’m not talking in physical likeness.”
But in retrospect, she saw that, too. A younger Jon Mercer, an older Calvin West.
His shoulders flexed beneath the white dress shirt just a bit when he poured three fingers of the whiskey into a highball glass. Her eyes followed the lines, the tailored fit of the cotton from the shoulders to his chest to the flat of his stomach.
