He examines my outfit; his eyes narrow as he considers me, then glances out the door. He leans in close. “You scared of something, sweetheart?”
I nod, my eyes wide and pleading. I don’t want to say it aloud because the taxi driver is watching us in his rearview mirror. For all I know, he works for Mr. Freeze, too. If the bruiser can be at the embassy waiting for me, no one is safe.
Except maybe Daniel.
Daniel, who has guns on him. Maybe I can take one of them while he sleeps. Maybe I can seduce him into giving me one or showing me how to shoot them. But I need more answers from him. I want to know who sent him, so I can know if I’m truly safe or if I’ve jumped into more danger.
But Daniel is the devil I know at the moment, and he can’t be as bad as Mr. Freeze. He hasn’t looked at my teeth once, after all.
Daniel seems to consider my frightened snuggling. It’s hard for me to do because I don’t want a man touching me, but I fight back my bile and continue to try and look helpless and innocent. I paw at the front of his jacket. “I . . . can we go to a nice hotel room somewhere? I’d really like a bath and some real clothes. Then maybe we can go to the embassy tomorrow morning, okay? Once I feel human again.”
But my mind is already whirling with new plans, new options. The embassy isn’t safe. I need some other way to get out of this country. Once I figure out how Daniel knows who I am, maybe I can use that.
“All right,” Daniel says reluctantly, then wearily scrubs a hand down his face. “Shit. Fine. One night, and then we’re going back to the embassy. I have a schedule I have to keep.”
“One night,” I agree with relief and force myself to hug him, pressing my breasts against him.
I’m going to use this man.
I’m going to flirt with him, and seduce him, and suck his cock if I have to. Whatever it takes to get him to take me with him and keep me safe. If he’s willing to shoot men for me, he’s a better bet than anyone else I have available at the moment.
I refuse to be abandoned again.
Daniel
I KNOW BETTER. I REALLY do. I should push open the door and haul Regan’s fine ass up to the embassy. There have got to be people inside who can handle this situation better than me. I’m bound to fuck something up. Hell, I can’t even stop looking at her legs like some goddamned pervert. First thing I’m going to do when we get to the apartment is start knocking my head against the floor tile, in hopes that some sense is pounded into my head.
But she looks damn scared and so I give in to her pleading even though I’m on my last fumes and I need some serious sleep so I can move on to my next goal—finding my sister—and then find the hacker Petrovich’s got a hard-on for.
Weirdly all three roads—Regan, my sister, and the hacker—lead straight to Rio. It might be due to the increase in economy Brazil has seen due to the impending World Cup and Olympic games or the rise in overall global prominence. More money means more dickheads willing to spend it on illegal things. The banking industry here is becoming huge, as is the biofuel market. It makes some kind of weird sense that there’s a corresponding rise in the demand for female flesh. It’s not a puzzle for me to figure out. I’m a weapon. Point me and I’ll shoot.
When I learned that Naomi might be here, I entertained the idea that she was the hacker. Naomi’s smarter than half the continent. Running a deep web ring would be something she could do in her sleep. But she’s so smart that I have to believe she would have found some way to contact me. I’ve never used an alias, wanting the word to get around that Daniel Hays was looking for his sister. But she’s never once sent me an email or a text or even a smoke signal.
Letting Regan stay the night with me isn’t going to delay my hunt because I’m in desperate need of sleep. Maybe she’s embarrassed about how she looks in her tiny coat and even tinier bikini. I’ll take her back to my temporary residence and fix her up. We’ll both sleep, and in the morning she’ll be begging me to return her to the U.S. diplomats. I can keep my hands off of her.
“Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana,” I tell the driver to take us to an address down by the beach. He gives me a quick nod and we take off again. The trip from the embassy takes less than fifteen minutes and it’s a beautiful drive along the Guanabara Bay. The pavement and the high rise hotels give way and for a few minutes we drive along the bay, where sea waters pelt the rocks. In the distance, Sugarloaf Mountain rises like a stone torpedo.
Regan has her face glued to the window. “What is that?” she asks, pointing to the mountain.
“It’s Sugarloaf Mountain. When the Portuguese were transporting sugar from Brazil to Europe, they’d press the sugar cane into these cone shaped molds called sugarloaves, and one day, I guess, someone said, ‘hey that bump in the sky looks like a sugarloaf.’ The Portuguese name is Pão de Açúcar.” I found myself leaning close to her, almost whispering the native name in her ear. Another Portuguese phrase comes to mind. Eu quero te abraçar agora. I want to touch you.
I force myself back against the seat. The taxi drivers smirks at me.
“A mulher e a sardinha querem-se da mais pequenina,” he mutters merrily. He’s lucky he’s driving and that Regan doesn’t speak Portuguese.
“What’d he say?”
“That the cable cars are packed like sardines,” I lie. He really said that women and sardines should always be small, which I guess is a reference to Regan’s tight ass he saw waving in his mirror, but I’m not telling her that. Trying to distract her, I point to the wires running from the mainland to the mountain. “There’s the cars that take you to the top of Sugarloaf.”