INFORMANT Page 10

  But I’m alive. Alive.

  Even though Beckett is not physically with me, we are still connected. I can feel his presence around me—his comfort, his heat, his strength. This is it, I realize. Decision time. I have two options. One: I can walk out of the bathroom, leave the suite and never come back. Or two: I gut it out. Help Ricco, help Beckett, and try to get whatever dirt I can to make sure the DEA can put Miguel Diaz away. I give it long, serious thought, weighing the risks and rewards, but I already know what I’m going to do.

  I lift my hand and rub the bodice of my dress, making sure that after all the tussling the mike is still attached to my bra strap. It is. I send a message directly to Beckett. A brief, two word whisper.

  “I’m staying.”

  * * *

  We eat dinner as planned, dining at the steakhouse in the lobby of the Fairmont. There are six of us gathered around the table. Ricco and me, Uncle Juan and Miguel Diaz, two of the women from the suite upstairs. The women are named Anna and Anita. I’ve already forgotten which is which. They look identical: masses of dark hair, heavy eyeliner, enormous breasts.

  In the three hours I’ve spent in his company, my impression of Uncle Juan hasn’t changed. He’s crude, vulgar, a pervert. He pats the waitress’s ass. Jokingly gropes Anna’s (or maybe Anita’s?) impressive tits. While sitting at the table, he uses a toothpick to pry bits of meat from his teeth.

  But Miguel Diaz? He is absolutely chilling. Not because of his violent streak—but because of the total lack of it. Hours earlier he was ready to order my death. There was no doubt about it. I saw it in his eyes, and Ricco saw it, too. Not only was he ready to kill me, but he took deep satisfaction, deep pleasure in my terror.

  Now he is utterly charming. As intelligent, persuasive, and polite as a politician stumping for votes. He is a gracious, generous host, one who is obviously accustomed to wealth and luxury. Handsome, too. I can see where his son gets his looks. If I hadn’t experienced the other side of him, I would think Beckett had it all wrong. Miguel Diaz wouldn’t hurt a soul. Fortunately, however, I know better. I’m keeping my guard up.

  During coffee and dessert Miguel leans toward me. “You must wonder what happened earlier this evening,” he says. I’m surprised he’s bringing it up. Frankly, I assumed he wouldn’t refer to it again. Instead, he gives a vague wave of his hand. His diamond cufflink sparkles in the candlelight. “An unfortunate understanding, that’s all. You see, my men worry about me.”

  “Oh?” I respond, inviting him to continue.

  “It’s this business that I’m in.”

  I look at him directly. “What business are you in?”

  There is a brief, uncomfortable pause. Ricco stiffens, Uncle Juan frowns in disapproval, and Anna and Anita shift slightly back from the table.

  Only Miguel is unfazed. He gives me an indulgent smile. “Import,” he replies.

  “Cigars?”

  “No. Not cigars.”

  A long, heavy silence follows.

  “My father is a brilliant businessman,” Ricco interjects. But he’s not looking at me at all. His eyes are locked on Miguel. “Highly successful. But sometimes that success creates jealousy in others. There are those who would spy on him, lie to him, or even hurt him, in order to gain an advantage for themselves. One must be wary.”

  “Wary of the police?” I say, deliberately obtuse.

  Ricco nods. “In Cuba, it is the police who are the most crooked of all.”

  The light of loving approval shines in Miguel’s eyes. “Si,” he says softly. “Exactamente.” He pats Ricco’s hand. Then he looks around the table and lifts his glass in salute. “Let us drink to my son, who will be a brilliant, successful physician and make his father proud.”

  Now this is some seriously twisted family shit. At least Ronnie and I are open about our mutual dislike. (Sorry, Jess.) Ricco and his father? In one single evening, I’ve seen terror pass between them, derision, oppression, pain, loyalty, pride, and love. I can’t get a read on what’s real and what’s not. They seesaw back and forth like a couple of lunatics chained to a dungeon wall.

  “You brought your books tonight,” Miguel says to me. “You and my son intend to study together?”

  “Not tonight,” Ricco replies before I can answer. Beneath the table, his hand travels up my dress. He gives my thigh an affectionate squeeze. “We have other things in mind tonight, don’t we, amorcito?”

  Ricco’s gaze bores into mine with an expression of such burning sexual desire that I find myself blushing—shocked by both his look and his touch. I assume he’s just putting on a show for his father, because we simply haven’t gotten this far. Our relationship is measured in baby steps, not leaps and bounds.

  But before I can respond, Ricco leans forward and traces his fingers along my cheek. “Have I told you how sexy you look in this dress? Muy bonita. But I assume you will look even more beautiful without it.”

  His father gives an infuriatingly macho chuckle of approval. “Maybe you young lovers want to get a room?”

  I brush Ricco’s hand away and send him a reproving glare. “Maybe we don’t.”

  My words are greeted with laughter. “She has fire in her,” says Miguel Diaz. “She will not be an easy one to tame.”

  “Those are the best,” says Uncle Juan. I glance at him and see that he’s more than a little intrigued by my resistance. While he paid me no attention at all during the meal, now he probably has a hard-on beneath the table. No doubt he’s recalling the orgiastic thrill of overcoming the pitiful struggles of thirteen-year-old virgins.

  The meal ends and we move to the lounge. The rest of the group from the penthouse—the bodyguards and women and assorted hangers-on—are already there Music is playing and the mood is lively and upbeat. Uncle Juan slips a few bills to the small jazz band and the music shifts to something with a strong Latino beat. We dance.

  Mostly I’m with Ricco. The dancing is frenetic, passionate—Cuban, I suppose. Couples twirling and whirling and stomping their feet, separating for a bit and then coming together in dramatic embraces. I don’t know any of the steps but it doesn’t matter. Ricco moves beautifully and even manages to make me look good. My red dress helps. It clings to my hips and flares around my legs as I move, drawing attention away from my awkward footwork.

  Ricco is conservative at first, but after a while (or maybe after a few drinks) he cuts loose and I’m glad he does. He is Dancing With The Stars material. Absolutely gorgeous to watch. He’s taken off his jacket and tie, unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He is handsome as hell—the whole scene looks like a photo spread for GQ—and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Several attractive women grab at the opportunity to be his partner whenever I take a break.

  Finally it’s quitting time for the band and last call for the bar. The party winds down. I see a couple of the women slip Ricco their number, but it doesn’t bother me. He’s polite, but there’s no interest in his eyes. Instead, he finds me and pulls me into his embrace. His body is warm, his skin smells of spicy male cologne.

  “So,” he says. “Can I bring you back up to the suite with me for a little drink?”

  I give a small smile, shake my head. “It’s late.”

  “Yes. It is.” There is a pause as Ricco’s dark eyes search mine. “You had a good time this evening?”

  “I always like being with you.” This is genuine. I do like Ricco.

  “I’m glad.” His expression softens. He lifts one finger and rubs it lightly over my lips. “I’ve been waiting all night to do this.”

  He lowers his head and his mouth is on mine. I stiffen slightly. I wasn’t expecting this and I’m not quite sure how to react. We’re friends, but obviously it’s a lot more complicated than that. I’m a CI. That’s what brought me here tonight. Even though I care about Ricco, this is a job. How do I play this?

  Ultimately my body decides for me. Here’s something I didn’t know: Ricco kisses as well as he dances. Holy s
hit. I am temporarily stunned and then swept away, suddenly hungry for more. Maybe after the night I’ve had I’m just weak, vulnerable, but I don’t think so. My response is purely physical. My hands lock around his neck. I pull him to me as our bodies meld into one.

  Ricco teases my mouth with his own. Then he increases the pressure of his jaw, coaxing my lips apart. His tongue meets mine, gently probing and exploring. His mouth moves against mine with such urgency and naked desire that I nearly groan out loud. I rock against him, instinctively matching the rhythm of his kiss, allowing myself to be swept away. I feel his hands trace my hips, cup my ass. This is awful and wonderful and I can’t stop kissing him back. I know I need to stop, but I can’t.

  We hear a tray tip over somewhere in the distance, the sound of glasses shattering breaks us out of the spell we were under. Ricco pulls back slightly. Smiles as he rubs his hands along my upper arms. He looks proud, satisfied.

  “You sure you don’t want to come upstairs?”

  “No, it’s late. I should go.”

  Ricco doesn’t argue. “Shall I drive you home?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just grab a cab.” He nods easily, and then I remember something. “Oh—my backpack’s upstairs.”

  “No, problem,” he says. “I’ll get it for you. Be right back.” He spins away toward the elevators, leaving me alone.

  Except I’m not alone. A chill runs through me—that sort of sixth sense that tells you you’re being watched. I turn to see Miguel Diaz sitting by himself, alone at a table in a corner of the deserted lounge. He is half-hidden by shadow, but something about the stillness of his stance absolutely chills me.

  Miguel makes no attempt to disguise the fact that he was watching us. Watching Ricco kiss me. Listening to our exchange. The expression on his face is as calculating and merciless as a jungle cat stalking his prey. The man is beyond scary. I want to turn and run, but I can’t.

  “Señorita Porter,” he says. “Come here.”

  Somehow my legs carry me toward him. Once I’m there, I see that my purse is sitting open on the table before him. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s rifled through the contents. My phone is in his hand. Jesus Christ.

  I open my mouth to object, but I can’t. Instead, our eyes meet and we reach a silent understanding. He has all the power here, I have none.

  “Ricardo likes you,” he says. His voice is as smooth and dark as fine chocolate.

  “I like him, too.”

  He nods. “That is good.” A beat, then: “But there is something else. You are more than friends, perhaps? More than just two hard-working students who study together?”

  He’s got great instincts, I’ll give him that. Obviously Miguel senses there’s more to my relationship with Ricco than what’s on the surface. All right, he’s good, but I’m good too—particularly since my life depends on it. I give a shy smile and adopt a sing-song tone. I play it young and super girlie. “I don’t know yet,” I say. I giggle and eye my shoes. “We’re friends, but maybe…”

  Miguel smiles indulgently, temporarily pacified. I’m no threat. He could crush me like a cornered mouse if he wanted to. He passes back my phone and I have no doubt at all that he’s rifled through the stored contacts and messages. (Good call, Jane. So much for my snarky comments about my phone being compromised.)

  “Keep an eye on my son,” he says. “This country is not like Cuba. If there are ever any difficulties, I want you to know you can come to me.”

  I nod and glance at my cell. He’s added himself as a contact. Just a single letter: M.

  It’s all I can do to keep my hand from trembling. I realize in that instant that my life will never be the same again. Am I soaring up in the world, or plummeting down? Impossible to say. Either way, everything’s changed. I’m holding in my hand a direct line to one of the world’s most vicious drug lords, just the touch of a button away.

  I tuck it into my purse, ready to go. It’s been a long night.

  Day Twenty-Two

  Early Morning

  It’s two-thirty in the morning when I stumble, exhausted, through my front door. The lights are off and no one’s home. The answering machine is blinking so I cross the room and hit the button. It’s my mom. Her boss had her work overtime, so she missed her bus. Ronnie picked her up and she’s spending the night with him and Jess.

  Up until that moment, I’ve held it together. Kept calm, carried on, and all the rest of that poster slogan bullshit. But that message sends me over the top. I’m suddenly furious. I hate the world and everyone in it. I hate Agent Reardon and Miguel Diaz. I hate my mom’s goddamned boss—he knows the last bus runs at 11:55, and that if she misses it she won’t have a way home. But if she stands up to him, she’ll lose her job.

  That is the main problem with being poor. It’s not about doing without. It’s not about eating hamburger instead of steak, or buying secondhand clothes. And really, who gives a shit if you watch TV on a flat screen or not—the show’s the same. The problem with being poor is that you’re always forced to make choices you don’t want to make. Forced to do things you don’t want to do. Forced to depend on people you can’t depend on. The trade-offs are endless.

  But that’s my life. Unless I take serious steps to change it, Kylie Porter will never exist. I’ll never be anything more than a baby bird sitting in a nest with its beak open, with other people constantly forcing their shit down my throat.

  This is what I’m thinking when there’s a knock at my door. At two-thirty in the morning. Someone is knocking on my goddamned door. What the fuck is going on now?

  Ready to kill, I stomp across the room and glare through the peephole.

  Beckett.

  I throw open the door and am about to vent all my nasty, vile frustration—dump it all over him—but he grabs me before I can make a sound. He clamps one hand over my mouth, while with his other hand he roughly brushes aside the bodice of my dress and plucks the mike from my bra strap. Abruptly releasing me, he takes it into the kitchen. He carefully places the mike on a shelf in the freezer and then shuts the refrigerator door. We are now soundproofed, I assume. Beyond reach of the DEA’s listening devices.

  When he returns to me, I read the same stormy fury on his face as I’m sure is reflected on mine. We are twin mirrors of rage. But Beckett’s fury comes from an entirely different source.

  “Were you with Ricco?” he demands.

  WTF? My jaw goes slack with shock. After everything I’ve been through—I was nearly killed—that’s what he cares about? Was I with Ricco? He set this whole thing up and now he’s jealous?

  I can’t take any more. I just can’t. I’ve never hit another human being in my life, but suddenly I am pummeling Beckett. I am pounding his chest with both my fists. Hoarse, ugly sobs issue from my throat but I can’t stop them. I am outside of myself, watching my actions as though from far away.

  I don’t know how long this lasts. One minute? Five? Ten? The next thing I know, Beckett has me up against the wall, my wrists pinned above my head. He is as frantic, as lost as I am. He’s kissing away my tears, stroking me with his free hand, murmuring my name over and over.

  Then I am lifted up and cradled in his arms. He is holding me as if I weigh nothing at all. I am floating, anchored only by my cheek against his chest. The feeling is beyond wonderful. I lift my arms and lock them around his neck. His grip tightens. We do a complete three-sixty in the living room, turning around in a circle, before he stops.

  “Where’s your bedroom?”

  That’s it. Just: Where’s your bedroom?

  He doesn’t ask for permission to seduce me. There are no pretty words. No promises. No soft stroking. He is going to take me, and I want to be taken. This is our foreplay. It’s not gentle and it’s not romantic, but it’s ours. Yeah, it’ll be complicated and downright ugly as hell to deal with tomorrow, but right now this is what it is. Safety, security, sex—all three are bundled up together in Beckett, inextricably wound. He is my curse and my s
alvation.

  I point the way to my room. He carries me in and we fall together on my bed. His arm snakes under me, locking around my waist in an iron embrace. His body covers mine, pins me beneath his. I am trapped by his weight, his strength, his presence.

  He kisses me.

  Unlike the first time our mouths met, this is no gentle kiss. His lips claim mine in a kiss of unyielding, crushing possession. I offer no resistance. Just the opposite is true. I kiss him back, hard, sensing the same urgency within him that I feel within myself. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, skims my teeth, dances with mine.

  I should be breathless. Instead, for the first time in hours, I feel as though I can breathe again. Kissing Ricco is a calculated, guilty pleasure. But Beckett? Kissing Beckett has become necessary to my very existence. He is the oxygen that fills my lungs and fuels my soul. I need him.

  I let myself go, kissing him with all the aching longing that has flooded through me from the moment our hands accidentally brushed at Romano’s and I was knocked off-balance by a heady physical awareness of him. I kiss him with all the pent-up sexual energy I’ve stored from the moment I felt that intense sexual current pulse between us. Blue eyes. I’ve wanted him from the start. Now—for the moment, at least—he’s mine, and there is no holding back.

  Flames of desire coil through my belly. I am on fire, desperate. The deeper our kiss, the more my hunger grows. My need for Beckett is ravenous, insatiable. I press my body against his, expressing without words the primitive urge to meld our bodies into one. My breasts flatten against his chest, my thigh slides between his.

  I feel Beckett’s cock harden against my hip, his bulging erection—evidence of his own raw desire—boldly announcing itself. His physical reaction fills me with quiet power, daring me to reach for what I want. Breaking off our kiss, I grab at his jeans and clumsily work the button and zipper free. My fingers lightly brush his erection as I tug the denim down his slim male hips.

  I reach up and pull off his flannel shirt, sending the garment sailing carelessly to the floor. His t-shirt follows. Next I reach for the waistband of his cotton boxers and slide those free. Beckett responds in kind, tugging at the zipper to my dress, caught in a similar frenzy to rid me of my clothing. Bra, panties, hose—all unnecessary obstacles to our lust fall to the floor.