Betrayed

Chapter 22

Shane glanced at Elena, knowing she was listening to his part of the conversation.

“I don’t know. But it would help to find out.”

He knew Max wanted to keep him on the line, but he wasn’t going to let that happen.

“I’m getting off now,” he said.

“When will we hear from you again?” his partner asked.

“I’m not sure. I just wanted you to know I’m okay.” He clicked off.

He looked up to see Elena watching him.

“You think Lincoln Kinkead is doing something illegal?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to wonder about the way this whole thing was handled.”

“I don’t understand.”

Shane sighed. “He hired someone from outside the company.”

“Because maybe he didn’t think Bert Iverson was good enough. Or he had a bad feeling about him—the way I did.”

“Maybe,” Shane conceded.

“Do you have any idea what Arnold Blake took?”

“No.”

“Do you know about other products the company is developing?”

“Some. They’re mostly for businesses. Some products are similar to Microsoft’s—only S&D’s are easier for non-technical people to use. The way you use their word-processing software makes sense, for example.”

“But this product’s special—and secret.”

She nodded, conceding the point, then said, “You want your partners to nose around and try to find out what it is.”

“Yeah.”

“We have to go back,” she said suddenly.

“But not until I feel like I can defend myself,” he snapped, then said, “Sorry. It’s frustrating having to lie here.”

“I understand.”

“Yeah.” He slid down in the bed so that he was more lying than sitting. “And I’d better get some rest if I want to heal.”

Elena stood and gathered up her mug and the glasses of water she’d brought.

“Better not leave the house,” he said.

“Okay,” she answered.

“We have a big library of CDs and DVDs,” he said. “It’s probably better not to watch anything live—or streaming.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d like to keep this place sealed off.” He gave her a direct look. “And you know it would be a bad idea to call your brother, right?”

“Yes.” She exited the room. He watched her leave, wondering what she thought about the caution.

He didn’t dwell on that. He had only so much energy, and he wanted to think about Lincoln Kinkead, about every interaction he’d had with the man. Had Kinkead set him up? Or what?

Downstairs, Elena focused on washing the mugs they’d used and putting the rest of the soup into the refrigerator for later.

She understood why Shane was being careful about outside contacts. And she understood why he wasn’t exactly in a good mood.

She lay down on the couch and closed her eyes.

Somehow she was able to get a few hours of sleep. When she woke again, she went upstairs to check on Shane.

He had closed the blinds, darkening the room, but she could see he was lying in bed, staring toward the door.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” he answered, but she thought it might be an automatic response. She brought him more of his antibiotic and some water and waited while he took the medicine.

“Do you want some more soup?” she asked.

“In a while.” He held up one side of the covers. “Come here.”

She was surprised by the gesture, but she kicked off her shoes and slipped into bed beside him, on his good side.

He reached for her hand again and tangled his fingers in hers.

As they lay next to each other, he played with her hand, sliding his own fingers against hers and squeezing them, and she found herself responding to just that simple touch.

He turned his head toward her, stroking his lips against her cheek, then nibbling along the line of her jaw, before moving to her ear and stroking his tongue along the interior ridges, then sucking her lobe into his mouth.

No one had ever touched her like that, kissed her like that.

She felt tingles of sensation chase themselves over her nerve endings. She closed her eyes, letting herself ride the pleasure of it for a few moments before whispering, “What are you doing?”

“Enjoying myself.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Why not? Don’t you like it?”

“I think you know I do, but you’re still recovering. I mean, we shouldn’t be doing anything…physical.”

“Maybe this is helping me get better.”

She felt him shifting carefully so he was half facing her. His lips moved to her neck, playing with her there the way he’d played with her jawline. With one hand, he found the bottom of her sweatshirt, reached under, and moved upward to stroke one of her breasts.

Her breasts felt full and achy, and her nipples were already hard. When he brushed back and forth against them, her breath caught.

“Don’t,” she said again.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re making me…hot,” she managed to say.

“Good.”

As he spoke, he took her hardened nipple between his thumb and finger, squeezing and tugging gently on it, making her breath catch.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because it feels good. And I haven’t had much chance to feel good in the past few months.”

The way he said it tore at her, and though she knew she should stop him, she didn’t do it.

He moved so that he could slip one hand inside the waistband of her sweatpants, then lower, circling her navel and stroking her stomach, then her thighs, before slipping into the folds of her most intimate flesh.

“You’re so nice and wet for me,” he murmured.

She made a small sound, half embarrassment and half arousal. No one had ever focused on her pleasure like this. No one had ever teased her and tormented her this way. He didn’t rush what he was doing, only glided his finger up and down, dipping into her vagina, then up to her clit, making it throb with need. And all the while, he kept his other hand on her breast, playing with her nipple.

He was watching her, and she felt more exposed than when she’d been naked making love with him. Unable to deal with that intimacy, she squeezed her eyes shut.

She heard her breath coming in gasps, felt her hips rising and falling to increase the friction as he sent her higher and higher toward orgasm.

Then she felt her body contract and gasped as climax grabbed her.

She came back to earth slowly and kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to look at him, but what was she going to do—get up and walk out of the room?

Reluctantly she turned her head toward him.

“Shane. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wanted to. Watching you was very satisfying to me.”

That made her face heat, and she was glad that the room was dark. After a moment, she managed to say, “But you can’t…I mean we can’t.”

“Yeah, unfortunate that if I start moving around too much, I could pull the wound open.”

She rolled toward him, careful of his bad side as she slung her arm across his chest and laid her head on his shoulder. She could still feel the tension coursing through him.

He’d said what he’d just done was satisfying. She knew he probably meant “arousing.”

Without looking at Shane, she moved her hand, sliding it down his body and pressing it over the hard shaft that stood up against the knit fabric of his sweatpants.

He made a low sound as she pressed against him, and she knew he liked her touch.

“Can I do the same thing for you that you did for me?” she whispered.

“Only if you want to.”

“I do.”

Of course, he’d known exactly how to give a woman pleasure, and she was a lot less experienced, but she had the feeling she could figure out what to do from his reactions.

She stayed pressed to him. And as he had done, she slipped her hand inside his sweatpants, reaching downward, finding his distended flesh. He felt so warm and alive, and so sexy. She had made love with him, but she hadn’t touched his penis. Now she learned the shape of it, the size, the length, and the girth as she circled it with her hand.

She remembered the things he did to her. Playing with her nipples, stroking through her sex. She slid one hand to his chest, finding that his nipples were hard. When she stroked them the way he’d stroked her, his breath caught.

She was bolder with her other hand, squeezing his penis.

“Move your hand up and down,” he said in a strangled voice.

She did, feeling the skin move as she worked her hand along his length.

His reactions told her what felt good, his rigid body, his heavy breathing, and then he whispered, “Harder. Faster.”

She shifted over him, squeezed him more tightly, moving her hand more quickly, feeling the tension coiling through him. Then she felt his climax, felt it so intimately that she had to catch her breath.

It took a moment for his breathing to return to normal. “Thank you,” he said in a gritty voice.

“Thank you for letting me get that close to you,” she answered. She felt him reach to the bedside table and grab a wad of tissues from the box there. Under the covers he cleaned himself up, then dropped the tissues on the floor.

Cuddling against him, she felt overwhelmed by the intimacy of what they had done. Maybe it shouldn’t be that way. Was this more intimate than really making love? Right now it seemed so.

She wanted to ask where they went from here, but she thought she might not like the answer. So she kept the question locked behind her lips.

Shane Gallagher and Elena Reyes had disappeared off the face of the earth, and two people were beating the bushes looking for them.

One was Lincoln Kinkead, who had no idea if his chief of security had defected to the enemy or was even alive.

The other was Jerome Weller. He wanted to kill Reyes’ damn brother. But the little piece of shit was the only leverage he held over the woman. Of course she could have fled the country, for all he knew. But he didn’t think so. He was fairly sure she was where he could get to her, if he could only figure out where that bastard Gallagher had taken her.

He started with where his men had first found them on the Eastern Shore and worked outward from there. He thought he’d had a major breakthrough when he found the airport from which Gallagher had flown away. Until the flight plan he’d filed turned out to be bogus. He’d disappeared into thin air, as it were. But the damn little plane only held so much fuel. There was a limit to where he could have gone. Would he try to get as far away as possible, or would he stay closer to home? And what were his plans after that?

Weller indulged in a string of curses. He had to find the guy, because if he didn’t, he was in deep shit.

Alesandro Reyes could have said the same thing. He was still in the basement of the house where they’d taken him. The fat guy’s house. But he’d heard his guards talking when they thought he was unconscious.

He’d learned the fat guy’s name, and if he ever got out of here, he was going to tell the cops, and to hell with the consequences.

The matones had taken him off the torture table, which was a blessing. Then they’d thrown him into a dark, stinking room, with only a sliver of light coming in from under the door.

He thought his nose was probably broken and swollen to twice its size. And one of his fingers was broken, too.

He could have internal injuries, except that he thought the guys who had worked him over knew how to avoid killing someone. Their mission was to inflict pain, not kill.

The killing could always come later.

When he felt like he could move without throwing up, Alesandro pushed himself to his feet and began to explore his surroundings. The floor was cement. One wall of the room was brick, which told him that maybe the house had been constructed before the cinder-block era. Which was what the other three walls were made of.

The room seemed to be about eight feet by eight feet, and he thought it had been built in the corner of the basement. The door was metal and wouldn’t budge when he tried to shake it or twist the knob. There was no bed, only a thin mattress on the floor and a dirty blanket that smelled like a dog had used it last. And for a toilet, there was a metal bucket in the corner.

Men came twice a day to empty the bucket—another blessing—and to give him a little food. Mostly junk like potato chips and cheese twists. After the nausea from the beatings subsided, he gobbled up the crappy food.

He could die in this room. He had come to know that. And he wasn’t sure what would get him out.

He thought it had been days since he’d sent Elena into S&D to get that information, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure of that—or anything else.

In the dark, cold, stinking cell where roaches skittered across the floor, he had plenty of time to think.

At first he’d been angry with Elena for leaving him in this situation. But the longer he stayed here, the more he came to realize it was his own damn fault.

He’d taken his status in his family for granted. And he hadn’t worked very hard to improve his lot in life. Then he had gotten sucked into doing some little jobs for the mob. He’d thought stealing cars and carrying drugs would be a nice way to increase his income, since he hardly made enough for a decent lifestyle with his job as a rental-car clerk.

At first he’d liked the excitement and the dinero. Then they’d asked him to do bigger jobs—like carrying more dope and taking more chances. And last week they’d told him they’d get him arrested if he didn’t make his sister get whatever it was from S&D. And then he’d found out that getting arrested wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him. And here he was in this miserable cell, wondering if he was going to make it home alive.

He hadn’t prayed in years, but he prayed now.

“Dios, I know I did wrong. I got myself into bad trouble. It was little stuff at first. I didn’t realize I was going to get into bad trouble. But if you help me now, I’ll never do it again.”

Was that the truth? He hoped so. He couldn’t say the next part. But he knew what it was. If he couldn’t get out of this alive, he hoped that he would die with no more pain. A simple shot to the head would do it, preferably from behind so he wouldn’t have to see it coming.