Lola Carlyle Reveals All

Chapter 14

The hard beat of rock and roll poured through the Foggy Bottom, thumped against the walls, and pounded like a heartbeat through the soles of Lola’s lavender python sandals. The air inside the Alexandria bar was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. In the back room, the lamp above the pool table shone down on the green felt like a tent of light as Lola slowly leaned over and hooked a finger over her cue stick. She glanced at the man at the opposite end, awash in smoke and shadow, light bathing the bottom half of him. His arms were folded across the front of his navy polo, muscles bulging. He held his own stick in one hand. The lamp provided just enough light to see that his brows were lowered in a scowl over his blue eyes.

Lola bit the corner of her mouth as butterflies fluttered about in her stomach. She lined up her shot and tried not to think of what she and Max had planned for later that night. Even though she would love to zap Sam with a stun gun, the last thing she needed or wanted was to get caught breaking into his house. Her nerves were frazzled, and Max’s black mood made everything worse.

“Six ball in the corner pocket,” she said, even though she doubted anyone could hear her. The balls smacked together, and the six rolled neatly into the pocket by Max’s right thigh. Lola rose, pursed her lips as if she were striking a pose for a lipstick ad, and blew across the end of her stick. Just as she’d suspected it would, Max’s scowl turned a bit more grim. She picked up her chalk and moved toward him, peanut shells crunching beneath her four-inch heels. “I told you I’m a shark,” she said as she came to stand beside him. “Might as well pay up right now.”

“You need to stop bending over the table like that,” he said just loud enough for her to hear. “Everyone is staring at you.”

“I thought that was our op plan,” she reminded him. “To attract attention. Hide in plain sight. Remember?”

“We never discussed you flashing your breasts and butt.”

Lola glanced down at herself. At her dark purple bandeau top that showed a bit of cleavage and flirted with her navel and the waistband of her python miniskirt. Under her skirt she wore a purple thong so she wouldn’t have a panty line, and beneath the bandeau, her purple bustier kept her breasts in proper order, but the boning dug into her ribs. She’d yet to create a bustier that was completely comfortable. “You said I was supposed to make sure people noticed me. I think they’ve noticed.”

“You were supposed to come in and flip your hair like other fashion models.” He turned to her and let out an exasperated breath. “And that’s another thing. What’s with the hair? It looks like you just got laid.”

She smiled and ran her fingers through the big loose curls she’d separated with pomade. “I thought that was the point, too. To make people believe we’re together. Am I the only one here who remembers the plan?”

“No, I remember. I just had no idea you’d get off the plane wearing nothing but a little snakeskin.”

“It’s Dolce & Gabbana.”

“It looks like a purple python wrapped himself around your ass.” He shook his head. “I never should have let you out of the car dressed like that.”

“Max,” she sighed, now as exasperated as he, “you can’t tell me what to wear. So don’t ever try.”

He glanced behind her toward the bar. “I’m going to have to bust some heads before we get out of here tonight, and I’m really not looking forward to that.”

Lola looked over her shoulder into the dark interior. At the glowing Miller sign and the string of chili pepper lights hung along the huge mirror behind the bar. Yes, people were staring, but no one looked as if he would approach the two of them. Not with Max glaring as if he were spoiling for a fight.

When she and Max had first entered the bar, several men had shouted out greetings, but he’d ignored them. “You told me these people are your friends.”

“They are. I earned my BUD/S with some of these guys. That one sitting on the stool wearing a bad dog T-shirt is Scooter McLafferty. He was my swim buddy, and a big fan of your Sports Illustrated days. I’m sure he’d just love to meet you.”

“Well, are you going to introduce me to him?”

“Hell, no. Music’s too loud.”

Lola rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and turned her attention back to the table. The music wasn’t too loud. Max was just being contrary. “Five ball in the side pocket,” she said, and lined up the shot. She took a deep breath, but it did little to calm her nerves. Being so near to Max, hearing his tenebrous growl, seeing his handsome face and blue eyes scowling at her, plus the contemplation of what they had planned for that evening, made her feel flushed and antsy and uncertain all at same time.

“For the love of Christ,” he swore.

Lola jumped and missed the shot. “You’re not supposed to talk while someone is shooting,” she said as she rose. “This plan isn’t working. People are going to think we hate each other, and when it’s time to go, they’ll never believe that we’re leaving because we can’t keep our hands off each other.” She pointed a finger at his chest. “And it’s all your fault. You jerk!”

Max grabbed her wrist and brought the heel of her hand to his mouth. “You’re so beautiful you make me insane.”

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a jerk. “Now everyone will think you’re schizophrenic.”

He shook his head and his lips brushed across her pulse. “Lovers’ spat.”

Warm little tingles danced up her arm. “We’re not lovers.”

He pulled her forward and wrapped her arm around his neck. “Not yet,” he said through a sudden smile so sensual and carnal and totally masculine, it tweaked her heart and hastened the rhythm. “But we could be if you’re really nice and talk real dirty to me.”

That wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t talk dirty, at least she didn’t think so, and if they were ever going to make love again, which she wasn’t sure would be a good idea, he would have to make the first move. Something he hadn’t bothered to do since they’d left the island. “Max, I don’t talk dirty,” she told him.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I was raised to believe that a lady never uses bad language.”

He laughed and grabbed his pool stick. “Well, honey, I distinctly remember one time you forgot.”

Her hand fell to her side, and she watched him move to the other side of the table and line up his shot. He had to be talking about the one time they’d made love. She didn’t remember using profanity, but she supposed it was entirely possible, since she’d been so frightened and hadn’t been herself. And if she was completely truthful, Max had set her on fire that night. Now just thinking about it made her feel ready to combust all over again.

Max pointed at the pocket next to Lola’s left hip, then took the shot. The eleven ball rolled neatly into the pocket and he looked up at her. As he lined up his next, a smile crooked his mouth and his blue eyes shone in anticipation of beating her.

Lola couldn’t let that happen. If there was one person more competitive than Max, it was Lola. She placed her palms flat on the edge of the table and gazed over at him. Back in her modeling days, when she’d needed to seduce from the flat pages of magazines, she’d used certain tricks. One of them had been to think of the best lover she’d ever had. Now, years later, her old trick came back to her. Just like riding a bike, but she didn’t have to think long or hard to come up with a candidate. He was staring right back at her. She thought of her hands on his bare body, touching him all over, her fingertips feeling the different textures of his flesh. She licked her lips and her mouth parted on a slight inhaled breath. Her lids lowered and Max missed his shot.

He moved toward her and she straightened. “Nice shootin‘, Tex,” she said.

“I was a little distracted by your cleavage and that do-me-on-the-pool-table look you were giving me.”

She laughed and didn’t try to deny it. “It worked.”

“Yeah, too bad I don’t have anything that works that good on you.”

He had no idea. Just the thought of him flustered her. “Max, I’m sorry I called you a jerk.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He slid his palm across her shoulder to the back of her neck. “I was being a jerk.”

“True, but I shouldn’t have said it. I’m just very nervous.”

“About later?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not too late to call it off.”

“No. I want to do this. I need to.”

“I’ll take care of you.” He leaned his cue stick against the table and pulled her closer. “Nothing will happen.”

She believed him. He had a way of making her feel as if he could protect her from anything. As if by his sheer size and the force of his will, he could make sure nothing bad happened to her. In the past, men who’d wanted to protect her had also made the mistake of thinking she was too stupid to take care of herself. Not Max. He actually listened to what she had to say. During the engineering of tonight’s op plan, he’d listened to her ideas and input, even if he’d decided to do the exact opposite. He’d heard her, and she was afraid she was falling desperately in love with him, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. It was like going down one of those dark tunnel slides. There was nothing to grab on to stop herself, and she didn’t know what waited for her at the bottom.

No, that was wrong. She did know. Heartache, because she could not live his life or ask him to change for her. She looked into his eyes, which were so familiar to her now. “I hate being afraid, Max,” she confessed, although at the moment she didn’t know which she feared more: getting caught breaking into Sam’s house or falling in love with Max.

One corner of his mouth pulled into a mock frown. “Poor baby, let me give you something else to occupy that gorgeous head,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers. One of his hands slid to her behind, the other to the back of her head. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he held her against his hard body.

Then, right there in the back pool room of the Foggy Bottom bar, the lamp lighting up the bottom half of them, Max Zamora made love to her mouth. He kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough. As if he would eat her up if she let him. And she did let him. She let him cup her backside in his big hand, and she tilted her head to one side and sucked his tongue into her mouth. A low groan sounded deep in his throat and her pool cue dropped to the floor. She ran her hands over as much of him as she could reach, the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back. He was hard strength and edgy passion wrapped around a hidden core of sweetness that made him save dogs he didn’t particularly like and wrap purple flowers around her ankle. The combination was intoxicating and irresistible, and she felt herself slide farther down the tunnel to the very brink.

The alarm on Max’s watch beeped next to her ear and he pulled back, his lips moist, his eyes heavy. “It’s time to go to work.”

Her mouth felt swollen. Desire beat heavy between her thighs and her knees were weak.

“Are you ready?”

Was she ready to break into Sam’s house? Not really, but there was only one answer to give. “Yes, Max.”

On the forty-minute ride to Baltimore, Lola crawled into the backseat of Max’s Jeep and opened her suitcase. She changed into black jeans, a turtleneck, and the pair of Jimmy Choo black ankle boots she’d bought just for the occasion. Max switched on the radio to an oldies station, and “Sympathy for the Devil” filled the interior. As they sped north on Highway 95, Mick Jagger belted out, “Pleased to meet you… hope you catch my name,” and Lola shoved a black ski hat on her head and covered her hair.

She glanced toward the front, into the rearview mirror and the black shadows of Max’s face. The second they’d left the Foggy Bottom, it had been as if he’d turned something off inside himself. His touch had become impersonal. The tone of his voice, strictly business. Lola wasn’t so lucky. He still bombarded her senses. The scent of him filled the vehicle, sliding into her lungs and warming her chest. As best she could, she pushed aside her emotions and desire, her fear of tonight and her future with Max, and concentrated on their plan.

She climbed into the front seat and snapped the belt across her lap. She could be a professional. As Max had told her the night he’d agreed to help her, failure was not an option. She would not let him down.

“Are those heels on your boots?” he asked as they took an off-ramp and headed toward the suburbs.

“Yes, but only three inches.”

The golden light from the dash lit up his chest and throat. He said something in Spanish, and she figured it was best not to ask him to translate.

“You told me to wear shoes that had no discernible tread,” she reminded him.

“I also told you to wear shoes you can run in.”

“I can run in these.”

He made a rude scoffing sound and neither of them spoke again until he pulled the Jeep to a side street and parked.

“Sam’s house is a block over and down. All the property down that street abuts the woods,” Max said, and looked across at Lola. Within the dark interior, he could just make out the shape of her face and eyes. “We’re going to come in from the back.” He reached behind his seat on the floor and grabbed his rucksack. “Stay right behind me, just like you did on that island. No talking until we’re inside.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition and flipped off the interior lights. “Once we get to the house, I’ll cut the power to the alarm system. That will also cut the power to the rest of the house.”

“Without power, how will you erase the hard drives on Sam’s computer?”

“He has a battery backup that will kick on for about half an hour. We’ll be in and out in half that time.”

“How do you know all this? Have you already been in his house?”

“Of course. I don’t work totally blind.” He opened his door and shut it behind him without a sound. Lola met him by the right front tire, and together they moved from the side of the road. Within seconds, they were swallowed up within lush Maryland woods.

It took a few moments for Max’s eyes to fully adjust to the heavy darkness around him. Lola stumbled twice, then she slipped her hand into the back pocket of his Levi’s. The warmth of her touch swept across his behind and spread fire to his groin. He wondered if she knew what she was doing to him. If she knew the torture she put him through. If she knew that the sight of her in the airport earlier, walking down the gangway toward him, had nearly sent him to his knees, begging her to let him love her.

He reached behind him and took her hand from his pocket. He held her palm to his and gave it a little squeeze. Removing her hand from his pants was just one more step he would take this night to remove her from his life. No more torture. No more jealousy, yet the prospect of a torture-and jealousy-free life gave him no comfort.

Within five minutes of leaving the Jeep, Max and Lola were in Sam’s backyard. They both pulled on leather gloves, then checked the garage to make sure his car was gone. The garage was empty and they moved to the darkest side of the house and crouched by a basement window. Max took a pair of wire cutters from his rucksack and snipped the power. Light from what he knew to be the kitchen shut off, and he stuck the blade of his K-Bar knife between the window’s frame and slid the lock free.

The window opened without a sound, and Max entered first. He helped Lola through, then he took her gloved hand in his. The two of them moved through the pitch-black basement and up the stairs to the kitchen. Moonlight poured in through the back door as he led her to a room down the hall.

“Shut the drapes,” he whispered, and moved to the desk shoved against one wall. The soft hum of a computer filled the thick air and the backup power source blinked from beneath the desk.

Once Lola had done as he’d asked, he pulled a flashlight from his rucksack and took a seat. He stuck the end of the flashlight between his teeth, shone the beam on the keyboard, and slid a diskette into the A drive.

“Max,” Lola whispered as she knelt beside him. She placed her hand on his thigh and was so close, her breath touched his cheek. “What is that?”

At the DOS prompt, he typed in wipeout d:, hit enter, then took the flashlight from his mouth. “This is your ex-fiancé’s worst nightmare. A nuclear bomb. This is the software the Department of Defense uses to erase data from their hard drives. Or, for that matter, the hard drives of any other government, terrorist, or badass little dictator.” He dug around in his sack and pulled out a pin light. “Look around for those original photographs and negatives. I didn’t see the pictures when I was in here the other night. Maybe you’ll have better luck,” he said as he handed her the light. He was fairly certain Lola wouldn’t find them, either, because Max was sure they were in the safe in the closet. “And bring me any backup disks you can find.”

While Lola checked the file cabinet, Max erased everything on the remaining drives. As he verified each wipe, and overwrote them so completely there was nothing remaining that could be recovered, he watched her outline and couldn’t decide which was sexier, that snakeskin she’d been wearing or her black turtleneck and jeans.

“I didn’t find anything but this box of disks,” Lola said as she came to stand by his chair.

“Put them in the sack, then go out in the hall,” he told her as he removed the wipeout disk from the A drive.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to blow the lock on the safe.” He rose and she grabbed his arm.

“I want to stay here with you.”

“Lola, please go to the hall. I’ll join you in a minute.” He thought she might argue, but in the end she turned and the soft tap tap of her boots echoed off the walls as she left the room. Max grabbed his sack and moved to the closet. He swung the doors open and shone his light on a standard two-foot safe. The thing weighed about two-hundred and seventy-five pounds and had a garden-variety combination lock.

If Max had more time, he would have listened with an electronic eavesdropping device as the tumblers fell into place one by one. But he didn’t have time, and he carefully sprayed a thin line of explosive foam around the circumference of the lock. The sticky foam seeped behind the face of the dial, and he stuck a wad of Semtex explosive, about half the size of a Chiclet, beneath the six. Then he inserted a ten-second nonelectric firing device into the plastique and hauled himself out into the hall. The explosion was louder than he would have liked, but he doubted the neighbors heard anything.

“Come on,” he said to Lola, and didn’t wait for the smoke to clear before he reentered the room. The lock had been blown off, and the door swung easily open. Max shone his light on stacks of cash, boxes of disks, and several stuffed files. Once again he placed his flashlight between his teeth, then riffled through the files. “Bingo,” he said around the flashlight, and handed Lola a pack of photographs, complete with negatives.

“Thank you, God,” she whispered.

“Max,” he reminded her as he shoved everything from the safe to the rucksack.

“What?”

He took the flashlight from his mouth and rose. “Thank you, Max.”

“Yes, thank you, Max.”

He shoved the infamous photos in the sack, then zipped it closed. “You’re welcome,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her lips. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Again he took her hand, and together they left the same way they’d entered. He even shut the basement window behind them, and once they were in the woods behind Sam’s house, he checked his watch.

Thirteen minutes.

They’d done the job with two minutes to spare.

It was over. Finished. Now there were no more excuses.

Lola didn’t need him any longer. In twelve hours and forty-seven minutes, he’d put her on a plane back to North Carolina. He’d say good-bye for the last time. He should have felt relieved. A part of him did.

Mostly he just felt the weight of the inevitable, and for a man who liked to set his own rules, the inevitable always pissed him off.