Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
To my editor, Cindy Hwang.
Thank you for everything!
Lauren Devlin knew the pain was coming and tried not to tense up. She was familiar enough with this particular brand of torture to know that would only make it worse. She shivered as expert hands pinned her legs down so she couldn't move.
God, this was gonna hurt.
A ripping sound rent the air and Lauren flinched, knowing the pain was only a split-second away. Then it was upon her. Her legs spasmed, trying to clench together protectively, but the firm hands on Lauren's thighs held them apart. She gritted her teeth and tried to blink back the tears in her eyes, but couldn't stop them from falling.
Even worse, she knew this was just the beginning. Her torturer wouldn't let up until the job was finished.
"I swear, I am never going to do another swimsuit shoot," she grumbled, pressing her palms into her eyes to stem the tears.
The spa employee who was doing Lauren's bikini wax just nodded blandly and continued slathering hot wax on Lauren's tender parts with a Popsicle stick. Lauren figured anyone who voluntarily took on this job must have worked in a Nazi concentration camp in a former life, because they seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on others. She'd never met a waxer who didn't, at some point in the process, assure her that "This won't hurt a bit." Yeah, right.
Before the woman could tear another strip of Lauren's hair out by the roots, she held up a hand and said, "Wait a sec." Then she reached over and grabbed a tiny bottle of Isla Suspiro rum from the nightstand in her hotel room. She twisted off the metal cap, took a deep breath, and chugged half the bottle in one gulp.
"Okay, go ahead," she said to the resort employee, who put one firm hand on Lauren's knee before grabbing the edge of the strip of cloth she'd smoothed over the hot wax and ripping it off.
There were days when being a supermodel was anything but glamorous, Lauren thought as she peeled off a packet of aspirin that was attached with a rubbery adhesive to the bottle of rum. She was down here on Isla Suspiro—Island of Sighs—shooting an ad for the rum named for the island. Some marketing whiz at the company had decided to package their beverage with aspirin as a promotional gimmick. "A rum so good you'll be tempted to drink the whole bottle. But try to restrain yourself," the adline read. Apparently, the aspirin was for those who could not resist that temptation.
So much for encouraging moderation.
Lauren took another swig of rum as more hot wax was applied to her crotch. The sweet liquor burned going down, but at least it was an effective painkiller. The next strip that was ripped off didn't hurt quite as much as the last one had.
The photo shoot for Isla Suspiro Rum's print ads started today, hence this morning's torture. Lauren had already checked out the location for today's shoot—a beautiful stretch of white-sand beach here on the tourist side of the island, with swaying palm trees and water such a clear blue that it almost hurt to look at. Sadly, the tourist areas on this island had to be protected by machine gun-wielding security guards, and travelers were advised not to leave these secure locales without proper protection. Most U.S. tourists who visited the island remained cloistered within the concrete walls of their all-inclusive resorts, but even they were sometimes accosted by drug runners on Jet Skis who peddled their pharmaceuticals to anyone who swam far enough from the beach.
Lauren, however, had no intention of remaining on Paradise Resort's property during her stay on Isla Suspiro. Not because she had a hankering for mind-altering drugs, or even because she believed that her status as an international celebrity afforded her any more protection from crime than a regular tourist.
No, it was because Lauren had come to Isla Suspiro on a mission.
Because aside from being a supermodel, Lauren Devlin was also a spy.
"Did you know your American friends have sent an agent here to Isla Suspiro?" Emilio Santos asked quietly in his second-story office at the Isla Suspiro Rum Company. He kept his back to his brother, his hands clasped behind him as he pretended to watch the activity on the production floor below. Instead, he studied his older brother's reflection in one of the windows overlooking the first floor.
Tomas Santos—a ruggedly handsome man who had clawed his way to power two years before, after an election fraught with allegations of fraud, blackmail, and bribery—frowned at his brother's back. "Are you certain?" he asked.
Emilio kept his gaze focused on the floor below, where employees in dark brown Isla Suspiro Rum Company uniforms scurried around like so many cockroaches. Emilio knew his presence at the factory made the workers nervous, but he didn't care. Not in his company would the mañana attitude that was so pervasive elsewhere be tolerated. When he demanded that something be done, he expected it to be done. Now. Not tomorrow—not mañana. Not in his factory.
"Yes, I'm sure," Emilio answered his brother's question before turning to walk back to the large mahogany desk that dominated his office. Tomas was seated across from the desk in a dove gray leather chair, his large tanned hands resting in his lap.
Where Emilio was small and wiry, both his older brother, Tomas, and his younger brother, Rafael, had the same broad shoulders and tall frame as their father had before his death. Unfortunately, Rafael also shared his oldest brother's hunger for power, a trait that had gotten him exiled two years ago to the primitive jungle that blanketed the wet southern coast of the island. Emilio made certain that Tomas never underestimated their younger brother's ambition. According to Emilio's frequent reports on Rafael's activities, banishing the youngest Santos son to the jungle had not stifled his desire to rule. Instead, it had merely provided Rafael with the isolation he needed to begin recruiting and training his own army—an army he would use to overthrow Tomas once Rafael had become powerful enough to attempt a coup.
Emilio suspected that Tomas wasn't as troubled as he should be by the threat Rafael presented, because he believed that the U.S. government looked favorably upon Tomas Santos remaining in power. Under his rule, the island was relatively safe for American tourists to visit. Crimes against U.S. citizens were taken seriously, and the perpetrators of these crimes were always promptly found and harshly punished. And if sometimes the wrong man was jailed for another's crimes? Well, once America felt that justice had been served, their eyes turned quickly to other matters.
In order to keep their relationship on stable terms, the United States had intervened several times in the past two years—quietly and without much fanfare—on Tomas's behalf. A suspicious bank account would mysteriously be frozen, a dissenter's camp would suddenly disappear. Emilio knew the only reason Rafael had survived this long was because he had his own powerful allies that helped him keep one step ahead of both Tomas and the CIA. Plus, Emilio guessed that no one but him suspected how strong Rafael's army had become.
And Emilio, who was as intelligent and power-hungry as his brothers, had no intention of sharing that information with his older brother. At least, not until the time was right.
He sat down behind his desk and slowly sipped a cup of the rich coffee the island was famous for. "Why would the CIA send an agent here without arranging for him to meet with you?" Emilio asked, as if truly perplexed by the question.
Tomas's eyes narrowed, and his hands tightened convulsively in his lap. "I don't know. Perhaps the agent is simply here on vacation," he suggested, obviously resisting the idea that the CIA might turn against him.
"Or perhaps he's meeting with Rafael instead? Perhaps the Americans are unhappy with the job you're doing and wish to remove you from power," Emilio countered.
Tomas's gaze flicked to the busy production floor below. "Surely they don't expect that I can right a lifetime of wrongs in two years? Building better lives for the people of Isla Suspiro will take time. I can't increase spending to build much-needed roads and improve our port and airports until our people can support the higher taxes. It will take years—probably decades—before things begin to improve. There's no quick fix to our problems. Not unless the Americans are willing to send us more money than they already have."
"And if they do, you will be perceived as a puppet for the United States," Emilio said. His brother was in an impossible situation, and they both knew it. Tomas—fool that he was—was committed to doing what was best for the people of Isla Suspiro over the long term. That meant he would not resort to selling illegal drugs for a quick inflow of cash, which would have assured his popularity with the people and cemented his position as leader of the island. Instead, he was trying to get the fledgling rum and coffee industries off the ground, as well as building new schools to help educate the people and prepare them for better jobs. Only, these things took time, time Tomas wasn't certain he had—not with both his youngest brother and the CIA watching for the slightest sign of weakness.
"It's possible this agent is only here to observe conditions on the island," Tomas said.
"And it's also possible he's here to kill you," Emilio responded, his voice eerily devoid of emotion.
Tomas sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck with the air of a man well acquainted with adversity. "Yes, that's possible," he admitted.
"You know the Americans are impatient. If I can prove that their agent is meeting with Rafael, will you finally take my advice and do something to defend yourself against him?"
"He's our brother," Tomas protested softly, looking up at Emilio with his sad, dark eyes.
"He's your adversary," Emilio corrected. "One who would like to remove you from your duly elected position with violence, uncaring about the wishes of the people of this island."
Silence hung heavily in the air between the two brothers. This war had begun long ago, with Tomas's insistence that the only way to lead Isla Suspiro out of poverty was to work within the system for change, while Rafael argued with equal ferocity that the system itself was the problem and must be overthrown. Emilio just stood back and let his brothers argue. He didn't have the charisma to inspire people to follow his leadership. He knew that his only hope to obtain the power he wanted was to win it by default. And so he had stealthily laid his plans, waiting for the right moment to close his trap around both of his brothers.
Now. Now was the time.
Soon, the presidency would be his.
Finally, Tomas nodded and stood to leave. "All right. Prove to me that this CIA agent is working with Rafael, and I will attack. I cannot allow our brother to gain any more power, not if he's already managed to win support from the United States."
From across his desk, Emilio nodded his approval, although he knew his brother neither wished for nor cared about his endorsement of his decisions. In politics, Tomas Santos would do what he felt was right, and to hell with what his younger brother thought about the matter.
Fortunately for Emilio, however, his brother did not show the same concern about the rum business. If he had, Emilio could not have let him live as long as he had.
No, Tomas left the running of Isla Suspiro Rum entirely to Emilio—a wise decision that was validated as their profits continued to climb. Of course, that also meant that Tomas had no idea why their income had increased so sharply in such a short amount of time, but Emilio figured that it was none of his brother's business. As long as the money kept coming in as expected to fund his own pursuits, Tomas left Emilio alone.
Emilio waited until the sound of his brother's footsteps faded before making certain the hallway was deserted. Then he closed and locked his office door and hurried back to his desk. From a secret compartment under the top drawer, he removed a key and unlocked a larger hidden compartment in the bottom drawer to his left. He pulled a cell phone out of the drawer and checked the scrambler before he hit redial. The call was answered on the first ring.
"The CIA has sent someone to interfere in your business. It would be in your best interest to stop him," Emilio said without preamble.
"Do they know about our plans for Sunday?" the man on the other end of the line asked, his voice clipped and abrupt.
"Not unless one of your men leaked the information. I just spoke to Tomas and it's clear that he does not know. At least, not yet," Emilio added ominously.
"It's possible, then, that this agent is here to tell him about our plans," Rafael Santos said, then paused, as if considering what to do next.
Emilio impatiently tapped his fingers on his desk, willing his brother to come to the conclusion that Emilio himself had when he had first learned of the CIA's presence on the island.
"I must stop him from reaching Tomas," Rafael said finally.
Emilio had to resist the urge to clap, as if his younger brother were a trained seal at a circus that had performed its trick well. "Yes. But you must make it appear as if he came to you willingly. That will confirm Thomas's suspicions that the Americans have turned against him."
"Yes. Yes, you're right," Rafael agreed. "I will have my men take care of it immediately. Where can I find this American spy?"
"Paradise Resort. I was not able to get the man's name from my source, but he did tell me it was someone who arrived on the island this morning and is staying at the resort. The rest, I'm afraid, I must leave up to you." Emilio didn't like leaving so much in the hands of his brother, but he couldn't call the resort to try to get more information without risking Tomas finding out. His older brother had spies everywhere.
This game of playing brother against brother was becoming tedious, but as Emilio hung up the phone and replaced it in the secret compartment in his desk, he allowed himself a small smile. In a short time, the game would be over and he could just imagine Tomas's and Rafael's surprise when they realized who had wrested their power away from them.
Yes, it wouldn't be long before Emilio had it all—the money, the power, and the admiration of the people of Isla Suspiro. Too bad his satisfaction at seeing his brothers defeated wouldn't last long. Once Emilio had what he wanted, they would both have to die.
"Haven, you are one lucky bastard," Jake Haven muttered to himself as he opened Lauren Devlin's hotel room door and caught a glimpse of the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea lapping away at the beach outside. He stepped inside the room, put his bag down on the marble tiled floor, and whistled. In the movies, spies always stayed at posh resorts and got laid by gorgeous women. In real life, however, CIA agents were government employees who did not have unlimited expense accounts and were more likely to be holed up doing surveillance in their rented Ford Tauruses than snuggled in at the Ritz. And as for the women… well, let's just say there was fantasy and there was reality and, although Jake talked a big game with the support staff, he spent more time alone than he cared to admit.
The thing was, Jake liked to keep the fantasy alive. He wanted others to believe that his was a glamorous, high-danger, high-excitement life. Hell, he himself 'wanted to believe that. So, yeah, when he finally did get assigned an op that looked as though it had come right out of the script of a James Bond movie, he felt pretty fucking lucky. What red-blooded American male wouldn't?
He looked around the room, from the disheveled sheets on the bed to the empty rum bottles lying on their sides on the nightstand and the silky women's panties draped over a rattan chair near the French doors leading out to the beach. Jake eyed those panties and sent up a silent "thank you" to his partner, Race. It was only because of Race's girlfriend, Aimee, that Jake had been assigned this job. Or rather, because Race's girlfriend Aimee had a supermodel for a sister.
Jake had been photographed standing on Aimee's porch chatting with her sister just often enough for the tabloids to hint that Jake and Lauren were more than just casual strangers. Two days ago, when Jake's boss suggested they exploit those rumors to provide Jake with a cover story for this op, Jake had nearly whooped with joy. He'd been trying to get up the nerve to ask Lauren out for months, but something always held him back.
Unfortunately, Jake knew exactly what that something was—fear. He was as confident as the next guy, but he wasn't about to toss his ego down in front of a supermodel and watch her stomp all over it with her five-inch heels.
He'd been astounded to learn that Lauren worked undercover with the Agency, but he supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised. As a supermodel, she traveled extensively and got to meet heavy-hitters from all over the world. And because of her looks, she no doubt got treated like arm candy a lot, which meant no one worried about saying something in her presence that she might actually understand.
"Never underestimate the treachery of a woman," Jake muttered as he crossed the room to a desk in the corner. He didn't know where Lauren was—probably off sunbathing somewhere in an incredibly small bikini. Just the thought of seeing her nearly naked made Jake hard, but he tried to remind himself that he had about as much chance getting laid by Lauren Devlin this weekend as did the bellboy who'd offered to take his bag when he'd arrived.
Women like Lauren didn't pay much attention to guys like him. Not in the real world, where government salaries were part of the public record.
Still, that wasn't going to stop Jake from enjoying his fantasy to the fullest.
When his boss had told him his mission was to provide backup to an informant on the CIA's payroll, Jake hadn't thought much of it. He'd done this many times before: providing support to a highly placed official in a hostile government or relaying information for an agent who had gone deep undercover. He'd never had a model as an informant before, but Jake sure as hell wasn't complaining.
And it wasn't like Lauren was a real agent. According to her handler, Martha McLaughlin—a smug, egotistical woman Jake had come to dislike over the years—Lauren had been recruited by the Agency to do nothing more than provide low-risk intel. Who attended so-and-so's party? How many armed bodyguards does Prince such-and-such travel with? What time and from which airport is this suspected drug dealer arriving? That sort of thing. She'd probably never so much as picked a lock during her "career" with the CIA.
On this op, Lauren had been sent in to see if she could discover who was funding Rafael Santos's army. Unfortunately, the CIA had just uncovered evidence that the rebel army was gearing up for an attack, so Jake had been sent in to take over the case. He had to find some way to trace the source of Santos's funds and stop the flow of money to the rebel forces. If he could stem the tide of money, a coup attempt could be averted, and thousands of lives could be saved.
And that was what his job was really about. Not glamour or excitement or fun, but saving lives. Most of the time, it was downright boring. But at least his partner on this op would be easy on the eyes.
Jake sat down at the desk and pulled open a drawer to find some paper and a pen, then chuckled to himself when he realized that Lauren had taped a manila folder to the bottom of the drawer.
"Great hiding place." He snorted, tugging the file loose. He flipped it open to find satellite photos of the island along with a map and pictures of the key players in Isla Suspiro's political arena. Jake had been given a duplicate file, but he'd studied the information and then destroyed it before coming to the island.
Jake pulled a piece of resort stationery out of the drawer and quickly penned a note to Lauren just in case she returned to the room before he found her. He'd left a message on her cell phone after getting off the plane from Miami giving her his ETA at the resort, but she hadn't called him back. He wrote down his cell number again and told her to meet him in the lobby at one o'clock if she got his message. Then he started whistling again he crossed toward the French doors that opened up onto the white sand beach. The first place he was going to look for her was down near a cluster of palm trees where the Isla Suspiro Rum photo shoot was supposed to be taking place.
Oh, yeah. Babes in bikinis, here I come, Jake thought as he pulled open the door and stepped out into the sunshine to find his new partner.
Lauren winced as the hairdresser's comb jerked to a stop at the knot in her hair.
"I'm sorry, Miss Devlin," the woman apologized as she gingerly picked at the tangle.
This was the fourth time in less than two hours that Lauren's hair had had to be blow-dried, and the spray-on detangler was no match for saltwater. What she really needed was to go back to her room and condition her hair, but the psychotic photographer kept insisting that he was only one click away from getting the perfect shot. In the meantime, Lauren's hair was being systematically destroyed by the combination of sea air, sand, and blow-drying. Not to mention that, even with the water a balmy 85 degrees, her nipples were killing her from rubbing against her cold, wet swimsuit. But the client was paying for a surf shot, so a surf shot they would get.
Lauren sighed as she exited the hair and makeup tent. The caterers had brought a cooler full of bottled water and sodas in addition to the sandwiches and salads that were always ordered on photo shoots but that no one ate. Lauren didn't know any models who would actually eat in public—some because they had serious eating disorders, like bingeing on doughnuts and fried chicken and then throwing it all up, and others because they were uncomfortable with the scrutiny they were under when they ate. Lauren didn't eat because she'd had her fill of cereal, fresh fruit, and rum that morning after the sadist from the spa had come to rip her hair out by its roots. She didn't typically drink alcohol for breakfast, but sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do.
And right now, she had to get back into the water, spread her legs, and act as if she were making love with the surf, chafed nipples, crispy hair, and all.
Right-e-o.
"Lauren, there's a good girl. Hurry up now, will you? I'm going to lose my light," the photographer said as soon as he caught sight of her emerging from the tent.
Lauren rolled her eyes heavenward. Brad Klein was from Cleveland, but he insisted on using a fake English accent and acting as though every photo shoot he did was of the utmost importance. Like what they were doing really made a difference. Not that Lauren had anything against advertising or models or even sadistic photographers. They just weren't exactly saving the world here.
She sighed as she stepped into the surf and felt the bathtub-warm water lapping around her ankles. She couldn't wait for this shoot to be over so she could get back to her real mission. As soon as her backup arrived, she wanted to head out into the jungle to gather more intel on the rebel troop's movements and see if her hunch was correct that a coup attempt was imminent.
She didn't know who the Agency was sending in for backup. She'd been told the agent would contact her when he arrived on the island, but cell service here was spotty, and it wasn't like she could pack a cell phone in the tiny bikini she was wearing. Last time she'd tried to check her messages, she couldn't get a signal. Hopefully, this photo shoot would be over soon and she could go back to her room and get in touch with her contact.
"Okay then, back into the water, love," the photographer said.
Lauren grimaced and started to lower herself into the sea, but stopped when a familiar voice said, "Lauren, baby. Why'd you run out on me like that back in Atlanta? I've missed you."
Huh? Run out on who? And what was with that baby crap? She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun's rays as Jake Haven sauntered toward her with the usual wiseass grin plastered on his face.
Ever since they'd met, she and Jake had had what could be termed an "interesting" relationship. He tried to charm her with his tales of danger and adventure as a CIA operative, and she discounted about 85 percent of everything he said. After all, she'd been trained at The Farm just like he had, and she knew bullshit when it was plated up and shoved under her nose, even though Jake tried to convince her it was filet mignon.
She was certain Jake hadn't known she was CIA before now. If he had, he never would have tried to convince her that his outlandish tales of adventure overseas were true.
But there was only one reason he could be looking for her on this beach—he'd been sent here as her backup. Which meant they were ready to roll. Which also meant this photo shoot was now a wrap. But how could she end it? She squinted, trying to recall if the Secret Agent's Handbook her handler had given her after her training was complete had any advice for such a situation. She didn't think it had, so she supposed she was on her own for this one.
"My gosh, I'm feeling dizzy," Lauren said, dramatically fluttering the eyelashes her makeup artist had just finished lengthening to twice their original size. Then, as artfully as possible, she sank into the sea, being careful to fall forward onto her knees so as not to get her hair wet again. She couldn't take another bout with the blow-dryer.
Although Brad had been the one standing closest to her, Jake was the first to reach her. Through half-closed eyes, Lauren saw the tips of his brown boots digging into the sand as he squatted down on the beach. Then she nearly forgot herself and opened her eyes with surprise when, in one smooth move, he scooped her up out of the water with one arm under her knees and the other beneath her shoulders.
"Someone get her some water," he ordered in the most serious tone Lauren had ever heard him use.
She kept her eyes screwed shut as Jake carried her toward the hair and makeup tent. His grip on her was surprisingly firm, as was the chest her right cheek kept banging against as he walked.
"Lauren? Are you all right?" he asked once they were under the shade of the tent.
"She probably just needs some food. These silly models are always fainting from hunger," she head Brad say from behind Jake.
Asshole, she thought. She wondered how he'd like to lie out there under the sun for two straight hours with nothing covering his head. Not to mention having people whisper behind his back that he was getting fat if he happened to gain half a pound.
But, hey, if it would get her out of this photo shoot, she didn't mind if Brad thought she was some delicate flower. Give them what they expect. That was her motto.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself staring up into Jake's dark green eyes. She'd never really noticed his eyes before, but they were quite nice, fringed with golden brown lashes a shade darker than his hair.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, shirting his weight back onto his heels and holding her even closer to his chest.
Lauren pulled her bottom lip into her mouth to moisten it. She was so close she could hear Jake's heart beating slowly and rhythmically and could smell the faint traces of laundry detergent still clinging to his black T-shirt. It was interesting how you could know someone for months and then suddenly be smacked in the head with this awareness that he might be something different—something more—than you thought.
"I'm fine," Lauren whispered, their gazes still locked together. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head. "No, I mean, I feel so weak," she corrected, louder this time, so Brad could overhear what she was saying.
The photographer came over with a bottle of water and held it out to her. "Here, drink this," he said.
Lauren gave a disappointed little sigh and forced her hand to tremble as she brought it to her throat. "Oh, not that water, please. It has an aftertaste."
Brad scowled at the bottle in his hand and then at her. Lauren heard him mutter something about "freaking spoiled models" as he went back to the cooler and rummaged around in the half-melted ice to find her another brand. "How's this one?" he asked, holding up a different bottle.
"Maybe… could you find the kind with the electrolytes?" she asked shakily and felt Jake's chest rumble beneath her right ear as he coughed.
Brad finally found the brand of water Lauren had requested. She waited for Jake to put her down, but he seemed perfectly content to continue holding her. Since that made her look even more weak and helpless, Lauren didn't protest. Not that she really wanted to. His hold on her was startlingly comfortable.
She twisted the cap off of the bottle and took a tiny sip as if she couldn't force herself to drink any more than that. Then she nestled her head back against Jake's chest as if even that small effort had exhausted her. "I don't think I can go back out there," she said in a breathy tone.
"She's had enough for the day," Jake announced decisively, turning toward the resort as if he intended to carry her across the beach and back to her room.
"But what about my light?" Brad protested.
"It'll have to wait until tomorrow," Jake said.
Lauren let her hand drop to her side, leaving it dangling in the air as if she were too overcome to move.
"Who are you, anyway?" Brad grumbled.
"I'm Jake Haven. Lauren and I are, uh, friends," Jake said, pausing just long enough for Brad to get the idea that they were more than friends. "And I'm not going to let her go back out there and get sunstroke. Can't you see that she's dehydrated?"
Lauren smacked her lips as if to prove Jake's point that she was parched. She was thirsty, but didn't want to swallow the entire bottle of water until Brad was out of sight. Better to let him think she was at death's door. Not that he had much say in the matter. That was one thing about being a supermodel—when you were in such high demand, you got to call the shots. At her level, diva-ish behavior was not only tolerated, it was expected. Show up late. Throw a temper tantrum if the room was too hot or too cold. Bitch about how awful the three-thousand-dollar-a-night hotel room was. Complain about the food, the photographer, the wardrobe, the hair and makeup people. You could pretty much make everyone around you miserable, and you still got callbacks because you had the look clients wanted.
Some of the girls let it go to their heads, but Lauren had learned early in life that all this attention wasn't about her, it was about how she looked. Yeah, in the beginning, she'd thought she was pretty hot stuff. She'd led a charmed life in high school—always trying out for, and making, the cheerleading squad, always getting the extra help she needed in her classes, always getting the guy she liked to ask her out.
Things started to change the first time she had sex with a guy. She'd waited until her eighteenth birthday. In the harsh light of maturity, she now saw that she'd been on a power trip. It hadn't been about waiting for the right guy to come along. It had been about proving that she was the one in control. So she picked the time, she picked the place, she picked the guy, and in the arrogance of her youth, she was convinced that she'd be the best he'd ever had.
Only, she hadn't been. She'd had no clue what to do once the clothes were off and there was nothing between them but naked skin. And afterward, she'd realized that her partner hadn't been disappointed because she was all that bad in bed, he'd been disappointed because he believed that a woman who looked as good as Lauren did should come packaged with some sort of Super Vagina that would guarantee a guy the most incredible sex he'd ever had. With her, they expected multiple orgasms. Nonstop sex every five minutes for the entire night. Swinging from trapezes and God only knew what else.
It had occurred to Lauren then that, underneath the pretty exterior she'd been blessed with, she was really just an ordinary person who was no better than anyone else.
It was a lesson she would never forget.
Which was why she didn't take the attention she received too seriously. She knew how meaningless it really was. But that didn't mean she was above using her power when it suited her.
"All right. But don't be late tomorrow morning. Remember, we're meeting in the lobby at 10:30 to drive out to the rum company to do a shoot out there," Brad said, as if he were the one in charge.
Lauren simply nodded in the photographer's direction as Jake started across the hot sand. Then she remembered something. "Wait, I need my bag," she said, waving toward the tent where she'd left her beach bag, which contained her Secret Agent's Handbook, room key, wallet, sandals, and a see-through cover-up to wear over her bikini bottoms. Jake detoured, effortlessly slinging her bag over his shoulder before heading back to the hotel.
Once they were out of earshot of the crew, Lauren allowed herself a small smile and said, "You can put me down now. I'm perfectly capable of walking."
"What? And ruin that Oscar-worthy performance?" Jake said with a chuckle.
"Yeah, I was good, wasn't I?"
"You were," Jake acknowledged. "I can see why you'd be effective at gathering intelligence."
Lauren grimaced as Jake stepped into the cool lobby of the hotel. "People think models are weak and stupid. I just give them what they expect."
As they turned down the hallway leading to her room, Jake seemed as though he were about to say something, but he stopped abruptly when two men stepped out from behind an enormous potted plant. Jake hurriedly stepped backward, but stopped again when two more men came up behind him.
Just in case anyone was wondering, four-to-two odds in the real world—especially when neither of the two were armed and one of the two had his hands full of the other one—weren't good. Yeah, in the movies, James Bond would whistle, and his high-tech car would come roaring out of nowhere to save him, or he'd push a button on his watch, and his attackers would all fall to the ground in agony. But if Jake were to push a button on his watch, all that would happen is his stopwatch would start. And Lauren wasn't even wearing a watch—just a skimpy metallic-looking bikini and a whole lot of sand.
"Shit," Jake said as one of the guys stuck something that felt suspiciously like the barrel of a gun in his kidneys.
"Welcome to Isla Suspiro, Mr. Haven," the man holding the gun said pleasantly.
"Please come with us," the thug ahead of him and to his right said.
"And if you make any noise, we'll kill you both right here," another man added.
Jake looked down at Lauren, then back up at the men. "Okay," he said. "Just let me get rid of the girl."
"I don't think so," the guy on his right said, eyeing Lauren appreciatively.
This was not good at all. A barely clothed Lauren Devlin was making Jake's palms itch. He could only imagine what these goons had in mind.
"She stays here. She's got nothing to do with whatever it is you boys want from me," he said firmly, unconsciously tightening his hold on her.
Unfortunately, they didn't buy his argument. Instead, the thug with the gun moved the barrel up so that it was resting just below Jake's elbow, right against Lauren's side. A point-blank shot there would puncture her lung and go straight through her heart and keep on going. She'd die right here in his arms, with no chance that he could get help in time to save her.
"All right. Let's go, then," he said, slowly turning around to follow their lead. He braved a quick glance at Lauren, who had remained silent during the entire exchange and who was now looking up at him with more than a hint of fear in her heart-stoppingly gorgeous blue eyes. "Sorry," he mouthed, wishing the apology didn't sound so lame.
Her eyes narrowed ferociously for a split second, and then the wide-eyed fear was back so quickly that Jake thought that maybe he'd just imagined it. That is, until she curled one hand around his neck, leaned so close he felt a lock of her dark brown hair tickling his chin, and whispered, "This is perfect. They're going to take us right into the rebel camp."
Jake sighed and started walking. He had a feeling this weekend wasn't going to turn out at all like he'd planned.
By the time they reached camp, Lauren had managed to make the rebels wish they'd left her back at the resort. She'd pretended to be frightened about everything from the wild parrots that screeched overhead to an imagined spider that she insisted had dropped into their jeep when they'd stopped for her to relieve herself. She forced them to give her her beach bag back by refusing to go into the jungle without shoes on and then complained so much about the possibility of getting sunburned that one of the men had finally given her his shirt just to shut her up.
Whatever happened next, she wanted them to be convinced she wouldn't try to escape. It amazed her how easily most people bought her act. Did they not consider it possible that all that whining was just for show?
Apparently not, Lauren thought as she snuck a look over at Jake, who had his eyes closed and appeared to be asleep. The warm heat of the tropical sun peeking out between heavy jungle foliage was certainly conducive to napping, but Lauren didn't know how he could sleep when they were in danger. He should be formulating an escape plan, not napping. What kind of a spy was he? Lauren stifled a yawn and forced herself to sit up straight. She had to pay attention, to memorize the route the rebels were taking so she could lead them out once they escaped.
Their journey took several hours, the jeep winding its way up a narrow muddy mountainside. They passed the occasional vehicle, each one full of men dressed in camouflage gear with machine guns at their sides who nodded without smiling to the thugs who had kidnapped Lauren and Jake. The men didn't talk much, communicating more in a series of grunts and nods than anything else.
Typical, Lauren thought. She was certain if she asked what they were thinking, they'd all say, "Nothing"… and mean it.
In her mind, she pictured the satellite photos she'd been provided with before coming on this mission—photos that clearly showed this path through these mountains. She had been sent here because recent photos showed a marked increase in traffic along this road. The CIA didn't have clear pictures of the rebel camp itself, the jungle was too good at hiding Rafael Santos's headquarters. But they were able to estimate where Santos had set up camp just by tracking traffic patterns on the roads leading into the jungle.
On her first day here, Lauren had hired a local helicopter pilot to take her up and give her an overview of the island's layout. On her second day, she went up again on a group tour of the local waterfalls as an excuse to get access to this specific region. She figured that if anyone became suspicious of her activities, she could say she was just helping to scout locations for the photo shoot. But even as recently as a few days ago, there had been little traffic on this road. Unlike today, she hadn't seen even one vehicle as they'd flown to Nuevo Rios, a popular tourist destination with stunning waterfalls and clear lakes where bathers could escape the jungle heat.
It was obvious that things had changed in the last few days, since the rebels weren't even trying to stay out of sight. Lauren just hoped she and Jake could figure out when the rebels planned to attack so they could communicate the details to Tomas Santos. Should be easy. All they had to do was to stay alive long enough to make their escape.
Lauren took a sip of the bottled water she'd brought along and then glanced over at Jake to see if he was awake and would like a drink. He still had his eyes closed, so she put the cap back on the bottle and tucked it back into her bag, just as they skidded around a corner and the driver slammed the vehicle to a stop.
Lauren blinked at the scene in front of her. From around the corner, she hadn't heard anything—not the buzz of voices or the sound of truck engines or anything. When the driver turned off the jeep's engine, she realized that part of what was muffling the sound of the rebel camp was the constant roar of a not-so-distant waterfall. She looked around and couldn't see anything but the dense jungle surrounding them, but the waterfall had to be near.
"Get out," the man in the passenger seat ordered, turning around to wave a machine gun under Jake's nose.
Jake started as if he'd been jerked awake. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched his arms before standing up and jumping out of the jeep. The man sitting between Jake and Lauren got up next, his heavy boots hitting the packed dirt with a thud. He held his hand out to indicate that he wanted his shirt back, so Lauren obliged, being careful not to flash the men as she slipped the T-shirt over her head. Then she gingerly stepped over to the side of the vehicle and looked down at the ground as if afraid she'd bruise her tender feet if she had to jump all that way by herself. Jake noticed her hesitation and stepped forward to help her, but the man in the passenger seat stopped him with a pointed thrust of his gun in the direction of Jake's gut. Lauren clambered awkwardly out of the vehicle, taking care not to land on anything that might puncture the soles of her thin sandals.
She took a deep breath. Okay, here was the part where she was gang-raped while the thugs held Jake's arms and forced him to watch. Funny, she hadn't really been scared up till now. She wasn't sure why—maybe because she'd felt that their affiliation with the CIA would keep them from being harmed. After all, the rebels had to know that the CIA would retaliate if they killed one of their agents.
But did they even know she and Jake were CIA? What if they had come for Jake for an entirely different reason?
And if there were no witnesses to their kidnapping, how would the Agency even know who to retaliate against?
Lauren swallowed. Hard. Then she forced herself to turn around, surprised to find a tall, handsome man striding toward them. Like the men around him, he wore a dark green T-shirt tucked into a pair of jungle camouflage pants that were, in turn, tucked into a pair of heavy black boots. His skin was the color of an expensive lambskin coat. His hair and eyes were dark brown, his features strong, his face smooth and unlined.
She knew from the file she'd studied earlier that this was none other than the rebel leader himself, Rafael Santos.
"Well, what do we have here?" Santos asked, looking at Lauren with amusement.
"You've obviously been in this jungle way too long. I'm a woman," Lauren said, raising her eyebrows and forcing herself to project an air of bravado she didn't feel.
Santos laughed and eyed her appreciatively. "I've not been out here that long. What is she doing here?" This last was addressed to the man in the passenger seat, who was apparently the highest-ranking goon in the bunch.
The rebel shrugged. "She was with Haven. I didn't think you wanted witnesses."
"Ah. Well, this is certainly a welcome surprise. You men take Haven over to the west compound. You know what to do with him." Santos didn't even spare Jake a glance as he reached out to take Lauren's arm. "My name is Rafael Santos, and I'd be delighted if you'd dine with me this evening. I apologize for the crude state of my camp, but I can at least offer you a warm bath and some clothes."
Lauren slid a look at Jake as she walked past, hoping her eyes conveyed the message she knew she couldn't voice: Don't worry, Jake. I'll save you.
Rafael Santos was in high spirits as he entered his tent two hours later and found his brother Emilio pacing the floor, waiting for him. He believed that God had sent the beautiful American girl to him as a sign that he was destined to succeed in his mission to lead the people of Isla Suspiro to freedom and wealth. Wasn't that what America symbolized? And to have this woman dropped in his lap such a short time before he was to reclaim his birthright? Yes, surely she had been sent from heaven to show him that his mission was blessed.
"Glad to see that one of us is in a good mood," Emilio grumbled, flopping his thin frame down onto a heavy wooden chair.
Briefly, Rafael considered telling his brother about the woman, but he changed his mind as he quickly pondered what Emilio's reaction might be. Emilio trusted no one. Most likely, he'd tell Rafael to have his fun with the girl and then kill her, but Rafael had no intention of so carelessly tossing away God's gift.
No. Better to keep this secret to himself for now.
"Our plans are proceeding according to schedule," he said instead, reaching out to take a tumbler from off the top of a bookshelf. He poured two fingers of rum into the glass and added several ice cubes from a small portable freezer before handing the glass to his brother. He made a similar drink for himself and pulled out a chair to sit down when he noticed several Isla Suspiro Rum boxes stacked near the door of his tent.
"Some of the new shipment?" he asked, nodding toward the boxes.
Emilio grunted. "Yes. And the last of the funds you'll need before Sunday."
"Ah. Excellent," Rafael said. This was indeed a good day.
"Did you capture the American agent?"
"Of course," Rafael answered, taking a sip of rum and letting the smooth liquid roll around on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. Isla Suspiro rum was some of the finest on the market. Too bad the rum itself didn't provide enough profits to make anyone rich. If it had, this split between Rafael and his oldest brother might have been unnecessary. But, who knew? It still might have come to this. He and Tomas might have the same goals, but they would never agree on how to achieve them.
Tomas was already losing favor with the people, after only two years in power. If he were allowed to remain as president, someone—someone other than Rafael, who had the people's best interests at heart—might overthrow the government and bring more pain to the nation. As Emilio constantly reminded him, Rafael was the only one who could ensure that did not happen.
"I will hold the American until our mission on Sunday is complete," Rafael said.
"And then what?" Emilio asked. "You can't just let him go. The CIA will not look favorably upon someone who has kidnapped one of their agents."
Rafael frowned and set his tumbler down on the table with a loud thunk. "Would you have me release him now? I can't take the risk that he'll interfere with my plans once he's free."
Emilio Santos closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he counted to ten. His brother was such a fool. "No," he said after he'd calmed his temper. "You must kill him and have your men bring his body to me. I will make it appear as if Tomas had him assassinated. This will help turn the Americans to your favor when the time is right."
Rafael's eyes narrowed. "I can't do that. What if the CIA discovers that I was the one responsible for their agent's death?"
Emilio clutched his glass with both hands and prayed for patience. Two days, he promised himself. In two days, Tomas and Rafael would be dead and he would be in power, and this would all have been worth it. "Pick someone expendable to do the job and have him deliver the body to me. I will take care of seeing that the murder cannot be linked to you. Or are you willing to risk the welfare of Isla Suspiro's people by allowing this spy to stop you?"
Rafael seemed to ponder the question for a long time before I raising his gaze from his drink. He looked troubled, sudden lines appearing around his eyes that had not been there a moment before. "I suppose," he said, raising his glass to his lips once more, "in war, one must be prepared to carry out reprehensible tasks to ensure the greater good." He took a sip of his drink and paused for a moment, then brought his gaze back to Emilio's. "I will send my man, Hector, to you with the body of the American. It will be done."
Lauren gasped with surprise when the flap of the tent she'd been shown to was suddenly jerked aside. A large man with a head like a steel toaster stepped inside and tersely said, "Come."
She'd had over two hours to fret, pace, and primp and was glad to get out of there. At one point, she'd tried going outside, but was stopped by one of the two heavily armed guards stationed at her tent. The tent was near the middle of the camp, with men walking all around, so she couldn't attempt an escape out the back until it quieted down. Or until the sun set and her disappearance wouldn't be quite so noticeable. In the meantime, she'd been left alone to worry.
How badly had Jake been hurt? What did the rebels want from him? Would they release him once they had the information they wanted, or did they plan to kill him?
She'd paced the tent, searching for something to use as a weapon, but hadn't found anything. One of the rebels had brought her a pair of loose white cotton pants and a matching tank top. She was glad to have something to put on over her skimpy bathing suit, but there was no way she could escape unnoticed wearing white.
Which may have been exactly why this outfit had been chosen for her.
She had asked for a sturdier pair of shoes than the strappy sandals she'd tucked into her beach bag that morning, but her request had been ignored. Instead, the rebel who had delivered the clothes brought her a bucket of warm water, a washcloth, some soap, and a hairbrush. Her request for a mirror had been met with the same stony silence and dark look that she'd gotten when she'd asked for better shoes.
So much for befriending the enemy.
It had taken her ten minutes to get cleaned up. The rest of the time she'd spent pacing the dirt floor of the tent, trying to eavesdrop on the men outside and sitting on the lone cot studying her Secret Agent's Handbook for ideas of how to free Jake. The Handbook was, written in special ink. To the casual observer, it looked like nothing more than a popular novel. But when viewed through the secret lens hidden in an ordinary-looking bookmark, it became a textbook filled with tips about everything from fending off an alligator attack and communicating with another agent in a prison camp to surviving a trip down a waterfall and seducing the leader of a band of guerillas. Lauren paid particular attention to that last one, since she figured she might need to use those skills later in the evening.
By the time Santos's thug came for her, she was ready to start digging her way out of the camp with her bare hands—and to hell with the manicure she'd gotten yesterday. She wanted to be doing something, not just sitting here waiting. This was her first real op since graduating from the Agency's accelerated training program the month before, and she wanted to put the skills she'd learned, both during training and by nearly memorizing every word of her Secret Agent's Handbook, to use. For the first time in her life, she had the chance to make a real difference in the world. Now if only an opportunity would present itself so she could make her escape and get started.
In the meantime, she had no choice but to follow Santos's man across the camp, ignoring the way her progress was watched by the rebels. It was difficult not to feel somewhat like a piece of rare beef being dragged on a string through a pit of hungry lions. She scooted closer to the man who had come for her, as if he might protect her if one of the lions suddenly swiped out a paw to grab her. The training she'd gone through had made her fairly confident in her own abilities to protect herself, but there was no way she could single-handedly take on a platoon of determined men.
When the rebel stopped in front of another, larger tent and rapped on a wooden support post, Lauren couldn't hold back a shiver. Then she straightened her shoulders and told herself to start acting like a real agent. If Santos had planned to throw her to his men, he would have done it already.
There was a muffled "Come in" from inside the tent and Toaster Head stepped aside to let her pass. Lauren raised her chin and breezed past the man, determined to behave as if this sort of thing happened to her every day.
"Good evening, my dear. You look lovely," Rafael Santos said as she walked into the tent, a warm glint in his molten chocolate eyes. He had changed out of his camouflage gear and into a pair of tan linen slacks and a cream-colored shirt that highlighted the golden tone of his tanned skin. He stood near a large mahogany table that dwarfed the room, his right hand resting on the back of a chair, and a glass half-full of some amber liquid in his left.
Lauren quickly scanned the room, hoping to spot a gun or some other weapon that might aid in her escape. There was a low bookcase along one wall. On top of the bookcase was a small assortment of liquor bottles and glasses.
Hmm, the bottles were a definite possibility in the weapon category.
Next to the bookcase were several cardboard boxes with the words Isla Suspiro Rum Company printed on them in black. The only other things in the room were a small refrigerator, a portable wardrobe rack where several uniforms were hung, and a cot that wasn't much larger than the one in her tent—nothing Lauren could use to get herself out of this predicament. So she would just have to play along, it seemed.
"Thank you," she said with a half smile, acknowledging Rafael's compliment as she took a step toward the table where he stood watching her.
"Would you like a drink?" he offered, inclining his head toward the bottles on top of the bookcase.
"A small one, thank you."
Ice cubes clinked against crystal as Rafael poured a drink and brought it to her. He smiled down at her and took her hand, leading her to the head of the table, where he pulled out a chair carved from a wood so dark it was almost black. He indicated that she should sit, so she did, her pants softly swishing as she crossed her legs.
"So tell me," Rafael began, studying her intently as if trying to gauge her reaction to his next question. "What were you doing with our friend, Mr. Haven?"
Lauren took a sip of her rum and shrugged, quickly trying to think up a plausible lie. She had no way of knowing how much Santos knew of what went on in the outside world. She and Jake had been photographed together numerous times, so she couldn't pretend that they didn't know each other.
If Rafael had done his research in the past two hours, he would know she was lying. So she went for a modified version of the truth instead.
"Jake and I had a few dates back in Atlanta, but we were never anything serious." True. Yes, those so-called dates always included her sister, Aimee, or Jake's partner, Race, but Santos couldn't know that. The tabloids had been quick to link Lauren romantically with her mystery man.
"I had no idea he planned to follow me down here," she continued. Also true. She hadn't known the Agency was sending backup until yesterday. She took another sip of rum and smiled right up into Santos's eyes and said, "He means nothing to me." Not true, Lauren was surprised to find herself thinking. Before that surprise could show on her face, she blinked it away and concentrated on the man standing across from her.
"Your country is very beautiful," she said, changing the subject and hoping flattery would loosen the rebel leader's tongue.
"Yes it is," Rafael agreed. He took a seat next to her and reached out to touch her hair. "And so are you," he added softly.
Teak, yeah, yeah, Lauren wanted to say. Like she'd never heard that before. Instead, she batted her eyelashes, thanked him again, and asked, "How long have lived here? In the jungle, I mean."
"A few years," he answered evasively.
"It must get lonely. Hard to meet new people up here," she joked.
He chuckled. "I manage to stay busy. But I will admit it's not often that a woman such as yourself shows up in my camp. Today must be my lucky day."
I wouldn't exactly say that. Lauren smiled. "Yes, and mine too."
Rafael leaned forward, looking as if he were about to kiss her, when a knock sounded from outside. He swore under his breath, but soon recovered his manners. "This must be dinner. I hope you're hungry."
"Starving," Lauren said. She didn't have to lie about that. She was starving.
Her stomach grumbled hungrily as two men entered the tent wheeling a cart between them. Whatever they had brought, it smelled heavenly. She slowly sipped her drink, mindful that Rafael was watching her and would think it odd if she left her drink untasted, as a feast was laid out before them on the table.
As they ate and chatted pleasantly, Lauren tried to come up with a plan to stash some food for Jake. She'd bet he wasn't being treated as well as she was, and he was certain to be hungry by the time she managed to get them both free. Unfortunately, the outfit she'd been given didn't have any pockets, and, even if it had, she'd have been sure to arouse Rafael's suspicions if she stuffed them full of roasted pork and stewed peppers.
When they were finished eating, Rafael went to the door and murmured quietly to someone who must have been standing just outside, because a man entered the tent immediately and cleaned up their dishes.
Lauren watched the plates disappear and tried not to frown. She hadn't gotten anything out of the rebel leader that the Agency hadn't already known. He'd talked about growing up on the island and about his family's ancestral home on the beach near the resort where she was staying. Then he'd told her how much he admired the spirit of the people of Isla Suspiro and wanted only what was best for them. He'd mentioned his brothers with a wistful sort of smile, but hadn't elaborated when Lauren tried to get him to tell her more. She could hardly come right out and ask about his source of funding, though it sure would have made her job easier if she could. Perhaps she could get him to talk about his social connections, however. That might give them the lead they needed.
"You must know a lot of people, having lived on the island your entire life," she said, leaning back in the straight-backed chair and doing her best to look relaxed.
"I have my allies," Rafael said enigmatically. Then he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "Your hair is so lovely," he murmured.
Yes. Her hair. A fascinating topic. And yet, Lauren was not intrigued. What would he comment upon next? Her eyes? The color of a calm alpine lake, one admirer had called them. What kind of complete narcissist would one have to be to find this sort of fawning attention flattering?
"Thank you. I use Clinique hair care products," she responded coquettishly, unable to stop herself.
Rafael chuckled.
Lauren rolled her eyes heavenward, grateful that he was standing behind her and couldn't see the expression on her face. She was about to ask him more about his family home when he bent down and pressed a soft kiss on the side of her neck. Lauren shivered, but not from desire. How was she going to get out of this? She closed her eyes and tried to think. Her Handbook had only given tips for how to seduce a rebel leader, not how to get him to stop seducing her.
She wondered what Jake would do in this situation, then had to swallow a laugh. If Jake were being seduced by an attractive rebel leader—a female one; she got the impression that he was decidedly heterosexual—he probably wouldn't think twice about having sex with her. Whatever he had to do to complete his mission. She doubted he'd think of it as much of a sacrifice, either.
Well, Lauren hoped she didn't have to take this charade that far.
She stood up and turned around, letting Rafael's arms envelop her. He smiled down at her, then slowly lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. He tasted of the island's rum, his lips firm and warm on hers. Lauren slid her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair.
He pressed her body to his and whispered her name.
"Oh Rafael," she murmured.
And then, with no further warning, her eyelids fluttered open and she gave a bloodcurdling scream.
"I'm getting too old for this," Jake groaned, wishing he had some of that Isla Suspiro rum Lauren had left on the nightstand back at the resort to kill the pain in his bruised ribs. He'd been taken to what Rafael Santos had referred to as the west compound, where the rebels had done their best to politely coax his secrets out of him with their fists. Through it all, Jake had maintained that he was just a tourist, silently wondering the entire time who the hell had sold him out. He'd broken out in a cold sweat when it occurred to him that whoever had ratted him out may have told Santos that Lauren was CIA, too. While getting the shit kicked out of him, he'd tried to listen for any sounds that would indicate she'd been found out, but fortunately, all he'd heard aside from his own grunts of pain were the sounds of birds screeching in the jungle overhead, men's voices shouting in the distance, and the occasional rumble of a vehicle's engine.
Once he'd been sufficiently worked over, he was tossed into a ten-foot-deep hole that had been dug into the soft earth. That would have been easy enough to escape from, but then one of the goons had climbed down into the pit on a rickety ladder and handcuffed his right arm to a tree root that was nearly as thick as Jake's wrist. Then the bastards had taken his boots, obviously figuring that he'd be unable to make it in the jungle barefooted.
He wasn't stupid enough to believe that Santos and his goons bought his story about being a tourist. He knew that they knew he was CIA. But he figured if they had wanted to kill him, they'd have done it (or tried to—he liked to think he had a few tricks up his sleeve—or down his shorts, as the case may be) once they'd finished working him over. Instead, they'd dumped him here for safekeeping.
So, for now at least, they obviously wanted him alive.
"Glad we're all in agreement about that," Jake muttered as he tore open a seam on the left leg of his tan cargo shorts and pulled out a slim metal multipurpose tool. Regular pat-downs missed catching it 99 percent of the time, and, because it was sewn into a false seam just above a zipper, even when caught by a metal detector, it was often dismissed.
Jake pulled out a small shovel and sank it into the soft dirt about two feet off the ground. Crouching down made his already sore ribs ache even more, but he ignored the twinge of pain as he dug out another scoop of dirt. He could have removed the handcuffs first, but didn't want to chance one of Santos's goons checking on him and seeing him loose until he had created an escape route for himself. If they'd been smart, they'd have cuffed his hands together behind his back, using the tree root as an anchor. Instead, they'd clapped one of the cuffs to the root and the other to his right wrist, leaving his left hand free. If they'd done the former, Jake would have been forced to take-the riskier route of freeing himself first.
"Thank God for amateurs," he said as he reached up to dig out one last foothold. But he supposed he ought to give them their due—enthusiastic amateurs could inflict more pain on a guy than a professional. The professionals usually preferred a quick bullet to the brain. Easy. Painless. Fast. Unless, of course, they wanted something from you first. Then the amateurs had nothing on the pros. And he had the scars to prove it.
Jake shuddered and ruthlessly shoved back memories he'd rather forget. James Bond never pined for the dead he'd left behind, and neither would he. Focus on the mission, he told himself, stepping back to assess his handiwork and erasing all thoughts of the past from his mind.
He couldn't just pop up out of this hole like a prairie dog. That was a good way to get his head blown off. First, he had to know if someone was out there watching him.
Jake flipped the shovel back in place and pulled out another tool that looked like a dentist's mirror. Cautiously, he raised the mirror above his head and twisted it around to see if the entrance to the hole was being guarded, half-expecting to find some well-armed thug smirking back at him in the glass. Fortunately, it looked as though they'd either underestimated him or overestimated themselves, because no one appeared to be lurking around topside. Jake figured his unguarded state wouldn't last forever, so he hurriedly picked the lock of his handcuffs with another of his tool's handy accessories and used the footholds he'd dug into the earth to scramble up out of the hole.
He didn't waste any time slipping into the jungle. While he would have preferred to be wearing his boots, his bare feet actually made it easier to avoid stepping on twigs or anything that might alert the enemy to his presence since he could actually feel what was in front of him before stepping on it. He made his way toward the center of the camp, where several large green tents had been pitched. He had to find out what Rafael Santos was up to or thousands of Isla Suspiro's residents would suffer during the coup attempt. Jake knew all too well that it was the regular people—the ones who wanted only to raise their children and live their lives in peace—who bore the brunt of political unrest. Most struggled just to survive and were not prepared to rise up against the armies that invaded their towns and villages, burning their homes, murdering their children, and raping their wives, sisters, and daughters.
Jake would not allow this to happen on the island—not if there was any way he could prevent it. Tomas Santos's rise to power had been sanctioned—and, yes, partially funded—by the CIA. The oldest Santos brother had a vision for his people of stability, prosperity, and hope for a better way of life. And Jake intended to see that Tomas's dreams came to fruition. No matter the cost to himself.
Which was why he was intent on finding out more information about the rebel troop's movements. He had to trust that Lauren could take care of herself, although the temptation to rescue her and make a hurried escape was so great that Jake found himself torn between doing what he knew was right and getting her the hell out of here right now.
No, he would complete this mission. Jake roughly shoved all thoughts of Lauren from his mind and crept toward a tent that was lit from within and hummed with activity. He slunk to a spot in the shadows and pressed his ear to the canvas, longing for the listening devices that were safely tucked into his luggage back at the resort.
"… have our troops positioned here and here to cut off a counterattack," he heard someone say and wished like hell he had X-ray vision so he could see where "here and here" were.
"The vans will help," another man said.
A low murmur met the second man's statement, and Jake swore under his breath because he couldn't make out the words. What vans? When were they planning to attack? Then he stiffened and froze when he heard the unmistakable sound of several pairs of boots thumping the ground just around the corner from where he stood.
Shit. Now what?
If the men came around the corner, they'd see him for sure. Jake hurriedly looked around the darkened camp for cover and saw the outline of a jeep about twenty feet away. He'd have to make a run for it. He turned and sprinted out of his hiding place, but was still five feet away from the jeep when the first line of troops came marching into sight. He dove for cover like a batter diving for home plate and hit the dirt at the same moment a woman's scream rent the air.
Jake lay motionless under the jeep as sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into his eyes. He blinked away the salty sting and reminded himself to breathe. It was Lauren who had screamed, and, despite his determination to stay focused on his mission, the urge to leap from his hiding place and go to her rescue was so strong that he clenched his hands into fists, his legs twitching with the desire to run to her aid.
Several months ago, he had callously told his partner, Race Gardner, to leave the woman he loved at the mercy of a wealthy gunrunner for the sake of their operation. They needed information, and Aimee Devlin—Lauren's sister—was in a position to obtain it. At the time, Jake couldn't understand why Race had struggled with the decision. As uncaring as it may have seemed, they both knew that stopping the gunrunner from trafficking in weapons of mass destruction was far more important than saving the life of one woman—even if she was a woman Race had feelings for.
Now, Jake had some small idea of how his partner had felt. No wonder Race had wanted to rip Jake's head off during that op.
Jake slowly raised his hand and wiped the sweat off his brow. He couldn't do it; couldn't leave Lauren to suffer whatever torture Santos was putting her through. She hadn't gone through field agent training, wouldn't know what to expect or how to escape on her own. He'd have to get her out of here and return tomorrow, maybe have a helo drop him a few miles from the camp and hike back. Yes, that would be best, Jake convinced himself.
He heard raised voices and scooted up an inch so that he could see around the jeep's left front tire. He gritted his teeth when he saw Lauren, wearing a white outfit that made her stand out in the darkness, being led away from a tent in the center of the camp by two armed guards. Rafael Santos stood outside the entrance to the tent and watched her go before turning back to his men and waving, as if telling them to disperse.
The rebels who had almost stumbled upon Jake immediately moved back into formation—four men deep by three wide—and began marching straight toward the jeep Jake was hiding under.
Of course, Jake thought with a heavy sigh. Where else would they be headed?
He hurriedly rolled to the other side of the vehicle and slipped out from under it. Fortunately, there were several crates stacked near the jeep, and Jake moved behind them and then crept back into the jungle without being spotted. He crouched down and followed the line of vegetation encroaching upon the camp until he was directly across from the tent Lauren had been led to. The two armed guards had remained outside, one standing at the entrance while the other slowly made the rounds of the perimeter.
Which meant there were only about two minutes during which any spot was left unguarded.
It wasn't much, but it would have to be enough.
Jake waited until the second guard moved out of sight before sliding the multipurpose tool from one of the zippered pockets of his shorts. Then he stepped out of the jungle and ran toward the tent, a knife in his outstretched hand. He plunged the blade into the thick canvas about six inches above the ground and pushed downward. Praying he'd made a large enough hole for him to slip through, he dropped to the ground and tried to wiggle in, but the tear was too small to accommodate his shoulders.
He swore and, counting the seconds off in his head, he plunged the knife in again to enlarge the hole. He started to sweat again as the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. He didn't have time to make it back to the jungle before the guard rounded the corner.
This hole better be big enough.
Jake scrunched his shoulders to minimize their width and dove headfirst through the tear in the tent. He pushed hard against the canvas and felt it give as the footsteps outside grew louder. He tucked his legs inside the tent and spun around on the ground, grabbing the two edges of ripped green fabric and holding them together just as the guard's booted feet came into view.
Jake held his breath, willing the man to continue his patrol without noticing the tear.
One second. Two. Three. And, finally, the footsteps passed the spot where Jake was crouching.
He whipped around, expecting to find Lauren watching him with gratitude and, yeah, okay, more than a hint of admiration shining out of those gorgeous blue eyes of hers. After all, he was here to save her from hours—maybe even days or weeks—of torture.
Instead, all he found was… an empty tent.
He knew that Santos's goons had brought her here, so that meant only one thing. Somehow, Lauren Devlin had managed to escape without his help.
Lauren really didn't enjoy traipsing around the jungle wearing nothing but a bikini, but she didn't have much choice. She'd shed the white outfit and stuffed it—along with a piece of broken glass she'd managed to steal from Rafael's tent after she'd pretended to see a large and no doubt deadly spider dangling from his ceiling—into her beach bag. After she'd screamed, she'd leapt back out of Rafael's embrace, intentionally knocking their glasses off the table with one flailing arm. Her theatrics had brought Santos's men running, which immediately cooled his ardor and also allowed her to slip away with a shard of glass tucked into her bikini bottoms.
She'd used the glass as a makeshift knife to cut a hole in her tent and escape, but she knew that if she didn't take off the outfit Santos's man had brought for her, she'd stand out like a chubby girl at a cheerleading competition. Until she could find something else to wear, she'd have to brave getting scratched by all manner of jungle vegetation as she searched for where Jake was being held prisoner.
She hurried as fast as she could while taking care not to expose herself or trip on any downed trees, roots, or any of the dozens of coconuts that had fallen to the ground. She hoped she wasn't too late. As Santos's men had ushered her away from his tent, she'd heard Rafael giving the order to someone to "take care of the American spy" and knew she didn't have much time to save Jake.
As she made her way out of the center of the camp, the jungle became eerily quiet, with no sound but the constant pounding of the waterfall in the distance. The moon peeked in and out of the treetops, painting the world below with a ghoulishly gray tint. Lauren clutched her chest as a bird suddenly screeched overhead, like a portent of doom in some horror flick.
She peered out from behind the tree she was using to shield herself and swallowed a gasp when she saw the moon reflecting off the barrel of a gun. One of the thugs who had kidnapped them stood in front of a hole in the ground, pointing his gun at the darkness below. Lauren was pretty sure she knew what—or, rather, who—was in that pit.
Jake would have no chance of surviving. The goon was going to shoot him at near point-blank range and there was nowhere for Jake to hide.
She had to save him.
But how? There was nothing in her Secret Agent's Handbook about fending off a gunman with nothing in your arsenal but a pair of flimsy sandals, a shard of glass, and a book.
The rebel was bigger than her by six inches and at least a hundred pounds. The only thing she had on her side was surprise.
Frantically, Lauren looked around for a weapon—something that would enable her to strike without getting into close range, where the goon could easily overtake her. She'd never be able to get close enough to overtake him with the dull piece of glass in her bag. But what else could she use? She needed a stick or a rock or… Hmm. She spied a fallen coconut on the ground near her feet. It was about the size of a cantaloupe and had a sharp, pointy ridge on the bottom.
She eased down and picked it up, careful not to make any noise that would alert the rebel to her presence. The coconut was heavy, its outer shell hard and rough beneath her fingers. She lowered her beach bag to the ground at her feet and narrowed her eyes, calculating the distance between herself and the rebel.
Yes, this just might work.
Thank God for her three-hours-a-day/seven-days-a-week sessions with personal-trainer-to-the-stars Aaron Richardson, who was known to leave his clients sobbing if their workouts weren't strenuous enough for his liking. At twenty-nine, Lauren knew she would be lucky to have one more year in modeling, and that was only if she continued her grueling workout schedule. Gravity and age were making it harder for her to keep those extra ounces off. And so she let Aaron torture her into staying in shape—a decision for which she was grateful as she brought her right arm back in preparation for hurling the coconut at the rebel's head.
"Hey," the goon said just then, sounding surprised as he stared down into the pit.
Lauren didn't wait to discover what had startled the man. Instead, she brought her arm forward with all her might, releasing her missile when her arm was fully extended in front of her.
As if sensing that something was amiss, the man turned, but not in time to do anything more than suck in a breath as the coconut hit him full in the face. He took an instinctive step backward, lost his footing, and fell into the hole behind him, his arms flapping at his sides as if that might stop his descent.
Damn. That hadn't gone exactly as she'd planned.
Lauren hurriedly looked around the camp to make sure she was alone before stepping out of the shadows. She dashed over to the edge of the pit and gazed down into the inky darkness.
"Jake? Are you all right?" she whispered loudly. Having two hundred fifty pounds of dead weight land on you unexpectedly had to hurt.
The only answer from down below was a groan.
Great. Now what? If she jumped into the hole with the two men, she'd be just as vulnerable as Jake—and would be no help if any of Santos's men came running to see what had happened to their compadre. No, she'd be better off hiding in the jungle until Jake came to.
She took a step back, toward the jungle, and then opened her mouth to scream when she bumped up against a warm, firm someone. She inhaled a deep breath, which was trapped in her throat when a man clamped his hand over her mouth and began to drag her away from the camp.
She was about to slam her heel down on his instep when Jake whispered in her ear, "Lauren, it's me." Then he dropped his hand and released her, and Lauren was shocked at how much she wanted to turn and throw her arms around him in relief. Instead, she nodded once and they headed for the cover of the jungle. She stopped for a moment to search for the bag she'd dropped earlier and found it near the base of a misshapen tree. She picked it up and turned to find Jake watching her. He made a motion for her to follow him and they both remained silent as they walked deeper into the jungle and left the camp behind.
When they'd traveled what Lauren guessed had to be a quarter of a mile through dense forest, they reached a clearing and Jake finally stopped and turned to her.
"You okay?" he asked gruffly, then cleared his throat. His gaze was focused on a spot about a foot above her head, and Lauren twisted around to see what he was looking at, but couldn't see anything of interest in the light reflecting off the trees from the moon overhead.
She shrugged. "Yeah. How about you? Your feet must be sore."
Jake waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine. As we drove up this afternoon, I noticed a rebel encampment about another half mile from here. When we get there, I'll see what I can do about procuring some shoes."
"I thought you slept all the way up here," Lauren said with a frown.
Jake looked at her then, his green eyes meeting hers for just a second before sliding away.
"Oh," Lauren said. Right. Of course he hadn't been sleeping.
"Can you keep going? I'd like to get out of this jungle before morning if we can."
Lauren gritted her teeth. "You know, that whole 'fainting flower' thing is just something I do to get people to underestimate me. I'm a lot tougher than I look."
One corner of Jake's mouth tilted up in a half-smile. "And next you're going to tell me that you can kick my ass any day, right?"
Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and rocked back on her heels, looking up at him. She was five-nine, but he still had a good three inches on her. And after he'd toted her around the resort earlier that day without so much as breaking a sweat, she knew he was a lot stronger than she'd ever suspected. She wasn't sure why, but she'd never really looked that closely at him before. Most likely, it was because he put on an act whenever he was around her—as if he wanted her to see him as this larger-than-life man of mystery who simply wasn't real.
It was almost as if he thought the real Jake Haven wasn't good enough for her.
Lauren blinked and slowly dropped her arms to her sides. Oh my God. That was it. Jake Haven, a man who routinely put his life on the line for his country, felt he didn't measure up to her. How screwed up was this world if any guy thought he wasn't good enough for someone who made her living by staring into a camera?
"Uh," Lauren began, nervously shuffling her feet in the dirt. "No. I don't think I can kick your ass. But I can keep going. I assume you plan to go back to the rebel camp now that we know where it is? I wasn't able to get anything from Santos," she added as she started walking, hoping Jake would follow. She didn't know why, but he was watching her intently, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable about her state of undress. Moving away from him seemed like the smart thing to do.
She shivered when Jake laid a hand on her bare shoulder. His fingers were cool on her heated skin, his touch strong, yet gentle at the same time.
"You're going the wrong way," he said softly.
Lauren turned around, felt goose bumps rise on her skin when she found Jake standing only inches from her. She hadn't even heard him move.
"Am I?" she whispered.
He nodded, but didn't step back. Instead, his hand tightened on her shoulder. Lauren held her breath, knowing that he was going to kiss her and suddenly wanting him to, very much. The air between them crackled like dry firewood under a match's caress. Lauren leaned into him and wet her bottom lip with her tongue.
He lowered his mouth to hers, and it was like no other kiss Lauren had ever experienced, not because of its intensity, but because it was… sweet. Sincere.
When he pulled back, Jake was smiling a self-mocking sort of smile. "I've wanted to do that since the day we met," he said.
Lauren gave him her own self-mocking smile. "Why? Because of how I look in a swimsuit?"
Jake didn't even look down at her body, clad in a string bikini, which she was certain didn't look nearly as attractive on her now as it had this morning when she'd first put it on. "Of course," he answered, then took a step back, leaving Lauren with the impression that there was much more to this man than she had ever suspected.
"What are those vans doing here?" Lauren whispered as she and Jake sat at the edge of a clearing, hidden by a large plant with prehistoric-sized leaves. Parked in the clearing were several tan delivery trucks with the Isla Suspiro Rum Company name and logo painted on their sides, as well as half a dozen olive-drab jeeps, one of which Jake intended to steal. Or, rather, as he put it—procure.
"I overheard one of Santos's men talking about an ambush and another said, 'The vans will help.' I didn't know what he was referring to at the time, but I imagine they're planning to use those vehicles"—Jake jerked his chin in the direction of the tan trucks—"to get close to Tomas Santos's compound without arousing suspicion."
"We need to warn him," Lauren said.
"We will. As soon as we get out of this damn jungle," Jake agreed, swatting at a fly that had seemingly been following him for the last thirty minutes.
"I don't suppose they left the keys in the ignition." Lauren gazed hopefully toward the jeeps.
Jake shrugged and shot her a grin. "Doesn't matter. I know how to hot-wire a car."
"I must have been absent the day they taught that," Lauren said dryly. Her training had definitely not included hot-wiring cars. Mostly, she'd learned how to fill out Agency forms, how to tell if a phone line was secure, and how to communicate with her handler if she thought she might be under surveillance. When she got back to the States, she was going to request more training. It was clear that the training her handler, Martha McLaughlin, had assured her would be adequate for her job was not enough.
"When we get back to Atlanta, I'll teach you," Jake offered. Then, as one of the guards patrolling the clearing came into view, they hunkered down beneath the plant. The guard ambled around the vehicles, one hand resting on his machine gun. The minutes ticked by as he stopped to lean against one of the delivery trucks and enjoy a cigarette. When he was finished, he flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground and crushed it under the heel of his boot. Then he walked to the edge of the jungle—fortunately, several feet from where Jake and Lauren were hiding—unzipped his fly, and took a leak. Lauren shuddered thinking about having to remain still while someone peed on you. Being a spy in the real world was not nearly as glamorous as she'd imagined.
Finally, the guard moved away. She and Jake stood, and Lauren winced as her thigh muscles cramped in protest of having to crouch for so long. Her personal torturer, er, trainer would accuse her of being a wimp if he saw her cringing like this, though, so she shook it off without complaint.
Jake reached into his pocket and handed her a slim metal object. She turned it over in her hand as he said, "Use the knife to puncture a tire on each of the vehicles except the one I'm stealing. I'll get to work hot-wiring us a jeep."
Lauren nodded and ran to do as she'd been told. After she'd finished, she jogged back to the jeep Jake was working on, tossed her beach bag onto the floor, and curled up in the space in front of the passenger seat so she wouldn't be as easy to see if the guard came back.
"Ready?" Jake asked, his hands buried beneath the dashboard.
"Yep," Lauren said.
"Okay. Here we go. Keep down," Jake warned.
Then the engine sputtered to life. Lauren held on to the seat as the jeep bucked forward. They were going to have to drive straight through the clearing in order to get to the path on the other side, which presumably led to the main road. They'd counted four guards while they'd sat in the jungle, formulating their plan.
Lauren could only pray that all four were bad shots.
She heard men shouting and engines revving as the rebels realized what was happening, but she remained right where she was. Jake didn't need to worry about her poking her head up and getting it blown off in addition to trying to avoid being shot himself. Besides, there wasn't anything she could do to help, so she might just as well stay out of the way.
The jeep hit a pothole, and Lauren was certain the impact jarred several of her teeth loose. She didn't have a lot of time to think about it, though, because the guards began shooting at them.
"Shit. Hold on," Jake shouted just before he jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left. Lauren was holding on, but the force of the turn still threw her across the floor, where her cheek became intimately acquainted with the side of the dashboard.
Ouch. That was going to leave a mark.
She pushed herself back into a sitting position as Jake cranked on the steering wheel again. This time she was thrown against the door. The back of her head hit the metal with a resounding thwack, but she was thankful at least that this bruise would be covered by her hair. It was going to be tough enough to explain away all the scratches on her legs and torso in addition to the bruises she was quickly acquiring.
Someone rammed them from behind—obviously a flat tire wasn't enough to stop the rebels from driving short distances—and Lauren began to feel like a crash test dummy when her head slammed into the dashboard again.
Jake gunned the engine and laid on the horn, shouting, "Get out of the way!"
A spray of gunfire shattered the windshield, spraying glass all over the front seat, and Lauren winced when she heard a thud and then bounced off the floor when the jeep ran over something. But at least the gunfire had stopped.
Then they were roaring through the jungle, the moonlight suddenly disappearing as if someone had flipped a switch. Lauren wiped the glass off the seat, but stayed down on the floor until the sound of the vehicles pursuing them faded away.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, peering above the back of the seat to make sure the rebels were gone before turning to sit down.
"We did it," she said.
Beside her, Jake snorted. "You sound surprised."
She laughed when she realized that he was right. "Sorry. If it's any consolation, it's not you that I doubted. This is my first real op. I've never had to deal with anything like this before," she admitted.
Jake shot her an unfathomable look, and then asked, "How long have you been with the Agency?"
Lauren twisted in her seat again, so she could make sure they weren't being followed. It didn't seem smart to relax their guard. After all, she hadn't had time to puncture all the tires, and it wouldn't take long for the rebels to replace a flat and come after them. "I was recruited about five years ago for minor surveillance work. Basically, I just attended a lot of parties and fed information back to my handler. I've been asking for over three years to get upgraded to field agent. They finally gave me the promotion a few months ago." Lauren shrugged as if the upgrade to field agent meant little to her, when, in fact, she was more proud of that accomplishment than of anything she'd ever done in her life. But for some reason, she didn't want to let Jake know that. Maybe because she was afraid he'd make fun of her. Becoming an agent and being taken seriously had probably come easy for him, but she'd had to fight for it. Martha McLaughlin had refused her request time and time again, always hinting that she wasn't field agent material. Lauren figured it was her tenacity that had finally convinced her superior to put her in for the promotion. Martha must have realized that Lauren was not going to give up.
"So you went through the full training course at The Farm? I didn't realize that. I'd been told that you were just an informant. How were you able to explain such a long absence from your modeling job?" Jake asked, glancing into the rearview mirror and narrowing his eyes as if that might help him see into the utter darkness behind them.
"I went through a special accelerated program so the Agency could get me into the field right away. I was only at The Farm for three weeks." Lauren had thought it strange that she was the only agent going through this accelerated training at the time, but Martha had explained that it was a pilot program the Agency was testing. They wanted to see if they could get agents who already had some fieldwork behind them up and running faster than new recruits who had no experience. Since Lauren was the first to graduate from this special training program, she felt an even greater pressure to succeed on this op. Lauren hated to think that her handler's faith in her had been misplaced.
"There's no—" Jake began, but was cut off when a bullet hit the dead center of their rearview mirror.
Lauren threw herself back onto the floor before Jake could instruct her to get down. She knew the drill. "Is there anything I can do?" she shouted.
"Just sit tight," Jake yelled back. "We're almost to the main road. We might be able to outrun them once we get there."
Lauren nodded and remained crouched on the floor. If this were the movies, there would be several cans of gasoline in the back of the jeep that she could empty out behind them and then set on fire to blow up their pursuers. Unfortunately, even if there had been extra fuel in the back, she didn't have a match to light it.
Guess I'm going to have to take up smoking, she thought.
"There's the main road. Hold on," Jake warned.
If they'd been on pavement, the jeep's tires would have left a trail of rubber on the concrete as they shot out of the jungle and turned a hard 90 degrees to the left. Since the road was hacked out of the dirt, though, the tires spun wildly, seeking traction in the soft earth. The rear of the vehicle fishtailed, and Lauren peeked up over the passenger-side door as Jake fought to keep control of the vehicle. There was a steep drop-off on the other side of this narrow mountain road, and if they were going over, she at least wanted to know beforehand that she was going to die.
A wave of dizziness washed over her as she looked down onto the treetops a hundred feet below. Okay, maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she didn't want to know.
Beside her, Jake swore and pressed hard on the accelerator. The engine protested his abuse as the right rear tire of the jeep spun in the empty air. Fortunately, the other three tires sank into the dirt and pulled the vehicle back onto the road. Jake didn't let up on the accelerator as the jeep pitched forward.
Lauren wrapped her arms around her beach bag as they skidded around a bend in the rutted road. "Do you think we can outrun them?" she asked. From her seat on the floor, she couldn't tell how close the rebels were.
Jake's face hardened, and Lauren saw him turn his head to glance behind them and then look forward again. "Well," he said, "I think we could have, but they must have radioed for help. Now they're coming at us from both directions."
"Damn," Lauren said, sounding a lot calmer than she felt.
"Yep," Jake agreed.
"Only one thing to do," Lauren said with a nod. She reached out to brace herself to avoid getting slammed into the dashboard again.
"Yep," Jake agreed again.
"Back into the jungle we go." Lauren held tight as Jake jerked the steering wheel to the left again. They were immediately swallowed up by the jungle. Jake had to slow down so he wouldn't ram into any trees, and Lauren heard the faint noise of men shouting behind them. They had maybe a five-minute lead on the rebels.
She closed her eyes and pictured the satellite photos of the island in her mind, trying to pinpoint their location. The helicopter tours she had taken had helped. Although it was dark, she was able to imagine the terrain they were traveling through; the thick leafy trees with hanging vines draping off of them like elegant scarves, the occasional coconut tree that hadn't yet been overshadowed by a larger, more aggressive tree, the flowers that somehow managed to bloom in the smallest patch of sunlight.
The sound of their engine was dwarfed by the constant roar of rushing water, louder here than it had been even back in Rafael Santos's camp, and suddenly, Lauren knew exactly where they were. They were approaching the waterfall at Nuevo Rios.
Even better, she had an idea about how to get the rebels off their trail.
She pulled the multipurpose tool that Jake had handed her earlier from out of her beach bag and, without hesitating, flipped open the knife and cut her arm. She smeared the white clothes in her bag with blood and then reached up to untuck the T-shirt clinging to Jake's taut abdomen.
Startled by her touch, he took his eyes off the jungle for a second. "What the hell—" he began.
"I have a plan," Lauren interrupted. "Just keep driving straight, toward the river."
Jake grunted, which Lauren took as agreement. She hastily jabbed several ragged holes in Jake's T-shirt and then pulled off one of her sandals and eyed it ruefully. She hated to sacrifice it—it was a Sesto Meucci that had set her back two hundred and fifty dollars for the pair. But it had to be done.
The roar of the waterfall got louder as they approached the river. When Lauren had flown over the area a few days before, the sight of millions of gallons of water a minute dropping 125 feet into the lake below was awe-inspiring. The sound of it was no less impressive tonight, although she guessed that they were still some distance from the actual falls because, while the constant hum of rushing water was loud, it wasn't as deafening as it would be up close.
Jake abruptly slammed on the brakes and Lauren lost hold of the knife. She felt around on the floor for it, her fingers tightening around the cool metal as she raised herself up onto the seat. The jungle had ended without warning, the river brutally stealing its path from the heavy vegetation that grew right up to the water's edge.
"I hope you're not going to suggest that we go over the falls," Jake said, sliding a sideways glance in her direction.
Lauren grinned. "No, but that's what I want the rebels to think we did."
"You think they'll buy it?" Jake asked. He turned to face her, his right arm draped over the back of the seat as if they were having a casual conversation and not running for their lives.
Lauren took comfort in his calmness. He behaved exactly the way she expected a field agent to behave. He was cool under pressure, his mind focused on the mission as he logically assessed each problem that arose. She took a deep breath and tried to emulate his attitude. "Yes," she answered. "I'm sure they've seen all the movies where people routinely go over the falls to save themselves."
"But you don't think we should do that?" Jake asked, lifting his hand to scratch under his chin, where a hint of coarse beard was just beginning to show.
"Not if we want to live to die another day," Lauren said, stealing a line from her favorite Bond movie. "There's no way we'd survive. I suggest we send the jeep down the falls with our clothes in it. The rebels will find the jeep and our mangled clothes will wash up farther downstream. They'll most likely assume we were thrown from the jeep and drowned, and we'll have bought ourselves some time."
"And how do you suggest we get out of this jungle without the jeep? It'll take us days to walk out of here."
"We won't have to walk," Lauren said smugly as she stepped out of the jeep and tossed her sandal and the white outfit onto the passenger-side floor. "Take off your shirt," she ordered, half-expecting him to argue.
He didn't. Instead, he stepped out of the jeep and stripped off his shirt, his skin glowing golden in the moonlight overhead. At first, all she could see was hard muscle covered with all that smooth skin. But then, as he bent to twist his shirt around the steering wheel, Lauren noticed the purplish bruises covering his back.
She flinched. So, while she had been pacing around her tent in the camp, Santos's goons had worked Jake over. Rather thoroughly, it appeared, judging by the number of dark spots splotching his skin.
Jake straightened and their gazes slammed together. The look in her eyes must have been easy to read because, without looking down at the bruises covering his torso, Jake said, "Yeah. And it hurts like a son of a bitch, too. I'd sell my soul for some painkillers right now."
Lauren tried to smile, but she was certain it came off as a more of a grimace. "Aren't you supposed to tell me that it looks worse than it is?"
"I'm not that good a liar," Jake said cheerfully. Then he leaned over the driver's side door, put the jeep's transmission into drive, and walked around to the back of the vehicle. Lauren followed him, digging her feet into the ground as she helped him push the jeep into the fast-moving river. It would have been a more poignant moment had they stood on the bank of the river and watched as their only means of transportation disappeared downriver, but they didn't. Instead, they found a hiding place in some leafy bushes behind a tree and hunkered down to avoid being spotted by the rebels who were following them.
Lauren held her breath as the sounds of shouting drew nearer and didn't realize that she had scooted closer to Jake on the floor of their makeshift camp until her shoulder bumped his arm. She was sitting on her beach bag, the canvas rough through the thin fabric of her swimsuit. Jake sat beside her on the ground, wearing nothing but his tan cargo shorts. He shifted positions, and his hair-roughened calf rubbed against her own freshly waxed one. His feet were bare and dirty, but he hadn't seemed to mind going barefoot. Lauren wondered how he'd managed to toughen up the soles of his feet. She must have missed that tip in her Secret Agent's Handbook.
They remained silent as the rebel troops searched for them, and Lauren hoped they'd soon spot the jeep at the bottom of the falls and call off their hunt. Rather than cooling off as midnight approached, the air in the jungle seemed to be getting warmer and more humid. Or perhaps it was simply her proximity to Jake that was heating the air around them.
Lauren started to shift away from him—all that smooth hard skin so close to hers was making it difficult to draw a deep breath—but Jake stopped her by sliding his arm over her shoulders and pulling her even closer. With one strong hand, he pushed her hair away from her face and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Lauren's heart was pounding so hard that she found it difficult to comprehend what he was saying over the blood rushing to her head.
It's just the adrenaline, she admonished herself, attempting to rein in her libido, which had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She forced herself to listen to what Jake was saying.
"Close your eyes," he whispered.
Lauren did so, but turned her head an inch to the side and whispered back, "Why?"
"The whites of the eyes are easy to spot in the dark," Jake answered, his warm breath stirring the wisps of hair at her neck and making her shiver. He must have taken that to mean she was cold, because he pulled her closer and enveloped her in his own body heat, which just made Lauren's desire grow even stronger.
She kept her eyes firmly shut, lecturing herself the entire time Jake held her. She was not going to have reaction-to-danger sex with him. She wasn't. No, no, no. She was going to resist the temptation to lean into him, to let herself relax in the comforting embrace of his arms. And she sure as hell wasn't going to rub her bare thigh against the rough material of his shorts. Or splay her hand across his firm abdomen. Or turn and raise her lips to his in a kiss that was as heated as the jungle air surrounding them.
Okay. So she was lying. She was going to do all those things. And Jake was going to react by fisting his hand in her hair and kissing her back with such passion that Lauren felt as if she were being consumed by the heat.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth and Lauren sucked him in with equal fervor. She hadn't even realized that he'd lowered her to the ground until she felt the hard seam of her beach bag digging into her shoulder. She slid her arms around Jake's back, her fingers gently kneading his taut skin, mindful of the bruises Santos's men had inflicted upon him.
It dawned on her then that Jake found it easy to spin his tales of danger and excitement because those stories weren't really about him. When the threat was real, he accepted his duty stoically, without fanfare or heroics. He simply did what needed to be done to complete his mission. Afterward, he might glam it up—make it seem as if he always knew he'd make it out alive—but perhaps that was just his way of dealing with the fear that came with knowing that every op might be his last.
Jake grunted when she passed her hand over a particularly deep bruise, and Lauren felt a rush of tenderness that was quickly replaced with want as he untangled his fingers from her hair and ran his hands down the length of her sides, making her shudder. The evidence of Jake's desire pressed into her through the thin fabric of her bikini and Lauren opened her legs to him, rubbing against his erection until he groaned into her mouth.
"Lauren, we've got to stop," he whispered roughly, but his hips pulsing against hers belied his protest.
"Do you have protection?" she asked, her hands gripping his firm buttocks while she squirmed against him. She wished she could believe that her instantaneous response to Jake was a result of her being forced to run around nearly naked all day, but she knew it wasn't. Jake had shown himself to be a man she truly admired, his quiet strength and sense of humor giving her the confidence she needed to push her own limits. And never once had he treated her as if she were incapable of keeping up, as if she were nothing but a lame-brained liability. Instead, he'd listened to her opinions and treated her like an equal.
There was something awfully sexy about that.
"Condom. Right rear pocket," Jake said, his voice sounding strained, as though he were struggling to speak.
Lauren chuckled breathlessly and pushed Jake off of her as she dug into his pocket and pulled out the foil-wrapped packet she found there. They lay on their sides, facing each other, and she reached out, hearing Jake's sharp intake of breath when she moved her hands to his zipper, her fingers tickling the hard muscles of his abdomen.
Around them, the jungle quieted, the thick foliage of the bush they were hiding under cocooning them in their own private world. The humid air licked languorously at Lauren's skin, while Jake's tongue did the same to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Time seemed to slow, then stop altogether as Jake untied the knot at the nape of her neck.
Lauren arched her back as the ties holding her swimsuit top in place dropped, leaving her breasts exposed to Jake's searing gaze. He skimmed his hands slowly up her rib cage, the rough skin of his palms on her skin sending shivers down her spine.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, and Lauren looked up to find that he wasn't looking at her breasts, but was, instead, watching the expressions flitting across her face.
Instead of dismissing the compliment as she usually would have, Lauren smiled. "Thank you," she whispered back. Then she gasped with pleasure as Jake slid his hands up to cup her breasts. He moved his fingers slightly, the pads of his thumbs brushing against her aching nipples.
Lauren closed her eyes, waves of pleasure washing over her as Jake lowered his mouth to tease her nipples with his tongue. She felt a throbbing between her legs and was overwhelmed by a primal need to do something to ease the pressure building inside her. With a purr-like sound, she put one leg over Jake's hips, opening herself to him and smiling with satisfaction when she heard him groan.
Her smile turned to a chuckle when Jake grabbed the condom from her and growled, "Give me this damn thing, you tease. How much longer do you think I can wait?"
Jake ripped the packet open with his teeth, trying not to get distracted when Lauren "helped" him by sliding the zipper of his shorts down over his engorged cock. God, it felt good when she touched him like that.
He closed his eyes, the condom forgotten as she sucked her index finger into her mouth and then slowly circled the tip of his penis. If she didn't stop, he was going to come right now—and to hell with the condom.
Jake reached down to pull Lauren's hands away from him. No, he definitely didn't want his first time with her to end like that. Not with her as ready for him as he was for her.
He sheathed himself in the condom and then turned his attention back to Lauren, surprised to find that she'd already shed her tiny, tantalizing bikini bottoms. She lay there in the darkness, her glorious hair spread around her, one bare foot sensuously gliding up his leg, the warm heat at the juncture of her thighs driving him wild with need, and Jake ignored the voice inside his head that kept asking, "Why me? She could have any man—any rich man—she wants. Why would she settle for me?"
Fuck that.
He didn't care why she wanted to have sex with him. It was enough right now just to know that she did.
Then all thoughts fled from his mind when Lauren put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushed him to the ground, and then straddled him, burying his throbbing cock all the way inside her heat. Jake tried to hold back as wave after wave of hot pleasure washed over him, tried to slow Lauren's movements as she rode him, her head thrown back as she murmured his name over and over.
He felt the tension building inside himself and knew he couldn't last much longer, and he grabbed Lauren's hips to steady her, to keep her with him as he bucked against her, lifting, reaching for release. She pulsed against him then, her legs clenching his sides tightly as she spasmed around him. That was all Jake needed to let go, his own world going black with the force of his orgasm.
And then, it was over, their muscles giving out as Lauren rolled off him. Jake kept his eyes closed as, with Herculean effort, he threw one arm over Lauren's shoulders and pulled her to him, her spine against his stomach, her hips nestled against his crotch as they both breathed deeply to regain their strength.
When Jake finally let go of her and sat up to find his discarded clothes, Lauren blinked up at him dumbly for several seconds.
"Wow," she whispered once she had her breath back.
"I'll second that," Jake agreed. Then he held out her bikini bottoms, holding the thin scrap of metallic fabric awkwardly between his thumb and forefinger. Lauren grabbed her suit and quickly got dressed, frowning when it occurred to her that Jake was acting awkward, though she didn't know why.
"Uh, what's going on here?" Lauren asked, feeling more than a little awkward herself.
Jake turned to look at her, his green eyes full of a self-mockery Lauren didn't understand until he spoke. "The urge to have sex after a stressful situation is normal. It happens all the time. It's just the adrenaline, nothing more than that."
"So you think I would have done the same thing with anyone?" Lauren asked, incredulous that Jake was trying to convince her that what they'd just shared meant nothing.
Jake shrugged. "Sure."
Lauren's gaze was steady as she looked back at him. "You're wrong, Jake. This wasn't just about scratching some primal itch. I like you—"
"You don't know me," Jake interrupted. He rubbed one hand along his jaw and shook his head impatiently. "I'm not the hero you think I am. I was going to leave you with Santos while I checked out the camp, even knowing you might be in danger."
"Why?" Lauren asked, tilting her chin to look at him when he stood up. She was surprised that he had admitted this to her after spending the last several months pretending to be exactly what he was now protesting he was not. What she wanted to know was, why now? Why, when she had just made it obvious that she was interested in him, was he intent on discouraging her? She also didn't point out that, despite what he'd said, he had come back to rescue her after she'd screamed. He'd admitted that much to her during their long hike out of the jungle earlier. So why was he trying to convince her now that he didn't care what happened to her? Unless what he was really trying to do was to convince himself that he didn't care…
"If I had to, I would sacrifice you to complete this mission and save the people of Isla Suspiro further suffering," Jake said bluntly.
Slowly, Lauren unraveled herself from her sitting position on the ground and got to her feet. "You know, Jake, it seems to me," she began, bending down to pick up her beach bag, "that is exactly what a real hero would do."
"Where is the American? I have it arranged it so that a reporter will discover the man's body at Tomas's estate this morning."
Rafael Santos narrowed his eyes and briefly considered lying to his brother. He knew how Emilio would react to the news that the spy had gotten away. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a choice. The CIA agent had disappeared… along with the woman Rafael had begun to think of as his good luck charm. He wasn't certain which one made him angrier.
"He escaped, but my men believe he is dead. He went over the falls at Nuevo Rios. No one could survive that," Rafael said into his cell phone. He refused to let himself worry about the temper tantrums his brother threw whenever things did not go his way. Although Rafael was a year younger than Emilio, he had learned a lesson his brother had not—life did not always go the way one planned.
When Rafael had been young, he had been certain that he and Tomas would rule Isla Suspiro together, as a team. He did not know exactly what had turned his oldest brother against him. All he knew was that by the time Rafael was old enough to hold a position in the government, Tomas had come to think of him as the enemy.
But he couldn't allow the people of Isla Suspiro to suffer for the dissention within the Santos family. Tomas didn't know it, but Emilio kept Rafael informed about the workings of the new government. It had been Emilio who told him that Tomas—like the dictator before him—had become corrupt, taking bribes from honest businessmen to ensure their places of business would not be destroyed by Tomas's army and skimming profits from his own companies rather than increasing his employees' wages.
It was up to Rafael to challenge his brother's position and bring prosperity to the island. This was his destiny.
And as Emilio cursed and accused him of incompetence for allowing the American to evade capture, Rafael's resolve strengthened. He was weary of Emilio's constant censure and the way his brother had of acting as if he were the one in charge. As Rafael disconnected the call, he made a decision. He had the funding he needed. His troops were trained and ready. Emilio wanted Rafael to wait until tomorrow to act. There was a festival today to celebrate the end of the rainy season, and Emilio reasoned that Tomas's army would be tired and hungover after the day's revelry. But Rafael figured that a large part of Tomas's troops would be out enjoying the festivities this afternoon and, thus, his mission would be easier to complete than if he waited until tomorrow.
Yes, he would attack today.
Perhaps that would finally prove to his brother who was leading this charge.
You are one stupid son of a bitch.
That thought kept running through Jake's mind as he and Lauren slowly made their way down the mountain to where she assured him a helicopter would arrive later that morning. She'd taken a helo tour of this area when she'd first arrived on the island and had apparently memorized the tour operator's schedule. Jake had been duly impressed.
As a matter of fact, everything about Lauren Devlin impressed him, which was why he couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to push her away after she'd slept with him. What kind of idiot was he anyway?
The kind of idiot who couldn't believe that a supermodel like Lauren would have sex with the real Jake Haven—not the one who embellished the truth and pretended to be a superhero, but the man he really was inside. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't have let Lauren continue believing his lies… at least until after he'd gotten laid again.
Jake sighed and put a hand on Lauren's leg to help steady her as she dropped down onto the outcropping beside him. She was driving him nuts wearing nothing but that little bikini that left little to the imagination. When she looked up at him with her big blue eyes, Jake had to fight the urge to take her right there on the cliff and to hell with knowing that she thought he was something he wasn't. He hadn't realized that his BS job had worked so well. Before this op, Lauren had always treated him with a sort of cool detachment. He never knew that the stories he'd told her about his exploits in the field—some exaggerated and some not… well, okay, most exaggerated but a few not—had convinced her that he was some larger-than-life hero. If he'd been smart, he would have thanked God for that and just kept his mouth shut.
Since when had he grown a fucking conscience?
"Is something wrong?" Lauren asked, licking that luscious bottom lip of hers and blinking up at him innocently, as if she had no idea that just watching her suck her bottom lip into her mouth made him hard.
Jake stared intently at the rock face of the cliff. He had to stop thinking about Lauren's bikini, Lauren's lips, and anything to do with Lauren sucking anything. He had to stop thinking about Lauren, period.
Pretend she's Race, he ordered himself, then almost burst out laughing. Yeah, right. There was no man alive who had that good an imagination.
"No," he answered shortly. "I'm just thinking about what I need to do once we get back to the other side of the island." Liar.
"Oh. Well, obviously, we need to let Tomas Santos know about the delivery trucks," Lauren said, scooting backward in preparation for dropping down to the next ledge.
Jake scrambled down first and held out his arms to make sure she didn't fall, although she didn't really need his help. He'd worked with female agents before, of course, and wasn't some Neanderthal who expected them to whine and complain and not know how to do their jobs, but Lauren wasn't exactly the same as other agents. He didn't have the heart to tell her that there was no such thing as "intensive" field agent training. He wasn't sure why Martha McLaughlin had lied to her—most likely because she was a bitch and she wanted Lauren to continue providing intel without giving her a chance at a real promotion.
It was dirty and underhanded and just the sort of thing he would have expected from Lauren's handler.
After this op, Jake was going to recommend that Lauren be considered for a real field agent position. And if that meant he'd have to battle Martha McLaughlin over it, then that's what he'd do.
"We're almost there," Lauren said excitedly, interrupting his thoughts.
Jake glanced over his shoulder to see that they were nearing the clearing where Lauren had indicated the helicopter tour company made their landings. Intent on keeping the conversation light, he jumped down to the next outcropping and said, "That was a good idea about sending the jeep down the falls without us."
Lauren's cheeks flushed with pride at the compliment, and Jake realized that he'd never seen her blush when people praised her good looks. As a matter of fact, she was more likely to give her admirer a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and respond with a cool but polite "Thank you" than take the compliment to heart.
"I can't take all the credit. I got the idea from my Secret Agent's Handbook," she admitted as she slid onto the rock next to him.
Jake blinked. "Your what?" he asked.
"My Handbook" Lauren said. "My handler told me all the agents have them."
Jake closed his eyes. Oh, God. He was going to kill the bitch.
When he opened his eyes again, Lauren was frowning at him. She reached into the bag she had slung over her shoulder and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out what looked to be an ordinary novel. "Yours may be different than mine. I mean, it would be suspicious if we all carried around the same book, right? But what's inside is probably pretty similar. You know, once you look at it through the special lens."
She was beginning to sound desperate, so Jake swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. Mine works the same way," he said.
Lauren slowly put the book back into her bag, watching him the entire time. Jake knew he could be a convincing liar when he had to be—he wasn't certain if the skill had come with the job or if he'd gotten the job because he already had the skill—but he knew he'd botched this one when Lauren glanced away. She swallowed several times, as if trying not to cry, and Jake felt as if someone were stabbing him in the heart with each passing second.
"I'm sor—" he began, but stopped when she rounded on him furiously and held up one hand to make him shut up.
"No. Don't you dare apologize. I'm the one who fell for it. The whole thing was a lie, wasn't it?" she asked, but didn't give him time to answer. "Of course it was. There's no such thing as intensive field agent training, and this book is nothing more than a sophomoric prank that Martha McLaughlin assumed I was too stupid to figure out. Well, it looks like she was right. She got me good. Ha, ha. Joke's on me." With that, Lauren reached back into her bag and pulled out the book. She thumbed through the pages for a moment, her expression so full of self-disgust that Jake couldn't stand to watch her, so instead he looked up at the lightening sky and wished he could rewind the last five minutes and do them over again.
"I'll bet you can get these stupid things at any bookstore, right?" Lauren asked, but Jake refused to answer.
Without another word, Lauren gave the book one last disgusted look, pulled back her arm, and threw the offending object into the jungle with all her might.
"The American is coming this afternoon," Tomas Santos announced as he pushed open the door to Emilio's office at the Isla Suspiro Rum Company headquarters.
Emilio slowly swiveled in his chair to face Tomas and then nodded. Yes, he had expected the CIA agent to show up here after Rafael had foolishly let the man escape from the rebel camp. He had not believed for one moment that the man was actually dead. Emilio prided himself on his ability to always stay four or five steps ahead of other people. Most of them were fools, so anticipating their every move wasn't difficult.
"It's a trap," Emilio said, leaning over to pull open one of his desk drawers. He didn't know if the American had discovered Rafael's plans, but he was not going to take any chances. The American agent had to die.
Emilio extracted a white envelope from the drawer and held it out to his brother, who had stepped inside Emilio's office and closed the door. "These are photos of the man, taken yesterday at Paradise Resort. I doubt you'll have any trouble recognizing our youngest brother's henchmen. You will also see that the man went willingly. None of Rafael's men have weapons." At least, it didn't appear so in any of these photos. Emilio had been careful to destroy the three that clearly showed the gun that had been pressed into the CIA agent's back when Rafael's men had come to take him away.
"Who's the woman?" Tomas asked, frowning.
"She's one of the models here for the photo shoot. I don't know what she was doing with the agent, but I'm certain she knows nothing of this matter." He assumed that Rafael's henchmen had left the woman at the hotel since Rafael had made no mention of her. Besides, she was a model. What danger could she possibly pose?
"And you believe the American was expecting Rafael's men?"
"Yes. I think the CIA wants to see you stripped of your power, and they are now making deals with our brother to take over in your stead. I believe the American was sent to assassinate you," Emilio stated bluntly.
Tomas rubbed his forehead as he studied the photos laid out on Emilio's desk. When he looked up and met his brother's gaze, his own eyes were dark and unreadable. "What do you propose I do about it?" he asked.
Emilio hid his surprise. He was not accustomed to Tomas asking for his opinion where politics were concerned. "Let me deal with it," he said smoothly. "That way, the man's disappearance cannot be traced back to you if I'm mistaken."
"How will you know if you're wrong?" Tomas asked, eyeing him curiously.
One side of Emilio's thin mouth drew up in a mockery of a smile. "I won't," he answered.
"And you have no qualms about killing an innocent man?" Tomas leaned forward and watched his brother, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in the space between them.
Emilio had to force his teeth to unclench, to gaze back at his brother without a hint of guile in his eyes as he answered, "Not if it means removing a threat to my beloved brother's life, I don't."
Tomas's gaze remained fixed on him for a long moment before he finally nodded, unclasped his hands, and, with the slowness of one who is weary beyond his years, pushed himself up from the chair and quietly left Emilio's office.
Lauren winced as the makeup artist hired for the Isla Suspiro Rum shoot smoothed thick cover-up over the bruises she had acquired the day before. She wasn't certain which were more prominent—the bruises on her body or the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Good thing the makeup artist had experience covering both.
As Lauren had predicted, the helo tour arrived at the base of the waterfall at 9:30 that morning, and Jake had bribed the pilot to take them back to the resort immediately. Lauren had taken a shower and hurried to dress while Jake did the same. He had an appointment at one o'clock with Tomas Santos at Santos's home, which was part of the rum company's walled-in compound, where today's photo shoot was taking place.
They'd commandeered one of the resort's vans to transport everyone involved in the shoot from the hotel to the rum company. The compound itself was impressive—fifty acres of lush green land enclosed on three sides by a concrete wall topped by ten-foot-high wrought-iron bars. The fourth side was bounded by the Caribbean Sea, the beach patrolled round the clock by guards with machine guns.
Their driver had told them that there would be a parade this afternoon honoring the gods for putting an end to the rains and threat of hurricanes that plagued the island throughout the summer and early fall. On their ride to the compound, they'd passed vendors already setting up stalls to provide the townspeople with food and drink. Most workers had the day off, and Lauren could already hear the pop of fireworks and the shouts of children beyond the compound's gates.
"Looks like the people of this island take their festivals seriously," Jake said as he breezed into the makeup tent that had been set up for the photo shoot and handed Lauren a paper cup of coffee. "There are already hundreds of people lining the street outside, trying to get good seats for the parade."
He had told her that he planned to head back up to the rebel camp after his meeting with Santos, and Lauren could tell that he'd expected her to insist on coming along. But she hadn't. There was no use in either of them pretending that she was anything but what she was—a pretty face that could get them into presidential palaces and parties, and nothing more.
She sighed dispiritedly. She knew exactly why she had been so gullible. She'd wanted so badly to be part of something important. After a lifetime of being treated like cotton candy fluff that would melt at the slightest hint of rain, she had wanted someone to believe that she could be something more.
"Come on, drink up," Jake encouraged, crouching down in front of her and laying his warm hands on her bare knees.
For today's shoot, she was wearing a nearly sheer dress with a red bodice and multicolored scarf-like pieces of fabric that made up the filmy skirt. Her sandals were red, with four-inch-high heels that sank into the thick grass when she walked. Thanks to the makeup artist's magic, Lauren knew she looked great, but she had never felt worse about herself than she did right now.
Obediently, she took a sip of the rich dark coffee Jake had brought her. She needed the caffeine. Besides, she didn't have the spirit to argue.
When she lowered the cup, Jake leaned forward and surprised her by putting his forehead against hers. "Don't give up on yourself," he said. "You did great out there."
"Hey, don't do that. You'll mess up her makeup," Brad Klein scolded as he poked his head inside the tent.
Ignoring the photographer, Jake planted a light kiss on Lauren's freshly lipsticked mouth before standing up and stretching as if he didn't have a care in the world. Lauren, however, noticed his grimace as the sore muscles around his ribs pulled. She'd seen him take some aspirin from the promotional pack on the side of one of the rum bottles in her room this morning, but it didn't seem to have killed the pain. She should be grateful—her bruises only hurt when she touched them.
Brad scowled at Jake before turning his attention to Lauren. "We could have gotten some shots in earlier if you'd been down to the lobby at 10:30 like you were supposed to be. The client wants us to do a plant tour at 11:30, so now we don't have time." He snorted and gave Jake a smarmy smile that made Lauren want to throw something at him. "These supermodels are such divas. They're all the same."
Lauren watched as Jake narrowed his eyes dangerously at the other man, his jaw tightening as he clenched his teeth. She almost wished that Jake would deck the obnoxious photographer. Instead, he drew in a long, calming breath and fixed his gaze on her before saying softly, "That's because you only see what she wants you to see."
She blinked up at him, stunned that this man that she barely even knew had summed her up so accurately. And as Jake held out a hand to help her up off her chair, Lauren began to wonder if the reason that he knew so much about her was because they were so much alike.
Give them what they expect. Wasn't that her motto? Maybe that was Jake's credo, too. Maybe that was why he cloaked himself in bravado, because when you gave people what they expected, they didn't look any deeper to try to find the real you. Because if no one ever got close to the real you, they didn't have the power to hurt you.
Lauren took Jake's hand and looked—really looked—into his eyes. She had seen the real Jake out there in the jungle, the one who cared about a lot more than just getting laid or playing some one-dimensional movie-star hero. He did a good job of hiding that Jake from the rest of world… but, then, Lauren knew all about creating illusions to sell something that wasn't real, didn't she?
"Come on, let's go," Jake said, squeezing her fingers.
Lauren squeezed back. "Lead on," she said, and then swayed after him in her four-inch heels as he pushed past the photographer and led her out into the sunshine.
The plant tour was more for show than anything else, Lauren figured as the photo crew followed the plant manager across the scrupulously clean linoleum floor. The plant was scheduled to shut down at noon so the employees could enjoy the festivities, and their little parade was most likely a way to help increase the workers' morale.
And, boy, did it seem like they needed it.
The Isla Suspiro Rum Company employees' expressions were about as drab as their brown uniforms.
"These people don't seem very happy," she whispered out of the side of her mouth to Jake. She tried to keep a smile plastered on her face, but it wasn't easy with the discontent that seemed to be pouring off the rum company's workforce in waves.
"No, they don't," Jake agreed.
The plant manager stopped near a pile of neatly stacked cardboard boxes with the company's name and logo stamped in black on the side. The sight reminded Lauren of the boxes she'd seen in Rafael Santos's tent, and she frowned, wondering for the first time why the rebel leader had purchased rum from the company that was partially owned by the brother he planned to overthrow.
She knew that Brad would complain about the creases on her forehead if he happened to look over and see her frowning, so she looked away as she continued to think. Maybe the rum had been in the delivery vans Rafael's men had stolen? If so, it probably had seemed silly to waste it.
"And here we come to the end of the line," the plant manager said as the photo crew gathered around him. "Once the bottles are filled, they're put into boxes and taken by truck to the port to be shipped around the world." He waved toward a half dozen metal doors that looked like Lauren's garage door at home. She assumed that the rum company's delivery trucks would be backed up into the open bays to be loaded.
Nothing out of the ordinary there.
She turned her attention back to the boxes and noticed that each box had a two-letter code stamped at the bottom left-hand corner. The codes varied. One box was stamped with the letters VG, another with OX, and another with CI. Lauren was curious, so she nodded her chin toward the boxes and asked, "What do those codes mean?"
The plant manager got a look on his face as though she had just asked him what the cockroach content of their rum was, but before he could answer, a strange sort of energy rippled through the workforce surrounding them.
Lauren glanced up to see a man who looked remarkably similar to Rafael Santos striding toward them. He was about fifteen feet away when another, thinner man came running down a narrow staircase that led to a second floor of what appeared to be offices. Earlier, Lauren had noticed the thin man watching their progress from the windows above. His scrutiny had made her uneasy for some reason, but she had dismissed the feeling. Now, as the man approached, she felt her uneasiness returning and turned to Jake to voice her concern.
"Who's that?" she whispered.
"Emilio Santos. He runs the rum operation," Jake answered. "The other man coming toward us is his older brother, Tomas, the president of the island."
Lauren nodded as the elder Santos brother stopped next to the plant manager.
"Welcome to Isla Suspiro," Tomas Santos said, smiling a broad smile that seemed to falter as his gaze landed on Jake.
Her eyes narrowed. That was odd. The president had never met Jake. Why, then, was there a spark of recognition in the older man's eyes?
"Tomas! What are you doing here?" Emilio Santos said with forced cheerfulness.
"I thought I would welcome our American guests," Tomas answered.
"And now you've done so. I would guess the leader of our little island has more important things to attend to," Emilio said, shooting a conspiratorial smile at the photo crew.
Lauren could never say what prompted her to do what she did next, but something—call it women's intuition or a hunch or just dumb luck—urged her to repeat her earlier question. "So tell me," she said, "what do those codes on the bottom of the rum boxes mean?"
Was the American model's question a ploy to get him to take his attention off the agent sent here to kill him?
Tomas felt a bead of sweat drip down the side of his face. It was warm in the plant—Emilio insisted that overhead fans were enough to cool the workers down on the production floor. The offices above, of course, were air-conditioned. But Tomas couldn't blame his perspiration only on the temperature. He was unarmed and had not expected to come face-to-face with the assassin.
Every person entering the compound was searched at the gate, but Tomas was not foolish enough to believe that his guards were infallible. A clever killer could smuggle a weapon in, especially one who was traveling with a seemingly innocuous group such as the model and her entourage. Before Emilio's offer to deal with the CIA agent himself, Tomas had been prepared to meet with the man in his office, with a gun in his hand and his own armed guards there to protect him.
It was possible that Emilio was wrong, that the American had not made a deal with Rafael and was not here to kill Tomas. However, the pictures Emilio had given him had convinced Tomas that this scenario seemed the most likely. Why else would the CIA agent go willingly with Rafael's men?
No, it was probable that Emilio was right. And perhaps the model was trying to distract his attention so that the assassin could complete his mission right here on the production floor.
Tomas had lived for so many years with a price on his head that he should have become accustomed to the constant fear. But he hadn't. It infuriated him that he cared so much for the people of his country and only wanted to do what was right for them, yet in return he lived every moment under the threat of being killed. It was bad enough that his own brother wanted him dead. The CIA's double-dealing, even though he had cooperated with them at every turn, was too much.
In typical Tomas fashion, he had decided to meet this threat head-on. He had been wrong to think that it would be best to allow Emilio to handle the problem. This was his domain, his life. He would be the one to take care of the CIA.
"The codes help us to separate the product for shipping," Emilio said smoothly from beside him.
Tomas frowned and allowed his gaze to slip to the stack of cardboard boxes for a split second. He knew nothing of these codes, but that didn't mean much. Emilio was more involved in the running of the rum business than he was.
Why, then, did he have the feeling that his brother had just lied?
"Oh," the model said, twirling a lock of her long dark hair around the index finger of her left hand. She seemed satisfied with Emilio's answer, but then her smooth forehead creased with the tiniest of lines. "I'm not certain I understand," she said in a breathy voice. "What does OX mean?"
Tomas kept his gaze focused on the assassin, only half-listening to his brother's response as he tried to figure out what to do next.
"I'm not certain. I must admit that I spend more time focused on the company's financial state than in memorizing our shipping codes," Emilio said with a forced laugh.
The model looked as though she might ask another question, but Emilio cut her off. "My brother and I must be going now. We hope you enjoy the rest of the tour. We're looking forward to seeing the final photos from your shoot."
With that, Emilio took a step backward. Tomas, however, was not about to turn his back on an assassin. Instead, he walked forward until he and the CIA agent were separated by only a few feet. If the man wanted to make an attempt on Tomas's life, he could give it his best shot.
Up close, Tomas noticed that the agent was more muscular than he appeared from a distance. If he was surprised that Tomas had approached him, he hid it well. There was nothing but mild interest in the man's dark green eyes.
"I believe we have an appointment at one o'clock," Tomas said. "If you're available now, I think we should take care of whatever it is you came to Isla Suspiro to do."
The agent nodded and stepped away from the group. The model took a step toward him, but stopped when the man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Tomas glanced at his brother, hoping he had also seen what had just happened. It would be helpful if Emilio could keep an eye on the woman while Tomas and the American talked.
Just then, a whistle sounded, indicating that the company would be closing for the day. Emilio waited until the noise stopped and then waved toward the second floor. "Use my office," he said as the workers around them began to file silently out of the plant.
Tomas nodded. He knew his brother kept a loaded pistol in the top drawer of his desk. With the plant quickly emptying of employees, there would be no witnesses to the CIA agent's death. And if Tomas was not successful in killing the agent before he himself was killed… Well, he suspected his brother would take care of the situation if that were to happen. There was only one way out of the upper offices—the narrow staircase that Emilio had hurried down moments before. Should the American attempt to escape, setting a trap for him would be simple.
Emilio Santos watched his brother disappear into his office and tried to contain his glee. God had indeed blessed him this day. There was no way he could lose.
First, he would kill his brother and the American agent. He would set it up to appear that Tomas had killed the CIA man. Then he would move his brother's body to the beach, where he himself would "discover" it early tomorrow morning. He would rally Tomas's army and have them lie in wait for Rafael's troops. Since he knew exactly what Rafael's plans were, slaying his younger brother would be easy.
In less than twenty-four hours, Emilio would have everything he had ever wanted.
No one could stop him now.
Jake winced as he took a seat across from Tomas Santos. Damn, his ribs hurt. The painkillers he'd taken that morning must have worn off. He supposed he could have asked Santos for a couple of aspirin—there had to be some lying around the rum plant since their big promotion was to package hangover relief with their liquor—but he didn't like admitting weakness, especially not to a stranger.
Only let them see what you want them to see, right, Haven? One side of Jake's mouth drew up in a self-mocking smile. Yeah, maybe he and Lauren weren't so different.
"The CIA suspects that your brother and his troops are preparing for an attack," Jake announced bluntly, ignoring the persistent stab of pain in his side. "I was sent here to try to discover who might be funding the rebel army so that we might be able to cut off your brother's source of funds and end this conflict without bloodshed. I now believe that we're too late, that a coup attempt is imminent. Are you prepared to fend off such an attack?"
Across from him, Tomas Santos remained seated behind a large desk, his dark eyes unreadable. When they'd first entered the office, Tomas had surreptitiously opened one of the desk drawers, obviously searching for something that he did not find. Jake assumed he had been looking for a weapon. Since Jake himself was unarmed but for the slender knife hidden in his pocket, he was glad that Santos had not found what he was looking for.
Jake could understand the man's uneasiness—he hadn't been expecting the CIA to pay him a visit, after all—but Santos had nothing to fear from him. Jake wasn't here to harm the man, only to warn him of his brother's impending attack.
"You're not here to assassinate me, then?" Santos asked.
Jake's eyebrows drew together as he frowned. "Of course not. You know you have the United States' full support. Why would you think that my government had sent someone here to kill you?"
Santos pursed his lips and shook his head for a moment before releasing a relieved breath. "It seems that I owe you an apology. My life in politics has apparently made me paranoid."
"It's an endeavor that could drive any sane man crazy," Jake said with a short laugh. "I plan to go back to your brother's camp later this afternoon to see if I can discover when and where he plans to launch his attack. Unfortunately, my government can't provide you with any more assistance than that, but hopefully it will be enough for you to squash this rebellion and continue your efforts to stabilize the island's economy."
Tomas leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his lean stomach. In this relaxed pose, he looked ten years younger than he had just minutes before. Jake could only guess how difficult the man's life was, trying to bring this island out of poverty and despair and into prosperity and hope. Over the years, Jake had run into his share of despots and dictators, and he was impressed with Santos's seeming regard for the welfare of his people. Yes, he lived much better than the average inhabitant of the island in his walled estate surrounded by armed guards. Still, he truly seemed committed to improving the lot of the people here—something that could not be said of many of the world's leaders.
"I don't understand my brother," Tomas admitted. "He could have had a powerful position in my government, but instead he chooses to raise an army against me. We used to share the same dream for our country. I don't know when that changed. Or why."
"Some people believe that their way is the only way," Jake said. "Perhaps your brother couldn't accept that anyone but him could rule the island correctly." Either that or he wanted everything for himself, Jake thought, but didn't voice his opinion. Some men hated sharing wealth or power with anyone else. Frequently, it was this, rather than any lofty idealism, that caused men like Rafael Santos to rise up against their governments.
But since the enemy in this case was Santos's own brother, Jake kept his mouth shut. Some people were so loyal to their families that even when presented with hard evidence of their treachery, they refused to see it. Which, he supposed seconds later, was why it had been so easy for Emilio Santos to have plotted against his older brother without anyone suspecting that he was a traitor. It was only when Emilio flung open the door to his office, pointed a 9-mm at Tomas's head, and fired his first shot that Jake realized his error.
He should have focused his attention not on the obvious threat of Rafael Santos, but on the snake right here in Tomas's own garden.
As Tomas fell and Emilio swung around for his second shot, Jake dove for the floor, mentally cursing himself. He should have gone over a backup plan with Lauren this morning. She wouldn't know what to do if he disappeared. Most likely, she would come looking for him, and Emilio would kill her, too.
He was so stupid not to have planned for the possibility of his own death. And now Lauren's blood would be on his hands. She didn't have the training for this type of situation. God damn her handler for lying to her about that fucking handbook. As if some book could cover all the eventualities an agent in the field might face. For that, she'd need intelligence, a quick wit, and a hell of a lot of courage.
Too bad he wouldn't live long enough to tell Lauren he believed she already possessed all three.
Where the hell was he?
Emilio Santos wiped the sweat off his upper lip with the back of one hand as he scanned the darkened production floor below. He'd personally escorted the tour group out of the plant and checked the entire facility to ensure that he was alone with his brother and the spy before turning off all the lights except those to the second-floor offices and then entering the security code to lock down the building. Once the plant was secure and there was no way for either Tomas or the agent to escape, Emilio had made his move.
He'd removed his gun from his desk earlier, when he'd first seen Tomas come to greet the model and her crew. He had no idea what had possessed his brother to come to the plant this afternoon, but he was glad now that he had. It had made Tomas surprisingly easy to kill.
Emilio had expected his bigger, stronger, older brother to put up a fight. Apparently, however, might was no match for a bullet to the brain.
Had Emilio not been so angry, he might have laughed at his observation. As it was, the spy's escape had put a damper on Emilio's sense of humor. He couldn't believe the man had thrown himself against the second-floor window, crashing through the glass and falling to the floor below. Emilio had raced to the broken window and looked down, expecting to see the man lying in a pool of blood. Instead, he saw nothing but shards of shattered glass littering the linoleum floor.
Emilio clattered down the stairs as quickly as possible, leaving his brother lying gasping for his last breaths in Emilio's office. He would have paused to make certain Tomas was dead had he not been afraid that this would give the American time to get into position at the bottom of the stairs. With Emilio's only escape route blocked, he would be trapped and at the mercy of the spy.
He had no intention of being at anyone's mercy ever again.
With his gun trained on the darkness surrounding him, Emilio crouched down over the pile of shattered glass and looked for anything—a trail of blood, some torn clothing, anything that might help lead him to the American.
When he saw a suspicious spot on the floor, he reached down and trailed his fingers through the wetness. Looking up, Emilio Santos smiled.
The CIA agent was bleeding.
And like any predator, Emilio knew that all he had to do to catch his wounded prey was to follow the scent of blood.
Where the hell was he?
Lauren pulled on the locked door of the Isla Suspiro Rum Company's headquarters for the tenth time in as many seconds and considered the damage to her pedicure if she were to attempt to kick in the door with nothing but her high-heeled sandals for protection.
She knew that Jake planned to go back up to the rebel camp when he was finished meeting with Tomas Santos, but hadn't seen him leave the plant. The photo shoot had been set up within full view of the only road leading from the plant, and she'd been watching for Jake to reappear. It had been over an hour now and he had remained locked up inside with Tomas Santos the entire time.
They couldn't have had that much to discuss, and Lauren was getting worried. The photo shoot had ended, and the crew was waiting for her in their air-conditioned van. They wanted to leave now, before the streets got too packed for them to drive. The revelers outside the gates of the compound had gotten louder and more raucous and, according to their driver, it was only going to get worse as the afternoon wore on.
Lauren ignored the impatient beep of the van's horn as she pulled her cell phone from her purse. She was not leaving without Jake.
She scrolled to her log of incoming messages and found Jake's number. She hit dial, pressed the phone to her ear, and waited for it to ring.
"Lauren, come on. We're going to get stuck here all bloody night if we don't leave now," Brad shouted.
She scowled and put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Go without me," she yelled back. The trip back to the resort would take over two hours with the streets clogged as they were with people. If she were forced to endure the pretentious photographer's company for that long, one of them would have to die. And it wasn't going to be her.
The van took off without so much as a token protest from any of the crew.
Assholes, Lauren thought, turning her attention back to her call.
The phone rang once, then twice, and then, abruptly, the call was dropped. Lauren frowned and held the phone out to look at the display. She'd thought reception would be good here, but maybe she'd lost her signal. But no, there were five bars showing—the strongest signal she could get.
Then what—
Lauren heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from inside the plant and gasped.
Ohmigod. Knowing that he'd be searched before his meeting with the president, Jake hadn't brought his gun. That must mean that someone was shooting at him.
But what was she supposed to do? The doors were locked, the only windows on the outside of the building were two stories up, and she didn't have any brilliant ideas. Briefly, she wished she hadn't thrown away her Secret Agent's Handbook, but she immediately dismissed the idea and scoffed at herself. What good would it have done anyway? The stupid thing was just a joke.
Lauren pulled at the door again, feeling frustrated and helpless when it wouldn't budge. She slumped against the warm metal and closed her eyes. Jake was in danger, and there was nothing she could do.
She jerked upright and nearly dropped her cell phone when it rang.
"Jake, is that you?" she said.
Her heart seemed to stop when Jake's voice came on the line. Thank God, he was okay.
"I don't have time to explain anything right now. Can you call me back?"
"Sure," Lauren answered, but the phone had already gone dead. She redialed the incoming number and waited for Jake to answer, but it just rang six times and then rolled into his voice mail.
She didn't leave a message.
Suddenly, the window above her exploded and Lauren covered her head as shards of glass rained down on her. She peeked through her fingers and saw a chair land a few feet away in the thick grass. When the last of the glass finished tinkling merrily against the concrete walkway, she looked up to find Jake dangling from the windowsill. As she watched, he loosened his hold and dropped into the shrubs surrounding the building. She rushed to his side and heard him groan as he tried to move.
"Jake? What's going on?" she asked, reaching out to help him up.
"No time," he gasped.
That answer, of course, made absolutely no sense to Lauren. No time for what? Unfortunately, Jake couldn't clear up the mystery since he had rolled off the hedge, landed facedown in the grass, and promptly passed out.
Then it was her turn to gasp when there was another gunshot and the ground at her feet erupted. Bits of dirt and grass leaped up like popcorn from a hot pan and struck her bare legs. Lauren looked up at the broken window to find Emilio Santos aiming a gun at her. She didn't wait for an explanation. Instead, she grabbed Jake under the armpits and tugged, her heels burying themselves in the soft dirt as she grunted with the effort to drag two hundred pounds of dead weight out of harm's way.
She pulled with all her might, silently praising her personal trainer's efforts to whip her into shape as she managed to lurch around the corner of the building just as Emilio squeezed off another shot.
Still holding Jake under the armpits, Lauren wildly looked around for a means of escape. They were at the back of the plant, near the loading dock. Several delivery trucks painted dark brown with the Isla Suspiro Rum Company name and logo on them were parked on the pavement. Damn, she wished Jake had had a chance to show her how to hot-wire a car.
Lauren chewed on the inside of her cheek. Maybe she wouldn't need to hot-wire one of the delivery vehicles. Someone might have left the keys in the ignition, figuring the truck would be safe from thieves parked here in the gated compound.
"Jake, come on. Wake up," she urged, glancing from his prone body to the nearest delivery truck twenty feet away. When he didn't even twitch, Lauren knew what she had to do. She hated to leave him unprotected, but she had no choice. She couldn't drag him that far fast enough to outrun Emilio, who she expected was on his way outside right now. She had to take the chance that one of the vehicles would be accessible. If she didn't, she and Jake would both die right here on the pavement.
She rolled Jake over onto his back and then forced herself to leave him as she ran across the loading dock toward the line of vehicles. The trucks were more like oversized UPS vans than the semis used in the United States to transport goods. Lauren figured with Isla Suspiro's roads in such poor condition, many of them pockmarked with potholes large enough to hide several small children, semis couldn't be used until the roads were improved.
Lauren clambered onto the running board of the first vehicle she came to and jerked on the door handle, but it was locked. Cursing, she jumped down and ran to the next van, her high heels sinking slightly into the hot pavement.
When she tugged on the next door, it opened, and Lauren sent up a silent prayer that the keys would be in the ignition. She jumped into the driver's seat and felt around on the steering column for the keys, but the ignition was empty. Not willing to give up, she checked the top of the dashboard and then fumbled around in a pile of loose change, hoping the driver had left his keys there. Next, she slid her hand into a pocket on the side of the driver's door, gasping with relief when her fingers closed around a set of keys.
"Yes," she shouted through gritted teeth as she pulled the keys out and hurriedly tried to fit one after the other into the ignition.
The sound of a door opening behind her made her falter, and Lauren knew she only had seconds before Emilio spotted her. She pulled the last key from the ring and shoved it into the ignition. This one had to fit.
The key slid into place, and Lauren cranked it toward the dashboard. The van's engine coughed to life as Emilio Santos appeared in Lauren's side view mirror.
He took aim.
She slammed the transmission into drive and floored the accelerator just as the passenger side door flew open.
Jeez. What now? Did Emilio have backup?
Lauren was just about to jerk the steering wheel to the right to try to dislodge the intruder when she realized that it was Jake who was trying to get inside the van. She kept her foot pressed to the gas pedal and ducked as Emilio's bullet shattered the window beside her and exited through the front windshield.
"Drive," Jake shouted, throwing himself across the passenger seat.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Lauren muttered as she struggled to keep the swaying van on the narrow road. Up ahead, the road branched off into three different directions. The left route would take them to the main gate and through the center of town, but the roads would be clogged with revelers, making them easy to spot. Not to mention that they'd have to get through the phalanx of armed guards, who were almost certain to have been warned to stop them.
The middle road led down to the beach, but Lauren had no idea what they would do to escape once they got there. The rightmost road meandered through the compound and would put them out in a quieter part of town, but the road on that side of town wasn't much more than a rutted footpath through the dirt. With the heavy delivery van loaded down with boxes of rum, Lauren feared they might end up stuck up to their axles in mud.
As they approached the crossroads, she eased up on the gas.
"What do we do?" she asked frantically, turning to Jake.
Beside her, Jake was pale and sweating, and Lauren noticed blood dripping down his arm. "Have you been shot?" she asked, her eyes wide with shock.
"It's just a nick," Jake answered, sounding as though he were talking through clenched teeth. "Emilio was standing with his back to me and I was about to knock him out with a bottle of rum when my cell phone rang the first time you called. If I hadn't clipped him on the shoulder with the bottle when he turned around, I'd be dead now."
Lauren winced. So that's why he'd hung up on her. Why the hell hadn't she thought that calling him might give away his position? God, she was so stupid. No wonder her handler thought the idea that she could be a real field agent was a joke.
"I left my phone downstairs and had you call me back to make Emilio think I was still down there. That's how I managed to get upstairs and escape."
Well, at least she she hadn't been totally useless, Lauren thought with no small measure of self-disgust.
"Rafael Santos is staging his coup this afternoon," Jake said, interrupting Lauren's thoughts. "At least, that's what I gathered from a phone call I overheard between him and Emilio. Rafael called after Emilio shot Tomas and Emilio took the call while he was searching for me. Emilio didn't tell Rafael that there's no need for him to overthrow his brother. Tomas is already dead, and I think Emilio is setting a trap for his younger brother. I suspect he's the one who pitted his brothers against one another. He's wanted the power all along." Jake pressed his hand to the gunshot wound on his arm to stem the bleeding and bit back a shout of pain. Jesus, that hurt. He'd kill for a fucking aspirin right now.
"We have to stop Rafael," Lauren whispered. If they didn't the island would be thrown into another cycle of revolution and civil war.
Jake closed his eyes and tried to think, but he didn't see any way to stop events from unfolding exactly the way Emilio Santos had planned. They could try rallying Tomas's army, but why would they listen to a supermodel and a stranger from America over Emilio, who, as Tomas's right-hand man, was surely someone they trusted? By the time Rafael Santos launched his attack and Jake and Lauren were proven right, it would be too late.
He shook his head and held his breath as another wave of pain washed over him. "Do you have any ideas?" he asked.
Beside him, Lauren laughed bitterly. "Who, me? All I am is a pretty face. Haven't you realized that by now?"
Jake grimaced as he twisted in his seat to face the woman next to him. "That's bullshit, Lauren. You kicked ass out there in the jungle yesterday. You escaped from the rebel camp, took out one of Rafael's men who would have shot me if I'd been down in that pit, marched for hours without complaint, and came up with the idea that got us out of there and saved our asses. You're a damn fine field agent, and I'm proud to be on this op with you."
Lauren was already shaking her head. "That was all because of that stupid joke of a handbook. Martha McLaughlin's right. I thought she saw something more in me, but it was all just a lie to shut me up. The Agency doesn't believe in me."
Jake glanced behind them to make sure Emilio hadn't had time to follow them yet. Then, even though he nearly passed out with the effort to move, he slid across the seat and put a hand under Lauren's chin to tilt her face up to his. Her blue eyes were troubled, and Jake wished he had the time to kiss her worry away, but now wasn't exactly the right moment to stop and declare his feelings for the brave woman he'd fallen in lust with when they'd met and then fallen in love with the day before. She was so much more than she even knew.
"It doesn't matter what anyone else believes, Lauren. It's what you believe about yourself that makes a difference. When you believed you were capable of being a field agent, you were capable of it. The only difference between who you were yesterday and who you are today is what you think you can accomplish. Neither Martha McLaughlin's endorsement nor that handbook you thought contained all the answers were the source of your power. This is," he said, reaching up with his free hand to gently push her hair away from her temple and tap his fingers on the smooth skin of her forehead.
Lauren pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and slowly began to nod. Then, in a gesture he was beginning to find charmingly familiar,, she straightened her shoulders, readying for battle.
Jake bit back a smile. He didn't want her to think he was laughing at her, because he wasn't. Instead, he was falling more in love with her with each passing second.
"I have an idea," she said. Then she reached up to squeeze his hand, pressed a kiss to his palm, and released him, saying, "Fasten your seat belt. It's gonna be a bumpy ride."
As Lauren laid on the horn and stood on the accelerator, her heart was full of hope. First, she hoped this crazy plan of hers didn't get them both killed. She also hoped her hunch about Rafael Santos was right. Finally, she hoped that the Jake Haven she'd come to know on Isla Suspiro was planning to stick around for a while, because he was a man she could easily imagine herself falling in love with.
He believed in her. And while she supposed it shouldn't matter, that she should feel confident enough in her own abilities to not need anyone else's opinion of her to fill her with courage, just knowing that he thought she was worthy made all the difference.
She took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on the gates up ahead. A half dozen of Tomas Santos's troops were standing in front of the heavy wrought-iron bars, waving at her to stop. In a few seconds, she knew they would stop waving and start pointing their machine guns at her, but she didn't falter.
"Get down," she yelled at Jake as the guards raised their guns.
"You, too," he yelled back.
They both crouched down to shield themselves as best they could. Lauren kept her hands on the steering wheel, the delivery van pointed like a missile, straight ahead. She hated to think that the guards might not move out of the way, but she had no choice. Emilio Santos would never let her and Jake out of here alive.
The first bullets broke the windshield and landed high in one of the cardboard boxes that were stacked against the thin bars separating the cargo area from the passenger area of the van. Lauren felt something wet and sticky dripping onto her head and assumed it was rum, but she didn't dare take her hand from the steering wheel to see if her guess was correct. As long as it wasn't blood…
"Aim for the center of the gates. That's where they'll be the weakest," Jake said.
Lauren raised her head so that she could see over the dash, but then ducked when another round of bullets peppered the van. The temperature gauge flew into the red zone. Damn, they must have punctured the radiator.
"Come on, this has to work," Lauren muttered to herself as she closed her eyes, her hands holding tightly to the steering wheel as they crashed into the gates. There was an awful, high-pitched screeching as metal ground against metal. Lauren smelled radiator fluid mixed with the sickly sweetness of rum.
She jerked the transmission into reverse, and the tires squealed on the pavement as she backed up to make another run at the gates. Startled, she screamed when one of the guards jumped onto the running board next to her, but didn't give him the chance to bash in the window that was already damaged from Emilio's earlier shot. Instead, she threw the van into drive and peeled out. The guard quickly jumped off, since remaining where he was when they rammed into the wrought-iron gates would have been tantamount to committing suicide.
The gates screamed in protest when she hit them again, but this time they moved far enough apart for the van to squeeze through. The revelers outside, alerted by her honking, had moved away from the compound's entrance and stood watching, clapping and hooting as if this were a part of the festivities.
Lauren drove ten feet from the compound and stopped the van.
Hurriedly, she unbuckled her seat belt and swung around to roll open the divider between her seat and the cargo area.
"What are we doing?" Jake asked, after removing his seat belt and standing up.
"Giving out free rum," Lauren answered. "I don't think Rafael will harm the people of Isla Suspiro. If we can bring the party inside, to the manufacturing plant, maybe we can show Rafael what's happened to Tomas and end this thing without bloodshed."
Jake reached up to grab a case of rum from the top of one stack, his face turning a shade of green Lauren had never seen before. But he didn't complain. Instead, he tossed the box on the passenger seat and ripped it open. Then he pulled out one dark brown bottle and squinted at the plastic container that had been shrink-wrapped to the bottom. Unlike the single-dose packages of promotional aspirin that had been glued to the side of the smaller bottles of rum, the rum company must have decided to ship full-sized bottles of aspirin with their larger bottles of rum. Grabbing his knife from his pocket, Jake slit the plastic and separated the pills from the rum. Then he popped open the lid of the aspirin container, shook out two tablets, and washed them down with a mouthful of liquor.
"Hurry, we've got to get the crowd to help us before Santos's guards get here," Lauren urged, pulling her own case of rum off a stack and ripping it open.
"What makes you think Rafael won't harm them?" Jake asked.
Lauren met his gaze briefly and then shrugged. "It's just… he said something when I was with him, back at his camp. It made me think that maybe he and Tomas didn't have such different visions for the people of this island after all."
"I hope you're right," Jake said. Then he threw open the delivery van door and shouted, "Free rum! Get your free rum here!"
The crowd around them surged forward. Lauren saw the dark brown hats of Tomas Santos's guards as they attempted to force their way through the thickening crowd, but the revelers didn't pay them any notice. She crossed her fingers and started handing out bottles. Soon, the van was engulfed with people. When one of the guards finally reached them and grabbed Lauren's arm to pull her out of the van, she yelled, "Everyone, the president's army is here to protect you today. Please, show them your appreciation. Come on, hug a soldier."
A large woman in a brightly colored dress turned to the man who had a hold on Lauren and enfolded him in her arms. Around them, Lauren saw other soldiers being patted on the back, hugged, and even kissed by the grateful people of Isla Suspiro, who, many for the first time in their lives, had enjoyed a period of peace since Tomas Santos's election, in large part because of the efforts of Santos's army. The people's appreciation for this peace was enthusiastic, and Lauren couldn't help but grin when she saw the frustrated look the guard shot her from where he was being held captive by the large woman's embrace.
"You should write a secret agent's handbook," Jake said wryly from the other side of the van.
Lauren blushed and stammered out a "thank you" as she went back to handing out bottles of rum. Her first case was soon emptied, so she reached for another one and then another. With each box she emptied, she backed the van closer and closer to the rum plant, luring the revelers into the compound while the guards looked helplessly on.
As the empty boxes stacked up, she noticed that they were all stamped with the letters VG on the bottom left-hand corner. She hadn't bought Emilio's explanation for what the codes meant, something about the way his eyes had shifted when he answered told her that he was lying. But she didn't have time to worry about that now. When she looked up to hand out another bottle of rum, she found herself face-to-face with none other than Rafael Santos.
Lauren glanced over at the looming building of the Isla Suspiro Rum Company plant, shrouded in darkness. Party goers had flooded the compound, but they seemed to avoid the manufacturing plant, perhaps because it reminded them of work on a day of play.
"Rafael, how good to see you again," Lauren said loudly to alert Jake that the man they sought was here.
"Ah, my good luck charm. I was very disappointed when you disappeared yesterday," Rafael said smoothly, reaching up to clasp Lauren's hand with his own.
Jake stepped forward and put his arm around Lauren's shoulders. "She's CIA. If anything happens to her, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and kill you."
He voiced the threat so calmly, so rationally, that it took Lauren a moment to realize what he had just said. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and had to blink several times to get her mouth to work.
"Jake," she protested with a half-laugh, but her stomach was fluttering madly.
Rafael Santos gazed coolly at Jake, taking his measure. If Lauren hadn't been so flummoxed by Jake's sudden protectiveness, she might have suggested they get out a ruler. This was obviously one of those "whose dick is bigger" moments. She figured Jake won when Rafael let go of her hand and nodded. And when Jake leaned over her and she felt his erection pressing into the small of her back, she nearly gasped. Well, well, well. Guess she didn't need a ruler after all.
Jeez. Where had that come from? She'd thought he was in serious pain, but apparently not. And if he could get aroused just by standing near her… Sheesh. Was it hot in here, or was it just her?
Lauren fanned her suddenly warm face and tried to slow her racing heart. She was jerked back to the seriousness of their situation, however, when Jake announced to Rafael, "Your brother is dead. Emilio shot him."
Rafael Santos stepped back as if Jake had just slapped him. "Pardon me?" he said.
"Tomas is dead," Lauren repeated, jumping down out of the van with Jake behind her. "That's why we were doing this, to lure the people of Isla Suspiro here in the hopes that you wouldn't attack your brother's men."
"My brother is dead?" Rafael said. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed, as if something were paining him.
"You should be happy. Wasn't that what you were planning to do here today? Kill your brother and take over the island?" Jake asked.
Rafael raised his gaze to them, his eyes full of sadness. "No. I was merely going to take back my family home and force my brother to acknowledge my rightful role in the government. He banished me two years ago, using his troops to keep me hiding in the jungle like some sort of leper. I owe it to the people of Isla Suspiro to aid in their economic recovery, to be a voice for their rights, to ensure that their leaders are not taking their money and using it to line their own pockets. I know Tomas let the power corrupt him, but the worst thing that could happen to the people would be if someone—even I—were to overthrow their duly elected leaders. That would only throw the island back into chaos. I would never do such a thing."
Lauren swallowed hard and looked over at Jake, who looked as ill as she felt. "Why do you think Tomas had been corrupted?" she asked.
Rafael shrugged his broad shoulders and gazed down at the grass beneath his feet. "Emilio told me about the money. About the bribes and about Tomas's illegal drug scheme and how he knew he couldn't be stopped because of his position as president."
"What illegal drug scheme?" Jake asked, frowning.
"The drugs that are hidden in the rum," Rafael said, with a wave toward the delivery van. "Tomas bought shipments of drugs from America—some that were past their expiration date and had to be pulled from the shelves, others that were not approved by your FDA, and still others that simply require a prescription that the purchaser does not wish to obtain. Then he sold these drugs via the Internet and shipped them back to the United States. To escape detection at Customs, he had the drugs packaged with our island's rum. If anyone were ever to inspect a shipment, it would appear that the rum comes with aspirin, as our advertisements state. Instead, my brother was shipping Viagra, Oxycontin, Vicodin, Percocet, Cialis, and other drugs to the United States."
Lauren jerked her gaze back to the van, which was nearly empty by now. Several revelers had taken over handing out the bottles, and the rum supply was almost gone. She squeezed her eyes shut and said, "That's what those codes were for. They told the person picking up the shipment which drugs were packaged inside."
Jake coughed and Lauren opened her eyes to look at him. "That explains it," he muttered, and Lauren choked. So much for him getting turned on just by touching her. All the boxes in their delivery van were marked with VG—Viagara, Lauren presumed.
"Where is Emilio?" Rafael asked, a hard look coming over his features.
"He was in the plant the last time we saw him," Jake answered. "Tomas is there, too. In Emilio's office."
"Wait a second," Lauren said as Rafael turned to leave them. "I don't think Tomas knew anything about this drug operation. When I asked about the codes, he seemed surprised and looked to Emilio for an answer. It was Emilio who lied. There's no way he couldn't have known what those codes meant. He had to be involved."
Rafael frowned. "Emilio did seem to have a lot of cash to donate to my cause," he murmured under his breath.
"They could have been in on it together," Jake suggested.
"It's possible. We may never know," Lauren said.
"Perhaps not," Rafael agreed and started toward the manufacturing plant. When a gunshot rang out, he began running, with Jake and Lauren right behind him.
They reached the loading dock at the same time, just as Emilio Santos staggered out of the building, his chest covered in blood. His body lurched when he was shot again from behind. He swayed at the edge of a four-foot drop-off, his eyes locked on the trio who had frozen on the pavement a few feet away.
"I should have had it all," he whispered. Then, without another word, he fell, facedown, onto the concrete.
Lauren looked up to find a bloodied Tomas Santos standing in the open doorway, his hands clutched around a small black pistol.
"We keep this in the plant to kill the rats," Tomas said, his eyes glazed over with shock. And then he crumpled, going down like a balloon that had suddenly lost all its air.
Rafael leaped up onto the loading dock while Jake bent down to feel for Emilio's pulse. When he looked up and shook his head, Lauren knew that Emilio Santos would no longer pose a threat to his brothers. Lauren pulled herself up and into the manufacturing plant, taking the steps up to Emilio's office two at a time to find a phone so she could call for an ambulance since she had left her cell phone back in her purse in the delivery van.
When she got back downstairs, she found Jake awkwardly watching Rafael as he sat on the floor cradling his oldest brother's head in his lap.
"Emilio planned this all," Jake said quietly as he pulled Lauren outside to wait for the ambulance. "Unless Tomas is lying, which I doubt he has the presence of mind right now to do, he just told Rafael he knew nothing about the drugs. He said that Emilio warned him that Rafael was going to try to overthrow the government, that Rafael claimed he wouldn't be satisfied until he and he alone ruled Isla Suspiro."
Wearily, Lauren shook her head and sighed. All of this could have been avoided had Tomas and Rafael just talked to one another instead of believing the lies their brother had told them.
"So, how does it feel?" Jake asked, smiling down at her with a strange glint in his green eyes.
"How does what feel?" Lauren leaned into him, craving his strength. She felt as though she were about to collapse and didn't know how Jake managed to remain upright after all he had been through the past two days. He was a hell of a lot tougher than she was. She marveled at how different he was from the image he showed the world. He wasn't some one-dimensional movie hero, but a man committed to do whatever he had to do—even sacrifice his own life—to do what was right.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and rum and Jake.
"How does it feel to have almost single-handedly saved this island from a civil war? These people"—Jake waved at the revelers behind them, the families with children, the young people squealing with delight while their elders looked on with serene smiles—"owe their futures to you."
Lauren breathed in deeply and felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Stop that, she ordered herself. According to her Secret Agent's Handbook, spies never cried. Instead, she tightened her hold on Jake and looked up at him with a wobbly smile.
"It feels like you were right," she said. "I am whoever it is I believe I can be."
Jake smiled back at her and leaned down to kiss her with a light touch that instantly turned hotter, leaving them both breathless. "Do you believe you're the sort of woman who might agree to go out with me once we get off this island?" he asked, sounding charmingly unsure of himself.
Lauren laughed and pressed herself to him, feeling his arousal poking into her stomach. "Yeah, I believe I'm that sort of woman."
"Good," Jake said as he leaned down to kiss her again.
After another few breathless moments, Lauren pressed her lips to the sensitive spot just below Jake's right ear and rubbed her hips against his erection. "If that ambulance would hurry up, we could get back to the resort and take care of this little problem," she said with a throaty laugh.
Then Jake Haven, a man who two days ago Lauren had believed would do just about anything to get laid by a supermodel, shocked her speechless when he took a step back, clasped her hands in his, and solemnly said, "What I feel here"—he reached down and cupped one of her hands at his crotch, his arousal clearly evident to her touch—"is nothing. It will be gone in an hour. But this"—he pulled her hand away from his erection and put it against his heart—"will last forever."
And Lauren was so overwhelmed that all she could do was to smile up at Jake and think, My hero.
Eight and a Half Months Later on Isla Suspiro
"We need to pass emergency legislation to increase funding for health care," Rafael Santos said, pacing the floor of his brother's office overlooking the Caribbean Sea.
Tomas Santos sighed and rested his head in his hands. "We've already flown in hundreds of obstetricians and midwives from America. The new hospital will be finished in a week. I don't know what more we can do."
The men looked up when there was a knock on the door. Tomas's pregnant assistant entered, waddling over to his desk with a sheaf of papers that needed to be signed. She was followed by the head housekeeper, also very pregnant, who wheeled in a cart with the lunch she had prepared for the men.
"This is all Emilio's fault," Rafael muttered, once both of the women had left.
"God rest his soul," Tomas added. He was the superstitious sort and didn't believe in speaking ill of the dead. Fortunately, the American CIA agents had not confiscated the money from Emilio's illegal drug operation, with the caveat that Rafael and Tomas shut it down immediately. Those funds had been poured into building hospitals and improving the roads leading to those hospitals, as well as bringing in the medical staff the island needed for the enormous increase in births expected to begin within the next few weeks.
Tomas supposed he should be angry that his brother's folly had led them to this, but in a way, he saw the pregnancy epidemic as a sign of hope. Perhaps all of the new lives on the island would only make the people work harder for peace and prosperity. That was what he chose to believe, anyway.
And if there was one thing Tomas Santos had learned in his life, it was that you could accomplish anything… if only you believed.