Gina Takes Bangkok (The Femme Vendettas) (19 page)

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

His lips brushed her forehead and withdrew. She gave a huff of disgust. “You call that a kiss?”

“I call that”—he kissed one cheek—“a woman strutting her sweet pink behind up twenty-five floors”—he kissed the other cheek—“I call that’’—he licked up the length of her throat to nuzzle behind her ear—“a woman who kisses another woman”—he flicked his tongue inside her ear, tickling—“just to disappear into a bedroom”—he treated the other side of her neck the same way—

“You could’ve joined us.” She twisted to capture his lips, a move he ducked.

“—knowing there was no way in hell I was sharing you.” He slipped his hand through the slit in her robe and cupped her left breast. He froze, groaned. Ah-ha! It wouldn’t be long now before he relented. He sucked in his breath and resumed stroking her breast, stopping short of her nipple. No matter, it perked up hard and made contact with his palm. He stopped again. His lids grew heavy and a downward glance at the front of his boxers told her she was beating him at his little game.

“Then last night, you in that dress. With that bottle.” He plucked at her nipples already so hard—“You’re all talk, no action.”

She gripped the silky folds of the sheets to hold herself back. “That’s not fair. I can give you action. You won’t let me.”

He swept away the other half of her robe, exposing her entire naked body to him. He studied her, his heavy, heated gaze gliding along her tummy, her moistening folds, her legs. He even stopped at her feet, and she wiggled her pink-painted toes for his viewing pleasure. He took his time traveling back up her body and came to rest at her breasts again, his hand settling between them. “Please take them,” she offered. “In your hands. Your mouth. Against your chest.” She glanced again at his boxers. “Take them anywhere you like.”

He smiled, a soft, slow thing that crinkled his eyes and crinkled her heart into a tight achy ball. And it was this smile that finally, finally touched her mouth.

Its sweetness nearly made her break her promise. One hand twitched and she had to slam it back against the mattress. He must’ve registered that, because his smile widened on her. His tongue ran along her lips and his mouth spread hers open. His tongue flicked the soft tissues there, then he pulled out and slipped back inside. Again and again. Her heels dug into the mattress and her hands had gathered up fistfuls of pink sheet in an effort to hold up her end of the bargain. Her entire body quivered with the need to grab hold of him.

And then, before she could prepare herself, he drew one finger through the folds between her legs. She yelped, her hands clamped on his shoulders, her leg hooked around his. He went still. His tongue, lips, hands withdrew. He sat up, stood.

She beat her hands on the sheets, drummed her heels on the mattress, the mirrored ceiling capturing her tantrum. Which was so not funny. “Kannon! What sane woman would’ve done any different?”

“True.” His voice was gentle, liquored with humor. “But, Gina, what are we if we can’t keep our promises?”

He strolled over to the chair and picked up his shirt—the shirt she’d rinsed out for him so he wouldn’t have to walk around with a big blood spot on himself—and slipped it on.

She took a deep breath. “You’re a big, fat jerk. With a big, fat hard-on. Remember, I lose, you lose.”

All she got was a long, slow smile.

“You wait until our first date,” she kept on, in an effort to prove her point. “You think you’re cool, huh? I’ll get you so worked up people down the block are going to need a cigarette when we’re done!”

At that, his smile became a full-out grin. “Promise?”

Ek stalked up the stairs to the third floor of the rundown hotel where he’d arranged the early morning meeting with his…partner. His battered body ached and his arm throbbed from having his elbow dislocated, and then from his snapping it back into its socket. The second he got Alak Montri back, he was going to hunt down the motherfucker who did this to him and rip him apart. No, he was going to first castrate the motherfucker and feed him his balls. No, feed his balls to John Wakai before he beat the crippled worm to death with his own wheelchair.

But first, the clusterfuck that was Alak Montri had to be dealt with. Reaching his floor, he passed the three men guarding the place, all giving him a wide berth, and banged on the door.

It opened immediately to Victoria, and he shoved his way in. He rammed her up against the wall and put a one-hand choke on her with his good arm. “Your fucking brother has taken Montri.”

Her small anticipatory smile at his roughness vanished, and her eyes rounded with shock. “What? When?”

“Last night. One of my men on Montri was shot in the leg, the other beat so bad it’ll be weeks before he can walk again. We need to fix this. You need to fix this.” He pressed his thumb hard on her pulse so the blood would pound through her ears. He felt her relax. Fuck. That was the trouble with roughing up female rakshasi. They got off on it, which defeated the purpose for doing it in the first place.

“You need to get him to tell you where Alak Montri is, you understand?”

She scowled. “Don’t worry, I will. But you’re not to harm John. You need him. He’s so smart.”

“He’s outsmarting us,” growled Ek.

“He’s not going to betray us.”

“He just did!”

“Can’t you see, Ek? He’s my brother. We’re family. Like you and me.”

“He still needs to be brought back under our heel.”

“He’s not some dog to be whipped, Ek. John’s always loved me. Always understood my needs. If you two would try to get along you’d see that.” Head still pinned to the wall, she stretched her arms and legs toward him, trying to climb him like a monkey in heat.

He threw her to the carpet, and walked away as if she were a bag of garbage. “He’s not a rakshasa. He’ll never understand your needs.”

She crawled after him on all fours until her head was at his crotch. “But I am,” she replied. “And you do.”

That’s right, he did. He took a fistful of her hair with his good hand and yanked back. She yelped in pain and grabbed his balls. Hard. He hissed and didn’t let go of her hair. They held onto each other this way, a smile spreading across her face. “The same blood runs in our veins, Ek. Can you feel it?”

Fuck, yes. The pain in his testicles was sharp; it only made him harder. He thrived on pain. Even his own. And looking into her bright burning eyes he saw himself reflected. Like him, she was of his kind, and soon enough the two of them would rule Bangkok.

Her fingers tightened and pain shot straight through his system to his hand gripping her hair. He dug his fingers into her scalp. “A week or two and my brother will have done his job,” she gasped and rolled her head against his iron hold. “Then Montri is his slave. We can do whatever we want. Think of how happy we’ll all be. Think of how much our family will grow.”

Nothing was as easy as that. Nothing was gained except through blood, sweat and more blood. She might be rakshasi, but she still had a lot to learn.

He slapped her across the face so hard she fell to the floor, letting go of his testicles. He reached down and picked her up by her hair amid her pained and excited cries. And he’d be the one to teach her.

Gina leaned over Kittyjack’s shoulder, eyes glued to Wakai’s video of Alak Montri as it inched along, frame by frame. Badly beaten, tied to a chair, surrounded by sadistic killers, the man still managed to look defiant. She didn’t know how he did it.

“Here’sthepart,” said the hacker in her machine-gun voice as a masked man stepped into the picture, a newspaper in his hands to prove the date of the video. With a click of her mouse, Kittyjack paused it, then rolled back her chair a bit so that Gina and Kannon could move in.

Kannon stood a few feet back, chewing gum. “Looks pretty clean. Shot in front of a blank wall so there’s no indication of the interior. Newspaper is sold across the city so no geographical location, either. Mr. Montri’s hands are tied behind his back so he can’t signal in any way. And the man holding the newspaper has his face covered so there’s no way to identify him. Looks like Wakai covered all the bases and for the last time”—he glared at Kittyjack—“talk so I can hear what you’re saying.”

Kittyjack sat there, wearing a faint gloat and a t-shirt that read, ‘Intellectuals solve problems. Geniuses prevent them.’ “You’re right that they didn’t make any obvious mistakes. In the end they made three, and they’re all in just a few seconds of footage.”

She’d delivered a challenge. Gina turned to Kannon. “You up for this, Team Genius?” Kannon apparently understood the reference, because he tilted his head to the screen to give her first-go. Despite plastering her eyeballs to the screen, Gina drew a blank.

She pulled back to give him a turn. “Sorry, Kannon, can’t hold up my end.” She wagged a finger at Kittyjack’s words. “‘Pride doeth come before a fall’, as a dear nun I know often misquotes to me.”

Kittyjack grinned. “It’s more pity I’m feeling.”

Kannon pointed at the screen, first at the ankles of Montri, then at those of his captor. “The bottom of the kidnapper’s pant leg looks wet.”

Gina honed in on Kannon’s observation. “You’re right. There’s been no rain, so they were near one of the canals. They could’ve easily gotten themselves wet stepping off a boat or something.” She switched back to Kittyjack, and made the descending sound of a falling object.

Kittyjack set her jaw. “And the second clue?”

Kannon’s dark eyes scanned the still video. This time it took the better part of a minute before he picked out the guard’s hands. “His knuckles. They’re enlarged.”

“Yes,” Kittyjack conceded. “About twice the size of a normal person’s.”

Gina made a second descending whistle. “And that means…?”

“It means that he’s likely a serious bare knuckle fighter,” Kannon said. “And an old school one at that. Remember the photos hanging in the home of Lwin Kinjo? Hands like that used to be common in Asian boxers about fifty years ago thanks to a practice called pinging.”

Gina blinked. “Pinging?”

“A boxer,” Kannon explained, “would punch an anvil so hard he made it ping. The force of the blow would break the cap of their middle knuckles, and when they healed up they’d be much rounder and larger. Being punched by someone like that would be like getting hit with a hammer. Only the most hardcore fighters did that.”

Gina snuck a look at Kannon’s hands. Sure enough, his middle knuckles were large, calloused and iron hard. “Or someone who wouldn’t really feel it.” Here he was in the middle of showing exactly how brilliant he really was, and all anybody would see—all he saw—were those knuckles. “That’s all very fascinating, how does it help us find Alak?”

“Not too long ago I saw a man with knuckles like mine on board your father’s boat.”

Gina thought about it. “Jarun?”

Kannon jutted his chin at the screen. “I bet that’s him. Now, we need a where, not a who.”

“Until you meet someone like me,” Kittyjack smiled. “Bet I can tell you where this Jarun guy is going to be tomorrow night.”

Kannon studied the screen yet again. C’mon, Gina cheered him on silently. Don’t let the nerd girl win. “I don’t see how.”

Kittyjack opened her mouth right when Gina cut her off. “I’ll find it.” She leaned in again.

Kannon sighed. “We don’t have time for these games. Let her tell us.”

“One minute.” She studied the screen, willing something to appear. And it did. “Lookee, lookee! Jarun’s eyes. He’s reading the back of it. Like a headline caught his eye.”

She whirled in triumph to Kittyjack, whose peeved expression said it all. Gina made a loud crashing noise. “That is the sound of pride breaking into a million pieces,” she crowed. “Team Genius takes gold!” She raised her hand to do a high-five with Kannon, who actually did it with her, even though he was looking at her as if she had tumbled off the edge of sanity herself.

“I would’ve never taken you for the competitive type,” he commented.

“Oh, if I play, it’s to win.” She leaned on Kittyjack’s table and let the double meaning hang between them.

“Better shove over, you need to share the podium with me,” Kittyjack said. She opened her top desk drawer and pulled out a copy of the same newspaper. “Not a headline, an advertisement.”