Miranda's Mate (16 page)

“Sir.” She managed to look alert without exactly looking at him.

“The blood bond means you should be able to communicate telepathically. I’d like to spend the next hour or so practicing so you get to know what our mind voices sound like.”

Her eyes widened and darted from agent to agent. Right. All of them were some kind of shifter. Part of her wanted to ask for more information, but long habit kept her lips sealed.

“I will sign off,” Lars said. “See you all soon. Here is to our success. The world will be a better place without Roulan and his filthy operation.” Lars’ handsome face grinned on the video monitor. “Correction. It is already a better place without Roulan, thanks to Miranda. A preemptive strike, which further weakens his business, is a positive move. If we can cripple their income stream and free at least a few of the captives, we will truly celebrate.”

“I’ve always loved your optimism.” Garen smiled. “See you soon.” His piercing gaze moved around the table. “Mind speech only.”

A blast of voices battered her. Miranda put her hands over her ears and then laughed at her gaffe.
“One at a time, please. Let me get used to you one at a time.”
She thought the words and pushed them, much as she did in her lycan form. Everyone must have heard her because the cacophony in her head died down.

She was tired by the time Garen dismissed them with instructions when to meet at Boeing field the next day. All of them but her. He’d requested she remain. Miranda’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. What did he want now? Wasn’t it enough he was coming along on this venture—her project—to babysit her? At least she’d put some distance between them while she was in the ISL compound.

Gee. Since when does being scared half out of my wits and forced to be vigilant even when I’m sleeping look better than spending time with a man who shatters me every time he looks at me?

Since I’m out of control when I’m with him. All I want to do is cozy up in his arms and fuck him and let him take care of me. If I spend too much time with him, I’ll end up a weak, mewling hausfrou baking cakes and raising kids.

“Miss Miller?” Garen had an odd look on his face. She remembered the blood bond and wondered just how much of her mental process was available to him. Just to be safe, she shrouded her thoughts.

“Yes?”

He closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms. She tried to be wooden, to resist, but found herself leaning into his warmth and solidness. She tilted her face for a kiss, but he just looked at her with sad eyes. “Be careful. Do not take any untoward chances. If things seem to be going south—and you’ll know, you have good instincts—get the hell out of there. I don’t care if you have to crawl out a fucking drain pipe. Do not remain if there’s even a hint you’ve been compromised.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“Do you?” He tipped her chin and forced her to look right at him. “They will kill you without a second thought. These people are merciless.” He closed both arms around her again and held her close. His next words were whispered, and so low she had to strain to hear them. “I don’t particularly want to live in a world without you in it, Miranda. Be vigilant.”

He let her go. The places his body had pressed against hers felt cold and bereft. He turned away and gathered things into his briefcase. “Dismissed.”

“But—”

“Get out of here, Miranda, before I do something I promised I wouldn’t.”

She picked up her backpack, which doubled as a briefcase, and walked heavily from the room. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She wanted Garen. If things went to shit in San Ysidro and she died, she knew she’d regret not having shared one last night with him.

Miranda shook her head hard and activated the electronic keypad to let herself into the stairwell. “I do not need emotional complications.” She spoke aloud to reinforce her resolve. And then she repeated the words. By the time she got to street level that would lead her to a taxi stand, she’d said them over at least twenty times, but she still wasn’t convinced.

Miranda took a slug from the water bottle tucked in her over-the-shoulder bag. Unseasonable heat made what few clothes she was wearing stick to her; sweat ran down her sides. Even though it was on the U.S. side of the border, San Ysidro was bleak and depressing. Trash clotted the gutters of its illegal red-light district. Brothels, masquerading as strip clubs, lined both sides of the street. She’d been in half a dozen clubs and heard the same thing: come back tonight. Apparently no one who could make a decision was available at five in the afternoon.

Though she hadn’t seen any of them, the rest of the team was in proximity. They checked in telepathically with one another every hour if nothing was going on, more frequently if one of them had something to report.
“I’m heading back to alpha one,”
she sent.
“I’ll hit the beat again around twenty-one hundred.”

“Señorita.”

Miranda plodded toward the boarding house where she’d bought a week’s worth of lodging. No reason not to take a break, have a bite to eat, and gear up for the evening.

“Señorita, stop.”

Surely he can’t be talking to me.
She glanced around the nearly deserted street. A swarthy man draped in a colorful serape motioned to her from one of the clubs she’d wandered into. Miranda tapped her chest and cocked her head to one side. She’d be damned if she’d shout back at him.

He nodded enthusiastically, so she trotted toward him. Her pulse quickened. Maybe her luck was about to change. She struck a seductive pose right next to the tall, dark man with greasy hair. “Yes?”

“I talk to boss man. You have place to stay?” His Mexican accent was so thick it wasn’t easy to understand him.

Miranda shook her head. “No money. It’s why I went in your bar huntin’ work.”

He beamed at her, displaying yellowed teeth with several missing. “This your lucky day, señorita. Come with me.”

“Scratch my last transmission. Things are popping.”
Miranda shifted her weight to her other foot and pushed her breasts forward. “Where you takin’ me, handsome?”

“Special house. You stay there.”

Miranda did her best to look distressed. “I told you. I got no money to pay rent.”

“No rent. Free for pretty señoritas like you.” As if sensing her hesitation, he added, “Food too. You hungry?”

Miranda nodded. A tear slid down one cheek.
Shit! I should have gone to Juilliard.
“Um, I’m just not sure. Where is this place?”

“Not far. Car coming.” Beady eyes turned away from her and scanned the street. “Just turn corner.”

A shiny black Cadillac motored right toward them and screeched to a halt. Her Mexican companion tugged the back door open. A quick glance showed her the inner rear door handles had been removed. No point in trapping herself unnecessarily. She hung back. “I get carsick. Need to ride in the front. Or I could walk if you’d give me an address.” She smiled brightly.

The Mexican looked uncertain. He leaned into the car and spoke with the driver in the Mexican patois of gutter Spanish mixed with a few English words. Miranda felt the driver’s gaze settle on her. She did her best to look harmless and sexy. It worked. The driver leaned over and pushed the front passenger door open. “Get in,” he grunted. His English was considerably better than the other man’s.

Miranda settled herself, taking care to flash an expanse of thigh before she tugged her long, slit skirt together. She ignored her seatbelt. The driver wasn’t wearing one. “Where we goin’?”

The car lurched forward, hung a U-turn, and accelerated. “You’ll find out when we get there. It ain’t far. The girls can walk from there to work.”

Miranda assumed work was where they’d just been. “It’s kind of you to help a stranger—” she began.

“Quiet. I ain’t interested in conversation. Or sex, so you can just keep your skin to yourself.”

Well, that’s a relief.
The taciturn driver was balding and at least fifty pounds overweight. He looked like he came from somewhere in the Mediterranean, but his accent was pure Brooklyn.

Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the ISL compound. Miranda peered out the window and pointed. “Is that it? You were right, it wasn’t far at all.”

“Get out. Knock on the glass door.” His brow furrowed. “You got any stuff?”

“Nope. In-laws dumped me. All I got’s in here.” She patted her shoulder bag and pursed her lips, aiming for an expression between sad and angry. “They would’ve taken everything, but I fought ’em for my bag.”

“Fine, sister. I don’t give a fuck. Just didn’t want you leaving anything in here. Get out. Taxi ride’s over.”

She walked smartly to the double glass doors and pushed. Locked, which wasn’t a surprise. Once she got in, getting out would take some doing. She’d be surprised if they let her out to work or do anything else until they were certain she wouldn’t make a break for freedom and turn them in.

“I said knock,” the driver yelled out his window.

Miranda raised a fist and knocked.

It took a while, but an overweight woman with gray hair pulled into a bun eventually clumped down the staircase Miranda could see across the dingy lobby. She pulled a ring of keys from her belt and undid a series of deadbolts. Wires were visible in the glass. An alarm system.

The woman pulled the door open. “Needing a place to stay, are you?”

Miranda nodded. “I got no money.”

The woman waved her to silence. “No matter. We’ll take care of you. Come on with me, I’ll take you to your room. Dinner’s in fifteen. We’ll pass the dining room along the way so you can see where it is.”

* * * *

Miranda sat at a trestle table filled with chattering women. Children ran through the dining room as if they owned the place. If she hadn’t known better, the ISL compound would have looked like a college dormitory for unwed mothers. Her roommate, a sullen Asian woman with doll-pretty features, hadn’t said three words to her. Miranda had tried to say hello and been met with, “English no good.” The woman, Tara, sat across the room with a gaggle of other Asians.

Miranda’s gaze scanned the dining room. Perhaps fifty women—and a few very attractive men—filled the tables. Other men, presumably guards, milled around the room. The bulge of weapons showed beneath their jackets. It wasn’t obvious, but she knew the outline of a semiautomatic pistol, no matter how subtle.

Adrenaline thrummed. It was hard to choke down the stringy, dried-out pork chop on her plate. The mashed potatoes had the consistency of gluey cardboard. A dollop of applesauce tasted watered down. She took a sip of over-sweetened iced tea.

“Hey.” The woman nearest her jabbed Miranda. “You gonna eat that?”

“Probably not. I’m a little nervous, being new and all. Is this a, um, whorehouse? Is that why they feed us and give us a place to sleep?”

The woman—actually she didn’t look a day over sixteen—had spiky red hair and a face full of freckles. She rolled her green eyes. “They ain’t sat down with you yet. You’ll get the skinny soon enough. Your dinner?”

Miranda smiled. “You can have it. What’s your name?”

“Becky.” The young woman sidled closer. Her gaze skittered around the room. “It’s against the rules,” she hissed into Miranda’s ear. “You got to eat what they set in front of you. Think they got the calories all planned out or something. Just enough to keep us fit enough to work.”

“I’m Miranda. I’ll just reach over you for the tea.”

Becky got the picture. In the split seconds while Miranda’s body acted as a shield, she transferred the meat and half the potatoes to her plate. The girl ate hungrily. Miranda tried to choke down more of the potatoes, but they were truly vile. She was just contemplating returning to her room when one of the guards headed toward her table. Miranda dropped her gaze and took another mouthful. Damn! Had he seen her sleight of hand to allow Becky more food?

A heavy hand settled on her shoulder. “Come with me.”

Miranda sucked in a breath. “I, um, I’m not quite done eating yet.”

The guard snorted, blowing spittle in her face. “Ask me if I care, bitch. I ain’t gonna ask again.” The hand on her shoulder slid forward and settled over one of her breasts. Miranda cursed her formfitting top, which left nothing to the imagination.

“Hey, sister.” Becky nudged her. “It’ll be okay. It’s just orientation. Happens to all of us when we first get here. They won’t put you to work for a few days. Got to get your health clearance back first.”

Miranda ducked from beneath the guard’s hand. She longed to grab hold of it and break his wrist. It’d be easy enough to do so long as she got the angle right. “Okay. Okay,” she said. “I’m coming.”

The guard followed her out of the dining room. “Left. To the end of the hall.”

Miranda gathered as much intel as she could. Her room was the opposite way, so she hadn’t been down this hallway before. It was lined with closed doors. At the end of the hall, the guard tapped on one. It opened almost immediately. He shoved her inside; the door snicked shut behind her.

She kept her eyes on her feet. This wasn’t the place to look anything but cowed.

“Timid one, eh?”

Miranda looked up for a moment. She tried for a deer-in-the-headlights look before she studied the carpet again. A stunning man sat behind a carved wooden desk. Dark hair framed his clean-shaven face and fell to his shoulders. Dark eyes held cunning and a keen intelligence. Tailored clothes set off his broad-shouldered frame to perfection.

Her nostrils flared. Expensive aftershave applied with a too-liberal hand filled the smallish room that looked like a study.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

“No. Just nervous, I guess.”

“You can look at me. I don’t bite.”

Ha! I’ll just bet you don’t.
She met his gaze. “It was, um, kind to take me in since I don’t got much. I, er, understand I got to work. I’d applied at some of them clubs—”

He waved her to silence. “I said you could look at me. I do the talking, Miss—” he raised a questioning brow.

“Oh. I done forgot my manners.” She blushed prettily. “Miranda Buckley. Guess it’s really missus, ’ceptin’ my husband threw me out. Buckley’s my family name—”