Reckless (4 page)

“
Help's here, Danny. You hear me?”

There were voices and thundering feet now.
Flashing lights bathed his brother’s haggard face in color. Red and
blue. The cops were there, too, then. Nick felt tears on his cheeks
and swiped them away. “They're here, Dan-o. It's gonna be okay.
You’ll be fine
—
home in time for your eighteenth. We'll party
like we planned. It's gonna be okay.”

Only it wasn't.

Nick shook himself free of the rage he'd felt
in the months following his brother's death. He'd blamed Danny’s
friends, but he'd only been sixteen then. Street smart but naive.
Those kids, he learned later, had been just like Danny. Young,
cocky, following the pack. It was the filth responsible for putting
the heroin onto the streets who ought to pay. And Nick knew who
that was.

“And pay he will,” Nick muttered. “If it
causes an inconvenience to one brown-eyed spitfire, that's just too
damn bad.”

He realized that water was running into the
tub. Maybe she was going to take that hot bath he'd suggested. He
hadn't expected her to comply quite so easily. Maybe he'd scared
her more than he thought. He told himself that was a good thing.
She'd be more cooperative, and a hell of a lot less trouble, if she
were afraid of him. God help him if she ever got it in her head
that he was all bark and no bite. She was cocky enough as it was.
She wouldn't be, though, if she had a clue how much trouble she was
in. Nobody—
nobody
—eyeballed Viper doing a hit and lived to
tell. That Lou Taranto had trusted Nick enough to send him along on
one of Viper's jobs was the best thing that had happened since Nick
had come in. And that had only happened because Lou knew someone
was informing on him, and was suddenly distrustful of everyone in
the gang.

To think all his work had nearly gone to hell
because one beautiful girl just happened to be in the wrong place
at the wrong time!

Nick's stomach growled, and he glanced at his
watch. Midnight, and he hadn't had a bite since lunch. He wondered
briefly whether Antonia had eaten dinner tonight, then shook the
thought away. It didn't matter to him if she was hungry or not.

The water gurgling and splashing into the
bathtub covered any noise she might have made scrounging for items
she could use to defend herself, if it came to that. She'd found
nothing. Not a can of hair spray—he obviously wasn't the hair-spray
type—or even a razor blade. The jerk used an electric one. It lay
beside the basin, still dusted in tiny black hairs.

She stared at the shaver and frowned. Why in
the world would he shave in this bathroom? Third floor, hidden-away
apartment tucked behind a wall in a mansion fit for a king. Why use
this
bathroom? She pondered if for a long moment, then had
to hurry to shut off the faucets. The tub was nearly brimming.

Steam curled from the water’s surface, and
she had to admit it was tempting. There wasn't a muscle in her
entire body that didn't ache from running, struggling with him, and
riding in his trunk. She was chilled to the bone and her feet hurt.
The bathroom door had an old fashioned lock and a keyhole. He
probably had a key. She'd been in there quite some time already,
though, and he hadn't bothered her yet. Maybe he wouldn’t.

The robe that hung from a hook on the door
was black velour. It probably came to his knees, but on her it
would hover around mid-calf. Maybe ankle. Still, it looked plush,
warm and inviting. Biting her lip, she turned the lock. She took a
big towel from the pile stacked nearby and placed it within easy
reach. At least she'd have something to cover up with if he decided
to come barging in. She peeled off her wet blouse, shimmied out of
her skirt then exhaled as she lowered her aching body into the
soothing bath.

Heat seeped into her, easing her knotted
muscles and chasing the chill away. She leaned her head back,
closed her eyes and realized that she had needed this. It was the
perfect prescription to help her calm herself, assess her situation
and begin to make a plan.

“I'm being held prisoner by a hit man,” she
mused, very softly in case the overgrown thug was listening. “So
obviously my first priority is staying alive. Ranks right up there
with finding a way to escape.”

She slid lower in the tub, until her head was
submerged, soaking her hair. When she resurfaced she reached for a
nearby bottle of shampoo. It wasn't a new bottle, as you'd likely
find in a seldom-used guest room. It was half-empty. She allowed
that information to take up residence in her brain for possible
future use.

“The question is, do I really
want
to
escape? When am I going to get this close to the Taranto gang
again? This is a research opportunity like nothing I've ever
had.”

Her last tell-all book, sold under the guise
of fiction, had blown the whistle on several key members of a
Colombian drug cartel. Government officials who, for one reason or
another, had been dragging their feet on the investigation had been
forced to act. Her sources for the book had all been genuine, her
information checked to the last detail, and she’d handed every bit
of it over to the DEA...just prior to book’s release date, giving
them time to round up the bad guys and haul their asses in before
they realized they’d been outed by a writer.

The pen truly was mightier than the
sword.

She'd changed the names of the players in the
book, of course, but she'd made sure the people who mattered got
the real names, places, dates, recordings, and so on. Of course,
the story revolved around ex-KGB operative turned American agent,
Katrina Chekov.
All
her books revolved around Katrina. The
last two had hit bestseller lists nationwide.

“And this one will be the topper,” she mused
aloud. “Katrina infiltrates the Taranto crime family.” She almost
laughed. If Mr. Macho out there had any idea it was Toni Rio
soaking in his tub, he'd probably have a stroke. Rumors about the
subject matter of her next book were rampant, and the mob was
getting nervous. Luckily Toni had always protected her identity.
She accepted telephone interviews only, and everything else was
handled through her agents and lawyers. If her face became
familiar, she'd never be able to move in the right circles and get
the information she needed to make her books authentic. In a way,
she
was
Katrina.

She shook her head. No, she wasn’t. She'd
like to be
Katrina. Katrina had the courage to do things
Toni could never do. While Toni snooped and eavesdropped behind the
scenes, Katrina stormed the front gates and faced whatever was
behind them. While Toni dreamed of finding the perfect man and
having a home and a family, Katrina dressed in slinky gowns and
seduced dangerous rogues. Katrina had all the courage Toni lacked.
If Katrina had been Tito's daughter, she would never have watched
in stunned silence as her father was slowly destroyed. She'd have
done something about it.

He hadn’t been a great guy. He hadn’t even
been a very
good
guy. But he’d been her dad, which was more
than any of the other daughters he’d sired ever got from him.

Toni blinked her guilt away and rinsed the
soap from her hair and face. It had trickled into her eyes and it
burned. She ignored the impulse to rehash her dad’s decline and
fall, or to mentally list all the things she should have done but
had failed to do. It was too late for any of it to make a
difference now.

She needed to concentrate on the matter at
hand. Being who she was and what she was, she probably ought to
stay right
where
she was, and consider this a golden
opportunity. Swallowing hard, she thought again about the man in
the next room. She was afraid of him, might as well admit it.
Hiding fear was something at which she'd become adept, but she felt
it as much as anyone else. Maybe more. She wished, not for the
first time, that she had a fraction of Katrina's spunk.

She rinsed her hair again, just for good
measure––it was so long and thick it required extra care––then
leaned back against the cool porcelain to think. It didn't look as
if she
could
get out of here at the moment. She probably
ought to escape at the first opportunity, though. She couldn't
write the book if she got herself shot in the head and dumped off a
bridge somewhere. Even if the giant in the other room had decided
to let her live, that could change in a heartbeat if he ever found
out who she was. So, while there might be a good measure of
cowardice in her decision, there was at least an equal measure of
practicality.

In the meantime, she decided, there was no
reason not to keep her eyes and ears alert. As long as she was
stuck here, she might as well get something out of it. And she
couldn't do that by cowering in a corner and shaking like a wet
dog.

When the water began to cool, she stepped out
of the tub, rubbed herself dry and pulled on the oversize robe. The
sleeves were too long, and she had to keep pushing them up while
she rinsed her underwear in the sink basin. She was arranging her
panties on the towel rack to dry when he knocked on the door.

She only glanced toward it and scowled, but
he thumped again.

“Antonia? Did you drown yourself in
there?”

She lip-synced his words back at him and
hopped up onto the counter to wait. It would be a good idea to know
for sure if he had a key to this room. She heard him swear and move
away after he pounded once more. Seconds later he returned and
maneuvered a key into the lock. He pushed the door open, saw her
sitting there and frowned as if puzzled.

Toni tried not to show her disappointment.
She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, slid down to the floor
and shouldered past him into the bedroom. He was behind her a
second later. His hand touched her elbow, and she resisted the urge
to pull it away. There was no sense in letting him see how
intimidated she was by his touch—how it reminded her of his size
and strength. He propelled her into the kitchenette, where a
pedestal table held two plates of food. He waved to one of them,
and warning prickles raced one another up her spine.

Steak oozed juices and columns of delicious
steam. Plump baked potatoes rested beside the meat, and small
dishes overflowing with leafy green salad completed his offering.
He moved to the refrigerator and stood in front of it, holding the
door open. “I have italian, ranch or catalina.”

Right. And he expected her to buy into this?
“I'm not hungry.”

He closed the fridge, a bottle in his hand,
and turned to frown at her. “At least try the salad.”

Toni's gaze slid from his eyes to the salad
bowls on the table. “You must think I'm an idiot.” She prayed her
false bravado wouldn't fail her now. “Let me correct that notion
for you. I won't be eating anything you try to feed me. You'll have
to think of something more original.” There was a numbing certainty
in her mind that he'd put more than salad into the bowl reserved
for her.

He stared for a moment before he understood.
“You think I drugged it, don't you?”

Her cold, level voice deserted her. She
couldn't come up with a fitting reply. A sickening mass writhed in
the pit of her stomach when she thought of how easily she could
have simply sat down and dug in. This was like walking blind
through a pit of cobras. She'd have to watch her every step.

“I don't quite know how to get this through
your head, Antonia, but I brought you here to keep you alive.”

That really
was
too much. Her temper
came into play, and her paralyzing fear was forgotten. “You brought
me here to keep me
quiet
, so don't try putting any noble
motivations on it. I think we might as well dispense with this bull
about a couple of days, too. We both know you have to silence me
permanently. A few days won't make a helluva difference, unless
you've figured a way to resurrect Vinnie Pascorelli from the
dead.”

His eyes widened. He lunged forward, one long
stride bringing him to her, and he gripped her upper arms and
glared into her eyes. “How the hell do you know his name?” He asked
the question softly, but his face looked dangerous.

Toni felt her heart flip over. She'd blown it
with her damn temper again, and it wasn't the first time. Now what?
“I...must've heard you say it to the other guy while I was playing
dead.”

She watched him turn that one over, trying to
remember if anyone had mentioned the victim's name. She waited. He
must not have been sure, because he let the matter drop. He
continued holding her arms, though. “I need to know if you have a
family. Anyone who's going to miss you.”

She thought of Joey, the only one of her
half-sisters she had contact with, had built a relationship with,
and her anger flared anew. “You think I'd tell you if I did? Would
you have to silence them, too?”