The Stealth Commandos Trilogy (56 page)

“
Pleeeze
,” she said wearily, angrily.

“You’re catching on.” He straightened the strap of her sundress and smiled. “Ask nice and ye shall receive.”

Twenty minutes and several taxi drivers later, Geoff had their first solid lead. One of the drivers that serviced the hotel recognized Hugh’s picture. The man was more than cooperative when Geoff slipped him a bill of a very large denomination. He offered to take Geoff directly to the nightclub where he’d driven Hugh. “Many times,” he added in Portuguese. “Many nights I drive him there.”

Geoff asked a few more pertinent questions, then found Randy wilted in a courtyard nearby, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a banyan tree. “You didn’t tell me Hugh was a tomcat,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“He had a yen for the fast life, nightclubs, strip joints.”

“Not Hugh.” She shook her head. “He’s as solid as Gibraltar. If anything, he’s a little straitlaced.”

“Then what was he doing at Cheiro de Amor?”

She came immediately alert. “What’s Cheiro de Amor? A nightclub? Did someone see him there? When?”

“He was seen there several nights, including the night before he disappeared. Not only that, Santeras owns the place.”

“Let’s go!”

“Hold on, Randy. The club is pretty racy. Are you sure?”

She dismissed the notion with a toss of her head.

“How racy could it be if Hugh went there? Of course I’m sure. When does it open?”

She was so eager and, as always, so damn sure of herself, Geoff had to subdue a smile. That’s right, sweetness, he thought. Lead with your chin.

Randy had always had a notoriously active imagination. It was one of her survival skills as a child. A latchkey kid, stuck in a dingy apartment while her mother worked double shifts, she’d fed her soul on dreams and fantasies, many of them inspired by Edna—Cinderella stories with lavish balls, beautiful gowns, and of course, a handsome prince waiting in the wings.

Tonight she felt stirrings of that childhood magic as she stepped in front of the wardrobe mirror to look at herself. Her dark hair was piled high on her head in a sexy heap, her crystal earrings nearly touched her bare shoulders, and her dress was simple, yet elegant, a glittery white slip-dress with rhinestone-studded straps. She had never been so aware of her own feminine appeal. Maybe it was the lights or the mirror or her own excitement, but she really did look ... desirable.

Geoff had told her the nightclub Hugh frequented was having a black-tie ball in celebration of Carnaval, and somehow he had managed to get two tickets to the sold-out affair. She couldn’t imagine how a club that required black tie of its customers could be as racy as he’d implied.

The grandfather clock in the suite’s foyer, began to chime, and its low vibrant music reminded Randy that she was late. Hurriedly she reached for her evening bag and the feathery white mask lying on the vanity.

Preoccupied with her mask and bag, she opened the bedroom door and walked into the suite’s main salon. She knew Geoff would probably be waiting for her, and she hoped he wasn’t the impatient type. But she wasn’t in any way prepared for the sight that greeted her when she looked up.

“Oh, am I late?” she breathed softly. “I’m ... sorry.”

He was standing by the grand piano, a drink in hand, which he set down as she entered. He looked more expectant than impatient. But even if Randy, with all of her penchant for fairy tales, had tried to fantasize what Geoff Dias would look like in black tie, she couldn’t have done him justice. He was fabulous, mouthwatering.

An element of surprise quivered in the sultry evening air as they stood across the room from each other, neither moving for a moment, both struck by what they saw. Geoff’s gaze moved over her as if he could actually see the inner radiance she felt, as if he were taking measure of her in a whole new way.

But Randy was barely aware that she was being surveyed. She was too amazed by his transformation. How could a mercenary with holes in his fatigues have metamorphosed so perfectly into a prince? Geoff Dias looked as if he’d been born to the role. The severe lines of the tuxedo streamlined his body, lending a fashionable leanness to his powerful physique. Even his storm-blown blond hair was the perfect accent to the stark black-and-white formal wear. It spilled around his shoulders in a white-gold cascade that contrasted dramatically with his suntanned skin and his emerald green eyes.

He might as well have stepped out of a dream, full-blown, Randy admitted to herself secretly. Her dream.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he assured her, his voice resonant, full of male nuances. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes, thank you ... whatever you’re having.”

He went to the sideboard and poured two fingers of Scotch from a crystal decanter, then added ice to the glass.

His back was to her, but Randy felt a little dizzy as she walked toward him, as if she were entering a force field that had risen up between them. Something made her want to hang back: perhaps it was the way her thoughts were racing. She was awash with anticipation, but she had no clear idea what she expected.

He startled her when he turned around. She was close enough to take the glass from his hand, and if their fingers hadn’t brushed, she might never have let out the surprised, apologetic sound. As it was she jerked back as if he’d burned her, and there was no way to recover gracefully. She could feel herself blushing as she tried to smile and shrug it off. “It’s all right.” she said, glancing at him as she took the drink. “I’m fine.”

Their gazes collided with almost physical force. Her head was tilted back slightly, and as she looked up at him, she knew it was going to be virtually impossible to tear herself away. His eyes were sinfully beautiful, so rich and verdant there was almost nothing she could do but gaze back at him. She could feel the pull of his interest all through her, tugging on her in deep and vibrant ways. Even her throat felt as if it were quivering. The perturbations were similar to those buzzing inside her when she’d been on his bike, but finer, much more exquisite.

It amazed her that he could bring her such pleasure with an accidental touch. Were her nerves that taut? One stroke and it felt as if they would resonate forever, like the strings on the beach troubadours’ mandolins.

As though Randy’s thoughts had summoned it, faint strains of music swirled up, drifting through their open terrace doors from somewhere in the near distance. Within seconds the music had grown louder and the beat more frenzied and insistent, pulling her attention away from the man standing before her. A raucous shriek of laughter made her start.

“What was that?” she asked, turning toward the doors.

“Carnaval. The parades must have started.”

Geoff walked to the doors and shut them, muffling the sounds, but the intrusion of reality had done its job. The element of surprise that had held both of them spellbound was gone. Only the tension remained, a high-pitched awareness of each other that increased as he turned back to her.

“Is the drink all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s fine.” She took a sip, hoping the icy liquor would slow her pulse. In the silence that followed, she began to realize what her nerves were all about. She’d had years to build a resistance to rough-and-ready biker types. Thanks to Edna, she had a natural immunity to rogues. But a rogue in a tuxedo? She hadn’t been prepared for that combination. It must have been the sight of Geoff Dias in black tie, looking amazingly sexy and aristocratic at the same time, that had temporarily stripped her of her defenses.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “Cheiro de Amor awaits.”

“Yes, let’s go.” She was glad to be on their way. Given how the night had started, she was looking forward to the distractions of a black-tie party—and especially the safety of a crowd.

S
O THIS IS CHEIRO
de Amor, Randy thought, thoroughly surprised and enchanted by the old-world Viennese elegance of the nightclub. Just moments before, she and Geoff had walked through the club’s front doors and into a world of sparkling chandeliers and ornate candelabras. The gilded extravagance of the baroque decor was breathtaking, including lush red velvet draperies and crystal figurines that resembled bacchanalian maidens. If she hadn’t known she was in the tropics, she might have thought she’d wandered into a European opera house. The place was almost decadent, it was so opulent.

No, it
was
decadent, she decided in the next breath, noticing the scanty French-maid outfits the hostesses were wearing. The one who greeted her and Geoff looked as if she’d misplaced her panties. More like an old-world bawdy house than an opera house. Randy decided as she and Geoff followed a particularly voluptuous Carioca hostess to a table for two near a heavily draped stage.

The sensual Latin music was a little disorienting too. Randy had to admit. One expected to hear a Strauss waltz instead of the low-pitched tribal drumbeats of a “dirty dance” like the lambada. As elegant as the place was, it fairly throbbed with an earthy and mysterious sexual quality.

All in all, Randy was intrigued. She’d only caught fleeting glimpses of the club’s other patrons as she and Geoff moved through the low-lit ambience to their table. Some had been in black tie, others in more elaborate costumes. All wore masks, which created a faintly ominous aspect that might have concerned her more if it hadn’t been Carnaval. Still, there was a sense of foreboding in the dark mood of the room.

Even her companion appeared somewhat sinister as she glanced at him across their table. Geoff was unusually quiet as he returned her gaze, as if he were evaluating something about her. Too quiet, she decided. The black domino mask he wore drew attention to his eyes and shadowed his face, playing dramatic tricks with his features. It carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, and the sensual line of his lower lip seemed to whisper of a hidden capacity for both tenderness and cruelty. He could have been one of Satan’s disciples, if not the Prince of Darkness himself.

Randy touched one of the graceful white feathers of her own mask and looked around the room, suddenly very curious about what sort of club it was. “What does
cheiro de amor
mean?” she asked Geoff.

He drew a long-stemmed red rose out of the bud vase on their table and handed it to her, a suggestion of a smile on his lips. “The smell of love,” he said.

“The rose, you mean?” She brought the petals to her nose and breathed in a musky, clinging fragrance that couldn’t have been the rose’s natural scent.

“No, I mean the club. It’s called the smell of love.”

“
Smell
?” Randy repeated the word, certain she couldn’t possibly have heard him right. She glanced furtively at the rose, then returned it to the vase, posthaste.

Before she could question Geoff any further, their

French maid arrived with a bucket of iced champagne and two
batidas
, Brazilian drinks made of guava nectar, green lemon juice, and
cacha
ç
a
, a fiery sugarcane liqueur. One sip and Randy decided the drink’s popularity was based on potency rather than taste. It had the kick of a twenty-mule team.

Geoff briefly conversed with the waitress in Portuguese, apparently asking her to run a tab. Randy began to fish through her purse, planning to show the woman Hugh’s picture, but Geoff signaled her to hold off with a quick shake of his head.

The brassy sounds of a bossa nova drew Randy’s attention to the opposite end of the room where a small live orchestra played on a balcony that was suspended from the wall above the dance floor. The dancers below wriggled and writhed with abandon, some of the women wearing little more than
tanga
. The men wore a variety of outfits, mostly fiendish in nature. Devils abounded in red tights, tails, and horns.

Randy didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. It looked like something out of Dante’s
Inferno
. One gyrating woman appeared to be wearing nothing more than a sheer black body stocking with budding roses hiding the nipples of her breasts and a necklace of roses adorning her bottom like a G-string. The only other rose on her was dead center over her navel.

Her partner was also dressed in form-fitting black, but his mask was an elaborate affair that included a black mane of hair and wolf’s ears. The two of them didn’t dance so much as circle, twirling and sniffing like two wild creatures engaging in a mating ritual.

“Are you sure this was the club Hugh came to?” Randy asked Geoff, trying to imagine her fiancé in such a place.

“According to the cabbie, he might as well have lived here.”

Randy shook her head, unable to take it in. Not only couldn’t she imagine Hugh in a flesh palace like Cheiro de Amor, she’d often wondered if he might be under-sexed. When she’d told him she wanted to wait until they were married, he hadn’t pressed her as most men would have. He’d always been patient and understanding.

Could Hugh have had a whole other life she knew nothing about? Randy helped herself to another drink of her
batida
, a deep pull this time. None of this made sense, but then nothing in her life had since Geoff Dias showed up. Maybe he’d kidnapped Hugh, she thought fancifully, taking the scenario to its absurd extremes. It was odd how Geoff had turned up just after Hugh disappeared. But then the ad she’d placed explained that ... didn’t it?

She felt something brush her hand and turned back to Geoff. His fingertips just touched hers, and she was struck with how ruggedly beautiful his hands were, how much latent male power they conveyed. The backs were large and strong, roped with tendons, burned by the sun. But his fingers revealed a different man. They were extraordinarily long and sensual, imbued with the sensitivity and fine-motor control of an artist. Stranger yet, his nails looked as if they weren’t entirely unfamiliar with a manicurist’s file. Artist, biker, or mercenary? she wondered. His hands were full of contradictions, like him.

“As long as we have the champagne ... ” he said, taking the bottle from the bucket. He filled two flutes and handed Randy one. “To Carnaval,” he said, touching his glass to hers. “A feast for the senses.”