His sister’s youngest son knelt in the aisle, gaze focused on the chapel’s marble floor, his arm bandaged where a bullet had struck it. “Forgive me, Jefe, but we did all you asked and more, and we cannot find them. They have vanished like two wisps of smoke.”
Hands clasped piously, Arturo bent his head as if in prayer, not wanting José-Luis to see his fear. Arturo César Cárdenas feared nothing. It was he who made others fear. Those who served him well, he rewarded. Those who failed him, those who betrayed him, he killed, their blood, their pain, their lives an offering to the one saint who ruled over all—La Huesuda, the Bony Lady, his grandmother had called her. He called herSanta Muerte.
Holy Death.
He raised his head, looked at the carved image of her that sat upon the altar, the candle he’d lit flickering at her feet. He’d had her carved from ivory and crowned with gold, her white hood and robes made of cloth taken from a priest’s robes. In one skeletal hand, she held a carved human skull, in the other a scythe used for harvesting human lives. And she was his protector.
She would protect him now.
His heartbeat slowed, fear cooling to anger. “Two people kill five of my men, escape in one of our cars, shoot you, my own nephew—and you cannot find them? I think you must not be trying. He is nothing but a thief and a liar, and she is just a woman, just another whore.”
An image of Natalie Benoit came into his mind. Young. Beautiful. Her strange blue eyes full of life. He’d been looking forward to having her for weeks. He enjoyed nothing more than dominating a woman until she broke, until her own suffering no longer mattered to her if it meant she could please him. Some of his women had walked willingly into the hands of Death for his sake. Others had fought him until the moment their souls had left their bodies, the fear on their young faces transforming to peace with their last breath. At that moment, they were more beautiful to him than they’d ever been.
Natalie Benoit would have made the perfect sacrifice. But now thischingaderowho’d stolen his shipment of cocaine had also stolen her. And his men had failed to bring them back.
He crossed himself, wanting to set a good example for José-Luis, ugly scarred bastard that his nephew was. Then slowly he rose to his feet. “This man who stole the shipment—the man you could not break. He has taken the girl for himself. He probably has her in a hotel somewhere and is even at this moment fucking what is mine. Get our police officers into the hotels with her photograph. Check every hotel in every town in the state of Chihuahua if you must, but find them. Then bring them to me.”
“Sí, Jefe.” José-Luis started to rise.
Arturo caught him by his injured arm and squeezed, ignoring his nephew’s gasp of pain. “You have lost me a sacrifice. I swear onLa Santa Muertethat if you do not find her, you will pay in blood.¿Comprende?”
“Sí! Sí, Jefe.”
CHAPTER 10
NATALIE THOUGHT ABOUT the kiss while she took another shower and shaved her legs. She thought about it while she slathered lotion on her skin. She thought about it while she blew her hair dry. She was still thinking about it as she started to dress.
The teasing brush of his lips over hers. The possessive way he’d clenched his fist in her hair. The steel-hard feel of his body against hers.
It had been so long since she’d felt the rush of desire that she’d almost forgotten what it was like—the racing pulse, the flutter in the belly, the urgent need to touch and be touched. In those few seconds, she’d felt more alive than she had since . . .
Since before Beau died.
Guilt, thick and greasy, spread through the pit of her stomach, leaving her cold. What was she thinking? Had she just compared Zach to Beau?
No, of course she hadn’t. There was no comparison. Zach was a stranger, a man she’d known for little more than forty-eight hours, a man who didn’t even trust her enough to tell her his last name.
Beau was the man she’d loved. He’d been her first date, her first real kiss, her first and only lover. He’d meant so much to her that she’d happily agreed to marry him and had worn his engagement ring proudly on her finger. She’d spent almost five years with him, never imagining that their life together would end so soon. How could she compare the way he’d made her feel to one silly kiss from a man she barely knew?
Except that the kiss hadn’t been silly. It had been passionate and hot and . . .real. Not just a memory. It had stirred something to life within her, making her blood run again, penetrating the numbness inside her. It had made herfeel.
And for those few seconds, she’d been herself again.
A woman could get addicted to that.
What was she thinking? Was she actually hoping Zach would kiss her again?
She was out of sorts. That’s all. She’d just survived a horrible ordeal and was confusing the gratitude she owed Zach with desire. The fact that he was as handsome as sin wasn’t helping. But she wasn’t really interested in him, no matter how good-looking or courageous he was. How could she be when she still loved Beau?
Beau has been dead for six years, girl. Isn’t six years long enough?
Refusing to acknowledge the question or the direction of her own thoughts, she tugged on her panties, drew her tank top over her head, and stepped into the skirt, tucking the tank top into its elastic waistband. Then, too furious with herself to look at her own reflection, she opened the bathroom door.
She found Zach sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning one of the AK-47s, watching a television newscast. At least he was wearing a shirt now.
“Check this out.” He gave a jerk of his head toward the TV, his hands busy.
On the screen a pretty young woman spoke in rapid Spanish that was hard for Natalie to understand. But running across the bottom were English subtitles, white letters spelling out news that made her stomach knot.