I'm not a crier. Never have been, never will be. But the thought of what awaited me had me choking up with fearful tears. So far I'd been left alone, but something told me that was just because I was meant for "the boss", one Vitaly Karahalios, international crime kingpin extraordinaire. I had no doubt that whatever he had in mind wouldn't be at all pleasant. Rape, torture, and murder had all been suggested as possibilities for what awaited me.

I had to hold on to hope that Harris would, somehow, find me and rescue me. Preferably before anything too f.u.c.ked up was done to me.

I made a new mantra: Harris is coming. Harris is coming. Harris is coming.

The helicopter angled inland, and after maybe twenty minutes flight time, we landed in an empty gra.s.s field beside an old twin-engine prop plane. The gra.s.sy field, I realized, was a makeshift airstrip, meaning Caracas, Venezuela still wasn't my final destination. The fixed-wing airplane's engines were spinning, and as I was hustled off the helicopter, the airplane's rudder and flaps wiggled as the pilot prepared for takeoff. I tried to distract myself from my ever-present fear with mental images of flying, checking dials and flipping switches and going through the checklist-all the boring s.h.i.t you have to do to get to the good stuff: soaring through the air, free, high above it all, a bird's-eye view of the world and all its attendant troubles. I was shoved-none too gently, and with a lingering touch on my a.s.s-up the stairs and onto the plane. There were a few metal chairs bolted to the floor up front near the door to the c.o.c.kpit, but the rest of the fuselage was empty. It had clearly once been a pa.s.senger plane, but had long since been retrofitted to serve as a cargo plane, with tie-downs bolted to the walls and floors.

Yuri buckled me in, took a chair beside me, and then called out in his language. The plane rotated in place, and then I heard and felt the engines ramp up, felt the ground b.u.mping under the wheels, and then the lurch as we left the earth, angling aggressively upward.

And then...?

More boredom. Hours and hours of absolutely nothing, not even anything to see, as the tiny round windows were too far away to show me anything except the blue sky and the occasional sc.r.a.p of cloud. Hours and hours of flight, Yuri snoring beside me. I could have unbuckled and jumped out, but I didn't have a parachute, didn't know how to use one, and didn't fancy my chances of surviving a fall from an airplane. And his weapon was tucked in against his body, which meant if I tried to take it, he'd wake up and I'd be in trouble. Nothing to do but wait, it seemed.

So I endured the boredom as best I could.

We landed, eventually, and Yuri woke with a start when we hit the ground. As soon as the plane was stopped, he hauled me off the airplane and into yet another f.u.c.king aircraft, this one another helicopter pretty much identical to the first.

I groaned out loud. "Jesus, really? More flying? This has got to be the most tedious kidnapping in the history of kidnapping."

Yuri shot me a glance. "You would like it to be more exciting, then? I can think of ways."

"Well, when you put it that way, maybe boring is good."

"In your place, boring is good."

The helicopter lifted off and we headed south over lush greenery. No one said a word. I contemplated jumping out and taking my chances in the jungle, but Yuri's gaze flicked over to me regularly, as if to a.s.sess my inclination for just such a move. He was close enough that he'd probably be able to grab me before I even got myself unbuckled.

"Where are we going?" I asked, after an hour or so had pa.s.sed.

"So Paulo," Yuri muttered. "No more questions. Nearly there."

Harris is coming. Harris is coming. Harris is coming.

A city came into view, vast and sprawling, the jungle giving way very suddenly to an urban landscape ensconced a few miles inland from the sea. G.o.d, the urban sprawl. It was dizzying. The helicopter zipped in low, only a few hundred yards above the tallest buildings, making a beeline across the city. I heard the pilot speaking-Brazilian? Portuguese? I was pretty sure they spoke Portuguese in Brazil, and So Paulo was in Brazil. Right? G.o.d, I was so ignorant of world geography. Anyway, I heard him speaking, and then the aircraft slowed as we approached a specific building, our destination. A hotel, by the looks of it, a big, fancy one, the kind that had helicopter landing pads on the roof.

The landing was gentle as a feather wafting on a breeze, the touchdown barely registering. The rotors didn't stop or slow as Yuri unbuckled himself, threw open the door, and leapt out past me. I had myself unbuckled but he refused to let me get down on my own, grabbing me by the waist and lifting me down. The wash from the helicopter forced me to bend almost double, making a tangled nest of my already gnarled hair. Yuri grabbed my wrist and dragged me across the roof at nearly a run, through a door and into an elevator, inserting a key and twisting it.

We descended briefly, and then the doors opened.

"Ah. Miss Campari." The voice was accented, deep as a canyon, smooth as silk. Quiet, like a predator. "Welcome."

I saw the man who owned the voice. Only a few inches taller than me, but broad and powerfully built, he had thick wavy black hair, piercing dark eyes, weathered olive skin, and a square, granite jaw. He exuded threat and power. He wore tailored black slacks, and a dove-gray polo shirt left untucked. Barefoot. Clean-shaven.

Something in his eyes as he a.s.sessed me made me shiver. This man was...terrifying.

I wanted to hide behind Yuri, but he was already backing into the elevator, twisting the key, and then the doors were sliding between us, leaving me alone. I stood alone, facing Vitaly Karahalios. All but naked, and completely terrified.

He stalked over to me, flicked a loose curling tendril of hair with a fingertip, circling around me like a cat toying with a mouse. His fingertip traced down my spine where the shirt gaped open. I shivered and fought the urge to shy away. Another brief touch, this time to my shoulder. Nudging the shirt off my shoulder; the cotton slipped down to my bicep on one side, and then he nudged at the shirt on the other side, and it fell even more.

He circled back in front of me, hooked his finger in the collar and tugged. I let him remove the shirt, standing before him in nothing but my thong. I kept my back straight, my knees locked, my chin high.

Defiant.

Don't show fear-I knew his kind all too well.

"They brought you here like this?" he asked. "I will have to scold them. You are a guest."

"I don't feel like a guest," I ventured.

"Perhaps not. Nonetheless, you should have been treated better. How was your trip here?"

I stared at him. "They threw me in a tiny room on a ship that had no windows and stank of fish. The airplane and helicopters were okay, though."

"Not in a proper room?" he demanded, seeming genuinely puzzled.

I shook my head. "It was worse than a prison cell."

"Idiots." He withdrew a cell phone from his trouser pocket, touched a speed dial number, and put the phone to his ear. He spoke briefly in a foreign language, his voice sharp but quiet. After replacing the phone in his pocket, he bent and retrieved my shirt, handing it to me. "I will arrange proper clothing for you in a moment, after we've had time to acquaint ourselves. But first, I must have a word with Yuri."

As if on cue, Yuri emerged from the elevator. If I was any judge of his facial expressions, he was s.h.i.tting bricks. He glanced at me as if in question, and I just shrugged.

"Yuri," Vitaly said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is not what I was expecting. I am not pleased with you, I'm afraid."

"I brought her here, boss," Yuri mumbled. "Not hurt. No one messed with her. Nico, he tried, and I shot him. He was gonna stop the boat and-you know. But I stopped him."

"Where are her clothes?"

"This is what she was wearing when we take her. Swear."

Vitaly was quiet a moment. "And why is her shirt cut open?"

"Nico. I told you, boss, he-he was gonna rape her."

"And why did you not give her your shirt? Or find her something else to wear?" He stepped closer to Yuri, staring at him. "And why was she put in a cell? She should have had the captain's quarters. I told you, Yuri. She was not to be mistreated."

"I'm sorry, boss, I didn't think-"

"No," Vitaly murmured. "No, you did not think."

Perhaps I only thought I saw the movement. It was so fast, so neatly and easily done. Snick, a blade shot out of a handle that had appeared in Vitaly's palm, and then with a sudden flash of his wrist, the blade was snugged between Yuri's ribs on his left side, angled upward. Vitaly stepped back after a moment, withdrawing the blade. Yuri stood for a moment, blinking, confused, and then he toppled to the floor, slightly sideways and backward at the same time. Blood darkened his shirt, trickled slowly to the floor and began pooling, dark red on the white marble floor.

"Maria!" Vitaly said, his voice raised just a bit.

A woman appeared. "Senhor?"

"Get Gutierrez in here, tell him he has a mess to clean up."

"Imediatamente." The woman vanished without so much as a glance at me or the dead body.

Vitaly knelt, wiped the blade clean on Yuri's shirt, and then stood. He turned to face me. "My apologies for the unpleasantness. Sometimes these men I hire, they do not do as they should. Now, where were we?" He eyed me, as I held the shirt up to my chest. "Ah, yes. Follow me, please."

He pivoted sharply on his heel, and led me to a short hallway that ended at a set of wide French doors. He pushed them open, revealing an extravagant bedroom overlooking So Paulo. He ignored the bed-thank G.o.d-and gestured at the door leading to the bathroom.

"A shower, I think, might be welcome?"

"That would be great," I said. "Thank you."

He nodded as I entered the bathroom, and then followed me. I waited a moment, and then two. Vitaly did not grin, or smile, or make a lecherous comment, but when he leaned a hip against the counter edge and folded his arms over his chest, I realized he had no intention of leaving.

I let out a long breath, then steeled myself. Nothing mattered but staying alive. Harris is coming. Harris is coming. Harris IS coming. I just had to stay alive until he found me.

I dropped the shirt, hooked my thumbs in the sides of my thong and wiggled out of it, all too aware of Vitaly watching every move. Turning on the spray, I adjusted the temperature, made sure there was shampoo and such in the shower, got a washcloth, and then stepped under the steaming spray of hot water.

I took my time, trying to pretend Vitaly wasn't there. I even washed myself down below, trying to act normal, like I didn't have a pen stuck up where the sun don't shine. His eyes followed my every move, every jiggle and bounce and sway.

When I was done, I shut off the water, wiped my face, and found Vitaly extending a towel to me, held open. I moved to take it from him, but he withdrew it, made a negative sound in his throat, and then held it out to me again.

s.h.i.t.

I stood still, dripping on the marble floor.

His hands never came in direct contact with my skin as he gently and carefully wiped me dry with the towel, dabbing and scrubbing all over from my shoulders to feet, breast to calves, but nonetheless I felt...not violated, exactly, but aware of the consequences of disobedience, and disgusted with what I knew I would have to endure. I held my breath and tried not to flinch, tried not to fight him. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed, but I got through the entire process without protest, verbal or physical. My skin crawled, my stomach rebelled.

I wanted to get back in the shower and scrub myself all over again.

His eyes roamed my body, and once he even pressed his nose to my flesh at my hip and inhaled deeply, and then gazed up at me.

He dried my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, lingeringly. Slowly. Lifting and caressing with the towel.

Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d.

I endured it silently. I kept my eyes open, expressionless, staring straight ahead.

He dried my a.s.s last, once again doing it slowly, leisurely, and once again I had to focus on breathing and keeping still.

He neglected to thoroughly dry one small part of me, much to my good fortune.

When he was finally finished, he lifted a thick white robe off the hook on the back of the door, settled it over my shoulders, waited for me to slide my arms into the sleeves, and then tied it around me. Loosely, so my b.r.e.a.s.t.s weren't quite covered. Of course.

Vitaly stepped away, back into the bedroom. "You have an iron will, Miss Campari. You did not react at all."

"I'm either going to get out of this alive, or I'm not. That's all that really matters."

He stood in the center of the room, hands in his hip pockets. "You determine what happens, Miss Campari. I do not really have any issue with you, personally. I think you know with whom my anger lies."

"Roth."

Vitaly frowned. "Not really, no. It is your friend, Kyrie St. Claire. She killed my daughter. It is she who must suffer."

I shivered at that. "So what do you want from me?"

"Little enough. You are bait, nothing more, nothing less. She will come for you. She will send someone. That barbarian, Nicholas Harris, first, perhaps. Others, maybe. Eventually, she herself will stand in front of me. That is when the suffering will begin."

I swallowed hard. "She was only acting in self-defense."

He shrugged. "This I know. But it does not matter. She killed my daughter. I cannot excuse this, no matter the reason." He eyed me. "Until then, all I require from you is...cooperation. You are a diversion, no more."

A diversion.

s.h.i.t.

I really didn't like the sound of that.

11.

ROAD TRIP.

As the days pa.s.sed, I played a game with myself.

Vitaly was always present, always a gentleman to me. He never swore, never smoked, and never raised his voice. In fact, he never raised his voice at all, to anyone. He was always totally even-keeled, calm, smooth as a gla.s.sy lake. His household help seemed to respect him, but did not seem to fear him. The men, though-the foot soldiers or base level thugs or whatever you wanted to call them, now they were scared s.h.i.tless of Vitaly. And with good reason. He killed them regularly, for the slightest infraction. A misstatement, a failed job, an ill-advised glance at me...and that switchblade would find their ribs. They never saw it coming. It was like a serpent striking, sudden, vicious, and final. He never missed, never hesitated. Right to the heart, and they just dropped dead.

And it was always a man named Gutierrez who cleaned up the body. Gutierrez was short, thin, balding, and always wore mirrored aviators, black cargo shorts, black crew-neck T-shirt, sports sandals. It was a uniform, it seemed. He was never armed that I could see. And he was scarily efficient at disposing of bodies. It was like a scene out of Scandal: he'd appear with a huge blue tarp, roll the body onto it, wrap the body in the tarp and seal it with duct tape, heave the wrapped corpse onto an appliance dolly, and wheel it away. Moments after that, Maria appeared with an armful of towels and disinfectant, and the blood stains were gone. The whole process took less than ten minutes.

So, the game I played with myself was pretty simple, and rather morbid: I woke up each day and asked myself what I would be willing to do to stay alive. What horror would I willingly endure, if it meant my heart kept beating? What barbarity would I perpetrate if it meant another day closer to Harris rescuing me?

I chanted my mantra like it was a "Hail Mary", over and over and over: Harris is coming, Harris is coming, Harris is coming.

Thus far, four days into my captivity, I'd been very well treated, if scantily clad. Vitaly provided me with a new pair of underwear, a tiny red thong. No shirt, no bikini top, nothing. Apparently his claim that I would be properly attired was a lie. I lived in that thong, and forced myself to act as if I was fully dressed. I endured the eyes of his lackeys as they came and went with reports, the eyes of the maids and the chef as he brought meals, the bodyguards always lurking just around a corner. And Vitaly's eyes, always his eyes.

A touch, now and then. A palm across my a.s.s, a brief caress of my b.o.o.b. A hand on my hip, an inhalation of my hair.

I was forced to shower with Vitaly as my audience once a day, in the morning, after breakfast.

Vitaly was a creature of habit, I discovered. He woke at six a.m., rolled out of bed and exercised for thirty minutes. Squats, lunges, two kinds of pushups, crunches, obliques, planks, five reps of twenty each. On the third day, he made me do it with him. a.s.shole. At six thirty he had breakfast, plain yogurt with fresh-cut strawberries, four eggs scrambled with cheese, four slices of toast lightly b.u.t.tered, three cups of coffee, and a handful of vitamin supplements. Then he showered, shaved, dressed, and watched me shower. By eight he was ready to go, and usually left the penthouse via helicopter with two bodyguards in tow, and an older, weather-beaten man with salt-and-pepper hair at his side. The older man's name was Cut. At least, that's what Vitaly called him.

Cut never so much as looked at me, but I felt his attention somehow, anyway. I didn't like his attention. It made my skin crawl, made my gut churn.

And yes, the entire time I had my old buddy Mr. Papermate the p.u.s.s.y Pen in place, ready when I needed him. f.u.c.king uncomfortable. Definitely not meant to have something hard up there at all, much less for so long. It was starting to hurt like a b.i.t.c.h, and I was never able to forget about it. I was, for sure, gonna end up with a b.i.t.c.h of an infection.

Super f.u.c.king fun.

But I had no doubt in my mind that I'd end up needing Mr. Papermate at some point in this little adventure. Especially with Cut around.