1
Rita
I walked into the hotel bar knowing there
was a strong chance that I would be drugged and kidnapped by the
end of the night. Which was exactly why I was there. And why I’d slipped on the little
black dress with two slits up the side, anything to encourage it to
happen. I paused to look around the room, aware I was being watched
by more than just the men in the bar. Four surveillance cameras
were positioned at strategic points, my co-workers watching from
outside of the New York hotel, where only the rich and infamous
stayed.
A blond man pushed off a barstool and
headed for me, his cream-colored Versace suit suggesting he was a
cut above the rest of the patrons. He looked familiar, possibly a
movie star from one of the many films I didn’t have time to see, my
job as a FBI agent all-consuming, which was the way I preferred it,
so I didn’t have time to think about my husband. I held up my hand
before the man could get a word out, showing him the wedding ring I
refused to remove, the diamond encrusted band lovingly designed by
my husband, who’d been killed by the very people I was going to
take down.
T o my surprise the man bowed, then returned
to his seat, allowing me to get back to my work. My gaze moved to
the end of the bar, where I hoped Jagger D’Angelo was still
sitting—my predator, my target, the bait for unsuspecting women.
And he was the perfect bait, the man so beautiful he could’ve
stepped right out of a Versace catalogue, the suit looking even
better on him than the actor who’d approached me, the light
material covering him a tease to the senses. The mob certainly had
picked well, because Jagger was a work of art.
I frowned as a woman sashayed up to him.
She was drop-dead gorgeous like Jagger, but blonde instead of
raven-haired. I wondered whether she was his target for the night.
She glanced over her shoulder, giving me a better view of her
stunning face, which answered my question. She was too old,
mid-thirties at a guess, and from all the data I’d read on the case
the missing women were in their early twenties. I didn’t fit the
profile either, but only on the birth certificate the orphanage
gave me. I was twenty-nine, yet looked like I’d just walked out of
my teens, the parents I never knew leaving me with good genes and
nothing else.
My frown
deepen ed as
Jagger’s hand slipped around to the woman’s behind, giving it a
squeeze. Was he out with a lover? But he couldn’t be, because he
was supposed to be working tonight, our informant telling us that
another woman was going to be snatched, no one in particular, the
only criteria being that she was beautiful and within the right age
range, although from the intel gathered Jagger tended to prefer
blondes, his wayward hand confirmation of this, which was another
strike against me, considering I was a brunette.
I touched my bracelet, hoping that my
minders could hear everything clearly through the microphones in
the baubles, then headed for Jagger, easing myself between the
tables. More men turned to look at me, one of them getting a slap
across the back of his head courtesy of the woman sitting next to
him. The makeup artist had certainly done a brilliant job on me,
the black kohl and gray eye-shadow around my eyes creating an
exotic look. One of the male agents had made a wisecrack that I
would fit right into a harem, but I wasn’t dealing with the Middle
East here, the Italian Mafia was my target.
A hand touched my behind. I turned and
glared at the perpetrator, or should I say pervert with the way the
sixty-something man was leering at me. He was handsome, his silver
hair and laugh lines not diminishing his looks, but the glint in
his eyes told me there was more than one predator working the room.
I could read people well, and right now this man gave off the vibe
of Hannibal Lecter. Note to self: get one of my co-workers to
follow him.
“ Don’t touch what doesn’t belong
to you,” I said.
“ I would be a
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