apologize.
Instead, with great deliberation, he strolled through landscaped parks and stuck to the shadows. Not a wise move for the average tourist, but if anyone followed them, he wanted to draw them out. They walked for another thirty minutes. Still nothing.
Strike one. Self-doubt flashed through his brain as slick as a fastball over home plate.
After stopping to admire far too many monuments and statues, he finally broke the silence. "Damn it. Thought the reward would pay off, get us a lead, but no one's tailing us."
"Or perhaps you and I have met our match. Skilled pursuers could still be out there, besting us." She narrowed her eyes.
"There you go, looking on the bright side again." He kept his eyes vigilant. "Quit tryin' to cheer me up."
"Ah, I forget. The male ego is easily bruised. Forgive my rudeness." With his glare, she winked without humor. "Don't worry. Your plan still might work, and your instincts were solid."
"You're just pissed 'cause the reward wasn't your idea." He smirked as she slipped her arm in his.
"You might have a point," Jasmine conceded without a fight. "Let's head back to the hotel. Something might turn up there. Besides, is it not wise for the fisherman to remain patient?"
"I thought you didn't know much about the sport?"
"Yes, but when luring men, I am an expert."
He arched an eyebrow at his companion. "Good point."
Jasmine's single strand of hair still dangled from the suite door undisturbed. A good news, bad news scenario. Good news, his low-tech advance warning system worked. But when it came to bad news, his heart sank. No one had broken into their hotel suite using the front door.
A strange thing to wish for. Strike two. Damn it.
Christian pulled the Glock 19 from the waistband of his jeans, hiding it from the hotel security cameras in the hallway as he entered the suite, Jasmine at his back. In silence, they split up and searched the rooms, weapons in hand. His heart pumped with adrenaline, the muscles in his arms tense. When they found nothing out of place, Jasmine checked her surveillance equipment. The only motion recorded had been them.
Strike three.
But as he exchanged a look of disappointment with his companion, something caught his eye. Over her shoulder, a light flickered behind drawn sheers.
"What the hell?"
He recognized the danger. It hit the pit of his stomach in a rush, forced him to move.
"Fire ... on the balcony." He jerked his head, calling to Jasmine as he rushed by her.
Christian ran to the French doors and threw them open, but stopped dead when his eyes found the source of the flame. Even in the stifling heat, a chill raced across his skin. The hair on his neck stood on end. What the hell had his father been into?
CHAPTER 7
For the first time since Christian met her, Jasmine looked baffled, but she covered it up with a heaping dose of sarcasm.
"I never knew the devil made house calls."
"Apparently so." Christian glared down at the unsettling sight. He'd never been confronted by something like this.
The entire balcony had been converted into a bizarre religious rite. Flickering black candles melted into broken liquor bottles circling an altar made of old bones, sticks, and frayed hemp. A dead chicken, throat slit, bled into a sticky pool that seeped through the crevices of the tile. Blood spatter marred the pristine white balustrade, but most of it had been doused onto what looked like a human skull. Its jawbone gaped open and black eye sockets stared in accusation.
The smell of old death.
"How quaint. Perhaps we should tell housekeeping we prefer a simple mint on our pillows."
Jasmine had an edge to her voice, but her attempt at humor didn't dispel her uneasiness.
"This doesn't look like any goodwill gesture, more like . . . foul play." His chicken pun didn't fare any better. Christian leaned closer, careful not to disturb the scene. "What's this? Do you recognize where this was taken?"
A newspaper clipping of Charboneau had his head cut and
Instead, with great deliberation, he strolled through landscaped parks and stuck to the shadows. Not a wise move for the average tourist, but if anyone followed them, he wanted to draw them out. They walked for another thirty minutes. Still nothing.
Strike one. Self-doubt flashed through his brain as slick as a fastball over home plate.
After stopping to admire far too many monuments and statues, he finally broke the silence. "Damn it. Thought the reward would pay off, get us a lead, but no one's tailing us."
"Or perhaps you and I have met our match. Skilled pursuers could still be out there, besting us." She narrowed her eyes.
"There you go, looking on the bright side again." He kept his eyes vigilant. "Quit tryin' to cheer me up."
"Ah, I forget. The male ego is easily bruised. Forgive my rudeness." With his glare, she winked without humor. "Don't worry. Your plan still might work, and your instincts were solid."
"You're just pissed 'cause the reward wasn't your idea." He smirked as she slipped her arm in his.
"You might have a point," Jasmine conceded without a fight. "Let's head back to the hotel. Something might turn up there. Besides, is it not wise for the fisherman to remain patient?"
"I thought you didn't know much about the sport?"
"Yes, but when luring men, I am an expert."
He arched an eyebrow at his companion. "Good point."
Jasmine's single strand of hair still dangled from the suite door undisturbed. A good news, bad news scenario. Good news, his low-tech advance warning system worked. But when it came to bad news, his heart sank. No one had broken into their hotel suite using the front door.
A strange thing to wish for. Strike two. Damn it.
Christian pulled the Glock 19 from the waistband of his jeans, hiding it from the hotel security cameras in the hallway as he entered the suite, Jasmine at his back. In silence, they split up and searched the rooms, weapons in hand. His heart pumped with adrenaline, the muscles in his arms tense. When they found nothing out of place, Jasmine checked her surveillance equipment. The only motion recorded had been them.
Strike three.
But as he exchanged a look of disappointment with his companion, something caught his eye. Over her shoulder, a light flickered behind drawn sheers.
"What the hell?"
He recognized the danger. It hit the pit of his stomach in a rush, forced him to move.
"Fire ... on the balcony." He jerked his head, calling to Jasmine as he rushed by her.
Christian ran to the French doors and threw them open, but stopped dead when his eyes found the source of the flame. Even in the stifling heat, a chill raced across his skin. The hair on his neck stood on end. What the hell had his father been into?
CHAPTER 7
For the first time since Christian met her, Jasmine looked baffled, but she covered it up with a heaping dose of sarcasm.
"I never knew the devil made house calls."
"Apparently so." Christian glared down at the unsettling sight. He'd never been confronted by something like this.
The entire balcony had been converted into a bizarre religious rite. Flickering black candles melted into broken liquor bottles circling an altar made of old bones, sticks, and frayed hemp. A dead chicken, throat slit, bled into a sticky pool that seeped through the crevices of the tile. Blood spatter marred the pristine white balustrade, but most of it had been doused onto what looked like a human skull. Its jawbone gaped open and black eye sockets stared in accusation.
The smell of old death.
"How quaint. Perhaps we should tell housekeeping we prefer a simple mint on our pillows."
Jasmine had an edge to her voice, but her attempt at humor didn't dispel her uneasiness.
"This doesn't look like any goodwill gesture, more like . . . foul play." His chicken pun didn't fare any better. Christian leaned closer, careful not to disturb the scene. "What's this? Do you recognize where this was taken?"
A newspaper clipping of Charboneau had his head cut and
Similar Books
