When he turned right at the end of the hall, the entire wall on his left was a floor-to-ceiling glass view of an endless ocean. He’d found this location six years ago, and Josie had immediately suggested the perfect place for his office was facing the ocean rather than Brickell’s business corridor. She’d been right.
Her blood was as blue as it got. The Silversteen banking dynasty stretched across the country with fingers in many financial pies. As a chosen daughter, she’d been groomed from birth to serve the Fratelli de il Sovrano and sent to the Fras at sixteen, but Vestavia had seen her potential. He’d convinced Fra Diablo she’d be perfect for fieldwork.
And she had been.
She was one of the few who knew Vestavia’s true identity and his mission. That he was in fact an Angeli, an order older than the Fratelli.
He and six other Angeli would accomplish in one decade what their ancestors had failed to do in the past two millennia. And the Fratelli would do all the preparatory work without knowing they were being danced as puppets. The Fratelli really thought twelve Fras could rule each continent.
Had decision by committee or democracy ever worked? No.
As one of seven Angeli secretly infiltrating the Fratelli de il Sovrano on each continent, Vestavia had reached his position quickly. For the past year, he’d been pulling strings on the Fratelli, manipulating their extensive resources to begin laying the groundwork for the Renaissance. When Vestavia and his six Angeli counterparts were ready, they would step from the shadows and return this world to one of peace.
To do that, they had to first purge the planet of 80 percent of the population while not losing the core group who would rebuild after the devastation.
Starting over was the only way. His ancestors had tried with plagues and other devices that destroyed the beneficial with the slovenly.
His generation of Angeli would not make the same mistakes.
They would systematically bring each continent into line, create parity to ready the world for the Renaissance.
When Vestavia reached his office, the motion detector read his thermal image and unlocked the door, which disappeared into the wall.
He entered, his eyes going to the woman sitting on his low-profile white sofa with black embroidered stripes. “What happened?”
“Baby Face lost Mirage and got killed in the process.” Josie stood, showcasing those amazing legs with a trim navy-and-gold skirt suit. Thick lashes and skin so smooth it didn’t look real. Rich brunette hair tumbled lazily past her shoulders with each move of her head to brush against the crest of full br**sts exposed by her scooped-neck jacket.
Every inch a creation of perfection.
Special Agent Josie Silversteen, his brilliant protégé at the DEA, now held a warrant for the arrest of fugitive Special Agent Robert Brady. Such irony.
“That’s not a full report,” he admonished.
“Of course.” She rushed ahead. “Forgive me, Your Excellency. Baby Face was given access to our megacomputers he believed were part of an international tracking program within the DEA. He had no idea they belonged to the Trojan Prodigy, and greed led him to shop the Mirage once he located something. But we haven’t been able to duplicate his electronic trail. Baby Face went to a house in Peachtree City, Georgia, owned by an elderly man for over twenty years who doesn’t appear to have any computer skill. The woman who rented the house has disappeared. She’s listed as Gabrielle Parker and appears-on paper-to be a widow living off a moderate trust fund. I have to believe she must know something about the informant for Baby Face to have gone there.” Josie paused, then added, “I will find out.”
Her husky voice combined with that fuck-me-where-I-stand look in her eyes reminded him how long they’d been apart.
Six days. An eternity.
His c*ck could tell him right down to the minute.
Vestavia pulled off his jacket and laid it over the arm of the sofa, then stepped past her. When he reached his desk, he turned around and sat back against the front edge, placing his hands casually on each side. If he got too close to her, he’d break his first rule between them-business before pleasure.
“Durand told me about Turga. What about his helicopter pilot?”
“I have a team tracking the pilot. I’ll know more…tonight.” She dropped that last word in her sex-against-the wall voice and he got hard. She walked over, bold, gorgeous, raw confidence flowing through the three steps that brought her to stand between his outstretched legs.
His c*ck twitched toward her as if she were magnetized and he was pure steel.
“Do you have time to go…deeper into this?” she asked, then ran her tongue around her lips.
Vestavia gripped the desk with taut fingers. “Not now. You know my rule.”
She exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “Business comes first… I just thought for once”-she smiled like the vixen she was-“you might like to come first.”
He lifted his hand and ran a finger along her face, then down, following the edge of her jacket until his finger slid inside, the tip brushing across her nipple. She shivered. Her breathing hitched. A slender jaw muscle flexed with the effort of holding her control.
Vestavia smiled. No point in him being the only one uncomfortable until they got back together. “Hold that thought.”
Her eyes were on fire when she backed away and lifted her laptop bag. Insatiable and demanding in bed. Another of her finer qualities. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“Don’t disappoint me.”
“Never,” she promised softly with wicked heat that assured the hours of sex would be as satisfying as the late-night report.
She’d never let him down, in the bed or out of it, but if the Mirage slipped through her fingers, Josie knew the penalty. All Fratelli women had to pass through an indoctrination that guaranteed they understood the consequences of failing a Fra and understood there was no escaping the organization.
A program that assured compliance.
Nine years ago, Josie had passed without a whimper, convincing the Fras she was unbreakable, not showing a hint of weakness until she arrived at Vestavia’s home hours later. The only time he’d ever seen Josie break down into tears had been afterward when she’d walked into his waiting arms.
She was strong, brilliant, and dedicated.
She would not fail him or she’d find out what the Fras had put her through would feel like a day at the spa compared to his sanction.
GABRIELLE MADE THE last step down into the basement meeting room and hesitated to go farther until Carlos stepped down right behind her. He barely touched her back with his fingers to prod her into movement. She took a breath and walked forward.
Centering the roughly twenty-foot-wide-by-thirty-foot-long room was a rectangle-shaped, black-lacquer conference table polished to a high gloss that seated ten. The two men and the woman who had arrived just minutes ago sat in plush almond-colored leather chairs. Both men were on the left side, peering at a laptop monitor.
In any other setting, the mahogany panels on the walls would give the room a warm and inviting feel.
The only female had positioned herself on the right, across from the men. At five feet eight flat-footed, she wore a pair of jeans like a runway model, her honey-brown hair cropped short and curt, much like her attitude had been upstairs.
“Have a seat there.” Carlos pointed at the closest chair for Gabrielle, which was next to the female.
If he thought placing her beside this Amazon would raise her anxiety level…he was right, but not enough to force her into capitulating easily. Not yet.
She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.
Carlos introduced the other three, first names only, then sank into a chair at the head of the table on her left. “First, what’s your real name, Gabrielle?”
“I told you I’m Gabrielle Parker.”
“Cut the lies.”
The steel edge of Carlos’s words sliced her to the bone. She clutched her hands so tightly her nails were biting her soft palms. Guess the nice-guy routine was over and gone.
Gabrielle had moved to the States to insulate her family and wouldn’t expose them now. And she had to protect her contacts in South America from being discovered, especially after the mistake she’d made that had exposed her identity.
“I want a lawyer.” Gabrielle wished she’d said that with more force.
“We don’t bother with lawyers.” Rae gave that bit of scary news in a British accent and added an evil chuckle.
No lawyers. Next idea. Gabrielle did have contacts at the British embassy who could help her and might vouch for her, since she was technically a citizen of the United Kingdom-another layer placed between her and her family in France. But that would create as many problems as pointing out that she was the daughter of a government official in France. Any try for diplomatic immunity would jeopardize her father’s position and place his new family at risk.
She’d have to find her own way out of this mess.
And if the media were tipped off about what she’d been doing for the past ten years, ruining her father’s reputation would be the least of her problems. Durand Anguis would find her immediately and retaliate in a heinous way, maybe harm her family.
But she hadn’t been raised by a woman with a steel will just to fold over at the first sign of a crisis.
“Okay, if I’m not Gabrielle Parker, then who am I?” She’d built a solid background for Gabrielle Parker. That alone should take them a while to disentangle from all the layers she’d created to protect her identity.
“Gotthard, you get everything from headquarters, including my report?” Carlos said to the wide-body chap working at the laptop.
“Yes. Downloading the preliminary documents now.”
“What documents?” Gabrielle asked, her hands clammy all of a sudden.
Carlos met her gaze with an unreadable one. “From running your fingerprints for starters.”
Her fingerprints? Could this bunch have a resource at Interpol? Maybe. Probably. How fast could they confirm her true identity? Gabrielle frantically tried to figure out how much she should tell them. If she didn’t tell them the truth and they found out first on their own, they’d never believe anything else she said.
Gotthard shook his head. “Nothing yet from our files. Still waiting on international replies.”
Did they really have access to international records or were they bluffing?
Gabrielle clenched her hands together, fearful and furious. Carlos had taken her fingerprints while she slept. What else had he done? Besides humiliating me when he ordered me to get out of his sight in the bedroom? She was no beauty queen, but no man had ever ordered her to cover her body.
She studied him with new eyes, those of a woman who had trusted too quickly again.
“Who are your contacts?” Carlos asked with chilling quiet.
“If I am who you accuse me of being, do you really think I would put a resource in danger when you have yet to tell me who you work for?” she answered with a frigid reserve her mother would have been proud of.
Carlos crossed his arms. “Not like you have a lot of choices right now, is it?”
Her stomach churned. Acting compliant hadn’t worked, so what could she lose by going on the offensive?
This was the United States after all. Individual rights had to be respected. Everyone answered to someone. She just had to figure out who that someone was for this bunch of operatives.
“You think not?” Her choices were admittedly dwindling, but agreeing out loud would only feed the arrogance permeating the room. “I can assure you my resources will bring the hammer down on any division of U.S. intelligence when they find out you’ve kidnapped me,” Gabrielle charged, hoping she sounded as threatening as the Amazon next to her.
Carlos didn’t so much as blink. “Go ahead. I don’t care if you get the CIA in hot water. We’re not the CIA, FBI, or any other acronym you might know.”
Her indignant glower faltered, but she held on to enough anger to counter his attitude. “If you are an intelligence agency, I’ll tell you whatever I can, but I’m in no mood to play semantics after last night. Whoever you are, I’ll have your head on a pike for kidnapping me.”
Carlos gave her a wry smile. “No, you won’t. You may not even leave here a free person, and you sure as hell aren’t getting near a phone you can operate anytime soon.”
Okay, that severely limited her options. They acted like some form of intelligence or security operation, but they didn’t use legal tactics. Of course, she doubted the CIA or MI6 would either. She hadn’t been shoved into a chair and had a spotlight shone in her eyes, but that was so over-the-top American Hollywood she wouldn’t have expected it either.
But neither had anyone pulled out a badge to prove they had the right to hold her. She’d point out that lack of protocol if she didn’t believe they would laugh her out of the room.
“Then who are you people? Who do you work for?” she asked.
“I told you, we protect national security, but this organization doesn’t exist as far as the United States government or any other government is concerned.” Rich black lashes brushed Carlos’s cheek with each slow, patient blink. “And, if that isn’t enough to convince you that cooperating is in your best interest, no one knows we have you and we have the power to hand you over to any country that produces documents proving they have reason to prosecute you. Plus, we have the ability to provide any documentation to assist them.”
Uh-oh. She’d run across some bizarre groups while entering different agency mainframes, but hadn’t planned on a rogue bunch. Whom were they aligned with…or against?
Were they truly part of the American defense mechanism?
Dreadful as this was, it could be worse. She could be facing Durand Anguis, who wouldn’t ask questions in so civilized a manner. Continuing to deny her identity for much longer was too risky since the fingerprints would turn up her last name as Saxe if they did indeed have access to international databases. Admitting that much might stop them from searching further and drawing her father into this.