Showdown Page 2

  It was the reason Peregrine Cardiffe, one of the founders of Wild Cards, Inc., had called and asked him to meet this young man at JFK and spirit both him and his luggage away from the airport safely. Some years ago, before he’d immigrated to America to start a new life, Sebastian had worked for Wild Cards and could handle himself in a tough situation. Where he came from, kids learned to fight early, and after the SAS had honed his skills, Wild Cards had adapted them into the lethal package of a high-end bodyguard.

  Under his breath he muttered, “Pick up the pace.”

  Thank God. When they burst out into the main baggage claim area, two luggage carousels were rolling and a crowd filled the space. He and Zane wound through the mob, weaving quickly toward the exit. He didn’t bother looking back over his shoulder to see if they’d been pursued. He wasn’t stopping either way. Sometimes the best defense was to run like hell and hope the other guy wasn’t fast enough to catch up….

  He fished his phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed his driver. “Have the car in front of the exit by carousel eight and ready to pull out in about thirty seconds. I’ll get my own door. You be ready to rock and roll.”

  They burst out into the muggy heat of a morning promising to age into a sweltering afternoon. The black town car was only a few yards away, and he threw the back door open for Zane. “Get in.”

  Two cops were just coming out of the terminal. Zane shoved the bag inside, leaped in after it, and Sebastian used his body to block both bag and man from the view of the police. He forced himself to climb in the car calmly. As if he hadn’t a care in the world. Hell, as if he owned the world. Mustn’t alert the cops to anything unusual.

  Yanking the door shut, he ordered Etienne, his driver, “Go. But drive casual.”

  The town car pulled out smoothly into traffic.

  “Are they going to stop us before we leave the airport?” Etienne asked calmly.

  Sebastian snorted. He’d like to see the airport cops try to stop Etienne Souvant. The guy was former French Foreign Legion and a trained combat driver. Rumor in Sebastian’s SAS unit was that Etienne had been a wheelman for bank robbers. When he finished serving a prison sentence, he’d chosen to join the Foreign Legion to get his life back on track. “Get off of JFK property as fast as you can without getting pulled over for speeding.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Seb, but the traffic’s a bitch this morning.”

  “When isn’t it a bitch?” he replied dryly.

  Etienne met his gaze in the rearview mirror, and crinkles appeared around his eyes. That was as close to an actual smile as Etienne ever came.

  “Do your best, Etienne.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  The vehicle changed lanes aggressively.

  Dammit, he should have known better than to give Etienne permission to drive like a maniac. The guy had cut his driving teeth in Paris, for fuck’s sake… possibly a worse city than New York to drive in.

  The limo swerved again, this time throwing Sebastian against Zane. Hard.

  He caught himself with one arm against the far door and one on the back of the seat, bracketing Zane in his grasp. For his part, Zane threw up his hands, which landed on each of Sebastian’s flexed biceps.

  Zane exhaled hard, letting out a breathy “Wow” that he heartily seconded.

  Up close, Zane’s eyes were the color of new leaves in spring, and every bit as dewy and clear. His eyelashes were long and dark too, which made his eyes look even brighter. And the man’s skin was like freaking satin. So smooth—

  Okay, since when did he notice complexions? People’s names, and details like hair color or height, he remembered. But not their flawless skin.

  He realized with a start that his right thigh was resting intimately between both of Zane’s and that his crotch was dangerously close to rubbing on the man’s upper thigh.

  He also noticed that their bodies, so different, fit like yin and yang, light and dark. Their legs tangled as the town car lurched again, knocking him sideways until he literally sprawled on top of Zane, their hips and shoulders rubbing suggestively.

  And, oh God, their junk rubbed together too.

  His cock leaped to eager awareness. In fact, his entire body did the same, as he was abruptly and vividly aware of the lithe body pressing against his. Zane might run lean, but he was vibrant and warm and vital. It felt as if a bolt of electricity ran through him, originating somewhere in the vicinity of Zane’s private parts.

  Wild. And intense. And sexy as ever-loving hell.

  Sebastian stared down at Zane staring back up at him, wide-eyed. And aware.

  He wasn’t crazy about that electricity thing. Zane felt it too.

  And, shockingly, the guy seemed interested in it. In him.

  A shudder passed through him. God. He was a rough-edged, working-class joe at his core… and here he was, imagining rubbing shoulders with this man? Greed to make an elegant man like this the crowning jewel of all his possessions surged through him. It would announce to the world that he’d made it. That he’d crawled out of the manure pile of his early life and joined the elite, the smart, the suave, the upper crust of society.

  And as quickly as the impulse came over him, it passed. Too much. It was way too much to hope for. One of the few pieces of advice he retained from his mother was not to reach too high in life. For that way lay disappointment and humiliation. God knew life had taught him the truth of that observation over and over.

  He’d learned a long time ago that hope led to disappointment, disappointment led to emotional weakness, and emotional weakness led to failure, loss, and pain.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. He flexed his biceps and realized Zane’s fingers were wrapped around them, measuring their circumference. He pushed off the car’s side door and Zane’s hands fell away.

  Awkwardly, he untangled his leg from over Zane’s, yanked his foot out from under the damned suitcase, and dug Zane’s shoulder out of his biceps. He registered the loss of the physical contact between them as actual pain. It coursed through his body, a cold ache of loneliness and isolation.

  They moved to neutral sides of the back seat, both of their backs pressed up against the side doors as if they were afraid to share the same air, let alone touch each other again. The suitcase sat accusingly on the floor between them, and bolts of electricity shot all over the place like a Van de Graaff generator run amok. Good Lord, the magnetism of the guy’s looks—

  Stop it. Zane Stryker was a job. Or more accurately, a favor owed. Payback for Peregrine Cardiffe saving his ass a few years back from a would-be blackmailer. He’d gotten careless, and a paparazzo had taken photos of Sebastian out on a date with a man in a Manhattan nightclub. His date had preferred not to come out to his family, so a key to an apartment had been obtained, a quick search ensued, pictures had been deleted from a phone, and the problem had gone away. No drama—that was the unofficial mantra of Wild Cards, Inc. Just do the job and fade quietly into the night.

  “Where are we going?” Zane asked, startling Sebastian out of his turbulent thoughts.

  “For the moment, we’re going away from the airport and the threat of your bag being confiscated and you arrested.”

  “Why shouldn’t I talk to the feds and explain that I’ve been robbed? I should turn the stuff in my bag over to them, shouldn’t I?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes. But these aren’t normal circumstances. And before you ask why not, I’ll explain when we get to somewhere private where we can take a look at what’s in your suitcase.”

  “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “I’m not doing it for you. I owe a friend a favor, and he asked me to extricate you and your bag from Customs and deliver you to the city.”

  “Is your friend the bastard who stole my clothes and left his contraband in their place?”

  “No. It’s a wee bit more complicated than that.” Not to mention this civilian didn’t need to know all the details.

  “Who is your friend
?” Zane persisted.

  “No one you’d know.”

  “Then why would your friend send you to rescue me?”

  “Not you. Your bag.”

  Expectant silence filled the back of the car. Eventually Zane said, “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, what’s the big deal with my stupid suitcase? We’ve already established that I’ve never even seen the suit and briefcase. Speaking of which, what’s inside the briefcase? Is that what all this fuss is about?”

  He stared at Zane and said candidly, “I honestly don’t know what’s in the attaché.” He added under his breath, “But I bloody well plan to find out. This could all be a big fat fuss over nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Someone stole all my clothes, and I need them! I start go-sees in a few days for the fall season.”

  “Go-sees?”

  “Fashion-industry term. They’re job interviews for runway models. You go see the designers, and they put their clothes on you to see how they look.”

  Sebastian frowned, confused. “Then why would what you wear matter? Aren’t you going to put on their clothes anyway?”

  “I’m not just selling my body to be a walking mannequin. I’m selling a vibe. A style. I have to be so cool and trendy that if I’m seen wearing a designer’s clothes, their line or their name will be cooler and trendier because I endorsed it. The clothes—and me in them—will be seen in public when I make appearances at clubs or restaurants, or even at the designer’s storefront.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It is. I can’t be just a model. I have to be relevant. On point at all times. A trendsetter, not just one of the crowd of wannabes who follow along imitating people like me.”

  “Sounds like a lot of pressure and expectations to put on the models.”

  “Welcome to the high-fashion industry,” Zane replied a shade bitterly.

  “Then why do you do it?” He might as well have asked Zane why he bothered to breathe, based on the withering stare of It’s totally obvious, you moron he got in response to his question.

  Whatever. Basing an entire career on how cool one could look escaped him. But then, the whole fascination with social media pretty much passed him right by too. He liked his privacy and, furthermore, didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought about him.

  Still. Real careers were about making money. Achieving success. Security. Having something to show for his hard work. Like his real estate holdings. They were about to cross the one-billion-dollar valuation milestone he’d been working toward for his entire life. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted. To be rich. Really rich. Worth a billion dollars. That was his magic number.

  Zane was speaking. “…don’t suppose there’s any chance my clothes can be recovered, is there? I spent a lot of time and money curating that collection.”

  “Not likely on your clothes. Sorry.” He paused, then added, “Curating? Isn’t that what art collectors do?”

  “Same diff. My clothes are my art.”

  He shook his head. “Crazy. I never thought of fashion as anything other than covering to keep my body warm or not naked in public.”

  “Then why do you wear expensive designer suits and Italian shoes?”

  He shrugged. “The uniform required of my job. Other people expect it of me.”

  “Darling, give me one day to walk you through the top fashion designs and dress you, really dress you, and explain the nuance of men’s fashion, and I’ll change your mind… no, I’ll change your life.”

  He could think of a few ways Zane could change his life, but they mostly involved taking clothes off, not putting clothes on.

  “How did you know to come meet me, anyway?” Zane demanded.

  The guy was chatty when he wasn’t scared shitless he was about to be hauled off to jail, apparently. Personally, Sebastian ran more to the taciturn. But then, he also lived alone and did much of his work alone.

  He answered evasively, “I got a tip. From a friend.” Whom he had no interest in naming. The less this model knew about the crime syndicate, the better.

  Possibly Zane himself was involved. Just because the guy protested convincingly that he had no idea what was going on, that didn’t make it the truth. Was he working with somebody to act as a courier, perhaps?

  Of course, it was possible the actual smuggled goods were in the another suitcase with Zane’s achingly cool clothes. This suitcase could be the dummy luggage. But until he knew that for sure, he had to proceed as if this one held something highly illegal.

  He had to admit, it was a clever tactic. Had their informant inside Erebus not passed them an urgent message to intercept this particular suitcase, neither Wild Cards nor any federal agency in the States would have had any idea.

  His money was on drugs. Maybe some new additive to enhance the high of the usual addictive chemicals. He’d heard rumors of a type of fentanyl that was impervious to Narcan—the usual antidote to an opioid overdose. Users were often furious that the police or medical personnel interrupted their highs by administering doses of Narcan. For hard-core addicts, a Narcan-proof fentanyl would be attractive.

  And it would be a nightmare to law enforcement agencies and medical services—

  “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Zane challenged, interrupting his grim train of thought.

  That wasn’t a question, so he chose not to respond to it.

  As the highway rose out of a concrete canyon and topped a rise next to a sprawling cemetery, the skyline of Manhattan loomed in front of them.

  Rather than get quizzed further on their destination, he took control of the conversation. “Where are you staying, Zane?”

  Zane shrugged evasively. “I haven’t nailed anything down. I’ll call a friend, maybe. I know loads of people in town. Lots of them have spare couches.”

  Wow. Sebastian hadn’t sofa surfed since he’d first arrived in New York, a lifetime ago. When he was poor and hungry… and full of dreams, ambitious as hell, and determined to succeed.

  If what Pere thought was in this suitcase turned out to be there, Sebastian needed to determine how Zane was involved. If the guy wasn’t involved at all, it would be his job to impress upon Zane how critical his silence was to his continued breathing. Or, if he was a knowing accomplice of the bad guys, Sebastian would make the call to the Wild Cards to handle him.

  But that was a problem for later. After he’d gained Zane’s cooperation for long enough to recover the contents of the bag. Then he would figure out how deeply implicated Zane actually was.

  If, in fact, Zane was an innocent in this whole mess, he felt bad for the guy. Whoever had swiped Zane’s luggage and replaced his possessions with that briefcase had dragged the guy into a hell of a mess. And if Zane was in on it, Sebastian had no qualms about making the man’s life a living hell. If the informant was correct, Zane and the suitcase were the only direct links to a dangerous and shadowy criminal empire that spanned the globe. He would break Zane and make the man sing like an opera star before he was done with him.

  But until he knew which way Zane Stryker fell in this whole scenario, he would withhold judgment and play him as required to get what he needed from the guy.

  To that end, he smiled winningly at the model, huddling miserably across the car, his arms wrapped around his middle as if he was considering puking his guts up.

  He said as warmly as he could pitch his gruff voice to sound, “I’ve got an account with a very private, very upscale hotel downtown. Why don’t I grab a room there for us? It’s close by, and we can have some privacy to examine the contents of your luggage.”

  “What the hell are you expecting to find inside?” Zane burst out. “Dynamite?”

  Huh. Political dynamite, maybe. If Pere was right about the contents, actual TNT would be a relief.

  Etienne pulled the car to a stop in front of a very upscale hotel indeed, and came around to get the passenger door. Sebastian climbed out, and a bellhop l
eaped forward to take the suitcase Zane handed out.

  “No,” Sebastian said sharply. “I’ve got it.”

  Zane stepped out, and several heads turned his way. Men and women alike stared appreciatively at him. Zane was gracious enough to wait for a few cell phones to whip out and snap photos. But then he donned a pair of dark sunglasses, even though the hotel entrance was in shade. Almost reluctantly, the gawkers resumed their regularly scheduled lives and moved on down the sidewalk.

  But as quickly as the first batch of people moved on, a new batch stopped and stared.

  Damn. That was some effect he had on folks.

  “C’mon, Elvis. Let’s get you inside where you won’t stop traffic and cause accidents.”

  “Elvis?” Zane murmured. “As in Elvis Presley? I don’t look anything like him. He had that whole rockabilly hick vibe going. And that hair….” He shuddered. “Atrocious by today’s standards.”

  “Okay, in the first place, you’re going to hell for daring to criticize the King,” Sebastian declared darkly. “In the second place, he was famous for causing huge traffic jams when everyone stopped to stare at him.”

  Zane sniffed. “Fine. I’m not insulted by that comparison.”

  If he’d known the man better, he’d have told him not to be such a diva. But as it was, he still needed Zane’s cooperation for a little while.

  The bell captain personally held the door for Sebastian, who followed Zane into the opulent lobby.

  The front desk manager came out from behind his desk. “Welcome back, Mr. Gigoni. Will you and your guest be staying with us tonight?”

  They were on his turf now. Zane might stop traffic with his looks, but Sebastian stopped the staff of entire hotels with his checkbook. He supposed it was a fair tradeoff. If he had to choose between good looks and a huge bank account, he would take the latter.

  “Hello, Herman,” he said warmly. “How are Miranda and the kids?”

  “Fine, sir. Thanks for remembering them and asking.”

  He clasped the front desk manager’s elbow warmly. “My guest will, indeed, be spending the night. Is there by any chance a suite available for immediate check-in?”