Hawkins, though, hell, he thought every girl could be toughened up with PT, physical training, and a.45-and he was right, of course. Creed just didn’t think that made them tough enough for Ciudad del Este, especially with dead bodies piling up all around-except, of course, for Skeeter and Red Dog. Those two were tough enough, period.
“I’m almost to the hotel,” he said. “I’ll call you after I talk to Asher.”
He ended the call and pocketed his phone.
Talk. Right. Suzi Toussi had gone missing off a damn “pink” op that should have been a cake-walk-and Creed was damn well going to find her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Well, that had gone well, Dax thought, pulling up in front of the Posada Plaza and throwing the Land Cruiser into park.
He looked over at Suzi, who was just sitting there in the passenger seat. She hadn’t said a word, not one word since he’d kept her from jumping Levi Asher and hauled her out of El Caribe.
Geezus.
The girl had been ready to rumble. She actually had a little muscle action in her arms, some biceps business, and some deltoid business. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she could have done some damage.
Of course, he would have had to take Gervais out, and then the other bodyguard would have shown up, and on and on. In a social situation like that, the best fight was no fight, every time.
He put his hand over his mouth and looked out the windshield, thinking, but all he could think was Three years old.
He’d known-he was damn good at his job-but reading it in a pile of documents and hearing it bandied about in a damn casino restaurant by some drunk were two different things, and he couldn’t let it stand, not like it was, with her shell-shocked and silent, and definitely exhausted, emotionally and physically.
Geezus. Levi Asher might be the stupidest bastard on the planet.
“Tell me your daughter’s name.” It wasn’t a request, no matter how careful he was to keep his tone neutral.
When she didn’t answer, he slanted his gaze across the front seat. There weren’t many streetlights in Ciudad del Este, but the Posada Plaza had a big pink neon sign on the front of the building, and the light shone down on her, limning her profile, softening the garish colors of her bustier, and turning her skin into a silken wash of rose and pale peach.
Her eyes were dark, the downward cast of her gaze making it hard to discern her mood. She was so quiet.
Too quiet.
“Your daughter’s name,” he said. “I need to know.”
And he waited, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.
“Here,” he said, opening one of the bottles of water they’d left in the Cruiser and handing it over. “Take a drink.”
He was being very deliberate with his words, keeping everything simple and direct.
With the water bottle half in her lap, she went ahead and took it from his hand. A small drink later, she gave him what he’d asked for.
“Adriana,” she said, her voice not very loud but very distinct. “Adriana Louise Weymouth.”
“Thank you.” It hurt hearing it, because he hurt for her. He wasn’t going to tell her he was sorry, though. There wasn’t enough sorry in the world to cover this.
“It was an accident,” she said, and he nodded silently over on his side of the car.
An accidental shooting. Man, that was a nightmare.
“It wasn’t me who had the gun,” she said, “and sometimes I think if I went back and shot Nathan, killed him, like he killed our baby, that maybe it would help.”
Nathan had been her first husband, back when she’d been in her early twenties.
“Probably not.” He told her the truth. He wasn’t against revenge for people who had the stomach for it, but he knew it was a dangerous indulgence for those who didn’t. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
She let him help her out of the car and hold on to her through the whole elevator ride. He hadn’t thought either of them had the strength for the stairs, and it didn’t take more than one look at her for Marcella and Marceline to call a temporary truce on the action in the lift.
Inside the room, he turned the radio on low to have something to break the quiet, and he opened the doors onto the balcony to let the moonlight and the sounds of the city night in.
While he set out the food he’d gotten for her before he’d gone to El Caribe, she stayed next to the closed door to the hall, her back literally up against the wall.
“Do you want to eat something?” he asked.
She shook her head, standing in Marcella’s too-high platform heels, looking like she could either collapse or bolt-and he’d be damned if he let her bolt.
“You might feel better.” He opened the room’s small refrigerator again and pulled out a beer.
She let out a short laugh. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“So tell me.” He sat down at the table and popped the top off the beer.
He saw her sigh, and he took a drink-and from across the room, she met his gaze.
“That’s a nice wooden shipping crate you’ve got there on the table.”
Yes, it was, or it would have been if it had still had its contents.
“Thank you.” He wasn’t going to deny anything.
“It wasn’t in the room when I left for El Caribe.”
“No,” he agreed. “At that point, it was still hidden in the cistern at Beranger’s.” He reached inside, took out the top half of the foam core, and showed it to her. The cut-out area for the Sphinx was very clear. “And for all the trouble I went to, I got nothing.”
Suzi tilted her head back against the wall, exposing the slender column of her throat, and he felt the first coiling promise of desire come to life deep inside his body. Inappropriate, yeah, but undeniable. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he’d been chasing her for six long months, even if it had only been the facts of her life he’d been getting.
Denver-that’s where he’d been heading as soon as he’d finished his business with Erich Warner. He would have been there a long time before now if this deal hadn’t come up.
“As bad as it’s been for me, as bad as it is,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her, “I know it’s worse for Nathan, and… sometimes… that’s the only thing that keeps me going, knowing he’s suffering even more than me and still living, day after day.”
He took another long swallow off his beer. Suzanna Royale Toussi, Suzi Q with her lush body and sophisticated style, with her designer clothes and highbrow art, living in the wasteland. He knew what it was like. He’d seen it. He’d felt it. He’d been there.
But he’d never lost a child, and he knew that place was different from all the others.
Inconsolable.
She started to tremble over on her side of the room. He saw it in her shoulders and in the way she wrapped her arms around herself, like she was trying to hold herself together.
Before the first sob broke free from her lips, he was there, holding her.
“No,” she said, covering her face with her hand. “Don’t touch me.”
She was still backed up against the wall, her body so stiff, and yet shaking-everywhere, all over.
“D-don’t,” she repeated, not looking at him, keeping her hand over her face.
“Suzi,” he said, wanting to help and yet feeling so helpless.
“No.” Another sob broke free, and then another, and she dropped her hand, looking at him, everything awful showing in her stricken gaze.
He moved in closer. This was going bad fast, and there wasn’t any help for it.
Tears started running down her face in dark tracks of smudged makeup, and inch by inch, he felt her crumple and begin to slide down the wall, her knees weakening. He tightened his grip, with predictable results.
She sobbed and slapped him, and he let it happen. He could have stopped her. He’d seen it coming.