Surrender, Baby Read online

  “I hope it was in color,” she said, congratulating herself on how nonchalant she sounded.

  She turned around to a pair of mirrored sunglasses identical to the ones she’d stared into a decade ago. They flashed with the dazzling light from the windows, hurting her eyes. For a second she was transfixed by her own startled reflection, and then by the certainty that this man must surely be the personification of her worst fears, a demon sent to test her.

  “Technicolor,” he said. “With Dolby stereo.”

  “I prefer Sensurround. How did it end?”

  “He got the girl.”

  “Too pat.” Randy knew by his smile that she’d scored a point. She was putting up a reasonably good fight so far, blocking his advances, returning his jabs. But as she bent to pick up her carry-on, her hands were shaking.

  A half hour later they were in the air and soaring toward Miami, their first connection in the long flight to Rio. The throbbing above Randy’s eye had worsened. Not only was she crowded in a tiny airplane seat between Geoff Dias and the window, but she was faced with an unnerving task. They had never discussed the “price” for his services since that day in his office. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t hold her to that bargain, but she couldn’t take anything for granted with a man like him. She had hired him, in a manner of speaking, and the form of payment had to be discussed.

  He was drawing something when she turned to him, sketching what looked like the outlines of a face on his drink napkin. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. “I’m willing to pay you what I promised,” she said. “Twice your normal fee.”

  He didn’t look up. “Keep your money. You can’t afford me.”

  Randy was tempted to let it go at that, but she didn’t want any surprises down the line. “If you don’t want to be paid, why are you doing this, out of the goodness of your heart? I didn’t know mercenaries did pro bono work.”

  He set the pencil down and reached into an inner pocket of his vest. “I told you why,” he said, drawing out a snapshot she’d given him of Hugh. “I’m going to bring Mr. Fortune Five Hundred back alive so you can take a good long look at his Armani suits and his little round glasses and quit kidding yourself. You don’t want pinstripes, Randy. You’d be bored silly.”

  And who do I want, Mr. God’s Gift? Mr. Holes-in-Your-Pants Mercenary? You? Randy curbed the impulse to voice the question. Wisely, she didn’t bring up his “price” again either. He hadn’t mentioned it, and she would leave it that way. As for not wanting Hugh back, Geoff Dias couldn’t have been more wrong. By the time they found her fiancé, she was going to convince the golden one next to her that she was in love with Hugh and totally committed to him.

  She rubbed her forehead, wincing as she touched tense muscles and tender nerves.

  “PMS?” Geoff asked, smiling faintly.

  “Headache,” she muttered, closing her eyes and settling back in the seat. “I’ll be fine. I have a relaxation technique that relieves the tension.”

  “This might be quicker.” He drew the silver flask from his vest and offered it to her.

  Randy flinched back. “Not if I were dying of thirst in the desert! What is that stuff?”

  “Two parts Gatoraid, one part Tang.” He grinned. “Hey, if it’s good enough for the astronauts ... ”

  Randy settled back and closed her eyes again, pointedly ignoring him as she concentrated on relaxing the muscles in her scalp and neck. She would have guessed the drink was an exotic love potion from the jungle, designed to turn women into glassy-eyed nymphomaniacs. At least he had a sense of humor.

  When she opened her eyes a short time later, Geoff was still preoccupied with his sketch, and she was pleased to know he could entertain himself. Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be such an ordeal after all, she decided, pulling a magazine from the pocket on the chair in front of her. She leafed through it, coming to an article on Rio.

  “Did you know that Rio de Janeiro means ‘River of January’?” she asked him. “It was named in 1502 by the Portuguese sea captain who discovered it. That’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  He glanced up, studying her features, gazing at the line of her jaw, the arc of her eyebrows, her mouth. “Yeah, beautiful.”

  She smiled, surprised by the compliment, and pleased.

  He resumed sketching almost immediately, and though Randy tried to get a look at what he was doing, she still couldn’t make it out. Spurred on by his praise, she felt compelled to talk to him. Maybe she could make him understand how important this trip was to her. She wanted him to know how her life had changed since she’d been with him, and how her relationship with Hugh symbolized that change.

  “You know I’m a West Side kid. I grew up in a neighborhood not far from your office.”

  “Ummm,” he murmured, “rough part of town.”

  “It was,” she admitted, realizing she’d never shared the darker details of her childhood with anyone, not even Hugh. “My mother raised me by herself. She had to work all hours—two, sometimes three, jobs.”

  “Looks like she did all right by you.”

  He glanced at her briefly, something that might have been admiration lurking in his expression.

  “Well, that’s just it,” Randy said, encouraged to go on. “Edna had these dreams she was never able to make come true, about how the perfect man would show up one day and sweep us both away and change our lives.”

  “Sounds like Cinderella stuff,” he said, not unkindly.

  “Yes, it was, but she believed it completely.”

  As Geoff continued to sketch, Randy found herself opening up even more. She confided the harsh realities of her childhood, the men who came and went in Edna’s life, her mother’s illness, and their increasingly sordid existence. “I promised myself I’d do things differently, that I’d make something of my life,” she told him, her voice softening as she hesitated. “Hugh Hargrove is part of that something.”

  The pencil went still in Geoff’s hand. “Do you love him?” he asked.

  “Yes ... in my way, I do. He really is the perfect man for me. Prince Charming in the flesh, Edna would have said. Maybe that’s as close as anyone ever gets to love.”

  Geoff made a series of quick slashes with the pencil, then handed the napkin to her. “Perfection has nothing to do with love, Randy.”

  She stared at what he’d drawn, her throat going dry.

  “What is this?” she asked, knowing full well. It was a sketch of a young woman’s tear-streaked face, and her expression was so full of sweet, wanton yearnings, so hungry for love, that Randy felt exposed just looking at her. The young woman was her, and the sketch had captured her feelings that night with painful clarity. It spoke of the flaring desire she’d felt for a beautiful stranger, and of the incredible pleasure he’d given her.

  “I don’t know what you feel for this Hargrove character,” Geoff said, “but that’s what you felt the night we were together.”

  Randy’s head had begun to throb again, but it couldn’t compete with the pounding of her heart. The napkin slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the floor.

  “I don’t want to talk about that night,” she said, turning away from him and staring out the window. She tried to focus on the terrain below, the clouds, but she couldn’t see anything but that anguished face. Her own face. She barely knew who that young woman was, but she could feel the force of her needs, the depth of her emotion. Those feelings were stirring inside her now, and they frightened her, frightened her badly.

  “Please,” she said sharply, “don’t ever bring that night up again.”

  Five

  THE WOMAN TOOK no prisoners.

  That thought flashed through Geoff’s mind more than once as he lounged in a settee in the lobby of a luxurious Rio de Janeiro hotel and watched Randy do battle with the Brazilian reservations clerk. They’d arrived at the hotel a short time ago, only to find that the rooms she’d booked had not been held despite everything she’d done to lock in the res
ervations. Worse, it was Carnaval in Rio. The hotels were overrun with tourists and revelers come to take in the annual pre-Lenten orgy. There wasn’t a room available in the city.

  “Go to a barato?” Randy cried softly, aghast as the clerk suggested she try the Brazilian equivalent of a flophouse. “I’ll camp out in your lobby first! I’m in the hotel business, and I know you have rooms. At the very least you’re holding a suite open for emergencies—and this is one.”

  Her voice was hushed but it carried like wind chimes in an icy breeze. What was it they called women like her? Geoff wondered idly. Tough cookies? Brass cupcakes? Just about any combination of steel and softness would do. Her appearance was deceptively feminine, with her supple dancer’s build, velvet-black eyes, and equally dark hair. She looked delicate enough to be a Barbie doll, but there had to be cast-iron reinforcements in her backbone.

  “No suite,” the clerk insisted, his English becoming less intelligible with his agitation. “Es no room leff.”

  “I meant it when I said I’d camp out in the lobby,” Randy warned him, her fingernails clicking on the marble countertop that separated them. “I hope your guests won’t mind that I sleep in the nude.”

  Geoff grinned and settled in, kicking his feet up on the table in front of him. He’d always enjoyed a good fight, and Randy fought good. Back in the good old days when women were property, she would have been the kind of wife a man kept on a short leash. Or tried to, poor jerk. Despite all her attempts at cool professionalism, she was headstrong and willful by nature, which probably had a lot to do with why he was attracted to her. If he’d been her husband, he wouldn’t have been foolhardy enough to resort to a leash, but he might not have wanted to let her out of his sight for very long.

  “Are you prepared for a scene out of Nightmare on Elm Street right here in this lobby?” Randy asked ominously.

  The telephone began to jangle and as the harried clerk picked it up, Randy glanced around at Geoff, steely determination written in the bones of her lovely face. Apparently the sight of him stretched out didn’t please her greatly. She abandoned her post at the desk and headed his way.

  “We may be sleeping on the streets,” she said, looking as if she’d like to kick his legs off the table. “You might have the decency to look concerned.”

  “Decency was never my strong suit.”

  The way her nostrils flared made Geoff think of a small fierce animal. Everything about her shouted, “Up yours, mister,” and that kind of defiance had always stirred his blood. He had the strongest desire to grab her wrist and pull her down on his lap. With her, anger could turn to passion with one hot, steaming kiss. He knew that from experience. Damn near “religious” experience.

  “Are you completely devoid of social skills?” she whispered, then shook her head. “Why am I asking? Of course you are. We’re in a foreign country, faced with a lodging crisis, and you can’t even muster up the energy to help me deal with the reservations clerk.”

  He cocked a shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to cramp your style, sweetness. You’re doing fine from where I’m sitting.”

  “Cramp my style?” she yelped softly, disbelieving. “You couldn’t cramp my style on your best day. In fact, grab hold of your pants, Conan, because you haven’t seen anything yet.” She zapped him with a dark look as if to make sure he got the message, then spun around to resume her duel with the clerk.

  Geoff expected fireworks, but instead she walked to the counter and very calmly crooked her finger at the frazzled young man, coaxing him to bend forward so that she could murmur something in his ear. He did, reluctantly, and their whispered conversation went on for several seconds before the clerk snapped his head up and nodded. Randy glanced over at Geoff, a flash of triumph in her eyes.

  A moment later she was walking toward Geoff, waggling a room key at him. “Our accommodations are ready.”

  “Accommodations?”

  “Um-hmm,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “We have the presidential suite at our disposal. No charge.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I merely mentioned the name of the man we’re in town to do business with—Carlos Santeras. I suggested that Carlos might be just the slightest bit put out if he couldn’t find us when he came by for our breakfast meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Geoff did manage to rouse himself for that. “Are you nuts?” he breathed, standing with one whip of his powerful legs.

  Randy dropped the key in her blouse pocket, looking all the more pleased for having gotten a rise out of him. “I prefer to think of it as expedient,” she said. “Is there a problem? You were admiring my style before, if I remember.”

  Geoff pulled her aside to impress upon her the dangers of dropping names of local criminals. “You’re lucky the clerk didn’t call the police,” he told her. “Santeras might have hired a public relations firm to clean up his image, but he’s still a crook, trust me. He’s suspected of running an international smuggling ring—everything from guns to priceless art.”

  “I’m familiar with Mr. Santeras’s reputation, thank you. And I also happen to know that he’s buying into resort hotels, which is why he may have had dealings with Hugh. I think they were both bidding on the same chain.”

  Geoff snorted. “If that’s the case, then Hugh-baby is history. Santeras isn’t the type to play fair with his competition.”

  “Hugh ... history?”

  She looked so stricken, Geoff felt a flash of guilt. “Settle down,” he said irritably. “I’ll track down your fiancé. You’ll never know what a colossal mistake you’re making unless I find the little weasel and bring him back.”

  She couldn’t seem to decide whether to thank him or argue with him. He ended her dilemma by pointing out a bank of elevators. “Let’s check out the room,” he suggested.

  “Rooms,” she hastened to correct. “It’s a very large suite, with three bedrooms.”

  She continued explaining the concept of a suite to him at length as they rode up in the elevator. Either she wanted to impress upon him the vast size of the place, which meant plenty of distance between them, or she figured him for a hayseed who’d never seen the inside of anything bigger than a roadside motel. Either way, her lecture amused him. He’d seen the inside of more suites than she could shake her rear end at.

  “Oh, my,” she said in hushed tones as the elevator doors opened onto the penthouse floor. “Isn’t this something?”

  Geoff had to agree. A row of graceful Kentia palms lined each side of the white marble entry, leading the eye to the two huge Chinese porcelain vases that flanked the suite’s carved mahogany double doors. In another time, it could have been the entrance to a sultan’s royal chambers.

  He opened the doors, ushering Randy into an octagonal foyer and smiling at her reaction. She murmured in delight, drawing her fingers along the marble top of a black lacquered bombé chest as she walked through to the living area, a spacious salon furnished with pastel upholstery and a junglelike profusion of exotic plants.

  The walls were hung with prints of French impressionists, and the room’s high ceilings were opened to the sapphire blue sky by skylights and clerestory windows. The living area flowed directly into the dining area, all of which was surrounded by an expansive terrace.

  Geoff walked to the terrace doors and opened them to warm waves of heavily perfumed air and the jungle drumbeats of a samba street band. The Cariocas, as the natives of Rio were called, were already practicing feverishly for the parades to come. Pleasantly reminded of how Rio stimulated all of the senses, Geoff gazed out at the colored umbrellas that dotted Copacabana Beach across the way. The bay beyond was a glassy sheet of reflected sunlight that swept the attention northeast, where Sugarloaf peak soared above the coastal mountains.

  When he turned back, Randy was sitting at an antique writing desk, busily jotting down notes on a pad of paper. The woman needed to loosen up, he decided.

  “Writing your memoirs?” Geoff asked. “What chapt
er am I?”

  “You’re the one entitled ‘If He Has Long Hair and Rides a Motorcycle, Keep Your Eyes Open and Your Legs Closed.’ ” She flashed him an impertinent smile, then finished up whatever she was doing and rose from the desk to give him the paper.

  Geoff skimmed a long list of dos and don’ts entitled “House Rules.” The first item particularly intrigued him: “There will be no physical contact between the two parties involved during the course of the assignment,” it said. The word no had been underlined three times. The next few items had to do with cohabitation etiquette, including a reference to unnecessary nudity and feet on the furniture.

  “No feet on the furniture?” Geoff asked, feigning perplexity as he walked to the nearest couch, a delicate white loveseat with silky cushions. He flopped down and swung up his booted feet, resting them on the cushions. “Is this what you’re talking about?” he asked, smiling quizzically. “I just want to be sure.”

  Caked dirt crumbled from his boot heels, soiling the pristine white silk. Randy drew in a sharp breath, then folded her arms as if to contain herself. Her dark eyebrows took on an attitude when she was angry, but it was the slight flare of her nostrils that really drove him crazy. Arousal tugged in the pit of his stomach. God, she was sexy. He loved crowding her. He loved watching her flare.

  “You really are a bad-mannered brute, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to get your rules straight. What was that other one? No unnecessary nudity?” He rose from the couch, flashing a slow grin as he stripped off his vest. It hadn’t hit the floor before he’d caught hold of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “What kind of nudity do you find unnecessary?” he asked, shaking out his hair as he let the shirt drop to the floor. “Is this nude enough for you? Or do I have to get bare-assed? I’m just trying to figure it out, sweetness.”