Читать книгу Fit for a Sheikh - Кристи Голд - Страница 11

Men viewed him as a dangerous loner who would stop at nothing in the search for justice. Women considered him a compelling lover who would stop at nothing in the pursuit of pleasure. A dark prince. Enigmatic. Invincible.

As a former military tracker, tempting fate and defying fear had become a way of life for Sheikh Darin ibn Shakir. A means to escape his own demons and a noble legacy he had never embraced. Yet the mission he was about to undertake had resurrected past failures he would rather forget. But he couldn’t forget, not this time. Not until he saw the murderous Dr. Roman Birkenfeld—who had stolen infants from their mothers then sold them as if they were his to barter—punished for his heinous crimes. Whatever it might take.

Preparing for his departure to Las Vegas, Darin began filling the black duffel bag with supplies and clothing he would need for his travels. He paused momentarily to survey the room where he’d resided over the past year. His cousin, Hassim “Ben” Rassad, had welcomed him into his home and facilitated Darin’s membership into the elite Texas Cattleman’s club, a group of men who assisted in apprehending criminals few would dare to confront. Although Darin was grateful for the opportunities, he planned to move on to the next mission alone, tracking an extremist in Obersburg who had threatened the royal family. He had no ties in America aside from his older brother, Raf, who resided in Georgia, and Ben. As for his homeland, Amythra, he’d vowed to never return. The place held nothing but bitter memories.

“The car is on its way.”

Darin turned toward the door to find his cousin dressed in faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots that gave no indication he, too, had been born into nobility. Glancing at the lone bag set on the end of the bed, Ben asked, “Is that all you are taking?”

“I do not anticipate remaining for more than a few days.”

“You should pack this, as well.”

Darin afforded a cursory glance at the square of white cloth and gold band Ben held out to him. “I have no need for a kaffiyeh where I am going.” He’d had no need for any royal trappings for some time now. Ben’s brother, Kalib, ruled as king of Amythra, therefore Darin was far down the line in terms of inheriting the throne. A good thing because he did not want that burden. He never had.

Ben offered the kaffiyeh again. “You could use it as a disguise, if for no other reason.”

Seeing no need to argue that point, Darin took the kaffiyeh from Ben and stuffed it inside the bag’s outer pocket.

“Alexander Kent tells me he has arranged assistance from the Bureau,” Ben said.

Something else that did not please Darin, although he greatly respected Alex Kent, a former FBI agent and fellow Cattleman’s Club member. “I would prefer to work alone.”

Ben released a frustrated sigh. “Might I remind you that when you joined our organization, you agreed to work with the others as a team?”

Darin needed no reminders. He’d been working that way for the past year, and he’d had no difficulty adhering to the policy. But this was different. This was personal. “I did not realize that this assignment would include other branches of law enforcement.”

“It is necessary since this mission does not involve private hire. The illegal adoption ring and extortion violated federal law. That is the way in this country.”

“I will honor the law. I will also have Birkenfeld in custody in a matter of days.”

Ben looked skeptical. “Do you really believe you will find him so quickly?”

Darin holstered the Beretta, secured the strap over his shoulder then slipped a black jacket over his T-shirt and the gun. “Birkenfeld is not as smart as he believes, even if he did escape the authorities.” And that thought brought about Darin’s anger. He had been involved in the doctor’s original capture, only to have the criminal slip through their hands due to Birkenfeld’s cunning and desperation and one novice police officer’s inadvertent mistake.

“Then you are certain he is still in Las Vegas?” Ben asked.

Normally Darin would be guarded with that information, something else he had pledged when he’d joined the Cattleman’s Club. But Ben was still officially a member, though he’d retired from active missions since his marriage. Therefore, Darin had no reason to withhold details in the case. “He is there, according to the attorney, Larry Sutter, Birkenfeld’s cohort. Birkenfeld contacted Sutter on his cell phone and arranged a meeting in some obscure Las Vegas lounge. I am to join an operative posing as a bartender.”

“This Sutter is in Las Vegas, as well?”

“Yes, in a hospital under protective custody since he has decided to turn state’s evidence in exchange for a lesser sentence. It appears he will be there for a while as he recovers from Kent’s beating.”

“Alexander Kent beat him?” Shock reflected in Ben’s tone and expression.

“He was protecting his lover from Sutter while they were infiltrating the adoption ring. There are no limits to what a man will do for the woman he loves.” Even kill if necessary, something Darin knew intimately.

Ben sent him a knowing look. “Very true. I, too, have been in that position.”

So had Darin, yet he had failed where Ben had not.

Ben thrust his hands in his pockets and watched while Darin took a few more things from the bureau drawers and added them to the bag. Darin sensed his cousin wanted to say something more, and not necessarily anything he wanted to hear.

“Are you certain you should be the one undertaking this particular mission?” Ben asked, confirming Darin’s suspicions.

“I volunteered. Unlike the other members involved, I have no wife with whom to be concerned.” No one waiting for him. No one who really worried over his activities.

“It is past time for you to consider settling down, Darin. Past time you find a suitable woman to share in your life.”

After stuffing the last of his clothing into the bag, Darin zipped it with a vengeance. “I have no desire to settle down. After Raf’s wife died, I decided my brother and I are cursed when it comes to women.”

Ben’s smile was cynical. “I thought you were too logical to believe in curses.”

“I was, before…” Before his world had come apart with the speed of a bullet.

“Before you lost her,” Ben finished for him. “Yes, the outcome was tragic, but we are all fortunate, and grateful, that you stopped Habib before he did further harm. You had no control over the situation beyond that.”

“I do not care to take the risk with another woman. Not with the life I choose to lead.”

“Yet you risk your life much of the time. Why not take a chance on finding a wife? I did, and I have no regrets.”

Darin recognized that Ben had found a very special woman, someone worth that risk. An American woman whose determination and spirit equaled most men Darin had known. He could not blame his cousin for falling for Jamie. She was everything a man would desire in a life partner, beautiful and full of passion. Ben and Jamie’s commitment and love for each other was obvious in every look they exchanged, a painful reminder of what Darin had once had—and lost—and one of the reasons why he needed to leave their home. The other reason cried, “Papa! Papa!” as she rushed into the room and grabbed Ben around the legs, her light brown hair flowing over her tiny shoulders.

Ben picked up two-and-a-half-year-old Lena and lifted her high above his head, much to the little girl’s delight. “You are full of energy today, yáahil.” He brought her into his arms and kissed her cheek. “I thought you were making xúbuz with your mother and Alima.”

Lena wrinkled her upturned nose. “I don’t like bread. I want cookies.” She sent Darin a vibrant smile, much like her mother’s, then pointed to his chin. “Scratchies all gone, Dawin?” she asked, as always mispronouncing his name, something Darin found endearing.

Ignoring the deep ache radiating from his heart, he rubbed his clean-shaven jaw and favored her with a smile. “Yes, little one. All gone down the drain.” He’d removed the goatee that morning to make himself less recognizable to Birkenfeld. He had also cut his hair to the top of his collar and now wore a gold loop in each ear. Hopefully enough of a change to disguise himself somewhat, which brought about a reminder of something he had almost forgotten.

Darin tucked his hair behind his ears and set the black baseball cap low on his forehead. He then picked up the bag and said, “I am ready.”

Lena leveled her dark eyes on him. “Where ya goin’, Dawin?”

He walked to her and ran a fingertip over her soft cheek. “To a place with many bright lights.” And a man who needed to be tracked down and punished.

She leaned over and touched his jaw as if fascinated with the absence of whiskers. “I wanna go.”

Darin took her hand and kissed her palm. “Not this time, little one.”

As Darin, Ben and Lena headed through the great room, Jamie met them at the front door. “Leaving again, Darin?”

“For a time.”

Jamie raked a hand through her blond hair and patted her distended abdomen. “I hope you’ll be back in the next few days for the baby’s birth. It’s really something to see big tough Ben here in nervous father mode. I swear, I thought he was going to pass out when Lena—”

Ben halted her words with a kiss, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I was quite calm during Lena’s birth.”

Jamie grinned and Lena giggled. “If you say so, honey.”

True affection passed between father, mother and child, evidenced by shared smiles, Lena’s head resting against Ben’s chest, Jamie’s arm around Ben’s waist.

Needing to escape, Darin walked onto the porch, thankful to discover the sedan had arrived to take him to the airstrip. Seeing this closely bound family was almost too much for him to bear, although he would never reveal that to anyone.

Before entering the car, he turned to wave goodbye, and little Lena with her father’s eyes and her mother’s smile, blew him a kiss.

Memories of what might have been crowded Darin’s mind, save for one cruel bastard who had taken three lives—Ben’s father, Darin’s fiancée and their unborn child. A man much like Dr. Roman Birkenfeld. Both had no regard for the sanctity of life and the rare gift of love.

Darin vowed to hunt down Birkenfeld even if it proved to be his last act on earth. But in the process, Sheikh Darin ibn Shakir would not allow himself to feel his own pain. Not if he wanted to succeed.

Not much went on in the off-the-strip Silver Ace Lounge on Mondays. The absolute height of boredom, a familiar concept for Fiona Powers. Hotel management student by day, bartender by night, the same-old, same-old since she’d moved to Vegas from Idaho five years before. But no one had said life would be easy for a struggling small-town gal with big-time dreams.

Fiona slapped a rag over the counter where some drunk had missed his big mouth, pouring his boilermaker all over himself and the bar. Fiona had tried to cut him off after two rounds, but scrawny, balding Benny Jack, the other barkeep, had kept on serving the guy as if he’d been doling out fruit juice. Thankfully, the inebriate had left an hour ago after Fiona had called him a cab, as well as some unflattering names under her breath.

“Slow night, huh, Fee-Fee?”

Fiona turned and leaned back against the bar, elbows braced on the counter, preparing to repeat the same admonishments to Benny Jack. “For the thousandth time, Fee-Fee is the name someone would give a poodle, and I assure you I am not a poodle even if my hair is curly. I do not sit up on my hind legs and beg, nor do I leave puddles on the sidewalk. But if I were a canine, I would take great pleasure in planting my pointy little teeth in the middle of your butt. Better still, I would probably go directly for the nethers and give them a good shake.”

Benny grinned, displaying his lack of teeth. “Didn’t know you were into that kinky stuff, Red.”

Red. The second-worst nickname Fiona had encountered. Obviously Benny was determined to cut his life short tonight. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Maybe some cave on the other side of the continent?”

Benny hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “Yep. I got a date.”

Great. Benny, the toothless, thin man had a date and Fiona was stuck tending regulars in a dive. “Just some advice, Benny. When you pick her up, don’t drag her by the hair to your car.”

Benny grinned again before turning toward the exit. “By the way, a new guy’s coming in to relieve you in a while.”

“What new guy?” Fiona said but received no response since Benny had already left out the back door to commence with his courting ritual that probably involved a back-seat roll with some big-haired broad.

And here she was, faced with a new guy no one had bothered to tell her about, not even Jimmy, the bar’s owner. Oh well, at least she might get home early to do some studying. If the latest employee knew how to tend bar. Otherwise, she’d have to train him, and hopefully that didn’t require newspaper on the floor. Jimmy had a tendency to hire knuckle-scraping morons—case in point, Benny Jack.

Fiona turned back to survey the limited occupants—two middle-aged guys in polyester pants shooting pool and bull, and one elderly man reading the paper and smoking a fat cigar that smelled about as delightful as stagnant sewage.

She leaned over the bar, propped her cheek on her palm and sighed. Yeah, just another night in nonparadise. But what could she expect when she chose to work in a place that served as stomping grounds for locals with the mean age of sixty? At least the tips were good, but for once she wished someone more interesting would come in.

The front door opened, and she expected another of life’s little disappointments to enter in the form of an octogenarian. What she got was the surprise of her life.

He seemed to emerge from the smoky haze like some otherworldly presence who had recently landed from Planet Machismo where the all-male aliens survived on testosterone alone. He wore black, from his baseball cap to his combat boots. Black cargo pants, black T-shirt, black jacket— Jacket? No one wore a jacket in Vegas in April, unless they were hiding something or hiding from someone. He stalked toward the bar with confidence as if challenging someone to stop his progress, his dark gaze scanning the room.

Fiona’s hopes soared when she considered he might be the new bartender. They dropped when he slid onto the stool with the prowess of a panther, directly in front of Fiona like any other customer. He studied her as if he expected her to swoon. She wasn’t going to do that, although her knees did feel a little flimsy.

She sent him a smile. “What can I get for you?” Coffee? Tea? Me?

“Coffee.”

Darn. “Black?”

“Yes.”

This did not surprise Fiona, nor did the fact that his voice was deep as a water well. She had never seen such a perfectly chiseled face covered by skin the color and texture of melted milk chocolate. Obviously black was his signature color, right down to the shadow of whiskers framing his full lips and the long dark lashes outlining his eyes, which Fiona considered totally unfair. Her lashes showed up after applying two coats of mascara. A slight indentation to the right of the bridge of his straight nose, as if it had been broken at one time, was the only true flaw in his face. But it sure as heck didn’t detract from his incredible looks.

Forcing her gaze away, Fiona turned from the counter to the back shelf housing the coffeepot and realized the temperature had just risen about a hundred degrees. She poured some of the muddy brew into the mug, glanced in the mirrored wall, then tightened the band securing her hair high on her head as if that would improve her appearance. Her ponytail looked like a spastic bird’s nest, random tendrils falling around her face like loose springs. Her sleeveless blue blouse revealed the results of happy hour and displayed all the freckles on her pale arms. Just her luck. Hank the Hunk had walked into her life and she looked like warmed-over deer dung.

Fiona gripped the cup in both hands, hoping it didn’t slide across the damp surface and land in his lap when she set it down. Of course, then she would be forced to hop over the bar and clean it up, not an altogether unpleasant thought. But hot coffee on his crotch did not a good impression make, not to mention it might be painful if it seeped through his pants. Then he would have to take his pants off—

Earth to Fiona.

She turned back to the bar and set the cup before him, fortunately without incident. “It’s kind of strong.”

He kept his intense eyes fixed on hers. “I prefer it that way.”

He might as well have said he preferred randy sex, considering the way Fiona’s body reacted with a series of hot flashes and a fluttering heartbeat.

Fiona realized she should probably stop staring at him as if he’d grown a third eye. Moving a few feet down the bar, she pretended to straighten glasses that didn’t need straightening, sending subtle glances in his direction now and again. He swiveled around on the stool, one arm resting on the bar, his large hand wrapped around the mug as he focused on the television suspended in the corner above the pool table.

How silly that she should be having such a strong reaction to this guy. His gold loop earrings, one in each lobe, and collar-length dark hair hanging down from beneath the cap made him seem just a little bit too dangerous. Of course, she hadn’t been involved with anyone since the breakup with her erstwhile fiancé, Paul the potato farmer. Unfortunately, for the past few years, she’d been in a man famine. But Paul hadn’t been the adventurous sort, and he hadn’t given any credence to Fiona’s dreams of owning and managing her own hotel. He’d simply told her goodbye when she’d asked him to come with her. Granted, that farewell had stung like a hornet, but now that she’d had some distance, she realized that she wasn’t suited for a man like Paul. He’d preferred the quiet life and crops; she preferred bright lights and big city—and craved adventure.

Adventure was sitting only a few feet away in the form of a demigod with a black clothing fetish. A man who could probably show her the time of her life, if she worked up enough nerve to make the suggestion.

Fiona mentally cataloged all the bad pickup lines she’d experienced in her twenty-five years. Mind if I suck your lips off your face? Too obvious. Could I show you the back seat of my sedan? Too Benny Jack. Besides, her car was temporarily out of commission. And apparently so were her seduction skills.

Come-ons were not her forte, but she decided it was now or never. She would engage him in a conversation. Something simple. The weather. Jockeys or briefs?

Inhaling a cleansing breath, Fiona grabbed a moderately clean rag and began working her way back in his direction. When she was only inches from his hand, she asked, “Would you like more coffee?”

“Not presently.” He subtly surveyed the area, something that might be lost on any casual observer, but not on Fiona.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked.

He shifted back around to face her. “Yes.”

A man of few words. But that would not deter her. Tonight she would become Fiona the Fearless Flirt. “A woman?”

“No.”

Fiona wanted to cheer. “Okay. What does your friend look like? Maybe I’ve seen him around.”

“He is definitely not a friend.”

From his acid tone, Fiona wondered if she would soon have a fight on her hands. “I’m guessing he’s an enemy, right?”

He gave her a questioning look. “Are you interested in astrology?”

A totally unexpected question. Fiona didn’t see him as an astrology kind of guy, and frankly she was hard-pressed to believe that planet alignment controlled fate. Where was the tall dark stranger who was supposed to enter her life when Mars was in retro-something? Sitting right in front of her.

What the heck. She’d play along. “I find astrology somewhat intriguing. In fact, I’d bet you’re a Scorpio.” The oversexed sign.

“Correct.”

Bingo! Darn, Fiona, you’re good.

His eyes narrowed. “Are you a Leo?”

No, she was a Pisces. But if he wanted her to be a Leo, she could do that. She liked lions. In fact, he made her want to growl. “How’d you guess?”

He hesitated a moment then said, “I did not realize you were a woman.”

Ouch. Did she look that awful? And did he think she had bowling balls stuffed in her shirt? Granted, she’d always considered being a bit top heavy somewhat of a curse for someone with such a small frame, yet she’d never expected anyone to believe they weren’t real, or that she was a cross dresser. But, after all, this was Vegas. And it would be just her luck if he was gay. “Yes, I’m a woman. If you want a drag club, you might try downtown or the Strip.”

“My apologies.” His gaze settled on her breasts. “It is quite obvious you’re a woman. I meant I was not informed of your gender.”

Okay, she could forgive him. But she was still a trifle confused and a whole lot warm when he leaned forward and asked, “Have you seen anything?”

She saw the crease framing the right of his mouth that probably turned into a dimple when he smiled, something he had yet to do. But Fiona smiled, a coy one, or at least she hoped it looked flirtatious and not forced. “I’ve seen just about everything. What exactly are you looking for?”

Before he could answer, the drunk Fiona had ousted not more than hour ago picked that inopportune time to burst through the door, clamoring for a beer.

Fiona pushed back from the bar and said, “You don’t need to be in here, Chuck. I’m not going to serve you.”

Ignoring Fiona, Chuck staggered behind the bar. “Just one more brewsky.”

Fiona scowled at him and pointed at the door. “You’ve had enough, now leave.”

“Aw, come on, Fee-Fee.”

He was pushing his luck now. “Go home, Chuck.”

“After you give me another drink,” he slurred, bringing his foul breath with him as he leaned forward and pointed a bratwurst finger in her face.

“Do what the lady asks or you will have to answer to me.”

Fiona glanced at Scorpio who now stood by the stool, looking and sounding like a dark knight bent on coming to her rescue. And they’d said chivalry was passé. What did they know? Regardless, even if she didn’t have a black belt in karate, or any color of belt for that matter, she was quite capable of taking care of herself. “He’s harmless,” she assured him before regarding the drunk again.

When Chuck clutched Fiona’s collar in both beefy fists, Fiona grabbed his wrists and shouted, “Back off!” thrusting her knee upward toward the intended target, but Chuck moved back before she could do any damage. No, not moved back. Yanked back by Scorpio who had somehow scaled the bar and now had the drunk pinned against the counter. He muttered something in a language that Fiona couldn’t understand, but she didn’t think he was telling Chuckie to have a nice night.

He shot a glance at Fiona. “What do you wish me to do with him?”

“Just put him out the door. I’ll call the police if he comes back in.”

Chuck looked as if he might blubber as Scorpio grabbed him by the nape and guided him toward the exit. Fiona felt like blubbering, too, as she watched her one opportunity to have some adventure walk out the door, probably never to return.

Darn. Another night in Dullsville.

As Darin stepped into the warm night, he silently cursed the drunk, cursed the fact that he’d been caught off guard by the FBI operative’s gender. He’d expected a man when Kent had told him the agent would operate under the code name Leo, not an attractive woman with hair the color of a sunset, large green eyes and perfect breasts that he had not been able to ignore. But he must ignore her if he intended to complete his mission. He had no time for a liaison or lover even if he’d entertained those thoughts when he had first set eyes on her. That was before he realized she would serve as his partner in apprehending Birkenfeld, not his partner beneath tangled sheets.

As soon as he deposited the drunk in the parking lot, he would return inside to the agent and discuss their plans before Birkenfeld’s scheduled arrival in one hour. He would also attempt to keep his eyes off her attributes, though that might prove difficult. But if all went well tonight, Darin would be back on the plane tomorrow morning and Birkenfeld would be back behind bars. And he would leave the woman behind without discovering if the fiery passion she seemed to possess held true in bed. Under different circumstances, he might attempt to find out.

Darin guided Chuck down the steps while the drunk whined, “Don’t hurt me, man.”

He had no intention of hurting him unless he attempted to harm the agent, although he suspected the woman could handle this troublemaker. After all, she had been trained by the best.

As they reached the walkway at the bottom of the steps, a passing man with a shaved head, his eyes lowered to the ground, muttered, “Excuse me.”

Darin’s blood ran cold at the sound of the voice.

With one hand on the drunk’s neck, the other poised on the gun beneath his jacket, Darin turned and said, “Roman Birkenfeld.”

The man spun around and their gazes connected. Recognition dawned in the demonic doctor’s beady eyes before he shoved Chuck into Darin and took off.

Pushing the drunk aside, Darin gave chase, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding with every step as he closed in on the criminal, but not before Birkenfeld disappeared around the back of the building.

Flattening himself against the brick wall, Darin moved into the dimly lit alley, his gun drawn, and came upon two figures struggling on the ground. He saw the shock of red hair then the silver glint of a knife poised above the woman’s chest as she fought to hold Birkenfeld’s arm at bay, shouting, “Get off me, you jackass!” Memories of another place, another time, another woman assaulted him.

Sheer instinct drove him forward to grab Birkenfeld by the arm. In a split second of stupidity, Darin took his attention from the fugitive in order to make certain the woman was not injured, allowing Birkenfeld the opportunity to strike.

The knife hit home, slashing first across Darin’s left thigh, then his side. Anger overrode the pain but he couldn’t see well enough to take a clean shot without risking shooting the agent who’d entered the fray, pummeling the back of Birkenfeld’s neck but doing little to hinder the criminal’s knife-wielding. Darin kicked out, landing the toe of his boot in Birkenfeld’s ribs, and at the same time the blade cut across the back of his right ankle. The blow proved to be too much, dropping Darin to the gravel surface. The gun, wrenched from his grasp at the impact, skittered across the pitted pavement, leaving them both vulnerable.

Darin heard the sound of harried footsteps and rolled to his belly, fumbling for and finding the gun, but not soon enough to prevent Birkenfeld from escaping into the night before he could fire off a round.

He eased onto his back, his chest heaving from labored breaths, his head swimming from the wounds and the tactical errors he had committed. The mistakes of his past seemed bent on recurring whenever a woman’s safety was involved.

Turning his head to his right, he found the agent on her knees next to him. At least she was alive. “Are you hurt?” he managed.

“I’m fine.” She gave him a visual once-over, pausing at his thigh. “Oh, God, you’re bleeding!”

Darin worked his way into a sitting position to assess the damage. The guard light above them provided enough illumination to see the slit in the T-shirt on his right side below his ribs. Fortunately, the jacket had provided enough protection against severe damage to his flesh. His thigh injury was worse, a dark stain fanning from the perimeter of the gash in his pants, indicating blood. But his ankle ached more and he suspected Birkenfeld’s knife had done the most damage there. Nothing that would not heal, but it would hinder his pursuit, at least tonight.

He muttered several oaths in Arabic directed at his carelessness.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the agent said, her voice surprisingly calm.

Darin clasped her wrist before she could stand. “No hospitals. No doctors.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”

“I’ve had worse injury, I assure you. Did you not have your gun drawn when you encountered Birkenfeld?”

“Birkenfeld?”

Obviously she was somewhat in shock. “The fugitive whom you were engaging in hand-to-hand combat.”

She frowned. “First, I don’t own a gun. Second, he ran into me when I was coming out the back with the garbage. Third, I don’t know any Birkenfeld.”

Darin scowled. “Did they not inform you that he was the man we would be apprehending?”

“Who are they? And who are you?”

Darin suddenly realized he had made two grave errors. “You are not FBI?”

She attempted a weak smile. “You have the F and B right, but that would be for Fiona the Bartender.”

He gritted his teeth, braced his elbows on bent knees and lowered his head. Ben had been correct in assuming he was not the right man for this mission. Yet, now more than ever, Darin wanted Birkenfeld to pay.

She came to her feet and wiped her hands over her jean-covered thighs. “Let me get the bartender who just came in to relieve me. He can help me get you inside.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because the bartender was more than likely the real FBI agent, and Darin did not want the man to know what a fool he’d been. Letting Birkenfeld escape had been Darin’s mistake, and he would correct it. But how? He was injured. He could not do this alone. He would need help, something he hated to admit.

Darin leveled his gaze on Fiona, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Even if she was not FBI, she was his only ally at the moment. He would be forced to rely on her assistance, if she was willing to give it. “Do you live nearby?”

“I have an apartment a couple of miles away.”

“Take me there.”

She braced her hands on her waist and stared down on him. “First, you have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”

He would only tell her what he must to reassure her. He would not subject her to more danger by revealing everything. “If you will see me to your apartment, I will give you details. I will say that I am working for law enforcement. The man named Birkenfeld is very dangerous. I’m here to apprehend him.”

Fiona’s expression brightened. “So you’re one of the good guys?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “How do I know that?”

Darin lifted his arms from his sides. “In the right pocket of my pants, you will find my credentials.”

She crouched down and rifled in his pocket for a few moments. Had he not been in such pain, he might have enjoyed the activity. After she withdrew the black folder, she looked at the fabricated license, looked back at him, then back at the license. “Frank Scorpio? Texas Peace Officer?”

“That is correct.” He shifted his leg and winced from the pain in his ankle. “Could we possibly leave soon?”

“I have to call a cab. My car’s in the shop.”

“I have a rental in the lot.”

“Okay, but I’m driving.” She rose to her feet again. “I’ll have the new guy lock up. It’ll only take a sec, so don’t go anywhere.”

“I promise I will be here when you return. And do not tell him I am here. The fewer people who know, the better.”

“Okay.” She pointed to the gun still in his grip. “Could you put that thing away? It makes me nervous.”

Darin holstered the Beretta for now, but he would take it out again in case Birkenfeld returned. “Anything else I might do for you before I bleed to death?”

She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’ll hurry.”

Fiona sprinted back into the building, leaving Darin alone in the alley with his pain and the strong sense that getting involved with this woman could be the third mistake he’d made since his arrival in Vegas.

But he had no choice.

Roman Birkenfeld ran into the night. Ran until his lungs burned and his eyes teared. Ran aimlessly through the darkened streets. His throbbing side slowed his progress somewhat and he paused behind an odious commercial trash bin to feel along his ribs where Shakir had kicked him. Nothing broken, only bruised, he suspected. No punctured lung, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.

Damn the woman who’d run into him. He should’ve killed her. He would have, had it not been for that bastard, Shakir. The recollection of his knife slicing through the man’s skin gave him added strength and a good deal of purpose as he continued on at a sprint. He didn’t have to guess how Shakir had found him. The idiot Larry Sutter. The blood-sucking attorney had no doubt ratted him out, setting him up with a promise of money, enough money to purchase passage out of the country. He should have known not to trust him. Should have known that Sutter had lied when he’d said he was leaving the hospital, the meeting tonight a ruse to protect Sutter’s ass.

Damn Shakir and Sutter. If Shakir wasn’t dead, and he hoped he was, he would find a way to take him out. He would take them both out, beginning with Sutter. But how? He couldn’t get close to the hospital; they would recognize him.

Tommy Stokes. The ex-con had escaped from Texas but no doubt he would be back in Vegas by now, frequenting his favorite haunts, keeping company with less-than-upstanding citizens. Places where anyone could get anything, if the price was right. Business was good for a man with a thirst for blood and the absence of a soul.

He didn’t have money to pay Stokes, but one thing was working in his favor—the thug hated lawyers. Stokes would agree to off Sutter for the sheer pleasure of watching him suffer as payback for the attorney who hadn’t saved him from a five-year prison term. Now he would just have to find the ex-con, and he would. Tonight.

As it had been all of Roman Birkenfeld’s life, people had tried to thwart his goals. They hadn’t succeeded until now. His medical career was a bust, all the years of hard work and struggle gone down the tubes because of some determined East Coast loan sharks and a woman who’d enlisted a group of Texas vigilantes determined to destroy him. It always came back to a woman, in this case, Natalie Perez.

Natalie was out of reach this time, but Shakir wasn’t. Someone would have to pay. It might as well be him.