"And I suppose you want me to take your word for that . . . that he only just found out about me?" Christian turned toward her, searching her eyes for an answer.
"I hope you will, yes." Jasmine touched his arm and spoke in a hushed tone. "She never allowed him the choice—to take his rightful place as your father. Until he examined his heart, I believe he wanted time to consider what such a revelation would do to you."
He wondered how much of this was Jasmine's gift of persuasion. She had all the answers, doling out what he wanted to hear. But his gut jabbed at him, casting doubt on her portrayal of Charboneau as a concerned father with only his best interests at heart.
"So, you think he stayed away, out of concern for me?" He tilted his head and focused his gaze on the woman standing before him. "Don't you think that's a stretch, even by your twisted standards?"
"Please. Do not judge him. Not without Nicky being able to defend himself. And without your help, he won't be alive long enough to do so. Please, I need you."
Despite his cynical nature, he wanted to believe her. But the reality of his situation was simple. He could only discover the truth about Charboneau on his own. He would have to risk his future to uncover his past. Would he regret the decision he was about to make?
"What do you want from me?"
"What the hell do you want, damn it?" Nicholas yelled.
His voice resounded off the walls of the cavern, an inky black and boundless expanse. Some kind of cave. Plunged in total darkness, he wasn't sure anyone heard him. And he hated being ignored.
"You don't know who you're dealing with!"
Anger tempered his voice, but the thick dank air muffled his usual thunder. If he didn't conserve his strength, he'd lose his ability to speak at all. Stale air mixed with an indefinable rotten smell, making it hard to breathe. He fought the urge to take a full breath, afraid the foul air would damage his lungs.
Plop. Tink. Tink.
The incessant, mind-numbing noise.
The walls seeped dampness and secreted a pungent mineral odor.
"I can pay for my freedom!" he shouted. Swallowing hard, he found no relief for his parched throat. "You can deal with me!"
No answer. Only a mocking echo. And he didn't like what he heard. At some point desperation tainted his tone, undermining any prospect of influence over the men holding him hostage.
Who was he kidding?
How in the hell could he command respect from his captors? His hands and face felt caked with layers of filth. It clung to his skin, bonded by a scummy sheen of sweat. His body reeked of it . . .and worse. He couldn't escape the stench from his own urine and other bodily necessities. The foul odor hung heavy in the stagnant air, despite his best efforts. Even though he had been repulsed by the squalor, other creatures scurrying in the darkness rallied to it like greedy vultures. Flies and gnats buzzed, growing in number by the day. So far, he'd kept the rats at bay when he stayed awake, making any real sleep impossible.
This can't be happening. Not to me.
Yet with each passing hour, doubt crept into his mind like an affliction.
Nicholas gripped the metal bars of his cell. Set solidly in stone, the barrier appeared escape-proof. He had given up hope of wrenching the blockade free. Yet the feel of the solid object in his hands reinforced his sense of equilibrium in the dark. It gave him something to cling to. His shoulders slack, he leaned his forehead against the bars and allowed defeat to inch closer in the dark. Cool metal next to his skin gave some measure of relief from the suffocating heat that now ebbed and flowed in this hellhole.
But at other times a chilling vapor swept through the emptiness, settling deep within his bones. What remained of his clothing did not provide any relief against such an onslaught. He would brace his hands upon the stony barrier and find a hole to squat, fending off hypothermia as best he could until the sweltering heat returned.
Now, all he could think about was—
"Water. I need . . ." He stared into a sea of black, allowing his voice to fade to a whisper, ". . . water." Nicholas closed his eyes, bone weary.
The bastards kept him guessing, supplying food and water on an irregular basis. A cruel game. Only the distant crunch of footsteps and a faint flicker of a light warned him of their approach. At first he had prepared himself for physical torture, but the isolation proved to be far worse. After a while he found himself eager for any attention at all. Even a onesided conversation was better than the stone cold silence of his existence.
Without light, the hours melded into nothingness, lacking any sense of morning or night. And worse, he had no idea how long he'd been in this godforsaken place. Drugs initially muddled his perception, but now that his mind had cleared, the reality of his predicament hit hard.
If they never came back, he'd die in this place. He had lost control of everything.
"Defeat comes to no man until he admits it," he muttered, knowing he sounded more like a madman. Even though the old quote sprang into his head, the words implied a defiance he no longer possessed.
Being a prisoner to darkness, only his thoughts kept him company in the endless void—perhaps the greatest cruelty. He had no regrets about his life, so contemplating it would do no good. But what had become of Jasmine? With the power of her spirit, surely he would feel her passing from this life. At least, he'd like to think he would feel it. They shared an undeniable bond.
Surely he would know.
"I still can't believe Nicholas . . ." Jasmine closed her eyes tight and grappled for the words. "Perhaps I should tell you what lead me to your door . . . then we can discuss what I will need ..."
She shared her story, speaking in a quiet tone as she stood before him.
Christian witnessed her struggle for control over emotion, an uncharacteristic facet of the assassin he'd seen operate up close. As she turned away, he moved closer to Raven, finding a seat next to her on the sofa. Her fingers wrapped in his, making their connection stronger. He felt comforted by her presence, even as Jasmine told her disturbing tale.
". . . After it happened, I planned to stay in Brazil, to lead the search for Nicky. But something felt . . . wrong." She walked toward the kitchen and stopped at the counter. Staring across the room, lost in her memory, she clutched her arms over her chest. "I sensed it was not safe for me to remain, not if I was going to help him."
"What do you mean something felt wrong?" Christian asked, though he fully understood Jasmine heeding her sixth sense. "You were only doing your job. Why was it not safe for you to remain?"
"It seemed like I was the only one who wanted to find Nicky. The American Consulate, the State Department, the local law ... no one would help soon enough. With politicos and bureaucrats, delay is commonplace, regardless of the urgency of the situation. But I was running out of time."
Normally quite composed, Jasmine gestured with her hands to make her point. Emotion seethed to the surface of her cool facade. It was the most animated he had ever seen her face, even in the instant when she killed. She rejoined them and took a chair. Leaning closer, she held her eyes on him, doing her best to ignore Raven.
"But the real clincher was when I contacted his lawyer in Chicago to arrange for the ransom money. That conversation felt most peculiar . . . like he knew something I did not."
"Come on, Jasmine. You've got to give me something more than that. Having a conversation with a lawyer who acts like he knows more than you do? That's standard procedure, isn't it?" Christian let his annoyance show.
Jasmine's eyes fired with indignation before she regained control.
"It was more than just the inherent arrogance of a man in that profession. I got the distinct impression he suspected me of being involved with the abduction. And if the syndicate believes I am guilty of kidnapping and extortion, then I will soon be a target for a global fox hunt. I do not relish playing the part of a furry creature with a tail, with rabid hounds nipping at my flanks, given the vast resources of the syndicate's holdings. Perhaps Nicky isn't the only one running out of time."
"Did his lawyer come right out and accuse you?" he asked.
"No, not overtly, but the man seemed to know everything that had happened . . . even before I told him." She avoided his eyes.
The thought of Jasmine being involved in her employer's kidnapping had not occurred to him. He chastised himself for not being more alert to her potential deception. The scenario she painted suddenly sounded like a house of cards, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation.
And damn it—he sensed plenty of provocation gusting his way.
Jasmine must have read his mind. She pointed her finger in anger. "And do not insult me by asking if I am involved in Nicky's abduction. I would have to slit your throat."
"I believe you . . . that you might try to slit my throat, that is. But I'll be the judge on whether you're guilty of anything else."
"Then you will help?" Her face brightened with hope.
But the real question remained. "You still haven't answered me. What do you want?"
She took a moment to slow her breathing. Leaning toward him, she reached across Raven to grasp his forearm, pale skin stark against her red nails. "Money."
"Oh yeah, here it comes," Raven muttered. "The big con job."
Jasmine glared at her but overlooked the remark. "I need the funds wired. I cannot trust Nicky's lawyer to follow through with something so vital." She tightened her jaw, then stole a quick glance toward Raven again before focusing on him. "And I would like you to accompany me back to Brazil."
"What? Why do you need Christian?" Raven responded before he had a chance. She leaned forward on the couch, her fingers tightening around his.
He shifted his gaze toward Jasmine and waited for her answer.
"I could use the Dunhill jet . . . for greater flexibility. And I am hesitant to take advantage of my flying privileges with the syndicate's aircraft." Jasmine raised her chin. "The local military police were less than cooperative. It seems corruption is a way of life down there."
"I bet that offended your genteel sensibilities." Mumbling under her breath, Raven made her feelings known, as if there might be some doubt.
Ignoring her, Jasmine continued, "I didn't know whom to trust. A local police captain shadowed my every move. And believe me, that is not an easy feat. Someone is covering up the whole thing and discrediting me in the process. I no longer have resources of my own. And I am afraid Nicky will forfeit his life for my failure."
"Even if I believed you . . ." Christian fell back against the leather couch, frustration tainting his mood. He shook his head. "I don't have access to that kind of money, Jasmine."
"No, but your mother does. I believe Fiona would help if she knew what happened to Nicky." She averted her eyes and spoke softly. "It is my belief they still care deeply for each other . . . even after all these years."
Glaring at Jasmine, he narrowed his eyes in doubt, then found comfort in Raven's loving gaze. Severing ties with Fiona had been painful enough, but to go back to her now was nearly unthinkable. Still, a life hung in the balance. Would he really have a choice?
"Even if I can get the money, you're suggesting we conduct our own search and rescue mission before the funds are wired. Is that it?"
"Yes. And I am certain since the kidnapping took place at the Hotel Palma Dourada in Cuiabá, it must have been an inside job. It was too perfectly executed to think otherwise. We could start there. Between you and I, we would split up, stay one step ahead of the local law. We can trust no one."
"I'll say. Christian, this doesn't add up." Raven turned and placed a hand on the nape of his neck, stroking his hair. "From the way she's talking, this is one big conspiracy—from the local sheriff to the bellhop and the maid. And let's not forget Charboneau's lawyer too. Hell, I'm sure we can trace this all back to the suspicious creation of the blue M&M and the government cover-up of the alien autopsy at Area 51. Are you really buying all this?"
Raven had a good point, despite her vivid conspiracy analogies. On the surface, Jasmine's story had major holes in logic. It should have been a simple equation. Number one, the kidnappers would want a ransom. Number two, the local law should have been hot after the bad guys. And number three, Charboneau's lawyer should have earned his high-priced retainer by arranging for the funds to be wired. Yet according to Jasmine, only the ransom had been demanded by the kidnappers, nothing more. Something didn't add up.
Or did it?
"Unless someone doesn't want him to make it out of Brazil alive. It might be pretty convenient to get rid of him and blame it on the local cottage industry of corporate executive kidnapping." He threw his theory out for consideration, then turned his gaze toward Jasmine. "Why was Charboneau in Brazil?"
A flicker crossed Jasmine's eyes. He knew in an instant that whatever response she contemplated would be a fraction of the truth.
"Once or twice a year, he travels there. He generously funds a genetics research facility. He is a benevolent man." She'd answered his question, yet he knew she held something back.
He wasn't surprised that Raven didn't buy Jasmine's act.
"Let me take a stab at translating this for you, Christian," Raven offered. "She says Charboneau's involved with a charitable venture in South America. I see an opportunity to launder funds in a foreign country . . . and no doubt tax benefits for his corporation to boot. But I bet that's not all. Hell, I wish I got this much spin out of my washing machine. Ever think about a career in politics?"
"I am only his bodyguard," Jasmine replied, pretending to be insulted. "I cannot respond to such an inference." If the situation were not so grave, he might have seen the humor in her indignation—an assassin who draws the line at associating with known tax evaders.
Strange world!
"Yeah, right." Raven crossed her arms and tilted her head, her facial expression mocking the woman's reply. "With that song and dance, you should take your act on the road. In fact, I insist."