Terror Stash (19 page)

“I really use it.”

“Then there’s a couple of moves I could show you that don’t rely on pure muscle power. They’d help you overcome someone bigger and stronger.”

She stood up. “Show me.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

He crossed him arms, smiling. “Tell me first why you keep a set of Machiavelli’s plays on the bookshelf. Plays that you can’t read. Or I don’t move from here.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“You walked right into it,” he agreed. “It’s not just your physical guard you should keep up, you know.”

She could feel her cheeks burning hot. But she also knew that he meant what he said. He would not move until she gave him what he wanted.

Irritation flitted through her. “Oh, all right. There’s a legend in the diplomatic community, called Nicollo. She—”

“She?” he said sharply.

“Yes. She was the Persian wife of an English diplomat posted to Tahir. I think she was the reason he got the posting.”

“Where in the hell is Tahir?” Caden interrupted. “I thought I knew ‘em all.”

“It’s an island nation off the coast of Somalia, in the south Arabian sea. In nineteen sixty-three it was a British East African protectorate, but it was founded by the Persians.”

Caden frowned. “So she was posted there—”

“Her
husband
was posted there. She was a diplomat’s wife. That’s all.”

“So why is she a legend?”

“She halted a revolution.”

His brows lifted a little. “The plot thickens. Go on.”

She hissed out an impatient breath. “It’s just a story, Rawn.”

“Not to you, it’s not. Go on.”

“She was very young, in her early twenties, I think. Very beautiful and talented. She spoke Arabic, Farsi and French, of course—that’s all diplomats really needed in those days—and she picked up English, too. Of course, all the other diplomats’ wives just hated her. She spent a lot of time listening. She listened to
everything
and absorbed it.”

“Like you?” Caden grinned.

“You want this story or not?”

He held up a hand, palm out.
Peace
.

She pushed her hair away from her eyes impatiently. “Slave trade from Africa had been abolished forty years before that, but in ninteen sixty-three there was a strong underground trade still going on and it was one of the major economic forces of Tahir. There were a lot of Persians still living on the island and Nicollo spent a lot of time with them, too. She believed that maintaining a relationship with local businessmen would help her husband’s career. Especially as the Sultan of Tahir was Persian himself.”

“Very diplomatic,” Caden said.

“One day the wife of a Persian businessman complained about her husband coming home from his trips to the top of the island with oily boots that ruined the carpets in their home. The servants couldn’t get the stuff out. Nicollo heard and knew instantly that oil had been discovered at the top of the island by the Sultan and that he wasn’t telling the British or the Americans.”

“So where did the revolution come into it?”

“The slave-driven economy created a number of very rich men who didn’t like the limitations placed upon their trade by the Sultan and his British friends. They whipped up independence frenzy amongst the African tribes native to Tahir. There were a lot of Africans, you see. They outnumbered the ruling Persians by five to one at least.”

“Many countries have a history like that.” Caden crossed him arms and settled himself on the step. “Go on.”

“The British could see the revolution coming. Everyone could. It was only a matter of time before the Persians were kicked out and the Africans took back their island. The British decided that a tidy, gentleman-like withdrawal was the better option. They’d let Kenya go and Somalia was standing on its own feet. It was time to let Tahir have its independence and let it sort its troubles out for itself.

“The Persians were horrified. They wanted the British to stay because the might of the British military presence was all that was holding the revolution back. Without them, the Persians were hopelessly outnumbered.

“Then they discovered crude oil flowing at the north of the island and were in a double bind. They couldn’t tell the British, because England would claim the oil rights for themselves. Yet the income from the oil, if the Persians could exploit it, would give them the necessary economic power to hold back the African population. But the Persians couldn’t exploit it on their own. They needed help to do it.”

“British help?” Caden was smiling.

“Or American, or Russian, or even Persia itself. They were secretly negotiating with the newly minted USSR when Nicollo heard about the oil in the housewife’s carpets. She’d heard enough rumors to be able to put it together. So she presented it to her husband.”

“And he presented it to the British, and they stepped in, halted the revolution and took over the oil rights,” Caden finished.

Montana shook her head. “He didn’t think it was significant. He didn’t believe her.”

He smiled. “Okay, I’ll shut up. Tell me the rest.”

“The Sultan of Tahir had only been on the throne for a couple of years. He’d won the throne by conquest. They still did that in those days, although it was dying out. However, the son of the former Sultan was on the new Sultan’s staff. A wise move, really. It kept everyone happy. Nicollo had heard, though, that the former Sultan’s son had a British mistress, one of the wives of the diplomatic corp. Worse, she was pregnant. Worse still, he was madly in love with her and wouldn’t let her go back to England to carry the child in secret. Nicollo found out the wife was desperate enough to try to abort the child. In those days it was practically a death sentence. Nicollo stopped her and tucked her away somewhere secret and safe. Then Nicollo brokered a deal with the British government and the son of the former Sultan. The British put him back on the throne and kept the wife in Tahir for him. UK companies got the oil development rights, shored up the throne and the economy, and killed off the revolution as it wouldn’t serve their renewed interested in Tahir, which also handily kept the communists out of Tahir, too.”

“She brokered the deal through her husband?”

“No. He didn’t believe her, remember? She did it herself.”

Caden considered the story for a long, silent moment. “This diplomat’s wife. She have a name? A real name?”

“Everyone calls her Nicollo. After Machiavelli.”

“Who said to pay attention to the details. Yeah, I got it. You don’t know her name?”

“Arriabata Anderson Finch-Jones,” Montana answered. She grimaced. “Now you know why she goes by Nicollo.”

“That’s quite a name,” he agreed, but Montana got the impression that his mind was abruptly elsewhere. Absorbed.

“Do I get that lesson?” she asked.

He stepped aside and waved towards the common room. “Come and get your ass wiped all over the floor,” he offered.

“Oh, joy.”

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes later, when she was lying on the floor feeling every muscle twinge in protest over the punishing defense lesson Caden had provided, it occurred to her that his probing about Nicollo had very neatly diverted her from the question that had been uppermost on her mind.

Where had Caden been at eight years old that involved mixing with people like Ghenghis Bob?

“Up on your feet,” Caden told her from across the room.

“Can’t,” she said flatly.

“Bullshit. If I were Ghenghis Bob coming at you with a knife, you’d find a way. Fatigue is nearly all mental.”

“Then I’m mentally wiped. Enough, Rawn.”

She heard him pad over to where she lay on the rubber tiles, her arms spread. He looked down at her, the black eyes without mirth. “Okay, stay there.” He reached over her to pick up his hunting knife from the shelf where he had laid it before the lesson began. He hefted it. “I’m Bob. You’re flat on your back. What do you do?”

“No, really. I can’t.”

“Evil doesn’t take vacations, Montana.”

“Yeah, neither do I.”

“You’re taking one right now.” He hefted the knife. “Problem is, Dela Vega, you think you deserve down time. You think you can knock off at five.” He smiled, but there was no mirth in the expression. “You let your guard down when you think it’s safe.”

“I let my guard down?”

“You let me pick up a knife, didn’t you? A knife that now happens to be pointing directly over your windpipe.”

She stared up at the tip. From her perspective, it was a silvery speck, with Caden’s fingers loosely gripping the handle, right behind it. If he dropped it, it would fall three feet and spear straight into her throat. He stood relaxed and the smile turned to genuine amusement. “See?” he said.

She flexed sharply, bringing her knee up in an arc, with her leg bent. With her spread arms gripping the rubber for leverage, she drove the cap of her knee into the side of Caden’s. The movement rolled her onto her side and out of range of the knife tip.

Caden staggered as his knee buckled and the knife dropped to the floor. He threw out his arm to compensate for the loss of balance, which left his torso exposed.

Montana grabbed the wrist of the arm he had thrown forward and tugged hard, increasing the speed of his fall to the floor. She flipped her hips and drove the other knee into his abdomen, which turned him in mid-air. As he landed on his back—heavily—she let her driving knee continue to pull her into a sideways tumble and aimed the knee for the floor on the other side of Caden’s hips. She landed straddling his hips, picked up the knife where it stood quivering with the point buried in the rubber and touched the base of his throat with it.

“See?” she said.

Caden remained quite still. “I see.” His voice was a rumble in his chest that she could feel through her thighs. “I can also see that you’ve failed to take a couple of field factors into account.”

“You just don’t give up, do you?” She shook her head. “Some people might call that being a sore loser.”

“In this business, losing makes you a dead loser, not a sore one. You still don’t get it, do you?” Despite his own knife at his throat, he seemed calm. Amused, even.

Doubt touched her. “Okay, what have I missed?”

His hand moved fast and her wrist was suddenly locked in his grip. He squeezed, not quite enough to hurt. “You weigh about a hundred and twenty pounds, given your muscle mass, right?”

“About that.”

“I outweigh you by over eighty pounds, Montana. We’re probably carrying the same amount of body fat each, which means most of that eighty pounds is eighty pounds more muscle than you have.” The grip on her wrist tightened. “Out there, it’s not a training camp. The game doesn’t stop once you’ve achieved a submission hold.”

He started to pull her hand, the one with the knife, away from his throat. “Resist me,” he told her, but she was already resisting, trying to keep the knife pointed at him. His black eyes were watching her, unrelenting. “The bastards that come at you aren’t chosen because they match you in weight, or to give you a fair fight.” Her wrist was being drawn slowly to one side, despite pouring every ounce of strength she had into resisting.

“Are you fighting me?” he asked.

“Yes!” she gasped.

“Pity.”

Suddenly, her arm was yanked sideways. Using nothing more than his abdominal muscles, Caden surged up into a sitting position and his free hand settled around her throat. His eyes were boring into her. “You’re dead,” he said softly, as his grip on her wrist numbed her fingers enough for the knife to slide from them and drop back to the floor.

She stared at him, stunned. “Then there’s no way to win.” Her breath was ragged from her exertions and more. She was conscious of her hips pushed up against his abdomen, of his big warm hand against the nape of her neck. She swallowed hard. “If all it takes is more muscle, then any man can beat me.”

“Not if you use this.” A finger touched her temple. “You can win if you never let down your guard. If you’re always thinking. You can win if you take pure muscle out of the equation, or use it against them.”

But she barely processed his words. A more primitive instinct made her lean into him and take the kiss that she so desperately and suddenly wanted. She pressed her lips against his and felt heat and softness.

She felt him stiffen in response, then his hand soothed its way around to the back of her neck. His fingers slid into her hair and cradled her head. His other hand cupped her bottom, pulling her tight against him. Even though she was straddling his lap, her head was very nearly level with his.

Physical distinctions blurred, as long dormant drives and desires kindled and awoke with almost painful intensity. As Caden’s lips trailed down her throat, tasting and teasing, she closed her eyes, letting the wave of longing have its way.

“Montana.” He spoke her name with his lips against the soft slope of her breast.

“Mmm....”

His lips were lifted from her. “Tell me to stop.”

She looked into his eyes. “Just this once,” she said, her voice thick with arousal.

His response was a groan, as he rolled down to the floor, bringing her with him. “As the lady commands,” he murmured, his hands sliding under her clothes.

* * * * *

From the first moment she had seen Caden Rawn, Montana had noticed his powerful self-control, working hand-in-glove with his immense physical strength. For almost everyone who met him, these were the only two defining qualities about him. “Big” was strung alongside his name on most occasions. The first time she had heard him referred to it was as “the big freakin’ guy.”

That’s all most people saw—his size and strength. The more observant ones—Steve Scarborough, Jacko—noticed the control that went with it.

When Montana awoke during the night, she saw Caden standing at the tall window next to the head of her bed. It was a full moon and the whitewashed light fell on his naked shoulders, making the tanned flesh gleam. He was staring into the night, one hand holding the gauze curtain aside.

“Can’t sleep?” she murmured and stretched, feeling tendons and joints moving easily. Her body was depleted, her mind quiet.

“Thinking.” His voice was low and quiet.