No One Lives Forever

out.

With effort, he braced his hands and rose to his knees, forcing himself to move. Otherwise, it might have been too easy to lose consciousness. Sweat trickled down his forearms ... or maybe it was blood.

Curious onlookers peered from the hotel, their bodies eclipsing the lobby lights. Soon they would come with their questions—questions he'd have no answers for. He had to clear out soon or else attract Captain Duarte's attention. A part of him suspected the man already knew about the incident, or maybe ordered it.

Christian moved to stand, but reconsidered.

'Being vertical is highly overrated,' he muttered under his breath.

Too dazed, he decided to stay put, slumped against the nearest car. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. He'd wait for the city of Cuiaba to stop spinning. But one thought cut through the fog swirling in his brain. He'd let his guard down—never saw it coming.

He couldn't afford to do that again.

Several hours later, under stark overhead lights, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, grimacing.

He looked exactly how he felt—like the by-product of a meat grinder.

He only had a few hours sleep or maybe he'd passed out. The scrapes on his hands and forearms had stiffened and his body looked mottled with bruises. He'd taken a hot shower to loosen up. His muscles felt better, but the hot water only aggravated his wounds, making them red and swollen. Now, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he contemplated a shave, but couldn't muster the energy. Stubble would have to do.

Running a comb through his damp hair, he mentally psyched himself up for the long day ahead until—

'What the hell happened to you?'

Under the heading What Else Could Go Wrong, he heard Jasmine's voice behind him. Barging into his personal bathroom, she hadn't bothered to announce herself.

'Remind me to complain to hotel management. The bed sheets had too much starch.' His muscles ached. Answering her questions came dead last on his list of priorities. 'Ever heard of knocking?'

'Yes, a boring American ritual.'

Dressed in khakis and a crisp white blouse, Jasmine sauntered by him and hopped onto his bathroom counter.

'Feel free to barge into my room any time . . . day or night.' She smiled and winked. 'I assure you, you'd find a much warmer reception.'

'I'll bet. Guess if this assassin gig doesn't work out, Wal-Mart could use a greeter.' He finished combing through his damp hair and tossed the comb onto the countertop. The dull ache in his head throbbed, fueling a mega dose of cynicism. 'And be sure to include your knife skills on your resume. It'd come in handy when they slash prices. I've seen you in action.'

'Action? You haven't seen anything, my sweet.'

He ignored her usual brand of sexual innuendo. Something in her tone suggested she persisted simply because it got a rise out of him. After last night, he didn't have the frame of mind to put up with it. And to completely make his day, one of the gashes on his elbow started to drip blood down his forearm. He reached around her to grab a white washcloth.

Jasmine only shook her head. 'Next time you feel the urge for a little one on one, try me. You might still be black and blue in the morning, but at least you'll have a smile on your face.'

With her back propped against the mirror, she scowled as she touched a bruise on his ribs, pretending to care. He hadn't expected it. The cold touch of her fingers on his sore spot made the muscles of his belly flinch.

'Hey, Florence Nightingale. Back off.'

But even his foul mood didn't dissuade her.

'So, what's with all the cuts and bruises, tough guy?' She crossed her arms over her chest. 'I'd really like to know.'

'And I'd really like to be left alone. What are the odds of you disappearing?' He soaked the washcloth in cold water and dabbed at his left elbow, getting a bead on the cut from the reflection in the bathroom mirror.

'Not good odds, I'm afraid. Only because I know my presence truly annoys you.' She raised her chin and grinned. 'But I've got something you need.'

'Can't wait,' he muttered as Jasmine slid off the counter and left the room.

She returned a minute later with a white zippered bag.

'You always travel with a first aid kit?' he asked.

'I've been in a few scrapes before, when going to a hospital was out of the question. Now hold still.'

Without a smart remark, she swabbed down his wounds with an antiseptic and applied antibiotic ointment with a cotton ball. Covering the worst abrasions with bandages, she worked with enviable efficiency. And to her credit, she avoided making her usual sexual inferences, even when her hands took liberties with his body out of necessity. Like a comrade in arms, she patched him up with the competence of a medical doctor.

'Now, I want the real truth about last night. I overheard a couple of tourists talking about it this morning. Rumor has it that a close-mouthed American almost got himself killed in the street out front . . . before dawn. Do you know anything about that?'

'Unfortunately, yes. Firsthand knowledge.' He filled her in on the details, which got sketchier when he explained what drew him to the roof and what he'd found once he got there.

She nodded when he was through. 'So it would appear the vultures are circling. That didn't take long.'

'I don't appreciate the analogy. Call me sensitive on the subject of becoming pavement paste before my time. That attempted hit and run was no accident.' He grimaced. 'Whatever happened, it doesn't make sense the kidnappers would kill the ransom wrangler. You and I are in charge of the payoff. Why would someone want to take me out before the money had been wired?'

'Unless your original theory applies. Perhaps Nicky's abduction is a cover-up for something more. Maybe he's not supposed to make it out alive.' Concern edged her voice.

'He could already be dead, for all we know.'

'No. I would feel it, I think. I have to believe he's alive. You and I must believe.' Desperate hope filtered through her expression.

She let a strained moment pass between them. Uncharacteristic emotion etched her face. Christian witnessed the woman shoving aside her worst fears, closing her eyes. But soon the old Jasmine reemerged, brimming with her usual cynicism.

'While you were sleeping in like a self-indulgent prima donna, I've been busy. It seems Captain Duarte did confiscate the hotel security recordings. A pity.' She pouted, then grinned. 'But I managed to make a digital copy of something very interesting from the garage surveillance system. I've got a disk downloaded to my laptop. You were right—the hotel staff is very cooperative with the right motivation in American dollars.'

'Capitalism at its best. Good job.' He nodded. 'If we find enough on the garage camera, we won't need the hotel surveillance. Testing Duarte's spirit of cooperation would've been interesting, though.'

'Optimist.' Jasmine hopped off the counter and smacked him on the butt with the back of her hand as she strolled to turn off the shower. 'Come on. Get dressed. We haven't got all day.'

Christian shot an irritated glance in the mirror. With another long day ahead, he wasn't in the mood for Moo Goo Gal Pal.

Dressed in lightweight Moschino beige jeans, boots, and a short-sleeve khaki shirt worn loose over a white polo, Christian walked out of his bedroom and found Jasmine preoccupied with her laptop. The glow of the monitor cast shadows on her face as images flashed across it. As intrigued as he was to see the digital surveillance, the smell of fresh brewed coffee captured his interest in a hurry. The caffeine would jolt his brain into first gear.

Jasmine had a coffeepot placed on a service tray at the wet bar. Christian poured himself a cup and joined her on the sofa, taking his first sip. He heard the keystrokes of her laptop once she lowered the sound of the stereo system with the remote. But even with the music low, he drew the line at hearing the classic lounge lizard rendition