little charity, to rule out any connection.' He stood and stared down at her. 'Then we can follow the lead on Santo and your local jinx monger. Come on. We're burnin' daylight.'
Christian walked into his bedroom, leaving Jasmine alone with her thoughts. Before leaving the suite, he'd get his digital photos of the care package on the balcony and pack it up in a small carryon bag. With what Jasmine had discovered, the voodoo vendor might shed some light on the materials and its slithering messenger.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his muscles stiff and the fresh wounds on his body aching. After rummaging through the weapons and gear Jasmine had provided, he slipped a knife into his right boot, double-checked the Glock 19, and tucked it into a holster he wore under his khaki shirt. The rest he locked away in a bag in his closet.
Today had to bear fruit. Like Jasmine said, they couldn't afford to waste time. Minutes ticked into hours and he felt the pressure. Soon, his father would run out of time. And he had far too many skeletons in his closet to be cavalier about adding one more.
CHAPTER 9
From the day Jasmine rocked his world with news of his biological father, a clock ticked in Christian's head— nagging and persistent—in perfect rhythm with Nicholas Charboneau's beating heart. The fact that he'd never met the man didn't diminish the blood link they shared.
He felt the pressure of that connection. Today, something had to happen.
On the ground floor of the hotel, the man at the concierge desk gave him a map of the city and the location of police headquarters for future reference, only a few blocks from Hotel Palma Dourada. How convenient for Duarte.
As he walked outside, to catch a taxicab for the genetics lab, the sunlight reflected off the sidewalk. The glare made him squint, which started a throbbing headache. Already the heat had become a factor. He slipped on sunglasses and stepped into the brightness of morning as a valet blew a shrill whistle to hail a cab. The sound triggered a domino of pain from his neck down. This day had gone from bad to worse in the span of five minutes. He couldn't wait for their adventure to begin.
Slung over his shoulder, Christian held a small carryon bag containing the dead snake and the Macumba ritual offerings. His creepy cargo messed with his head. He wanted to ditch it, forget it ever happened. But like Jasmine, he had high hopes for a lead with the local voodoo peddler—their next stop.
'Remind me to leave a large tip for housekeeping. Today, they're gonna earn it,' he muttered under his breath to his companion. His headache had shifted to behind his eyes.
A sly smile nudged the corner of Jasmine's lips. 'I'd love to be a fly on the wall when they find the dead chicken.'
'Let's not talk about flies ... or deceased poultry. Show some respect for animal rights.'
Admonishing an assassin on animal rights struck him as ludicrous. In all probability, the life of a chicken ranked higher than people she considered to be a 'waste of skin.' But he didn't want to begin a philosophical debate with her. He had a hard enough time sleeping.
As Christian waited for the cab, he watched the bustling streets of Cuiaba. Even under the expansive portico of the elite hotel, the mass of humanity closed in on him. Traffic in the city hummed in the background, the smell of diesel fuel in the air. The blare of a horn down the street muffled the engine and brakes of a bus coming to a stop. It soured his stomach. Across the boulevard, a cafe worker hosed water onto the sidewalk, dampening the lingering smells of the night before—a strange blend of muggy odors coupled with the refreshing start of a new day. A city awakening.
Jasmine had no appreciation for this place. He caught a glimpse of the woman. Her expression had changed to a mix of disdain and suppressed emotion. He knew why he felt like crap and he had the bruises to prove it, but she had no excuse.
'What? You not a morning person?' he asked.
'Not particularly. Except for the language, this place reminds me of .. . Chinatown in Chicago.' She offered nothing more. Cagey as ever, she answered his question, only conjuring a greater curiosity in his mind.
'Did you grow up there?'
A cab pulled to the curb. Christian took care of the valet's tip and opened the back door, letting Jasmine slide in. She gave the driver their destination as he joined her. He shifted his gaze to Jasmine, waiting for an answer he knew would have little substance. Her typical mode of communication.
'Let's say I spent time there ...' Her eyes grew darker, if that were possible. '. . . like a prison sentence.' Her voice faded, muffled by a dispatcher's voice crackling in the background and the idle humming of the driver.
More of a gut reaction, Christian suspected one thing. Jasmine had shared her past with his father. He had no idea how he knew this. The woman trusted no one. She'd become a tightly woven tapestry of dark memories. Still, Jasmine shared a bond with Charboneau, his enigmatic father, who had plenty of his own well-kept secrets.
Her loyalty to Charboneau intrigued Christian. It shed a strange light on his father's character. Charboneau traversed the line between the underbelly criminal element and the lofty influences of high society—and was equally at home with either. And he had taken the time to harness and cultivate this woman's devotion without rival. No doubt, she would die for him.
Even his own mother, Fiona, shared a lifelong commitment to the man. A tribute to Charboneau's charisma, or his ability to manipulate? How had his father earned such allegiance? Christian wanted to believe the man deserved it, but didn't want to jump to any unfounded conclusions.
'Did you meet my . . . did you meet Charboneau there? How long have you worked for him?'
'I met him when I was quite young ... in Chicago. Perhaps you can say he recognized my talents long before I did.' She smiled, her gaze locked in memory. 'He showed me the world. And with Nicky, you can live a lifetime in a day. Your father is the most amazing man. He knows what he wants, and he would take it like a thief if it pleased him. A dangerous combination, some might say.'
'But not for you. You like danger.' No question. Only his observation from the limited time he'd known the woman.
She shrugged, fighting a faint smile. The word
'Well then, you should really be lovin' this little adventure. A real adrenaline rush for a danger junkie like you. But here's what I believe.' Christian went with his gut, taking a stab at the truth. 'I think you and Charboneau got yourselves into a mess you hadn't anticipated. Got caught with your pants down.'
'How dare you! I resent your . . .' She raised her voice, punctuating her sentiments with an angry glare. The cabbie stopped humming. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror.
Before she built up a good head of steam, Christian countered, 'Save the bogus indignation, J. I think you and your employer are accustomed to being the big fish in a very small pond. Maybe you're used to getting your way. Only this time you picked the wrong swimmin' hole . . . one a little far from home and chocked full of piranha.'
She held his gaze for a long moment, only a hint of emotion lingering. Then her face eased into a blank slate. The picture of composure. Her voice low and menacing, she leaned closer to him.
'Piranha is a delicacy here in Brazil, an aphrodisiac. I plan to eat my fill.' Chin held high, she turned away, dismissing his insinuation.
'Yeah,' he muttered. 'Guess I figured that.'
A sex kitten like Jasmine needed an aphrodisiac like Paris Hilton could use more media attention. He settled back in his seat and stared out the window, letting the drone of the taxi engine settle between them.
Eventually, the bustling city tapered to residential neighborhoods, then ultimately to a dirt road that cut a swath through the dense jungle—civilization only a faded image in the rearview mirror. Red dust kicked up behind them. But through the lush greenery, Christian caught a glimpse of an impressive complex in a valley below. Genotech Labs.
A wall of security and armed guards surrounded the place. Good thing he called ahead for an appointment. Their passports would serve as ID. The facility director agreed to meet him only after he claimed to be investigating Charboneau's abduction, and that he would be accompanied by the man's bodyguard. Dropping Jasmine's name got him in.
But Christian knew she would be nothing more than an albatross around his neck at the genetics facility. A
