The Traitor

guest bathroom, and dressed in sweats and a long-sleeved police academy tee-shirt.

'Feeling better?' he asked when she curled up in the wide armchair across from where he sat nursing a brandy.

She nodded. 'Thanks for the clothes.'

The oversized tee-shirt was a remnant from his college days at Stanford. The hardened peaks of her breasts told him she wore nothing underneath it. She'd turned up the sweatpants several times so that her red painted toes stuck out beneath the rolled hem.

The unexpected image of a pair of red panties popped into his maverick brain. Tonight was stacking up to be a long night, and his self-control was ebbing fast. Maybe calling that cab wasn't a bad idea after all.

But instead, he strode toward the bedroom, calling over his shoulder. 'I've got fresh sheets for the bed. You should get some sleep.'

She followed him into the bedroom and stood in the door frame. 'Where will you sleep?'

'Couch,' he said shortly, ripping off the used sheets and replacing them with fresh ones from the linen closet.

She watched him silently. He wondered what was going on in that pretty little head of hers. Was she thinking about their earlier flirtation? Their interrupted passion in the alley? His fingers had touched her and found her wet right before the attack. Had she even been aware that he'd felt the moist heat of her… there?

'There,' he said aloud. He pulled an extra blanket from the closet and laid it at the foot of the bed. From the bathroom, he retrieved his toothbrush and shaving gear, and a clean change of underwear from the dresser.

He paused at the door to the hall and looked back at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. 'There's an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.' He waited for her to respond. 'Well then, goodnight.' He shifted awkwardly before adding, 'Are you going to be all right?'

She stared at the black maw of the windows. 'He won't come here, will he?' Her voice sounded small.

He knew instantly what she meant. 'Of course not. He doesn't know where I live.'

She nodded slowly as if contemplating how valid his claim was. 'But he knew who you were when he attacked us in the alley.'

He hesitated. 'Don't worry. I have a friend in the LAPD. He's taking care of everything.'

'I'll call my sister,' she answered by way of consent to remaining for the night.

After she'd made the phone call, she sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed him tentatively. 'Rafe?'

'Yes?'

'I don't want to be alone.' She flushed and he thought the admission embarrassed her.

He stood beside the bed while Bella crept beneath the sheets and pulled the covers up to her neck. Then he lay down on the top of the bedspread beside her.

Damn, if he'd known she'd end up wanting him to comfort her, but not… well, sleep with her, he'd never have made that first invitation for her to sit down in the booth opposite him. A chaste night in bed with a gorgeous woman was not what he imagined when he'd first noticed her across the room at Stuckey's Bar.

Chapter Seven

Diego Vargas' white, powdered gold played a significant role in the import-export business along the northern California coastline.

An inland deep water port, the Port of Wintuan lay thirty-two nautical miles northeast of the Port of Stockton. It rested on the rich delta of the Cache River and emptied into the San Francisco Bay. The channel itself was a mere thirty-odd miles long and over thirty feet deep, but sufficient for the ships to make their way into port.

Always less popular than either the Stockton Port or the Port of Sacramento, the Wintuan Port had been an important route for importation and navigation from San Francisco during the mid-nineteenth century. After the gold rush fever dwindled, however, the decrease in commodities shipments to miners gave way to an increase in agricultural transportation.

But the other two ports garnered the lion's share of this business, and most cargo ships no longer followed the Cache River inland to Wintuan Port. Although it had fallen into less and less usage, construction materials like lumber and concrete, as well as bulk and bagged rice still made up a major portion of the port's cargo volume.

Therefore, the port was ideal for the kind of shipping a businessman like Diego Vargas engaged in.

Vargas' cargo of white gold was easy to slip among the packages of legitimate products. This expensive, powdered cargo was small in volume, but very profitable for a man intent on creating new drug trade routes. Diego intended to carve out a hefty share of the profits from the prolific trafficking of a drug seldom seen on the west coast – China White heroin.

The seclusion and erratic use of the Wantuan Port appealed to a man of Vargas' enterprise. The irregularity of these cargo deliveries up the Cache River was his best protection against government detection and interference.

Standing now on the dock, staring out at the murky blackness of the Cache River, Vargas awaited his next shipment from the green hills of Afghanistan. The cargo made its way weeks ago from the Golden Crescent, the world's largest illicit opium production, to end up here on the shores of northern California.

Grinding out his cigarette under the heel of his Bruno Magli Calvos, Vargas jammed his hands in his overcoat. The winds blowing through the delta penetrated his woolen full-length coat. Mexican-born, he complained often about the early coastal chills of northern California.

'Santos,' he barked at his bodyguard, '?Que va mal? What's the delay?' He could see nothing through the pitch of the night and his eagerness to receive the new shipment stamped out all patience.

'Nothing's wrong. Esta bien,' Santos responded, waiting until the ship made anchor and the workers began to unload the cargo before turning back to Vargas. 'She's here now. No problem, El Vaquero.'

Forty-five minutes later the crates were unloaded and stacked five deep on the dock. Buried among the packaged rice were the one-kilo plastic bundles which half a dozen Mexican workers then recovered and stacked inside canvas bags. Several vans stood at the ready and the workers rapidly stowed the canvas bags in them. The entire process was completed in less than ninety minutes.

'Wait,' Vargas commanded before the workers could close the back doors of the last van.

He extracted a kilo from the van, slit a one-inch opening in it, and dipped his knife into the white, powdery substance. A very tiny amount, for the smack was so pure it took his breath away, and Diego did not wish to become euphoric. Only a foolish businessman used his own product, especially in this particular business.

He sighed with satisfaction. 'Esta es droga muy buena.'

At one hundred thousand American dollars a kilo, Santos thought, the supply should be very excellent dope indeed. He slammed down the back of the van and slapped the palm of his hand firmly on the side. Immediately, the van pulled out, followed by a second, and then a third vehicle.

Santos and Vargas watched until the red taillights could no longer be seen, and then Santos opened the door of the black sedan while Diego eased his sturdy bulk into the back seat. 'Buen trabajo, a good night's work,' Diego said.

'Do we head north, then?' Santos asked. El Vaquero would have a strong need for a woman tonight and the whorehouse in Storey County was a mere three-hour drive.

'Si, necesito a puta esta noche,' his boss laughed, a harsh guttural sound that spoke more of pain than pleasure. 'I need a whore tonight. We will go south. No nice college girls tonight.'

And no Magdalena, Santos added mentally. Tonight El Jefe would not force himself on his wife. Northeast through California and over the border into Nevada would take them to La Casa de Mujeres, one of two legal brothels Vargas owned in the only state in the country that allowed legalized prostitution.

Going south meant something entirely different. Crossing the border into Mexico would take eight hours or so