He’d already shot off an email to his IT guy. Antonio wasn’t a fan of wasting time. He expected to know everything about Charlotte Bennett by the time they landed in Rio—where she grew up, where she went to school, even down to her favorite damned color.
He selected a crisp dress shirt and was about to put it on when he caught the reflection in the mirror. Tattoos and scars from knife fights and bullets covered his naked torso. The favelas—the slums of Rio de Janeiro—were a part of his DNA and he proudly wore the marks that brought him his wealth. No snobby and treacherous blonde was going to make him second-guess what he had to do to survive.
Survival.
Antonio’s mouth tightened as he remembered the clusterfuck that followed the rescue operation.
The CIA team splintered in two groups when the Mexican Army attacked. He didn’t doubt that the army was on Carillo’s payroll, but Antonio didn’t reach the top of his game without a backup plan. When one of Garrison’s men, Migs Walker, emerged from the fray of gunfire and explosions with his wife, Ariana, who had also been kidnapped by the cartel leader, Antonio had an escape vehicle waiting. He had counted on the extraction of Dr. Bennett, the bioweapon, and its related research to be the CIA team’s primary goal and he wasn’t disappointed. It was as though the doctor and her research fell from the sky and straight onto his lap.
Antonio expected a possible car chase across Mexico.
He expected to be pursued by the Mexican Army with bullets flying.
He didn’t expect to be shut out of Mexico City without a place for his plane to land for their extraction.
Neither did he expect the Ponce-Neto Organization (PNO) to turn their backs on him.
But most of all, Antonio hadn’t expected to be held down, face to the ground while a soldier from the Mexican Army was about to pump a bullet into his head. That was when Walker’s cousin, Joaquín Alcantara, showed up with his private army and saved their asses. That was too much of a close call for Antonio’s liking which was why he chose this drastic measure to escape with the virus and its alleged creator rather than risking both falling back into enemy hands.
A faint knock on his cabin was a welcome distraction from his disturbing preoccupation with what Dr. Bennett thought of him.
Opening the door, Sonya stood there. She was more suited on the cover of a fashion magazine than catering to the whims of a businessman at thirty-thousand feet.
“What is it?” he asked brusquely as he finished buttoning his shirt.
“I was just checking if you needed anything else, Mr. Andrade,” the flight attendant inquired huskily, her eyes following the way his fingers worked the buttons, before settling on his face. The invitation in her eyes was unmistakable.
Still charged from their mad dash across Mexico to escape its army, a blow job from Sonya certainly had its merits, but her veiled proposition only heightened his irritation. “How’s Dr. Bennett?”
Startled, the flight attendant backed a step. “Sir?”
“Is she feeling better?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sonya,” Antonio gritted. “Isn’t it your job as air hostess to see to the comfort of our passengers?”
She shot him a sultry smile.
His jaw tightened. “Aside from me.”
“But she vomited on you.”
“That was my fault. Now see what she needs.” He was in the act of closing the door when he paused. “Actually, make her tea.”
A haughty expression crossed Sonya’s face. “We only have the one from the French tea room.”
Antonio shrugged. “So use it.”
“But …”
“That’ll be all.” This time he shut the door firmly in her face.
Minutes later, Antonio strode up the aisle of the plane. He passed the seat where Dr. Bennett sat and went to the flight cabin to check on his crew, making sure they had everything in order with their flight plan. His man, Oscar Prieto, who also doubled as bodyguard/driver, was the co-pilot. Antonio was a fan of hiring people with more than one skill. It certainly came in handy.
He did not want a repeat of Mexico. Being denied entry into Mexico City still stuck in his craw. It also made him rethink his alliance with the PNO. If the cartel couldn’t help him with the simple task of greasing his way into landing his jet at their nation’s capital, what use were they? They made millions of dollars off his XZite pills. Ditching his controversial and popular product was looking more appealing. But going fully legit could make him more enemies and negate his influence on the criminal underworld. He had to tread carefully.
It was roughly a nine-hour flight to Rio De Janeiro, but with the couple of stops he had in mind, it was pushing more like twenty-four hours. That was another reason why Antonio was successful. He didn’t like wasting a trip or his time.
After making sure there was no problem with their flight plan, he turned around and casually strolled up to the doctor. She was clutching a teacup, and was about to take a sip, but her eyes were fixed on him. Wary.
Good.
Maybe she’d stop giving him lip.
“I hope you’ve recovered from your upset stomach.”
Dr. Bennett lowered the teacup and squared her shoulders. “I’m not apologizing for throwing up on you.”
Apparently, she had more lip to give. “Was I asking for an apology?”
Her gaze narrowed, but she didn’t answer, instead she ignored him and resumed drinking the hot liquid.
“Are you waiting for one from me?” he inquired.
She muttered something like she wasn’t holding her breath.
Was he crazy that he delighted in their verbal sparring? Antonio needed to have his head examined. He’d tolerated a lot from this woman, especially with the knowledge that she might have engineered the Z-92 virus. Somehow, he had yet to reconcile that heinous act with this innocent face. Maybe that was his problem.
He leaned forward so only she could hear. “Face it. You were hoping I’d take my shirt off in front of you.”
The doctor set down
