Play It Cool: Cold Play, #3

Prologue

Rafe Medeiros fell to his knees, vowing things would be different. He did not have to be a thief and a liar. He could have another kind of life. He had to have another kind of life.

He reached for the cross he always wore, a gift from his mother that hung around his neck. Blood covered the chain, but the silver cross was clean, pure and whole. He pressed his lips to it and kissed it reverently. "Mi Dios, perdóneme. Perdóneme." Forgive me.

His breath came in ragged sobs.

Aleecia screamed. Papa! Papa!! She ran toward him.

Rafe had believed the worst, had feared she was dead. For the past two weeks, he’d thought his lifetime of irresponsible decisions had caused her death. Karma returning a favor for every woman he had wronged. His eyes stung for a brief, painful moment before a gush of tears streamed down his face.

Aleecia slammed into his chest. He placed his palm on the back of her head and pulled her face to his neck.

Papá, she whispered, her own tears wetting his skin.

Rafe’s arm burned where the bullet had entered. Blood dripped in hot, sticky rivulets down his back, his chest, under his arm. A large reddish patch covered the front of his Armani jacket.

He breathed in the smell of her hair. His daughter. The greatest treasure of his life—a gift he hadn’t fully appreciated until she had been snatched from him. "Mi Dios."

For her, he would perform a thousand absolutions, years of penance, a lifetime of atonement. If she had died, he would have had no reason to live.

Rafe squeezed her tighter—his arm too long, his hand too big. His other arm, wounded, hung useless at his side. He kissed the side of her face, and in between kisses, whispered, Niña, my little baby.

One of her small, delicate arms encircled his neck. His own heaven.

Dr. Keefe Pearson approached, staring down at him, and for once in a very long time, looked at him with compassion in her gaze. Their muddled history from years ago seemed to vanish under the tragedy that had unfolded in the last few weeks. Go, before the police start asking questions.

Rafe glanced up, tears still blurring his vision. He clenched his teeth, but nodded in agreement. What could he say after all he had done to harm Keefe? Stealing from her, breaking her heart with his deceit, embarrassing her organization. No, he had nothing to say. Someday maybe, but not today.

CIA man David Freeman was also there. He pried Aleecia from Rafe’s arms and hoisted him to his feet. Rafe had no choice and relaxed his grip.

Let’s go, Freeman said.

It was hard to say no to someone who had probably saved his daughter.

Too weak to fight against the man’s interference, Rafe stood, only to feel Aleecia’s arm around his leg. He dropped his hand to the top of her head.

He heard more sirens as police vehicles approached the Eiffel Tower. The colonnade where they stood bustled with tourists, all of them gawking at Rafe to see what had happened. He was the only one bleeding—except for the unfortunate body on the first floor of the tower, near the restaurant.

Rafe shook off Freeman’s assistance. Aleecia glued herself to Rafe’s side, not willing to part from him.

We’ve got things to discuss, Freeman said.

Not here. Not anywhere.

I’m collecting on that promise. You got your daughter back, didn’t you?

Rafe would have told him to fuck off if his daughter weren’t standing next to him, already traumatized. She didn’t need to see her father angry and swearing. She needed comfort and quietness. Peace was all he needed too.

Freeman was under the delusion Rafe owed him and whatever payment Freeman thought he would collect would undoubtedly involve extreme discomfort for Rafe.

This won’t take long, Freeman said.

Freeman picked up Aleecia. She whined and squirmed in his arm, but Freeman held her close. She might be his temporary hostage but Rafe would disappear as soon as Freeman turned away.

Hush, baby. We have to go, Rafe said. He bussed her cheek and then they took off, walking away from the others who’d gotten wrapped up in this fiasco—he’d be happy if he never heard of the urn again. He wasn’t to blame for their involvement. Only his and Aleecia’s. For that, he had paid dearly.

The shattered urn that had caused all his recent grief lay spread out on the cement. His shattered life lay before him, stretching out into black infinity—Aleecia the only point of brightness.

Get in, Freeman said, opening the back door of a four-door Renault. Rafe slid inside. Freeman lowered Aleecia into Rafe’s lap and then headed for the driver’s seat. A small police car sounding the ba-boo, ba-boo siren raced past them. Freeman started the car and edged into traffic. He threw a plastic bottle into the back seat. Take a couple of those.

Rafe picked up the bottle, twisted the cap off and put the lip of the plastic container to his mouth, swallowing back a small number of pain pills. He hoped. They went down hard. A lot of good they would do—he’d rather have some carefully injected morphine.

When Rafe glanced up again, they were driving over the Seine, heading north toward the Arc de Triumph. Rafe smoothed back his daughter’s hair. She clung to him, both small hands digging into his jacket. He kissed her forehead.

They circled the Arc roundabout and then headed west.

Where are we going? Rafe demanded of Freeman. Aleecia hadn’t said anything since she’d thrown herself into his arms. That couldn’t be good.

To get you cleaned up first, Freeman answered.

Tell me what you want and I’ll tell you if I can help. Otherwise, leave me alone. I’m not one of your boys.

Freeman glanced up at him through the rearview mirror. "We want Manuel Estrada, and we don’t want the Spanish government to know we’re interested. And you, my boy, are going to help us get him."

The hell I am. I have no connections with ETA. Anymore. The Basque separatist movement. Why would Freeman think he could help now? Years had passed since his involvement with anyone from ETA, except Aleecia’s mother.

You did fifteen years ago.

That was fifteen years ago. Rafe wasn’t the same man. He no longer had the skills to take them on. He definitely lacked the desire. It’s impossible. I can’t help.

Too late.

Freeman drove on in silence.

Now that the adrenalin rush of gunfire, kidnappings and death faded, his arm screamed in pain. Whatever meds Freeman had given him weren’t helping.

Aleecia fell asleep nestled against his chest and his good arm. His other arm covered by the bloodied jacket supported her legs in his lap.

When the car stopped, Freeman jumped out and then retrieved Aleecia. Follow me.

Rafe struggled out of the car. The lightheadedness already affected his balance. He’d lost a lot of blood. A bright red patch stained the back seat of the car.

Inside the house, another man waited—a doctor, or at least someone qualified to dig bullets out of bodies and keep them from bleeding out. Rafe had seen this in a movie somewhere. He’d been fortunate enough to miss this kind of life-and-death excitement during his youthful tenure with ETA.

His jacket, tie and shirt were off in a heartbeat. Freeman yanked without care or consideration while Rafe sat on the table. His vision blurred. In spite of the pain, Rafe’s immediate desire was for a long, hot shower once he could get back on his feet. He hated the grit of the day covering him, the blood, the stench.

When he reclined on a table with a glaring light overhead, he searched the room one last time for his daughter. Aleecia lay asleep on an upholstered couch. The sting of an injection started a new warmth in his good arm.

Rafe heard the sound of his own breathing as the room got quiet and dark. The tinkling of surgical instruments sounded like singing. He blinked, fighting the pull into oblivion.

He reached for the cross around his neck. It was gone.

* * * * *

Rafe woke from a dead sleep to the troubling sound of Aleecia whimpering on the couch. All of it came rushing back. He sat up quickly, dizzy waves coursing through his head. He tested his arm, bandaged and wrapped with a sling. Pain sliced out across his chest, while the bullet hole wound throbbed.

Aleecia calmed the moment his hand touched her face and his soft words penetrated her consciousness. He needed her quiet, and if he could keep her sleeping, all the better.

The bloodied Armani jacket lay on the floor in a heap along with his shirt.

He still wore his shoes and trousers. A closet on the far side of the room yielded a light pullover sweater he tugged on with some difficulty, grimacing as he moved his shoulder to accommodate the sleeve.

He grabbed the jacket and searched for his passport. Gone. Freeman putting the squeeze to him, just as he had done when trying to retrieve the urn. Rafe had learned all he wanted to know about David Freeman since then. Disappearing wouldn’t be easy, not with a man like Freeman on his trail, but Rafe had his own covert resources of which even Freeman would be envious.

He grabbed his watch, glanced at the face and slipped it over his wrist. He felt the pocket in his trousers. His money clip had disappeared too. The thorough prick.

A silver inkpot on the messy desk winked and sparkled at Rafe. He bit at his lip, determined to ignore the temptation, but the old anxiety, born of poverty and want, welled up. All the apprehension about losing what was his compelled him to grab the piece along with everything else in the room he could pawn.

For every step he’d taken away from his criminal life, there was always a clinging vine, wrapping its tendrils around him, pulling him back to his old life.

Again, he vowed to himself: I’m done stealing. This is the last time.

He reached for the fire extinguisher, a multiple purpose assault weapon.

With lithe movement born of years of practice and an innate sense of deception, he got to the front door and slipped outside. The night was city dark and the street was quiet. Two street lamps glowed on each corner—round yellow blobs of light hitting the pavement. Three cars were parked on the street. He tried the doors, all locked.

He chose the oldest car, the one least likely to have an alarm. The one least likely to be missed.

He slammed the extinguisher into the passenger-side window, the noise shockingly loud. The contact reverberated up his arm. He surveyed the area but noticed no lights or activity. He butted the metal against the glass, knocking it inward with the second sharp nudge.

Rafe hurried back to the house. He grabbed a blanket and his daughter.

He opened the back door of the car and got her in the seat, still sleeping. He’d swap cars out at his first opportunity. He’d find a shower at the next.

Dampness seeped at his shoulder again. He prayed the stitches hadn’t broken loose.

In less than thirty seconds, he’d hot-wired the car and drove into the night. Away from Paris, away from Freeman’s threats. To Spain.

Home. Where they could start another new life. Disappearing wasn’t as easy as it used to be, but it was much easier when a man had practice.

Chapter One

Rafe did his best work at night.

The music was canned and blared through powerful speakers, the pulsing bass making the hair on his neck tickle as if the sound were electric.

The bar in the exclusive Madrid hotel was nearly empty at one o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday except for a few desperate wallflowers, the over-the-hill widows looking to score—and the woman he wanted. The one who had examined men all evening and had found nothing to her liking.

There she is.

Alone. Attractive. Available for what he had in mind.

She sat at the end of the bar. Her glass was half-empty and she stared at the drink while she twirled a straw in the amber liquid. The little black dress she wore was sleeveless and cut low across her back, to well below her shoulders. Her legs were bare and tan and her feet were shod with a pair of open-toed black Louboutins. Diamond studs sparkled on her earlobes and a silver bangle adorned her wrist.

The first-rate goods were more expensive and might sit on the shelf longer, but they were always worth the extra time and effort.

What was most noticeable was the lack of a cell phone glued to her palm and that the bartender was not hovering nearby, as she was the only patron sitting near him.

Pickup lines were useless on a woman like her. He wanted to shag her and he wasn’t going to hide the fact.

She cast him a sideways glance as he approached but her gaze cut away quickly.

Rafe took the stool beside her.

Hello, he said.

Her greeting was shy and pointed.

He waved at the barkeep. I’ll have whatever she’s having. And top her off.

No, really. I was just ready to go. She examined him again and their gazes held for a moment.

Where? To your empty room?

I suppose you are here to see that tragedy doesn’t happen? Her brows rose and her lips curved. Apparently, she thought it was humorous he was attempting to pick her up.

The drinks arrived and he took a sip. Rum. He turned, bracing his hand against the back of her chair. "The tragedy would be that you ever had to retire to an empty room."

She wasn’t a classic beauty, dark-blond hair lightened in places by the sun, a few freckles and beautiful teeth. Rafe knew about attractiveness, having taken the measure of many such women. Cleanliness and wealth were the only two considerations when it came to getting a woman in his bed. She was, however, a little more perfect than his usual liaison.

Rafe didn’t think she was playing hard to get. He thought she probably was hard to get. Cool receptions had never stopped him before.

I murdered my last husband for his money, she said.

Good thing I’m not looking to get married tonight.

The one before him cheated on me and I had to cut his balls off.

That would make sex difficult, he conceded.

I’m not sleeping with you.

"Women don’t sleep with me. Not if I can help it."

I really was enjoying the solitude, she said.

If that were true, you’d be in your darkened room.

Under the covers. Dreaming of a man like you?

Reality with me is better than a dream.

Gosh. I’ve never met a man who didn’t think exactly the same thing. Only they had the brains to back off when I said ‘I’m not sleeping with you’.

Why are you sitting here? Alone? In the wee morning hours?

She picked up her drink and sipped. She didn’t like his question. She didn’t like being alone.

He reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb in a circle in the center of her palm. She stared at their joined hands but didn’t pull away.

What’s your name? he asked.

Ingrid.

Well, Ingrid, what is it you are looking for?

The light touch had changed the game in his favor. Her chest had started a more erratic up and down as she tried to remain calm.

Nothing.

And everything, he said. He kept his voice steady. He’d had so much practice and a thief’s patience. Usually his motives were directly tied to money.

But he had given all that up. There would be no more stealing, no more swindling. He’d learned the hard way what that life could lead to—and chaos was usually the best thing that happened.

However abstinence was not part of his self-improvement program.

Tonight was a celebration of sorts. He had finally gotten his arm out of the sling he’d been forced to wear the past several weeks and tomorrow, he would pick up Aleecia, his daughter. He was sufficiently certain the freaky CIA man, David Freeman, had not followed him to Spain. Freeman thought Rafe owed him a favor and maybe he did, but not at the cost of his life.

You don’t have to be alone tonight, he whispered.

She wasn’t so quick to tell him no.

She cleared her throat. Her drink got more attention than he did. I don’t do that sort of thing.

Ever? I think just this once would be kind of fun.

I don’t like to live with regrets.

Then it’s settled. You have a room?

She had a throaty laugh. "I’ll regret the doing. Not the not doing."

If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell everyone you were hard to get.

She pulled her hand away.

Rafe gripped her hand again, this time twining his fingers with hers. No one will know, Ingrid. I shouldn’t have teased you that way. He hadn’t associated her aloneness with the desire for privacy. Some people didn’t like to be noticed. There will be no regrets, Ingrid. I promise.

You can’t promise such a thing.

Can’t I? You have a vagina, don’t you?

Direct and unsexy that.

You don’t seem like the type of woman who wants her parts referred to as a pussy.

I’d prefer we weren’t talking about my parts at all.

She flushed and hid her expression with another sip of rum. Her lashes fluttered a bit.

He knew how to please women and he had a shy one who might be surprised at what he could do for her. It made him all the more determined to make love to her.

Why don’t we get a bottle of wine and sit by the pool for a while?

She lifted her shoulder, compliant but wary. Sure. Why not.

Rafe caught the attention of the bartender, requested a mid-range bottle of French wine and paid the tab for both of them. The bartender opened the bottle and stuffed the cork inside for later. Ingrid grabbed the two long-stemmed glasses.

He assisted her from the barstool. In her heels, those sexy black heels that made her legs go on forever, she was nearly eye-level with him.

He set his hand to the small of her back, pulling her close to him

As seductions went, a cool evening in Madrid worked in his favor. They passed a couple coming in. Rafe noticed the glance the woman shot his way. He knew better than to reciprocate when his goal was shagging the woman beside him. He gave Ingrid a sidelong glance and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

The pools were a complex maze of subtle lighting, water ponds, slides, lounge chairs and pool bars. All completely theirs at this late hour.

Have you been in Madrid long? he asked.

Just a few weeks. I’m leaving tomorrow.

Rafe had heard such lines before. The escape clause, if she needed one.

Vacation?

Yes. I suppose so. And you are from here?

An easy guess. He was from the north country, the Basque region but most people didn’t understand the significance or the difference. Only David Freeman knew of his ties to the Basque separatists but that had been long ago. So you see. When you go home to England, you’ll leave me behind with a broken heart.

She laughed again. I doubt that has ever happened to you.

There’s always a first time.

But for neither of us.

I’m a romantic. I am waiting for it to happen.

Let me give you some help. If a woman hasn’t even asked for your first name, it’s not love at first sight.

I’m crushed.