Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(143)

Novak’s eyes were wide, weirdly empty. “Ah, yes,” he whispered. “You are strong. You’ll last a long time. Strong ones are the best. Who knows? Maybe what I do to your daughter will actually revive me to the point of sexual arousal. We shall see, hmm?”

But he did not step closer, no matter how desperately she willed him to. He was too alert to fall for it, even though he considered her defenseless. His resistance to being manipulated was automatic.

And he had no sexual energy at all. She should have made her play on a different level. Shit. She’d gone with sex by sheer force of habit, it being what worked for most men, but not him. She’d f*cked up, and her sweet baby would pay for her mistake.

He was speaking again.

Pay attention. Stay sharp. For as long as you can. Stay sharp for Rachel.

“…wait for Janos to bring you to me,” Novak was saying. “He was taking too long, so I sent András to speed things up. But I thought you might enjoy this video memento of your mad love affair.”

That confused her for a minute. Was he talking about Val? Yes. Val had been sent to collect her. Imre was the hostage. And Imre was dead, so they had changed tactics. Yes. That tracked.

Memento of her mad love affair? What the hell? Images began to flicker on the TV screens. She could not make them out with the tears and sweat in her eyes. The light in both screens were dim, and it seemed like—those frantic, rhythmic movements—oh, for the love of God, was this possible? Porn, to accompany her torture? The sheer, banal stupidity of it was insulting. Even in the face of this much pain, this much fear.

Fuck it. Her arm hurt too much to bother contemplating the sewer of the man’s mind. She was far too busy calculating the best possible second for a murder-suicide. Focus.

“…no, look at it!” Novak was insisting. “Don’t you recognize yourself? Pay attention, Tamara.”

Herself? She squeezed the hot, stinging moisture out of her eyes, and looked again.

And looked and looked. It was…oh, hell, no. It was not possible.

It was their room in San Vito. The graceful triple loggia that looked out over the sea, the dim light of dawn, the tender glow of pink.

And on the bed, behind the fronds of some blurry plant in the foreground, herself and Val. Her, mounted and moving over him, head thrown back, making soft moans of pleasure.

How? How had they been found so soon after they arrived? When could the cameras have been planted? When they were out to dinner?

She looked at the other one, but it took over a half minute of horrified squinting to force that dim, writhing snarl of erotic images to resolve into something comprehensible. Mostly because she didn’t want to take the information in. Her mind resisted it desperately.

Herself, pinned against the door of the tiny staff kitchen of the Huxley. Moaning like a cat in heat as she let herself get good and nailed by Val Janos. The camera looked down at them, godlike from on high, judging her for being so stupid. It focused on her face, flushed with pleasure and excitement. And drugs, she remembered. She’d been as high as a kite, on the mystery drug, plus chianti.

The thought was a nasty icicle stab. She cringed, shuddered, and steeled herself. Forced herself to reason it through. Step by step.

There was no way they could have anticipated Janos and planted a camera to watch him without his knowledge. No way they could have connected her to Nick and Becca’s wedding before she actually went there. The only one who could have planted that camera was Val himself.

He’d chosen the place, prepared it, drugged her into a sexed-up daze, dragged her to it, and f*cked her there. To entertain the beast. That was the truth. There was no other explanation.

Novak followed her train of thought step for step, his eyes hot and avid. “Yes, I see you understand now. Shocked, are you? He did what I paid him for. He got you to fall in love with him. It’s his professional specialty. I’m acquainted with PSS, you see. I’ve used them in the past. I’ve been told that Val Janos is always the operative of choice when it is necessary to f*ck one’s way into the target’s confidence. What a coup for his CV. He can persuade any woman of his undying passion. Even an ice-hearted bitch like you.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Oh, yes. And they said you were so suspicious, so intelligent. But you fell. Legs wide open. Like magic.” He cackled and wheezed. Blood spattered over his lips and chin.

She had not thought it possible to feel worse than she did, but it was. One more thing wrenched from her, one more bleeding wound. And she felt so alone, more than ever before. Abandoned in hell.

Imre. The foolish, girlish part of her mind latched onto the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, that video footage was all about keeping Imre in one piece, something Val had been forced to do. Maybe…

But Novak was shaking his head, waving an admonitory finger. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, from behind his blood-spotted handkerchief. “Forget your romantic notions. He told you the heart-wrenching tale of how I held his old patron hostage and threatened to cut him to pieces if he did not deliver you?”

She did not rreply.

“We concocted that scenario together. And yesterday, he did as I commanded and told you of Imre’s valiant sacrifice? Did he beg you to run away with him to live in romantic bliss on some green island on the Aegean? I see that he did. That bad boy. He’ll definitely get that fat bonus that I promised him. He’s earned every penny of it.” He took a step closer, staring at her as if he wanted to eat her alive. “Let me show you how much Vajda loves you, Tamara.” He glanced at András. “Pull the rope,” he commanded. “Off her feet. Ten seconds.”