Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(48)
Ross dialed the number he knew by heart. The head of the Texas Rangers was someone he’d met a few times but didn’t know well. He could try his own boss first, division chief for West Texas, but this decision would ultimately have to be made by the head of the Rangers, and Ross always believed in cutting red tape. Especially when his own head was on the line . . . not to mention his heart.
CHAPTER 10
Later that day, over a thousand miles away on a secluded hilltop in Mexico City, in her room, which was attached to Arturo’s, Yancy carefully finished her makeup. She wore more than usual: heavy eyeliner, glittery silver eye shadow, and even sparkles glued to her fake eyelashes. She looked at the ethereal chiffon dress spread on the bed. It glittered from short hem to cap sleeves with diamantés. No cheap sequins for this event—each brilliant was sewn, not glued, in place, and the dress had been custom made. At the fitting, she’d thought she looked like the whore he’d been trying to make her, but when she slipped into the tight black gown and wriggled it up her hips, the dress fit perfectly. Her spike-heeled Jimmy Choos looked as if they were studded with diamonds. When she stood in front of the full-length mirror, she was stunned at the complete ensemble.
Somehow, she looked both wanton and elegant. The dress flared slightly at the knee, seeming to float around her when she walked, as if she carried the elements of stars and night with her like an exotic goddess. Arturo had insisted she wear only the best for this party, for she’d be meeting all his current business partners and two he hoped to sign a deal with in the next few days. Like most warlords of his ilk, he was taking increasing advantage of globalization and was in the process of setting up distribution channels for his wares stretching as far as Australia.
She knew that was one reason he favored her despite her age . . . how many women in Mexico could boast a partial Rothschild family connection? He expected her to be his best asset, for beautiful women, especially beautiful American women of aristocratic birth, were the prime possessions of crime lords everywhere. And she’d proved both astute and loyal, or so he thought.
His mistress was expected to dress the best, talk the best, even seduce the best when called for. And before this night was out, he’d warned her, she might be expected to do exactly that if either of his new potential partners asked nicely enough. Such sharing was not uncommon at gatherings like this, and he had a room set up for it, complete with champagne on ice, strawberries, and soft music.
When he’d laid out the rules, she’d nodded submissively, wishing she could tell him he could only whore her out if he could find her. Before the stroke of midnight, like some maladjusted Cinderella, she’d leave her exquisite diamanté shoes as her only legacy, taking with her the jewels she’d need to barter and the only other thing she valued—her daughter. However, Yancy was also savvy enough, after being a drug lord’s mistress for almost six months, to know she might need more than jewels to bargain with if she had to go to the Mexican police.
She had discreetly made notes in a tiny diary she kept hidden in her room, unable to use the only cell phone he allowed her because it was often searched at random. She’d recorded names when she had them, descriptions, dates of meetings, and any overheard conversation she gleaned as to routes and methods, which usually wasn’t much. But she’d heard enough to know that something new was in the works, with what she believed were Chechen connections. She suspected his new associates were offshoots of the Russian mob because of their accents and tattoos. And these men, even more than any of the Mexicans she’d met, scared her.
Arturo, as brutal and selfish as he was, still had his own peculiar set of values and family obligations. He was good, in his way, to anyone who was loyal to him.
These men, the way they looked at her, made her feel not just like a whore but like chattel. They’d use her sexually or gut her with the same finesse . . . if one of them asked for either her or Jennifer, she might have to move up her schedule. She broke off her reflections when Arturo entered the room, carrying a small black velvet box. He stopped cold at the sight of her. His eyes flared with lust and he kissed the tips of his fingers, even bowing his head slightly in homage.
She smiled, for he’d never been so deferential, and did a slow 360-degree turn just for him. “I was worried this was too tight, but it fits perfectly. I’ll have to compliment the seamstress when I see her.”
He walked into the room and indicated she face the mirror. She complied. He opened the velvet box and told her to bend her head. She felt him attach something around her neck, and when she stood straight again, her eyes widened. She whispered in English, “My God.”
The necklace he’d fastened had an enormous diamond in the middle, with more diamonds scalloped all the way around to the clasp in smaller, graduated sizes. She’d been to enough extravagant fêtes in Baltimore and DC to recognize platinum when she saw it. The jewels had been soldered on in such a way that they shimmered when she took a breath, as if she wore shooting stars around her neck. She felt the heavy weight and guessed the center stone must be at least ten carats by itself. She reached out to touch it. “Is this . . . rented?”
He shook his head. “It’s a deposit on my investment. Only the best for Los Lobos.”
Of course. Like any successful tycoon, he thought only in terms of assets and liabilities. She was literally wearing proof of his business prowess, her beauty offsetting the jewels, not vice versa.