Demon Seed Read online

  Years of SEAL deployments had taught him one vital lesson—fucking coincidences didn’t exist. So if not an ambush, then what? One fact he knew: the beach had been compromised. No way could it be the emergency escape route Satan, his Hades Squad team member, had suggested. So much for the expensive equipment he’d painstakingly stashed in the cave at the far end of the bay. SEALs double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked every fucking detail of a mission. But he was more OCD than even Satan and just had to take one last inspection tonight.

  Emilio wouldn’t expect anyone to head east straight into the Venezuelan interior, and that was Demon’s ultimate destination. But first he had to get Jacinta back to wherever she came from. If time allowed that little luxury.

  His clothes, designed not to retain moisture, were almost dry. Demon tugged off his shirt, snagged it around one of the sea grape trees lining the beach, and then headed to retrieve his curvy package.

  Before he reached her, Jacinta called out softly, “Is it okay?”

  “Yes.”

  She was at his side in less than three seconds. “I knew you’d come back.”

  The fact she had to say the words said otherwise. He scooped her up and carried her to where the beach turned into gravel and then soft grasses. After setting her down, he ordered, “Put your hands up. I’m going to loan you my shirt.”

  Not once had she disobeyed an order. “I am fine. You did all the peddling. You need your shirt.”

  “Paddling. You will wear the shirt. But you might want to take off that wet bra first.” He marveled at her calm. Not a single note of hysteria rode her voice.

  The moon made a sudden appearance. Demon pulled her under the tree. “No time to argue, Jacinta. We have to get moving.”

  “I can carry my brassiere until it dries.” She reached behind her back, undid the strap, and hung her head for a second before slipping the garment off.

  “Bra. Not many people say brassiere.” Demon took the wet bra and slung it over his shoulder. Shit. He never had trouble controlling his breathing. And he never had trouble controlling his blasted cock. He wanted to tell her that she had magnificent breasts. Big-nippled, perfect, rounded globes that didn’t sag a millimeter without support. “Hands up.”

  When she kept her head down, he nudged her chin.

  Damn. She looked about to cry. Reaction had finally set in. Gathering her close, he shared his body heat and massaged her lower back, trying to ignore the soft press of her nipples, the supple silk of her skin, the whiff of lemon clinging to her wet hair. “Easy, honey. You’ve been so great tonight. Don’t fall apart on me now. I have to get you to safety.”

  Sniffing, she lifted to meet his gaze and managed a tremulous smile. “I’m okay now. Can I put on the shirt myself?”

  Reluctant to forgo the anticipated pleasure of skimming more of her soft flesh, he released her, stepped back, and gave her the garment.

  She turned around to put the tee on. Moonbeams flickered through the branches above, and he got a leisurely up close and personal view of her gorgeous ass and a waist he estimated to be twenty-two inches at most. His stones fired tight and hard, and he was so close to shooting his wad that he had to concentrate on the branch of the tree above him for a good nine seconds before he risked glancing at her.

  The T-shirt reached her just above the knee. Demon shook his head, not understanding how any female could look both demure and sexier than Aphrodite at the same time. He scooped her up again.

  “I can walk.” But she looped her arms around his neck, and her teeth flashed white when she smiled. The tiny gap proved both charming and enticing.

  “Not on bare feet, you can’t. As we walk, want to try filling me in on what happened earlier?” Demon had a feeling he could get used to having Jacinta in his arms.

  He made it to the dirt road, and she still hadn’t uttered a word, and then the tension went out of her limbs. She’d fallen asleep. He’d have to teach her not to trust so easily.

  What had he interrupted?

  A brother who wanted to do his sister.

  Demon had no truck for the half part. A half sister is a sister, that’s all there was to it. And a brother protects a sister. Period. Emilio was the sickest sort of fucker on the planet.

  Ten to one, Emilio and his gang were dealers or worked for one of the cartels. With the waters between Trinidad and Venezuela almost impossible to patrol thoroughly and relentlessly, and the increasing isolation of Venezuela under Chavez, the drug trade in Trinidad had mushroomed like a deployed atomic bomb.

  She muttered something that tickled a boyhood memory. A grin chased his lips when he recognized that she’d been conjugating the Latin verb for carry: portō, portāre, portāvī, portātus. He stopped dead in his tracks. Latin? Sister Helen? Her mentor?

  No way.

  He hadn’t fucked a nun.

  A nun couldn’t have turned him on.

  His half-hard cock refused to believe her a nun and refused to go flaccid.

  Go figure.

  He’d had three-ways, experimented with BDSM, done a few ménages, and never, not for a single moment, had he ever felt guilt. Until now. Not to mention a rising level of self-disgust. He was a man of honor. A man bound by his vows. And he’d fucked a nun. Double crapola.

  Jacinta woke up like a kitten.

  First she rubbed an eye with one fist, then she arched a little, and then she blinked. And dazzled him with a wide, upturned grin. The moon had ducked behind clouds yet again, and he still had only a vague notion of what she looked like. “I thought I had dreamed you.”

  “A nightmare?” Demon acknowledged the fact that he scared most people. Most saw only the scar that had turned his mouth into a perpetual sneer. The nose that had been broken more times than he could count. He didn’t have a handsome bone in his body, and he knew it well.

  She hugged him.

  The spontaneous gesture surprised the piss out of him.

  “You’re so silly. A nightmare? No, my knight in shining armor. Lancelot du Lac. Or maybe King Albert. Or Cormac mac Airt. Or Niall of the Nine Hostages.”

  Demon stumbled and righted himself immediately. Sir Lancelot?

  “But you are so much more handsome than Franco Nero.”

  He tripped again. He never stumbled. Handsome? If his best friend and teammate, Devil, ever heard of this, he’d laugh for days. Maybe even decades.

  “What is wrong?” She touched his forehead. “Are you weary? I can walk, I promise you. And I am no longer weepy. I can hike for a whole day, even up a steep mountain. Sister Helen and I hiked often.”

  “Sister Helen?” Maybe this time she’d answer.

  “I live in a cloistered convent.” Her voice wavered. “Or I used to, before I let the devil tempt me.”

  His mind went blank. He picked up his pace. No one had ever surprised him into dropping his jaw or blurting a question until now. “A cloistered convent?”

  He dreaded her answer.

  “An enclosed convent where the nuns have very little contact with the outside world.”

  No way he could let it go. He had to know. “Are you a nun?”

  She sighed, a long, audible sigh. “No.”

  Thank the Lord.

  His dick took the news as a full-speed-ahead signal and hardened with each stride.

  “Where is this convent?”

  “In the mountains north of Roraima.”

  He came to a dead, jerky halt seconds before he rammed her into the bark of a tree trunk.

  “You are weary.” She placed her hand on his forehead. “And hot. You were in the water too long. I told you I could pull my pounds.”

  “Weight.”

  There are no coincidences in life.

  He lived his life by that credo.

  But this fucking had to be. “How did you come to be with Emilio on the beach?”

  “I let the devil into my soul.” She ducked her head. “And I foolishly believed Consuelo was helping me escape.”

  They reached
the road, and he had a decision to make. He had to leave in less than an hour. No way did he have time to find her a safe house. If she did indeed need one and wasn’t playing him for a big-time sucker.

  There are no coincidences in life.

  She had to be a plant.

  None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t had a recurrent malaria bout three days ago. The low-grade fever that signaled the end of his chills and sweats had slowed his reactions and dulled his senses. No way could those fuckers have snuck up on him under normal circumstances. By now he was supposed to be halfway down the Orinoco on the way to the Brazilian border. He studied her profile for a brief moment. Plant or not, he had no choice now. She was coming with him.

  Demon crossed the road and wound his way through the trees until the camouflaged jeep came into view. He put Jacinta down. “Don’t move.”

  His team always ribbed him about being too softhearted about women. He’d fucking admired her and liked her gumption. And the odds of her being a mole had skyrocketed with her mention of Roraima.

  He was grateful he could keep his hands busy, because he wanted to shake the stuffing out of her. Demon stripped the tarp from the vehicle and retrieved the distributor cap from where he’d hidden it. He popped the hood, replaced the cap, and got some measure of satisfaction when he slammed the lid closed. She never said a word, but he felt her eyes on him.

  “Get in.” He opened the passenger door.

  She flinched but did as she was told.

  Demon stalked to the driver’s side, slammed into the worn leather, and snapped, “Buckle up.”

  After they’d been on the road for a good fifteen minutes, she said, “You are angry with me.”

  Too right. “Who the hell are you, lady?”

  “Jacinta Maria da Silva.”

  “Why were you in a cloister?”

  “I grew up there. When I turned twenty, I wanted to say my first vows. But Sister Helen said I had to live for six months in the city first. She took me to La Esconsa, a school run by the Dominicans, near Boa Vista. I lived in the dorms with the boarders. It was truly exciting. I can still remember the first time I had ice cream.”

  “As fascinating as your tale is, I’ve got no time for it now. We’re almost there. I’m meeting business colleagues in a few minutes. Here’s the deal: You’re my woman. You don’t speak unless I give you permission. If anyone asks you a question, don’t answer. You stick to my side. And you are never to be alone with anyone. No one. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  The SUV bounced and jiggled when he drove off the paved road. Demon shot her a glance. She’d fallen forward and winced when the seat belt tightened, banding her neck. “Hang on to the strap.”

  She scanned the passenger side and shrugged.

  “Above the window.” He gritted his teeth.

  Without saying a word, she obeyed his terse command and clung to the strap. So she intended to take him literally. Big shitting deal.

  Dawn stole over the night like a thief. Light crept in bit by bit, and like a scene unfolding, the panorama came into view. First, the dark outline of the mountain peaks in the distance, then the tall grasses, and finally the river, the mighty Orinoco.

  Nothing he loved better than the start of a new mission, but the usual adrenaline rush hadn’t kicked in. And the reason for that sat in the other seat giving him the silent treatment.

  Demon hadn’t been able to do a complete assessment of any of them—the fuckers, the blonde, or Jacinta—before darkness had fallen, and he’d kept out of the moon’s beams for most of the night. He jammed on the brakes, hit the overhead light, reached across, held her chin, and turned her to face him.

  He had only ever seen eyes that shade of turquoise once before.

  He wanted to howl. Or put her over his knees and paddle her fanny red.

  “Where was Emilio taking you?”

  “To meet my mother. He said he knew her. He showed me a photograph. I look like her. A lot.”

  She had no idea. Jacinta didn’t just resemble her mother. She was her mirror image. Her mother, Rosa Nunez, was dead. Killed by her drug lord brother in a fit of rage.

  And Demon’s target, Pedro Nunez, the criminal he had to bring to justice, would recognize Jacinta as his niece the minute he set eyes on her. And that would blow the whole operation in a heartbeat.

  Demon had maybe twelve minutes to find a way to hide Jacinta’s identity.

  Chapter Two

  Jacinta twined her fingers together until her skin pulled painfully. The lenses that he’d put in her eyes felt itchy and grainy. She hadn’t protested once. Not even when he hacked off her hair. Sister Helen had said it was her only vanity. She’d always denied it, but tears had pricked her eyes when he cut the first clump. And she never cried, never. And he hadn’t even told her his name.

  “No speaking. Stick close to me. And don’t look anyone in the eyes.”

  A few of the nuns had taken a vow of silence. During Lent most of the convent gave up speaking. Once, she hadn’t heard her own voice for three days. And it was never considered polite to make direct eye contact. She nodded.

  “Stay here till I come for you. Lock the doors and don’t open for anyone but me.”

  He waited until she pressed the knob before walking toward a group of men gathered near a jetty. Business colleagues, he’d said. She stared at the group of scruffy males, some old, some young, most in their middle years. All had the pinched, cruel expressions of Emilio’s men.

  Emilio. She shuddered and tried to block the images on the beach from her thoughts. But Consuelo’s horrible words kept echoing in her head. Emilio? Her half brother? It couldn’t be true. That woman in the photograph he’d shown her. He’d said it was her mother. Was she his mother too? Did they have different fathers?

  Another shudder racked her body, and she hugged herself to keep the chills at bay. Though how she could be cold in the tropical heat made no sense at all. Sister Helen had always told her that people in the outside world wore masks. Now she knew.

  Jacinta closed her eyes. Sister Helen had warned her of situations like this. Situations you no longer controlled. But she had also said anyone could survive anything for a minute, then another, then another. And then suddenly you were surviving five minutes, then ten, then an hour.

  Think of the next five minutes. Get through the next five minutes. Then think of the five minutes following that.

  Two boats were docked at the pier. Passengers boarded one; the other had three nets hanging from poles. Pushing off the seat, she glimpsed the muddied waters of a river so wide the other bank couldn’t be seen.

  Sister Helen had often told her she had an innate sense of direction. And the nun had tested her often on their many hikes in the mountains. She knew at once that this had to be the Orinoco, and could still hear the hypnotic chorus of the song, “Orinoco Flow,” in her head. In spite of all that had happened, excitement surged through her veins. They were going to travel on the magical river and must be heading back to the borders, back in the direction of Boa Vista. Back to the cloister and the school. This was good.

  Concentrate. Five minutes, survive the next five minutes.

  She had no choice but to trust him. And he had rescued her. Had not once harmed her. Not even when he’d done that. He made her feel so safe. Okay, she would travel the river with him. But not without a weapon.

  The bag in the backseat—the one where he’d stored the clothes she wore, the contact lenses, and the knife he used to cut her hair—before he’d zipped it closed, she’d glimpsed a cloth packet at the bottom. She glanced at the river. He was arguing with three of the men. Now was her chance.

  Jacinta’s fingers shook, and her belly felt as if she’d swallowed a nest of wasps. She managed to squiggle over the gears. Time slowed, her fingertips went numb, the beating of her heart exploded into the pounding of thousands of samba drums. Slowly she unzipped the main compartment, checking his position every few seconds. She found the roll a
nd struggled with the tie. Strangled a gasp when the material fell open and an assortment of weapons came into view.

  She looked up; he was still arguing.

  Three guns, four knives, grenades, and several other objects she didn’t recognize. She glanced at the soft trousers he had made her put on. They were obviously meant for him, and he’d had to cuff the material to get the legs to fit. Jacinta grabbed a knife. After tucking the weapon into a cuff, she rolled both legs twice more until the material hugged her ankles tightly. Positioning the bag as she’d found it, Jacinta crawled back to the passenger seat.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spied her warrior knight bearing down on the automobile. Her stomach knotted, for he wore the aloof, distant expression of earlier. Had he seen her?

  She lifted the lock when he approached, and opened the door.

  “We’re going to be traveling the river for a few days. We’ll be in a boat with a couple dozen other men.” He lifted her into his arms and handed her a baseball hat. “Here, put this on your head. Remember the rules.”

  Accepting the cap, she gathered her courage and whispered, “Por favor. Please may I know your name?”

  He had chameleon eyes. Sometimes green, sometimes brown.

  “They call me Demon.”

  Demon? Who named a child Demon? She refused to believe any mother would do such a thing, but pressed her lips together, knowing from his furrowed brow that his patience wore thin. “Thank you.”

  The hat felt strange, but so did her short hair.

  “When we hit the first village, I’ll get you more clothes and shoes. Sweatpants aren’t meant for these temperatures.” Dawn bloomed early in the tropics. The sun rose and blistered before a body had time to breathe. It was barely daybreak, but already the heat raised a sweat. A lazy breeze coming off the streaming river did little to alleviate the humidity.