Nothing Is What It Seems
Born to a childhood pitted by violence, Christian Delacorte is desperate for peace when he embarks on a new life with the woman he loves, Detective Raven Mackenzie. But soon his old life comes calling—in the tempting form of a mysterious woman assassin.
When a Deadly Seductress Comes Calling
Jasmine Lee is determined to collect an old marker from Christian. He owes her—big time—and she needs his help freeing her kidnapped lover, Nicholas Charboneau—a powerful mogul linked to Chicago's underworld. Christian doesn't trust her, but Jasmine entices him to leave Raven behind when she reveals his shocking connection to Charboneau.
And a Lethal Race Against Time Begins
Christian has seven days to attempt an impossible rescue of the father he never knew. And when a woman assassin with ulterior motives makes a lousy ally, Christian is alone to face the stark reality that no one lives forever...and he might be the next to die.
Hotel Palma Dourada
Cuiabá, Brazil
Gripping his nine-millimeter Beretta, Nicholas Charboneau peered through the peephole of the penthouse suite, responding to a soft knock. The red and black uniforms of hotel personnel should not have given him any cause for alarm. And yet, the hair at the nape of his neck reacted to a rush of adrenaline. Two men stood by a rolling cart of white linen, covered with food platters and a bottle of Brazilian merlot with a distinctive label.
Compliments of the house...or a Trojan horse? The bottle of wine told the tale.
A lazy smile curved his lips. At his age, he relied more on wit and cunning, leaving the chest thumping to younger men. He had no intention of answering the door, making himself vulnerable.
"No way," he scoffed, muttering under his breath. "Nice try, but never would've happened."
"Who is at the door?" The voice of his young bodyguard, Jasmine Lee, drew his attention. Drying her black hair with a towel, she stood near the wet bar dressed only in the white robe of the hotel. "Did you order room service, Nicky?"
He raised his hand and shook his head, silently mouthing the word No.
Her body tensed, dark eyes flared in alert.
The sound of shattered glass from across the room broke his concentration. Jasmine darted from his sight, heading toward the noise.
As he rounded the foyer corner, three men dressed in black paramilitary uniforms burst into the room from the balcony, guns raised. Without hesitation, Jasmine tossed her towel toward the nearest man, a distraction. She punched a fist to his solar plexus, doubling him over. To finish her attacker, she elbowed the back of his head, toppling him to the carpet. Now she faced another, chin down and fists raised in defiance.
One down. White queen takes black knight's pawn, threatening the rook.
Nicholas's body reacted on pure instinct as chess maneuvers ran through his head, a practice in discipline and control. Adrenaline fueled his anger. He raced across the room, Beretta leveled. Unarmed, she wouldn't stand a chance if they started to shoot. He chose a spot to her far right, forcing the men to split their attack. A tactical maneuver.
Nicholas squared off with the man he'd coerced into turning his back on Jasmine. His assailant flinched, fear in his eyes as he faced the Beretta. Not wanting to start any gunplay, Nicholas backhanded him across the jaw, knocking him down.
"Arrgh." Wincing in pain, the man writhed on the floor, holding his jaw. Blood dripped through his fingers.
Two down. White knight to king four, checkmate in two moves.
He smelled victory. With Jasmine at his side, he tilted his head and glared at the final man, his gun aimed dead center between the stranger's eyes. "Who sent you? And you better pray I believe you."
"Mãos ao alto." The stern voice came from behind him.
Clenching his jaw, Nicholas wavered for an instant. He gripped the Beretta, maintaining what little tactical leverage remained. But he had a feeling all that was about to change. Unwilling to lower his weapon until he knew for certain, he shifted his gaze to catch a reflection in the mirror behind the wet bar.
The seductive country of Brazil had beckoned Nicholas to its borders, the fertile ground of corruption awaiting his influence. Now, the reality of that summons had a face. The room service attendant narrowed his eyes in challenge, matching his stare in the mirror.
Despite the night air coming from the open doors to the balcony, he noticed the man had a bead of sweat at his temple. The droplet lingered on the brink of a sun-weathered crease, one of many lines marking his face.
Nicholas did not speak Portuguese...
