Club Alpha Page 7

  “You're welcome,” he returns like a perfect volley in English.

  I forget how so many Europeans speak English. So much for practicing my Norwegian.

  I give my best effort to hang on to modesty as I fold myself inside the plush interior.

  Tor Aros waits inside.

  Like a cat catching sight of a mouse, his energy seems stretched taut, reaching for me on invisible strings.

  His eyes flare as they settle on my figure. Tor leaves nothing untouched or unseen.

  “Hello,” he says in a rich baritone timbre, sliding forward and capturing my hand.

  He kisses it as he did earlier today. This time, there is electricity like a painful spark.

  His eyes meet mine over the bend of my hand.

  Just as the exchange might become uncomfortable, he gently places my hand against my knee. “How are you this evening, Ms. Dahlem?”

  My lips lift. “I am well, Mr. Aros,” I say, ducking my head slightly.

  “Tor,” he says. A whisper of brows meet, then his face clears.

  My smile widens. “Greta.”

  “Touché,” he says.

  I swing my slim briefcase around and begin to fiddle with latches.

  “No, Greta. Let us wait on things of business until such time after we've dined.” His deep auburn brow rises in question.

  “Sure,” I reply a little breathlessly.

  He's so handsome, I feel like the oxygen is depleted in the back of the limo.

  I try to not to stare—and lose that battle soundly.

  Tonight the suit is soft black, so cool against his warm skin and hair. His brown eyes blaze into mine across the seat. It feels as though we're mere inches apart instead of almost four feet.

  “Champagne?” He indicates the bucket behind him.

  I shake my head. Just seeing the bottle makes my heartbeat skate erratically.

  Alcohol equals waking up bound and afraid. It brings the night of my graduation from the U Dubb into glaring full-color recall.

  “Greta?” he asks. Concern floods his eyes.

  I've let too much show. I control my expression. “Nothing's wrong. I just… I'm not a big fan of alcohol.”

  “Easily remedied.”

  “No, I don't want to impose.” I hold up a palm, see the nearly invisible wrist scar, and drop my hand into my lap.

  But Tor is already turning to a concealed compartment underneath the seat.

  He pulls out another bottle, very similar to the champagne.

  “Grape bubbly?” he asks with a smile.

  I nod.

  It beats my normal apple.

  He refills the empty spot in the small ice box with the champagne and pops the cork on the grape juice.

  He fill a tall glass with a fragile stem then pours one for himself.

  “A toast,” Tor says.

  My brows pull together. “To what?” I ask with a laugh.

  “The future. Your Roffe fabric is all a formality.” He waves toward my briefcase in dismissal.

  I lower the glass, and he shakes his head.

  I lift it again, and he clinks our crystal together. It's made of fine flint that rings from the touch. When the sound grows silent, he says, “I knew I would use Roffe when I first researched the company. They're a good fit for my needs. Small enough for quality control and customer service of the caliber I wish. And they can provide the most updated line.”

  He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, underscoring his reasoning.

  I take a small sip.

  Our gazes lock over the rims of our glasses.

  “Then why…?” I begin, letting the base of the glass rest on my knee as the limo rolls smoothly to a stop.

  “You, Greta. I needed to meet you.”

  I'm confused. Tor is way too forward to be merely a client. Yet, there is something magnetic about him. When he speaks to me, I feel as though I am the first person he's ever spoken to. I feel as though I will be the last, as well. The Alpha and Omega.

  It is the strangest sensation, a kind of nameless charm. There is no antidote for it, no counter. As if he’s spun a spell, I am captured in the manic eye of his charisma.

  I maintain marginal rationale. “Why did you need to meet me?” I ask in a mild voice, fighting the drug of his presence.

  His fingers touch my knee lightly.

  I should be on guard.

  Tor Aros hits many of the triggers from the attack. He's tall, white, and good-looking.

  Somehow, being with him doesn't make the alarm bells ring. He’s confident and seemingly innocuous.

  Maybe he is a part of the fantasy of Club Alpha.

  I can get well.

  Even if nothing happens between him and me, maybe I can heal enough to be ready for anything else life throws at me.

  I'm zoning, and he answers the question I forgot I posed.

  “You called to me. From America. I knew we were kindred, meant to meet.”

  “How? No, I'm sorry. That's too weird,” I say, coming to my senses. I don't believe in insta-anything. Especially now. Life has been an apt teacher.

  He shakes his head, squeezing my hand, and brushes his fingers against my knuckles. “I knew your parents many years ago. Before… I am sorry. I know it is a delicate subject. I knew them before their deaths.”

  My heart sputters to a faltering stop. “You did?” I fight not to move away and gather myself deeply inside again. I stay at the top of my consciousness. I don't hide from this new revelation—a possible new hurt.

  “I promised your father I would look after you.”

  I study him more closely. I realize he's older than I first assumed.

  “And here you are, quite well. Though I must apologize.”

  I gulp. “For—” I clear my throat. “For what?”

  He looks down for a moment, spinning the stem of the empty glass. His face is serious as his gaze collides with mine. “Not being there to protect you two years ago.”

  My fingertips go numb as my stomach hollows out. It's too much.

  He knows.

  I don't know how, but he does.

  I snatch my hand away and cover my face with my hands.

  Tears escape from between my fingers. Wet shame ruins my careful make-up job.

  I don't resist when Tor pulls me into his lap, holding me while I sob.

  He strokes my back, whispering soothing words in my mother tongue.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Paco

  I sweep Amelia against me. “Do not cry, chica. They will not harm you.”

  Water swarms her large brown eyes. Her mother cleaned and cooked in this house before her. Amelia is only a handful of years younger than I am. We practically grew up together.

  The narco are sloppy.

  The beautiful young woman they plan to coax me away from paradise for—she is unknown to me.

  Amelia, and a handful of other relatives, I hold very dear. A little homework on their part would have revealed that basic fact.

  So why am I traveling to the frozen north to murder someone I've never met?

  Because I will save her, not end her.

  The narco believes I am their puppet. How wrong they are.

  I set Amelia away from me, handing her my silk handkerchief. “Keep it, as a token.”

  Amelia sniffles, clutching the deep-emerald material. “It won't mean anything if they come back and hurt me, Paco.”

  I sigh, resting my forehead against hers. I kiss each cheek, wiping a stray tear away with my thumb. “Go to Lo De Marcos, Nayarit. Take a holiday. I will have Moises watch over the house.”

  She nods quickly, backing away.

  “Si, okay.” She glances at Tallinn, who grins back at her, a slash of white teeth in his open face.

  Tallinn switches to Spanish.“Got to run, Paco.” His voice sounds apologetic, but his eyes are serious.

  Amelia giggles.

  “What?” Tallinn asks, large hands coming to rest on his hips.

  “Yo
u just said you have to use the bathroom with your Spanish, my friend.”

  Tallinn's dark skin turns brick red. “Well damn, I thought I was showing the linguist moves.”

  My lips twitch. “Not quite yet.”

  My attention returns to Amelia. I grasp her hand, pressing forty thousand pesos inside, and close her fist around the colorful currency.

  She gives a small sob, her hand convulsing around mine. “It's too much.”

  I shake my head. “Not nearly enough. Take it. Leave now. I will phone you when it is safe for your return.”

  Amelia looks from me to Tallinn.

  She nods then throws her arms around me.

  “Cuídate, Paco.”

  “I'll be careful; I promise.”

  She wipes her eyes and swallows.

  I turn away, hating to leave. Yet conversely, I’m thrilled to begin this journey. Is this a maneuver of Club Alpha? If it is such a powerful entity that it can manipulate the highest degree of criminals in all of Mexico, what other means are at their disposal?

  Tallinn and I slip into the limo then make the half-hour trek to the airport, where my private jet is waiting.

  I have never been to Norway. It's always been a distant place of icebergs and a frozen people.

  But one pulse of heat burns bright, warming me.

  If my future is there, I go where it leads.

  *

  Norwegian is not one of the four languages I speak. I get by quite well in French and Portuguese, and only a linguist could hear my accent in English. Though I've been told my Spanish warms my English when I am angry or fatigued.

  I will work to appear as American as I am able on this journey. An American will be far less conspicuous than a Mexican.

  Tallinn has determined to be a pain in my ass the entire way, grilling me hard on slang. I have never delighted in engaging the vernaculars of American speech.

  I tap the fingers of my left hand on my thigh. My right clutches the only glass of alcohol I'll allow myself, needing to stay sharp. Flying is a necessary evil.

  “Paco, my man, let's go over it again.”

  I palm my chin, and my face tilts to the side as I bob my head.

  “Don't give me that blank look. You need to stay focused. Committed. Like when I make you lift weights.”

  Ah yes, that. The weight lifting, though effective, is akin to flossing teeth. My mind weeps from the boredom of it. At least while I run, my mind is free to wander. On the mat, I engage all my senses, like a full-sensory plug-in. Weightlifting is utterly flat.

  During a run, I puzzle through the myriad of different projects I have at coffee plants around the world: how to manage more effectively, troubleshoot problems, and come up with formulas for the future. I’m always thinking.

  The weightlifting provides physical results, but my mind shrivels.

  I sigh.

  “You speak so formally, it's a dead giveaway you're not American to your core.” He thumps his chest with a fist.

  I give him a sharp look. My hand falls from my face as I straighten in the plush airplane seat. “I am not. I'm Mexican.”

  “Well that dickhead, Manuel, seemed to think you were something else.”

  “We're a great mix of peoples in Mazatlán. Many of us are from different origins.”

  “Right,” he says in a slow drawl, “see my point?”

  Turbulence makes my whisky slop over the rim. I grit my teeth.

  I want to murder the pilot. It's not sane or rational, obviously—without him, who would fly the plane?

  Tallinn chuckles. “Love that you get all worked up with flying.”

  “Worked up?”

  “See?” Tallinn points to me as Tiffany wipes up the spill. “You need to pay attention to the way people talk.”

  “I pay attention to what warrants it.”

  “God!” He slaps his forehead. “You're a lost cause.”

  I glower at him.

  “Save the smolder for the ladies, Paco.”

  “I'm not smoldering.” Even I can hear the insult in my voice.

  Tiffany laughs.

  My face swivels in her direction.

  Light pink floods her cheekbones. She nods, her fingers covering her mouth. “Definitely smoldering.”

  “I might get a fat head with that kind of talk,” I joke softly.

  “Might? Ha! Have one…”

  “Quiet,” I warn Tallinn in a growl.

  “Uh-huh. You're dragging my butt to the Netherlands for what? To…” He flicks a glance at Tiffany.

  “That's all, thank you,” I say to her in a not-too-subtle dismissal.

  Tiffany knows better than to sulk over my need for privacy. How many on-call jobs pay a person eighty thousand dollars a year to fly two dozen times?

  None.

  She leaves without protest.

  Tallinn leans forward, letting his hands dangle between his muscular thighs. “Like I was saying”—he jerks his thumb in the direction of where Tiffany left—“before the hottie took off—you're supposed to kill this girl. And I know you're not going to do anything to her.”

  I nod. If Tallinn knows, the narco must suspect. Still, I've never displayed backbone in all the years I've worked with them. I was rich, and I paid. Period. It was traditional, and it kept my family safe.

  “They tapped you to kill her for what reason?” He frowns. “They're watching her. It's Club Alpha. I know it. It's too weird not to be.”

  “Perhaps.” My gaze prowls the clouds as they glide by. There is reason in the madness, and it's my job to think through each mystery to reach the prize at the end. The journey so intriguing.

  “What?”

  I turn back to Tallinn. “I'm not convinced of anything. Club Alpha does not have the means—I wouldn't think—to use high-ranking criminal entities to perpetuate a ruse of this scale.”

  “Oh, Paco.” Tallinn shakes his head, grinning.

  I don’t see the humor. “Hmm?”

  “It's the way you talk—you can't be American. It's a no.”

  I sniff, grabbing his thigh in a pincer grip.

  He howls.

  “Believable now?”

  His hand covers mine, sliding up to my wrist. He circles it in a vise of steel. I release his thigh, twisting my wrist in a vicious circle against his dominant grip.

  “Hey!”

  He takes his hand back.

  Tallinn chuckles, sliding his palm down the thigh I clamped. “You're aggressive enough to be American.”

  I lean back. “I left Mazatlán when I was eight. I was boarded in a prestigious East Coast Ivy League preparatory school. I've the bearing of the highly educated; it's not a sin to speak formally.”

  “No, but it's not going to make anyone believe your cover, Paco. And while we're talking about it, you're not going to introduce yourself as Francisco, are you?”

  My eyes tighten. “What is wrong with my name?”

  Tallinn leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “All four.”

  He has a very small point.

  “Paco is the only casual thing about you. Let's keep it.”

  “Oh, well thank you for your permission.”

  Tallinn's face morphs into a slow grin. “You are most welcome.”

  I frown.

  He points at me. “Got ya.”

  I roll my eyes. Incorrigible.

  *

  Tallinn roams our vast hotel room. The penthouse suite encompasses the entire top story of the hotel.

  The view is incredible, even to my indifferent gaze.

  I feel ashamed that I have envisioned the north as cold and desolate. Its beauty is not easily quantified. Austere and green, the city of Oslo hovers below us. The sea beyond is a blanket of sparkling blue water surrounded by jewel-like trees. Rooftops in an assortment of colors dot the way to the shore.

  Norwegians are extremely conscientious about their history and environment. The hotel is built using the indigenous stone and styled after the architecture
of the surrounding historic buildings.

  It's quaint.

  However, I feel as though I live my life with a void in my soul. I am supremely content. To the uninitiated, contentment is happiness. I may be self-contained to the extreme, but my life continues to gray at the edges.

  A life not shared with a love is not worth living.

  Now that I am partaking in the dangerous illusion of Club Alpha, I can't deny my motivation.

  Loneliness.

  No amount of money will buy happiness.

  “Damn, this place put the S in swank,” Tallinn says, fingering the thick coverlet hugging the king-size bed.

  I feel for the envelope inside my suit coat and pluck it out. I take the woman’s photo and address and set it on the night table. “It's great.”

  Tallinn laughs. “That's a start. You almost sound normal.”

  I snort.

  “Tallinn's funny, huh?” He nods. “I know, king of comedy.” He beats his chest with his fists in the parody of a giant ape. He gives me a narrow-eyed look.

  “Let's lift.” He waggles his brows.

  I groan. “I have less than fifty hours to locate this woman and save her. Say nothing of jet lag.”

  “Whah-whah. Listen, white knight, I am here to tell you that you need backup. Let's hire some muscle. I'll get weapons. They'll be watching, true? Isn't there some crooked doc at the ready to pronounce this poor chick?”

  Yes.

  Tallinn scrutinizes my cautious expression, expounding, “So, they must have done a little bit of homework on you. They know you're a moral guy. You'll charge in there and save the girl, and they'll gun you down, frame you for some bullshit.”

  My own words to Zaire come back to me: I have agreed to a no-liability clause against you, even in the case of my death… “Why?”

  “Don't be naïve Paco. It's so not you.”

  The wheels of my mind turn quickly. “The coffee plants.”

  “Exactamente.”

  I wince at his accent.

  Tallinn glares. “Stoner doesn't do everything plus wipe my ass, Paco.”

  My eyebrows bounce. “Stoner?”

  “Rosetta Stone.”

  I laugh, getting a visual of the educational foreign language computer program handing over neatly folded toilet paper.

  “If they get your rich butt out of the way, and frame you for something they don't want to take the heat for, they can get their paws on your coffee.”