Susan Mallery: Tempting Faith

Power, Cort thought, looking at the long legs and thick ropes of muscle visible under the fur. A perfect killing machine. Elegant. Beautiful. A creature without a conscience. Is that what Jeff saw when he looked at him?

“He likes most people,” she said, patting Sparky with his hand, then slipping her fingers away.

He hesitated. Their eyes met, and he continued stroking the cat. “Most? When do I find out if I’m one of the lucky ones?”

“He wouldn’t have come in here if he didn’t like your scent.”

Sparky straightened, as if he’d just realized Faith wasn’t the one touching him. He rose to his feet and walked the two steps over to Cort. Even though the kitchen chair was relatively high off the ground, Sparky practically stared him in the eye. The cat sniffed at his hand, then his arm. Cort wanted to get the hell away, but he held his position. He knew that much.

Predator to predator. He recognized Sparky’s need to understand the intruder. If this was her chaperon, it was no wonder Faith wasn’t married.

Sparky made the coughing sound again, then turned away and walked next to the refrigerator. The one-inch-thick chain trailed behind him. The rumbling purr became a humph as he laid down, then resumed.

Faith began to clear the table. When she went to put the butter away, she nudged Sparky out of the way so that she could open the door. Cort wasn’t sure if he should respect Faith or have her committed.

“Do you want to drive around the compound?” she asked. “I’ve cleared my morning so that I could show you anything you would like to see.”

Before he could respond, a loud shriek pierced the morning. Even Sparky stopped purring.

“Damn,” Faith muttered, apparently more annoyed than concerned as she walked out of the room. “What are you two up to now?”

Cort grabbed his crutches and followed her. The shrieks came again, this time followed by plaintive mewing.

“You can’t be hungry,” Faith said, moving down the hall toward a dim light in a room on the right. “I just fed you.”

The mewing got louder. Cort continued to hobble behind her. When they entered the room, he saw a big cage that filled most of the floor space. Inside, blankets formed a soft nest. Newspapers lined a far corner of the cage. The striped bundle in the middle of the blankets moved as they walked closer. Two white tiger cubs looked up and mewed piteously.

“Here they are,” Faith said as she crouched down beside the babies. “Jeff sent them along to me last week.”

“This is what the reporter was after?”

“Yes. They were confiscated at the border. Something about being added to the collection of some big-time crook.” She looked up and smiled. “Think you can keep them safe?”

* * *

William Thomas paced the small motel room. He needed a drink, but he couldn’t afford to miss his phone call. What would happen to him now? he wondered for the hundredth time. What would they do to him? Second chances didn’t exist in his organization. But it hadn’t been his fault. They had set the rules. No killing, they’d insisted. If he’d iced the border control officer none of this mess would have happened.

He swallowed thickly and again wished for that drink. Maybe he could run to the liquor store across the street. It wouldn’t take long and—

The ringing of the telephone cut into his thoughts. He picked it up immediately.

“Yes?” he said curtly.

“I’m very disappointed, Mr. Thomas.”

“I know. It was an accident. The rules I had to work under were too restrictive.”

“I don’t care about accidents. I want the job done.”

“Of course.” William forced himself to speak calmly. The fact that they hadn’t killed him yet meant he might be given the chance to redeem himself.

“Our mutual employer is still out of the country,” his caller said, the voice low and cold. “You have exactly twenty-one days until his return. If the cubs are recovered by then, he would be very forgiving of your little accident.”

“I can get them back. As soon as I find out where they are—”

The man on the phone cut him off again. “They were on the news last evening.”

“What? The cubs?”

“Yes. A reporter, a James Wilson, filed a story. Locate him and you’ll locate the cubs.”

“Consider it done.”

“Mr. Thomas, I shouldn’t have to remind you that you can’t afford to make another mistake.”

William wished he could ignore the implied threat, but doing so would cost him his life. “I need to be able to do whatever is necessary,” he said. “You can’t tie my hands and then complain that the job isn’t done.”

“Recover them. At any cost."

William nodded. He’d just been given permission to get rid of anyone who stood in his way. Better. Now he could finish the job. “You can count on me.”

“Twenty-one days, Mr. Thomas. Our mutual employer spent a lot of money on the cubs. They are the centerpiece of his collection. If you don’t succeed, we will be forced to discontinue our association. Do you understand?”

Who wouldn’t understand a .45 slug between the eyes? “I understand.”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

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