Free No One Lives Forever by Jordan Dane

came begging for my help yesterday. And with the short fuse on this trip, you can't afford a Plan B." He called her bluff, punctuating his gall with a swig of coffee.
    Jasmine raised her chin in defiance. She spoke in a quiet rock-steady voice, eyes aimed with deadly accuracy.
    "It would not be in Nicky's best interest... no. But make no mistake. I will not tolerate mutiny, regardless of your connection to him. I would answer such a threat with my blade."
    Now standing within inches of his chest, she toyed with a button on his shirt. Normally, the gesture would be flirtatious and seductive, but he'd seen the woman at work. Her moves had the signature of a coiled rattler, fangs bared, waiting for him to turn his back.
    Slowly, her eyes trailed up his chest. Nails in glistening red tugged at his shirt. Her expression softened with her voice. "Besides, you're curious about your . . . new father. Admit it. You have to know just how far you've fallen from the base of that magnificent tree, don't you, little acorn?"
    Anyone catching the scene might have assumed he was having an intimate conversation with a lover. But Jasmine worked best up close, her words as cutting as her lethal knife. Especially when her incisions stung with the harsh reality of truth.
    Still, he fought to maintain control. Little acorn, my ass!
    "John Delacorte will always be my real father. And from what I found out about Charboneau, I've decided any connection I have to the man is merely a result of adolescent libido." He grabbed her hand and shoved it aside. "No thanks, not interested in making a love connection with daddy dearest."
    She raised an eyebrow and curved her lips into a smirk. "Perhaps you should be the one to conserve on the bullshit, Christian. We might find a market for it in Brazil." In jaunty arrogance, she turned toward the door, not looking back. "Can we go?"
    Without waiting for his reply, she stepped out of the room, heading for the plane. In her wake, sounds of the airport intruded upon the stillness of the room, then dissipated as the door shut behind her. Dressed in pressed jeans and boots, Jasmine clutched at her blue windbreaker, drawing it to her body. He watched her walk toward the jet, her long dark hair wafting in the breeze.
    "If there's a market for bullshit in Brazil, I'd be a wealthy man," he mumbled under his breath. "But you, Jasmine, would be Oprah."
    Taking one final look toward the gate, Christian looked off into the distance and sighed before heading for the door.
    Next stop — Cuiabá, Brazil.
    Cuiabá, Brazil,
Marechal Rondon Airport
8:58 P.M.
    Christian didn't need this. The airport was a hive of activity . . . and not in a good way. After flying via private jet, he'd hoped for a simpler process to disembark. But the last bank of commercial planes arrived at the gates about the same time the Dunhill jet touched down. The influx of people crowded customs and bottlenecked the process.
    Bad luck followed him like a shadow, hard to shake.
    Despite the hour, travelers with places to go hauled bags through the bustling corridors . Their faces told a mixed tale. Some were energetic and filled with impatience to begin their Brazilian adventure, while others looked frustrated and tired.
    Christian identified with the latter.
    Several large groups of tourists arrived in a rush and were now being ushered to buses waiting on the curb outside baggage claim. The terminal echoed with the language of Portuguese, Spanish, and other dialects. Christian heard very little English spoken. The predominance of dark skin and hair, coupled with the bulk of the facial features appearing native, reminded him of his foreigner status.
    By the time he got through customs and the baggage claim process, he felt every hour of travel deep in his bones. Even Jasmine, the Queen of Serene, couldn't hide her exhaustion. It showed in her eyes and in her sullen mood.
    "I have to make a stop." She led him to a large locker along one of the corridors off