Letting Regan stay the night with me isn’t going to delay my hunt because I’m in desperate need of sleep. Maybe she’s embarrassed about how she looks in her tiny coat and even tinier bikini. I’ll take her back to my temporary residence and fix her up. We’ll both sleep, and in the morning she’ll be begging me to return her to the U.S. diplomats. I can keep my hands off of her.

“Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana,” I tell the driver to take us to an address down by the beach. He gives me a quick nod and we take off again. The trip from the embassy takes less than fifteen minutes and it’s a beautiful drive along the Guanabara Bay. The pavement and the high rise hotels give way and for a few minutes we drive along the bay, where sea waters pelt the rocks. In the distance, Sugarloaf Mountain rises like a stone torpedo.

Regan has her face glued to the window. “What is that?” she asks, pointing to the mountain.

“It’s Sugarloaf Mountain. When the Portuguese were transporting sugar from Brazil to Europe, they’d press the sugar cane into these cone shaped molds called sugarloaves, and one day, I guess, someone said, ‘hey that bump in the sky looks like a sugarloaf.’ The Portuguese name is Pão de Açúcar.” I found myself leaning close to her, almost whispering the native name in her ear. Another Portuguese phrase comes to mind. Eu quero te abraçar agora. I want to touch you.

I force myself back against the seat. The taxi drivers smirks at me.

“A mulher e a sardinha querem-se da mais pequenina,” he mutters merrily. He’s lucky he’s driving and that Regan doesn’t speak Portuguese.

“What’d he say?”

“That the cable cars are packed like sardines,” I lie. He really said that women and sardines should always be small, which I guess is a reference to Regan’s tight ass he saw waving in his mirror, but I’m not telling her that. Trying to distract her, I point to the wires running from the mainland to the mountain. “There’s the cars that take you to the top of Sugarloaf.”

“Huh.”

I can’t tell if she’s intrigued or whether she can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I’m guessing the latter. I have the taxi driver pull over on the corner. He doesn’t need to know where we are staying. I wish it were Carnivale because Regan in her spangly bikini wouldn’t look out of place during the festival. But as it is, she’s going to draw attention in her black socks secured by zip ties, the thin tan jacket covering the swimsuit. Nothing to do but brazen it out.

“There’s no hotel here,” she notes with worry. The buildings along Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana are nothing like the favela. Here we are on level ground and it looks like any other metropolitan area near a beach. Touristy and a tiny bit rundown. Rather than hotels, I always stay in these apartments, which are run by individuals who are trying to avoid government regulations and extra taxes. These folks aren’t running to spill to anyone who their guests are. Pay them in cash and they are even more thrilled to pretend like the place stood empty for the entire time you were there.

“Walk like you own the place,” I mutter under my breath as I lead her past two large apartment complexes and down an alley to a three story thin building that houses three flats. Mine is the top one.

Regan sucks it all up and walks like a queen, head held high as if black socks, no shoes, and jackets are all the rage. If anyone is looking it’s because she’s fucking amazing. Can I hope that my sister will be like this? For so long I’ve worried that when I found her she’d be a shell, addicted to drugs, strung out, and barely functioning. But Regan’s nothing like that. She’s mouthy and straight backed and clear eyed. I like her, more than I should.

No one says anything to us and we’re inside the one bedroom flat before much more time passes.

“You live here?” She wanders in and looks around. It’s a tiny place. One tiny kitchen, one living room with a partial view of the Bay, and one tiny bedroom with one queen sized bed. She skitters away from the bedroom.

“Rent,” I answer. I open the door to the bathroom that contains a shower and a normal sized toilet. Some things can’t be small for me. I point to my one extra set of towels provided by the owner of the house. “Feel free to clean up.”

She nods and disappears. The water runs for a long time. So long that I’m able to shrug off my jacket, pull out my guns, discard my shoes. During the time the water is running nonstop and steam is starting to seep out from underneath the bathroom door, I’m trying to keep busy, to drum out the image of Regan completely naked inside the shower, running her hands down her gorgeous body, over the firm breasts she pressed against me earlier, and down between her legs. I’m cleaning a second gun by the time she pokes her head out the door. I’m surprised we had that much hot water.

“What?” I ask her, and it comes out more sharply than I intend because I need to turn off my desire for her. Her head inches back so all I can see are her eyes between the frame and the edge of the doorway. It’s not her fault I’m a dick with no self control. “Sorry.” Standing up, I gesture toward her. “Need anything?”

“You got more than this towel for me?” she asks.

Okay, I should’ve thought of that. “Sure.” Inside the bedroom I rifle through my pack. I have a few white dress shirts, beater tanks, dress slacks and cotton pants. I pull out a beater tank and a dress shirt. It’ll hang down to her thighs. Maybe later I can run outside and get her something from one of the shops along the beach. They’ll have at least a sundress.

“This is all I got.” I hand her the things, making sure I don’t look at her. When she takes them from me, her hand brushes mine, and that tentative accidental contact sends an electrical current down my spine. Stiffening, I quickly snatch my hand away, but this only causes her to seem offended. I barely withdraw my fingers fast enough to avoid getting a crush injury when she slams the door shut.

In the kitchen, I heat up some sauce while putting water to boil. I like to eat in if I can. You’re never more vulnerable than when you’re eating, shitting, and sleeping. Or been kept in sexual slavery for two months. I pause. No, Regan’s not vulnerable. That’s what makes her so attractive. In the months I’ve been searching for my sister, I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of girls and none of them has been able to walk out with pride and fire like Regan Porter. The thing that draws me to her isn’t just her looks, it’s her attitude. I admire her. She’s a rarity. And I decide then and there I’m going to do everything possible to make sure she’s returned safely to the bosom of her family because sometimes the good guys have to win one in order for there to be enough fight left in the white hats.

I’ve got the food plated and ready for her when she finally opens the door. Her long blonde hair is turbaned in a towel and the white shirt hangs open over the beater. I think I can see the shadow of more intimate places, and I force my gaze up to her face.

She looks speculatively at me, as if she’s a customer at the butcher’s shop, counting and weighing what kind of cut of meat I am. I’m the part you leave behind, honey. I’m old, chewy, and about as tasty as a leather shoe.

“Come eat.” I gesture to the table, shoving aside my gun parts. My primary weapon is a Ruger SR45 and it’s the one I cleaned first. I’ve got it lying on a chair next to the table. Easy to grab and shoot if necessary.

“Milk?” she asks, with raised eyebrows. “Are we five?”

“No. I’m twenty-seven, but I still need it.” I pull out a chair for her and she sits down. I wonder if she’s wearing underwear and curse mentally. Of course not; I didn’t give her any. “Do you need anything, ah, downstairs?”

“Like French bread?” she asks.