Never Say I Want You

by Pennza, Amy

  “You too,” Catalina called. She studied Juan out of the corner of her eye. His gaze followed Emily, but there was no heat in it. He was probably trying to figure out why she wasn’t interested in him. Women usually tripped over themselves to attract his attention, but the young lawyer seemed impervious to him as a man. She was a little unpolished for his usual tastes, but she had the look he preferred. Over the years, Catalina had seen him splashed across the society section of online magazines, a steady rotation of petite blondes on his arm.

  Not that she went looking for stories about him. It was just that her job demanded a certain amount of research on the privileged and elite. She and Juan didn’t move in the same circles, but there was an occasional overlap. If he was a blazing sun, she was more of a distant satellite orbiting on the edges of his universe.

  He looked at her. “I sent my staff home for the day. Except for Emily, we’re here alone.”

  She glanced at the door. “Don’t want your employees knowing your dirty little secret?”

  “I thought it would make you more comfortable.”

  Right. She couldn’t keep the derision from her voice. “Well, thank you for looking out for my comfort.”

  His eyes hardened. “Vamos,” he said, holding the door. Let’s go.

  There was no choice but to step through the door and see this meeting through. At least she had Emily as a chaperone, she thought as she swept past him and into an elegant reception area.

  A familiar reception area. Eight years ago, a stack of moving boxes had stood just inside the doors.

  She swallowed. “You didn’t change the paint.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back.

  He closed the door and turned. His hazel eyes held hers for a beat…then another. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  They stared at each other, their breaths the only sound in the deserted space.

  She hugged her arms around her waist. “What do you want, Juan? I’m here. What do you need to talk about?” Why are you doing this to me? To us? The thought echoed so loud in her head, she almost had to wonder if he could hear it.

  “Let’s talk in my office.”

  Her pulse spiked. “Juan—”

  “Emily is just there.” He pointed down a short hall, where a closed door showed a strip of light underneath.

  “Fine.” She flung her arms to her sides, turned, and headed toward his office. There was no need for him to show her the way. Even with the doorknob in place and the unfinished wood covered with a dark walnut stain, she’d know the door to his office anywhere.

  Someone had put his name on the outside, the gold letters identical to the ones on the main doors.

  She turned as he approached. Any other time, she might have said something like, “Is your name on the door in case you forget which one’s yours?” But provoking him could drag this out longer. If she kept her mouth shut, she could be soaking in her own tub with a glass or three of wine before noon.

  His expression was unreadable as he opened the door and motioned her inside. She entered and gazed around. Like the rest of the suite, his private space was elegant and understated—with more of a masculine feel than the common areas. The same dark-blue carpet stretched to a large desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the White House. Behind it, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves spanned the entire wall, their shelves lined with rows of red and black books embossed with gold letters on the spines.

  “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a pair of leather client chairs positioned at angles in front of the desk.

  She walked to one and sat while he unbuttoned his suit jacket and settled behind the desk. A closed laptop sat on one corner, a tissue box on the other.

  Did a lot of people cry in this office? Probably. The prospect of going to jail was enough to make anyone weep.

  “Now,” Juan said, drawing her attention. “You want to know why I brought you here.”

  “Yes.”

  His stare seized hers and held. Past and present met, swirled together. It would be so easy to think of the man across from her as the same man who called her “princess” and teased her about brushing against wet paint.

  So easy…and so very, very dangerous.

  She lifted her chin. “Pues?” Well?

  “We’re getting married.”

  3

  Juan couldn’t remember the last time he saw Catalina speechless.

  Actually, this might be a first.

  She stared at him across the desk, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of what looked like shock and disbelief.

  It didn’t last long.

  In a blink, the shock melted, and anger took its place. She planted her hands on the chair’s arms and leaned forward. A tumble of thick, dark waves slid over one bare shoulder.

  “If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not very funny.”

  He tore his gaze away from her hair. “It’s not a joke. We’re getting married.” He tapped his desk. “Today.”

  She stood, drawing herself up to her full height—five foot seven in bare feet, if memory served him correctly.

  “You know exactly how tall she is,” his conscience purred. He’d memorized every curve, every freckle, years ago.

  His gaze drifted down her legs, because he couldn’t fucking help it.

  In those wicked-looking stilettos stabbing little spikes into his carpet, she approached six feet—just two inches below his own height. In the courthouse, she’d looked him almost square in the eye.

  He could have reached out and grabbed her. Kissed her.

  She made a small noise. He jerked his gaze back to her face.

  Her mouth trembled, but her voice was steady. “I knew you were cruel. You’ve certainly proved it over the years. But this…” She swallowed, her throat working. “This is beyond even you.” She whirled and stalked away.

  He swore under his breath. If she got to the door, he’d have to fetch her back. That meant touching her, like he’d done in the courthouse.

  Estúpido. He could still feel her skin under his hands.

  He raised his voice. “When did you last see Rafe?”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. Even in profile, her confusion was plain. “Why?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  She turned all the way around and planted her hands on her hips.

  He caught his breath. Before this morning, he thought time might have dulled his memory—maybe muted some of the beauty that haunted him.

  Then she’d called his name, her voice as smoky and soft as it was in his dreams.

  When he looked up and saw her, he knew he’d been wrong, wrong, wrong to think five years would make even a little bit of difference.

  Only Catalina Maria Ortega Salvatierra could stand in a jail lobby in a cocktail dress and not look ridiculous.

  It wasn’t just the dress although that was certainly part of it. The material hugged her body like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. The strapless top exposed the provocative swells of her breasts and plunged low enough to hint at tight nipples pebbled underneath. The hemline hit just above her knee, but a long slit climbed halfway up her thigh, revealing tanned legs that seemed to go on forever. A gold zipper ran down the back, daring a man to try it. One zip and the whole thing would slide down that exquisite skin and puddle on the floor.

  The dress showcased her charms, but she could have turned heads wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of flip-flops. A few times in his life, Juan had come across women with some indefinable quality that immediately made men want to have them. Not just bed them, possess them. It was more than just beauty—it was a raw sensuality that conjured up powerful, pulsing need. History told it was dangerous. People had killed for it. Wars had been started over it. If the ancient stories could be believed, empires had even crumbled over it.

  Whatever it was, Catalina had it in spades. Thick, dark hair tumbled down her back in soft waves that reached almost to her waist. Her
features were delicate, with big blue eyes that gave her an angelic look at odds with a body so obviously made for sin. High cheekbones and pouting, full lips saved her from looking too innocent.

  No, Catalina was no innocent. She knew the power she possessed, and she used it. Against men. Against him. With the merest glance, she could leave him—

  Helpless.

  He clenched his jaw. He was goddamn helpless in any confrontation with her. He didn’t have to like it, but he’d be stupid to deny it.

  So for the past five years, he’d limited their contact to phone calls.

  A difficult thing, given her habit of ignoring him.

  But today? Well, the news he had for her today wasn’t well suited for the phone.

  She tossed her head, snapping his attention to her face.

  He’d been staring at her body—again.

  Mierda.

  “Why does it matter?” she asked, her arched brows pulling together.

  What? It took him a second to remember what the hell they were talking about.

  Rafe. The root of all evil in his life—and hers, even if she refused to see it.

  He settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers, forcing all expression from his face. They didn’t teach poker skills in law school, but they damn well should. “It’s a simple question, Catalina. When did you last see him?”

  If looks could kill, his corpse would be cooling on the floor. “You just told me we’re getting married,” she said. “Now you switch the subject to Rafe?”

  “Answer me.” He made his voice soft. “Keep in mind, a good lawyer never asks a question without knowing the answer.”

  “Six months.”

  “Lie.”

  Her mouth tightened. “I talked to him a couple months ago.”

  “Talked to him?”

  She was silent a moment. “I spent a few days in Maracaibo in April.”

  “Traveling in Venezuela is a little dangerous lately, don’t you think?”

  “Like that matters to Rafe.”

  True. His brother rarely concerned himself with politics—and the movers and shakers at all levels of government knew to steer a wide path around Rafael Salvatierra. Some people were too rich and powerful to cross. Rafe was one of them.

  Catalina shot him another deadly glare. “If you’re done proving how great you are at cross-examination, I’d like to know what the hell Rafe has to do with your little announcement.”

  He pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

  Because if you keep standing like that, I’m going to lose this argument, and maybe my mind.

  She bristled. “I’m not a dog.”

  “Please, sit.”

  She held his gaze for a long minute, then walked to the chair and plopped in it. “Pendejo,” she muttered.

  “Careful, sweet,” he said, pulling two files from his top desk drawer. He placed them on the surface and met her gaze. “Unlike most of the men you spend time with, I actually know when you call me an asshole.”

  “Just get to the point,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He slid one of the files across the desk. “Father had a will.”

  She frowned. “I know. I saw it.”

  “Not that one.” He motioned for her to open the file. “This is new, something he executed in the States.”

  “Here? In Texas?” Curiosity and anger warred for dominance in her expression. The former emotion was understandable, given how often Arturo Salvatierra had sworn he would never set foot in the United States. He’d had a particularly deep-seated hatred for its various law enforcement agencies.

  Juan nodded.

  Eventually, Catalina’s curiosity won—as he’d known it would. She picked up the file and opened it, her frown deepening as she scanned the contents. “I don’t understand…” Her gaze moved down the page. Then froze. She looked up, shock glazing her eyes. “Your father—”

  “Named you as his sole heir. You just inherited one of the largest drug trafficking operations in South America.”

  “What…” Some of the tension left her face. She waved the paper around a bit. “It’s a fake.”

  “I assure you, it’s legitimate.” Although he had the same reaction the first time he saw it. He’d had a team of international lawyers working on it for months. Most days, he still couldn’t wrap his head around what his father had done. “He signed it six months before he died.”

  And everything had checked out. The top-notch law firm Arturo used was known for its exclusive client list as well as its discretion. The lawyers who witnessed the will had been more than happy to discuss Arturo’s mental state when he signed the document—quashing any question of duress or senility—but they refused to speculate about his reasons for the change.

  Or, if they knew the reasons, they weren’t saying.

  Catalina lowered the will to her lap, her gaze drifting down the short but direct paragraphs. After a moment, she lifted her head. “Why would he do this? There has to be some mistake.”

  Juan wasn’t so sure about that. He’d examined his father’s actions from every angle, and there was only one conclusion that made sense. “He did it for my mother.”

  Catalina frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “She left Venezuela because he wouldn’t give up his business. He chose wealth and power over her, and it cost him his marriage.” Juan sat back in his chair. “I believe he visited her before he died, and he drafted this will while he was here.”

  It was the only explanation that made sense. His parents’ love story was the stuff of Hallmark movies—or at least it had been. The setup couldn’t have been more perfect, with his mother as the young American college student studying Spanish literature in Caracas, and his father as the wealthy, handsome Latin lover who swept her off her feet and whisked her away to a mansion in the jungle.

  Except in the movies, the new bride doesn’t find out her husband is a drug cartel capo, and the mansion isn’t surrounded by guards with semiautomatic weapons draped over their shoulders.

  Catalina seemed to think it over. “Did your mother know about this?”

  “She never mentioned it. She never said anything about him visiting either.”

  “Then how do you know this is real? You father hated America. He always said he’d rather set his money on fire than see one dollar cross the border.”

  Yes, that sounded like something Arturo would say. But Catalina’s assessment was a little off.

  “He hated the American government,” Juan said. He gave her a tight smile. “Probably because it spent so much time trying to ruin his business and put him in prison. But none of that mattered once he knew he was dying. By leaving everything to you, he could shut down operations and move all his assets to the States, just like my mother asked him to before they divorced.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Catalina said. “He could have done the same thing by naming you and Smith as his heirs.”

  Juan inclined his head. “He could have. But he knew Rafe wouldn’t hesitate to strike against either one of us.”

  “His own brothers?” Catalina looked indignant. She shook her head. “Rafe would never do that.”

  Irritation arced through him. “As I’ve told you before, you have no idea what Rafe would or would not do.”

  “He wouldn’t murder his own family.”

  The irritation sparked to anger. This was an old argument between them—and one he’d given up trying to win. But his father’s will changed everything. Now, he couldn’t afford to shrug his shoulders and allow Catalina to believe what she pleased. Lives depended on making her see the truth. Her life could depend on it.

  He held her gaze. “You have a rosy view of the Salvatierra men, Catalina, and I don’t know why. My father was a lifelong criminal. He ordered executions the way other people order food off a menu. Rafe had no problem following in his footsteps. Do you really think his hands are clean?”

  Catalina went straight to her usual defense. “He can’t
help who his father was—not any more than you can.”

  “Rafe has been a killer since he was fifteen years old.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she snapped.

  A growl rose in his chest. He stuffed it down. Change the approach. When an argument wasn’t working, sticking with it was like trying to take down a brick wall with a hammer. It might succeed eventually, but it would make a big freaking mess in the process.

  He pointed to the will. “That document transfers eight hundred million dollars from Rafe to you with the stroke of a pen. How do you think he’s going to react?”

  Catalina’s gaze widened. She looked at the will like it might bite her. “Eight hundred…” She swallowed.

  “Million.” It was sinking in. Good. He leaned forward, drawing her gaze. “What do you think Rafe will do when he finds out, Catalina?”

  She hesitated. “If it was your father’s last wish—”

  “Dismantling the empire he spent a lifetime building?”

  “But if it’s what he wanted—”

  “Stripping Rafe of his inheritance?”

  “Stop interrupting me!” The last of her shock gave way to obvious anger. “You asked what I think. If your father truly did this for your mother, then Rafe will see it for what it was—a final, romantic gesture.”

  Juan couldn’t control his bark of laughter. “In my father’s mind, perhaps. He certainly didn’t mind making my mother flee to America with three young children, leaving her oldest son behind.”

  “Rafe stayed because he wanted to. And she didn’t have to leave.”

  His own anger boiled up. “You were five years old when she brought us to Texas, Catalina. You have no idea what my mother went through to keep us safe.”

  “We were safe on the compound—”

  “Like your father was?”

  Her eyes flashed. “That was different. He put himself in danger. That’s what bodyguards do.”

  “We lived on a drug lord’s compound in the middle of the jungle. All of us were in danger. You’re in danger every time you go there.”

  She stood and gave him a scathing look. “It’s none of your business what I do or where I go.” Her tone made it clear she was talking about a great deal more than her trips to Venezuela.