by Pennza, Amy
“It will be.” He pushed back from his desk and rose, bracing his fingertips on the desk’s surface. “When you’re my wife.”
Comprehension dawned in her gaze, swiftly followed by derision. She stuffed the will in the file and flung it on his desk. “So that’s your plan? Your father left me his money. Now you want to marry me and get half of it?”
“I don’t want any of it. But I’m not letting you hand even a penny of it over to Rafe.”
She shot him a scathing look. “You’re forgetting an important point here, Juan. You can’t force me to marry you.”
“I can,” he said
She must have heard the confidence in his voice, because the slightest glimmer of apprehension appeared in her eyes. She licked her lips. “People can’t force other people to marry them. Not in the twenty-first century.”
He pointed to the other folder on his desk. “Open it.”
She looked at it, and the apprehension grew. “Why?”
“Open it, Catalina.”
She neared the desk, almost as if she was pulled against her will. “What’s in it?”
He didn’t answer. She’d figure it out soon enough.
The look she gave him was part fear, part malice. She flipped the file open, revealing a single sheet of paper inside. A list of names ran down the length, along with a dollar figure and a series of dates.
“It’s the name of every man you’ve been with over the past two years,” he said, keeping his gaze on her. “I know how much they paid…how often you met…where you met.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “So? You think I don’t know you have me watched?” Her smile was bitter. “How many times have you gotten me fired from a job? I’ve lost count.”
“It depends on how you define job,” he said quietly. “I hardly think taking your clothes off in a bar counts.”
Anger burned in her eyes. If he had to guess her thoughts, he’d say she was considering the best way to tear his heart out.
Too late. She’d done that a long time ago.
She stepped back from the desk. “You have a piece of paper with names on it. I fail to see how that gives you any leverage over me.”
He pulled another file from his drawer. It was thicker than the others, with a rubber band around the middle. He lifted it up, then let it smack against the desk. “I have a lot more than names. There are receipts. Photos.” His chest tightened. There were a lot of photos. After his investigator delivered the first batch, he started filing them away without looking.
She made no move to touch it. She probably knew she didn’t need to. He’d never given her any reason to doubt his threats, probably because he never made a threat he wasn’t prepared to act on.
Emotion swirled between them—a volatile mix of betrayal, anger, and bitterness. The air seemed to grow thicker, like ozone gathering before a storm.
“I have enough information to ruin every man on that list,” he said. “I have the connections to make their businesses disappear, which I imagine will make your business disappear.”
She held his stare. The silence stretched between them, becoming a sort of weight.
At last she spoke, her voice low and flat. “Keep the money—all of it. I don’t want it.”
Maybe he should have been surprised. But his profession had taught him to anticipate every possibility, so he was prepared for her response. He shook his head. “I already told you I’m not interested in it. And even if I were, I’m afraid that won’t work.”
“Why not? If the money goes to me, I can do whatever I want with it.” She looked at his desk. “Give me a pen. I’ll sign it over to you now.”
“I don’t care about the money, Catalina.”
“Then why are you doing this? Maybe you can enlighten me.” Her tone made it clear she was just about done with him.
He sat. Even if she went for the door again, she had nowhere to go. He’d set his trap too well.
She folded her arms. Anger emanated off her in waves. The fluttering pulse in her neck was the only thing that gave her away.
She’s nervous.
It worked to his advantage—and he never backed away from an advantage, even if it meant doing something he found unpalatable.
In this case, unpalatable was also necessary.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he said. “You and I are going back to the courthouse, where there’s a magistrate waiting to marry us.”
“I won’t—”
“I’m not proposing a real marriage, Catalina,” he said, raising his voice over her objection. “Just a business arrangement. I don’t expect you to fulfill any bedroom duties.”
She gasped, and outrage leaped into her eyes.
“In all other respects, however, you’ll be a model wife. You’ll abandon the life you lead now. No in calls. No out calls.”
Surprise flashed across her face, and a faint aftershock of the same emotion rippled through him. Did she really think he was ignorant of the terminology behind her trade? He’d spent the past eight years watching her sell her body to wealthy, powerful men. How often had he gotten a phone call in the middle of the night, letting him know Catalina was at a hotel…or a penthouse…or a private retreat owned by one of San Antonio’s playboys?
Too often.
“It ends today,” he said, speaking the thought that had echoed through his mind a thousand times. “In exchange, I’ll pay your expenses and see to all of your needs. I’ll hold your inheritance in trust, where it will remain until I’m confident Rafe can no longer sustain his operations in Venezuela.” He made his next sentence precise, biting out each word so there could be no confusion about his meaning. “During this time, you’re to have no contact with him whatsoever.”
For the second time since they entered the office, she seemed too stunned to speak.
“No phone calls,” he said. “No texts. No emails. He won’t have access to you or your money.”
She released a slow breath. “You’re doing this to take him down. You want to destroy his business.”
“When he finds out you’ve inherited everything, he’ll move heaven and earth to get to you.”
“Rafe won’t hurt me.”
“Maybe not.” He was willing to give her that much, even if he couldn’t really believe it himself. “But he can be very persuasive. I don’t trust him.”
“And you don’t trust me,” she said, challenge in her voice.
He let his stare bore into hers. “Have you given me a reason to, Catalina?”
To her credit, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she held his gaze. For a moment, the anger in her eyes faded, replaced with some nameless emotion he couldn’t identify. It was almost…vulnerable. “Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked softly. “For revenge?”
Dios, she was beautiful. More beautiful than ever. The past rushed in, pressing against the barriers he’d erected around his heart. If he let them, memories could sweep right over his defenses, crumbling his resolve. The subtle, nameless emotion flashed in her eyes again, like sunlight on a moving stream.
Why do you do it? The question shot through his mind, as it had countless times before. As they stared at each other, he was transported back to another time, another place, when he spoke the words instead of just thinking them.
She’d sat in the front seat of his car, wearing a dark-red evening gown that matched her nails. Diamonds circled her throat—an expensive collar that belonged to a wealthy man who enjoyed keeping beautiful women on a leash. Soft violin music, occasionally punctuated by laughter or the faint sound of cutlery on china, drifted through the window. The gentle glow of hundreds of string lights illuminated the grounds of a sprawling estate, where garden party guests milled under white tents staffed by servants in powdered wigs and eighteenth-century livery.
“Why do you do it?” he asked, unable to keep the confusion and frustration from his voice. “Last year it was stripping. Now this?”
Her eyes challenged him. “What’s
this, Juan? What is it I’m doing? Going out with a man you disapprove of?”
Anger surged up, sharp and hot. How stupid did she think he was? Or maybe she just wanted to make him say it. He looked her straight in the eye, meeting her challenge head-on. “You’re not ‘going out.’ He’s paying you to sleep with him.”
“Oh, really?” She touched a hand to her chest, just above the gown’s plunging neckline. “And you know this how?”
He kept his voice steady. “I have resources.”
“Using taxpayer money to stalk me, counselor?” Her tone was far too cynical for a twenty-year-old. Something like shock rippled through him. He didn’t know this Catalina. It was like a changeling had seized her, smothering her fire and replacing it with something cold and dark.
She tilted her head, making the diamond pins holding her updo in place wink in the light. “Don’t you think the voters would frown on that sort of thing?”
“I’m not district attorney anymore. You’d know that if you bothered to—” He jerked his gaze away, staring unseeing at the decadent party on the lawn.
She was silent a moment. Then she touched his arm, her fingers light on his sleeve. “You need to let this go, Juan,” she said, the bite gone from her voice. For a moment, the beautiful, brittle mask slipped, and the old Catalina peeked out. “You need to let me go.”
He looked at her hand—her left hand, where a diamond used to be. “I can’t.”
She snatched her hand away, and the mask snapped back into place. “Well, try.”
“Just tell me why.” God, he sounded pathetic. If he heard another man plead with a woman like this, he’d tell him to take no for an answer and walk away.
But he couldn’t walk away from Catalina. He didn’t care if he sounded weak. If he had to plead, beg, promise, steal. Somewhere, underneath her icy facade, were the answers to why she ran away…and into the arms of other men. Over and over again. Killing him by inches.
“Why, Catalina. You owe me that much. You left school, and I couldn’t find you. Then you went to Rafe, of all people. Now you’re home and—”
“Selling myself?” Her blue eyes appeared almost black in the dim light. Or maybe that was the inexplicable anger that seemed to burn behind her gaze. “Spreading my legs for money?” She leaned forward, her lips almost as red as her dress. “Tell me, Juan. What bothers you more, that I fuck other men or that I refuse to fuck you?”
He sucked in a breath. She was close enough to touch, to kiss…
He turned and punched the steering wheel. Pain shot through his knuckles and fired up his hand to his elbow.
No matter. Nothing could hurt worse than having his heart ripped out.
She’d jumped at his burst of violence. Now she watched him, the glow of the garden party’s lights reflected in her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell in a steady rhythm, lifting the diamonds at her throat. Up and down, up and down.
He laughed—an ugly sound that made her brows pull together. “Oh, you’ve fucked me, Catalina,” he said, letting his gaze wander over her face. “You’ve fucked me,” he repeated in Spanish.
A heartbeat passed…two.
Slowly, she leaned forward again.
He held his breath.
She brought her face close to his, until their lips were inches apart. Her gaze dipped to his mouth. “This will be the last time,” she said, then placed a slender hand against his jaw and kissed him.
The world fell away. He plunged his tongue inside her mouth, drowning in her, tasting champagne and sugar. Heat shot from his mouth to his groin, and he groaned into her mouth.
She whimpered, biting at his lips.
He lifted his hand and slid it into her hair, bumping against the jeweled pins. Dimly, he remembered it was his injured hand, and that he should feel pain. Hell, maybe he did.
It just didn’t fucking matter.
He deepened the kiss, sucking at her tongue, running his over her teeth. Her scent enveloped him—a familiar mix of flowers, perfume, and some subtle essence that was hers alone.
Catalina, Catalina. Catalina mía. The words unfurled in his brain, filling his thoughts until he couldn’t think of anything but her.
Just as he leaned in, ready to pull her over the center console and onto his lap, she broke off the kiss and jerked away, her chest heaving.
He reached for her.
“No.” She shook her head.
What? Desire muddled his thoughts. “Catalina…”
She licked her lips, which were swollen from his kiss. “I said it was the last time.” She reached behind her back and popped the door.
Light flooded the car.
“Goodbye, Juan.”
Before he could stop her, she slipped from the car, one hand clutching the long skirt of her gown as she hurried across the grass.
“Juan?”
Catalina’s voice jerked him back to the present. She frowned, a question in her gaze. Her dress was black instead of red, and there were no diamonds at her neck, but everything else was the same. Hard, angry stare. Body designed to drive him crazy.
A body she’d once wrapped around his…
Her eyes darkened, and he realized she was waiting for him to speak.
“What.” It came out more clipped than he intended. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
Her frown deepened.
Ah, she noticed.
Where her expression was soft and vulnerable before, now it turned harsh. Angry. “I asked if you’re doing this for revenge.”
He dropped his gaze to the desk. The thick packet of photos lay in the center, the rubber band straining to hold everything together. The past receded. The present reared up like a giant fist ready to punch him in the face—a harsh reminder that now couldn’t be more different than before.
The past was dead. Now was all they had. He couldn’t afford to forget that.
He sat back in his chair, his posture easy and relaxed. “I’m doing this because it’s time. I’ve fought my father’s legacy since I was twelve years old.” He didn’t have to tell her that. She knew better than anyone. But he didn’t want any confusion about his motives—or his determination to see his plan through. “Whether he intended to or not, Arturo gave me the means to make this family legitimate. It’s simple with Rafe—cut off his finances, and the whole enterprise fails. With you, it’s a little more delicate, considering you have so very many sources of funding.” He glanced at the list of names on his desk. “So I’m cutting off your finances, too, mi amor. Just in a different way.”
Any lingering softness fled her expression, the tension hurtling back in full force. She stared at him, and he could almost see her considering strategies and discarding them.
She knew she was caught, though. Of that, he was certain. It was there in the tight set of her shoulders and the thrumming pulse beating a furious rhythm in her neck.
At last, she said, “I’ll get a job. One you approve of.”
He shook his head. “I’ve given you plenty of chances to do so. We’re past that now.”
The tension in the air ratcheted up a notch. “People don’t have arranged marriages anymore, Juan. You can’t do this.”
“I believe I can,” he said. He nodded toward the list. “Unless you’re comfortable seeing every man on that piece of paper go to jail.”
A beat passed, then she snatched the list from the desk, her eyes angry as she read it over again.
He waited, a familiar calm descending over him. It was the same deep satisfaction he got in the courtroom, when he knew a win was certain. He’d boxed her in at every turn, leaving her nowhere to go but exactly where he wanted her.
Finally, she lowered the list to her side, her hand clenched around the paper. “How long?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “One year.”
She gasped, her lips parted in shock. “What?”
“They say it takes about twenty days to break a habit.” He rested his head against his chair, studying her. “One way or a
nother, Catalina, you will change your behavior.”
Pink stained her cheeks, but he’d wager it had little to do with his reference to her profession.
No, she was furious and holding her temper in check.
“I’m confused,” she said, her tone hard. “Is this about me or Rafe?”
“It’s about both of you.” He tilted his head. “Dos pájaros de un solo tiro… How do they say it in English?”
She put her hands on her hips, clearly annoyed at his pretense of needing a translation. “Kill two birds with one stone,” she grated.
“That’s right.”
“And you don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”
“Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, your actions hurt other people.”
Her glare could have frozen a bonfire. “Hurt your career, you mean.” She tossed a look around the office. “You care about your name, Juan. And you have no problem crushing anyone who might tarnish even the slightest bit of shine on it.”
“How convenient, then, that our arrangement will ensure you do nothing to tarnish it.”
Some of the fire left her eyes—the first sign of capitulation, even though she’d never admit it. “What does Smith say about this?” she asked.
“You can ask him yourself in about thirty minutes. He and Ashley are meeting us here.” His brother’s voice had held plenty of questions when Juan talked to him on the phone last night, but Smith was a cop. He was accustomed to messy and complicated. As for his wife? Juan hadn’t spent much time around Ashley, but he liked her. And from what Smith had told him about her past, she could handle a little family drama.
Catalina swore softly. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you.” She made it a statement.
“Absolutamente.”
He saw the moment she realized she wasn’t getting out of this. The anger was still there. Oh yes. But it shifted from the hot, wild burn of a gasoline fire to something more constructive.
Something more dangerous.
Cunning.
Against his will, pleasure curled low in his belly. It was the part of him that reveled in a challenge. It had served him well as a prosecutor. Later, it helped make him one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in the South.
