Never Say I Want You

by Pennza, Amy

  Finally, Juan looked at her. “He said it would be fun to watch me fail, but then he followed it by saying he’ll do what he has to do.”

  If Juan expected her to explain that, he was out of luck. She shook her head. “Rafe talks in circles, Juan. But I flat out told him I didn’t want you hurt, and he promised not to kill you.”

  Juan flashed a tight, humorless smile. “There’s a lot of space between killing and doing nothing. I won’t go into all the things that fit into that space.”

  Her heart fluttered. “You mean torture?” She left Casa Grande at five years old, and she’d only known Arturo as an aging man in failing health. But stories drifted in from the jungle. In his younger years, Arturo had a reputation for being…persuasive with his enemies.

  Juan’s face was grim. “Eight hundred million dollars is a lot of money, Catalina.” He shoved a hand through his hair and held it on the back of his neck. “You should have told me about the phone call.”

  She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “And have you accuse me of conspiring with Rafe?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” There was still anger in his voice, but now it was layered with a sort of resignation. He dropped his hand. “I can’t say for certain how I would have reacted, but there’s no question I would have canceled tonight. Rafe knew we married. He knew you were in the apartment within twenty minutes of us arriving. I don’t know how he got to Lopez, but he was watching closely enough to know we’d be on the island tonight.”

  And now we’re stranded. He didn’t have to say it. They were sitting ducks.

  A horrible thought occurred to her. “You don’t think Lopez left a bomb on the yacht, do you?”

  Juan gave his head a definitive shake. “Blowing us up would be counterproductive. If we both die, the money just goes to Smith.”

  She let her shoulders slump. “Well. I guess that’s good news.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “The only good news we’re likely to get, I’m afraid.”

  “I…” Damn, this was hard. “I should have told you I talked to Rafe. I’m sorry.”

  Surprise flickered in his gaze. He coughed into his fist. “I, uh…well, I haven’t given you much reason to trust me.”

  That was certainly true.

  The engine room was silent, except for the distant sound of waves lapping against the yacht.

  Juan’s gaze dropped to her hands, and she realized she was twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger. She stopped.

  There was probably something Freudian about that, but she wasn’t going to examine it too closely.

  Distraction. She needed a distraction. A safe, neutral subject.

  “Well,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  Shit. If he interpreted that the wrong way…

  “We should find a bed.”

  Her stomach did a flip, and she reached back and gripped the rail bar.

  Juan walked to the foot of the stairs and peered up, apparently oblivious to the double entendre festival happening in her head. “This place probably has at least three bedrooms,” he said. He looked over. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

  “Yes.” She must have said it too quickly because concern shaded his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” He started toward her, his hand outstretched.

  “I’m fine.” She waved him off. “Just worried about Rafe showing up, I guess.”

  For a second, it seemed like Juan might touch her. Then he looked down at his hand and dropped it back to his side. Moonlight poured down the stairs, puddling at his feet.

  “Rafe won’t harm you, Catalina,” he said, his gaze steady. “Whatever happens, I’m confident of that.”

  But he might harm you.

  The words rose in her mind, the thought so powerful she lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see it there.

  Juan waited, as if he expected her to reply. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat.

  “Come on. We both need rest.”

  14

  For a luxury yacht, the bed left much to be desired.

  Catalina rolled to her side and peered at the clock on the bedside table.

  Two in the morning.

  She’d been trying to sleep for almost two hours. After she and Juan left the engine room, they made a quick exploration of the yacht. There was a full kitchen, a living room, and three bedrooms with en suite baths. The master even boasted a small fitness area and a full office.

  No internet access, though. Lopez had seen to that.

  The floor creaked.

  Catalina bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. She strained, waiting for a repeat.

  Should have left the bathroom light on. Or at least raised the blinds on the window. The clock face provided a little illumination, but its glow only extended a foot or so past the nightstand. The rest of the room was a fuzzy gray.

  After a few seconds of silence, she slumped against the headboard. Juan was right—she needed rest. But how could she sleep when Rafe might show up at any moment? And it wasn’t going to be for a friendly chat, either. If he’d wanted that, he would have picked up the phone and called Juan.

  Instead, he made sure Lopez left them miles from land, with two busted engines and no radio contact.

  Her stomach lurched. Rafe had always been like an older brother to her, but money could make people do terrible things. And as much as Juan accused her of turning a blind eye to Rafe’s business, she wasn’t naive. The compound in Maracaibo was patrolled by halcones toting assault rifles. Casa Grande was surrounded by lush foliage and trees dripping with flowers, but the mansion’s grounds also housed facilities where small teams of sicarios trained to serve the family’s interests.

  She didn’t harbor any illusions about what that training entailed. If Rafe dispatched one of those teams here…

  She tossed the covers back and stood, grabbing the cotton robe she’d left at the foot of the bed. For a widower, Lopez had a surprisingly large amount of women’s clothing on board—mostly beachwear and sundresses, although Catalina had found a whole drawer filled with nightgowns and a few lace teddies.

  Apparently, Lopez wasn’t in mourning any longer.

  She fumbled with the robe’s ties, but trembling made her fingers useless. After a second, she cursed and gave up. Arms outstretched, she moved toward the bathroom, patting around the edge of the bed so she wouldn’t trip in the dark.

  Her toe struck something solid, and agony shot through her foot and up her calf.

  “Shit!” She dropped to the floor, her hand cupped over her big toe.

  A narrow bar of light appeared under the bedroom door, and Juan’s muffled voice called, “Catalina?”

  Double shit. She forced cheer into her tone. “I’m fine!”

  He was silent a moment. “You cried out. Are you sick?”

  She rolled her eyes. Clearly, he wasn’t going away. She got up and limped to the door, cinching the robe as she went.

  “Catalina?”

  She cracked the door, revealing a frowning Juan. “I’m fine,” she said. “I just stubbed my toe.”

  He glanced down. “Is it all right?”

  She followed his gaze. “Yes…” She wiggled her toes, then met his eyes. “It feels like it should be bleeding, but it seems okay.”

  He grinned. “It’s always that way with a stubbed toe.”

  She forgot to breathe for a second. Her brain was too busy processing that grin to pay much attention to her body’s need for oxygen.

  How long had it been since he smiled at her that way?

  She jerked her gaze away from his face…and then she was staring at his chest.

  Mistake.

  He’d traded his tux for a gray T-shirt and loose pajama pants, and he’d come out no worse for wear. If anything, the casual clothes emphasized his broad shoulders and muscular build. Her gaze traveled south.

  Oh dear, he was barefoot.

  He cleared his throat.

>   Crap. He’d caught her staring. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she blurted the first thing that popped into her head.

  “What are you doing up?” As soon as she said it, she could have groaned. He’d obviously heard her cry out. Why else would he be awake at this hour?

  But he ran a hand over his face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She looked over his shoulder, where an open door showed a rumpled bed similar to her own. As comfortable and spacious as the yacht was, it was basically a floating prison.

  Not exactly the most relaxing environment for sleep.

  “Me neither,” she said.

  “Because of Rafe.”

  She opened the door enough to lean on the jamb. There was no point denying the obvious. “I don’t like to think he’s capable of hurting a family member. But it’s hard to pretend he’s not behind this.” She braced herself for Juan to seize that and say “I told you so.”

  Instead, he regarded her for a moment, as if trying to arrive at some kind of decision. Then he stepped back, an invitation in his eyes. “There’s an impressive-looking liquor cabinet in the dining room.”

  He wanted to drink with her? There was a certain intimacy to sharing alcohol with someone. Although the alternative was retreating to their separate bedrooms, where they would both lie awake, with full knowledge the other was doing the same.

  And it was a hell of a long time until morning.

  She straightened and pulled the door open all the way. In as neutral a voice as she could muster, she said, “Why not? I’m not sleeping anyway.”

  He tilted his head toward the end of the hall. “Down here.”

  She kept her gaze firmly off his ass as he led the way to the main part of the yacht. That meant looking at his shoulders and the way his muscles rippled and shifted under the T-shirt. His hair was tousled, the way it might look if a woman just ran her hands through it.

  Stop it. She pulled the lapels of her robe closer together.

  Come to think of it, she probably should have put on a bra before agreeing to this.

  Except now they were in the dining room—a casual space that was really just an extension of the nearby kitchen. Juan waved her to a seat at the table, then headed for the bar and the rows of glass shelves behind it.

  “Seating for twelve,” she murmured as she settled in one of the chairs. “Lopez must do a lot of entertaining.”

  “A lot of schmoozing,” Juan said, grabbing a bottle and two shot glasses. He put the bottle on the table, then filled the glasses with ice and brought them over, setting one in front of her before taking his seat. “But that’s Texas politics.”

  “I think that’s just politics.”

  A small, cynical smile touched his mouth. “True.”

  She tipped her head back, her gaze on the ceiling.

  Juan frowned. “What is it?”

  “Oh.” She lowered her gaze. “Just checking to see if the sky was falling.”

  His frown deepened.

  “We agreed on something,” she said.

  He gave her a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation. “We’ve agreed on other things, Catalina.” He opened the bottle and leaned over, filling her glass. Ice snapped and cracked as the liquid hit it.

  She tore her eyes off the curve of his bicep, and her gaze landed on the bottle. “Vodka?”

  He shrugged. “It’s Beluga Epicure.”

  That sounded about right. The yacht must have cost millions. Lopez could definitely spring for a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of booze. She sipped her drink, then lifted her glass in a mock toast. “Your tastes are more expensive than they used to be.”

  He met her gaze, a world of memory in his hazel eyes.

  Her heart stuttered, and she lowered the glass. Why had she brought that up? Because he was obviously thinking of the first time their relationship transitioned from playful flirting to something infinitely deeper and more serious. The past rose all around her, whispering of her life with Juan in a different time and place.

  She’d been angry at him—something that probably should have warned her how things would go between them.

  “First you miss my birthday, and now this?” She’d followed him from the kitchen to the small mud room off the garage, staring him down while he pulled on his shoes. Even at twenty-five, an aura of authority had hung around him like a cloak. Of course the county’s residents had chosen him as their district attorney. Anyone looking at him would feel confident about his abilities as a prosecutor.

  He’d straightened, a bottle of alcohol tucked under one arm, an indulgent smile in his eyes. “Give it a rest, Catalina. I said I’d take you out tomorrow.”

  “My birthday was two days ago. You only turn eighteen once!”

  He laughed and chucked her under the chin. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  She rubbed the spot he touched, as if she could stop the tingling his fingers raised. It was always that way when he touched her—or at least it had been for the past few years. His gaze went to her chin, and she dropped her hand. To cover her confusion, she tossed her head and put her hands on her hips. “You can make it up to me right now.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  She nodded toward the bottle. “Take me with you, and I won’t tell your mom you stole from the liquor cabinet.”

  He raised his eyebrows, humor making his eyes more green than blue. He slipped the bottle from underneath his arm and gave it a little shake. “This is the cheapest vodka on the market. I don’t think she’ll mind.”

  Damn. She switched from threats to bargaining. “I won’t talk. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  He shook his head, genuine regret in his voice. “I can’t take you, sweetheart. You’re not old enough to drink.”

  Outrage vibrated through her. “Back home, I am.”

  He gave her another soft smile. “We’re not in Venezuela, mi amor.”

  “The drinking age is also eighteen in Mexico.”

  “We’re not in Mexico, either.”

  She almost stomped her foot, but some instinct told her that would only make her look more childish. And it was suddenly important that she not look that way to Juan. So she settled for heaving a sigh and muttering, “The laws here are stupid.”

  He touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Ah, Catalina. Go easy on the Americans. Don’t forget, you have two brothers in law enforcement.”

  His fingers on her cheek sent another strange tingling running along her skin, lifting the fine hairs on her arms. Juan was her brother, just like Smith. Just like Rafe back home in Maracaibo. So why did things feel so different with him?

  “Because he’s not your brother.” The voice in her head was quiet but insistent.

  “What is it, bonita?” His smile faded, and he moved closer, concern in his eyes.

  Words stuck in her throat. She stared at him…

  Helpless. That’s how he made her feel. That was the difference.

  The concern flared brighter. He set the bottle down and stepped into her, putting one hand on her hip and another under her chin. “Catalina? What’s wrong, baby?”

  Her skin burned under his hands, and her stomach did funny little flips. She wanted to grab him and pull him close. Press her body against his hard strength. Finally, she managed to speak. “You…” She licked her lips. “You’re not my brother.”

  Heat blasted her cheeks, and she waited for the floor to open and swallow her. Or maybe Juan would recoil and mumble something about not wanting to be late for his gathering. The easy, gentle banter between them would dry up. From now on, things would be strained and awkward.

  But the ground under her feet stayed solid, and Juan didn’t drop his hands or rush out the door.

  His stare grew intense. Before she even realized what was happening, he slid his thumb across her lower lip, stroking the soft skin there.

  “You’re right,” he murmured. “I’m not your brother.”

  She caught her breath. The look in his eyes was anythi
ng but fraternal. He applied the slightest pressure to her mouth, parting her lips so her breath fanned over his hand.

  On impulse, she touched the tip of her tongue to his thumb.

  He groaned, like he just lost a critical battle in a war. “Madre di Dios,” he whispered, followed by a string of Spanish that sounded ripped from the depths of his soul. As the last phrase left his lips, he pulled her against him and seized her mouth.

  Shock held her immobile for a second—but only a second. As if they had a life of their own, her arms twined around his neck, thrusting her breasts against his chest.

  Another groan escaped him, the vibration rippling from his mouth to hers. He plunged deeper inside, his tongue hot and aggressive. Then he broke off their kiss and ran his lips down the side of her neck to the hollow between her ear and her shoulder.

  “God, Catalina,” he gasped against her skin. “God…” His hand squeezed her hip, kneading the skin like he couldn’t get enough of her.

  Shivers coursed up and down her arms, her chest. Heat pooled low in her belly, and her breasts ached. His lips against her neck made her want to tip her head back, giving him more access. In the back of her mind, an alarm went off. They were in the middle of the mud room! What if someone saw? She rested her forehead against his shoulder, her breath sawing in and out of her chest like she just finished a sprint. “Juan…”

  He lifted his head. After a second, he dropped his hands and stepped away. Anguish crashed over his features. “Catalina—”

  “Don’t.” She took his face between her hands, some powerful, ancient wisdom coursing through her veins. Age didn’t matter. Complicated family dynamics didn’t matter. Something buzzed in her brain—a knowledge that this man was hers. Had always been hers.

  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” she whispered, her tone fierce.

  Some of the intensity returned to his gaze. “I’m not.”

  “Good. Neither am I.”

  He put his hands over hers, then lowered them to his chest, where his heart pounded. “This could get complicated,” he said.

  She put her palms flat over his pecs. “Are you going to let that stop you?”