Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  In retrospect, I should have known Ulrich would be sticking around in Ibiza from the way his eyes lingered over the group of young women on the beach earlier. It seems he managed to snag a few of them to extend the after-work “happy hour.”

  Any excuse to avoid going home.

  It’s something we have in common.

  “I found a reason to stay,” he says with a grin, looking at his two companions. “Actually, two reasons.”

  They laugh appreciatively.

  I’m still recovering from the edge that “Diabla” had my body teetering on the edge of. At least my dick has received the urgent message and obeyed my mental orders to stand down.

  The way Ulrich’s eyes wander over her as she stands next to me does nothing to calm down my sensibilities. I’m used to him playing the shameless flirt, but something about him doing it with this woman, in particular, has me irritated.

  He’s in full smirk-mode when his taunting gaze comes back to me. “I’ve just been informed by these two lovely ladies from America that there is a particularly fun party happening tonight. You two should join us. Apparently, it’s set to be a wild time.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  The last thing I need is another “wild” time with la Diabla.

  “We’re actually going to call it a night. I’m off to Barcelona first thing in the morning, so we need our rest.”

  “Such a shame,” he says, still looking at her—a little too closely for my tastes. His eyes come back to me, and he grins. “I hope you won’t be getting too much rest.”

  An almost imperceptible sound comes from the woman next to me, obviously taking issue with that suggestion.

  “I should introduce myself,” he says, unwrapping an arm from around one of the women next to him to reach out to her. “I’m Wolfgang, hence the slight accent you hear.”

  I’m always Ricardo, and he’s always Wolfgang. It isn’t just to maintain a purely casual degree of separation with any flings we happen upon, it’s to avoid any connections between our home lives and our chosen profession, such as it is.

  Diabla takes the hand he offers but maintains her strict code of silence. For once, I find it gratifying.

  Ulrich turns to me, his brow slightly wrinkled in confusion.

  “She’s a nun, taking a vow of silence.” I wonder if he notes the hint of cynicism in my voice.

  A rush of satisfaction flows through me as she turns to pierce me with daggers in her eyes. I can only assume it’s because now all three pairs of eyes are boring into her with rabid curiosity.

  “Like…a nun nun?” asks one of Ulrich’s cohorts, her mouth actually agape as she stares at Diabla. Her eyes scan the shapely brown legs, still wet with seawater, exposed all the way up to her hips, and sprinkled with white sand that might as well be a coating of sugar on two churros for how delectable they look.

  “Well, you’ve obviously been busier than I have,” Ulrich says, shooting me a teasing grin. I can just picture the tawdry images floating through his head.

  I can’t blame him; the same film of pure heresy has been a double feature in the cinema of my own mind since I first discovered this siren.

  Her fingers play with the tiny cross hanging at her throat, which does absolutely nothing to reclaim her chastity. Even the two girls with Ulrich are practically salivating at the cocktail of sin presented before them. A nun, a gold cross, far too much exposed skin, a party of five, and Ibiza being…Ibiza? It has the makings of a very bad joke, or an especially tawdry porn flick.

  “Very nice to meet you… Sister, is it?” he says, turning his attention back to the woman I’m with.

  She swallows, then nods.

  “Well, if you two change your mind, we’ll be around,” he says with a wink before turning to walk away with his two friends.

  “That was unfortunate,” I mutter to myself in Spanish.

  I turn to find Diabla’s eyes on me, suddenly fearful.

  “Habla Español?”

  She just swallows and looks after them with a wary gaze.

  “Don’t be concerned, he’s trustworthy,” I say, mostly to keep her from worrying. People who are scared are unpredictable, and this one is as unpredictable as they come.

  Although Ulrich and I have a tight relationship with each other, especially on the job, there is still that underlying hint of caution.

  No honor among thieves, as the saying goes.

  “It’s fine,” I say, this time mostly to reassure myself. “Let’s go. I think we could both use a siesta.”

  She wordlessly follows me back to the scooter, the bra and shoes still in her hands. Once there, we both wipe as much sand off our feet as we can and slip into our shoes.

  I get on first and right the bike, then start the engine and wait for her to join me. She climbs on back and, once again, holds on to me just enough to keep from falling off.

  The wind blows through my damp hair as I head back up through the city. I’ll definitely still be taking a shower when I get back. After everything that’s happened today, I’ll need it.

  It’s only once I’ve turned onto my street that my senses snap to attention. I stop the bike, noting something wrong as soon as we round the corner. My eyes scan the street, trying to mentally put my finger on what has me on edge.

  A curious murmur sounds behind me, my passenger obviously wondering why I stopped.

  “Something is off. I don’t know what.”

  I feel her hands grip my waist tighter, and she presses into my back as she looks over my shoulder.

  Although I still don’t find the source of my concern, I refuse to head down the street.

  “We’re going,” I say, turning the scooter around to go back the way we came. Instead of heading to the city, I detour back to the isolated beach where we arrived. I park the bike on the side of the road, well out of view.

  “Stay here.”

  Her eyes go wide with protest, and I hold up one finger to stop her.

  She seethes but settles back down on the seat, sticking one foot out to lean with the bike.

  I wander down toward the beach, keeping hidden behind the rocky cliffside until I have a good view of my boat. It’s just as I left it, with no sign of anyone having boarded it. I wait long enough to satisfy myself that maybe the coast is clear.

  It’s only when I drag my eyes away from the boat that I see them. Several footprints in the sand, almost matching those that the woman and I left this morning.

  Except these are headed toward the water.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Leira

  When he comes back, his brow is far more furrowed than it was before.

  I look at him with widened eyes, as though to ask what the hell is going on. He just gives me one hard look that shuts down any inquiries, even those of the silent type.

  That’s enough to bring back the same sense of dread I felt when he stopped at the end of his street.

  Is it this friend of his? Wolfgang?

  He seemed harmless enough, if perhaps an obvious playboy. But Ricardo didn’t seem thrilled to run into him, and it seemed like it mostly had to do with my being present.

  Who the heck are these guys?

  Could Wolfgang have figured out who I am? Made a call that quickly?

  I’m still mostly clueless about what my father’s involvement is with the people who took my sisters. Do they have the kind of resources that could have people in place here in Ibiza?

  “We’ll have to get the ferry out of here,” Ricardo says just before getting on the bike in front of me.

  A hundred questions are creating a riot in my head and, for once, I think about breaking this dammed “vow of silence.” My brain is still swimming in the remnants of sangria floating around in my body, so I don’t completely trust myself. Besides, I know I’ll get few if any answers from him. We still don’t fully trust each other, despite our mutual leverage.

  When he takes off, I draw in closer to him now, sensing the danger surrounding us, ev
en if I still don’t know what it is. He’s literally my only line of defense now. He seems to be familiar with dangerous waters—how else would he have sensed trouble near his apartment when I saw absolutely nothing to be concerned about?—so he probably has some talent for self-preservation. At the very least, sticking by his side will keep me in that bubble of protection.

  I press into his back and turn to lean my head on his neck, my arms circling his waist. Surprisingly, I feel the taut muscles go slightly relaxed underneath me.

  After ten minutes of driving, he suddenly pulls to the side of the road in town. I’m drawn out of the lull of complacency I threatened to fall into as I pressed into him.

  He curses something under his breath. As if sensing the question in my head, he does me the favor of explaining.

  “They’ll be watching the ferries. It’s almost nine hours back to Barcelona, and I’d rather not be stuck on a floating bus with nothing but half-asleep tourists for that long. If these people are out for blood and have anything in the way of skills, it would be easy for them to make it look like an accident.”

  A cold blade of fear slices through me. I think of my family. Dad always implied that there was a cloud of suspicion over the accident that took my mother and oldest sister. The bullet Layla took was definitely an act of violence. Who knows what Lucinda’s death will be like?

  Ricardo sighs and pinches his forehead between his thumb and fingers. “Necesito descansar.”

  I understand enough to agree with that assessment. After today’s adventure, I too need a rest. But where? Obviously the boat and the apartment are off-limits.

  “We’ll take the risk,” he says as he starts the bike up again.

  I know what he’s talking about and I’m not surprised when, almost forty-five minutes later, he leads us down the circular front of a hotel.

  A very nice hotel.

  It’s large and spectacular. The two of us on his small scooter definitely don’t fit in with the luxury cars that the clientele step out of. Him in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, and me in nothing but one of his shirts and these ridiculous shoes, both of us still covered with the sand and salt and sweat of the day only make us even more of a sore thumb that stands out.

  Instead of heading up that circular driveway, he heads past the hotel to find a side street to park the scooter. After we both get off, he reaches for my hand and leads me back to the grand hotel.

  At first, I’m extremely self-conscious about the way we’re scrutinized by everyone from the bellhops to the concierge to the security guarding the front entrance. But the way Ricardo confidently storms past them toward the front desk, his hand firmly holding mine, dissuades any attempt to stop us.

  Now, I understand why he chose the place. It would be difficult for some random person to simply walk in and start searching for people. While we wait for service at the front desk, I subtly twist my head around to find security’s eyes still firmly on us. Now, I’m more relieved than self-conscious.

  I’m only half-listening as Ricardo gets us a room, or rather a suite since single rooms are fully booked. He takes it without hesitation, even after the woman behind the desk informs him of the absurd nightly rate.

  It has me focused on him again. Just how much money does he have? Everything about this man is a puzzle. He spends money freely as though there’s more than enough to sustain even this, but he dresses and lives like some college student renting the cheapest amenities while on spring break.

  Now I’m back to wondering what he hid away in that cave back on the island.

  All of that fades away as he leads me to the elevators and up to our suite. The closer we get to that room, more importantly, the bed housed in it, the less I care about anything other than sleep. I’m practically a zombie by the time he taps the card to the pad next to the door and enters.

  I’m momentarily stimulated out of my grogginess by how spectacular the room is. It reminds me of home back in California, which explains the nightly price tag.

  Being used to this sort of opulence, I get over it quickly in favor of that bed I get a peek at in the bedroom. I try to detour in that direction, but the man still holding my hand has other ideas. I’m surprised when he stops me short, holding on tighter to keep me in place.

  “Not so fast, Sister,” he threatens. “This is the point at which we start talking.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Enrique

  She is as exhausted as I am, but any hint of sleepiness disappears from her eyes at the demand I’ve just made.

  I chose this hotel because I knew there was security, mostly to keep the average drunk or high (or both) partier from accidentally wandering in, but every line of defense counts. If the men found my apartment and boat, there is a strong possibility that, one, they are probably keeping tabs on my credit card spending and will know I’ve booked a hotel, and two, it’s most likely me they are after, not her.

  However, I won’t completely discount their presence being the fault of this woman. I never operate without knowing at least ninety percent of the details. Which means the silent act ends now.

  “Or I could just kick you out of the room I’ve paid for to let you fend for yourself?”

  The way her eyes go wide with fear tells me that the danger could just as easily be due to her and why she’s hiding. But the stubbornness kicks in yet again. I see the defiance color her face, meaning I’m going to have to work to get her to talk.

  What the hell is so important she has to keep quiet, despite everything?

  Diabla seems more applicable a name than ever.

  Right now, I’d happily strangle her.

  Instead, I try a different tactic.

  “Enrique. That’s my real name.” It’s common enough in Spain that it shouldn’t give too much away. I could tell when I first gave her the name Ricardo she knew it was fake. There’s also a part of me that, for some reason, wants her to use my real name when she finally starts talking.

  The blink of surprise in her eyes as I now reveal it means I’ve at least pierced that code of secrecy she seems intent on holding onto.

  “Whatever you’re worried about, whoever is after you, I’m your best shot at staying safe. I have no interest in what it is you’re hiding. None. In fact, I may be the one who can get you to safety. I have certain…skills and resources at my disposal. You might as well at least give me a name.”

  Her bottom lip is trapped between her teeth as she stares off to the side to consider that. She briefly closes her eyes and sighs, releasing her lip to speak.

  “Leira.”

  Lay-EAR-ah.

  I read her, trying to find out if that’s real or fake. If it is a pseudonym, it’s an odd one for her to pull out of thin air. Something in her gaze confirms it for me, it’s real.

  “Okay, that’s a start,” I say.

  I relax now that she seems to be coming around. The next order of business is our safety. I’ve secured all the locks to the door. Now I just need something in the way of a weapon. I don’t curse myself for leaving my gun on my boat. Bringing it ashore is a risk, even if I’d give anything to have it with me now.

  My eyes fall to the minibar, landing on the full bottles of wine offered. I can feel Leira’s eyes on me as I walk over to grab one. A brief smile of amusement touches my lips when I see the incredulous look on her face.

  “Not to worry. The last thing either of us needs is more alcohol,” I say before passing her to head to the bathroom.

  I grab one of the hand towels and wrap it once around the lower part of the bottle, then slam it against the edge of the tub. That’s enough to crack it, with the towel catching most of the shards. The red liquid seeps through the cloth and down toward the drain.

  After gently unwrapping the towel, I bundle it up and toss it into the trashcan. Let the hotel charge me for it. The sharp peak that sticks out from what’s left below the neck of the bottle creates a decent, makeshift weapon.

  When I walk back into the suite with
it, Leira’s eyes go wide at first, probably thinking I plan on using it on her.

  “Just in case they make it past the door.”

  Her mouth works as she seems to struggle with talking before she finally says, “I need one.”

  Three more words. That’s progress. Not enough for me to give her a weapon. “If they make it past me and this thing, I doubt you’d be any more effective.”

  She glares at me, then walks over to grab the other bottle for herself.

  I sigh and reach out to grab it from her as she passes. She may have a point. If the worst happens, I want her to be able to defend herself. “Fine, let me do it. There’s an art to it.”

  “You think I don’t know how to make a shiv?” She says with a smirk.

  Tilting my head to consider her, I respond, “I think you just might.”

  I hand the bottle back to her and follow her into the bathroom. Leira looks around, noting the cloth in the trashcan and the red rivulets still making their way to the drain in the tub.

  She reaches for the second-hand towel and eyes me warily, as though she’d rather not have an audience for this. I simply raise my eyebrow in response, crossing my arms as I lean in the doorway. She frowns, then goes to work wrapping the towel around the bottom of the bottle.

  Leira brings it down into the bottom of the tub for some reason with impressive force—a force that shatters almost all of the bottle.

  I laugh as she yelps and springs back in surprise, rising up with barely anything left of the neck in her hand.

  “I suppose that will have to do,” I say, as I stare at the jagged edge of the bottle neck. “You might even get a scratch or two in.”

  Her mouth tightens with displeasure. “Maybe I could start by practicing on you.”

  I simply hold my own makeshift weapon up for her inspection. “I look forward to that battle.”

  She stares at me like she actually would try to use it on me. Something about it is fiercely erotic. Why does she always turn me on so much more when she’s fighting me?