Protector Of Convenience (Rogue Protectors Book 2)

by Victoria Paige

  “Jes—” Migs caught himself and grinned. “I’m not that much of a hick you know. I do live in LA. Still, if you ask me, that stupid fungus is overpriced.”

  “You’re just not very cultured. Maybe in Ariana’s company your palate will become more sophisticated.” Tessa returned her attention to Ariana. “I’ll settle for a celebrity restaurant chain. Please tell me that’s where he took you.”

  “Uh … no. It had those $3 tacos … a step above a food truck.”

  Everyone turned and gasped their displeasure at her newly minted husband. “Miguel!”

  Migs rolled his eyes and slanted his gaze at her. “Throw me under the bus, would you?”

  “I don’t want to lie,” Ariana stated primly. “But,” she paused, making sure she had everyone’s attention. “Save for the tomatillo salsa, everything in that place was delicious. Though it doesn’t hold a candle to the food on this table.”

  Everyone nodded their approval and chatter resumed.

  Migs leaned in and whispered, “Thanks. Now give me a kiss.”

  “What? Now?” she mumbled through a corner of her mouth.

  “Perfect timing.”

  Her chin inched up, and his head lowered as he gave her a sweet lingering kiss.

  “Oh my goodness, you two, get a room!” Bella teased.

  “What?” Migs fired back at his sister. “I’m on my honeymoon and I have to spend it with you guys.”

  “Better than getting disowned, sí ?” Delia scolded her son. “Imagine when Hector told us the news.” There was more than simple displeasure on his mother’s face. There was despair and disappointment. Ariana’s guilt was doubling with every bite. Unfortunately, she ate when she was guilty. She also wondered if her drive to do charitable work was driven by her desire to atone for Raul’s crimes.

  “You’re not really married until you get married in a church. We shall plan a wedding. I can get it ready in two months,” his mother said. “I’ll talk to Father Tomas and see if he has an opening.”

  Ariana kicked Migs under the table, urging him to say something.

  “Isn’t Abbi Mena’s eightieth birthday coming up?” Migs said. “We can make it a double-celebration?”

  That was not what she expected him to say and kicked him under the table again. The corners of his mouth lifted. What was he finding so funny?

  “That’s in less than a month. No time to prepare and all the invitations have been sent,” his eldest sister said.

  Bless you, Tessa.

  “Yes, it might be too soon,” Bella added. “It’ll take me more time than that to find a dress.”

  Tessa stared at her sister across the table. “You realize Ariana is the bride, right?”

  Bella shrugged her shoulders. “Just saying. In case someone wants my input.”

  Ariana cleared her throat. “There’s no rush, really. We’re already married anyway.” She smiled at everyone, but more than one person was shaking their head.

  “How do you like my tomatillo salsa, Ariana?” Abbi Mena asked.

  “It complements the carnitas very well,” Ari said, welcoming the older woman’s pointed change of topic. “I’ve always had bitter or extremely spicy ones.”

  “Larger tomatillos are bitter and never make this salsa from canned tomatillos. Their acidity doesn’t preserve well unlike the red tomatoes.”

  Ariana didn’t add that her aunt made the most horrible salsas, often too spicy for her young taste buds, but she was forced to eat them as a child because there was nothing else for food. So by the time Raul moved them to Tijuana and was making good money as a lieutenant for a plaza boss, she had developed an aversion to the condiment.

  Eating and conversation resumed at the table. It was a mixture of Spanish and English popularly known as Spanglish. Migs told her his dad was useless at picking up language and there was a running joke in the family that he married Delia so she could be the interpreter in the business. His sisters spoke mostly English because of this. As for Abbi Mena, she had traveled extensively and could speak many languages. In the seventies, she lived in Berkeley, California to study advances in agricultural practices so they could update their farm industry in Michoacán. But when his grandmother and Delia conversed, they fell back naturally to speaking Spanish.

  Soon it was dessert time, and frankly, Ariana couldn’t eat another bite, but when the first churros came out of the deep fryer, she quickly changed her mind.

  “Remind me to work out tomorrow,” Ariana groaned.

  “I can think of another kind of workout.” Migs waggled his brows.

  “You’re seriously enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Every second of it.”

  9

  How could he tell Ariana how he simply loved watching her interact with his family? Except for the awkward moments in the beginning, somehow he knew she would fit right in.

  When Ariana offered to help them clean up, his sisters all but shooed them out of the kitchen. After they said goodnight to everyone, his mother led them to their bedroom. Leon, who was the security chief at the warehouse and had been a part of his family since he was a kid, oversaw the transfer of their belongings to their room while they were having dinner. He caught the look in Ariana’s eyes questioning having someone else moving their belongings to the room given Migs worked for the CIA. He had three reasons: everything that was classified was in his head, his gun was locked in the glove compartment, and lastly, he trusted Leon with his life.

  His mother led them to the corner bedroom located in the left wing of the house. As Migs opened the door to let them in, she said, “Leon had the muchachas air out the room yesterday.” He happened to glance at Mamá, spying the gleam of tears in her eyes. His chest contracted with the guilt he’d lived with these past four years when he limited his time with the family.

  “I’m glad you came home,” she whispered.

  “I was here last Christmas,” he reminded her.

  “You know what I mean. It was always so quick and this last time something was bothering you deeply,” his mother said.

  Had he been that transparent? Migs thought with guilt. He wasn’t mentally present then, his mind occupied by Ariana at the time when he’d been ordered to stay away from LA.

  Delia turned to his wife. “Thank you for bringing him back to us.”

  Ariana nodded mutely.

  His mother reached up and squeezed the left side of Migs’ jaw to emphasize her previous statement and then left the room.

  After he shut the door, Ariana erupted like a pressure cooker that had blown a gasket.

  “Ay Dios mio!” Her voice was hushed, but full of panic, her arms gesturing wildly. “What are we doing? Your wonderful family! We’re deceiving them.”

  Migs crossed his arms, expecting this drama. “What are we doing?” he regarded her calmly. “We’re newlyweds.”

  “In name only!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “What?”

  “You refused any stupid contract I willingly offered. I’m not hiding the fact that I’m attracted to you, and sex isn’t off the table. You just have to ask for it.”

  “That will compli—” her words cut off when he narrowed his gaze at her. With Ariana, he had trouble keeping his face blank. His training and years as an undercover operative were rendered useless.

  He prowled toward her and clasped her shoulders. “I swear, woman. If you say one more time that it will complicate things, I’ll throw you on that bed and show you complicated.”

  Her breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Test me.” He lowered his head, and she stared at him with wide-saucer eyes, lips parted. His gaze dropped to her full mouth and his whole body flooded with the urge to fuck the stubbornness out of this infuriating woman.

  Not just any woman.

  His wife.

  “Test me,” he repeated, his erection pressing against his zipper. Fuck, that wasn’t helping.

  They were both breathi
ng heavily and, if he didn’t pull away, he’d be on her in the next second. “You can freshen up first.”

  He dropped his arms and forced himself to move to the nearby couch. He sat and began to unlace his boots, doing his best to act as if he didn’t just threaten to fuck her, trying not to watch her walk away, yet fully aware of that sexy body leaving his peripheral vision.

  The one thing he’d always loved about her, she was aware she was beautiful—Sinaloa was known for their beautiful women. It was very likely she had Lebanese blood in her as that part of the country had the most Arab-Mexicans in the nation. He smiled to himself. No wonder Abbi Mena was already thinking of grandchildren. At that thought an uneasiness swirled in his gut. Was it fear? Excitement? Or the uncertainty of it all?

  What the fuck was he thinking about? He wasn’t some damned teenager panting after a high school beauty queen, though he certainly felt like he was.

  Pulling off his boots, he stood and unbuttoned his jeans and tossed his shirt on the couch, walking over to his duffle where he had a few days change of clothes. Both he and Ariana needed to buy more basics as he doubted they’d be able to get out of here for a few weeks.

  Shit, he needed to call Garrison and tell him the happy news. The spook hadn’t crossed his mind since they arrived at his family home.

  Fishing out the burner, he thumbed the number he knew by heart. It wasn’t a direct line to John, but more of a call-in service. He followed the instructions and ended the call. Garrison should call him back. He was about to check if Ariana needed anything in the bathroom when his phone rang.

  Huh, that was quick.

  “Walker.”

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “San Diego.”

  “With Ms. Ortega?”

  “She’s Mrs. Walker now.” Man, he relished saying that to Garrison.

  Dead silence followed, and a niggle of doubt about fucking up rooted in his gut. “You there?”

  “What happened?”

  It was more rhetoric than a question, but Migs answered him anyway. “I married her Vegas style.”

  “Is there something going on between you two?”

  “Not really.”

  “Dammit. I told you I didn’t want a repeat of Yemen.”

  “I wasn’t in on that op and I’m not one to gossip, so I don’t know what the fuck you mean.”

  Garrison kept on cursing and muttering about his assets falling like flies.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “Ah … we’re working things out.”

  “Then why marry her … Why—wait a minute. Shit, something about your family name, am I right?”

  “It was worth a shot.”

  “And Miss Ortega is on board with this?”

  Migs gritted his teeth. “Mrs. Walker. And do you think I held a gun to her head?”

  “Know what I think, Walker? You’re in deeper than you’re letting on.”

  “You think my plan was a bad idea? They were about to hurt her—”

  “About that—” Garrison started.

  “They were going to shoot her up with drugs.”

  “That’s not confirmed.”

  Migs paused. “But Ariana said—”

  “I checked with Nadia, the CSI team retrieved a set of vials similar to the ones used for buccal swabs. The syringes at the scene weren’t loaded with any toxin.”

  “What were they for?”

  “Can’t determine at this point. From the looks of it they were going to draw Ariana’s blood.”

  His thoughts raced. “The virologist. You think they want to duplicate what they did to Raul? The buccal swabs were to check for DNA compatibility.”

  “That theory crossed my mind, but there were no viral agents found in the house.”

  A chill skittered down his spine. “I fucked up.”

  “Explain.”

  “I told my cousin to spread the word that Ariana is my wife. Shit. If the cartel wanted her bad enough—”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Migs repeated the explanation that made Abbi Mena untouchable. “Though I wonder if the newer narcos would respect the code.”

  “Your plan has merit. Culture-wise, the matriarch of a dynasty is sacred, especially given the age of your grandmother and how respected your grandfather was—she would be off limits.” Garrison blew out a breath. “I’m waiting to hear back from my contact at the DEA regarding the state of the cartels. Heard something is brewing.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Protracted silence hung between them, and Migs thought he’d lost connection until the other man spoke, “You threw a wrench into my plans.”

  “You’ll adapt,” Migs said automatically, then paused. “What plans?”

  “Andrade’s cooperation. Remember him? You married his presumptive bride.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” he thought smugly. “What else would you need from him?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, we still don’t know the culprit in his organization who fabricated the Z-91.”

  “I didn’t forget,” Migs said. “That’s your problem. Mine is the LA and Carillo link.”

  “Fucker,” Garrison muttered. “I’m sending you an encrypted phone. Don’t wreck it this time. Oh, and congratulations.”

  The line went dead.

  Migs continued chuckling long after the phone call. He was sprawled on a chair, but as he replayed the information Garrison had given him, his humor faded. That was how Ariana found him when she emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a shiny pajama set instead of the ones with the silly print she wore yesterday. No matter how she tried to downplay her curves, clothes clung to her the way Migs envisioned getting wrapped around her.

  The way her gaze meandered to his torso heated his blood until it felt too hot for his skin to contain. His muscles contracted when her eyes swept briefly to the exposed trail below the unbuttoned jeans with the zipper partially lowered. Did he do that on purpose?

  Maybe? Christ. Sleeping in the same room with her would be torture. Keeping from tasting every luscious inch of her would be agony. But he promised.

  As though Ariana awoke from a trance, her eyes flickered away, and she started drying her hair with a towel. “Were you on the phone?”

  “Garrison.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her arms. “Did you tell him?”

  He grinned. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And he extends his congratulations.”

  Her short burst of laughter was a magnet that pulled him to his feet, and he walked to her to get behind her, taking the towel from her hands. “Let me.”

  “Miguel …”

  “Shh … let me do this.”

  She relented, and he massaged her scalp as she leaned into him, the coolness of the satin giving momentary relief to the fire on his skin. She moaned in pleasure.

  “Fuck, Ari,” he muttered, dropping the towel, clasping her shoulders and turning her around to face him. His fingers combed her wet hair over and over and she closed her eyes, unabashedly pressing her soft tits against his chest and she swayed from side to side.

  Unable to help himself, he cradled her head and he kissed her, slowly at first. Tentative. And then his tongue pushed between her lips and tangled with her own. He explored her in air-stealing gulps, sucking her tongue as his hands traveled down, molding her curves, before sweeping up to cup the fullness of her tits.

  Tearing his mouth away, he sought her eyes. “I want to give you more.” Her slight nod was all the encouragement Migs needed. He scooped her up and laid her gently on the bed. He climbed on, keeping his eyes on hers for any sign of panic or rejection, but all he witnessed was acceptance. He pushed her legs apart and wedged his hips between them. “Beautiful,” he whispered as he resumed kissing her. He plundered the sweetness of her lips for a while, letting his fingers explore, paying attention to what she liked even as his own need rose in painful hardness at his pelvis.

  Her moan only fuel
ed his arousal and he stroked his erection against her core, the friction driving them both wild, the searing heat of her pussy was like a brand on his cock. Yes, she owned him now.

  Migs moved lower to her neck, unbuttoned her pajama top, and his breath hitched when he saw her tits bared to his eyes for the first time. He’d dreamed about them, how they’d feel against his palms. He cupped each and splayed his hand over them before mouthing a nipple, flicking the tip with his tongue while his hand moved lower. It slipped beneath the elastic of the pajamas and sought her slick hot center. He found her tiny bud and used his thumb to rub circles against it, then he dipped a finger into her entrance. Fucking wet. Adding a second finger, her pussy sucked that right in, too. His brain short-circuited.

  But Miguel wasn’t the only one close to being mindless. Ariana’s back arched and her fingers clawed into his hair. “Migs …” she breathed.

  He released the nipple he was teasing, and he wished he could delay the gratification of tasting her arousal, but he was blinded with need. As he scooted down her body, his fingers caught the waistband of her pajamas and slid them over her hips, revealing her naked pussy, her scent making his nostrils flare.

  Dispensing of the pajama bottoms, he settled his shoulders between her thighs, taking in her shadowed cleft that he couldn’t wait to devour. “I knew I skipped dessert for a reason.” His tongue gave her a lick.

  “You’re killing me.” She squirmed as her legs tried to clamp together.

  He shoved them apart. “Careful, babe. Don’t want to suffocate me before I give you that tongue-fucking.”

  She puffed a short laugh as her legs fell open. Now that was a damned sexy sight to see.

  Ariana Walker all laid out for him to eat.

  Her juices glistened between pinkish lips. He couldn’t resist any longer. He dove right in and groaned at the immense pleasure of his first taste.

  Mine. Fucking mine. His brain roared with that possessive mantra while he continued to attack her pussy with abandon. His tongue stroking up and down, swirling, savoring and then his mouth returned to that core of sensitive flesh. Ariana cried out, and he nearly came in his pants. He continued to draw out her orgasms, could feel her flesh swell beneath his tongue, and he knew she was primed and ready to take him. All he had to do was shove down his jeans and slide right in.