by Elisabeth Naughton, Cynthia Eden, Katie Reus, Alexandra Ivy, Laura Wright, Joan Swan
Yes, the PI had seen prostitutes enter the estate but had never verified who the women had been there to see. Cassie had thought there could have been only one recipient of their services. But… “Oh my God.”
A new urgency tightened her muscles. She searched the sand for her phone. She needed to call that PI and get clarification, but she already knew what he’d say: that he couldn’t tell her for certain who the women had been with—Saul or Rio.
She hadn’t found the damn cell when Rio emerged from the house wearing a T-shirt, his focus centered on the first aid supplies in his hands as if he’d discovered the Holy Grail in his medicine cabinet.
The corner of her phone poked from the sand, and she dug it out. The screen was dark. When she pushed the power button, nothing happened.
“Dammit.” She brushed off the sand and inspected the casing. She needed this phone. It felt more like an appendage than an electronic device. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My phone,” she muttered, hitting all the buttons, sliding switches and opening and closing compartments. “It won’t turn on.”
“Come sit down,” he said from his patio. “I’ll take a look.”
No, she didn’t want to sit down. She wanted to go hide in the closet. She wanted to confront him and hear his denial from his own mouth, even though she couldn’t trust it. But she also wanted Saul out, so she moved to the patio. “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year.” He held his hand out for the phone. “I can probably get it to work.”
She handed him the phone, and he disappeared into the house again.
A year? He’d lived here a year, and this was the first she’d heard of it?
She flexed and clenched her hands, her temper suddenly as brittle as plate glass. She was looking over the box of hydrogen peroxide, gauze, and other supplies she’d never need when Rio returned and handed her the phone with its screen glowing.
“It’s fine.” He was doing the guilty-guy dance. Not meeting her eyes. Staying several feet away. “Just had to clear the sand from the sensors.”
“Thanks.” She had to force the word out. “Why didn’t I know you were living here?”
“I…” He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
He pulled the hydrogen peroxide and some gauze four-by-fours from the box and set them on the table.
“I don’t need that.” She waited until he looked at her. “I need to know why my mother and brother didn’t ever say one word about you to me.”
Finally, he straightened and held her gaze. But his face was tight, his eyes solemn. “Did they always talk to you about their employees?”
“Yes, they did. All of them.” She crossed her arms, hurt and anger warring. “Even the damn gardener. And the gardener’s wife and his three kids and his eight nephews and his freaking crazy Great-Aunt Gertrude.”
Rio’s brows lifted, expression lightened. “Wow, I guess they did. Aunt Gertrude escaped her senior living facility last month, by the way. Rumor has it she was last seen in Las Vegas.”
Cassie huffed out a weak laugh and shook her head. His mouth tipped in a lopsided attempt at a smile. Both of them turned serious again within seconds.
This was beyond uncomfortable. And Cassie was sick of being uncomfortable. “What the hell just happened, Rio?”
He looked down at the gauze in his hand. “Can I clean—”
“No.” Cassie kept her voice firm, but hurt had overpowered anger, and that strength wouldn’t last long. “I want to know why you kissed me back if you were just going to push me away.”
“I didn’t want—” He stopped. Thought. Released a heavy sigh, set the supplies on the table, and looked at her. “Look, I really shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t. You. Dare.” Little anger and even less force came out in the words, but enough to stop him from finishing with kissed you.
“I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.” This was worse than disappointing. This was devastating. He was probably used to having hot, experienced women who handled men differently. “Say what you need to say without excuses or apology. Just say it.”
He straightened his shoulders, put his hands on his hips, and dropped his head. When he lifted it, Cassie braced herself and met his gaze. And, oh, yes, she knew exactly what was coming. He’d closed off. Had become the man she’d confronted in the foyer, hard and hidden. All business.
“I work for Saul,” he said, his tone cool and final, his jaw jumping with stress. “He would see me being with you as…disloyalty.”
Her mind hopscotched around the answer. It wasn’t what she’d expected. But in Cassie’s experience, men rarely told the truth. Maybe she wasn’t hot enough for him—or slutty enough—and he couldn’t bring himself to say that. Or maybe he was just that loyal to Saul. Either way, he’d made himself very clear.
“Okay.” She drew out the word, trying like hell not to let the sarcasm turn bitter, and stood. “Me? I stopped letting Saul choose my friends at, oh, about twelve. And he never, ever, got to say a word about who I dated. But I understand—we all mature at different rates.”
Well…shit. Nice, Cass. Real nice.
Shame and pain and anger mixed in the pit of her stomach. This was not one of her finest moments. Even before the words were out of her mouth, even before Rio’s eyes went dark and flat, she realized what had happened. She’d turned into a bitch. A mean, resentful bitch.
This was a personal, all-time low.
“Listen, no hard feelings.” She turned and headed up the beach. Tears warmed a trail down her cheeks from nowhere. Her mind slid out from under her. “We’ll just forget this happened.”
“Cassie, wait. I have to talk to you about something else.”
“No, thanks.” Hell no. “I’m all talked out.” She raised her voice to be heard over the wind and distance as she neared her wing of the main house. “Try me again in about, say, six months? No, make that a year. Or two.”
“Cassie.” His voice cut in and out of the wind, but the edge of frustration and guilt still carried. “It’s important.”
Nothing, nothing, could be important enough to make her face him again. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
Chapter Four
Cassie’s lips still felt swollen from Rio’s kisses six hours later. She tiptoed through the hall toward the kitchen at barely five a.m. the following morning with the sting on her chin and cheeks from his stubble a very real reminder of their lips sliding together. Of his hot tongue in her mouth. Of his hard body against hers. Which, in turn, put her in a remarkably shitty mood.
So when she pushed through the swinging kitchen door and nearly ran into an unfamiliar young woman dressed in a simple housekeeper’s smock, Cassie had to grit her teeth to harness her temper.
Don’t shoot the messenger.
“Oh!” The other woman—Marta, Saul had told her—jumped back, hand over her heart. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect…I mean, no one is ever up this early. If I’d known, I would have…” She shot a glance at the counter on one side, then the stove on the other, both in use. “I’m sorry, señorita, I was making breakfast. I’m not usually this messy.”
The rich scents in the kitchen registered with Cassie—beans, red sauce, bacon, and something sweet baking. Muffins. Blueberry, cinnamon. It was wrong. All wrong. Wrong that the smells of happiness were still here when everything that made this house comforting and wonderful was gone.
But that wasn’t Marta’s fault.
Cassie turned to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. “I’m just going to grab a few things and I’ll be out of your way.”
“No, no, señorita, you’re not in my way. Let me make you breakfast. What can I get you? Huevos rancheros is one of Señor Flores’s favorites.”
Cassie pulled out two bottles of water, a couple of mangos, and a wheat bagel while Marta continued to chatter.
“I can also make a breakfast burrito very quickly if you are in a hurry. Or…or I
can make something more American. Pan…pan…”
“Cakes,” Cassie finished.
“Yes! Pancakes.” Marta grinned. The smile cut across her dark face in a bright white curve, and her brown eyes sparkled. So eager to please. Saul probably exploited the hell out of her.
Cassie dropped her armful of groceries on the counter. “No, thank you, Marta. I’m just going to take this with me.”
“Oh.” Marta’s smile died, and her brows drew together. “Can I make a lunch for you to take for the day? Some snacks, perhaps?”
Before Cassie could decline, Marta was digging in the refrigerator. “Marta, I really don’t need anything, but thank you.”
She straightened with a bag of baby carrots in one hand, two apples in the other. “Will you be here for dinner? Is there something special I can make for you tonight?”
The thought of facing Saul and Rio at the dinner table made Cassie’s shoulders tense. Then an idea came to her. The girl probably knew a lot about what went on in the house.
Cassie lifted one of the apples from Marta’s hand and took a bite. The girl smiled as if she’d given Cassie a gift.
“Will anyone else be joining us?” Cassie asked.
“Sì. Señor Flores and Señor Santana are always here.”
Cassie lifted her brows. “No guests? I understand Saul and Rio have…I guess we could call them lady friends…who come from time to time.”
Marta’s smile faltered. Her head tilted, and that dark gaze left Cassie’s for the first time in a quick, searching sweep of her face. “I’m sorry. My English, it is usually good, but… I think I misunderstand this ‘lady friends.’ There are no guests planned for tonight, señorita.”
Marta turned away and replaced the items into the refrigerator.
Cassie considered her options. She could set Marta straight with facts about who owned the house and paid the bills, or she could try to make Marta a friend. All the staff had been friends to her growing up. Like extended family. Saul had changed that.
“How long have you worked here, Marta?” Cassie asked.
Marta closed the refrigerator and bent to peek in the oven, now avoiding Cassie’s gaze, her body language tense. “Almost six months.”
“Do you like it here?”
“It is a wonderful opportunity, working for Señor Flores.” She straightened, her grin now polite and reserved, the job-interview smile. She turned away to stir the pan of red sauce on the stovetop, pumping the scent of fresh spices into the air. “I couldn’t ask to work in a more beautiful home. I’m very fortunate.”
Uh-huh.
Cassie set the apple down, crossed her arms, and leaned one hip on the counter. “I’m going to be here for a few months. So—”
Marta stopped stirring and went very still.
Cassie waited a beat. “Is…that a problem?”
“Oh, no. Of course not. Not for me.” Marta’s half glance was tentative. “Does…Señor Flores know of your plans?”
“He does. And he’s not happy about it. He’d like me to leave early.” Cassie smiled the way she would if she were sharing a girl moment with Natalie. “I’m sure I get in the way of his pursuits with…well, you’re probably right not to associate the word ‘ladies’ with the women he brings here…but it wouldn’t be polite to call them what they really are. Would it?”
Marta dropped her gaze to the floor and turned eight shades of crimson. Her fingers worried the edge of her apron. “I…I…didn’t…”
“Know I knew?” Cassie finished for her. “Want to get him in trouble?”
She shrugged “Either. Both.” She lifted her gaze, brimming with a sincere plea. “Señorita Christo, I enjoy my job. I need this job. Please…”
Cassie reached for Marta’s hand. She gave it a squeeze. “I understand. You don’t need to worry about that.”
Marta rushed to pack the items Cassie had taken from the refrigerator into a brown paper bag. Cassie should have been satisfied with verification of her PI’s information, but it only made her sick to her stomach.
She thanked Marta for the bag and turned to leave. But she needed clarification. Absolute, concrete clarification of that one fact still lingering in shadow.
With her hand flat against the kitchen door, she looked at Marta over her shoulder. The housekeeper met her gaze with raised brows. “Yes, señorita?”
“What about Rio?” Cassie asked. “Does he also…entertain…these women?”
“No.” Marta smiled, soft and sincere. “Never. Rio is a good man.”
Cassie exited the kitchen with more information but less emotional stability. She might have confirmation that the women had been here for Saul, not Rio, but that didn’t explain what had happened between Cassie and Rio last night. In fact, it only made his reaction to their intimacy more cryptic.
Cassie could think of only two reasons he would turn her off so quickly when he’d seemed to be enjoying their kiss as much as she’d been. She’d felt the evidence of that interest pressing against her belly last night. So if he wasn’t involved with the prostitutes Saul hired, he must have been telling the truth—his loyalties lay with Saul.
Which kept him firmly in the enemy camp.
“Eight a.m. isn’t too early for a beer, right, Manuel?” Rio sat at a tall table in Amigos Cantina two blocks from Cassie’s clinic, staring into the golden liquid the barkeep had just set in front of him. The stale scent of beer and tobacco hovered in the air, and Rio had a headache the size of a fist throbbing at the center of his brain.
“For you or for me, amigo?” Manuel’s dark face crinkled with his grin. “For you, yes. This is very early. For me? No. Why you think I open at this hour?”
“Good point.”
Rio closed his eyes and took several long swallows of the bitter ale. The cold felt good going down his throat. The scent of the alcohol gave him hope of smoothing the edge leftover from last night. But he was skeptical. That edge was still razor sharp.
Sighing, he set the drink back on the scarred wood surface. “Think I need a shot to go with this.”
“Tequila?”
“What else?”
“Be right back.”
The bubbles on Rio’s beer reminded him of the surf on the sand last night. Of Cassie’s pretty painted toes carving designs in the sand at the water’s edge while she’d talked on the phone.
Her phone.
He pulled out his BlackBerry, punched into his apps, and brought up the wiretap software. But according to the records, Cassie hadn’t made or received any calls since he’d placed the bug in her cell after he’d cleaned out the sand.
Since he hadn’t slept at all—what red-blooded man could after the lustiest make-out session of the decade that didn’t end in world-rocking sex?—he knew she’d gone for a run on the beach at four a.m., left the house at five a.m., and driven straight to the clinic.
He put his phone away and watched Manuel center the shot over the beer and let go. The liquid splashed and fizzed.
Manuel gave Rio a solid slap on the shoulder. “Enjoy, amigo. You look like you need it.”
The barkeep moved on with morning chores. Instead of downing the alcohol, Rio watched the rich tequila mix with the lighter, golden beer. That was the color of Cassie’s eyes—that dark amber shade of tequila. And didn’t he make a pathetic picture, sitting at a bar before he’d even eaten breakfast, drinking away last night’s sexy memories and daydreaming about the color of her eyes?
Holy. Shit.
He picked up the glass and took a long swallow. Hooyah, that tequila did the trick. Nice burn down the throat, nice kick in the gut. That ought to get his head out of his pants and back in line. The stakes were way the hell too high to get his brain twisted up in a woman.
Tomás entered through the back door and straddled the opposite stool. Elbows on the table, his attention flicked to the beer in front of Rio and held a second too long. Then he glanced around the open room and took in the few drunks sucking down their morning beer b
efore returning his attention to Rio.
Rio pushed the beer toward the middle of the table and assessed Tomás’s shadowed eyes and stiff jaw. The man was a perfectionist. One of the best agents within Immigration and Customs Enforcement. He didn’t do failure well or often, and Rio could see the effects of last night’s accident wearing on him.
“How’re you doin’?” Rio asked.
Tomás lifted his chin toward the tequila-beer mix. “Gonna finish that?”
“That good, huh?”
Tomás took Rio’s question as permission and picked up the drink, finishing it in a few deep swallows. “I feel about as good as you look, and you look like refried hell. What are we doing about this Christo chick?”
Rio had debriefed Tomás on Cassie by phone the night before. Now, his partner propped his elbow on the table and leaned his chin into his hand, gaze distant.
“Whatever we decide, I’m volunteering to handle it.” Tomás’s shoulders relaxed, and he grinned. Fucking grinned. Rio couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man smile. “She is one problem I’d like to handle. Mmm-mm. I’d kill to lose myself in her for a few…months.”
He should have said hours. When it came to women, Tomás was never interested in more than hours. The fact that he’d skipped days and weeks and headed straight to months made Rio want to get in his partner’s face.
“You should have seen her,” Tomás said. “She was so scared. A couple of times, I thought she’d pee her pants, but just when I was ready to jump in, she’d take control of Pedro by the balls. If she hadn’t, I don’t know what would have happened. She definitely knows how to handle these pricks. Dude, I’m telling you, it was beautiful.”
Beautiful, all right. So beautiful it made Rio want to rid his stomach of the morning beer.
“It was weird though,” Tomás continued. “Not like she was used to dealing with these guys everyday like we do, but like she knew she had to do it. And I swear the fear pushed her toward the danger, not away. You know how we run toward men with guns? I could swear that lady kept pushing herself right into the face of fear. Which probably saved her damn life.”
