Salsa (Sultry Nights Book 1)

by Melanie Munton

Now, there’s a body that will get a man’s attention.

  This woman…this dark-haired, black dress-wearing, dancing goddess expertly spins around on the dance floor underneath colorful lights in the arms of a younger, skinny man who clearly doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. She practically pays him no attention, though, as she sensuously rolls her voluptuous hips and sways her perfect curves, flipping her wildly gorgeous hair like no one is watching.

  But I am.

  And I can’t fucking tear my eyes away.

  It’s the first moment I’ve been even the slightest bit distracted since I walked in here.

  Her dress has a generous slit up one leg that gives me a marvelous view of her smooth olive skin. Most of her back is exposed in the low V-cut, allowing a man to imagine all sorts of things. Like bending her over the nearest table while driving into her from behind as he watches her bare ass buck beneath his hands.

  She lifts her leg up and wraps it around her partner’s hip as she dips backward, practically bending her body in half. Her partner doesn’t know what to do except stare at her tits. She has her eyes closed, like she’s savoring every moment of the dance and never wants it to end.

  Fuck, she’s stunning.

  And her partner…isn’t.

  How the hell did a guy like that get a dance with that phenomenal creature? Doesn’t make any sense. Women like that don’t just dance with any Joe Schmo who approaches her.

  A bleak thought forms in my mind.

  I want to quash it, but I have to be rational. She could be a working girl.

  I want to deny it. This magnificent woman couldn’t be the type to sell her body by the hour. But I’ve seen too many things in my time to be surprised by anything these days. There are high-end escorts everywhere who do more than just escort. They may not work the streets, per se, but their job still falls under the same umbrella of prostitution.

  Despite all of that, I’m inexplicably jealous of the peckerwood currently holding the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

  He doesn’t deserve to touch her.

  I do.

  Whoa. Where the hell did that come from?

  You’re on a job, dumbass. And a woman like that is trouble.

  True. But she could be useful. She might have some information I need. I just have to keep my mind focused and my dick under control.

  I’m about to tell the bartender to send word to Suarez that Max Ramirez requests a meeting with him when I notice the dancing beauty leave the floor and make her way toward a hallway. Bathroom?

  Curious, I wait about two minutes and then follow her.

  I don’t have to take a piss, but if I end up running into her and getting an impromptu introduction, bully for me. The problem is I don’t know if that’s a bully for me personally or professionally.

  I have to put a lid on this sudden fascination before I open Pandora’s Box. Nothing good can come of bedding a woman who may or may not be involved with Suarez. No matter how amazing her rack is.

  I see her exit the bathroom before I reach the hall, but another man is already standing there waiting for her. A short, overweight, slimy-looking prick who’s having a hard time standing upright. A bad feeling curls around my stomach as I watch him grab a hold of her arm and haul her away from the main floor.

  She doesn’t look willing.

  Motherfuck.

  I take off in their direction, outrage fueling my movements.

  I hear them before I see them. And what I hear makes me want to grab the asshole by the throat and choke the life out of him. He’s growling angrily at her, slurring his words. Her voice is shaky, telling him to let her go or there will be trouble.

  Damn right there will be trouble.

  And here I am.

  I finally see them and have to bite back a roar of fury.

  He has her shoved up against the wall, his thick arms caging her in as she struggles to move him back. She’s able to push him away for a second, but he comes right back and grips her jaw in his pudgy hand.

  “You’ll shut up and take what I give you, puta,” he says with a snarl. “Don’t act like you don’t spread your legs for a different man every night.”

  I’m surprised to see her smile, though it definitely isn’t a nice one. She leans forward, getting into his face. “And you definitely won’t be one of them, cabrón.”

  I almost smile myself. The woman has a backbone.

  If this were any other situation, I’d be pitching a tent in my suit pants right now at hearing the steel in her voice. Gone was the shakiness from before. But I’m way too pissed off to appreciate how much of a turn-on her sass is.

  The man pinches her face harder. She doesn’t made a sound, but I can see the slight crinkle of her forehead, indicating that she’s in pain.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yes, we will,” I say, stepping into the light so they can see me.

  Their heads whip around, his face showing shock and hers displaying relief.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man asks. “This is none of your damn business.”

  I meet her gaze. “Do you want his hands on you?”

  It takes her several moments to register that I’ve spoken to her. I wait patiently while she processes, silently enjoying the seconds when her eyes rake down my body. She eventually shakes her head.

  I switch my attention back to him. “The lady has spoken. So, if you would kindly remove your hand and step away from her, we’d both appreciate it.”

  He removes his hand from her jaw but doesn’t move away. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with—”

  My patience snaps.

  I surge forward. The woman gasps as I grab the asshole around the throat and slam him up against the wall, lifting him up with one arm until his feet no longer touch the floor.

  “No, you don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with,” I grate out. “If you think I won’t break your neck right here and now and dump your fat ass into the sewer, well, that’s your second mistake of the night. The first was touching her.”

  He’s clawing at my hand, gasping for air. I tighten my grip.

  “If you value your life, you’ll never set foot in this goddamn place again,” I continue. “And you’ll never go anywhere near her. Comprende?”

  He vigorously nods his head. With a final disgusted sneer, I drop my arm, fighting the urge to finish the job and take his last breath. I have a reputation for being a hothead, but this reaction is well out of the norm for me. I don’t know if it’s because I have no patience for any guy manhandling a woman. Or if it’s because it was this particular woman being assaulted.

  A woman I don’t even know.

  The prick scampers off. I take one deep breath before I turn around and face her. God, her body was created for the temptation of man. Every curve is on display under these hall lights. And the way her full, round breasts heave as she gathers herself is pure sin incarnate.

  “You okay?” I ask, working to get all of my protective impulses under control.

  She nods her head and smooths her hands down her dress. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for that. I left my pepper spray in my other dress.”

  I ignore her attempt to lighten the moment as I wave my hand at her. “That happen to you a lot here?”

  Her eyes dart away. “Not very often. Some guys just don’t know how to lay off the sauce.”

  She’s being way too cavalier, acting like this is par for the course in her life.

  The thought enrages me.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t hang out in clubs like this,” I say, taking a step toward her. “A nice girl like you should spend her time in nicer places. Safer places.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m a nice girl?”

  The inflection in her voice leads me to believe that she might be the exact opposite of a nice girl. Intriguing.

  I stop less than a foot away from her and shove my hands in my pockets. It’s a techniq
ue they teach you in undercover training. Invade the other person’s personal space to establish dominance and intimidation. Another way of throwing them off their guard in hopes of wringing more information from them.

  “Well, you didn’t want that bastard’s hands on you, so I have to assume that you’re not all bad,” I answer smoothly. “Does the nice girl have a name?”

  She assesses me for several moments, confirming my initial impression of her. She’s smart and aware. Intuitive and perceptive. I suspect I may not have thrown off her guard as much as I’d hoped.

  “Sophie.”

  Satisfied that I now have something to work with, I extend my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sophie. Can I buy you a drink?”

  I purposely don’t offer her my name. I have to keep the upper hand in all situations by any means necessary.

  She cautiously takes my hand and squeezes it lightly, acting as if she hasn’t figured me out yet and doesn’t trust me. Like I said, she’s a smart woman. But that isn’t enough to distract me from the insane level of electricity that zings up my arm from our connected hands. I can’t tell if it’s simply my dick reacting to her mere touch, or if it’s my subconscious trying to tell me something.

  “No, thanks,” she says, dropping my hand much too soon. “I need to get back to work.”

  Work? Shit. That bad feeling comes back, hitting me square in the stomach.

  “I apologize. I didn’t realize you worked here.”

  Her chocolate eyes go flat. “In a way, I do.”

  Double shit. My mind screams at me with the only explanation I have after putting all these puzzle pieces together.

  She is a prostitute.

  But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would she turn down the dickwad I just pulled off her? In my experience, desperate ladies of the night in need of cash don’t blow off a score like that.

  I inwardly cringe. Wrong choice of words.

  Another thought comes to mind. Maybe I can use that angle. Bottom line, I would never actually pay her for sex, but acting like I’m a willing customer could get me somewhere. Worth a shot, I guess.

  I prop my hand against the wall, creating a barrier between her and escape. Her eyes flare at the gesture. I turn on the charm.

  “And what exactly is the nature of your work here?”

  Her eyes narrow slightly. I can tell she’s careful with her expressions. “If you have to ask, maybe you’re the one who shouldn’t be hanging out in places like this.”

  I’m grinning in spite of myself. She just basically confirmed what she is, but I admire the sharp edges of her demeanor. Despite how I found her, she’s certainly not the type to play victim.

  “I can assure you I have plenty of experience in places like this,” I manage. “And with business like yours.”

  Is that disappointment I see? I swear that’s what it looks like. It becomes a little unnerving when she doesn’t immediately respond.

  “So, how do I become a customer of yours?” I prod, bringing my body closer to hers.

  I fight to keep my hands off. She was just assaulted, for Christ’s sake. She doesn’t need me taking advantage of her vulnerability.

  But fuck, she smells so good.

  Like jasmine.

  And I know that prostitute or not, a night of fucking this woman would be nothing short of spectacular. My mind produces an image of her naked body spread out on my bed before I can tell it to stop. Her legs spread wide. Her lips parted in excitement. Those round tits—

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she rasps, refusing to meet my eyes. “But I really do have to get back.”

  Wanting to speak to her more but knowing I can’t push too fast, I step aside. “Then I won’t keep you any longer. Have a nice night, Sophie.”

  I watch her walk away, then suddenly spin back around with questions in her eyes. “You never told me your name.”

  Parroting her words back to her I say, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  Judging from her expression, she doesn’t know what to think of that. I can’t help but stare as her perky ass twitches in that painted-on dress when she saunters away.

  I’m definitely keeping my eye on you, Sophie.

  Chapter 3

  Max

  My first impression of Diego Suarez comes as no surprise.

  The man has no soul. Shocker.

  “Ah, Señor Ramirez,” he greets me as he rises from his private booth. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  I shake his hand, hiding my hate for the man. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Señor Suarez.”

  His thin-lipped mouth stretches into a smile. If a sneer could be considered a smile. “Well, I must say I was very pleased to hear you’re interested in doing business. If not a little curious. It was certainly unexpected.”

  He waves down at the booth, indicating that I sit. I unbutton my suit jacket and stretch out in a causal manner, assuming my role as a powerful criminal figure who makes himself at home anywhere he goes, uncaring if he offends anyone. DEA training is great and all, but when you’ve seen Scarface as many times as I have, you tend to pick up a few things.

  He straightens the collar of his red silk shirt, worn beneath a black velvet smoking jacket. Really, a smoking jacket? Who the fuck does he think he is? The Miami Don Corleone? His eyes are almost as dark as his thinning black hair, all made worse by a severely receding Widow’s Peak. His face is clean-shaken and shiny, as if he used far too much aftershave.

  “Let’s just say that I’ve been re-assessing operations, and I think there are more profits out there to be had.” I tip my head at him. “I can see an arrangement between us to be mutually beneficial.”

  He relaxes back in his seat and smiles like he just pulled off the greatest con in history and got away with it.

  Sorry, Charlie. The only one getting conned here is you.

  I’ve more than done my research on Diego Suarez. Born in Argentina in 1953, his parents immigrated to Mexico when he was ten. Scarce information is available on his parents’ activities in Mexico, but it’s reported that they were heavily involved with the cartel and certain militant guerrilla groups, until around 1967 when they were both killed by a hail of gunfire in a run-down Mexico City apartment building. A fourteen-year-old Diego was not there at the time, and he was left in the care of friends of his parents. He eventually immigrated to the United States in the early seventies.

  After that, the storyline gets sketchy.

  Not much is known about how he spent his time during his younger years. In fact, he sort of fell off the map until about thirty years ago when he suddenly re-emerged as a threatening figure in Miami society. As ruthless of a criminal as he is, but he’s never actually been arrested in the US. Not even for a traffic ticket. The man is elusive and has a slew of connected individuals—and a team of high-powered attorneys—to keep him out of a cell.

  That ends now.

  “Excellent.” He pours two tumblers full of a clear liquor from a decanter in the corner of the table. “But I’m not in the habit of brokering deals with someone until I have all the information.”

  I take the glass he holds out to me and clink it with his. “To your health.”

  He dips his chin. “Salud.”

  We pound them back and I struggle not to gag. Just as I suspected. A man like him wouldn’t know good liquor if it came up and bit him in the ass.

  The sounds of the live band playing a slow tango number reach my ears from downstairs. I don’t allow myself to think about the mysterious angel from the hallway and whether or not she’s down there on the dance floor right now tangoing with some other schmuck. Instead, I focus all my energy on the man seated in front of me.

  He rests his intertwined hands on the table between us. “So, how is it that you need me and my city to help you acquire these profits?”

  “Well, it seems we are both in need of something,” I answer. “You need my bombita.” Spanish code word for heroin. “And
I want your connections with Mexico.”

  Technically, his cartel here in Miami is an entirely separate faction from the Mexican cartel, but he’s also been in bed with them since the beginning. He needs their land routes, and they need his water routes. At least half of Suarez’s product comes and goes through the port, all the way from Colombia. The DEA has known about this for years, but we’ve never been able to figure out how he’s actually bringing it in. There have been seizes of his shipments over the years, but those searches have always come up empty. He claims he’s only a businessman, importing coffee, sugar, fruits and textiles from the South American country.

  Bullshit. He’s dealing Colombia’s other biggest cash crop: cocaine.

  And he’s hiding all that coke in those shipments somehow.

  We just have to figure out where it is.

  “Who says I need your bombita?” his voice snaps.

  I keep my expression neutral. “I know you’ve been trying to get in that game for years. I’m here to help.”

  “From what I hear, you tend to keep your business pretty private.”

  It would seem that way since Max Ramirez literally didn’t exist until a few weeks ago. He wouldn’t have heard much else about me.

  “Why come out of the woodworks now?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

  Suspicious. I would expect nothing less. “What can I say, mi madre always said I was never good at making friends.” His mouth twitches. “But I suppose I can make exceptions when certain potential friends could make me an even richer man.”

  He taps his finger against his empty glass, assessing me. “You’re talking about a partnership. With me and with Mexico.”

  “In a sense. You clear the road for me in Mexico, and I’ll open a route from LA to Miami at a discounted price.”

  He chuckles darkly. “A discount? What’s your best offer?”

  My smile is cold this time. He notices, his shoulders visibly stiffening. “It’s my product. I don’t make the offer.”

  “Yet you were the one who came to me,” he points out.

  He thinks he has leverage in this situation? Wrong.

  “I’d consider this more of an…interview.”