by Edie Harris
What was good luck? The slatted window in the bathroom shower was juuuuust wide enough for Casey to wiggle his shoulders through. Gripping the painted pipe that ran the entire rear of the hotel, backing onto an empty courtyard and situated right above the window, he levered his body through the opening. His entire weight suspended by his arms for the split second before he leapt onto a balcony a few yards away. From there, it was less than a story’s drop to the courtyard pavers, and then he was jogging to the far end of the courtyard, slipping out the gate and into a side street two blocks over from where the watchful Mercedes was parked.
Sweat beaded his hairline as he considered his next move. He needed to get to his second room, needed to see that footage and call Tobias and perform serious recon on the acres surrounding the hacienda and figure out how he planned to breach security to search for Adam. But stronger than that need was the imperative to seek out Ilda wherever she may be and demand the answers he sought. Or perhaps only one answer, to one question.
Why didn’t she want Casey to know about Arlo?
His feet were moving before he realized he’d made up his mind, bringing him to the curb to hail a taxi. Casey could only imagine a few places where Ilda might be tempted to go, if it was truly Ilda in the back of Franco’s SUV, and the first was Our Lady of the Bleeding Heart.
Casey had spent a relatively significant amount of time loitering in the rear pews, waiting for Ilda and Théa to do their church thing, practicing music for nontraditional services or meeting a group of women for some sort of committee. It was the most time Casey had ever spent in a Christian house of worship, and with each hour passed staring up at an ornate cross that meant nothing to him but so much to his lover, he’d feared what eventual result his lies would reap.
Successful spies didn’t have entanglements on the job, but the truly brilliant among his kind were emotional succubi, feeding off the love and hate of their targets, the loyalties both forged and destroyed through blood and business, and that was how a spy gleaned the most valuable of intel. So by any metric, Casey ought to have been a fucking genius by the time his stint in Medellín ended, and to a certain extent, he had been. He’d gotten closer to Pipe for longer than any other American operative to date. The information he had been able to feed back to the CIA had resulted in some very severe strikes to the Marin cartel and the incarceration of several in Pipe’s organization.
And yet. And yet.
It would hit him eventually, he reassured himself as he paid the driver and hopped the steps two at a time through the huge double doors into Our Lady. Eventually, he would fully comprehend the magnitude of fatherhood, even if it was nothing more than a title at this point. That would change...as soon as he got his head around it.
As the double doors closed, cool dry air scented with a spice he’d never been able to identify cloaked his senses. He breathed deep, eyes closing momentarily as the rush of memories pummeled him. Yeah, he hated Colombia. Yeah, he hated the pain he’d carried around for the last four years, a burden unlike any he’d borne to date. But there was peace in this sanctuary, an oasis of quiet and calm in a sprawling, sunny sea of violence and poverty, and Casey let that peace infiltrate his tense body.
An echo filtered up the stairwell connecting the vestibule in which Casey stood, gasping in great gulps of stolen serenity, to the underground series of connected meeting rooms and Sunday School classrooms. His eyes opened slowly, lids surprisingly heavy, and he focused on the echo. Laughter—women laughing, and he knew with a hunter’s instinct that Ilda was down there, laughing.
How dare she.
Once again, his feet moved before any conscious decision had been made, carrying him silently down the darkened stairwell into the basement. He clung to the shadows, following the sound of voices raised in chatter, gossip floating back and forth in conspiratorial Spanish. Turning a corner, he stopped on the threshold to a small kitchenette connected to a brightly lit common room filled to the brim with well-dressed women wearing glittering rings and fine cosmetics. The wives of Medellín’s wealthy, gathered together in charity.
Like a gift from the heavens, proving that despite being saturated in strict Catholicism, God had a sense of humor, Ilda appeared between the common room and the kitchenette. Her back was to him as she called out something about using the other ice-blue crepe streamers, blindly seeking to set a dirty plate on the counter.
His breath caught.
She stiffened and turned, the plate settling with a clatter on the laminate countertop, eyes wide as she caught sight of him. He put a finger to his lips, then gestured for her to follow him, and she did.
A crook of his fingers and Ilda came, and it soothed jagged edges he hadn’t been aware existed inside him. He curled his fingers around her slender wrist, her skin warm silk in his hold. His anger dipped further as he dragged her to the stairwell, neither of them saying a word, gazes locked in a silence that went deeper than sound to apply acute pressure to their ribs, their delicate organs.
Her shoulders hit the wall, his hands bracketing either side of her head as he took in her plaited hair and purple dress, the hot skin that called to his tongue, her supple curves like magnets for his touch. Leaning in, he exhaled over her parted lips, trying to ignore the urge to press his forehead to hers as he used to do, before...before.
Just like that, his fury skyrocketed. “You have some explaining to do, wife.”
Chapter Eight
Being close to him was a particular kind of hell. Ilda loved his nearness, the heat rolling off him, the scents of soap and sweat that filled her nostrils and clouded her common sense. Her tongue knew he would taste of salt, just as her fingers knew he would feel like steel—firm, giving, breathing steel.
She hated that she craved him. His overwhelming physicality soothed even as it aroused, inspiring urges that had lain dormant for so long. Despite their tryst yesterday, she felt as though she were awakening in slow stages, as the truth of him—of them—finally sank in. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs as she stared into eyes that were not the color of her daughter’s...but from whom Arlo had inherited her rare irises nonetheless.
He loomed over her in an obvious attempt to intimidate her into talking, but too bad for him, Ilda felt no fear, not in the slightest. Perhaps she’d never accurately expressed just how hot his big body got her. Hell, she liked that he outweighed her by one hundred pounds, stood a foot taller. It wasn’t only that he made her feel small, feminine, protected. He had given her what she’d always secretly needed from a lover, and had only ever received from Casey: conquering.
A warrior. That was who she’d seen in him from the very first, and what had ultimately driven her to chase him. He wasn’t handsome, not like Pipe, but so damn male as to compensate for any deficit his lack of a pretty face afforded him. His features were too blunt, too broad, cut like a rocky cliff and bearing evidence of more than one physical altercation. But he had those hazel eyes of gray and brown and blue, thick dark lashes and heavy, angled brows. A mouth surprisingly lush, but only when you kissed it.
So she bridged the gap between them, noses bumping, brushing, and sealed her lips to his. He moaned, tongue sweeping out to dip into her mouth, deep and wet. The back of her head hit the wall as he forced her chin to tilt upward, granting him better access, but he kept his body apart and his hands fixed above her. Still, she sensed the faint tremor that shook his limbs, and she reveled in it.
“You kiss so good, Cay-zee,” she whispered, making an effort to say his name correctly. It mattered in this moment to acknowledge who he truly was, and not who she’d believed—or maybe wished—him to be.
He tore his mouth away, breathing hard, and rested his forehead on hers. “Casí. To you, and only you, I am Casí, and that’s who I want to be.” Exhaling slowly, he lifted his head, expression stern and more authoritative than she’d ever before seen. “But never forget that I’m also Casey Faraday. That might not mean much to you in this moment, but it means a whole hell
uva lot to the rest of the world. Now, explain.”
Irritation at his arrogance surged. “There’s nothing to explain.”
“Oh? So you’re literally sleeping with the enemy, but you’re just gonna keep quiet, huh?” He boxed her in closer, his body vibrating as it covered hers. Visible shivers danced over his limbs, barely contained rage coupling with what she knew was incomprehension at her choice to leave him trembling. A big man with even bigger emotions was her Casí.
But her feelings could hold their own against him. “How dare you judge me? You’re telling me you were a monk these past four years?” His breath caught raggedly at her hissed accusation, and she was shocked by the shaft of sudden, painful jealousy spearing her ribs. Somehow, she forced herself to keep going, whisper turning ragged when she dropped her gaze to his throat. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I... I haven’t been with him in months. Not since I learned he screwed some bimbo barfly.”
“Ilda—”
“Shut. Up.” God, she couldn’t handle his pity, would strangle it from him if he dared flip from anger to empathy in the space of a second.
His teeth clicked together in audible irritation. “Fine, then how about the fact that we have a daughter?”
Ilda’s jaw clamped shut. She wasn’t prepared to discuss Arlo with him, not with the instability currently rocking her world. Instability he had caused.
His wonderful mouth thinned. “You should’ve told me.”
So much for keeping quiet. “When should I have told you, hmm? You were dead.”
“I know. Ilda, amor, I know.” He heaved a frustrated breath, hanging his head momentarily before spearing her with a dark look. “But yesterday. How could you not tell me about that beautiful girl who smiled at me this morning?” His voice broke, low and rough, and her heart did the same.
Still, she said nothing.
Her silence stoked his anger. “When did this happen? We always used protection.”
A question she’d asked herself numerous times over the years, and it always came back to her best guess. “Our wedding, I think.” Though she didn’t know for sure. “Arlo was born early.”
“Early?”
“Premature. She was only four pounds, six ounces.” Ilda’s stomach still clenched to remember her tiny little baby in neonatal care, trapped in an incubator and breathing through an oxygen hood. So small and fragile, it had been weeks before Arlo had been permitted to go home with Ilda. Long, heartbreaking weeks.
To look at Arlo now, you’d never know she was a preemie. She was a healthy average for weight and height in her age group, active and coordinated, with a quick mind and quicker smile.
“She’s deaf.”
“She’s perfect,” Ilda snapped, shoving at his chest to no avail. Protective rage was a flash flood inside her, ringing in her ears even as she kept her voice low, so as not to draw undue attention from the women of the Ladies Auxiliary. Her finger dug into his breastbone, poking aggressively. “She is clever and happy and healthy and perfect.”
“Shhh.” Casey rubbed her arms soothingly. “Shhh, baby, it wasn’t a criticism. I just want to know.” He swallowed audibly. “I want to know my daughter.”
“She’s not your daughter.” Ilda shoved at his hands and he stepped back, dropping his hold. “Not in any way that matters.”
“Biology matters.”
“Pipe is all she’s known. He’s been there, supporting us before she came into the world, and he’s the only father she has ever had.” She took a deep breath. “Or will have. He’s officially adopting Arlo following the wedding.”
Casey did not like hearing that. Her eyes widened as he stalked forward again to cage her between corded forearms. Unwelcome desire licked at her senses, warming her belly and making her thighs clench. “Hate to break it to you, Señora Faraday, but you can’t marry when you’ve already got a husband.”
“Our marriage is null and void.” She hated the breathless quality of her voice. “Since you weren’t you.”
“Wanna bet?” he growled, leaning in until he filled her vision. “That was my signature on the certificate.”
“But not your name in the ceremony.”
“Is it the words that make it legal, or the document? Check the certificate, Ilda.”
“I can’t.” The words were ripped from her. “The chapel fire. I...it was lost.”
He grunted, but she couldn’t interpret the sound. “Do you know that for sure?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I didn’t lie on the certificate. I didn’t.”
“Why not?” And yes, that was her bitter tone. “You lied about everything else.”
“But not this. Damn it, Ilda.” This time, it was Casey who kissed her, every angry word he refused to say because he so obviously didn’t want to hurt her stamped into the brand of his lips.
She fought to remain still, to not respond to the storm of emotion she could sense swirling within him, but it was impossible. He vibrated with life, and she didn’t have it in her to deny the potent pull of the life force that was Casey Faraday. Whimpering, she parted her lips to permit him entry, hands lifting to hover over the brawny biceps revealed by the short sleeves of his plain white tee.
Abruptly, Casey ceased all movement, hissing out a breath, and Ilda opened her lust-heavy lids just in time to catch the glint of a deadly blade against his throat. Just as she tensed to scream, a familiar male voice broke through their heavy exhalations.
“I’m going to need you to step away from the lady, hombre.”
Relief shuddered through her. “Axel, no, it’s—”
“Axel?” As though the knife had never posed any real threat, Casey pinched his assailant’s hand at the base of the thumb, forcing the weapon to drop from suddenly numb fingers. After a brief struggle, he turned, using his body to shield her, and confronted the man who’d snuck up on them both. “Axel Moreno, what the ever-loving fuck.”
To Ilda’s shock, Casey grappled the DEA agent in a priest’s collar into a vigorous bear hug, whispered English spilling from their lips as the two men beamed at one another. Her own grasp of the language was fair-to-middling at best, but she caught enough to understand that not only did they recognize one another, but they were friends. Intimate friends.
Didn’t that just figure. Her handler and her husband, brothers-in-arms.
Casey was the first to pick up on her displeasure, coughing into his fist before switching politely into Spanish for her benefit. He propped one hand on the wall beside her head, effectively staking her as his territory, and she seethed at what sort of picture they presented to Axel. Well, she mostly seethed. There may or may not have been a small percentage of her that rather enjoyed his overt alpha-dog behavior.
“Can’t believe you’re Ilda’s handler, man. Small world.”
Axel grinned, white teeth gleaming in the shadows. In his thirties, he possessed a boyish handsomeness, with curly sun-streaked brown hair, a high forehead and cheeks that creased at the slightest hint of a smile. He was leaner than Casey, and stood an inch or so taller, but in the two years they’d worked together, Ilda had never once been tempted by the face and body that no doubt drew women like bees to honey. “And you’re her...something?”
“Yeah, let’s stick to ‘something’ for now.” Casey’s answering smile remained wry. “When did you leave L.A.?”
“I split my stints for a few years, but recently it’s been all Colombia, all the time. Cartel activity’s been pretty high as of late. We’re trying to crack down.” Axel shook his head as he crossed his arms over his chest, black button shirt and jacket pulling taut over toned muscles. “Even went so far as to form a joint task force with Interpol, since there’s been increased trafficking in European markets.”
A frown furrowed Casey’s forehead. “Let me guess—specifically in Russia and mob-controlled territories.”
“How’d you know?”
“Long story, but I promise, next time you’re stateside, I’ll buy you a drink and fill
you in.” Shifting his attention to Ilda, Casey nodded toward Axel. “He dated my sister a while back. For a time there, we even thought he’d make it official and join the family.”
Axel’s smile held a wistful tinge. “Hey, I tried. Gillian wasn’t having any of it.”
Casey squeezed the DEA agent’s shoulder in sympathy. “She’s married to her work, first and foremost.” His frown deepened. “Come to think of it, she didn’t make it home for the holidays last year.”
At that, Ilda lost her patience. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
Thankfully, Casey had the presence of mind to appear mildly sheepish. “Two, as a matter of fact, and two brothers. All younger.”
The oldest of five. Well, that might explain the mile-wide protective streak constantly blocking her path. “I see.”
Axel glanced between the two of them, accurately reading into the subtext of the moment and doing all of them a favor by changing the subject. “When Tobias contacted me about setting up a meet for you with my CI, he didn’t mention what for. I’d like to know, please.” When Casey hesitated, Axel’s expression tightened. “You wouldn’t have let me within ten feet of Gillian if you hadn’t had me thoroughly vetted.” He flicked a finger toward the white cleric’s collar. “Plus, as you can see, I’m a man of God now, and if you can’t trust a priest...”
Casey’s voice was barely audible when he spoke, unaware that his soft, serious words shook the foundation of Ilda’s concept of safety. “Adam was kidnapped on Friday night in Boston. We got camera footage of his assailants, all of whom have direct ties to the Marin cartel.” He glanced at her. “Manuel Dias led the attack, and we all know he doesn’t make a move unless it’s at the direct order of Pipe.”
As Ilda reeled, Axel frowned. “I’m assuming they asked for ransom, your family being who they are.”
What does that mean? Why would Casey’s family have anything to do with asking for ransom money?
