by Nina Bruhns
“Sorry,” she answered, ignoring how her mouth suddenly dried. “I ain’t selling.”
She balanced her hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed to her feet, her shoulders tensed, ready to counter any attack that might keep her here one minute longer. He matched her stance, unrestrained in his desire to meet her point for point. Did he sense how he unnerved her? Did he think pumping up the charm would lure her to play his game, whatever it was?
She didn’t know his name or where he was from. Or what he really wanted. But she couldn’t forget that he’d been responsible for a scenario that forced her to take a life—and yet, she experienced a familiar tug of attraction nonetheless. With this varón exuding sex from his expertly clipped tawny hair to the dark threads in his silk socks, how could she fight her intrinsic reaction to get busy?
By reminding herself that this bastard had her parents, that’s how.
She wanted to go home, make sure her mother didn’t find so much as a crocheted doily out of place, not to mention bloodstains on the new kitchen rugs with the swaying palm tree motif. But most of all, she wanted out of here before her jumbled emotions led her into the exact kind of temptation the nuns at St. Joseph’s had warned about.
“Don’t you at least want to hear my offer?” He made no move to touch her, but kept her captive with his tone. He had an enticing voice to match his expressive eyes and expensive shoes. If he wasn’t a politician or a gigolo, he was missing his calling. “I’m willing to pay more than you’ve made in your entire lifetime.”
That stopped her. Currently out of work, Marisela couldn’t ignore a chance at big money. At least, not until she heard exactly what he had in mind.
“To do what? A makeover?”
“You’re a bail enforcement agent.”
She shook her head. “Your intel is old. I was a bail enforcement agent.”
“Fired, four weeks ago last Thursday, after an unfortunate plea agreement with the prosecutor’s office. You allegedly beat one Rob Dalton within an inch of his life after he jumped bail, abandoning his devoted wife and their four children to skip town with his gay lover. The prosecutor allowed you to trade your license to carry for your freedom and a clean record. You accepted. A smart move.”
She arched a brow, conceding the accuracy of his information.
“Sometimes I lose my temper.”
“Don’t we all?”
A laugh burst out of her before she could hold it back. “I’m willing to bet you never lose your temper. At least, not when people might see.”
This time, he arched his brow. “You’re a good judge of character.
“I try.”
“You’re also physically adept, formally trained in krav maga at the Twenty-second Street gym by an ex-NYPD sergeant named Whiskey Parker. You also have extensive informal training courtesy of a rather brawl-happy group of women who call themselves las Reinas. You’re mentally quick, a fast draw and an accurate shot. You speak fluent Spanish with a Cuban dialect, and you need money. Other than the little problem with your temper, you’re the perfect candidate for the job I’m offering—especially since without your license, you can’t work in law enforcement in any capacity.”
He recited the condensed version of her past and the bleak reality of her future with total confidence that he’d missed nothing—which he hadn’t. Nothing of consequence, anyway. And he’d delivered the rundown in a deep throaty voice that evoked thoughts of sweaty sheets and iced champagne rather than skanky jail cells and unemployment.
She hooked the thumb of her left hand in her waistband, leaving her right hand free, just in case. “I’m a hot tamale, what can I say?”
“You’re a lethal hot tamale, Ms. Morales. Which is why I’d like you to work for me.”
Again, acute speculation lit his blue eyes, reminding her of the aquamarine earrings her parents’ had bought her for her quinceañera. God, this man was magnetic. He seemed to appreciate her sharp quips and irreverent comments. And most perilous of all, he seemed to know when she was acting all that to make a point.
“Look, I still don’t know who you are, much less what you do,” she pointed out, desperate to regain the upper hand. “Kind of hard to make a life-changing decision without more information.”
He stood, unfolding to his full height, his chest mere inches from hers. “I’m not sure that you’re ready for all the details yet. You’ve had a trying evening.”
A trying evening? More than likely, the women in his rich-ass, pampered world had “trying evenings” when the designer dress they’d chosen for dinner at the club had a rip in the hem and the maid had the night off. Yet, for all his spit and polish, she sensed a man who knew, at least by rumor, the true nature of violence, crime, and risk.
They matched stares, stances. His gaze lowered, sweeping over her in appreciation that didn’t seem lecherous, and yet, taunted her. Enticed her.
“I’m not a killer,” she insisted. “Despite what happened tonight.”
“Mr. Rocha’s job was to lead us to you, help us test your ability to stand against several men in a fight. He obviously had his own agenda.”
“You might have known how he hated me if you’d checked him out with the right people. Like me, for instance,” she challenged.
“No argument. And because of my unfortunate lapse in judgment spawned by a tight timetable, you now have the upper hand in our negotiation.”
“You have my parents.”
He shook his head. “Not for much longer. They will be home any minute. I won’t use them as leverage. Doesn’t exactly engender trust between employer and employee, does it?”
Narrowing her eyes, she searched his face for any sign that he was lying. She found none.
“I’m not an ex-cop or ex-military,” she said. “I’m just a girl who once had a semi-interesting job and a past in a gang. Besides, I’ve got a rap sheet, though that didn’t stop you from hiring Nestor.”
“In my business, a dubious past can be an asset.”
“Really? And what business is that?”
With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to sit again. He also brushed her arm with his fingers, sending a spark of electric awareness crackling around them. For a moment, Marisela considered chastising herself for allowing this man’s buff body, devilish good looks, and well-cut suit to excite her so intrinsically. He’d nearly gotten her killed. He’d set her up, forced her into a situation where she’d had no other option but to kill a man.
On the flip side, toying with the sexual tension coiling between them beat the hell out of waiting in the church parking lot to be first in line for confession after what she’d done to Frankie. Not to mention Nestor.
She eased into the chair, but instead of crossing her legs casually as she had before, she kicked her heels up onto his desk ankle over ankle. With his back to the desk, she’d blocked him from moving in any direction—except backward. Retreat.
He remained still. “My company is a varied conglomerate, mostly private investigation, protection, security. We need someone like you—well acquainted with the criminal element. You know how to move in and out of their circles and you speak the language of the man I’m currently after. You’re beautiful and you can take care of yourself in a fight if your backup is somehow diverted or delayed.”
“You certainly think you know a lot about me,” she said.
“I do, and you know it. Besides, your reputation precedes you,” he answered.
“Really? Maybe yours does, too…of course I wouldn’t know because I still have no idea who the hell you are.”
“Forgive me. My name is Ian Blake.”
She kept her hands folded across her stomach, a sliver of bare skin poking from beneath her midriff tee.
He took her coolness in stride. “I’m the president and CEO of Titan International.”
She rolled the name around in her head. Nothing.
“Tell me when I’m supposed to be impressed. I wouldn’t want to sound stupid for not knowi
ng you. Or Titan International.”
His grin quirked up on one side, bringing one dimple into sharp relief against his rugged jaw, smooth shaven, yet still dangerously angled. “We’re one of the top private investigation firms in the country. We handle some of the business the CIA, DEA, and the FBI don’t have the manpower for.”
She looked around, refusing to appear dazzled by his claim. “And you have a location in Tampa?”
Ian glanced around. “In the United States, we’re headquartered in Boston. This is a small, discreet satellite office, one we may or may not keep in operation after our business here is complete.”
Marisela laughed. Though blindfolded before she’d left the car with Max, she’d traversed yards of hallway before arriving at Ian Blake’s private lair. If this office was small, then so was her Jennifer Lopez butt.
“You can check us out,” he offered. “Information is readily available through various sources. I actually didn’t plan to discuss the details of the case tonight.”
“What? You were going to wait until after I got out of the hospital? How kind.”
“You look no worse for wear,” he insisted.
She swiped a finger over the cut on the side of her mouth. The sting had dulled and the blood had stopped seeping onto her tongue, though she could feel the ugly swelling of moist flesh. She didn’t even want to think about what she’d discover when she peeled off her blouse and examined her back from where Rocha had flung her against the table. There went wearing her teeny-weeny red bikini to the beach tomorrow.
She shook her head, and felt the strain in her neck. “Yeah, I’ll bet I look like Miss America.”
“I’ve known quite a few Miss Americas. You have entirely more panache.”
She rolled her eyes at the compliment, then forced herself to stand. “I’ve got a lot more than panache going for me,” she said, eyeing him up and down with unhidden appreciation.
“No doubt. Would you like to hear my offer?”
She shrugged as if the money didn’t matter. “Hit me.”
He complied. The dollar amount nearly knocked her off her feet.
At her stunned silence, he grinned. “Too little?”
She couldn’t think. No one promised cash payments of that ilk just for knocking a few heads around, maybe digging into some dirt. Still, she had no means of comparison and wasn’t about to let this smooth talker take her for a ride. “Maybe.”
His stare skewered her, but then an indulgent grin lightened the mood. “You need time to think over the compensation package. That’s understandable. Take the night. I’ll find you in the morning,” he promised.
To regain a semblance of power, she flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off the shoulder of his suit. Marisela had her bold moments, but touching a stranger, hunk or not, without a reason, was brazen, even for her.
She broke the contact, winked, then strolled to the door.
“Just sit tight, Mr. Blake. If I’m interested, I’ll find you.”
Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter Five
“Marisela, wake up! The traffic is going to suck if we don’t hit the road.”
Marisela rolled over, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. Her brain throbbed in time to Lia’s pounding on the door. Dios mio. Why was Lia here at daybreak? To torture her?
“Marisela, open the door right now or I’m leaving without you.”
“Cállate!” she shouted, but the reverberation of the volume and pitch sent her flopping back into her pillow. “Por favor, mija, cállate.”
The last part came out in a pathetic croak, so Marisela pulled the sheet over her head and whimpered.
Apparently, her friend heard the desperation in Marisela’s voice and toned down her knocking to light taps.
“Marisela, your mother’s getting suspicious.”
With a groan, Marisela whipped off the tangled sheets. She sat up and staggered to the door, flipping the lock. Wavering, she waited for Lia to slip her skinny body inside before she crashed back on the mattress.
“Lock it,” Marisela ordered.
“Chica, you look like shit.”
Marisela forced her gaze to focus on Lia’s face, pretty and perky with that certain pale shade of olive skin designed to soak up the sun from Tuscany to Sorrento. She’d tamed her naturally bushy eyebrows into sleek arches and even though their plan today included nothing more than a lazy trip to the beach, Lia’s dark green eyes were as expertly lined as her mouth, which she’d tinted with a lipstick that matched the fuchsia pink swimsuit she wore underneath a sexy, white mesh cover-up.
Such perfection so early in the morning made Marisela’s stomach turn. “Why are you here so early?”
“Early? It’s ten-thirty. Frankie’s court appearance was at ten. Didn’t you call me before dawn and order me to shanghai you before he came down here and kicked your ass for whatever mysterious trick you pulled on him last night? Which, by the way, I’m still waiting to hear about in tantalizing detail.”
Marisela groaned, but Lia’s reminder spurred her to scramble out of bed and stumble toward her dresser. She scanned the collection of makeup, jewelry, perfumes, and assorted accessories from bracelets and bangles to toe rings and nail polish for an old discarded bottle of water, not quite ready to venture out of her room for a drink to relieve the dry, cottony coating inside her mouth. She found nothing and cursed, but Lia solved the problem in her usual no-nonsense way, retrieving a half-frozen bottle from her beach bag without being asked.
After drinking greedily, Marisela started to feel alive again.
Lia crossed her slim arms. “What happened last night?”
“My parents went out to dinner and stayed out until after three o’clock in the morning. They didn’t even call. I should ground them.”
Lia frowned. “That’s not what I’m asking about and you know it. What happened between you and Frankie?”
Marisela blew out a breath. It was an attempt at a whistle, but her lips were still too dry. “What didn’t happen last night?” She tossed the bottle back to Lia. She turned to shuffle through several bureau drawers until she found a one-piece tanksuit that would cover the bruises on her back.
“Well, you didn’t sleep well, for one thing,” Lia guessed.
Marisela laughed, the vibrations awakening the pain in her back. “I’m surprised I slept at all. Last night did not go as I expected.”
And she wasn’t even talking about Nestor Rocha or Ian Blake.
Lia dropped her bag on the cedar chest next to Marisela’s bed and proceeded to untangle the sheets so she could inject her usual order into Marisela’s chaotic world. “And you thought meeting with Frankie would be all business. Not so easy seeing him again, was it?”
Actually, hooking up with Frankie had been as effortless as slicing through custard with a razor-sharp knife. Marisela thought she’d steeled herself for the conflagration of emotions Frankie invariably invoked, particularly that sense of nostalgia for those younger, simpler days when she didn’t have to worry so much about getting a job, keeping a job, finding her own place and avoiding an ass-kicking from a ex-boyfriend who had valid reasons to be seriously pissed.
She’d thought wrong.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lia slammed the drawer shut, catching the end of Marisela’s favorite black cover-up. “Listen here, chica, I didn’t get up early on my day off to take you to the beach and not get some serious dish. If you’re not spilling all the gory details,” she said, marching back to the bed and snapping the sheets tight, “then I’m going home to eat chocolate, lay out by the pool, and drink margaritas. Alone.”
Marisela whipped her nightshirt over her head. “You’re cruel. Bluffing, but cruel. You won’t ditch me until you’ve heard every juicy detail.”
She realized her error the minute Lia gasped, dropped the floral shams and rushed to her side. Lia planted her hands firmly on Marisela’s shoulders and turned her, slowly, her winces increasing with each black and b
lue mark.
“Marisela, what happened? Did Frankie do this?”
With care born of her pain, Marisela gingerly moved out of Lia’s reach. “¿Estás loca? Do you think he’d still be alive if he’d done this to me?”
Lia crossed her arms tightly, her size six-and-a-half foot tapping her hand-jeweled flip-flops on the carpeted floor. “If not him, then who?”
It had been a long time since Marisela had seen Lia’s face so pinched and disapproving. The outwardly straight-laced Angelia Santorini knew nearly everything about Marisela’s life, from her lovers to her jobs to her occasional run-ins with the law. But she’d disapproved only once—when Marisela had started hanging out with las Reinas. After Marisela finally decided to fight her way out of the gang, Lia had been her staunchest supporter. This morning, Marisela wanted to tell Lia about Nestor, about what he’d done, about what she’d done to stop him—but she kept her mouth shut. They weren’t kids anymore and murder was too much of a burden, even for her best friend.
“Can we stop talking about last night? Trust me, the guy who did this looks a lot worse.”
As in pale and dead.
Lia rolled her eyes, huffed and finished her project with the bed before turning her attention to Marisela’s clothes-strewn floor. “You’re in trouble again, aren’t you? Don’t deny it,” she said, tossing her hands up. “I know and you’re going to tell—”
At a knock on the door, they both jumped.
“Marisela, do you and Lia want café con leche? I’m turning off the stove. Papi’s on his way to pick me up.”
Marisela released the tight breath she’d been holding in her chest. “No, Mami. We’ll stop at Starbucks.”
As expected, her mother launched into a Spanish language rant on the less than acceptable brewing techniques of the Seattle coffee chain. As she retreated down the hall, back to the kitchen, her primary domain, her volume grew fainter. Lia covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, the humor erasing the picture of Nestor Rocha dead and bleeding on her Mother’s linoleum from Marisela’s mind.
