The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  Oh, yeah. She was good.

  “I’ll do what I’m paid to do,” Marisela answered. “What I’ve been trained to do.”

  “You see, Elise,” Ian said, skillfully disengaging Elise and leading her out of Marisela’s personal space, “you have nothing to worry about. Marisela and her partner will infiltrate Javier’s compound, locate and extract your daughter. In no time at all, Jessica will be home with you in Boston.”

  With a quick flash of a smile, Elise Barton-Ryce rejoined Ian beside an exquisitely set table gleaming with gold-trimmed china and prismed crystal. A second later, Max appeared beside Marisela, holding a tray with a single drink—a mojito brimming with fresh mint leaves and a slushy service of ice. Marisela eyed the beverage warily.

  “Did you get demoted to bartender?”

  “I’m just bringing you your favorite drink.”

  “My favorite drink is a Cuba Libre. For once, you got something wrong.”

  Max’s colorless eyes narrowed. “You order the Cuba Libre because most of the bars you frequent don’t carry fresh mint. But when you go out somewhere special, you order one of these. Might be your last decent drink for a while.”

  Marisela frowned, unnerved by how much these people knew about her. Even Frankie wouldn’t have known about her preference for the Cuban version of a mint julep. Rum, sugar, mint, and lime had only come to her attention a few years ago during one of her nights out with Lia. Despite her cultural background, no one she knew ever drank them. Lia and Marisela had laughed at the time, likening the experience to the fact that Lia, a born-and-bred Italian-American, had never heard of tiramisu until eating at one of those chain restaurants sometime after high school.

  Marisela took the glass and sipped the icy drink. She smiled. Extra sweet, as she preferred.

  “Max, you are an amazing font of information.”

  He shrugged humbly. “I know what I need to know.”

  “I’m assuming you find out what you need to know by blending into the woodwork. Care to share your secret?”

  “Practice,” he answered.

  “Where’s Frankie?” she asked.

  “On his way.”

  She leaned forward so her whisper wouldn’t be overheard. “So I met the lady with the checkbook. Do I have to stay?”

  “You have to eat.”

  “I can eat in my room.” Marisela didn’t like the petulant sound in her voice, but she saw no reason to stay. She didn’t like Blake. She didn’t like Elise Barton-Ryce. And she wasn’t entirely sure she liked Frankie at the moment, thanks to the way he stubbornly stayed on her mind when making love to him today was supposed to have exorcised her latent attraction to him.

  Max handed the tray to a passing waiter, but otherwise hardly adjusted his rigid stance. “Mrs. Barton-Ryce expressed concern to Mr. Blake about the caliber of the agents assigned to her case. She’s aware that you are entirely untried. Mr. Blake thought that a face-to-face meeting might alleviate her qualms.”

  Marisela snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a waiter’s tray and popped the prosciutto-wrapped delicacy in her mouth, amazed when the cool sweetness of melon exploded on her tongue. Okay, maybe hanging out here wouldn’t be so bad. At the moment, Mrs. Barton-Ryce seemed entirely more interested in flirting with Ian Blake than on further assessing the agents assigned to retrieve her daughter. After ten seconds of conversation, Marisela had been summarily dismissed. “Yeah, her maternal concern is overwhelming.”

  Max tilted his head slightly to the right, but otherwise controlled any reaction to Marisela’s obvious doubt. “I didn’t think you would judge another woman so quickly.”

  Marisela laughed, then swigged her drink heartily. “See, there is something you don’t know about me.”

  The door opened behind them and Frankie walked in, looking like sin on a stick in slim black jeans, a black T-shirt, and his signature leather jacket. His eyes captured hers in a split second and caused a fluttering in Marisela’s belly that she neither expected nor welcomed.

  When Marisela turned back to Max, the guy was gone. “How does he do that?”

  Frankie answered her rhetorical question with a half-grin. “Never underestimate Max. He’s not just some flunky.”

  “I never thought he was,” she said, side-stepping out of Frankie’s personal space, “but he’s starting to creep me out.”

  Ian gestured them over, so Frankie placed his hand oh-so-subtly at the small of Marisela’s back, renewing the tingle shooting through her veins. She was supposed to be over him, dammit. Immune. Satisfied enough to leave him alone for the duration of the mission.

  Yeah, right.

  Frankie guided her toward Elise and Ian. For God’s sake, she could certainly cross a room without any help, couldn’t she?

  She tugged aside, then speared him with a warning glare. Maybe surrendering to that intimate itch with Frankie hadn’t been such a wise idea. Not because, as Lia’d insisted, she’d simply renewed her addiction to a man who would never turn out to be more than a good lay, but because Frankie had that whole machismo thing going on. Sparking his protective instincts on the eve of their first mission together hadn’t been the wisest move. He couldn’t help himself. The need to protect and direct the female of the species had been bred into his blood, into his genetic code. With their history, his natural progression would be to protect her, rather than share the danger with her.

  Well, that had to stop. She hadn’t signed on this mission to be a liability to anyone.

  “So, Ian,” Marisela said, grinning with much more friendliness than she felt, “this is quite a spread. I sure hope you didn’t put all the caviar on Mrs. Barton-Ryce’s bill just for me.”

  Elise’s smile was almost painful in its shape and stillness. Apparently, she didn’t smile much—either because she wasn’t good at grinning or perhaps, because shows of genuine amusement or warmth “weren’t done” in her social circle. Though with her looks and cash flow, Elise Barton-Ryce probably had lots of reasons to be beaming from ear-to-ear 24/7, missing child or not.

  “Sharing a meal with the people who will rescue my child is my privilege, Ms. Morales,” she answered tactfully.

  “Please, call her Marisela,” Ian insisted, topping off Elise’s glass with a golden Chardonnay and leveling a warning glance at Marisela to behave. “We’re all friends here.”

  Frankie made a noise not unlike a snort, but with more subtlety. A sniff—with attitude.

  “You don’t agree, Frank?” he said, his gaze narrowing, but only for a split second. “Forgive me, Elise. This is Francisco Vega, the man who will accompany Marisela on this mission. He’s a more experienced operative than Marisela, though we value them both, of course.”

  Elise’s smile transformed, and Marisela, for one, was impressed. Elise’s grin instantly morphed from feigned politeness to pure feminine huntress. She reached out with her finely boned hand and for a moment, Marisela thought she saw claws instead of French manicured nails.

  Marisela finished the rest of her drink, then fiddled with the shoot of sugarcane used as garnish, crushing the mint and leftover ice into a cool, fragrant mash. She watched Frankie accept Elise’s hand, smiling when he instantly released her, as if Elise’s skin was too cold for prolonged touch. Too bad Frankie wasn’t interested. This woman could use a real man to warm her up.

  Marisela glanced up to catch Ian Blake staring at her with a keen focus that transformed the look into something nearly tangible, like the tip of an electrode activated against her skin, causing a resonant tingling to echo through her. She couldn’t identify the sensation as either positive or negative—just…there. Strong and significant, and yet, completely abstract.

  She started when Frankie’s hand again slipped around the back of her waist. He moved her toward the table, under the guise of helping her politely into her chair.

  “Don’t fall for it, vidita,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear as he tucked in her chair. Where’d he learn such politeness anyway?
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  “Fall for what?”

  His gaze flashed toward Ian. “He’s not what he appears to be.”

  “Funny, all he appears to be is my boss.” She snapped her napkin flat, then laid it across her lap. She leaned in close so only he could hear her. “Aren’t you curious about why we’re really all here? I’m betting Ian’s guest has never shared a meal with people like you and me—except when the people like you and me were doing the serving.”

  Frankie grinned. “Do you know which fork to use?”

  She winked and toyed with the edge of the appetizer fork, showing off her newfound knowledge. Max had taken the time to review table manners as part of their training. Apparently, the identities they would soon take belonged to people who moved flawlessly in and out of an upper crust world. Maybe dinner tonight was a simple test of her table manners and not something more nefarious.

  Uh-huh.

  Marisela might not know a lot about finger bowls and napkin rings, but she had a strong sense that there was more to this impromptu dinner than met the naked eye.

  Ian helped Elise into her chair, and then slid into his own with a grace she’d never seen in a man before. She’d already pegged him as smooth as silk, but no matter how impressive an educated, cosmopolitan man like him should appear to an urban girl like her, she couldn’t shake the persistent mistrust of him fueled by Frankie’s warnings. Just what did her ex know about their boss that he hadn’t shared?

  Ian gestured for the server. A moment later, three white-jacketed crewmen popped into the room, carrying trays and refilling drinks. Ian approved the wine selection, and then turned his grin back to Marisela.

  “I’m told you and Frank had quite the workout this afternoon. How gauche of me to delay our meal. You must have worked up quite the appetite.”

  Marisela raised one brow. “You should join us in the gym sometime,” she said, determined not to let him unnerve her. “Might be interesting to spar with the boss.”

  Ian’s grin was as intense as Frankie’s steely glare.

  “An interesting idea,” Ian replied, “but I think I’ll pass. I wouldn’t want to intrude when your training is progressing just as Frankie assured me it would.”

  Marisela didn’t know a damned thing about fishing, but she recognized bait when she saw it. She threw Frankie an intimate smile before meeting Ian’s superior gaze directly. “Frankie certainly does know his stuff.”

  Ian cleared his throat. “So I’ve heard.” With a snap of his napkin, Ian ended the conversation.

  Marisela watched a silent battle ensue while the server placed small silver trays laden with individual servings of soft cheese, fruit, and warm, nutty bread in front of them. Ian attempting to look nonchalant and unaffected; Frankie doing his damnedest to keep from punching Blake in the face. She had to give Frankie credit for controlling his temper. In the old days, he would have called the guy out by now. Of course, maybe they’d already tangled sometime earlier, before Marisela was around. Maybe that was the animosity Marisela was picking up on.

  “So, Marisela,” Elise said, toying mindlessly with a gold chain that dipped into her cleavage. “What do you know about my Jessica?”

  “What do I need to know? You have custody and her father took her.”

  Elise looped her finger in the gold links, drawing Marisela’s attention to a small locket peeking out from her neckline. “That’s a rather simplistic assessment.”

  Marisela eyed the woman carefully. “Am I missing some complexity I should know about?”

  Blake smeared cheese over his bread and Frankie, who’d pushed his plate away, concentrated on making quick work of his wine. Why did she have the feeling the men knew infinitely more than she did? Or that Elise wanted to say something she couldn’t quite get out?

  Elise took a brief sip of Chardonnay and then answered Marisela’s question in a surprisingly straightforward tone. “My former lover is a cruel man who runs a dangerous empire. There is no telling how he’s poisoned my daughter’s mind against me.”

  Finally, Elise extracted the locket that she wore, unhooked the clasp and handed it across the table to Marisela.

  “Open it,” Elise ordered, her voice cool, but quavering.

  Curious, Marisela complied. The minute she spied the angelic face she’d suspected she’d find inside, she clicked the tiny hinge shut and thrust the necklace back to its owner. “I’ve seen your daughter.”

  Elise sat up straighter, clearly offended, and made no move to retrieve her locket. “That’s a picture. An old picture, faded by time. And it’s all I’ve had for fifteen years.”

  Hot anger burbled in Marisela’s chest. Did she look like some bleeding-heart sap? Why was Elise pushing so hard, forcing her to feel some profound sadness for a cute little baby who was now all grown up? “That’s not my concern.”

  “It should be.”

  “Why?”

  As if on cue, a tear sprang from the corner of Elise’s eye, which she quickly dabbed away with her napkin. “I’m terrified that Jessica will fight you if she knows who you really are. She’ll run to her father and Javier will kill you both. Don’t I have enough on my conscience already?”

  She tore away from the table and Ian, after leveling an admonishing glance at Marisela, quickly followed his guest. In a dark corner by the window, they talked in hushed tones, leaving Frankie and Marisela alone while the waiters delivered the soup.

  Marisela set the locket beside her bowl and eyed the pinkish cream concoction with a guilty appetite. She loved lobster bisque, but she’d just reduced their client to tears—something she was fairly certain Ian didn’t appreciate. She hadn’t meant to make the woman cry, but she was trying to stick to the facts. Of course the girl would resist if she knew the truth.

  Frankie picked up his spoon and made short work of the lobster and caviar garnish. “You always did have a way with people, vidita, especially rich gringas who spend more on their shoes than you make in a year.”

  Marisela ignored the growl in her stomach, finished her wine, then waved at the waiter to bring more. “Than I used to make in a year, maybe. You don’t believe those waterworks, do you? She should use some of her trust fund on acting lessons.”

  Frankie chuckled, grabbed a roll, and dunked a torn hunk into his soup. “You don’t think she’s sincere?”

  With clenched teeth beneath tight lips, Marisela glanced over her shoulder. Ian had his arm draped over Elise’s shoulder and their quiet conversation now included soft laughter.

  “Not anymore than you think Ian can be trusted,” she replied.

  Frankie paused, then shrugged and dug into his soup with gusto. “Then we’re both in a hell of a lot of trouble, aren’t we?”

  Suddenly, Marisela had lost her appetite.

  Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter Eleven

  Frankie watched across the table, noting how Marisela played with the gleaming gold locket Elise had given her. She’d ignored the trinket throughout the tense dinner, even tried to return it before Elise retired to her stateroom, but the woman insisted Marisela keep the charm. Now, she couldn’t seem to stop touching it.

  Frankie wouldn’t care about what this Elise Something-or-Another did or didn’t do to solidify Marisela’s loyalty, except for one thing—Marisela’s loyalty had to be to him. Or more accurately, to the team. He’d known her for a long time. If someone pushed Marisela’s buttons, her temper could overcome her good sense. They’d all be a lot safer if Marisela’s emotions stayed out of the mix. And nothing could stir Marisela up like an injustice to a child.

  During their workout, she’d told him about how she’d lost her gig in the bond enforcement biz. Beat up a perp and used excessive force, all because the guy had been an asshole to his wife and kids. She’d had no stake in the jerk’s crime or punishment, but she’d let the unfairness push her over the edge. If she pulled such a stupid stunt on this mission, they could both end up dead.

  Frankie’s gaze darted to Blake, who accepted a brandy from Max an
d thankfully had toned down his annoying charm. Blake was quiet and concentrated as he typed a series of codes into a cordless keyboard, which activated the flat screen on the wall across from them. A photograph of a man and woman boarding a charter plane flashed into view. Frankie pushed his concerns about Marisela aside. For now he’d concentrate on making this mission work and keeping them alive.

  “This is Dolores and Rogelio Tosca, exiled Cuban nationals who immigrated to Canada from Havana in 1987. They settled just outside of Toronto, though they spend most of their time traveling the world as high-paid assassins. Exactly three months ago, Javier Perez instructed one of his top lieutenants to contact the Toscas in order to eliminate a rival who’s persisted in invading Perez’s North American territory.”

  “Why didn’t Perez do the dirty work himself?” Frankie asked. He’d crossed the paths of quite a few arms dealers during his stint in prison. They weren’t the types to delegate deadly force outside their own organization.

  Blake grinned wryly. “We’re guessing he doesn’t want to turn his problem into a turf war. He’s not interested in sending a message to his rivals, he just wants to eradicate the immediate problem.”

  Made sense. If Perez did the hit himself, the rival’s men would feel compelled to reciprocate with more violence. If the competitor was taken out by independent contractors, the source of the hit wouldn’t be immediately clear. In the arms dealing business, deadly enemies were a dime a dozen.

  “Where are the Toscas now?”

  Frankie guessed the couple would provide the cover Blake had chosen for him and Marisela in order to infiltrate Perez’s inner circle. Though Dolores and Rogelio appeared a bit older than he and Marisela were, assassins weren’t generally high-profile people. Likely, the only thing known about them was that they were rich, Hispanic, and traveled in a pair.

  But diverting paid assassins once money had exchanged hands would prove near to impossible unless they eliminated the real couple. Permanently.

  “Already dead,” Ian replied coolly. “Or at least, presumed so, thanks to a very reliable source.”