Hard Edge

by Clare, Pamela

  It felt so good to be clean, hot water, soap, and shampoo washing away some of the stress and exhaustion of the past week.

  Gabriela combed her wet hair and studied her reflection in the mirror. The bruises on her cheek were darker now, her lip still a little swollen. There was a bruise on her right breast, too. She didn’t know where she’d gotten that—probably from Pitón slamming her in the chest with his shoulder.

  She hadn’t seen her naked body much over the past couple of years, so it felt strange to stand there in privacy, not as the pious Sister María, but as Gabriela.

  She dried her hair as best she could with the towel then reached for her plain bra, panties, and dirty, stinking habit, reluctant to put them on again.

  A knock at the door.

  “Hermana, I have laid out some clean clothes for you to wear. We don’t think it’s safe for you to be seen in your habit. You’re too recognizable. I will leave you in peace to dress. If these don’t fit, we’ll find something else, but I think you’re close to my size.”

  They were right about wearing her habit. The garments had protected her so far, but now they made her stand out.

  Relieved, Gabriela wrapped the towel around herself and opened the door to find jeans and a yellow V-neck T-shirt emblazoned with a hot-pink poppy sitting on the bed beside a pair of pastel pink bikini-style panties and a black one-size-fits-all sports bra.

  She hurried over to the bed, unable to keep from smiling as she ran her fingers over the faded, butter-soft denim. God, how she had missed jeans!

  She dropped the towel, stepped into the panties, and reached for the jeans. Laura was shorter than she was and very slender, but Gabriela had probably lost ten pounds during her time at the Mission. The jeans fit like a glove.

  She drew the sports bra over her head and then the T-shirt. And for a moment, she stood there, savoring the feel of wearing normal clothes again.

  “Hermana, do they fit?”

  “Yes, Laura, and thank you very much!” Gabriela gathered her dirty habit, panties, and bra, and bundled them into the towel, not sure what else to do with them.

  She opened the bedroom door to find Laura standing there.

  The woman’s face lit up. “You’re such a pretty girl. I’m surprised you had the chance to become a nun.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Laura, but external beauty is fleeting.” Still, Gabriela couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you for lending me these clothes. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to bring them back to you.”

  Probably never.

  “Don’t worry about that. Just make it to safety.” Laura took Gabriela’s filthy habit and underthings. “I’ll wash these and save them.”

  “It’s better for you to burn them. I don’t want the Guachimanes to find you with them.” Then she held out her rosary. “This is for you.”

  Laura stared at her in amazement. “I can’t take it.”

  “You’ll be helping to protect me. I’ve prayed countless times with this, so I hope it will bless you and Yadiel.”

  Then, over Laura’s shoulder, Gabriela saw him.

  Dylan stood down the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze moving over her, raw male hunger on his face.

  Gabriela’s belly fluttered, an emotion she hadn’t felt in months stirring inside her—desire.

  Dylan seemed to catch himself. He stood upright and looked away. “No one will think you’re a nun now.”

  Gabriela had to hold back a laugh. “Let us hope not.”

  Laura invited Dylan to shower, too, an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  “I saw the way he looked at you,” Laura said after Dylan had left the room. “Are you sure you’re safe with him?”

  Laura might do better to ask whether Dylan was safe with her, though the fact that she was working and maintaining her cover meant she couldn’t jump his bones. “Yes, I’m sure. He has been most respectful. But I do feel naked without my veil.”

  It was the truth. She’d worn a veil for more than a year.

  Laura gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s only for a short time. But what will you do? These mercenaries are everywhere. There are roadblocks on all the highways leaving the city. If they stop you, you’ll have to show your ID, and then they’ll have you.”

  That was going to be a problem.

  “I don’t have my ID. The people who abducted me didn’t think to let me run inside to get it.”

  Laura studied her for a long moment. “I know a man who makes good fake IDs. He might be able to connect you with smugglers going to Colombia—if that’s where you’re going. But there’s a reward for the two of you. I’m not sure you can trust anybody out there, not with people as desperate as they are.”

  “We trusted you.” All the same, Gabriela would rather take her chances on the streets. With her training—and Dylan’s—they stood a good chance of making it to the border on their own. But she couldn’t say that. “Thank you, Laura. You have helped us today beyond all hope. Tell Señor Cruz what you told me. He is the expert on such things. He’ll know if it’s too risky.”

  Then Dylan was there, his T-shirt stretched over his chest, his pecs visible through the white fabric, his short dark hair damp. “If what’s too risky?”

  9

  “That must be the place.” Sister María of the Very Tight Jeans pointed with a nod of her head toward the second-to-last house on the street. “Remember, you’re my step-brother, and you’re rescuing me from an abusive boyfriend.

  “Sí, claro.” Yes, of course.

  This had been Sister María’s idea—and Dylan was impressed. In two flat minutes, she’d put the whole story together in micro-detail. The abusive ex-boyfriend. The need to get to Colombia, where Dylan, who’d come from Cuba with his poor departed father, had a construction job. The thugs that had stolen her ID card.

  She’d suggested they use her birth name, which he already knew from the initial mission briefing, and combine it with Rojas, the last name that was on his fake ID. “That way, we can be relatives—siblings, spouses, whatever we need to be.”

  Dylan couldn’t have done a better job himself. But he had to ask. “Won’t you be breaking your vows to lie like this?”

  “I vowed poverty, chastity, and obedience. Lying might be a sin, but God understands our circumstances.”

  Jesus, Dylan hoped so. He’d been uncomfortably horny since the moment Sister María had stepped out of the bedroom, those jeans and that T-shirt revealing all of the delicious curves that her shapeless gray habit had concealed.

  She didn’t just have a beautiful face and the heart of a saint. She had a body, too—full breasts, a slender waist, a sweet ass that filled out those jeans like...

  Stop, cabrón. She’s a nun.

  Yeah, Dylan was going to hell.

  If they hadn’t been trying to escape a bunch of murdering assholes, he might have beat one out in the shower just to get the urge out of his system. But he hadn’t wanted to get caught holding his dick instead of a weapon in case trouble came knocking, so he’d scrubbed off the sweat and grime and had gotten back to the job.

  He needed to get Sister María back to the US. He couldn’t afford distractions.

  “You do the talking,” she said. “I should seem afraid.”

  They walked up to the house, and Dylan knocked, his gaze shifting to the street around them, where kids kicked a soccer ball and adults sat on porches enjoying the sunset, not a Guachimán in sight.

  The door opened to reveal a young man in jeans and a black tank top, tattoos on his forearms. “Yeah?”

  “We need an ID. A friend sent us to you.”

  The man’s gaze moved over Sister María in a way that put Dylan on edge. “Fifty US dollars.”

  Knowing he needed to haggle, Dylan made a counter-offer, pointing to the pack of cigarettes rolled into his T-shirt sleeve. “How about forty dollars and this unopened pack of Cuban smokes—Cohibas.”

  “Deal.” The man grinned, s
tepped aside. “Come in.”

  He shut the door behind them, his gaze still on Sister María. “What do you need?”

  Dylan poured out their story in all of its tragic detail. “I’m taking my sister, Gabriela, to Colombia with me to get her away from the bastard, but those guys who stole her handbag took her driver’s license with it. We’ll never make it past all these fucking roadblocks without it. What the hell is going on out there anyway?”

  Sister María stayed silent, her gaze downcast, her dark hair spilling like a veil over her face, an air of vulnerability around her that hadn’t been there before.

  The man frowned, seeming to notice her bruises for the first time. “Why don’t you just kill that son of a bitch? The fucker deserves it.”

  “As far as I know, that’s still illegal.” Dylan grinned.

  The man, who said his name was Ender, laughed. “Too bad, eh? Let me get my wife. She can fix up your sister’s face, and I’ll make her an ID so perfect that even SEBIN wouldn’t know the difference.”

  He shouted for his wife, asked her to bring her makeup kit. “Andrea used to work in a salon before it closed. Now she cuts hair in the neighborhood.”

  Andrea was a tall, full-figured goddess of a woman, her dark braids piled high on her head and wrapped with a bright red scarf. She examined Sister María’s face. “Oh, what bastard did this to you? He should have his balls cut off.”

  Sister María gave her a shy smile, as if this sounded like a good idea to her.

  Well, if she ever gave up being a nun, she could become an actress.

  “I hope the son of a whore pays for this.” Andrea went to work with concealer, cooing to Sister María as she made the bruise on her face disappear and hid her split lip with lipstick. “You look as beautiful as you ever did.”

  Sister María smiled. “Thank you, Andrea.”

  Ender led them to his basement, where he had a little shop set up with a scanner, a camera, a backdrop, and a fancy laminator. “Put that blouse on over your shirt. You don’t want the ID to show the exact clothes you’re wearing today.”

  Dylan had to give the man credit. He knew his business.

  Sister María slipped into a white blouse, buttoned it, and then stood in front of the backdrop.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Then Ender went to work, hip hop playing in the background.

  Sister María slipped out of the blouse, came to stand beside Dylan.

  “How do you feel?” He touched her arm, a gesture of brotherly concern that he instantly regretted, the heat that arced between them, taking him by surprise.

  She stiffened, clearly not prepared for physical contact. “I’m okay. Just a headache.”

  Ender turned to them, handed Dylan the ID. “See? What did I tell you? Perfect.”

  Dylan studied it. “I’m impressed.”

  He handed it to Sister María then pulled the cash from his pocket and the cigarettes from his sleeve. He had already taken the payment out of his backpack, not wanting to give anyone a glimpse of the money, gear, and ammo inside.

  Ender took his payment, sniffed the cigarettes, and gave Dylan a homie handshake. “Thanks, man. Safe travels.”

  * * *

  It was too late to catch a bus to San Cristóbal, where they would stop before heading toward the Colombian border, so their priority after Gabriela’s fake ID was finding something to eat and a place to spend the night. They walked toward the downtown area with its upscale restaurants, the night warm with just a hint of a breeze. It might have been pleasant—if they hadn’t been running from bad guys, and if signs of hardship weren’t visible everywhere.

  People crowding around black-market stands. Families digging through garbage for food. Armed vigilantes, called tupas, standing on the street corners with weapons.

  Despite all of that, Gabriela hadn’t felt this free since the day she’d taken the veil.

  Dylan’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You’re smiling.”

  “I’ve missed wearing jeans.”

  “They look good on you. I … uh … didn’t mean any disrespect by that, Sister.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “No insult taken.”

  Dylan was doing his best to hide his reaction to seeing her in regular clothes. It was endearing, and it might have amused her more if she weren’t fighting her own battle.

  When they’d been running from the bad guys, she hadn’t had time to appreciate how freaking hot he was. But now that they were just two people walking down the street, she couldn’t seem to ignore the pull between them.

  Everything about him turned her on. His dark, smooth voice. The muscles beneath his T-shirt. Those biceps. His smile. Those gray eyes and long eyelashes. That square jaw with its growth of stubble. His lips. Even the way he moved—graceful, masculine, sure of himself. Then again, he’d served as an elite SEAL and had mastered using his body in ways most men never would.

  Damn.

  It was best not to think about his body. She was clearly drowning in pheromones and suffering from toxic levels of chastity. But she couldn’t do anything about that now, not if the Agency expected her to maintain her cover.

  “Over there.” She pointed with a nod of her head toward a restaurant across the street. “It’s going to be expensive. Many of the restaurants in the city have shut down. Those that are open are expensive.”

  “Don’t worry about the cost. I’ve got money.”

  They crossed the street. Dylan opened the restaurant door for her and followed her inside. The mingled scent of spices and roasting meat hit Gabriela in the stomach, almost making her moan. She hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

  A hostess in big hair and makeup walked over, her lips flattening into a line of disapproval at their casual attire.

  Dylan slipped her a twenty. “Sorry about the clothes. Our luggage got lost on our flight back from Paris.”

  She accepted the money, tucked it away. “How awful.”

  “A quiet table for me and my lady, please.”

  She led them to a table in the corner that faced onto the street and left them with menus, her attitude toward them transformed. “I hope they find your luggage.”

  Dylan sat with his back to the wall, which was Gabriela’s instinct also, as it would enable her to see everyone who entered the restaurant.

  “Order whatever you want,” he said. “I know you must be hungry.”

  She perused the menu, her stomach growling audibly. Arepas prepared a half dozen mouth-watering ways. Steak with sautéed mushrooms. Roast chicken with new potatoes. Hearty pasticho, the Venezuelan lasagna her grandmother had once made.

  She was almost too hungry to make up her mind. “It all looks so good.”

  You’re supposed to be a religious sister, and gluttony is still a sin.

  She settled on the pasticho and a glass of wine, while Dylan ordered an appetizer of arepas, steak, and a beer.

  The drinks arrived quickly.

  Dylan raised his glass. “Salud.”

  “Salud.” She allowed herself only a sip, knowing that, without food in her stomach, the alcohol would go straight to her head and make her say something stupid, something about how sexy he was and how she wasn’t really a Sister and how she wasn’t into casual sex but she’d be willing to make an exception for him.

  Dylan took a sip of his beer, seemed to study her. “You are not at all what I expected, Gabriela.”

  The sound of him saying her real name sent a shiver through her.

  “How is that?”

  “You swear more than I thought you would.”

  She winced at her lapses. “Ah. Yes. Sorry.”

  “It doesn’t bother me.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Tonight, you became exactly what those people expected you to be—shy and afraid. You could be an actress. And the information you fed me, the way you got that key to us—it was like having someone on the inside. I couldn’t have handled it better if I’d been a hostage.”

  �
��You couldn’t.” She smiled at his surprised reaction, her words a little prick to his ego. “They would have suspected you—the big, strong military man. That’s the thing about being a religious sister. People are hardwired to trust us. Even though I stand out in my habit, I also move below most people’s notice in a way you never could.”

  “Devious.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still locked with hers, a grin spreading over his handsome face. “I like it.”

  * * *

  Dylan couldn’t help but watch as Sister María took her first bite of her dinner. Her eyes closed, and she moaned, a soft, feminine sound of satisfaction that stirred him in all the wrong ways, making his blood run hot.

  She chewed, swallowed, then dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It’s been so long since I’ve had pasticho. My Abuelita Isabel used to make it when I came to visit. She’s gone now.”

  Grief flitted like a shadow through her eyes, there and gone in an instant.

  “I’m sorry.” Dylan almost reached out to take her hand but stopped himself. He picked up his fork and knife and cut into his steak. “What did she think of your becoming a nun?”

  Sister María smiled. “My abuelita was a good Catholic. She made sure I knew how to pray the Rosary when I was little. She would have been proud.”

  The conversation drifted as they ate, the two of them careful to keep their voices down. The work she’d done at the Mission. The desperation so many Venezuelans faced when it came to finding food. The lack of the most basic medicines.

  Dylan couldn’t take his gaze off her—those big eyes, the slight flush in her cheeks from the wine, those sweet lips, the tilt of her head when she smiled, the soft purr of her voice. And then he had to ask. “What made you give up everything? What made you decide to be a nun?”

  She took a sip of her wine. “Why did you choose to do what you do?”

  He grinned, amused that she’d flipped the question on him. “I’ve always been a strong, physical guy. I can do things other men can’t do. I guess I wanted to make a difference.”

  “It was much the same for me. I saw a chance to do a job most people can’t imagine doing.”