Illicit Desire

by Taylor Michaels

  As we shoot into the air, I close my eyes and picture her. Jesus. “I need a girl,” I mutter darkly. Lou twitches, silent amusement, and I give him a sour look as the elevator slows with a stomach-turning twist, and the doors slide open to reveal my opulent office.

  I ignore it, and we move through the dark reception area, past the rows of offices my staff works from. Into my office. It occupies a quarter of the floor, with a spiral staircase to the penthouse. We head for it. Miguel leans over the rail, a cool smile on his face. Even in this, while working, he can’t quit smiling.

  “You’re late, Jefe.”

  “Did you start without me?”

  He snorts and I flash him a smile.

  The spiral stair opens into a more traditional stairwell, and I step to the wall, applying light pressure. The sensors pick up my fingerprints, and flash once, before the door, seamlessly hidden in the wall, slides open.

  I step into the back room, and leave behind the businessman.

  This is the truth of my world. The reality of who and what I am. A thug with too much money and power. The world might suspect that this is what lies behind my smiles and the girls I parade through Miami, but they don’t know. They don’t see the back room, or hear the screams, or see the product we moved through ports.

  That line, suspicions without knowledge, has kept me out of jail more than my mother cares to think about.

  Miguel has the mugger tied to a plain, straight-backed chair. Something that could be found in any cheap restaurant. Three of my low level enforcers are standing behind him, and Miguel catches my eye. I nod once, and lean against the wall, hidden mostly in shadows.

  The mugger stares at me, all bluster and bloody spit. “What the fuck is this shit?”

  “You mugged a woman. On this street. And you would ask what is going on?”

  He spits, blood spraying the ground. “What the hell does it matter? She was nobody. Why the fuck does it matter?”

  “This building belongs to the Ortiz Cartel,” Miguel says softly.

  That makes him falter, for the first time, worry flickering over his eyes. “A cartel won’t give a fuck if I mug a random tourist.”

  Rage flickers in me, and I want—badly—to punish him myself. But I won’t. The new crew needs the experience, and I need to keep my hands clean.

  But I will do this.

  I step away from the shadows, and the mugger glances at me. He goes ashen, and I let him stare for a long moment, before I say, “You attacked a woman. On my steps. I give a fuck.”

  “Sir,” he starts, but I shake my head, stepping away and waving at the enforcers.

  “Break his hands. Touching a woman is unacceptable,” I order quietly.

  Lou shifts as the beating begins, the three boys separating from the walls. They exchange a few words in soft Spanish, and then one moves, lighting fast. The sound of flesh slamming into flesh never loses it’s distinctive sound, and I smile as the thug grunts through the pain. Miguel circles to flank me.

  “They do good work,” he says, nodding at the boys beating the mugger. I don’t respond, watching them. One has started in on the thugs legs, slamming an aluminum bat into his shin, and the thug screams. Another rapid fire exchange, and the third reaches up with duct tape and silences him. Miguel eyes me for a moment and then he shrugs. “Here’s her purse.”

  I catch it as Miguel tosses it, startled by the unexpected heft of it. Jesus. What all did she carry in this thing? I flip it open, a dizzying array of junk staring back.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I murmur, and turn away. There’s a moment of hesitation in the beating, and then they resume. I glance at Miguel. “Put them on a crew, at the warehouse. And find me everything you can on her.”

  His eyebrows go up—it’s not a normal request from me, but he nods, taking the driver’s license I extend to him, and I leave them.

  There’s a small folder in her bag. I pull it out and glance through it. A small, shady temp agency. I frown. If she works with them, she’ll never go anywhere.

  I remember Benni’s cryptic order, the demand that she be compensated, and smile.

  Chapter 3

  Cora

  IT’S MONDAY BEFORE I can get the truck and go back to Kane Staffing. I know Paul is impatient, and I get it. We don’t have the money for me to be unemployed. Kane had listings, when I checked them online, and even though they seem a little sketch—the office is dirty with flickering lights and the parking lot smells of cat piss, I’m not in a position to be picky.

  I park the truck and kill the ridiculously loud engine.

  The office is quiet this early, and I feel awkward intruding in the deathly still office, but I give the receptionist a smile anyway. “Hi. I came in last week to fill out my paperwork.”

  I explain quickly about my purse, and her lips thin. “If we can’t contact you, Ms. Milan, we can’t place you. That’s in your contract.”

  I want to smack her. I know what’s in the damn contract. “I know,” I say, forcing my voice to stay friendly, “but I’m explaining, it was out of my control.”

  The door behind me pulls open, and the receptionist’s glances at whoever enters.

  “I can be here every day to check for job offers. I swear, I’m not trying to be difficult and if you place me, I’ll be the best temp you’ve ever had.”

  Her gaze darts back to me, all brisk efficiency and uncaring professionalism. “If you can’t provide a number where you can be reached, I’m afraid we can’t help you, Ms. Milan.”

  I grit my teeth, and she turns her attention to whoever is behind me, clearly done with me. “Please,” I say, and I hate that I’m begging but fuck it. “I’ll do anything.”

  The receptionist flicks a glance over me, and says, “I have other clients.”

  I want to curse, to tell her what a bitch she is, but I can’t afford to. If by some miracle, my phone turns up, I need to be in her good graces. So I swallow my pride, and turn around.

  And freeze.

  Raphael is standing behind me, his hands behind his back. And he looks just as amazing in this dinky office as he did on the street in front of the Carlita. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits like a damn glove, a thin tie, and black dress shoes. His dark eyes are trained on me, and I take a half-step back, startled by the depth of emotion I see in his gaze. Then he smiles, and his eyes go warm and friendly. I relax a little.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt, startled out of my manners. Behind me, the receptionist tuts angrily—but seriously, what does she think this wealthy bastard is doing in her shithole office?

  A smile ticks his lips. “I have something of yours.”

  My heart gives a lurch as he holds out my purse, looking a little worse for wear, but so familiar and unexpected that tears spring to my eyes. Stupid stupid stupid.

  I grab it from him and hug it to my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper, trying to get myself under control. “You have no idea how important it is.”

  And then I turn away from him, and dig my phone out of my purse. I wave it at the receptionist, who by now is staring openly. I’m intensely aware of Raphael’s gaze boring into my back. “I have my phone. Is there anything you can send me to? Anything at all?”

  She glares. “No.”

  Anger grips me, hard, and I swallow the scream itching to break free. I force a smile that is more a grimace than anything. “Fine. I’ll check in tonight.”

  I jerk around and freeze, startled to be facing Raphael again. I mutter something, and shift past him—god, he smells divine—as I beeline for the door.

  How on earth did he find it? And for that matter—how did he find me? Being hard to find keeps me safe, and the fact that Raphael so easily tracked me down—I want to bolt. Grab Paul and what we absolutely can’t leave behind, and vanish into the next big city or the middle of nowhere.

  “Wait,” he calls, the door closing behind him as he follows me into the parking lot. I should keep moving. I should run—but I stop. I wai
t. I twist to stare at him as he approaches, slowly, as if approaching a wild, skittish animal.

  “How did you find me?” I demand, my voice harsh. Raphael shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. It disturbs the collar of his button down shirt, and I see the hint of tattoos under his collar.

  “You were still carrying paperwork from here. I assumed you would come back. That if I were patient, you would come back.”

  I stare at him, disbelieving. “You’re a CEO. You don’t have time to sit around a parking lot,” I say, flatly.

  A tiny smile tugs at his full lips, and he shrugs. “That means I can be where I want. And I wanted to be here.”

  I look around again. A temp agency felt like a good idea when we first got here. It wasn’t the best I could do, but it was relatively easy and anonymous. And that mattered. Now, I’m wondering if I wasn’t an idiot. If my attempts at hiding were just as paltry as I thought they were.

  “You look tired,” he says, and I’m startled to realize his voice is softer, and closer. I look up and Raphael is only a step or two away. Close enough that I can smell his cologne again, a spicy scent that makes me want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck.

  “I am,” I say, too tired and worried to dissemble. “I need this job to work out, and it’s not.”

  He hesitates, and then, “Would you have coffee with me?”

  I laugh, because there’s no way he’s asking me that. I am no one, less than no one, and Raphael Ortiz—I shake my head.

  “Why is that funny?” he asks, curiously.

  “Because men like you don’t want girls like me,” I says, grinning. I start walking again, only a little surprised when he falls in at my side.

  “What do you know about men like me, Cora?” he says, and I shudder. The way he says my name should be illegal.

  “Nothing,” I say, reaching for the door of my truck. “And nothing is the safest thing for me to know.”

  He steps close again, and my heart flips. I know nothing about him except this: I want to know everything. And that? That is dangerous.

  “Coffee, bonita. It is not such a big thing.”

  I chew on my lip. I want to say yes. There’s no job giving me a good reason to say no. So I finally nod. “Okay.”

  Raphael

  Miguel and Lou are sitting in the car as I watch her move away from a monstrosity of a truck. It’s huge, a rusty decrepit thing that can’t be safe for her to drive. And I want to fix it—to replace it with something that is.

  Slow down, boy. She isn’t the pretty socialites who exchange meaningless sex for a chance to be photographed together and a few presents. I don’t know who she is—only the information Miguel gave me. But I saw the fury in her, in the temp agency, the desperation that curves her shoulders when she thinks no one is looking. I see that, and I want to know everything about her, I want to know what caused it and who she is, under that calm smile and aloof distance.

  Her expression is nervous as she approaches me, clutching her phone like it’s a lifeline. “I didn’t say thank you, for finding this. I have no idea how you did.”

  I keep my face very blank. “It was my pleasure.”

  She gives me a curious look, and I deflect by pulling open the door and ushering her inside. I scan the room instinctively as I put a hand to the small of her back. “What would you like?”

  There’s nothing—just a few ladies gossiping and a college student—to judge by his textbooks—looking morosely at his computer screen.

  “A chocolate macchiato, please.”

  I repeat the order to the bored looking barista, and add a black coffee. Then I watch her.

  Because she is still fascinating to watch. She’s nervous—clearly nervous—with twitching fingers and a hand that opens and closes repeatedly on her phone. She’s staring at the pastries, a look of deep concentration on her face, and I move close to her. “Do you want one?” I murmur, leaning down so that I breathe the question into her ear. She goes still, and startled. Her wide eyes flick back to me, but she doesn’t take the half step she needs to put distance between us.

  This close, all I can smell is her, and I want nothing more than to kiss the curve of her neck, tug her collar down just a little and lick the lines of ink on her skin.

  “Chocolate Macchiato!”

  I step away from her and smile when I hear her frustrated whimper.

  The barista is blushing and smiling as I slip a tip into the jar and take the coffees. I turn back, and see a small smile playing on Cora’s full lips.

  “What?” I ask, and she shrugs.

  When we’re sitting, I lean back in my seat as she stirs her macchiato nervously. “Why a temp agency?”

  She shrugs, and her hands settle. “I like new things. With a temp, I’m always doing something new.”

  “It’s not good work—not dependable. And you are smarter than the average temp.”

  Her eyes are laughing, “What do you know about how smart I am?”

  “You went to a community college while you were in high school. Attended Hargrow University outside Keyton, where you consistently aced your classes in business management. That was four years ago—and there’s nothing about those missing years.” I stare at her, assessing her reaction.

  She’s staring at me, her face drained of amusement. Now, all that is there is stark fear—I’m well acquainted with that look, even if I don’t really understand why she’s so terrified. Some shock is to be expected at my blatant show of interest—but this pushes past shock and lands firmly in scared shitless.

  “H—how?”

  “Its not hard to look up college records, bonita,” I say. She looks ready to bolt, and I reach across the table, catching her hand without letting myself think why I shouldn’t. Her eyes flick down to my hand, holding hers, and then back to me. “You are smarter than a temp agency, Cora. Why?”

  “Because it pays the bills,” she says, jerking on her hand. It’s shaking in my grip and I tighten my fingers around her, running circles on her palm. I have a feeling the hand I’m holding is the only thing keeping her from bolting. “Why are you doing this, Raphael?”

  “What if I could offer you something that challenged you, and paid the bills?” I ask, ignoring her question.

  Her head tilts slightly, and her eyes narrow on me. “Is this a grand scheme to get me in your bed?”

  My fingers tighten on hers, and I run my thumb over her pulse point, the skin jumping rapidly. Her gaze darts to it, and then up. “Would it be so terrible, if that were my plan?” I ask softly.

  She swallows, hard, and I can’t resist tasting her. I lift her hand slowly, giving her time to pull away, and press a kiss to the soft skin of her wrist. Her pulse skips wildly under my lips, and I open my mouth, just enough to let my tongue dart out, dance over that flutter, and back again.

  She tastes wild and sweet, and I want to take her to my bed, spread her naked on my sheets and lose hours in tasting her.

  Instead, I slowly lower her hand, and look up. She’s staring at me, and fear mixes with her desire, too blatant.

  Wherever she came from, she was never taught to hide her emotion.

  “I have a position opening at Ortiz Corp,” I say abruptly. “And you need a new job. What happened to you—it happened on my property. You deserve to be compensated for that.”

  “Then pay me a reward,” she says, pulling her hand free and sipping her coffee.

  I arch an eyebrow. “A reward is temporary. This is a bit more permanent. And I have a feeling you need that more than you do a few thousand dollars.”

  Her jaw drops, and I swallow my smile. Then her lips form a thin line, and she shakes her head. “It would be permanent only until you grew bored with me. And then I would be screwed.”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a thin envelope. “The details of the job are in here, including salary. Don’t dismiss it because you are afraid.” I stand and adjust my suit coat. I hesitate. She has someone, but if I am going to work wit
h her… “Cora, I want you. In my office, and on my arm, and naked in my bed.” I pause, letting my words sink in as her cheeks go red and her eyes go sleepy. Fuck. I lean in to her, and she inhales sharply. “I want all of that. But I owe a debt and I will pay it, even if you belong to another man.”

  I straighten, and tap the packet on the table. “Look it over and call HR. If you want to work in another division, you have that option.”

  “Will you accept that? If I work with someone else, will you stop chasing me?”

  I give her a smile, cool and predatory. She shivers, and I turn on my heel, and leave her there with her coffee and big eyes and tempting lips.

  Lou is leaning against the car when I approach. He tosses his cigarette aside and straightens as Miguel steps out of the car, pocketing his phone. “Shipment is here.”

  I nod. “Miguel, take care of it. I’m taking a few hours.”

  “Jefe?” Miguel says, startled. I never take time off—and rarely let anyone else oversee incoming shipments. I throw him a dark look.

  “She’s with someone, Rafe,” he says, quietly. “Don’t do this, hermano.”

  I ignore his warning and slide into the car. “Take me to the office and get your ass to the docks, Miguel.”

  Chapter 4

  Cora

  I WANT YOU. In my office, on my arm. In my bed.

  I shudder, but the words stick to me, branding me. I never should have agreed to coffee. I should have run from him the minute I saw him.

  I’m still considering it.

  “Cora?” Paul shouts.

  I blink, and shove thoughts of Raphael aside as I stumble into the tiny apartment. My brother is anxious, his dark eyes flitting over me nervously. “You were gone a while. Job offer?”