Illicit Desire

by Taylor Michaels

  “She’s your cook?” I ask, unnecessarily.

  “And my housekeeper.”

  Of course he has a housekeeper. I swallow a bite of salad, and he asks, smoothly. “What happened to you after the nursing home?

  I go still, my eyes darting to Raphael and away again. Shit. How did I forget that, even for a second? How did I manage to convince myself that he wouldn’t ask? That’s what he does—who he is. The man ran a background check on me after I was mugged on his steps. He might be impulsive, but he’s thorough and he noticed that two year gaping hole.

  “Cora?” he prods, his eyes sharp on my face.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, stiffly. All of the ease has vanished, and I want to bolt, away from this table and him.

  “Why?” he murmurs, his gaze probing.

  I bite down on my panic and stand, putting distance between us. “You hired me without this knowledge. I’m not sure why you need it now.”

  He sips his wine, and turns to face me, coiled energy hidden behind a civil stare. I’m not fooled. I’ve seen that kind of intensity before, and it terrified me. It doesn’t as much, today—I don’t think he would hurt me.

  He could. But he won’t.

  “I want the information because you aren’t just an employee, Cora.”

  “Do you background check all the girls you fuck?” I demand, furiously.

  Anger flashes in his eyes, and his lips thin into a hard line. “No. Just the ones I bring back to my home.” I stop, startled, and he stands. “I have a meeting. I should get back.”

  How is this happening? How did we go from hot and bothered up against a fucking door, to cool civility and awkwardness?

  Oh. That’s right—I had to freak out over a simple question.

  “Raphael,” I sigh. He’s turned away from me, standing at the sink, and his shoulders come up slightly when I breathe his name.

  “I don’t talk about it. It’s not you—it’s me. Because if I don’t talk about it, I can pretend it didn’t happen.”

  He turns to me, slowly. Stares at me, his gaze probing. Finally he nods, and wipes his hands on a towel. “Come on. I’ll get you back to work.”

  I nod, sliding off the stool. I grab my purse from the couch, feeling forlorn and like I’ve broken us. And I don’t want that.

  “Raphael?”

  He pauses, giving me a questioning look.

  “Have I fucked this up completely?”

  Surprise flares in his eyes, and he laughs. I jerk, startled, and then his arms come around me, grounding me.

  “Not a chance in hell I’m letting you go that easy, bonita.”

  I melt into his touch, and his head comes down, kissing me briefly, before he releases me and leads me back downstairs.

  “After work, will I see you?” I ask.

  I look up, fast enough that I see regret flicker across his face. “No. I have a meeting, and I can’t get out of it.”

  I swallow hard, trying to push down the disappointment. It surprises me, how much I want to see him. He catches my chin, pulling my head up when I try to duck away. “Tomorrow. I’m free tomorrow night.”

  I nod, and he kisses me again, deeper this time. I sway into him as his tongue tangles with mine, and he growls softy. “Go,” he says, pulling away.

  I step out of Raphael’s office with a small, goofy smile on my face. Six curious faces peer back, and I stop dead in my tracks as I see the looks in their eyes. Disgust. Envy. Pity. Fear.

  I swallow hard, and scrub my hands on my skirt, too aware of my pantyless state as I move across the hall to my office.

  Lacy is waiting outside my office, three thick files in her arms. She glances past me to the closed door, and then gives me a pointed look. “How was lunch?”

  My hackles rise, and I give her a look. “Wonderful, thanks for asking. Are these the candidates?”

  She flushes, and nods, “Yes, ma’am.” I take the folders and walk into my office, already flipping one open. A cool-faced young man stares back.

  Well, he didn’t invent this position just to fill it with a woman he wanted to fuck. Not if this is his short list.

  “Can we set up interviews with all three by the end of the week?”

  Lacy makes a note on her tablet, nodding.

  “And I’d like a coffee, if you could manage that.”

  She glances at me, the morning camaraderie fading, and I stare back coolly. She swallows and nods again. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I kick off my heels and settle in with the short list’s files. I’m reading Mariane Keats’ essay on girls and the sciences, when Lacy comes back with a tray of coffee, cream, and sugar. I watch her set it down, and see her hesitate, for just a moment, fidgeting.

  Her shoulders square, and I look up, giving her my full attention.

  “It’s not my business. I know that. But Raphael Ortiz—he’s big time. And he’s scary.”

  “He’s your boss,” I say, softly.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not very aware of who he is and what is said about him. We don’t just have HR reading our emails—the feds do.”

  That stops me short. I stare at her, confused, and she gives me a weak smile. “Just—Google Raphael. And Benito Ortiz. See what comes up, and go into whatever it is you’re doing with your eyes open.”

  She gives me one more nervous look, and then slips out the door. Leaving me with coffee and a hell of a lot of questions.

  Chapter 9

  Raphael

  “YOU READY FOR THIS MEETING?”

  I glance at Miguel. “Of course.”

  “That pretty new girl doesn’t have your head fucked up?”

  Yes. She does. I slip a hand in my pocket, feeling the soft silk of her panties, and swallow that answer. “I’m fine. And she’s single, baboso.”

  His eyes go wide. “Who the hell was that gringo she met?”

  “Her stepbrother.”

  The real question isn’t who he is, but why she’s with him. Cora is twenty six, according to the background check. So why the hell did she move to a new city and apartment with the stepbrother who spent most of the past four years in Iraq?

  “Lou,” I say thoughtfully. He shifts silently, and I look up at him. “I want more information on our girl. Find out everything you can. If you need to send someone back to Keyton, do it. Everything you can possibly learn, I want on my desk by Monday.”

  He nods, and I refocus on Miguel. “Let’s go.”

  We walk downstairs, to one of the expensive looking conference rooms. The team from Akia Shipping are already waiting. There are three men—two look annoyed and anxious, fidgeting with files and their tablets.

  Lawyers. I fucking hate dealing with lawyers. The other man is staring, a slightly bored expression on his face. The girl at his shoulder is slight, diminutive and lovely, and she is intensely aware of her surroundings, her black gaze darting around the room. She tenses when she sees me, and I swallow a curse.

  Miguel whistles softly. “Lou will be pissed when he hears she’s here.”

  I flash a look at Miguel and he smiles, all false innocence. I ignore him and give the Asian contingent my attention. Lou can be as annoyed as he wants—I would bring a bodyguard if I were meeting a rival syndicate on their territory.

  And Akiko, despite being a well-trained assassin, is mafia royalty, Arata’s closest cousin. She watches me as I enter, approaching her and Arata. She ignores Miguel completely.

  He has worked very hard, cultivating the laid-back Spanish charm, the easy going smiles and carefree attitude. The family and our allies—and our enemies—see that and dismiss him. But he wouldn’t be my right hand if I didn’t know that when called upon, he could be ruthless.

  I wouldn’t have left her with him, if I didn’t think he would protect her.

  Shit. I can’t think about her, not here. Not when every time I do, I can see her, panting as she comes under my fingers.

  I shove the thought aside, and fix a professional mask on my f
ace as I approach the Japanese. “Arata, thank you for meeting with us,” I say, giving him a slight bow.

  He flashes me a lazy smile as I straighten and I nod at his silent cousin. She stares back, her eyes wary and untrusting.

  “We’re always pleased to meet with your people, Ortiz.”

  It’s not strictly true, but I let it slide. I nod at Miguel, and he clicks on the signal disruptor. Any bugs in the room are effectively killed, for now. Some of the tension in Arata eases. He nods at me, and we get down to business.

  It takes five hours to hammer out the details of our proposed venture. My neck is stiff and sore when Arata bows and leaves with his silent cousin. One of the lawyers eyes me. “Our legal department will send over the contract within seven days.”

  “Thanks,” I say tiredly. “Please make yourself comfortable in our guest suite.”

  The lawyer gives me a quick nod, and follows the rest of his party. Miguel waits for the door to swing shut behind him before he stretches, rising to his feet. “That went well,” he says lightly.

  I give him a blank stare.

  “You made a few concessions we didn’t plan,” Miguel says quietly.

  "We knew we'd have to make some. The Akia won't lay down and let us fuck them completely. And they're taking all the risk, shipping our guns."

  Miguel nods. "I'm not saying it was a bad concession. We'll make the difference back if we expand the operation with the girls."

  I consider that. Skin trade is risky—and comes with more drama than I'm comfortable with. "We're fine for now—between this and our legit operations. We’ll still stay in our profit margins."

  Miguel nods, and pours two shots of tequila. He passes me one silently. "Want to tell me what's going on with the new girl?"

  My hackles rise, and I swallow hard to keep from lashing out at my best friend. He stares at me, the friendly facade gone. In its wake, a serious-eyed young man stares at me, too smart for his own damn good.

  "Nothing," I say, and toss back the tequila.

  "Shit, boss. Don't give me that. You gave her an executive position in the company, and a check for thirty five grand. As gestures go, that's pretty fucking grand."

  I give him a sour look. "She's an employee, and she was hurt on our turf—we don't let that go unanswered."

  "You did answer that, Rafe. We retaliated, and you paid your debt. So what the hell is going on here?"

  He goes quiet, waiting, and I think.

  She's fascinated me since I first saw her, pale and beautiful on the steps of my building, completely lost in herself. So sweet and innocent. And I haven't gotten her out of my head since. I can't keep lying to myself and saying it was because of the mugging—that shit is common enough in my world that had it been any other girl, I would have forgotten it before I went a city block.

  "She didn't care who I was. She wanted to know what happened to her purse. She didn't give a fuck who I was."

  "So fuck her, and get her out of your system,” Miguel says, brutally.

  "What do you think I'm doing?" I snap.

  "You just ordered Lou to some backwater town in Alabama. You took her to your apartment. And gave her a job two doors away from you. Whatever you're doing, you aren't getting her out of your system. What do you think will happen when she does sleep with you, and you're ready to move on—what are you going to do about the fact that she's now an executive in the fucking company?"

  I'm silent.

  "You brought her in, Raphael—the cartel will want answers. Benni will want them. Are you ready for that?"

  I snarl, a wordless threat, and Miguel goes quiet. "I know exactly what my family will demand, Miguel. Don't presume too much."

  He says something short and succinct in Spanish, and I flash a smile, my anger breaking. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases.

  "I hope like hell this girl is as amazing in bed as you think she'll be."

  I think about her, panting against the wall, and let a smile turn my lips. "She will be."

  For the next three days, I don’t see her. I know she’s here, working and settling in. I hear her voice, soft and lilting as she talks to her assistant. Once I catch sight of her at one of the conference tables, nibbling on her lip with a mess of papers spread out around her. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing her comfortable in my space.

  I hear others talking about her though—in the lobby of the Carlita, and in my offices. She’s pretty, friendly and smart—and she’s making an impression. I am absurdly proud of that fact, as if it had anything to do with me.

  Lou slips into my office silently on Friday morning. I’m still in the process of taking my suit coat off, and I glance at him. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” he says, grimly.

  He looks uncharacteristically rumpled in comfortably worn jeans and a black t-shirt, something I recognize as his favored clothing for travel.

  He hasn’t been home since returning from Alabama.

  I glance at my computer. One meeting this morning, with Cora and the Delancy brothers.

  “Let’s get it over with.” I say, holding out my hand. He hands me a surprisingly thin file, and I flip it open.

  Her college transcript stares out at me, and I give him a confused stare. “I wanted her past.”

  “It starts there. With a young man named Graham Phillips.”

  I glance through it quickly. Graham was a professor—one of her psychology and philosophy profs.

  “What does this have to do with her?”

  “He’s in prison. Has been for about three years.” Lou hesitates, and then, “She put him there. Testified against him. It nailed whatever case they had shut.”

  “What were the charges?” I ask, my voice soft. It’s the same tone I’ve heard from Benni Ortiz, just before he killed a traitor.

  Lou shakes his head. “I tried—I can’t get the records open, jefe.”

  I nod. “Thank you,” I murmur. “Go home and get some rest.”

  Lou slips out silently, and I flip open the folder again. There is a faculty picture and I stare at it for a long time.

  Graham is classically good looking, with an open smile, and unruly black hair.

  What the hell happened, that she helped lock him away?

  My intercom chimes, and I tap it absently. “What?”

  “Ms. Milan would like to meet with you before your client meeting, if you have time.” The voice is slightly familiar—I’ve heard her talking to Cora in the office—and just a little stiff.

  She doesn’t like me, whoever she is.

  “That’s fine. Tell her I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  I stare at the picture for another moment, and then I stand, grabbing my jacket and striding out of my office. Miguel sees me as I approach Cora's office, and he gives me a questioning look. He's noticed my distance as Lou did his search. I shake my head silently, and tap on Cora's door.

  "Come in," she calls, and I push the door open.

  She's put her unique stamp on the office already. Charts and graphs are hung around the walls, and there are two large picture frames, the glass blacked out and scribbled on. Cora is standing in front of a file cabinet, muttering quietly as she shoves it shut.

  She's wearing a silky tank top with thin straps, and her tattoo snakes out. Feathers. She has feathers inked on her shoulders. I want to reach out and brush my fingers over them, but instead, I bury my hands in my pockets, and fix a cool smile on my face.

  She put a man in jail, which means she's the most dangerous thing I've ever entertained fucking.

  But I still want her. Just staring at her, her hair falling out of the ridiculous knot at the nape of her neck, the tattoo inappropriate and incongruous here, her tight skirt showing off a lush ass, and curving legs--fuck, I want her. I want to push that prim skirt up and sink to my knees and taste everything I touched a few days ago.

  I swallow hard. "You wanted to see me."

  "We're meeting with the Delancy brothers today." S
he slams the drawer shut, and finally turns, brushing some of her hair aside. "Do you have anything to share with me before we go?"

  I glance around at the walls of her office, bearing the evidence that she's well prepared to meet our clients.

  "I think you've probably got a good handle on what we're doing,” I say dryly. "You know we've provided a state-of-the art computer for you, correct?"

  She flushes. "I think better when I can see it written out."

  "By all means, bonita,” I say.

  She takes a few minutes to twitch some papers together and gathers her tablet into her bag. I wait, patiently. Finally, she looks at me. "I haven't seen you for a few days."

  "We're working on a new account with a Japanese shipping company. It's taken more time than I anticipated."

  She nods, nibbling on her lip. I wonder if she knows how much I want to kiss her, when she does that. How bright and red her lips are.

  "Who is Graham Phillips?" I ask, softly.

  Cora's eyes go wide and terrified, skin paling so fast she actually sways. I take a sharp step forward, catching her elbow as she wavers on her feet.

  She leans into me silently, her body tight and shaking against me.

  Whoever the fuck he is, he terrifies her. Vaguely, I wonder if I can slip a man into Graham's prison. A hit wouldn't be easy to orchestrate but it wouldn't be impossible.

  She still hasn’t said anything, a silence that makes me increasingly nervous. “Cora, I need you to talk to me,” I murmur. My hand comes up and she flinches. Red hot rage fills me—the mere mention of this fucker has her so scared she’s refusing to be touched.

  “I can’t do this,” she says faintly.

  “This isn’t negotiable, bonita. I have spent a lot of effort looking into this man, and I will find out who and what he was to you. It would be easiest if you tell me.”

  “I can’t—not right now. Not when we have a business meeting in”—she pulls back—somehow, she’s come closer, enough that I can loop my arms around her back, and rest them on the small of her back—“in five minutes. I will tell you. When we aren’t in the office.”

  I lean into her space and brush a light kiss over her lips. “Fine. But we’re talking tonight. Do you understand?”