by Julie Leto
Fine with him. Less than ninety-six hours after accepting the retainer from Barton-Ryce’s attorney, Ian suspected he’d made a mistake in taking the assignment rather than extending a referral to another firm. Titan was one of the top investigation organizations in the country, but their business had been limited to the upper Northeast and Europe. He had operatives in place in Prague, London, Paris, Munich, Berlin, and Geneva, with satellite offices in New York, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and Toronto.
He didn’t know a damned thing about Puerto Rico or Miami, much less a small burg like Tampa. And though a few of his agents could speak Spanish, none quite looked the part enough to blend into the Hispanic culture in San Juan or perhaps, Havana. He needed new blood. But he hadn’t meant to spill that blood so soon.
Ian pressed a tiny button on his lapel. “ETA?”
Max answered instantly. “Ten.”
“The agents will arrive shortly. Shall I pour you a brandy?”
With a sniff, Mrs. Barton-Ryce gracefully unfurled her crossed ankles and strolled to the bar. She lifted the crystal stopper of one decanter, then another, then another, apparently disappointed with the variety of his offerings.
He remained still, an indulgent grin pasted on his face. Dealing with women such as her, with her impossible-to-please standards and air of superiority, had become old hat. She reminded him of his grandmother, his aunts, and each and every one of his female cousins, from first to fourth-removed. Had his mother lived long enough, he had no doubt her old Boston money would have caused her to show the same privileged attitudes. Even Eris, his former…what? lover? addiction? poison?…had been a snob of palatial proportion. Only his sister had managed to buck the social system of the British and American upper crust. Yet, if Brynn knew about this job and how things had so quickly turned from bad to worse before the operation had even begun, she’d be jetting back from Prague with a silver platter in her carry-on, primed to hold his severed head.
He could still turn this operation around, but as he watched Mrs. Barton-Ryce huff and abandon her quest for a suitable libation, he knew he had to change at least a part of his initial plan.
“Perhaps you should wait at your hotel. As I explained, things did not go as anticipated tonight. Ms. Morales may not be in the proper mood to appreciate the dire circumstances of your situation.”
Elise drew a hand to her chest, surprise artfully etched on her perfectly smooth and botox-enhanced face. “How could she not? We’re talking about the life of a child, here, Mr. Blake. Your organization came very highly recommended, but you are by no means the only firm in town.”
Ian nodded. “I explained to you, madam, that Titan might not be your best choice for this operation. There are groups, some working entirely gratis, that specialize in this type of retrieval. If you’d like to go elsewhere…”
“No,” she said, firmly, and without any hint of the desperation Ian had witnessed at their first meeting. He still wasn’t entirely sure why Elise had come to him for this job, but he couldn’t deny that her generous transfer of funds would stave off Brynn’s interference in the business for at least another month. He needed time to fix things, make things right.
“You remain confident in Titan?” he asked one last time.
“For now,” she answered.
He shook his head and stood. “No, Mrs. Barton-Ryce, that isn’t enough. Once I engage my operatives, there will be no turning back. I’ve lost one life tonight. I won’t sacrifice others unless it is necessary to obtain the objective.”
She blinked several times and Ian wasn’t sure if she was having trouble understanding his meaning or if she was unaccustomed to having anyone contradict her so forcefully. Likely a bit of both. She’d better get used to giving him control. He’d played the customer-service card long enough. Now, he would show her who was in charge.
“I’d kill to get my daughter back,” she said.
He kept his expression benign. “I understand.”
“I expect you to do the same.”
With a light chuckle, he returned to his chair. The lumbar-pampering design wasn’t custom leather like the one he had back at the home office in Boston, but the furniture and accessories at this makeshift office were the best his people could manage on such short notice. Before he met with Marisela Morales, he’d had to establish a presence. By morning, this office would be returned to its original state—a bare warehouse minutes from Tampa’s port. And hopefully he, and his new agents, would be on board the yacht en route to Miami.
But he wouldn’t gain Ms. Morales’s cooperation with haughty Elise Barton-Ryce turning up her nose at her. He’d intended to use the mother of the missing child angle to further his case, but he doubted Elise would be effective with her current mood broadcasting doubt, dissatisfaction, and arrogance instead of the emotional desperation she’d shown to manipulate him into taking her case. Or else, her pride wouldn’t allow her to show her vulnerabilities more than once. Ian wasn’t sure which—but so long as her checks continued to clear, he really didn’t care.
“Titan will do whatever is necessary. That’s what you pay us for.”
With a curt nod that barely displaced a single blond hair of her sculpted bob, Elise retrieved her handbag and stood, ramrod straight, waiting for him to stand and escort her to the waiting limousine. Without a hint of his frustration, he did as she expected.
Just as her black stretch sedan disappeared, he caught sight of the dark gray four-door pulling into the lot.
Ian practiced his best smile, not needing a mirror to know his blue eyes held just the right dash of charm to pique the insatiable Ms. Morales’s interests. Personal and professional. Even if tonight’s operation had spun out of control, Ian had learned a great deal about fiery Marisela, the street-smart woman who’d soon be in his employ.
And he intended to exploit each and every detail—hopefully, to their mutual satisfaction.
* * *
“Where the hell are my parents?”
Marisela kept her tone even, her words clipped just short enough so the sharp-dressed man in the thousand-dollar suit knew she meant business. He’d waltzed into the expertly appointed office as if he owned the place, so for the moment, she assumed he did. Max even bowed his head ever so slightly toward his boss before he disappeared outside, as if the deferential gesture wasn’t required, but was a natural response to his employer’s power.
“Their driver is just now finding his way back after making an unfortunate wrong turn,” he answered, his voice undeniably cultured. Possibly English. Pierce Brosnan as James Bond.
“Where are they now?” she asked.
He arched a brow, as if challenging her not to believe him. “Just coming over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. I hear the Bay is lovely at this time of the morning.”
She ignored his attempt at levity and tried to wrap her mind around the idea of her parents tooling around in a slick black car instead of lying dead in some dirty alley or weighted and dumped into the murky waters of Tampa Bay. She met his gaze dead on, gauging the steadiness of his stare and despite her best efforts, noting the cerulean intensity in his pale eyes.
Either he was telling the truth, or he was the best liar she’d encountered since Sister Dominique convinced her that masturbation led to blindness. Of course, she’d been eleven then—and a hell of a lot more gullible.
“A limousine, huh?” she asked, her brow arched. People in her neighborhood rode in rented cars for two reason—weddings and funerals. “Somebody die?” she asked.
“Other than the man in your kitchen?”
She leveled her gaze into his. He wanted to play Rocha’s death against her, huh? Let him try.
She gave him the finger.
He chuckled, rounded his desk and plucked a cigar from a carved box. With a tug at his pant leg, he leaned casually on the polished edge, his buffed shoe inches from her knee. Bruno Magli. Lambskin. Probably the Rangle half boot, from the looks of it.
Damn, but Marisela
had a thing for shoes. Not women’s shoes, fortunately for her wallet. Give her a boot with a sharp heel or a tennis shoe built for speed and she was a happy camper. But put a pair of expensive loafers on a well-dressed man, and she turned to jelly.
Hot, melted jelly like the kind that oozed from a Krispy Kreme doughnut when she bought them right off the rollers early Sunday morning after dancing away every last moment of a Saturday night. Why this man evoked thoughts of sultry, sexy salsa and forbidden, calorie-laden treats didn’t make sense.
Must have been his shoes.
She cleared her throat. “How did you get my parents out of the house so late at night?”
“The evening began quite early, actually. Didn’t you hear the last minute announcement? Congratulations go out to Ernesto and Aida Morales, Hispanic Business Owners of the Year, presented by the newly endowed Fund for Economic Growth of Greater West Tampa. The ceremony will be next week, but tonight the winners enjoyed a complimentary meal at Bern’s, dessert and aperitifs in their legendary dessert room, and then a moonlight drive across the Courtney Campbell causeway in a spectacular stretch Humvee.”
He rolled the cigar between his fingers and the earthy odor of hand-rolled tobacco taunted her as she judged his every word, the pitch of his every syllable and swing of each inflection. Was he screwing with her? Making a joke?
After clipping the edge off the cigar with a miniature guillotine, a nice Hollywood touch, he smiled in a way that made her breath catch. Okay, what the hell was going on? Sure, this man could have walked straight off the cover of GQ or Entertainment Weekly, but hot-stuff suits didn’t usually appeal to her. Not in real life.
Or did they? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in close proximity to a man like this. Maybe she needed to rethink her choice of hang-outs. Maybe her tastes were finally reaching upward. Or maybe the slightly overheated quiver in her body was simply a residual effect from her interaction with Frankie.
Or maybe not.
“Relax, Ms. Morales. Your parents have been out all night with my associates, safe and sound.”
She swallowed, forcing her off-kilter attraction to the pit of her stomach, right beside her anger and indignation. “Safe and sound? Can’t say the same for the sanctity of their home, can you? I mean, with a dead guy in the kitchen and another in the hall.”
He cleared his throat. “By the time your parents return from their little adventure, they’ll never know their daughter committed murder just a foot from where her mother brews her coffee every morning.”
Marisela scoffed, unwilling to accept even an inkling of guilt. According to Max, Nestor Rocha had been on the same payroll as he was, which all linked back to Mr. Rich Suit. She’d done nothing less than protect herself and her parents’ home—which she figured he’d expected.
“You can work your guilt trip on someone else, cabrón. He was in my house, attacking something I love very much—my body. Don’t expect regrets from me. Self-defense is not murder.
He retrieved a lighter from beside the cutter and rolled the cigar into the flame, puffing gently, patiently. Marisela wondered how much this man knew about her, wondered if his choice of smoke was meant to provoke her. Her grandfather had hand-rolled cigars in Ybor City after emigrating from Cuba. Her father, usually after dinner while he sipped an espresso, puffed nightly on a Romeo Y Julieta Reserva Real robusto. The woodsy, earthy odor evoked strong impressions of her childhood, her family. Her life.
What did this man want from her?
Through a silver gray haze, he eyed her with undisguised admiration. Or was it something entirely more basic?
“A tactical error on my part put you in unnecessary danger tonight,” he said. “For that, I apologize.”
She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t. Believing him meant trusting him and she wasn’t about to let her primed and simmering hormones cloud her already foggy judgment. She uncrossed her legs and balanced both feet firmly in front of her, leaning her elbows on her knees. He’d interpret the move as casual. But she was ready to strike if she didn’t like the more detailed version of his explanation.
“Nestor Rocha wanted me dead,” she spat. “Has for a long time. How come you didn’t know that? Everyone else in West Tampa did.”
He nodded. “Yes, well, I don’t know much about West Tampa, Ms. Morales. My initial contact here made himself scarce and time constraints forced me to move without him. Mr. Rocha was employed simply to lead us to you. We had no idea he’d manipulate the situation for his own benefit.”
“Crooks and killers like Rocha don’t give a damn about anyone’s agenda but their own. You should choose your hired help more carefully. You’re out of your league. Your ‘ivy’ league, if you know what I mean.”
He chuckled softly. “Very good. Yes, I know exactly what you mean. In fact, my deficit in that particular area is why I need a woman with your expertise for an operation I’m putting together.”
“My expertise?” she asked, a doubtful laugh in her voice. “What, you need a manicure?”
He leveled her self-indulgent grin with a steely glare. Apparently, he was no longer in the mood for jokes. Well, hell. After tangling with clearly unresolved attraction to her ex, killing a man in her kitchen, and then grappling with some fantasy man who clearly held her future in his hands, a little cheesy comedy could go a long way.
“No manicure, I had one Tuesday,” he claimed, and she believed him. He was just the type of guy both vain enough and man enough to have his nails professionally done. “I’m more interested in your…natural abilities.”
He hadn’t said anything the least bit offensive, but Marisela felt her skin ripple with gooseflesh all the same. His pause, just before he said the word natural, gave the word a lurid ring. As if he knew what she’d done tonight. Not with Nestor, but with Frankie. As if he wanted a piece of the sexual action for himself.
“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.
