by Julie Leto
“Look, I still don’t know who you are, much less what you do,” she pointed out, desperate to regain the upper hand. “Kind of hard to make a life-changing decision without more information.”
He stood, unfolding to his full height, his chest mere inches from hers. “I’m not sure that you’re ready for all the details yet. You’ve had a trying evening.”
A trying evening? More than likely, the women in his rich-ass, pampered world had “trying evenings” when the designer dress they’d chosen for dinner at the club had a rip in the hem and the maid had the night off. Yet, for all his spit and polish, she sensed a man who knew, at least by rumor, the true nature of violence, crime, and risk.
They matched stares, stances. His gaze lowered, sweeping over her in appreciation that didn’t seem lecherous, and yet, taunted her. Enticed her.
“I’m not a killer,” she insisted. “Despite what happened tonight.”
“Mr. Rocha’s job was to lead us to you, help us test your ability to stand against several men in a fight. He obviously had his own agenda.”
“You might have known how he hated me if you’d checked him out with the right people. Like me, for instance,” she challenged.
“No argument. And because of my unfortunate lapse in judgment spawned by a tight timetable, you now have the upper hand in our negotiation.”
“You have my parents.”
He shook his head. “Not for much longer. They will be home any minute. I won’t use them as leverage. Doesn’t exactly engender trust between employer and employee, does it?”
Narrowing her eyes, she searched his face for any sign that he was lying. She found none.
“I’m not an ex-cop or ex-military,” she said. “I’m just a girl who once had a semi-interesting job and a past in a gang. Besides, I’ve got a rap sheet, though that didn’t stop you from hiring Nestor.”
“In my business, a dubious past can be an asset.”
“Really? And what business is that?”
With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to sit again. He also brushed her arm with his fingers, sending a spark of electric awareness crackling around them. For a moment, Marisela considered chastising herself for allowing this man’s buff body, devilish good looks, and well-cut suit to excite her so intrinsically. He’d nearly gotten her killed. He’d set her up, forced her into a situation where she’d had no other option but to kill a man.
On the flip side, toying with the sexual tension coiling between them beat the hell out of waiting in the church parking lot to be first in line for confession after what she’d done to Frankie. Not to mention Nestor.
She eased into the chair, but instead of crossing her legs casually as she had before, she kicked her heels up onto his desk ankle over ankle. With his back to the desk, she’d blocked him from moving in any direction—except backward. Retreat.
He remained still. “My company is a varied conglomerate, mostly private investigation, protection, security. We need someone like you—well acquainted with the criminal element. You know how to move in and out of their circles and you speak the language of the man I’m currently after. You’re beautiful and you can take care of yourself in a fight if your backup is somehow diverted or delayed.”
“You certainly think you know a lot about me,” she said.
“I do, and you know it. Besides, your reputation precedes you,” he answered.
“Really? Maybe yours does, too…of course I wouldn’t know because I still have no idea who the hell you are.”
“Forgive me. My name is Ian Blake.”
She kept her hands folded across her stomach, a sliver of bare skin poking from beneath her midriff tee.
He took her coolness in stride. “I’m the president and CEO of Titan International.”
She rolled the name around in her head. Nothing.
“Tell me when I’m supposed to be impressed. I wouldn’t want to sound stupid for not knowing you. Or Titan International.”
His grin quirked up on one side, bringing one dimple into sharp relief against his rugged jaw, smooth shaven, yet still dangerously angled. “We’re one of the top private investigation firms in the country. We handle some of the business the CIA, DEA, and the FBI don’t have the manpower for.”
She looked around, refusing to appear dazzled by his claim. “And you have a location in Tampa?”
Ian glanced around. “In the United States, we’re headquartered in Boston. This is a small, discreet satellite office, one we may or may not keep in operation after our business here is complete.”
Marisela laughed. Though blindfolded before she’d left the car with Max, she’d traversed yards of hallway before arriving at Ian Blake’s private lair. If this office was small, then so was her Jennifer Lopez butt.
“You can check us out,” he offered. “Information is readily available through various sources. I actually didn’t plan to discuss the details of the case tonight.”
“What? You were going to wait until after I got out of the hospital? How kind.”
“You look no worse for wear,” he insisted.
She swiped a finger over the cut on the side of her mouth. The sting had dulled and the blood had stopped seeping onto her tongue, though she could feel the ugly swelling of moist flesh. She didn’t even want to think about what she’d discover when she peeled off her blouse and examined her back from where Rocha had flung her against the table. There went wearing her teeny-weeny red bikini to the beach tomorrow.
She shook her head, and felt the strain in her neck. “Yeah, I’ll bet I look like Miss America.”
“I’ve known quite a few Miss Americas. You have entirely more panache.”
She rolled her eyes at the compliment, then forced herself to stand. “I’ve got a lot more than panache going for me,” she said, eyeing him up and down with unhidden appreciation.
“No doubt. Would you like to hear my offer?”
She shrugged as if the money didn’t matter. “Hit me.”
He complied. The dollar amount nearly knocked her off her feet.
At her stunned silence, he grinned. “Too little?”
She couldn’t think. No one promised cash payments of that ilk just for knocking a few heads around, maybe digging into some dirt. Still, she had no means of comparison and wasn’t about to let this smooth talker take her for a ride. “Maybe.”
His stare skewered her, but then an indulgent grin lightened the mood. “You need time to think over the compensation package. That’s understandable. Take the night. I’ll find you in the morning,” he promised.
To regain a semblance of power, she flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off the shoulder of his suit. Marisela had her bold moments, but touching a stranger, hunk or not, without a reason, was brazen, even for her.
She broke the contact, winked, then strolled to the door.
“Just sit tight, Mr. Blake. If I’m interested, I’ll find you.”
Five
“MARISELA, WAKE UP! The traffic is going to suck if we don’t hit the road.”
Marisela rolled over, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. Her brain throbbed in time to Lia’s pounding on the door. Dios mio. Why was Lia here at daybreak? To torture her?
“Marisela, open the door right now or I’m leaving without you.”
“Cállate!” she shouted, but the reverberation of the volume and pitch sent her flopping back into her pillow. “Por favor, mija, cállate.”
The last part came out in a pathetic croak, so Marisela pulled the sheet over her head and whimpered.
Apparently, her friend heard the desperation in Marisela’s voice and toned down her knocking to light taps.
“Marisela, your mother’s getting suspicious.”
With a groan, Marisela whipped off the tangled sheets. She sat up and staggered to the door, flipping the lock. Wavering, she waited for Lia to slip her skinny body inside before she crashed back on the mattress.
“Lock it,” Marisela ordered.
�
��Chica, you look like shit.”
Marisela forced her gaze to focus on Lia’s face, pretty and perky with that certain pale shade of olive skin designed to soak up the sun from Tuscany to Sorrento. She’d tamed her naturally bushy eyebrows into sleek arches and even though their plan today included nothing more than a lazy trip to the beach, Lia’s dark green eyes were as expertly lined as her mouth, which she’d tinted with a lipstick that matched the fuchsia pink swimsuit she wore underneath a sexy, white mesh cover-up.
Such perfection so early in the morning made Marisela’s stomach turn. “Why are you here so early?”
“Early? It’s ten-thirty. Frankie’s court appearance was at ten. Didn’t you call me before dawn and order me to shanghai you before he came down here and kicked your ass for whatever mysterious trick you pulled on him last night? Which, by the way, I’m still waiting to hear about in tantalizing detail.”
Marisela groaned, but Lia’s reminder spurred her to scramble out of bed and stumble toward her dresser. She scanned the collection of makeup, jewelry, perfumes, and assorted accessories from bracelets and bangles to toe rings and nail polish for an old discarded bottle of water, not quite ready to venture out of her room for a drink to relieve the dry, cottony coating inside her mouth. She found nothing and cursed, but Lia solved the problem in her usual no-nonsense way, retrieving a half-frozen bottle from her beach bag without being asked.
After drinking greedily, Marisela started to feel alive again.
Lia crossed her slim arms. “What happened last night?”
“My parents went out to dinner and stayed out until after three o’clock in the morning. They didn’t even call. I should ground them.”
Lia frowned. “That’s not what I’m asking about and you know it. What happened between you and Frankie?”
Marisela blew out a breath. It was an attempt at a whistle, but her lips were still too dry. “What didn’t happen last night?” She tossed the bottle back to Lia. She turned to shuffle through several bureau drawers until she found a one-piece tanksuit that would cover the bruises on her back.
“Well, you didn’t sleep well, for one thing,” Lia guessed.
Marisela laughed, the vibrations awakening the pain in her back. “I’m surprised I slept at all. Last night did not go as I expected.”
And she wasn’t even talking about Nestor Rocha or Ian Blake.
Lia dropped her bag on the cedar chest next to Marisela’s bed and proceeded to untangle the sheets so she could inject her usual order into Marisela’s chaotic world. “And you thought meeting with Frankie would be all business. Not so easy seeing him again, was it?”
Actually, hooking up with Frankie had been as effortless as slicing through custard with a razor-sharp knife. Marisela thought she’d steeled herself for the conflagration of emotions Frankie invariably invoked, particularly that sense of nostalgia for those younger, simpler days when she didn’t have to worry so much about getting a job, keeping a job, finding her own place and avoiding an ass-kicking from a ex-boyfriend who had valid reasons to be seriously pissed.
She’d thought wrong.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lia slammed the drawer shut, catching the end of Marisela’s favorite black cover-up. “Listen here, chica, I didn’t get up early on my day off to take you to the beach and not get some serious dish. If you’re not spilling all the gory details,” she said, marching back to the bed and snapping the sheets tight, “then I’m going home to eat chocolate, lay out by the pool, and drink margaritas. Alone.”
Marisela whipped her nightshirt over her head. “You’re cruel. Bluffing, but cruel. You won’t ditch me until you’ve heard every juicy detail.”
She realized her error the minute Lia gasped, dropped the floral shams and rushed to her side. Lia planted her hands firmly on Marisela’s shoulders and turned her, slowly, her winces increasing with each black and blue mark.
“Marisela, what happened? Did Frankie do this?”
With care born of her pain, Marisela gingerly moved out of Lia’s reach. “¿Estás loca? Do you think he’d still be alive if he’d done this to me?”
Lia crossed her arms tightly, her size six-and-a-half foot tapping her hand-jeweled flip-flops on the carpeted floor. “If not him, then who?”
It had been a long time since Marisela had seen Lia’s face so pinched and disapproving. The outwardly straight-laced Angelia Santorini knew nearly everything about Marisela’s life, from her lovers to her jobs to her occasional run-ins with the law. But she’d disapproved only once—when Marisela had started hanging out with las Reinas. After Marisela finally decided to fight her way out of the gang, Lia had been her staunchest supporter. This morning, Marisela wanted to tell Lia about Nestor, about what he’d done, about what she’d done to stop him—but she kept her mouth shut. They weren’t kids anymore and murder was too much of a burden, even for her best friend.
“Can we stop talking about last night? Trust me, the guy who did this looks a lot worse.”
As in pale and dead.
Lia rolled her eyes, huffed and finished her project with the bed before turning her attention to Marisela’s clothes-strewn floor. “You’re in trouble again, aren’t you? Don’t deny it,” she said, tossing her hands up. “I know and you’re going to tell—”
At a knock on the door, they both jumped.
“Marisela, do you and Lia want café con leche? I’m turning off the stove. Papi’s on his way to pick me up.”
Marisela released the tight breath she’d been holding in her chest. “No, Mami. We’ll stop at Starbucks.”
As expected, her mother launched into a Spanish language rant on the less than acceptable brewing techniques of the Seattle coffee chain. As she retreated down the hall, back to the kitchen, her primary domain, her volume grew fainter. Lia covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, the humor erasing the picture of Nestor Rocha dead and bleeding on her Mother’s linoleum from Marisela’s mind.
“You always know how to yank your mother’s chain.”
Marisela tugged her cover-up free and tossed it on the bed. “I just want to get out of here.”
And avoid telling me what happened last night.”
Sooner or later, Lia deserved at least a portion of the truth, but right now all Marisela wanted was to leave. She had a strong suspicion that her house would be Frankie’s first stop after his court appearance. He’d promised to exact revenge after she’d left him handcuffed and horny last night. And Frankie kept his promises.
“When you came in, did Mami say anything about the neighbors this morning? You know complaining about noise?”
“Neighbors? What, did you and Frankie get a little too loud last night?”
Marisela slipped out of her panties and squeezed the rest of her size eight body and 36D breasts into her Lycra suit.
She’d probably get Lia out of the house a whole lot faster if she lied and said that she and Frankie had fucked like bunnies all night long. That was, after all, what Lia expected to hear. Unfortunately, there was a hell of a lot more to the story.
“Let’s take my car, okay?” Marisela said, opening her closet door and ignoring her friend’s suspicious stare as she dug out her sandals and beach bag. Since Lia drove a choice Ford Mustang convertible, Marisela never volunteered to drive. But when leftover sand and shells spilled onto her carpet from her bag, Lia agreed to the change in normal procedure.
For once, Marisela would play smart. Smart people knew how to move ahead of trouble, not stand around and wait for angry, revenge-focused ex-boyfriends to charge into their bedrooms and demand retribution for the humiliation of being tied naked to a bed then left for his mother to find him. Before she’d headed back to the club, she’d hooked the handcuff key over the doorknob, right where Frankie’s parents would find it. Didn’t mean he’d be any less pissed just because she’d ensured his quick release. So to speak.
Sufficiently packed, Marisela shot to the door. “Let’s blow.” Lia g
rabbed her arm. Marisela winced as pain shot through her. Lia’s eyes widened with rage.
“He did hurt you!”
“No, mija, I swear it wasn’t him.”
“Then why are you so afraid of Frankie finding you today?”
Bravado was wasted on Lia, who thought Marisela was pretty darned awesome most of the time, for whatever unfathomable reason. “When I left him last night, he was not a happy camper.
Lia shifted her weight to one hip and tried to lighten the moment with a suspicious half-smile. “Didn’t you satisfy your man, Marisela? I mean, I thought you took pride in that sort of thing.”
Marisela grabbed Lia by the cover-up and yanked her toward the door. “Right now, I’m taking great pride in staying alive.”
* * *
Marisela couldn’t catch a break. Though her mother had gone out back to the lanai where her washer and dryer shared space with her plastic patio furniture and rusting hibachi grill, Marisela’s father pushed through the side door from the driveway just as Marisela was about to grab the doorknob.
“Sneaking off again?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, Papi. I don’t sneak.”
His expression, completely doubtful, softened when she smacked his leathery cheek with a kiss. The edge of his salt and pepper mustache tickled her lips. He smelled like Old Spice and dark, brewed coffee.
“Sí, and I’m Antonio Banderas,” Ernesto Morales quipped, his trademark eye twinkle offsetting the gruff set of his square jaw. “Where are you two troublemakers going on a work day? Does the mayor know my daughter is corrupting his assistant, Angelia?”
Lia batted her lashes with that special little-girl finesse that all Latina daughters learned when dealing with their muy macho fathers. Technically, Lia wasn’t Latina—her mother and father were second-generation Italian American, but having grown up just two blocks over, Lia had balanced between the two distinct cultures with the skill of an Olympic gymnast. She spoke Castilian Spanish courtesy of the teachers at Tampa Catholic High School, Italian thanks to her parents and grandparents, and Ybor City Cuban picked up in various and sundry conversations with the Morales family, who considered her one of their own. Lia added diversity to Marisela’s distinctly Cuban-American experience—not to mention the added value of having Lia’s mother’s fantasy-inducing meatballs every Sunday, followed with coffee and fig cookies that nearly caused spontaneous orgasms.
