by Julie Leto
Shit. Shitshitshit.
“We’ll be safe here, won’t we, mi amor?”
Marisela spun toward Frankie, who grinned at her with the kind of verve reserved only for a man who relished a true and dangerous challenge. In an instant, the painful churning in her stomach subsided and the fiery spread of excitement rushed through her veins. He wasn’t afraid. Why should she be? The worst that could happen was death, right?
“I’m very impressed,” she replied. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to truly relax. Enjoy each other.”
She’d just removed her earphones and reached out to stroke Frankie’s arm to counter his teasing when the pilot swung open the cabin door and invited them to disembark. The wind from the slowly churning blades tugged at Marisela’s hair, despite the slick ponytail she wore. She couldn’t help but duck, more out of instinct than necessity. In the past week, the girl who’d never gone anywhere had traveled by luxury yacht, private plane, and now in a helicopter that Perez told them once belonged to a sultan in the small but wealthy country of Brunei. But to counter the glamour of such travel, she’d also been nearly raped, shot at, smacked across the face so that her teeth still rattled with the memory and nearly blown up by a bomb she’d had a hand in setting. All in a day’s work, she supposed.
A tall, dark-skinned man emerged from the house, dressed impeccably in a starched, long-sleeved tan guayabera, coordinating linen pants, and sandals. His grin reached his eyes, but didn’t show his teeth. He greeted Frankie with a curt, efficient bow. He was apparently the tropical version of a rich man’s perfect butler. He snapped a quick bow toward Marisela, then gestured toward the house, not bothering to try and shout over the dying but still deafening noise from the helicopter. After grabbing their own bags despite the wordless protest of their host, they followed him through the courtyard and into an open-air foyer that fluttered with thick-leaved banana plants and was perfumed by the distinct and sun-sweet scent of birds of paradise.
“Welcome to Isla de Piratas, Señor y Señora Tosca. Me llamo Alfredo.”
A butler named Alfred? No way.
“Mucho gusto, Alfredo,” she greeted, offering her hand. He accepted, but not without a moment’s hesitation. Though he was likely the most prized servant in the household, Marisela wondered if most guests even noticed his presence except when they wanted something. “Muchas gracias por sus atenciones. Señor Perez es un hombre muy afortunado. Y generoso.”
Alfred’s grin widened, but still failed to show anything more than lips that seemed lined in smoky kohl. “Señor Perez has made his luck, señora. He takes care of the people who help him achieve his goals.”
He grasped her hand quickly, but tightly, with both deference and confidence. Marisela immediately liked him.
Frankie must have sensed her softening because he took her by the elbow a little roughly when Alfred gestured them farther down the impressive, arched and airy breezeway.
“I’ve been instructed to offer you anything you need to make your stay here comfortable and relaxing. Señor Perez emphasized that you both deserve a rest.”
Marisela and Frankie followed behind silently, Frankie’s tight grip on her arm acting like a vise around her mouth. She didn’t like submitting to his instructions, but she knew she’d nearly started down a wrong path. She’d allowed herself, even if momentarily, to forget she was Dolores Tosca—a reticent killer whose murderous profession had made her a woman unimpressed by wealth rather than a sheltered mujer who once thought a nineteen-inch color television with cable was the height of wealth and riches. Still, neither one of them bothered to hide their appreciative perusal of the dark, hand-carved teak furniture, junglelike collection of plants, and especially, the vast collection of art—from paintings to sculpture to hand-woven rugs—that filled every inch of the house with a distinctively Caribbean-flavored elegance. Marisela wondered if all men who made their billions selling arms to criminals and two-bit dictators surrounded themselves with such illusions of class and intellectual superiority. She supposed they must have or the stereotype wouldn’t exist.
The bedroom suite Alfredo led them to was spacious and entirely self-contained, down to the gas-powered fireplace and a tiled bathroom that, if she wasn’t mistaken, was bigger than her parent’s entire house.
“This room is yours, but feel free to explore the hacienda as you wish. I will allow you to settle in and then would be honored to give you the, ¿cómo se dice?, grand tour.”
Marisela nodded as Frankie tossed their bags on the bed—a California king that seemed to have more pillows and shams on it than the entire linen section of Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Alfredo bowed, then backed toward an intimate table set for two. A colorful ceramic pitcher sweated with the icy, pinkish-red drink inside, which Alfredo poured into tail glasses and garnished with a long stick of cinnamon. “This is my own recipe. Very refreshing after a journey.”
He handed Marisela a glass and the scent teased her nostrils with the promise of sweet wine and fruit juice. Sangria. She sipped and hummed her appreciation even as the cold nectar burst with flavor in her mouth and then slid smoothly down her throat.
“Delicioso, Alfredo.”
“Gracias, señora.”
He fetched a second serving for Frankie, who accepted the glass but made no comment after he took a quick swig. With a slight frown, Alfredo took his leave, making a quick beeline for the door. “I’ll return in half an hour. If you need anything, simply press the green button on the wall beside the bed.”
With that, he disappeared, shutting the door soundly behind him.
Frankie took a second, more enthusiastic sip, his arched brow displaying his pleasure at the taste.
“Do the Toscas always have to be so rude?” she asked.
Frankie’s gaze narrowed, but she stood her ground. Okay, so the room likely contained as many listening devices as potted plants and fresh flowers. In fact, the potted plants and fresh flowers probably hid top-of-the-line surveillance equipment. She stamped her foot in frustration. She supposed referring to herself in the third person wasn’t the worst slip-up, but she had to be more careful.
“I’m not being rude, mi corazón, he replied. “Just cautious.”
Point taken.
She downed about half the drink while she walked around the room, exploring the beautiful knickknacks and looking for any sign of listening devices. She found none, but that meant nothing. Perez could have built the gadgetry into the walls. How were they going to plan a hostile kidnapping and a bloodless escape when they couldn’t even speak freely?
“I want to explore the island,” she announced, pushing back the, soft, gauzy sheers that muted the view out the window. She tapped the glass. Just as she expected—bulletproof. The room was sultry with tropical warmth, but she shivered all the same.
Frankie slipped in behind her and snaked his hands around her waist while his mouth made subtle contact with the sensitive skin on her neck. She had to close her eyes to the point of inducing dizziness to expel the realization that the last man to assault her neck so deliciously had not been Frankie.
“A perfect idea, mi amor,” he said huskily. “I hope you packed a sexy swimsuit.”
Marisela allowed herself to laugh, amazed at how his amorous attention, even if merely a ploy in his role as the devoted Rogelio, immediately dispersed the sense of dread thrumming through her body. Though there hadn’t been much time between Javier’s invitation to their departure to the island, she had made time to shop for a few extra things—items Titan wouldn’t have thought to provide—at a South Beach boutique. The anticipation of Frankie’s first glimpse of the grossly expensive suit shot a thrill through her that transformed the last of her fear into pure molten fire.
She reached over her shoulder and ran her hand through Frankie’s hair, allowing herself to fully enjoy the sensation of the thick, soft strands against her hand. The stubble on his cheeks rubbed roughly against her neck and shoulder as he trailed
wet, warm kisses across her skin. Even through her blouse, her flesh burned and she had to concentrate to remember that his suggestion of a beach-romp wasn’t about seduction.
“You might not be able to control yourself when you see me,” she teased.
“Who said I want to control myself?” he asked.
She spun around in his arms and caught the devilish flash in his infinitely deep and dark gaze. That was Frankie talking, not Rogelio. And for that, she was very, very glad.
“It’s already too dark for a swim,” she said.
“The ocean isn’t the kind of wet I’m craving right now.”
He pressed her completely flush against his body and the feel of his hard sex against her belly dispersed any and all thoughts of listening devices and amorous bosses and secret plans from her mind. What would the mission suffer if they acted like the married couple they were pretending to be? The insatiable, eternally hot for each other married couple?
She grabbed his shirt, ripped the hem from his jeans, then flung the soft fabric over his head. He undressed her similarly, then stopped. With a wicked grin, he strolled to the table beside the bed and pressed the green button with a forceful jab.
“Sí, señor?” Alfred asked dutifully on the other end of the speaker. “You wish the tour now?”
“No. Give us an hour. Maybe two,” he suggested, his dark brow arched.
Marisela licked her lips and surrendered to the buzz shooting through her veins. She unsnapped and unzipped her skirt, giving Frankie a flash of her bright red panties.
He swallowed thickly.
Alfredo’s voice broke into the thick tension tugging between them. “I’ll contact you when Señor Perez arrives.”
“Perfect,” Frankie finished, clicking off the intercom and then dropping to his knees at Marisela’s feet to press his lips against the scarlet triangle. “Let’s hope he takes his sweet time.”
Sixteen
MARISELA KICKED OFF her sandals and in one bold flash, removed the chocolate brown sarong she’d tied artfully around her neck to conceal her body. Not that Frankie hadn’t seen her body in multiple positions last night, but something about teasing him in the sunshine of a brand-new day appealed to her. With Frankie standing just a few feet behind her on Perez’s private beach, she expected an immediate reaction to her barely-there choice of swimwear. But instead of a wolfish whistle or amorous growl, she heard a high-pitched girlish squeal.
“¡Dios mio! My father would faint if I ever bought something so wicked!”
Though still twenty paces away, there was no mistaking the source of what Marisela decided to take as a compliment. Jessica Perez marched across the sand, flanked on either side by two female bodyguards. Bodyguards who made no secret they were bodyguards, though they didn’t exactly broadcast their gender. They wore their hair short, slicked-back and out of their faces. They’d traded the requisite dark suit for simple light cotton shirts and slacks, but they wore their holsters and guns on the outside, within quick, intimidating reach.
“If my father were still alive,” Marisela responded, slipping easily into Dolores-mode, “he’d faint, too. Right after he tore the eyes out of any boy who saw me and locked me in my room for thirty years.”
“How long has your father been dead?” the girl asked, tempering her chuckle in light of the subject.
“Fifteen years. Doesn’t matter. I still think he’s why I bought it.
She winked and the young girl instantly lit up, her grin a serious rival for the morning sun. Just like in the picture in the locket, Jessica’s hair gleamed black as night while her skin glowed pale and porcelain. She was a regular Snow White, Marisela decided, only with thugs at her side rather than dwarfs. Jessica pulled a woven beach mat out of her oversized bag, then without looking, handed the rolled pad to the guard on her left, who quickly placed it on the sand. The girl dropped her bag without so much as an acknowledgment.
Spoiled, Marisela decided, but she couldn’t blame her. There was a price to pay for the combination of insane wealth and undoubtedly crazier isolation.
“I’m Jessica,” she said sliding her sunglasses down her nose so that Marisela caught a quick glimpse of the pale blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother. Just as keen as her mother’s, too. Not much got past this chiquita.
“I guessed,” Marisela answered.
“You’re Dolores.”
“Thanks to my parents.”
“Your name doesn’t suit you. You should change it.” The kid didn’t mince words.
Jessica had turned her attention to Frankie, who’d ignored them both completely, wandering toward the water’s edge where he’d whipped off his shirt and stretched toward the sun so that Marisela was the one inspired to whistle.
“Rogelio, ven aquí. Es Jessica. La hija del Señor Perez.”
He spared her a quick but cautious glance. “Hola.”
Jessica waved, but Frankie had already turned before she completed the gesture, which made the young girl sigh. The bodyguards attempted to more effectively hide their appreciation of Frankie’s show, but Marisela would have bet all the money in Dolores’s briefcase that under their reflective sunglasses, they were ogling her “husband.”
“How’d you land such a papichulo with such a protective father?” Jessica asked.
Marisela watched as Frankie waded his impressive body into the water and then dove sleekly into the surf. “Actually, my father introduced us.”
In fact, the former Dolores de los Reyes had been recruited into the service of Fidel Castro by her father, who served the dictator on his secret security forces. When Marisela had been talking about protective fathers, she’d been drawing from her own past, not the one she’d read about in Dolores’s dossier. She distinctly remembered the day she announced to her family that she and Frankie were dating. Surprisingly, her father hadn’t sent her to her room for thirty years—but he’d tried. Only Marisela’s concentrated skills in buttering up her Papi and the fact that Frankie’s family had known hers practically forever kept her from being banished. Not that her father hadn’t fought her romance with Frankie every step of the way, but at least she’d been free, relatively speaking.
Jessica glanced at the bodyguards on either side of her, then shooed one aside because she was blocking her sunlight. “You’re so lucky. My father doesn’t let any boys near me.”
Marisela lowered her sunglasses and gave the girl á quick once-over. “Do you blame him?”
Jessica looked down at her one-piece suit, which while relatively modest, failed to hide the girl’s rather impressive curves. In fact, with the girl’s neckline practically plunging to her sternum, Marisela could see why Jessica’s father might be a tad overprotective.
“He can’t blame me for these,” Jessica defended, buoying her breasts with her hands. “I have his genes.”
“And your mother’s,” Marisela said, pleased she had such an immediate opportunity to inject the topic of Jessica’s mother into the conversation.
The girl sneered.
Not good.
“My mother was supposedly a skinny gringa. No, its my father’s fault. You should see my tia Luli. She looks just like Angelina Jolie.”
Marisela noted the same resemblance in her niece. Dark hair, hypnotic light eyes, pouty lips, and a body that wouldn’t quit. “There are ways to hide your curves, you know.”
Jessica leaned back on her elbows. “You don’t look like the kind of woman who hides her body.”
Marisela smiled, watching as the bodyguards widened their perimeter, not surprisingly, bringing them closer to Frankie. He suggestively invited them to join him for a swim.
Marisela frowned. Cleared her throat. Loudly.
The bodyguards backed off.
Damned straight.
What she didn’t know was if her jealous act was real or for show.
“Well,” she said, saving that thought for another time, “I’m on a vacation on a tropical paradise with my muy caliente husband. I’m
certainly not going to dress like a nun.”
“Do you ever dress like a nun?” the girl asked, retrieving a fancy French brand of sunscreen from her tote and spraying the emollient lightly over her arms, chest, and legs.
“Not if I can help it. But, I do deal with men all the time. Sometimes, the curves come in handy, mostly with Americanos. But with Latino men, if you want to be taken seriously, you have to dress differently. De-emphasize those assets that bring their machismo to the surface, if you know what I mean.”
Jessica scooted nearer, listening with the same intensity as she might have if Marisela had been imparting the grand secret to the meaning of life. Which, she guessed, in a way, she was.
“Do you know how to do that? Seriously. If my father maybe saw me more like a person rather than his under-aged hijita with the big boobs, he might loosen the leash a little bit.”
Marisela doubted this so intensely, she’d bet her entire take from Titan that no change in Jessica Perez’s wardrobe would make any difference, but she liked where this conversation was heading. In a few short minutes, she and Jessica were bonding over fashion—one of the few topics Marisela could discuss with authority.
“I can show you a few fashion tricks,” Marisela said, trying to sound somewhat bored with the prospect. She was, after all, supposed to be an assassin vacationing with her husband. She couldn’t seem too anxious to spend time with a teenager or she might blow her cover. “You got any magazines?”
“Magazines? I could open a stand with all the subscriptions I get! Pero, let’s go one better. You’re a friend of my father s, right?”
