Heart of a Killer

by Yolanda Wallace

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. Then Brooklyn remembered where she had seen it: in a news article describing the tragic deaths that had occurred at a landfill there after a wall of garbage suddenly collapsed and entombed two hundred people who were scavenging for something they could eat, wear, or sell.

  “Were you there when the landslide happened?”

  “No, but I know several people who died. If things had been different, I could have been one of them.”

  Vilma requested a table for two, and they were escorted to the crowded restaurant’s second floor. Brooklyn had barely settled into her seat before a waiter came to take their drink orders and ask if they would like to see the dinner menu.

  Vilma conversed with him in a language Brooklyn couldn’t understand. The cadence was lilting. Almost poetic. She was entranced by its beauty.

  “Was that Tagalog?” she asked after the waiter headed downstairs.

  “No, it was Waray. There are over one hundred seventy languages spoken in the Philippines. Along with Tagalog, Waray is one of the most common.”

  Despite the brisk temperatures outside, the interior of the restaurant was warm. Almost uncomfortably so. Vilma unbuttoned her tuxedo jacket and draped it across the back of her chair. Even in her shirtsleeves, she still managed to look debonair rather than dressed down.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I took the liberty of ordering for the both of us.”

  Brooklyn usually preferred to make her own choices rather than have them dictated to her. Vilma’s actions didn’t seem to be a matter of overstepping her boundaries. Instead, they seemed designed to bridge a gap. “I willingly place myself in your hands.”

  “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

  Vilma’s smile hinted she didn’t always have such a delicate touch. The thought made Brooklyn’s pulse race.

  The waiter brought out a bottle of wine and poured some in Vilma’s glass. She swirled the clear contents, took a quick sniff, then drained her drink. After she signaled her approval, the waiter filled both their glasses.

  “This is arrack,” Vilma said before Brooklyn could ask the question. “It’s wine made from coconuts. The taste is subtle, but it has a potent kick.”

  “You’re not trying to take advantage of me, are you?”

  “Hardly. When we’re together, I want you to be fully cognizant of everything we’re doing.”

  The intensity of Vilma’s gaze almost made Brooklyn drop her glass. She took a sip of her wine while she tried to regain her composure. The potent kick Vilma had warned her about was offset by a finish that was slightly sweet. It reminded her of an umbrella drink. Seemingly innocuous but possessing the ability to knock her on her ass. She told herself to go slow so she wouldn’t end up falling asleep again. She could get away with doing that one time. More than once would send the wrong signals. She didn’t want Vilma to think she wasn’t interested in her. In truth, she had never met anyone more fascinating. Or mysterious.

  “I’m sensing there’s a reason you brought me here,” she said as she pushed her glass away from her.

  “There is. As I said, this neighborhood reminds me of home. My mother and I didn’t have much money when I was growing up.”

  “Purse strings were tight in my family, too. Hand-me-downs were pretty much worthless by the time they finally got handed down to me. Did you put yourself through school?”

  “Yes,” Vilma said with a laugh, “the school of hard knocks.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you go from such humble beginnings to living on Central Park?”

  “How did I get so rich, you mean?”

  Brooklyn blushed. “I must sound like a gold digger.”

  “No, you sound understandably curious. To answer your question, I wrote my success story with these.” Vilma held out her hands, which were well-manicured but undeniably strong. “And with this.” She pointed to her head, which contained a brain with which Brooklyn was increasingly enamored. “In my life, I’ve always found it’s better to be street smart than book smart. Being lucky helps, too. The rest is all about timing. Otherwise, you and I might not have met.”

  “It is funny to think we’ve lived in the same city for years but didn’t meet until we both walked into the same bar almost seven thousand miles away from home.”

  Brooklyn took another sip of her wine. She thought she couldn’t be more impressed by Vilma than she was already, but Vilma’s confession proved her wrong. She liked the fact that Vilma had earned her money rather than inheriting it. Perhaps the adage about hard work paying off had merit after all. If so, there was still hope for her.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said. “You were telling me about your life in the Philippines.”

  “I grew up on a diet of street food. It was cheap, it was easy, and even though it shared similar price points with the fare in fast food restaurants, most of it had actual nutritional value.” Vilma leaned back in her chair when the waiter brought out a platter laden with several small dishes. “These were some of my favorites.” She pointed to each of the dishes one by one. “Fish balls, banana cue, sisig, isaw, and tokneneng. Make sure to save room for dessert because we still have dirty ice cream to come.”

  “Everything looks so interesting I don’t know where to start.”

  Vilma placed a deep-fried orange ball on her plate. “Try the tokneneng. It’s like a Scotch egg without the layer of sausage.”

  Brooklyn had expected the dish to be heavy, but the tempura batter and sweet-and-sour dipping sauce combined to make it surprisingly light. “God, that’s good. What’s next?”

  Vilma indicated the sisig. “Do yourself a favor and taste it before you ask what’s in it.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but okay.” Brooklyn took a cautious bite. The meat in the dish seemed to taste like pork, but the intense spices made it hard to tell which cut. “I give. What’s in this?”

  “Pork jowls, ears, and liver seasoned with calamansi and chili peppers.”

  “I’m glad I asked you after I tried it rather than before. Are any of the other dishes quite that exotic?”

  Vilma glanced toward the plate of isaw, which featured a grilled protein of some kind on wooden skewers.

  Brooklyn picked up one of the skewers. The meat on it was chewy but incredibly flavorful. “I won’t bother asking what that’s made of. I don’t want you to shatter the illusion.”

  Fortunately, the fish balls didn’t require explanation. The spicy curry sauce they were served with made Brooklyn’s taste buds sing.

  “The banana cue is the perfect item to lead us into dessert,” Vilma said.

  The deep-fried banana covered in caramelized sugar seemed to be a stripped-down version of Bananas Foster. It tasted so good Brooklyn didn’t miss the ingredients that had been left out.

  “There’s more to come after this?” she asked after she barely managed to convince herself not to lick the spoon.

  “Yes, dirty ice cream, which is also known as sorbetes. It’s a Filipino version of ice cream made from local fruit, usually mango, avocado, melon, coconut, jackfruit, or strawberry. Which flavor would you like?”

  “Strawberry, I guess.”

  “Why the uncertainty?”

  “Too many flavors to choose from. I’d love to sample each of them, but I have to limit myself if I want to keep fitting into this dress.”

  Vilma looked at her over the top of her wine glass as she took a sip of the arrack. “You do wear that dress spectacularly well.”

  Brooklyn’s skin prickled as Vilma’s eyes slowly tracked over her body. Forget a bowl of ice cream. She would need to swim in a whole vat of the stuff in order to combat the heat from Vilma’s gaze.

  “I have a suggestion,” Vilma said.

  Brooklyn leaned forward, hoping Vilma was about to recommend they order dessert to go so they could enjoy it in Vilma’s apartment, preferably the luxurious confines of her bedroom after several rounds of vigorou
s sex.

  “I’ll order the avocado and you can have some of mine,” Vilma said. “Next time, we can try two more flavors. Would you like that?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” Brooklyn was looking forward to the additional ice cream, but she was even more excited by the fact that the glimpse Vilma had offered into her life wouldn’t be a one-time thing. “Thank you for this,” she said as the waiter set two bowls on the table.

  “For offering to share my ice cream?” Vilma asked with a teasing smile.

  “No, thank you for tonight. For taking me on the best date I’ve ever had and for letting me get to know the true you. I feel like tonight is the actual night we first met.”

  Vilma dipped her spoon in the generous scoop of green-tinted ice cream in her bowl and held it out for Brooklyn to taste. Brooklyn nearly moaned when the ice cream hit her tongue. It was the perfect combination of sweet and savory. Like candied bacon or chocolate-dipped pretzels but ten times better. “I’m definitely ordering that next time.”

  “Using your scenario, does that mean our next date will be our second instead of our fifth?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that would mean tonight is our first date.” Brooklyn paused to make sure she had Vilma’s undivided attention. “And I never sleep with someone on the first date.”

  Vilma’s eyes darkened with desire. “What about the fourth?”

  Brooklyn offered a teasing shrug. “It’s been known to happen.”

  Vilma reached into her wallet and tossed two large bills on the table when one probably would have been sufficient to cover the tab and provide a substantial tip. “Then let’s make it happen.”

  After Vilma stood and put on her coat, Brooklyn reached for her proffered hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Santana had picked Brooklyn up earlier that night, Brooklyn had met her in the lobby of her apartment building but hadn’t invited her upstairs. Santana hadn’t been offended by the omission. She had chalked it up to Brooklyn being anxious to get the evening started. She had felt the same way. She was anxious now, too. Not in anticipation of how the evening might go but how it would end.

  After Brooklyn unlocked her apartment door and turned on the lights, Santana took a careful look at her new surroundings. Like her office, Brooklyn’s apartment seemed to be an extension of her personality. The small loft in upper Manhattan was functional yet quirky. The open concept space was filled with furniture that looked comfortable without being over-the-top. The exposed brick walls were decorated with posters from an assortment of science fiction movies whose titles were as eye-catching as the accompanying artwork. Magazines, a sheaf of scribbled notes, and several spreadsheets littered the coffee table, a vintage crab trap that had been repurposed and topped with a thick pane of glass to provide a stable display area/work surface.

  “Excuse the mess.” Brooklyn gathered the magazines and printouts and stacked them into neat piles. “If I’d known we would end up here tonight, I would have cleaned up first.”

  “No worries.” Santana’s apartment felt more like a showroom than a residence. Brooklyn’s, in contrast, felt lived-in. It felt like her. Santana could picture her making herself comfortable on the well-worn couch while she worked on a project. She could practically see her whipping up a quick but hearty meal in the compact kitchen. And she didn’t have to imagine Brooklyn reclining on the throw pillow-covered bed because she was about to witness it for herself.

  Brooklyn hung her coat in the closet next to the front door. “Would you like something to drink? I don’t have any arrack, but I have plenty of beer and I think there’s a bottle of red wine floating around here somewhere.”

  “We could go on the hunt for it, but I’d prefer if we dispensed with the niceties.”

  “So would I.” Brooklyn’s shoulders drooped as she visibly relaxed. “I’ve never been any good at playing happy hostess.”

  “Then I shouldn’t expect breakfast in bed in the morning?”

  “I can’t think about breakfast yet. My mind’s still on dessert.” Brooklyn came over to her and tugged at her bow tie until the intricate knot came free. “What about you?”

  When Brooklyn unbuttoned her tuxedo shirt and slid her hands against her skin, food was the last thing on Santana’s mind. She put her hands on Brooklyn’s waist and pulled her closer. Brooklyn tilted her head up and parted her lips, inviting her to kiss her. Santana eagerly accepted the invitation.

  She covered Brooklyn’s mouth with her own. Though she ached to claim Brooklyn right away, she forced herself to go slow. The kiss was languid. Unhurried. Brooklyn sighed as she slipped her arms around her neck. The move usually made Santana feel trapped. Tonight, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

  She traced the tip of her tongue across Brooklyn’s mouth, then slipped it inside. Brooklyn’s fingers snaked into her hair, holding her in place. She ran her hands along the length of Brooklyn’s spine. The task was made easier because the open back of Brooklyn’s dress dipped close to the rise of her hips. She cupped Brooklyn’s ass and broke the kiss long enough to nuzzle the side of her neck. “I adore you in this dress, but I think I’ll like you even more out of it.”

  Brooklyn smiled and turned her back to her. “In that case,” she said, sweeping her long hair aside, “I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Santana unzipped Brooklyn’s dress and let it fall to the floor. Brooklyn stepped out of the puddled material and kicked off her heels. When Brooklyn turned to face her, the sight of her took Santana’s breath away.

  Brooklyn was wearing a black lace thong and matching bra. The sexy undergarments accentuated her hourglass figure. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” Santana said as she traced her fingers along the dangerous curves.

  “And you are wearing far too many clothes.” Brooklyn pushed Santana’s jacket off her shoulders and tossed it on the couch. Her tuxedo shirt quickly followed. After Santana slipped off her shoes, Brooklyn unbuckled her belt and unzipped her pants. When the cool air hit her overheated skin, Santana almost forgot her vow not to rush.

  Brooklyn ran her fingers over the ripples in Santana’s stomach. “I’ve never slept with an Amazon before.”

  Santana picked her up, carried her to the bed, and gently laid her down. “There’s a first time for everything,” she said as she slowly peeled off Brooklyn’s underwear.

  Brooklyn unhooked her bra and slipped her arms out of it. Then she pulled Santana’s sports bra over her head and tossed it aside. Santana’s boxer briefs came next. “I have a feeling I’m going to remember this first time for a while,” she said as she pulled Santana in for another kiss.

  Santana had a feeling she would never forget it. She trembled when Brooklyn wrapped her legs around her waist and began to move against her.

  “God, you feel good,” Brooklyn said. She arched her back when Santana slipped first one, then two fingers inside her. “And that feels even better.”

  Santana teased one of Brooklyn’s pebbled nipples with her tongue, then drew it into her mouth. Brooklyn cried out and began to grind harder against her fingers. She reached for Santana’s free hand and placed it on her other breast.

  “I’ve got two of those, you know.”

  Santana couldn’t help but smile. She loved women who knew what they wanted in bed and weren’t afraid to tell her how to give it to them. She twirled one of Brooklyn’s nipples between her fingers while she kissed and sucked the other. Brooklyn’s cries grew louder and louder as she drifted closer to the edge. “Your neighbors are going to hate you.”

  “They’ve subjected me to far worse over the years,” Brooklyn said breathlessly. “They deserve a little payback.”

  Santana made sure to make it worth their while. If the sound she made when she came was any indication, Brooklyn seemed to enjoy it, too. She kissed Brooklyn until her breathing returned to normal, then rolled onto her ba
ck and drew Brooklyn into her arms.

  Brooklyn combed her tousled hair with her fingers. “What would you like?” she asked as she rested her head on Santana’s chest.

  Santana pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Giving you pleasure was enough for me.” Though her clit throbbed insistently, she didn’t feel an all-encompassing need for release. She felt as satisfied as if Brooklyn’s orgasm had been her own.

  Brooklyn lifted her head to get a better look at her. “Are you sure?”

  “I have rules, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “I never sleep with a woman on the fourth date.”

  Brooklyn smiled to show she was in on the joke. “What about the fifth?”

  Santana used Brooklyn’s own words against her. “It’s been known to happen.” She kissed the tip of Brooklyn’s nose. “I have to head to Switzerland tomorrow for a business trip. Zurich, to be precise. We’ll get together when I get back.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Just a few days. I need to meet with some people and get the lay of the land before I decide if I want to invest in their company. If I like what I see, I’ll request a formal sit-down in a few months so we can talk numbers.”

  Lying came so easily Santana could do it without breaking a sweat. For the first time, though, it also came with a healthy dose of guilt. She wished she could be honest with Brooklyn about who she was and what she really did for a living, but she knew Brooklyn could never understand, let alone accept the truth.

  “Is that how you make all your business decisions?” Brooklyn asked. “By following your instincts?”

  “Paired with a generous amount of research, yes. Instinct only goes so far. That’s why I never make a move until I’ve studied all the angles and taken everything into account.”

  Except in this case. Her instincts had told her to put as much distance between herself and Brooklyn as possible. She had chosen to ignore her own advice rather than heed it. Time would tell if she had made the right decision or one she—and Brooklyn—would come to regret.