by Pennza, Amy
He bent his head toward the mic, then hesitated. “That your real name or your working name?”
She held his gaze for a moment. “Catalina Salvatierra,” she said quietly. She waited for recognition to flare in his eyes, but he just brushed past her and headed toward the balcony. She released a shuddering breath as he spoke into his radio, the words “arrest” and “transport” floating back.
He returned and dropped her shoes in front of her. “Well, Catalina Salvatierra, you’re under arrest for prostitution, and your friend back there is getting a solicitation charge.” He gestured for her to put the shoes on.
When it became obvious he wasn’t going to help, she used her toe to tip the black stilettos upright, then balanced carefully while she slid them onto her feet. A surge of confidence shot through her. Amazing what a few extra inches and some Christian Louboutin could do in a shitty situation. She straightened her spine. “I’m ready.”
The officer cast a skeptical glance at her feet. “You sure you can walk in those things?”
She couldn’t keep the dryness from her voice. “Quite sure.”
He looked unconvinced, but he gripped her upper arm and moved her toward the door. “Watch the mess,” he said as he maneuvered her around chunks of splintered wood.
What a waste. The hotel would probably stick Walker with the bill. He could afford it, but he shouldn’t have to pay for two cops playing ninja. Anger made her pulse jump. She tamped it down as she stepped through the ruined door and into the hallway. Right now, she needed a cool head.
The officer kept a firm grip on her elbow as he steered her down the hall. By some miracle, they encountered no one as they passed the long row of cream-colored doors. The only sounds were the jangling of the officer’s utility belt and the occasional crackle of his radio. This section of the hotel was too upscale for vending machines, but they passed a few alcoves with ice dispensers before reaching the bank of elevators. Apparently, even the extravagantly wealthy weren’t above a round-the-clock need for fresh ice.
At the elevator, the officer punched the lobby button and stepped back. “You work this hotel often?” he asked.
Catalina met his gaze in the shiny gray surface of the elevator doors. Not anymore. She made her tone firm but polite. “I’d rather not answer any questions until I can have a lawyer present.”
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open, taking his reflection with them. He ushered her into the tight space with a hand on her cuffed wrists and maneuvered her so she faced him. He rested his forearms on his utility belt, the butt of his pistol under his elbow. “Spoken like a true working girl,” he said with a tight smile.
She stared at a spot over his right shoulder until her vision blurred.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. She gnawed the inside of her cheek, torn between keeping her mouth shut and asking him to check on Walter again. Should she tell him she’d given Walter medication? The officer pulled a pack of gum from his front shirt pocket and unwrapped a lime green stick. He wadded up the little foil wrapper, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and flicked it into the corner.
No, best he didn’t know about the pills in Walter’s jacket.
The elevator bumped to a stop. He latched on to her arm. “After you,” he said, his mint-scented breath wafting over her shoulder.
The lobby was nearly empty, but the restaurant beyond it buzzed with noise and conversation. The officer marched her past the front desk, his fingers tight on her arm. A clerk looked up from her computer and gasped, and a group of businessmen loitering outside the restaurant nudged each other, their eyes knowing.
Catalina fastened her gaze on the big revolving doors at the far end of the lobby and concentrated on the loud clip of her stilettos against the marble floor.
Uno…dos…tres… She counted each step in her head, the rote procession of numbers drowning out the murmurs of the people around her.
A laugh burst from the cluster of businessmen. In her peripheral vision, a young family hurried past, pulling wheeled luggage behind them. The mother sucked in a breath, then tugged her little girl forward, hustling her away from Catalina and the officer.
The lobby doors gleamed gold in the soft evening light. Like everything else in the hotel, they boasted an understated elegance designed to appeal to a wide variety of tastes. The travel guides probably wrote themselves. Enjoy a front row view of the San Antonio River, with direct access to the city’s fabled Alamo—
“Slow down.” The officer tightened his grip.
She clenched her jaw and slowed her pace. And he worried I couldn’t walk in my heels.
The doorman saw them coming and pushed the heavy glass door until an open compartment circled around to the lobby.
The officer nodded at him, then steered her inside and shuffled her around the half circle, his fingers biting deeper into her flesh as they approached the exit. A warm breeze ruffled the edge of her dress, and her ears popped as the air transitioned from the artificial coolness of the lobby to the damp night air. A police cruiser sat in the porte cochere.
Thank goodness. It was just a few steps from the hotel to the car.
In a hotel like this, people were always coming and going. The sight of a handcuffed woman in a skimpy dress being perp walked was bound to attract attention. It wouldn’t take much—a smartphone photo or two—for word of the arrest to spread. If someone recognized her and connected the right dots, the news would eventually make its way to the wrong people.
Or rather, the wrong person.
The officer’s radio crackled just as he palmed the back of her head to lower her into the car. A male voice said, “One thirty-two, dispatch.”
The officer froze.
Another crackle, and a woman responded, “Dispatch. Go ahead, one thirty-two.”
“I need EMS on scene. Male suspect is having chest pains and shortness of breath.”
Catalina’s heart pounded. The officer released her and stepped away. He put his mouth to his mic. “One thirty-two, this is one forty-seven. Do you need assistance?”
“That’s a negative, one forty-seven,” the male voice replied. “Go ahead and transport.”
“Copy. Let me know if you need anything.” The officer looked at Catalina and raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like it’s a good thing you two didn’t finish what you started.”
She swallowed. “Can someone let me know if he’s okay?”
The officer scrutinized her for a second, almost like he was trying to decide if she was sincere. Then he nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
He motioned toward the car, and she turned and ducked obediently as he helped her inside and shut the door. The astringent scent of bleach, underlaid with the faint stench of urine and vomit, filled her nose.
She breathed through her mouth as the officer climbed into the front and started the car. Rotating bands of blue and red flashed over her, turning her skin a mottled purple. The cuffs rubbed against her wrists. She rolled her shoulders. Fire streaked down her arm, and she winced.
Maybe she pulled something when he cuffed her upstairs… Before she even finished the thought, guilt swamped her. How could she be bothered by a little discomfort when Walter was likely having a heart attack—and all because she’d been too afraid to call an ambulance.
As the officer pulled away from the hotel, she put her face to the window and craned her head back, straining to pick out the twentieth floor among the rows of windows. What if the EMTs didn’t reach him in time?
The officer made a sharp left, throwing her sideways on the narrow seat. With her arms cuffed behind her, she had to dig her uninjured shoulder into the hard plastic backrest to keep from toppling over. She glared at the back of his head through the wire mesh partition. But he seemed oblivious to her struggles as he snapped his gum and maneuvered into traffic.
She sighed. The digital clock display in the middle of the dashboard glowed an angry red. Ten minutes to midnight
. She’d never been so glad to see a day finally end.
As the cruiser picked up speed and buildings zipped past, one thought ran through her head.
At least tomorrow can’t possibly get any worse.
2
“You, cocktail dress. You’re free to go.”
The words, delivered with bored indifference, jolted Catalina out of the fitful sleep she’d been fighting for the past several hours. She struggled to a sitting position. The thin jailhouse blanket slid off her shoulders and puddled around her waist. Her tailbone ached from the long night on the metal cot. She blinked at the female corrections officer standing outside her cell. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The judge dismissed your case,” the officer said. “Lucky you.” Her blonde hair was slicked back in a tight bun, and her brown eyes held the world-weary look of someone who deals with the worst kind of humanity on a daily basis.
Catalina frowned. Dismissed her case? That was impossible. She cleared her throat. “But I wasn’t even arraigned.”
The officer shrugged, making the key ring on her waist jingle. “Don’t ask me. I got a call saying release the female inmate. You’re the only female inmate here, so I’m releasing you.”
“What time is it?” The jail hadn’t seen fit to hang clocks on the walls. There was plenty of graffiti, though.
“A little after six.”
Well, free was free. Maybe the court had more important cases to handle. Still, it seemed sort of…irresponsible to just dismiss a case without any kind of formal proceeding. And since when did judges work that early in the morning? Catalina stood and smoothed her dress down her legs. A dull ache bloomed in her shoulder.
Courtesy of officer one forty-seven.
The corrections officer removed her key ring. “Your ride’s up front,” she said as she sorted through the keys.
A tingle of apprehension raced down Catalina’s spine. “I didn’t call for a ride.” The booking officer who handled her in-processing had been going off shift. “Plenty of time for that in the morning,” he’d said. “I’m too tired to stand around while you call your pimp.”
“Well, you got one,” the officer said without looking up.
“Did they give a name?”
The corrections officer found her key, then lifted her head and gave Catalina an affronted look. “Do I look like a secretary?” She slid the key in the door and disengaged the lock. Metal screeched as she pushed the door aside and stepped back. “He’s up front,” she said, pointing down the short hall that led to a small waiting area.
Catalina’s heart lodged in her throat. Contrary to what the in-processing officer thought, she didn’t have a pimp—or friends in the city. Walter was the only person who knew where she was last night, and he was in no position to spring her from jail.
That left just one possibility.
Catalina’s pulse spiked.
“Listen,” the corrections officer said, folding her arms. “I know we offer some of the finest accommodations in San Antonio, but you can’t stay here.”
Catalina ignored her. She glanced around the barren holding cell with its narrow metal cot and exposed toilet. High up on the wall, a tiny window let in a few weak rays of early morning sunlight. Even if she somehow managed to reach it, she’d never squeeze through the opening.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Catalina turned to the woman. “Is there another way out of here? Besides the front?”
The corrections officer frowned. For the first time, her eyes softened. “You running from someone?”
Yes. No. Maybe?
The officer lowered her voice. “I can get you a bed at one of the safe houses in the city. There’s a women’s shelter—”
“No.” Catalina raised her hand. “I mean, no, thank you. I… It’s not like that.”
The officer narrowed her gaze. “Then what’s it like?” she asked, her voice sharp.
Careful, Cat. Like most cops, the officer’s BS meter was primed and at the ready.
“I’m sorry,” Catalina said. “I’m just tired.” She tried a smile. “Kinda had a long night.”
The officer stared.
Tough crowd.
Catalina kept the smile plastered to her face. Some safe houses were just a half-step down from jail. The bars on their windows kept others out, but they could also stop “guests” from leaving.
Finally, the officer stepped back and motioned down the hall. “This way then.”
Catalina dropped the smile as soon as the officer turned her back. Her stomach churned as she trailed after the woman. She’d sidestepped the safe house, but maybe that wasn’t such a smart decision. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, and her hands grew sweaty. She learned long ago not to ignore her instincts.
And right now, her instincts told her exactly who waited for her.
As they neared the end of the hall, she wiped her palms on her dress.
The corrections officer rounded the corner and gestured toward the waiting area. “Here you go.”
Catalina reached the end of the hall, turned the corner, and stopped.
Juan Salvatierra sat in one of the cracked plastic chairs, his dark head bent over a smartphone screen. He couldn’t have looked more out of place if he tried. His big body was encased in a business suit, the crease on his pant legs so sharp it could have cut steel. Polished Ferragamos shone under the jail’s cheap yellow lighting, and a heavy diver’s watch gleamed on his wrist.
A Rolex. Of course.
She took a deep breath. “Juan.”
He swiped something on his screen and looked up, his hazel eyes locking on her like magnets.
“Catalina.” Her name rolled off his tongue, the pronunciation dark and rich, as only a native Spanish speaker could make it.
Her breath hitched. For a moment, time stood still. Her lips tingled, and a line of memory arced between them—a mutual recognition no passage of time could muffle. His features were the kind of rugged perfection splashed across men’s magazines—the blend of raw yet refined masculinity that made women’s hearts beat faster. As they stared at each other, his blue-green eyes softened. The line of memory tugged tighter, and she almost swayed toward him.
Then he flicked a glance down her body, taking in her dress and shoes. His jaw tightened. “I see nothing has changed in five years.”
The line snapped.
Her cheeks heated. Thank you, olive skin tone. It hid a multitude of sins—and let her blush in private. Like an invisibility cloak for humiliation.
A necessity when dealing with Juan.
She put a hand on her hip and injected a healthy dose of sarcasm into her voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you took a new job as the fashion police. Defending murderers and drug dealers not as lucrative as it used to be?”
He stood and slipped his phone inside his suit jacket. “I don’t defend drug dealers,” he said quietly.
Right. He wouldn’t.
She dropped her arm. “Well, I appreciate you rushing to my defense, but I’m afraid I don’t need it this time, counselor.” She spread her hands. “They decided not to charge me.”
“Incorrect.” He bent and picked up a slim manila folder she hadn’t noticed before.
Her heart pounded. “What?”
He tapped the edge of the folder against his palm. “The judge released you into my custody.”
Her stomach dropped. For a second, she couldn’t form words. “What…” She gave her head a little shake. “What are you talking about?”
Juan swept past her. She swiveled just in time to see him hand the folder to the corrections officer.
“I trust you’ll find everything is in order,” he told her.
The officer’s lips parted as she accepted the folder. The condescending, impatient attitude she showed Catalina melted away, replaced with something resembling awe. She stared up at him, her eyes slightly glazed.
He nodded toward the folder. “The judge signed it about half an hour ago.”
>
“Oh!” She frowned at the folder, as if just realizing she held it. She opened it and scanned the contents, then nodded. “Looks good.”
Outrage pounded through Catalina. “I won’t leave with him.”
The officer looked up. “The judge didn’t give you a choice. It’s either get released into your lawyer’s custody or face prosecution.”
“He’s not my lawyer.”
“Yes, I am,” Juan said.
“I didn’t hire you.”
“The judge appointed me.”
“Fine.” Catalina folded her arms. “I’ll stay here. They can prosecute me.”
Juan’s stare could have set her hair on fire. “You’re not staying here.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not going with you, brother.” She drenched the last word in emphasis, letting it hang heavy in the air.
His mouth tightened.
Yeah, he didn’t like that one bit.
“You’re coming with me,” he said, his voice hard.
“No, I’m not.”
He dropped his voice to a growl. “Yes, you are.”
“Not.” She stretched it out, the T snapping like a verbal whip.
“Catalina…” His voice held a warning note—one she remembered all too well. After all, she’d heard it countless times before.
She tossed her chin toward the hall. “I’d rather sit in jail.”
His expression darkened, and he took a step toward her. “You won’t be sitting at all if I…” He looked at the corrections officer, who watched their exchange with obvious fascination. He straightened, and a wave of calm seemed to descend over him. He flashed the corrections officer a dazzling smile.
“Lo siento.” I’m sorry. “Family squabbles can get a little…heated, no?”
Color flooded the officer’s cheeks, and she giggled. “Oh my, yes. You should hear my family at Thanksgiving.”
Juan turned up the wattage, focusing on her like she was the only woman in the world. “I can imagine,” he murmured.
The officer’s blush deepened. She touched the back of her hair.