by Pennza, Amy
He glanced at her. “Yes.”
“These supporters of yours must have some deep pockets.” She settled back in her seat. “No wonder you want to impress them.”
Deep pockets, indeed. The airport exit appeared, and he checked his mirror and moved over. “Just a warning,” he told her. “The man who owns this place is a bit eccentric.”
She gave a little huff of laughter. “A man with his own island is eccentric? You don’t say.”
“His name is Ernesto Lopez. He was born in Texas, but his parents emigrated from Mexico. He’s especially proud of his heritage, which is probably why he’s interested in me as a potential candidate.”
“The son of a Venezuelan drug lord?”
He shot her a look. “A former district attorney who happens to be Latino. Lopez is active in politics, and he backs Hispanic candidates whenever he can. If I can impress him, there’s a good chance he’ll help finance a campaign.”
“And you want to be attorney general.”
He exited the highway and headed down the service road that led to the airport. She said it as a statement, but there was a question behind it. Did he really want the job? He’d gone back and forth on it ever since Lopez approached him.
Catalina waited, her expression guarded. His profession had always been something of a thorny area between them—or at least since she became an escort. It was difficult enough distancing himself from Rafe. If the press caught wind that his foster sister “entertained” wealthy men? Well, he could kiss his political aspirations goodbye.
In an interesting twist, though, his political connections had allowed him to keep her activities under wraps over the past eight years. As a young prosecutor, he’d learned that the justice system largely operated on backroom deals and favors among colleagues. By the time he became district attorney, he knew exactly which strings to pull and which palms to grease behind the scenes.
But it was an exhausting life, and one that put him under a microscope of public scrutiny.
As the airport came into view, he found himself answering honestly. “I don’t know. It’s an altogether different sort of work.”
“How so?”
“It’s administrative, for one thing. I wouldn’t see the inside of a courtroom.”
She tilted her head. “Would you miss it?”
“I think so, yes. So much of my job is paperwork. Filing motions and wading through the discovery process. But there’s something undeniably exciting about seeing it all come together at trial.” He couldn’t control his grin. “It’s a cliché, but it’s easy to get addicted to the performance aspect of it. Nothing beats the rush of knowing you’ve just delivered a winner of a closing argument.”
With his eyes on the road, he felt her gaze. She studied him, as if considering what he said.
Heat crept up his neck. Any moment now, she’d roll her eyes or make a sarcastic comment about defending criminals.
But she didn’t. In his peripheral vision, she gave a small nod. “It’s a big decision.”
He drove through the airport’s open gate—nothing more than a break in a chain length fence that surrounded three small hangars. There were two vehicles parked outside, including his pilot’s black SUV. He pulled next to it and killed the engine.
“Yes,” he said, looking at her. “Probably the biggest decision of my career.”
The sun was behind the hangars, its evening light staining the sky a deep pink. The same hue touched her lips, which gleamed with some sort of gloss. When she lowered her gaze, her lids were a dark, smoky gray—a shade or two lighter than the black liner that swooped to an elegant point at the corner of each eye, giving her a sultry look.
Bedroom eyes, they were called. Now he knew why.
She looked up, hesitation in her face. “Juan…” She licked her lips. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Movement near the hangars drew his attention. The pilot walked toward the Porsche, one hand lifted in greeting. He was straight out of central casting, with a military haircut and a lean, athletic build.
“That’s Paul, the pilot.”
Catalina looked out the windshield, and her lips twitched. “Paul the pilot?”
Oh, that little smile needed to happen again. Juan returned the wave and said, “If you’re into alliteration, you’ll be pleased to know his full name is Paul Packey.”
She laughed. “You’re not serious.”
“Totally serious. Ask him.”
Gravel crunched as Paul neared the car.
Catalina gasped. “I’m not asking him!”
“Then you’ll just have to trust me. He’s Paul Packey, private pilot.”
She shook her head, but the smile made another appearance.
Before she could leave the car, he got out and hurried around to her side. Surprise flared in her eyes as he opened her door and extended his hand.
Paul reached them, his expression open and friendly. “Juan. I just filed our flight plan. Ready to go when you are.” He cast a curious look over Catalina, admiration in his gaze.
Juan put a hand on the small of her back, her smooth skin warm under his palm. “Paul, this is my wife, Catalina.” The same primitive satisfaction he felt in the courthouse pulsed inside him. Mine.
Outdated and paternalistic? Probably.
Gratifying as hell? Most definitely.
“Wife?” Friendliness shifted to shock, then from shock to warmth. Paul clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations.” To Catalina, he nodded and said, “Happy to meet you, Mrs. Salvatierra. I’m Paul Packey, the pilot.”
Her shoulders shook—a tiny movement Juan wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been touching her.
He tried to catch her eye so he could wink at her, but she kept her gaze firmly on Paul, even as little tremors of mirth played at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
Fortunately, Paul seemed oblivious to her plight. “Well.” He brought his hands together. “If you’ll follow me, we can board and take off right away.”
“Thank you,” Juan said. As Paul turned and started for the plane, he looked at Catalina and mouthed, “Paul Packey.”
“Stop,” she whispered, but she let him tuck her arm in his elbow as they crossed the parking lot.
Damn, this felt good. She felt good, her shoulder brushing his sleeve. Her skirt hugged her hips and upper thighs, the bottom half flaring out just above her knees. The material whipped around their legs, catching against his calves every few steps.
Jewelry. The thought rushed into his brain as he looked down at her. He should have told Emily to pick something up. A woman like Catalina should be dripping in diamonds. As it was, her only adornment was the platinum wedding band, the dull silver firing red against his sleeve as it caught the sun.
As if she sensed his scrutiny, she peeked up at him, a smile still lingering on her lips.
He caught his breath. Scratch that. She didn’t need jewels. Her eyes were more brilliant than any sapphire.
Dios. Now he was writing bad poetry in his head.
Her smile faltered. For the briefest second, recognition shone in her eyes—acknowledgment of the shared past that bound them more tightly than any marriage vow.
Then they reached the plane and a smiling Paul.
“The skies are clear. We should have a smooth flight.”
Juan thanked him and handed Catalina up the stairs. Inside, he directed her toward a sitting area with a table and plush leather seats.
Paul retracted the stairs and locked the door. “Buckle up, folks. We’ll taxi right away.” He nodded and disappeared into the cockpit.
Juan took the seat opposite Catalina. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.” Her dark ponytail draped over one shoulder, the glossy strands as thick as his wrist. The spark of recognition was gone. Now she was neutral. Polite. This Catalina would never bleach his clothes or face off with him in a drugstore, fire in her eyes and Spanish insults on her tongue
.
Funny…he almost preferred the fire.
He unbuttoned his jacket and settled in his seat. “What did you need to tell me?”
Her brows drew together.
“In the car,” he said. “You said you had something to tell me.”
“Oh.” She darted her gaze away. “It wasn’t anything important.” The temperature plunged a few more degrees.
He’d cross-examined enough witnesses to know a lie when he saw one. But this wasn’t a courtroom. If he pressed, he risked upsetting the delicate peace between them.
So he lapsed into silence as the plane’s engines rumbled to life, and he stayed quiet as they taxied to the runway and took off, the airfield’s scrubby grass falling away beneath them. Catalina looked out the window, her hands folded in her lap.
She’d play her role this evening. He should probably be grateful for that.
Except that’s all it was—a role. Hell, he was playing one, too. No matter how convincing they were tonight—the happy, loving newlyweds—it was an illusion. He could pretend she was his tonight.
But tomorrow he had to let her go.
11
It’s all pretend. It’s all pretend.
Catalina clung to the words, letting them run through her head like a mantra. None of this is real.
Of course, thinking it was one thing. Convincing herself was another.
And Juan wasn’t making it easy.
For starters, he was the living, breathing personification of just about every woman’s fantasy. Wealthy? Check. Powerful? Check. Tall, dark, and handsome?
Check, check, check.
She dared a look at him across the plane’s small table. Since they’d started their descent, he kept his gaze on the window, his profile a study in rugged perfection. In his tux, surrounded by the comfortable luxury of the jet, he was what women’s magazines had in mind when they wrote things like “husband material” and “catch of the century.” It would be really easy to let her guard down and simply enjoy the evening.
It would also be a mistake.
She’d almost done it, too. In the parking lot, his teasing had transported her to another time—when they laughed with each other, delighting in the silliest stuff. It happened so effortlessly, like pulling on a favorite sweater, that she didn’t notice until he caught her eye as they walked toward the plane.
The heat in his eyes had seared her skin.
“You belong with me. You belong to me.” He might have told her that eight years ago, but the message in his gaze was clear.
Nothing, nothing, had changed—at least not in his mind.
Except everything had changed. She’d changed.
She’d changed a long time ago.
A speaker crackled, and Paul the pilot’s voice sounded overhead. “We’ll be landing on Isla Mariposa in five minutes.”
“Butterfly Island?” Surprise made her say it aloud without thinking.
Juan turned from the window. “I told you Lopez is eccentric.”
“Does his island have a significant butterfly population?”
Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “Not that I’m aware of.”
She fought the smile that threatened to spread across her face. It’s pretend. She wasn’t a loving wife accompanying her husband to a fundraising gala.
No, the handsome, charming man across from her had coerced her into marriage and then locked her in his penthouse.
This wasn’t a dinner date. She was cooperating in the hope of getting a modified sentence from her year-long imprisonment.
Nothing like a little dose of reality to put things into perspective.
Like Paul promised, the flight was smooth, and she barely noticed when they touched down. Juan rose and waited for her to precede him to the exit, his demeanor calm and solicitous. She let him take her elbow as they navigated the steps. He probably thought she needed it. Men were always baffled by how women managed to walk in five-inch heels.
The sun had set while they were in the air, and a purple evening sky greeted her as she stepped onto the tarmac. About twenty feet away, a black sedan idled, its tinted windows giving it the look of a government vehicle. A cool breeze tossed her hair, carrying notes of salt and humidity. In the distance, clusters of palm trees made tall, elegant silhouettes.
The sedan’s door opened, and a uniform-clad driver emerged. He opened the vehicle’s rear door and stood back.
“Typical Lopez,” Juan murmured at her side. “He loves making a dramatic entrance.”
Before she could respond, a short man in a tuxedo left the sedan and walked toward them. He looked about sixty, with a sizable paunch and strong facial features. His dress shoes flashed in the runway’s lights as he strode toward them.
“Juan!” He opened his arms as he neared, his face split by a huge grin. “Cómo estás?” How are you.
Catalina took a half step backward, her shoulders brushing Juan’s chest.
“It’s all right,” he said under his breath. “He won’t hug you.”
She released a slow breath.
“At least I don’t think so,” Juan added.
Lopez was upon them now, his thick, black hair slicked back from a forehead that had obviously seen more than one Botox treatment. He grabbed Juan’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder, speaking in American-accented Spanish. “I’m so glad you made it out this evening.”
Juan replied in the same language. “It’s my pleasure, Ernesto. Thank you for having us.”
“Bueno! Bueno!” Lopez’s gaze slid to Catalina, and he switched to English. “And this must be your beautiful new bride.”
“My wife, Catalina,” Juan said.
Catalina remembered what Juan said about Lopez being proud of his heritage. She extended a hand and said in smooth Spanish, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Señor Lopez. I can’t wait to see more of your island.”
Lopez’s brown eyes lit up, and he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a dry kiss on the back of her knuckles. “The pleasure is mine, Señora Salvatierra,” he murmured. He released her and shook a scolding finger at Juan. “You didn’t tell me your wife is Latina.”
“Catalina and I grew up together,” Juan said.
Catalina held her breath, ready for Lopez to ask for more details, but he just nodded and said, “I hope you don’t mind, Juan, but there’s been a slight change in plans. Two guests had something come up last minute, and another wasn’t feeling well. So it looks like it’s just the three of us dining tonight. I hope that’s not a problem.”
Juan glanced at Catalina. Aside from a slight tightening around his mouth, there was no sign Lopez’s announcement bothered him. He smiled. “Of course not, Ernesto. I prefer small groups anyway.”
The little man winked at Catalina. “Spoken like a true politician, eh?” He gave a hearty laugh—the guffaw of a man used to getting his way with minimal effort. Whoever said money doesn’t buy happiness never spent time around the ultra-wealthy. In Catalina’s experience, money bought everything.
Juan’s smile was strained, even if Ernesto couldn’t see it. He was probably irritated at missing out on possible financial backers.
Lopez swept an arm toward the car. “Shall we?”
Juan waited a second too long to reply, and his voice was clipped when he said, “Of course.”
“Bueno,” Lopez said, but his smile faded a little.
Oh dear. If Juan kept this up, he could blow his chance at winning Lopez’s support. She suppressed a sigh. It seemed she had to roll up her sleeves and handle this.
Watch and learn, Juan.
She stepped forward and linked arms with Lopez. “Don Ernesto, I’ve only seen your island from the air, but it looks beautiful. Tell me, how did you come to buy it?”
Lopez looked down at her fingers on his sleeve, and his smile blazed back in full force. “Actually, señora, it’s an interesting story.” He started toward the car.
With a glance at a frowning Juan over her shoulder, she said, “Plea
se, call me Catalina.”
12
Ernesto Lopez was putty in her hands.
As Juan nursed his second old fashioned, he had to admire Catalina’s skill. Over the course of their three-hour dinner, she’d persuaded the little man to pledge more than five million dollars to a future campaign. He even promised to speak to the absent dinner guests on Juan’s behalf.
Catalina put her head back and laughed, her long throat an elegant sweep above delicate collarbones.
Lopez reached over and refilled her champagne glass, his gaze lingering on her breasts as he poured.
Make that reluctantly admire.
Juan tossed back the rest of his drink. This dinner couldn’t end soon enough.
Lopez looked up, as if just realizing Juan was still in the room. “Eh, Juan. Let me get you another drink.” He pushed his chair away from the dining table.
“No, no, Ernesto.” Juan put a hand over his glass. “I shouldn’t.”
“What?” Lopez frowned. “Why not? It’s not like you’re driving. Or did you fly the plane here?” He caught Catalina’s eye and chuckled at his own joke.
She smiled, then rose and waved Lopez back to his seat. “Sit, Don Ernesto. I’ll handle the drinks while you gentlemen discuss business.”
Lopez sat, as obedient as a cocker spaniel. As she slipped past him and went to the bar, his gaze followed her like his eyeballs were drawn by magnets.
Juan clenched his hand around his glass.
Lopez gave Catalina’s ass a final once-over before sliding his gaze back to Juan. “You’re a lucky man, Salvatierra,” he said.
Glass clinked as Catalina worked at the bar, an ocean breeze tugging at her hair. Lopez’s villa was right on the beach, with a covered patio steps from the water. Although “patio” might be too mild a word for the impressive dining area. A crystal chandelier hung from the beamed ceiling, and a full kitchen with a Viking grill and built-in sink dominated one corner. Catalina looked at home in the luxurious surroundings, the long curve of her spine exposed by the backless dress.
When Juan turned back to Lopez, the other man wore a knowing smile. Juan cleared his throat. “Yes, I am.”