by Pennza, Amy
“You can’t do that.” The woman said it as a statement, as if it was fact.
“No, I can’t.” He shook his head. “But I don’t think she’ll change her mind.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve…” He swallowed. “I’ve treated her badly.” That was a goddamn understatement. Forget about his years of hounding her while she worked as an escort. He’d bullied her into marrying him, then kept her prisoner in his apartment. “I’ve been a fool.”
The woman clucked her tongue, and her dark eyes twinkled. “We are all fools in love, my son.”
The mijo got his attention. No one had called him that since his mother died. “How did you know I speak Spanish?” He had plenty of Arturo’s blood in him, but he was his mama’s boy, too. People didn’t usually peg him as Hispanic. He could just as easily pass for Greek or Italian.
The woman smiled and answered in English. “I know a muchacho when I see one.”
Well, he was more of a stupid man than a young one. Right now, he felt every bit of his thirty-four years. He stared at the sand.
A soft hand cupped his cheek, and he looked up at the woman. In Spanish, she said, “Don’t lose hope. It will work itself out.”
“Gracias.” Except he didn’t believe that. There was already so much distance between him and Catalina, he wasn’t certain any bridge could span it. And that was before he knew about the trauma in her past. All these years, she’d been trying to heal, and he’d done nothing but put roadblock after roadblock in her path. No wonder she preferred spending time with Rafe. She’d rather travel to a country ravaged by war and unrest than spend an afternoon in his apartment.
It didn’t get much bleaker than that. She was so determined to get away from him, she just left the beach without money or extra clothes.
Fear gripped him. She was barefoot, for god’s sake. Promise or no, he couldn’t let her walk off like that.
He stood. “I’m sorry, but…”
The woman was gone.
How the hell did she move that fast?
But she had. Her footprints led back toward the hotel. Still, she’d disappeared so quickly, it was like she vanished in a puff of smoke. Bemusement settled over him. The footprints were real, but maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was a ghost or some kind of Colombian fairy godmother.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. Catalina? His heart leapt into his throat. He dug the phone out and angled it toward the light. It was a FaceTime call from an unknown number. He swiped the screen.
Rafe’s face, surrounded by cream-colored leather, filled the screen. “Buenas noches, brother.”
“What do you know about Catalina?”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “I should think you’d know more.” His tone was mild. “Didn’t you just spend a day and a half with her on a yacht?”
Juan clenched his hand around the phone, glaring down at his brother’s face. It was like looking into a mirror, except Rafe’s eyes were blue—the same light, arresting shade their mother’s had been. “I assume that was your doing.”
Rafe’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “If you needed money, brother, you should have asked.”
“You know I don’t need it.”
“Really. I hear political campaigns are expensive these days.”
Juan started walking toward the hotel. Rafe loved hearing himself talk. He could keep this ridiculous banter going for an hour. “What happened to Lopez?” He held up the phone as he walked, his gaze on Rafe’s face. “Or is it better if I don’t know?”
Leather creaked as Rafe settled back in what looked like a plush chair. “That’s the problem with these political types. They’re so easily bought.”
Under any other circumstances, Juan would spar with him until he found out what Rafe wanted. But right now, he couldn’t care less if his brother was plotting revenge. Catalina was five hours from home without money or a car or even a freaking pair of shoes.
“She’s safe, you know,” Rafe said.
Juan stopped in his tracks, his feet sinking into the sand. He gripped the phone with both hands. “Don’t play games.”
“Not with this, no.” He turned his head and murmured something in Spanish, too low for Juan to catch. Then he looked back. “One of my men picked her up five minutes ago. She’s on her way back to her apartment in San Antonio.”
Juan’s heart pounded. “You won’t hurt her.”
Rafe’s expression didn’t change, but a knife’s edge of anger entered his voice. “That you even dare to say such a thing reveals how little you know about Catalina. Or me.”
“I’m sorry.” Juan let his shoulders slump. “I know everything now. She told me.”
There was a pause. “Then you know you have your work cut out for you.”
Were they really doing this? Having a normal conversation? He hadn’t spoken to his brother like this in…well, ever. He swallowed. “Out of everyone in our family, she ran to you for help. You know how I feel about her. We were getting married. Why didn’t you tell me what happened to her?”
“It was her story to tell,” Rafe said simply.
“I could have helped her.”
“Maybe she didn’t want your kind of help.”
Now it was Juan’s turn to be angry. “Because your kind was better? Capoeira in the middle of the jungle? Did you teach her how to fire an Uzi, too?”
Rafe laughed. “That woman doesn’t need one. She’s got a hell of a right jab.”
Don’t I know it. But Rafe hadn’t just given Catalina self-defense courses. He stood by while she worked in the sex trade. “Eight years, Rafe. You let her go for eight years, working as an escort—”
“I didn’t let her do anything.” Something glinted in Rafe’s eyes, and it looked curiously like disappointment. “Catalina shared her secret with me. She had her trust violated once. She needed to know it wouldn’t happen again.”
Juan’s anger drained away. Rafe was right. Goddamn him. He’d kept Catalina’s story secret because she asked him to. It was a simple but powerful thing.
And he’d done more than that. He’d given her a safe haven, as well as the opportunity to change her career. All those trips to Maracaibo… She hadn’t been conspiring with Rafe to grow the family drug empire. She’d been traveling for work, and Rafe had made sure she stayed safe doing it.
Juan looked his brother in the eye. “Thank you.”
Rafe gave an imperceptible nod. “Did she tell you he’s dead?”
“Yes. Did you kill him?”
“Does it matter?”
Juan thought it over. “No.” They had a saying in Texas. He needed killing. It didn’t much matter how the bastard who hurt Catalina had died. He was dead. That was all Juan needed to know.
“So,” Rafe said, his demeanor shifting. The conversational, almost friendly, look disappeared, and a harder, unforgiving one took its place.
Juan knew that look. His father had worn it often.
The drug lord.
Rafe switched to Spanish, his speech smoother and more rapid in his native tongue. “We have a dilemma, you and I.”
“What’s that?” Juan said in the same language.
“You have my money, little brother. And I have something of yours.”
The hair on Juan’s nape lifted. He tightened his grip on the phone. “What are you talking about?”
Rafe’s screen flipped, revealing an unconscious Emily.
Juan almost dropped the phone. As it was, his feet were now so firmly lodged in the sand, he almost lost his balance. He stumbled sideways, recovered, and stared at the screen. Emily was slumped in a chair identical to Rafe’s, only hers had metal armrests trimmed in a deep, rich mahogany. Her curly hair tumbled over one shoulder, and her glasses were missing. There was another leather chair next to her.
Comprehension dawned. That wasn’t a chair. It was an airplane seat. Considering she was with Rafe, it was probably a private one. Any commercial airline would turn him over to the authorities the sec
ond he booked a ticket.
Juan spoke through clenched teeth. “If you’ve hurt her in any way—”
“Relax,” Rafe said in the background. “Miss Anderson is lightly sedated, nothing more.”
“You drugged her?”
Rafe’s voice turned wry. “Her bio on your firm’s website doesn’t mention she was a two-time state softball champion. The pilot got a little concerned when she started hurling objects at the cockpit’s windows.”
Good for her. Despite her innocent looks, Emily was no pushover. It was an asset in the courtroom, where opponents tended to underestimate her. More than once, Juan had taken great pleasure in watching her turn the tables on an arrogant prosecutor.
But Rafael Salvatierra wasn’t a lawyer. He had arrogance in spades, but he didn’t play by the rules. He made them.
Emily stirred, and her brow furrowed. She wore the same black skirt from yesterday, which meant Rafe’s men must grabbed her from the office…
Juan closed his eyes. “You took her while we were on the yacht.”
“Sí.” Amusement entered Rafe’s tone. “I thought I could, as they say in English, kill two birds with one stone. I had time to collect Miss Anderson. You and Catalina had time to reconnect and stop making each other miserable.” He made a sympathetic sound. “Unfortunately, it looks like I’m the only one who benefited from the arrangement.”
Juan cursed under his breath. This was yet another screw up on his part. Emily wouldn’t have been alone if not for him sending the rest of the staff home so he could deal with Catalina. Now, his twenty-four-year-old employee was alone with his drug lord brother on a jet bound for South America.
She stirred again, then let out a soft moan. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing long, pale legs.
Juan’s gut clenched. He and Emily rarely discussed anything personal, but she never spoke of a boyfriend—or any friends at all, really. On a few occasions when he’d caught her working late, she laughed and said she was too much of an introvert to do the bar scene.
Rafe was thirty-seven years old. News reports about him were often vague on details, but in the last few years, he’d been spotted with a couple models, a Spanish actress, and the runner-up to the Miss Universe pageant.
He was going to eat Emily alive.
The screen flipped back around. Rafe smiled. “Now, this is what’s going to happen.”
21
Catalina heaved her suitcase up the last step and leaned against the wall. Sweat trickled down the small of her back.
Welcome to Texas in July.
At the base of the stairs, the screen door opened, and Ashley walked in, her blonde hair in a low ponytail.
“Up here,” Catalina called.
Ashley’s gaze found her, and she gasped. “I told you to make Smith carry everything!” She came up the stairs, skipping over the second tread from the bottom. She’d warned Catalina about it being broken over dinner last night, while the three of them discussed how long Catalina planned to stay in Prattsville. Ashley had graciously offered up the use of her childhood home, which was an oasis of solitude compared to the noisy, frantic pace of San Antonio.
Also, there was little risk of bumping into Juan.
Catalina pushed away from the wall. “It’s all right.” She smiled. “What kind of travel writer will I be if I can’t handle my own luggage?”
Worry crossed Ashley’s features as she faced Catalina on the landing. She folded her arms. “Do you think this whole thing with Emily will affect your relationship with Rafe?”
A sigh built in Catalina’s chest. She shook her head. “I don’t know yet. I guess it depends on whether he and Juan follow through on their bargain.” They talked about that during dinner, too. In the two weeks since she left Juan on the beach, he’d been busy overseeing the complex process of transferring Arturo’s assets from the United States back to South America. In exchange, Rafe had agreed to release Emily.
Because the federal government would seize anything that went directly to Rafe, Juan had to put the money in various accounts scattered throughout half a dozen countries.
It was a long and arduous process. And for every minute it took, that was another minute Emily stayed Rafe’s prisoner. He wouldn’t hurt her. Catalina would stake her fortune on it.
Well, former fortune.
But Emily was an American woman, born and raised in an environment vastly different from the one she found herself in now. Two weeks was a long time to be held captive on a drug lord’s compound. She had to be frightened. She didn’t know what Rafe was like. What he was or wasn’t capable of.
That kind of fear didn’t just go away once the danger was removed. It settled into a person’s bones and stayed there for the long haul. Even if Emily came home tomorrow, this ordeal was going to haunt her for a long time.
So, yeah, Ashley’s question made sense. Could Catalina ever look at Rafe the same way after he kidnapped an innocent person? How could she accept his help for her travel work when he’d made another woman feel unsafe and terrified?
Catalina took a deep breath. “Right now, we just have to trust Rafe to keep his word.”
“And you think he will?”
“I can’t see him hurting Emily. It’s not in his nature to harm a woman.”
Ashley raised an eyebrow. “From what Juan says, it’s Rafe who should be afraid of Emily.”
What else did Juan say? The question hovered in Catalina’s mind. Not too long ago, she would have rejoiced at the idea of going two weeks without hearing from him. But now? She found herself hanging on every word each time Ashley or Smith got a phone call or text message.
And that was so very dangerous.
Dangerous because she was on the brink of having everything she wanted. Rafe had seen to that. Not long after she stumbled off the beach, a black sedan had approached her. The rear window slid down, and a man in a sharp suit inclined his head.
“Señorita Salvatierra?” he’d said in smooth Venezuelan Spanish. “I work for Don Rafael. He would like to offer his assistance. If you want it.”
She’d bit her lip. Rafe had plenty of enemies, and most of them knew of his foster sister. More than one capo had paid ransoms for kidnapped family members. A few others had received packages of a loved one’s remains in the mail. She suppressed a shudder. “How do I know you really work for Rafe?” she asked in Spanish.
The man smiled. “Don Rafael mentioned you might say that. He told me to tell you not to think so much. That it lets your enemies know you’re afraid of them.”
The car had dropped her in front of her apartment in San Antonio, and the sicario had given her an envelope full of cash. There was enough money to go anywhere—to get settled in at a new place, where she could focus on her writing career and forget all about Juan.
And that’s exactly what she intended to do, just as soon as this business of transferring assets was over. She hadn’t planned on spending any time in Prattsville. But San Antonio had felt…stifling. Every time she’d glimpsed the skyline in the distance, she thought of Juan.
So when Smith and Ashley invited her to spend the Fourth of July with them, she didn’t hesitate.
She might have also ended her lease early and moved everything she owned into a storage unit.
The screen door slammed, and Catalina jumped. Downstairs, Smith’s dark head was almost even with the doorframe. He wore his police uniform, and a wicked looking revolver gleamed on his hip. He would have looked a lot more intimidating if not for the German shepherd wagging its tail at his side. The oversize animal lifted its head and gave Catalina a doggy grin.
Ashley leaned over the railing. “I thought you were supposed to work until five.”
Smith took the stairs two at a time, Deuce on his heels. He reached the top and gave Ashley a peck on the cheek. All swagger, he said, “Perks of being the chief, nena. I work whenever I want.”
Catalina clicked her fingers, and Deuce came trotting over. In the two days she’d been at Smith�
��s, she’d grown fond of the lovable German shepherd. She scratched the thick fur around his neck. “You better hope no one commits a crime after five tonight,” she told Smith.
Ashley laughed. “This is Prattsville. The only crimes happening in this town involve fashion.”
“Speaking of fashion,” Smith said, “your costumes came.”
Ashley’s eyes lit up, and she grabbed his arm. “Really? Where are they? What do they look like?”
There was so much high wattage love in Smith’s face, it could have powered an entire town. He smoothed a loose strand of hair into her ponytail. “I left the box on the counter. I figured you’d want to open it.”
“Thank you.” Ashley turned to Catalina. “Remember how I told you my theater company is doing a Shakespeare run? The costume designer spent fifteen hours sewing the pearls on my stomacher. I can’t wait to try everything on.”
“Don’t let us stop you,” Smith said.
She looked between him and Catalina. “Are you sure? I wanted to help Catalina get settled in…”
Catalina waved her hand. “I’ll be fine. I don’t plan on unpacking much, anyway.”
“Well…” Ashley gnawed her lower lip.
Smith made a kissing sound, and Deuce went to him. “I’ll help Cat get settled,” he said, bending over and patting Deuce’s flank. The dog thumped its tail on the hardwood, the sound like a drumbeat. “It’ll give us a chance to catch up,” Smith added.
Understanding lit Ashley’s eyes. “Of course.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed the underside of Smith’s jaw. “Take your time. I’ll start dinner after I’m done with the costumes.” She tossed Catalina a smile, then bolted down the stairs, clearly excited to get her hands on fifteen hours’ worth of pearls.
As the screen door bounced off the frame, Smith gave Catalina a lopsided grin. “I have no clue what a stomacher is, but it makes her happy.”
“You make her happy,” Catalina said.
He put a hand through his hair, and the movement was so much like Juan’s, an ache shot across her heart. “I don’t know what I did to deserve her,” he said. “I’ll probably never figure it out.”