Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance

by Stevens, Camilla

  Now that I’ve heard her speak more than just a single word, I realize she has an alluring voice. There was a hint of it when she said her name. It sounds like something my ears could get addicted to. It’s a soft, sensual timbre with a subtle scratch running through it, giving the sound a slightly wicked texture, the kind that warns you away even as it draws you in. Attached to someone so seemingly innocent—visions of those nun vestments now taunt me more than ever—make it seem almost obscene.

  “In the meantime, there’s a discussion that needs having,” I say, forcing myself to focus on what comes next.

  Leira puts up a little resistance as I grab her hand and practically drag her to the couch. I let go of her and she falls onto it, setting her own flimsy weapon down on the coffee table. I set mine down next to hers as I sit only a few feet away.

  She drops the bra she still hasn’t had a chance to put back on. Next, she steps out of her shoes then brings her legs up, shifting them as she leans sideways against the back of the couch facing me. I force my attention away from how much brown skin the movement reveals, cursing myself for deciding nothing but that shirt would be appropriate attire for the day. If I’d known I’d be stuck in a hotel room with her for the evening, I wouldn’t have chosen something so damn sexy. It didn’t even do the trick of keeping her from standing out here in Ibiza, at least not after she decided on shedding it to go for a swim.

  Not that the nun outfit is any less mentally stimulating. If I really was a faithful Catholic, I’d have to spend an eternity in confession considering where my mind diverts to just at the memory of it.

  I swallow hard, reminding myself of the danger at hand. That’s enough for me to focus.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you just enough to let you know what kind of danger you might be in. You do the same.”

  I wait for her to nod in agreement.

  “Good, you go first.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Leiria

  I don’t like the idea of speaking first at all.

  But Enrique seems insistent. I suppose he did give me that much, his real name. This time I actually believed it was his name.

  “Any moment now, the men after us will figure out where we are. I need a nap and so do you. The longer you drag this out, the less either of us get in terms of rest. Trust me, you want me as alert and well-rested as possible.”

  I look off to the side, the muscles in my jaw ticking as I mull that over.

  What would it mean if I told him? Not everything, but just enough to let him know what kind of danger he might be in. And he’ll do the same.

  Telling him about my father and his mysterious enemy, along with what happened to my sisters, seems safe enough. If he were one of the men involved in that, which I highly doubt at this point, he’d already have all the information. If he isn’t, I don’t see him going to the trouble of figuring out who they are and letting them know he has me. He doesn’t seem to need the money, and it doesn’t look as though he’s interested in attracting more drama and danger into his life.

  Because whoever these new people are, they’re definitely after him.

  “Okay, I’m in hiding from one of my father’s enemies. He never told me who it is,” I roll my eyes and feel my mouth tighten before continuing. “He never tells me much of anything.”

  Even the secret Dad entrusted me with, one that I’m damn sure not telling Enrique about, he never explained fully. Just information he gave me, should anything happen to him. My very own life insurance, he called it.

  “These men, they…murdered my older sister. The second youngest before me, she was recently kidnapped by them as well. Dad never confirmed it, but I’m pretty sure they killed my mother and oldest sister as well—”

  “How many sisters do you have?” Enrique asks, his brow creasing with incredulity.

  I laugh softly. “Six—my parents are Catholic. Well, I had six.” A sudden frown overtakes my face. “Two are dead, one is probably dead by now. The other three are—”

  I stop, realizing that I’m telling too much. Perhaps.

  Still, the sangria is still too fresh in my brain for me to start rambling, especially about family.

  “The other three are alive.”

  He seems satisfied enough with that.

  “That’s why Dad had me sent to the convent,” I continue. I give him a level gaze before adding, “I suppose he thought I would be safe there, my posing as a postulant.”

  “Perhaps if you’d stuck to the script of playing the good little nun, you still would be.”

  I scowl at him, which earns me a laugh in return.

  “So he didn’t tell you who it was that is after you?” Enrique confirms, wrinkling his brow with frustration.

  I shake my head, no.

  I’m sure he’s probably wondering the same thing as I always have. Why the hell would Dad keep that kind of information from me?

  “Who is your father? What does he do?”

  I stiffen in response, even though I know it’s probably relevant information for Enrique. I’m just touchy when it comes to my father.

  “He’s an importer-exporter, he owns several ships that operate in the Americas, from Canada to Argentina,” I say, hearing the note of pride in my voice.

  Enrique coughs out a laugh. “So, that’s it.”

  “What?” I ask, straightening up and giving me an indignant look.

  “It’s never occurred to you that your father might just be a—”

  “He is not a drug dealer,” I snap.

  “No, he just facilitates the movement of their goods.” His voice oozes sarcasm.

  I feel that anger boil inside of me once again. Many a catfight was had in my elite girls’ school over classmates suggesting such a thing about my father. Don’t even get me started on the things said about my mother being born in Africa. Usually, it came in snickers and whispers from the rich white girls firmly riding the wave of generational wealth. My fellow Latina classmates were sometimes even worse about it, never really counting me as one of their own because of my mixed heritage. The very few black Catholic students were at least empathetic, but their fathers still had “legitimate” careers they could point to that had no hint of an underworld stench tainting it.

  Anyone of Mexican heritage must be somehow tied to drug dealing if they had too much money, all the more so if they operate in Latin America. My being half-black somehow made it even more likely.

  “Just because he’s of Mexican heritage doesn’t mean he’s involved in the drug trade. He’s a legitimate businessman. The mayor of Los Angeles himself has given him honors. He’s sat at the table of the governor numerous times. He’s attended White House dinners with multiple presidents.”

  “Well, if politicians trust him, then he must have clean hands.”

  I scowl at him, feeling my fingers curl into claws that I’d love to rake across his face.

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Of course, the thought has crossed my mind. But I asked him, point-blank. He assured me, promised me that he had nothing to do with the drug trade. In fact, these men are probably after me because he refuses to do their bidding.”

  The smirk disappears from his face, which transitions into a look of pity. That somehow makes it even worse. “Don’t worry, you aren’t the first child to be disillusioned by their father.”

  “I have no reason to be disillusioned by my father. Even though he doesn’t tell me everything, I trust that what he does tell me is the truth.”

  My father is overprotective to the point of being tyrannical, but he’s never lied to me. If there is something he doesn’t want me to know, he simply doesn’t tell me. Period. Which makes his word worth something.

  “At the very least, yours has never wanted you dead.” Even though Enrique stares at me as he says it, it’s muttered so low that I assume he’s talking to himself.

  But it’s enough to pique my curiosity. “What?”

  A tiny cynical smirk hitches up one side of his mouth. “I
suppose that means it’s my turn to air my family’s dirty laundry.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Enrique

  Leira settles into the couch with a look of intense curiosity on her face, awaiting to hear my story.

  “Unlike you, I’ve known from an early age that my father was a criminal. I was five when I first saw him kill a man. When I told my mother, that was the final straw, after years of abuse, that got her to try and leave. That’s how we first ended up at the island I found you on. She went back; I assume to confront him. Instead, he killed her. Or had her killed.”

  She gasps and sits up straighter in surprise.

  “He would have had me killed as well, if not for the nuns at Santa María Convent, who had me adopted out to a Spanish family to protect me. I was five when I found the same lagoon you discovered,” I say with a wry smirk.

  “So…he’s still after you because of what you witnessed?” She asks, wrinkling her brow.

  My smirk broadens. “Not exactly.”

  When I don’t expand on that she gives me an exasperated look.

  I concentrate on her, wondering just how much to reveal. “On paper, he’s a financier. In reality, he’s still in the money laundering business, just in case you’re wondering how I can sniff out someone in the drug dealing industry. Surprisingly, they aren’t even his number one clientele. He’s worked with quite a few legitimate businessmen who have also had many a government official to dinner.”

  She twists her lips and glares at me with contempt.

  I laugh and shake my head. “Don’t get too upset. Above a certain net worth, there are very few clean hands.”

  “You haven’t answered why he’s still after you. If you were adopted, does he know you’re still alive?”

  “No, he doesn’t.” I pause before continuing. “But he does know that someone has been targeting his clients.”

  “You kill them?” She asks, her eyes wide with surprise. I’m intrigued to see a tiny hint of excitement there as well.

  “No,” I say with a laugh, before going somber and giving her a direct look. “There’s only one man I’m intent on killing. My father.”

  Her hand comes to her throat, which bobs as she swallows hard.

  “For now, I’m...like a shark, playing with his food.” I feel a cynical smirk come to my face at the reference.

  Magnus Reinhardt, the son of the man my father killed, is well known throughout the business world as The Shark.

  Initially, he was intent on killing my father as part of his similar plan of revenge. I was able to convince him that I should be the one to deal with him instead. Perhaps he appreciated the poetic irony of it. Either way, he ended up giving me an ultimatum: one year.

  I have only a few months left to complete the mission.

  By the end of the summer, Richard Coleman will be a dead man.

  But it seems like my timeline has suddenly been cut short.

  As if to beg the question, Leira asks it.

  “So who is it that’s after us? And why?”

  I feel my mouth tighten, and I look off to the side in thought.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How is it exactly that you get back at your father?” She presses.

  “I steal from them.”

  “Steal?”

  “Just enough so they know it’s tied to the amount they launder through my father.”

  She hiccups a laugh. “And you wonder how they found you?”

  “Who says it’s me they’re after?” I challenge.

  “No one even knows I’m here…except for your little friend, Wolfgang.” A thought seems to come to her. “Wait, is he a part of this with you? Is Wolfgang even his real name?”

  “His real name is irrelevant.”

  “Well, that answers both questions for me. But it doesn’t answer the question of what he may or may not have told someone else.”

  “He would never betray me like that,” I say in a dangerously low voice, mostly to mask the fact that I’ve had the same troubling thought. He knows that I usually at least spend the night in Ibiza before taking my boat back somewhere in Spain—he doesn’t know which city I live in—early the next day.

  “No honor among thieves,” she retorts sarcastically.

  My eyes snap to her, remembering that the same quote ran through my head earlier.

  “It wouldn’t make sense,” I mutter, mostly to myself as I look off to the side again. “Especially if…”

  I think about the conversation with Ulrich from the bar about why we do things the way we do. Even if he or the rest of my crew were upset, killing me or doing something that might cause me to end my pirating days, would also mean an end to it for them.

  “If what?” Leira presses.

  My eyes shift back to her, realizing she’s still there.

  “I’m the only one with the information on our targets. Without me, they have no access to account information, numbers, locations…nothing.”

  “How did you get that information?”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “Is it?”

  “We agreed to tell each other enough to be informed. Don’t act like you aren’t holding something back.”

  I see a flash of it in her eyes. That good old Catholic guilt. She is, in fact, holding something back.

  But she’s quick to recover.

  Leira throws up her hands up in frustration. “Okay, fine. My oldest living sister is a ballerina. The one after her is in rehab once again. The third is a saint, off doing missionary work. The only other one left is probably dead by now. Happy? Now you know everything about the Montoya family.”

  “Montoya,” I repeat with a small grin on my lips.

  I can see her cursing herself in her head over that one.

  “How about you? What’s your last name?” She asks.

  I laugh. “Nice try. But that truly is irrelevant.”

  “Okay, what about this father of yours you want to kill. Do I at least get to know his name?”

  “Again, nice try.”

  She punches me in the arm.

  “Joder!” I curse, grabbing my arm and glaring at her.

  “You already know it’s you these people are after! Now, I’ve been seen all over Ibiza with you, and I’m a target too. You obviously haven’t been as careful as you thought. Hell, despite your assurances, it could be this friend of yours who outed you. Maybe he’s done going through you to rob people and wants a bigger payday? Maybe he got in trouble and used you as his ticket out of it? Maybe he just hates your guts? How can I say safe if I don’t even know who might be after me?”

  Everything she utters has a ring of possibility to it. I trust my men, but trust only goes so far when one’s feet are being held to the fire. Maybe Ulrich’s warning early wasn’t about the rest of the men on my team, but about him.

  “You’re safe as long as you stay with me.” It’s as much a warning to her as it is a reassurance. Just because I’ve added more danger to our little adventure, doesn’t mean I’m ready to set her free.

  “So this is just more leverage?” she spits, looking as though she’d love to punch me again.

  “If that’s what it takes for you to stop asking, then yes, consider it leverage.”

  Now, she does lash out physically. This time it’s her legs. She unfurls them from beneath her and kicks out, her feet pummeling my thighs, barely making an impact against the hard muscle.

  “I’m so sick of everyone keeping me in the dark, forcing me here and there under the premise that it’s for my own good. I hate not having just one fucking ounce of control over my own damn life!”

  I just stare at her battering feet and legs with a mixture of angry surprise and wonder. They are so damn sexy, especially now that they are so wild and uninhibited.

  My lack of reaction only seems to heighten her anger and frustration. She stops kicking and rises up on her knees to lean over me, so she’s right in my face.

  “Does it make you f
eel powerful? The big, strong man, kidnapping a woman just because he can? Taking photos of her naked to blackmail her? Keeping her in the dark about the danger she’s in?” she seethes right in my face.

  I just stare back calmly, waiting for this to blow over. I suppose she’s due a rant considering everything that has happened to her today.

  Then, she slaps me. “I don’t care! Throw me out to the wolves to fend for myself. Send that photo to whomever. At least then I’ll know what the danger is!”

  I blink in surprise at both the lingering sting of her hand and those words. I can’t help the subtle smile of awe and amusement that comes to my face.

  She slaps me again.

  The smile remains, maybe even more amused now.

  Now she’s just enraged. She curls her hands into fists, attacking my chest and shoulders.

  “Go ahead,” she says, practically in a growl now. “Do what you want. You’ve given me nothing to work with. You hold all the cards. You have all the power. I have absolutely nothing, no one.”

  I allow it for longer than I should. She has far more energy than I expected. But this needs to stop. Mostly because none of it is true.

  I finally lash out to grab both her wrists before they can pummel me any further. She seems surprised by my strength as I easily force her back onto the seat of the couch. The wrists I still hold tightly to are forced up to either side of her head as I hover over her. Her large brown eyes are wide with surprise…and desire. It only stirs the same buzz inside my head and heat throughout my body.

  “That’s not true, Leira,” I growl into her face. “You have me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Leira

  I struggle underneath Enrique, which only seems to excite him.

  And me.

  What the hell is the matter with me? Every bit of sin I commit only seems to make me want more. I only feel something when I’m doing something I shouldn’t. I’m only happy when I’ve delved into the depraved or the full force of my emotions; when I fight back at everything that’s kept me in check.