Secrets and Seduction (Dangerous Desires)

by Roberts, Sahara

  Andres pulled off his hat and slapped it a few times against his thigh, shedding the day’s dust off the leather. Alex was his best friend, and it was his fault that a woman had come between them. He rolled the rim back into shape. This would be the perfect time for him to make amends, to finally explain to Alex how things had gone so wrong, so quickly.

  “Listen Alex, I’ve been…”

  “I’m ready, Alex. We should get going. I have a lot of things to pick up.” Susana strolled up, baby in her arms, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be standing between the two men whose friendship she had helped royally screw up. She looked at Andres, her gaze sliding down to his scuffed boots, then back up to his face, assessing and dismissing him in a single glance. Turning back to Alex, she handed him a bag with blankets and the top of a bottle sticking out. “This needs to go into the truck.”

  Alex took the bag gingerly, and before either man could say a word, she swept past both to the passenger side of the truck, where she waited.

  Alex stared at the bag like it held a rattlesnake instead of a rattle. What did two bachelors know about babies? Taking pity on him, Andres leaned in and whispered, “Pretty sure it’s just bottles and diapers, you know, for the kid.” Alex’s shoulders slumped. He looked at Andres.

  “You were gonna say something?”

  “Alex? I’m waiting. Can you come open the door so we can go?” Both men closed their eyes, and Andres silently cursed. The moment was gone thanks once again to Susana.

  “We’ll talk later. It’s probably best you get on the road.” Andres hesitated a moment, then reached out, grabbing Alex’s shoulder and giving a sympathetic squeeze. Alex nodded, then pulled away, walking around to open the door for Susana. He helped her in, waited while she arranged the child in her lap, then handed her the bag, still held at arms’ length with two fingers. Andres dropped his head and cleared his throat, trying not to laugh as Susana snatched it from him with a muttered comment.

  “You’ll have to go slow—”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.” As Alex stomped back around the trailer he glared at Andres, stabbing a finger at him. “Not one word from you, pendejo, not one…fucking…word.”

  Andres stepped back, holding up both hands as Alex yanked open the door, swung into the truck, and slammed it. The small wail that filled the air was immediately drowned out by Susana’s shrill voice reading Alex the riot act.

  It would have been easy to laugh, but Andres knew this was a “There but for the grace of God” moment for him. As he watched the trailer pull away, he made a silent promise. One way or another, he would find a way to explain to Alex, and to apologize for all that had happened.

  Simon arrived at the café, closing the door with excitement in his eyes. He reached the table in a few quick steps. “Ladies, please forgive me.” He shot Dora a glance before taking a seat. “I was delayed at the office.”

  Moni stifled a yawn, dismissing the need for an apology with a wave of her hand. Dora gave him a shy smile. Lupe’s face lit up, transforming her from a grouchy busybody to a loving mother within a heartbeat.

  The waitress arrived, balancing their plates on a wide tray. “I ordered for you,” Lupe said in a giddy schoolgirl tone. “Liver and onions. Your favorite.”

  Simon’s smile didn’t reach beyond his lips. Hmm. Maybe she wasn’t the only one to put up with Lupe’s personality. Different set of emotions, same end result.

  Moni cut into the beef-smothered enchilada plate.

  “I realize this isn’t proper dinner conversation.” Simon placed his napkin on his lap with an apologetic glance around the table. “So please stop me if you’re offended.”

  “Nonsense. I raised you with impeccable manners.”

  “What happened?” Dora looked up at him through her lashes.

  “We had military personnel arrive before I could leave the store. They came next door, since the chief’s office is closed.” Everyone stopped. Even the group next to them paused, their utensils and drinks frozen in midair. “They were trying to find someone to identify a body.”

  Lupe splayed her hand over her throat. “Will the tragedies never end?”

  Dora’s grip tightened around her drink, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Do you know who it was?”

  “His face was pretty beat up, but I think he was with Paloma Guerrero at the rodeo.”

  Dora gasped. “The tattooed man Mr. Guerrero’s men asked about.”

  Moni fought the urge to squirm in her seat. Doubt bounced around inside her like a kernel of popcorn in hot oil. Was it possible? Andres had driven Damian out of town. He’d left the car downstairs in the morning, the weapon tucked under the seat, but they’d never actually discussed the events. A memory tickled the back of her brain. He’d said he was getting rid of them, a few at a time. What exactly had he meant by that?

  “I guess now we know why they were asking about him.” Two men, known to work for Guerrero, had come by to ask, same as Dr. Treviño.

  “Did they say what happened?” Dora whispered.

  “One of the soldiers stayed behind. He said…” Simon leaned in and lowered his voice to match hers. “They found him without any clothes on.” He unrolled the utensils and used the napkin to blot his forehead. “They believe he was forced to run for his life before or after getting shot. He was thrown in the river so the current would take the body.”

  “Is that so?” For all she knew, she could have been chewing on cardboard instead of Don Samuel’s homemade queso blanco. Her stomach churned with the effort to digest the few bites she’d consumed.

  “Someone spotted the body from the bridge,” Simon added. “They reported him at a checkpoint by Sierra Verde. The soldiers retrieved him and now they’re trying to get an identification.”

  “Such a sad end.” Lupe took a sip of her coffee. “The way they lead their lives, they can’t expect to die of old age.”

  Dora set down her drink. “At least they found the poor man.”

  “It’s good Mr. Guerrero sent his daughter away.” Lupe sniffed. “Copas isn’t safe anymore.”

  Moni put down her fork. She’d been expecting Guerrero to go on a bloody rampage. Tearing up the area to find the killer. But nobody knew what happened to Paloma. In fact, gossip had her living in one city or another because Guerrero had been concerned with protecting his interests. For a horrible moment she wondered what had been done with her body. Was she buried in an unmarked grave somewhere? Had her father brought in a priest to speak over her, or told Paloma’s mother? Could he really just wipe his own daughter’s existence from the face of the earth in the name of protecting his interests?

  She picked up her fork and pushed her food around the plate. She winced as she realized she was part of keeping Pablo’s dirty laundry out of public view, whether she wanted to be or not.

  “I wonder who killed him, and why.” Dora’s voice faded off.

  “Him? What about the chief?” Lupe said, exasperated.

  Dora shrank against the back of her chair. “I was just thinking out loud,” she responded in a tiny voice.

  “Either way, that man’s life is nobody’s business.” Lupe raised her chin. “You don’t need to be sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Mamá.” Simon’s stern voice silenced the table. Lupe slouched in her chair, like a chastised child. So much for trying to play matchmaker between Simon and Dora this afternoon.

  Moni tuned them out, pushing away the half-empty plate while Simon whispered to his mother. If this kept up she was going to lose the weight she’d gained back.

  You filled in real nice. She could still feel Andres’s hand moving over her body, his mouth exploring her intimately. Thoroughly. She frowned, grasping at a memory. Thoroughly kissed. That’s what he’d said. She’d been too caught up in him to notice at the time. But honestly, that didn’t sound like the cowboy she knew. She narrowed her eyes. Was there more to Andres Calderon?

  Chapter Nine
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br />   Andres surged out of sleep, his senses alert and his shoulders tense. Something was wrong. He held his breath, straining to pick up any telltale clue of what woke him. His gaze shot from corner to corner, trying to see if anyone or anything sat in the murky darkness—waiting.

  He slid out from under the covers, his feet slipping to the cold floor without making a sound. With one eye on the doorway, he backed up to the window and stuck a finger between the curtain and frame. Outside, everything looked normal, but the uneasy feeling pushed him to go find out for sure. Within seconds he’d pulled on dark jeans and jammed his feet into the nearest pair of boots. He grabbed the first shirt in the old-fashioned wardrobe on his way out.

  Halfway to the door he stopped. Whatever might be out there blended into the surroundings, something he should try doing. He tossed the shirt onto a chair while he found another, dark enough to hide in the wardrobe’s recesses.

  His stomach rolled. This was really happening. He was heading into the night with only a well-honed pocketknife as a weapon. God help me. Two buttons were about all his stiff fingers could manage before stuffing the shirttails into his jeans then pulling his belt through the loops. He made his way to the hall with careful footsteps, then moved into the rest of the house. Everything was quiet, every corner empty.

  He had to make sure the horses were safe. But how to go? Sneak over to the stable? Go directly or circle around the side? Either way, he would run a gauntlet. If a killer were outside, or there were more than one of them, he’d be armed. In the past few days, four people had gone to meet their maker. At least three of them didn’t have defensive wounds, so they may not have it coming.

  He turned the knob, tapping into his anger over feeling cornered to get him out the door. One step. Two. Each step felt like he was in the river, walking against the current. Even as he approached the stable, the building still seemed far away. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Fear could be a real bitch.

  An image filled his head of Monica waiting by the fence the night they’d gone for Damian. She hadn’t known who she was meeting, but she’d shown up anyway.

  As he neared the stalls, bits of hay flew by. Uncle Rey’s spirit was acting up again. The harsh wind carried an eerie whisper. Every shadow took the shape of a man. Right now he’d rather deal with a restless spirit than a dangerous predator.

  The horses stuck out their heads, even Bailarina. He patted one nose after another, making sure to whisper a “Good boy” or “That’s my girl” to each animal.

  The tack room held no secrets so he checked the last little nook, where he’d sat with Monica at his feet. No varmints, animal or otherwise, but he couldn’t shake the anxiety. He looked out toward the house on the hill, once his home. Everything seemed normal. The guys were on watch, one of them heading up from the bunkhouse like he had all the time in the world.

  Should he go back? No. His grandfather had always believed in gut feelings. Right now, the old ways made a lot of sense.

  Damian had left him his satellite phone. Should he call Monica to check on her?

  The doctor’s office sat at the edge of town, purposely set up so Guerrero’s men could go in and out undetected. If he went, he could park behind the building and make his way around without disturbing anyone. The setup was great, unless you were a woman living there all alone—where no one could hear you if something went wrong.

  He walked back to the house, still glancing into the shadows. After locking the door, he went to the kitchen and pulled the phone from where he’d hidden it inside a stack of plastic tumblers. His fingers tightened around the protective case. What if she was fine? He’d be waking her up and maybe worrying her. What would he tell her? I had a bad dream, Doc. Wanted to make sure the boogie man hadn’t gotten to you, too.

  Maybe he could go and look around quietly. It’s not like he could get back to sleep if he was this wound up. Maybe finding out she was safe would settle this anxiety and let him get some rest. He grabbed his keys and hat then headed to town.

  Monica awoke, trembling—her body overheated from a dream so vivid a whimper lodged in her throat. Andres Calderon—again. Shoulders bare, lips on hers, his cock sliding into her.

  She had to get him out of her head. During the day, the girls and patients distracted her with chitchat. The long, lonely nights were a different matter.

  The mattress held the heat she’d radiated, baking her neck, back, and bottom. She sat up, kicking off the Egyptian cotton tangled around her legs, then peeled off the stifling nightshirt, leaving her in skimpy satin and lace panties.

  Turning, she stretched out on her stomach so the pedestal fan could cool her body and the spot where she’d been lying. Dios mio. Her breasts ached and her core yearned for the fullness she’d felt in the dream. The fan blew her hair across her back. She shivered, her skin hypersensitive. Why did she have to be so needy?

  She bit her bottom lip. Her SAT phone sat in the other room. Damian had programmed his number in before handing it off. Andres would come…then so could she.

  Their midnight ride still haunted her, sitting astride Rayo, touching from neck to ankle. Ride my tongue like you rode against my cock. She cupped her breasts. The sensation wasn’t as satisfying as his touch would be. He worked on a ranch. The rope or reins or something left their mark on his hands. They were a working man’s hands—distinct from every other male she’d been with—and all him.

  He’d been the star of her fantasies and center of her thoughts way too often, since the moment she kissed him and he’d drawn her near. She was driving herself crazy.

  The scuff of a boot against the sidewalk was faint, but enough to yank her from her fantasy. If someone needed medical attention they’d be sounding the buzzer. As seconds ticked by, the hair on her neck began to rise. She bolted off the bed, snatching up a cami and pulling it on as she stole through the darkness.

  Avoiding the squeaky board in the hall, she glanced into the kitchen before slipping past. Carefully tugging her bag closer, she pulled out the nine millimeter Kris had given her. Taking a shaky breath, she released and double-checked the magazine as he’d taught her. Pulling back the slide, she winced at the loud snap. Did the noise filter downstairs? How the hell was she supposed to hear anything over her slamming heartbeat?

  She grabbed the second magazine and realized she wouldn’t have a place to hold it. Damn. Maybe those low budget movies had a point. A woman would go after the bad guy while wearing nothing but skimpy underwear.

  She strained to pick up any sound. Silence. Maybe she was wrong—hopefully she was wrong. She grabbed her SAT phone, knowing she should call Kris to send help…but hit the number Damian programmed, instead. The line only rang once.

  “Monica?” Andres’s surprised whisper came across the line.

  Her bare feet stole across the wooden floor. She positioned herself, back to the wall, between the door leading downstairs and the kitchen entrance. The flimsy lock captured her attention. Would someone be coming up? Could she really shoot if she had to? “You there?”

  The urgency in his tone brought her back. Her hand tightened on the phone, and she swallowed down her fear. “I think someone’s downstairs.” Her whisper didn’t have the calm edge she’d hoped, but her hands were steady. Kris’s words came back to her, Take your time and aim as if your life depended on it…because it will. The scrape was closer this time. They’d be coming through the kitchen entrance.

  “Fuck. It’s me, babe.”

  She stopped mid-step, her weight balanced on the ball of her foot. Of all the idiotic things for him to do… “What is wrong with you? I could have shot you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was worried.” His footsteps, no longer guarded, rang out on the last few steps of the outer staircase. She flipped on the safety and headed to the kitchen. After checking through the window she threw open the deadbolt, jiggled the knob, and stepped back. He came in, closing the door behind him while she set the weapon on the table, her hands
shaking. She drew in a long, quivering breath and exhaled slowly, willing her heart to return to something that resembled normal.

  “I woke up feeling like something was wrong.”

  Same as her. Only she wasn’t about to share the details of her dream.

  “I checked the house and the horses, then thought to check on you.”

  “Thank you.” Most people were locking themselves in as soon as the sun went down. Would anyone have heard her if she’d been in trouble? “I…I woke up and heard a noise. I got dressed and came to get the gun…then I called you.” Because you’ve been running through my dreams.

  The strain of concern fell away from his features. His gaze moved down over her chest to where the ribboned seam rode low on her breasts. Her nipples contracted, pushing against the gauzy cotton with every shallow breath. “You sleep naked…”

  The gruff statement sent her pulse pounding between her thighs. Heat blossomed low in her belly, recalling the images she’d pushed to the back of her mind—his hands on her hips, the evening breeze, her sliding forward in the saddle. Dios, could people really have sex that way? She swallowed hard, licking the edge of her bottom lip.

  His hands caught her waist while hungry lips found hers, stealing her breath along with the remnants of her annoyance. She draped her arms around his shoulders, letting her chest press against the planes of his body. How many times had she fantasized about being tangled up with him? Finishing what they’d started in the exam room? But that day he’d been gentle, coaxing her closer, while tonight his kiss was hard and consuming, greedy to take everything she had to give. A shiver ran through her. Tonight, she’d give him anything he wanted.

  She swayed against him, moving her hips from side to side. His palm slid down, burning through the lacy satin riding low on her hips. The calloused fingertips curled into the skin of her bottom, a welcome change to her experience thus far. The hard cock she’d been craving strained against her. Too high. She needed the pressure closer to the juncture of her thighs. Damn her genes for leaving her at a height disadvantage.