by Julie Leto
Frankie rustled noncommittally in his chair while Marisela carefully replaced her coffee cup on the delicate china saucer. “We’re sure your home is lovely, señor, but we are independent contractors. Our business is lucrative. We have no need to limit our client base at this time.”
Perez nodded thoughtfully, smoothly draping a napkin across his lap. A second later, two waiters arrived with three colorful plates laden with crispy greens, artfully cut vegetables, and a tangy mango-based salsa. Despite her concentration on the conversation, Marisela’s mouth watered. They’d skipped breakfast and cluster-fuck or not, last night had built up a ravenous appetite—on too many levels to count.
She unfurled her napkin, but ignored the silverware. Food in her mouth—particularly delicious food—would undoubtedly derail her concentration.
“Please do not take our reluctance as a personal insult,” she said earnestly. “We mean no disrespect.”
Perez reached out and patted her hand, then gestured for her to pick up her fork. “I understand completely, señora. My needs are not long-term, but timing is of the essence. With careful planning, your services could ensure my continued domination in my field, which could benefit both of us, ¿sí? However, I have personal reasons for returning to Puerto Rico inmediatamente. I assumed that a week or two on my private island, with fine food and ultimate luxury as an incentive, would lure you to listen to my proposal.”
Frankie stabbed a few leaves of lettuce onto his fork. “You don’t have to hire us, señor. If you pay, we’ll listen.”
Marisela smiled with an extra dose of patience to make up for Frankie’s gruff, but practiced, tone. It wasn’t such a stretch for him to act the reticent conversationalist, Marisela thought with a secret grin. Then again, she wasn’t exactly earning an Academy award by playing the coldhearted bitch, either.
“What my husband means, señor, is that now that we’ve done business together, niceties are appreciated, but not necessary. We are at your disposal should the need arise.”
Perez took his time to chew and swallow, his gaze never locking on either of them for long, but darting casually between his guests and the view—completely comfortable in his surroundings. And rightfully so. Chances were, if one of his holding companies didn’t own this hotel, he at least owned every single person inside.
“I appreciate your trust. Which reminds me.”
Another snap of fingers and a briefcase appeared at Marisela’s feet. She checked to make sure the lock was secure and coded with the prearranged combination, but otherwise ignored the cash payment inside.
“We’re happy you’re satisfied with our work,” she said with a solemn nod.
“I’m more than satisfied, señora. I’m thrilled. I had extreme reservations about destroying such a lovely family. The fact that the woman and child were inexplicably delayed was a stroke of genius, not to mention a show of true generosity of spirit.”
A chill crept along Marisela’s spine, a prelude to a shiver she tamped down with another sip of coffee. Was this some sort of trick question? “I cannot take credit where none is due, señor. We had nothing to do with the family not showing up. Rogelio and I guessed that you had been behind the change in plans.”
Perez’s eyebrows arched over wide hazelnut eyes. “Me? No, no. I have no taste for the blood of innocents, but my enemy cast his own lot when he brought his family with him into my territory.”
Marisela decided to lay her cards on the line. Well, Dolores’s cards, anyway.
“Is this a test?”
“¿Perdone?”
She shifted in her seat. “If you want to know something, Señor Perez, please, ask.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Have you killed a child before?”
“No.”
“Would you?”
Marisela leaned forward. “Not as a target, no.”
“Peripheral damage?”
She sat back in the cushioned wicker chair. “Señor Perez, my husband and I make no moral judgments. We do what you pay us to. I don’t understand this line of questioning.”
But in honesty, she could take an educated guess. He was inviting two world-renowned killers to his home—the home he shared with his daughter. The real Toscas likely wouldn’t know that, but Marisela did and she figured he didn’t want to expose his daughter to ruthless, cold-blooded assassins, even though she likely mingled with his cohorts and employees, no less murderous, on a daily basis. What an odd distinction he attempted to make. When he killed, he did so for power, money, and likely, revenge. When the Toscas killed, money alone drove them. Did that make them more ruthless in his mind?
“I apologize for dancing around a topic of great importance,” he said. “I do not bring many people to my island, but as I said, I have no time to fly my associates here to meet you. I have credible information that three shipments of mine, already en route to their destinations, are being monitored by an upstart rival who intends to steal my product.”
Credible information leaked to him by Titan operatives, no doubt. Ian had warned that he’d act quickly to force Perez home. Titan operatives knew the location of Perez’s private island, but any attempt to take the girl without agents inside would result in a bloodbath—with Titan swirling down the drain. The only way to complete this operation was from the inside out.
“I need to regroup, meet with my people,” he explained. “I can do that best from my home base.”
“Where your family is,” Marisela said. The comment was likely more intuitive than Dolores Tosca would ever speak aloud, but Marisela had to follow her instincts. Frankie ignored the conversation as if she’d made no error in judgment in turning the conversation so decidedly where it needed to go. Perez was a slippery character—obviously smart and suspicious. Better to finish this dialogue now and make their move rather than follow him to Puerto Rico under an air of suspicion.
“Sí, señora.”
“Rogelio and I do not work both sides of the coin, so to speak. Once we have been paid for our services, you have our loyalty. You have only our word, but we would do nothing to bring harm to your family.”
She patted the briefcase for emphasis and was thankful that this claim was, surprisingly, true. The Toscas refused to work for rivals, which was why their murderous profession took them all over the globe.
Perez’s expression softened. “I believe your sentiment, señora, but what you say is not entirely true, through no fault of your own. You might bring harm without intending to.”
He’d given no verbal clue, but Marisela knew in her gut that Perez was worried about his daughter. Not his business associates or their secrets, not his money—his child.
“Por favor, señor. This is about trust, ¿sí? You tell us where we are welcome and where we are not and we will respect your orders.”
His eyes met hers in a stare that was at once inscrutable and painfully revealing. Marisela’s mind swam with the incongruity of his response, wondering if his reaction was all an act, meant to illicit some response from her that would give their ruse away.
“I will give you no orders, señora, save those that would keep you safe. Please, join me in Puerto Rico. You will meet the men at the top level of my organization and perhaps help us plan the counterattack on my competitor. And of course, for your change in plans, I will make the trip worth your while.”
In an instant, his uncertainty disappeared, replaced by the charming businessman Perez undoubtedly played most of the time.
Marisela matched his relaxed posture. They were in.
“I have no doubt we will be treated like royalty, señor. Your hospitality may be just what my husband and I need.”
Fifteen
From across the seat of the jetlike Agusta 109C helicopter, Frankie watched Marisela press her face to the bowed window like a child outside a candy store. God, had he ever been that wide-eyed? That green? Until this week, he’d barely taken the time to think back to his childhood, much less his misspent youth. He often thought about th
e wild, cocky muchacho he’d been, darting from scam to scam as someone else—someone whose curious, rebellious nature hadn’t ended up propelling him into prison. Together, he and Marisela had experienced a hundred firsts—and here they were again. Just like old times.
Only she hadn’t quite grasped that in reality, nothing was the same. Not him. Not her. Not their friendship. Especially not the sex. Even now with Marisela no more than a foot away from him and the taste of her skin still fresh in his mind even though he hadn’t touched her intimately for days, he couldn’t help but suspect that he’d need a lifetime to know this woman completely.
But Frankie held his tongue on that point as they relaxed in the relative privacy on the last leg of their trip, sitting next to each other in the luxury cabin with just one guard in front with the pilot.
The copter jumped through a pocket of air and Marisela grabbed the brushed kid leather seat. Her eyes sought his instantly and he calmed her with a quirk of a grin. Just hinting that the flight didn’t make him the least bit nervous was enough to bolster her courage. He chuckled, then reached down and patted her knee. She didn’t balk at his touch. Instead, she rewarded him with a tiny, private smile that made his mouth water. They were, after all, pretending to be a married couple.
How he’d kept his hands to himself after all this time shocked the hell out of him—especially after last night. God, she’d played the pro from start to finish. She’d done her job, watched his back, reined in any fear or panic even after Ochoa had screwed up their plan and turned his fake execution into a very real one. Frankie had witnessed the smoldering fire in Marisela’s eyes prior to their boarding the yacht and he’d felt the very real lust coursing through her when they’d kissed at the marina, even if the beso had been just for show. From that moment, he’d anticipated a wild night of post-mission sex upon their return to the hotel, but Pan’s injury, Perez’s call, and her complete exhaustion had waylaid his plans.
This morning, she’d brimmed with too much nervous energy. But now, an hour before sunset, dressed in a sinfully short miniskirt that rode up her thighs, he figured the time had finally come for them to work off the last of their pent-up sexual energy. He’d never done it in a helicopter. And who better to appreciate the unique experience than Marisela?
Still, he had more than a little trouble conjuring a picture of Rogelio and Dolores Tosco “doing it” in the sky.
“See anything yet?” he asked, his hand pressed to the left side of his earphones, which rattled against the hoop earring he’d adopted in true Rogelio-style.
“The most incredibly turquoise water I’ve ever seen!” she answered, with what Frankie guessed was a boatload more enthusiasm than Dolores Tosca would ever reveal. He decided not to worry about the lapse. Anyone listening in—and he was certain someone was, would expect a husband and wife, no matter their professions, to let down their guard.
Might as well give them something private to listen to. “More colorful than the Sea of Cortez? Than that bay off the coast of Honduras?” he asked.
Marisela blinked twice, then rolled her eyes impatiently. The Toscas had traveled to just about every corner of the world, particularly in the Caribbean and Central and South America, where their services were particularly in demand.
“Much more,” she said, then stuck out her tongue at him. “Must be a trick of the sun,” he said with a chuckle. “Maybe Javier is right and this is his own private paradise.” Frankie glanced around, finally allowing the indulgences of the luxury around him to sink in—indulgences men like Javier Perez and Ian Blake probably took for granted as a privilege they earned simply because they breathed.
“His private paradise,” Frankie said, scooting closer to Marisela. Their long legs jockeyed for space. He let her win, but only because it meant her bare skin would now be easily accessible to his touch. “Not ours.”
She eyed him from beneath thick, black lashes. “It could be ours, too. This is an opportunity, Rogelio. Perez wants us. He deals straight. We can trust him.”
“For now,” he said, adjusting the mouthpiece so that whoever might be listening heard every word.
“Maybe ‘far now’ will turn into something more.”
They didn’t have a lot of time to ingratiate themselves into Perez’s organization. Since the moment they walked into Perez’s hotel room, they’d focused on finding the opportunity to snatch Jessica. As soon as they accomplished that goal, they could get the hell out of Ian Blake’s control.
Or at least, Frankie could. He wasn’t so sure Marisela would be satisfied with only one mission in this seductive world. He’d watched her savor the fine food, admire the top-of-the-line training equipment, and covet the free supply of chic, designer clothes. And she’d performed exceptionally well last night under extreme pressure. And yet, she still had much to learn, though Frankie had no doubt that Ian Blake salivated at the chance to teach her himself.
Frankie shook the infuriating thought aside. For now, they had an idea to implant into Perez’s ambitious mind—and this conversation was the perfect chance to move toward that goal.
“What are you talking about, mi corazón?” he asked, improvising the script they’d discussed earlier.
“I’m talking about working for Perez long-term,” she answered, right on cue.
“He may not want us long-term.”
“Verdad,” she said with a convincing nod. “Pero, we could change his mind. We’re valuable, Rogelio. We know the alliances and blood feuds in the arms game. We’ve made friends with men who could further Perez’s own operation. Or take him down.”
He slipped his hand onto her thigh. “What are you thinking?”
Marisela’s eyes flashed in warning, but with an even gaze, he convinced her there was no harm in surrendering to one slim thread of the desire that connected them with the tenacity of a spider’s web.
“I’m not saying anything,” she insisted. “I’m just thinking we should consider the value of Perez’s power to our own ambitions. How rare is it that we meet a man like him?”
“You’re weary of this life, aren’t you, mi amor?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped.
She could be tough as nails and cold as ice and every other cliché of a kick-ass mujer she projected to the world, but damn it, he knew her better than to buy what she showed on the outside. She might have skillfully assumed the role of Dolores Tosca, but the real Marisela was never far from the surface.
He turned his hand over, laying his knuckles softly over her bare skin. “We live such isolated lives. You long to try something different. You want change.”
Her gaze darted aside, but her hand inched closer to his. He broached the final distance and wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Sí. Change.”
“Then I’ll hear what Javier Perez has to say and then if you like what you see and hear, you can offer him what we know. Nunca te olvides que eres mi reina.”
At this, Marisela rolled her eyes again and tugged her hand free and returned to looking out the window. Okay, so that was a little over the top, reminding her of her gang days while whoever was listening thought he was just claiming her to be the queen of his heart. Still, when their gazes met, she snickered, which elicited a smile from him despite his strong resistance. When was he going to learn? Resisting Marisela was a mission doomed for failure, no matter how hard he tried.
* * *
As they prepared to land on the ten square mile swatch of land Javier Perez had dubbed Isla de Piratas because cutthroats and privateers once used the land to hide and protect their booty, Marisela glanced over at Frankie, stunned. The aerial tour Marisela had convinced the pilot to give them made one point painfully clear. Javier Perez’s stronghold was impenetrable.
Nearly entirely flat, the island boasted at least a half-dozen concrete block towers tucked behind slim sky-reaching palms. The guards posted in the third-story turrets made great show of their M-16s, waving them toward the pi
lot in greeting. Though Perez had stayed in San Juan to attend to a personal matter, his men had just made sure his guests understood what sort of home he ran here.
Taking Jessica Perez off this island was not going to be easy.
Marisela’s stomach swirled about three seconds behind the chopper as it flew toward the landing pad within a Spanish tile complex some might call a grand hacienda. Marisela thought fortress was a much more accurate term.
The main house was stunning and seemingly precarious from a security standpoint with large open windows and grand archways. Slipping in and out would entail nothing more than a casual stroll. But to his security-minded credit, Javier Perez had surrounded the house with a single story, circular building which resembled a wall in shape and form—except this wall was about twelve-feet thick, hollow, with ten-foot ceilings and ample windows on either side, windows Marisela would bet were bulletproof.
As the copter landed, Marisela watched the guards inside the circular building stop and observe. With their three hundred and sixty degree view only thirty yards from the main house, they could easily monitor both the activities in the house and courtyard as well as any and all movement approaching the house from the sparse jungle or beach. She could see only one entrance through the circular outer building which boasted a rather spiky looking iron gate. Chances were, the painfully pitched roof of the protective structure was fitted with pressure-activated alarms. The only way to penetrate that building would be to somehow elude the guard towers and fly over in something much smaller and much quieter than a helicopter. Like bird’s wings, maybe?
Shit. Shitshitshit.
“We’ll be safe here, won’t we, mi amor?”
Marisela spun toward Frankie, who grinned at her with the kind of verve reserved only for a man who relished a true and dangerous challenge. In an instant, the painful churning in her stomach subsided and the fiery spread of excitement rushed through her veins. He wasn’t afraid. Why should she be? The worst that could happen was death, right?
“I’m very impressed,” she replied. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to truly relax. Enjoy each other.”