Holiday Heat

by Janelle Denison

  “Okay,” she conceded. “Lo siento. But he did hurt Lia. You need to know that.”

  “Why do you think I called?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to check on her?”

  His sigh was ripe with frustration. “I was the first doctor she saw tonight, so yes, I’ve checked on her progress. She’s doing fine. I’m about to go off shift, so good luck with finding the other woman he hurt.”

  Marisela shut her eyes tightly. For the first time since she picked up Belinda from her flight, she could picture her family, reunited around a garishly decorated tree, sipping the coquito her Puerto Rican neighbors had brought over as a welcome gift. Only Aida probably wouldn’t let her drink because Belinda couldn’t on account of the baby. An argument would ensue that would span two languages and a lifetime of resentment.

  It promised to be the most awesome holiday ever.

  “Thanks, doc. I owe you. Big.”

  He snickered. “How come I don’t want to know how you’d repay that debt?”

  She smiled. “Because as you told me earlier, you are a married man.”

  Only when she disconnected the call did she realize that she hadn’t let go of Frankie’s arm and as she’d walked back toward his car, she’d been dragging him along. And since he’d been caught up in a conversation of his own, he hadn’t fought. When she looked up, they were out of the alley.

  “Gunshot wound to the shoulder was just treated at St. Joe’s.” she told him.

  He picked up the pace, jogging to his vehicle. “Just got the same call from the cute blonde nurse.”

  “Too bad they couldn’t have called before the police arrived.”

  “At least she called,” he said, sounding entirely too wistful.

  “Did the trampy little puta happen to give a description of the vic?” she snapped.

  “Did the doctor?” he challenged.

  “I’m sure he was too busy saving the asshole’s life.”

  “Well, Nurse Lynette was not too busy to notice that he was Asian, about thirty-two and spoke with a slight British accent.”

  This information caught her up short.

  “But that sounds like…”

  Frankie opened her car door and pushed her inside. “Like we just found Rick Suzuki.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marisela waited in the hospital parking lot, her gaze glued to the ER entrance. It was nearly five in the morning and it was drizzling. Misty drops of rain coated the windshield, diffusing the glow on the hospital’s signs until they looked like a string of Christmas lights, white, blue, red and green.

  Frankie hadn’t been gone long, but she was anxious and exhausted. She checked her messages again, hoping for a note from Max or Ian or Brynn, but there was nothing but radio silence. She and Frankie had gotten far on their own with few resources other than their wits. They made an excellent team. On the job. In bed. So why couldn’t they take things to the next level?

  Because they already had—a long, long time ago. They’d been wildly, madly and stupidly in love. But they’d been kids. They hadn’t realized that when things got tough, they couldn’t rely on each other. At least, she couldn’t rely on him. He’d chosen his gang over her, forever embedding a sliver of mistrust in the part of her heart that he would always and forever own. After he’d come back into her life and gotten her mixed up with Titan, the sliver had transformed into something smaller—and sharper. No matter how many times he helped her out of a jam or made her laugh, or even made her come, he was still Frankie Vega, the hijo de puta who broke her teenage heart.

  When he opened the driver’s side door, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “He’s awake,” he reported, shaking the rain from his jacket and hair. “Cops are outside his room. Nurse Nicki says they questioned him, but he wouldn’t talk.”

  “What about his phone?”

  Frankie smiled one of those shit-eating grins that told her he’d succeeded at something she’d doubted he could achieve. “She said she could probably make sure it was within his easy reach, if we gave her a few minutes.”

  “How many minutes is a few?”

  “Enough to make out,” he suggested.

  “You always have sex on the brain.”

  “That’s not the part of my body I’m thinking with right now, vidita. You sent me in there to work my charm on the nurses, but then I have no way to burn up that excess sexual energy once I’ve done what you asked. How fair is that?”

  She leaned across the seat and rewarded his resourcefulness with a long, wet kiss. Then because her reflexes were slowed by exhaustion and stress, he tugged her across his lap and demanded more. Before she could do anything except lose herself in the sensations of his hand sliding up her shirt, tearing aside the cup of her bra and squeezing her nipple until she nearly screamed, he’d taken control, leaving her with no means of adequate defense.

  She ripped her shirt over her head and pulled down her bra, anxious for him to ply his tongue where she most needed it. He buried his face into her lushness. She lost her hands in his thick, black hair. He suckled and teased, flicking his tongue across her sensitized flesh until she was so wet between her legs. One sweet finger took her over the edge.

  “Yea, baby, let it go,” he begged.

  “No,” she groaned, shaking her head as he delved deeper, pressing his thumb to her clit. “Frankie, I can’t.”

  “Yea, you can, vidita. God, I love the look in your eyes when you come for me. Makes me so hot. Makes me want to bury in deep and take you to heaven. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  Two minutes ago—two god-damned minutes ago—she’d been lost in the knowledge that she could not trust him. And now, now she was lost in the reality that no matter what he did or said, she always would. She opened her eyes and watched his deep concentration while he played her like a Spanish guitar, thrumming and plucking until she cried out in rhythmic delight.

  But he wasn’t done—and apparently, neither was she. With the expertise of their youth, they tumbled into the backseat, discarding only the clothes that got in the way of him sliding his thick cock into her in one full thrust. As his balls slapped against her bottom, her sated need reawakened. She grabbed his ass, digging her fingernails into the taut flesh and urging him to do her faster, harder, until the back of her head collided with the door panel and for a split second, she couldn’t see.

  “Marisela?”

  “Don’t stop,” she pleaded.

  “¿Qué pasó?”

  “Nada, por favor, mi amor.”

  He ignored her and she felt him pull away, the steel of his erection softening.

  “I just bumped my head,” she explained, clutching his shoulders. For the sweetest moment, she’d forgotten her troubles, had lost herself in falling to his well-honed seduction. And damn it, she wanted that sanctuary back. Just for a few more minutes. “I’m fine.”

  “No matter what I do, I hurt you,” he said.

  The confession hit her hard. Despite the way her world tilted and sparkled with invisible stars, she sat up, pressed him to the backseat and straddled his lap so that her hot flesh met his needful cock.

  “The lives we live, Frankie, people are bound to get hurt.” She shifted, adjusting her body so that she could wrap her hand around his erection. “You and me, we’re risk and danger. It’s the price we pay.”

  She tugged hard, gripped tight, loving how her body’s lubrication clung to his hot flesh, giving her what she needed to pump him up to his previous rock-hard state.

  He leaned his head back, his dark eyes rolling back as she plied her attention, kissing the sweet path across his chin, marked by a scar he’d had since his return from prison. She smoothed her tongue over his thin moustache, writhing at the thought of that line of hair prickling her skin.

  When she finally had him gasping, she slid her body onto his. He grabbed her ass, squeezing sweet bruises into her flesh that she’d cherish until they faded. He injected her with more than just
heat and passion and come—he made her feel powerful. In control. As if screaming his name in ecstasy gave her the strength to take over the whole world. Or at least, her little piece of it.

  He lifted his hips, timing his thrusts to her measured drops, her fingers digging into leather of the backseat, the glass on the rear window steamed with the fog of their panting breaths. He plied his teeth and tongue to her breasts until her nipples were raw and electric, sending searing beams of fire down to her clit, which vibrated with the fullness of Frankie’s sex in hers. When she thought she could take no more, he slipped his hand between their slick bodies and touched off a series of spasmodic orgasms that piggy-backed on top of each other until she could no longer pull breath into her lungs.

  But it didn’t matter because he kissed her, giving her the only air she needed—his.

  The momentary absence of oxygen caused a pounding in her head. Or else, it was someone knocking on the clouded windshield.

  “Get a room!” the faceless person yelled before dashing away.

  Frankie moved as if to retrieve his weapon, but Marisela stopped him, laughing.

  “The maricón’s just jealous,” she said.

  “Or has a death wish.”

  She moved off him, fumbling in the dark and steam for her clothes. Needing fresh air, she cracked open a window. As it rushed in, a field of gooseflesh rippled over her hot, naked skin.

  “Crap!” she said, rushing to maneuver her twisted bra around her unbound breasts so she could pull on her shirt.

  Frankie chuckled. “I guess while it was getting hot in here, it was getting cold outside.”

  “Damn front,” she said, shivering as she worked her legs into her panties and then stomped her feet into her jeans.

  “It’ll feel more like Christmas,” Frankie argued.

  “When Belinda’s back, it’ll feel like Christmas.”

  “Bet you never thought you’d say that,” he pointed out.

  She didn’t respond, but he was right. Belinda had been a part of so few family holidays, even when she did live with the family. She wasn’t a fan of crowds, particularly loud, Cuban crowds of people who drank a little too much sangria and who raised their voices while speaking nonsense in two languages.

  “Think he’s got the phone by now?” she wondered, pulling out the burn phone where she’d stored Rick’s number.

  “I think I kept you distracted long enough.”

  He was going to be interminably proud of himself for a while, but Marisela couldn’t blame him. He’d rocked her world, yet again, at a time when she’d desperately needed the distraction.

  But now, she was re-energized. She dialed the number while Frankie finished suiting up in the backseat.

  She had to call three times before someone finally answered.

  “’ello?”

  Groggy and weak. Had to be him.

  “Rick Suzuki?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m going to hurt your baby,” she lied.

  “What?”

  She could practically hear the adrenaline pumping through his blood from the other end of the line.

  “Your baby. You’re never going to see the brat again unless you do everything I say.”

  “You don’t have her,” he said, but his voice shook. He was afraid, meaning more than Marisela wanted to contemplate.

  “How do you know?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Someone who can get into your hospital room and hold a pillow down over your face without anyone catching me.”

  “Then why aren’t you?”

  Marisela’s heart accelerated. She didn’t like the sounds of fear and defeat lingering around his words. Had his part in the kidnapping been his choice or had he been coerced himself?

  “Because you’re worth more to me alive than dead. Look, I don’t give a damn about your bastard kid,” she said, forcing herself not to stumble over the cruel words. She needed him to believe she was capable of anything if she was going to convince him to do what she said. “But I do care about Belinda. I will find her at some point. You know I will. But if you want to ever see your child, I suggest you find a way to get out of that hospital room and to the south parking lot without anyone following you, understand?”

  He ended the call. Marisela had no idea how he was going to pull off an escape, but she had faith that he would. He had, after all, taken her sister out from under her—an act he would pay for as soon as he took her where she needed to go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They didn’t have to wait long. Less than ten minutes later, they caught sight of a shoeless man in dark pants and a hospital gown slide out of a low-lit employee exit. Marisela watched for any added police activity, but seeing none, she slapped the seat and said, “Go!”

  Frankie hit the accelerator of his idling car and shot across the parking lot. Marisela threw open the back door and shouted, “Get in!”

  Rick complied the best he could, hobbling weakly and tumbling into the back seat. He was sweaty and breathless. “Drive,” he said.

  They took off just as a pair of policemen darted out of the same door he’d come from.

  Frankie took a sharp and sped away.

  Marisela grabbed Rick beneath his arms and pulled him into a sitting position. Then she pressed her fist hard into the precise part of his shoulder muscle where she’d shot him only hours before.

  His scream filled the car and she didn’t care. He needed to know she meant business.

  “Why’d you take my sister?”

  “She wouldn’t talk to me,” he said, panting as she released the pressure.

  “Did you rape her?”

  “Rape? What? No! Is that what she told you?”

  She pushed on his wound again, cruelly enjoying the sight of tears springing from his eyes. “She didn’t have a chance to tell me anything. You took her and nearly killed my best friend. Not to mention blowing up my car.”

  He screamed until Frankie’s bark of, “Marisela,” forced her to end her torture. She supposed it wasn’t easy driving with a grown man begging for his life in the back seat.

  “Where is she?”

  “A warehouse. Downtown. Owned by cousins.”

  “Where?”

  In between sobs and gasps, he gave Frankie the address. He turned the car around and headed in the right direction.

  She had the information they needed. She should order Frankie to slow down and toss the son of a bitch out of the moving car. But she couldn’t. Hate him as she did, he was still the father of her niece or nephew. And he had stopped the assault long enough to retrieve Belinda’s vitamins. The fact that he’d complied with her demands that he leave the hospital instead of reporting her to the police won him the right to live—for now.

  “How’d you get out of your room?”

  “I ran,” he said.

  “You just ran?” she questioned, wide-eyed.

  “I took a chance. I’ve always been fast. The cops were caught off guard.”

  She found this impossible to believe, but the end result was undeniable.

  “How did you know where to go?”

  “I studied the fire escape routes posted in every room. I never meant for things to go the way they did. I just wanted to talk to her, convince her that we should keep the baby. I left it to Hiro, my cousin. He said he’d take care of everything.”

  “Why Hiro? What’s his business?”

  Rick hesitated. Marisela saw a flash of something in his midnight pupils—something that was a combination of fear and regret. He was afraid of Hiro and sorry he’d dragged him into his life. Into Belinda’s life.

  She moved to grind her fist into his shoulder again, but he grabbed her wrist.

  “Hiro is Yakuza.”

  Before Marisela could ask what the fuck a “yakuza” was, Frankie had veered off the side of the road, slammed on the brakes and spun around, his weapon drawn and pointed at Rick’s sweaty forehead.

  “From where?” he de
manded.

  Rick’s eyes widened, but his answer was calm. “He was yakuzu in Kyoto, but he was born in San Francisco. I was visiting my family there for the holidays. I tried to get in touch with Belinda and found out she’d left England. She wouldn’t come with me to California. Said she was too pregnant to travel, but it was my great-uncle’s one-hundredth birthday. I had to go. She promised that we’d make a decision about the baby when I got back, but then I found out she left for Florida and I knew that she was going through with her plan.”

  Frankie hadn’t moved the gun, but his brain was elsewhere, weighing some important information he hadn’t yet shared. Marisela, however, cared more about what was so important about Rick’s cousin’s affiliation.

  “What’s a yakuza?” she asked Frankie.

  “Japanese mob,” he replied. “Make the cosa nostra look like choir boys.”

  Marisela frowned. According to Lia, whose family had no Italian mob ties except for a brief brush with legendary Tampa mobster Santo Trafficante, who once loaned money to Lia’s great-grandmother so that she could bail her no-good brother out of a New York jail, most of the cosa nostra were choir boys. When they weren’t running drugs, propping up prostitution rings or plotting assassinations of their enemies. But by corporate dictate, Titan did not get involved in cases that skirted anywhere near organized crime. Her knowledge of it started and stopped with watching The Godfather, and she’d fallen asleep about half-way through.

  “So this is bad,” Marisela said.

  Frankie groaned. “Sí, vidita, this is very bad.”

  “No,” Rick insisted. “Hiro is family. His ties with the yakuza are strained. He was sent home for messing up, I don’t know, some operation. He was young and foolish, but he said he could help me get to Belinda, after I told him about you.”

  Marisela tried not to enjoy the thrill that came with learning that her sister had talked about her to Rick, even if she’d described her as a thug who needed to be confronted by someone with insider knowledge of Japanese bad-asses.

  Up until now, she’d figured that Belinda never thought about her at all. She never expected her sister to feel any particular emotions, not embarrassment or love or even pride. And maybe she didn’t, but it was nice to imagine that she’d described Marisela as a formidable protector so that Rick had reached out to a low-life cousin in order to pull off a successful kidnapping.