“…a statement they will understand,” she heard him rant. “History teaches us this lesson—that progress has never come from peace.”
Rounding the corridor, she blinked in astonishment as she ran into a gathering of ten or twelve people standing in their living area. Lack of available seating kept them on their feet. Over their heads, Katrina could see Martí, up on a chair, warming to his role as their spokesman.
“A new nation has never risen without strife,” he insisted, gesturing with a bony hand. “And strife requires bloodshed. If we are to rise from the ashes then there has to be a fire first.”
Several of his friends applauded. Katrina recognized them as radical-leaning ne’er-do-wells, men who’d milled around the neighborhood doing little to improve their circumstances.
Standing on tiptoe, she searched for her other brother Jordi, hoping to appeal to him to put a stop to this. Martí took sudden notice of her.
“You know the plan,” he added, curtailing his speech abruptly. “Go but tell no one, or you will forever be known as a traitor.”
“Desperta Ferro!”
The room reverberated with the rally cry—one Martí had borrowed from history and apparently popularized with this group of misfits. With a pinch of concern, Katrina considered what the words meant—awaken the iron. It occurred to her Martí was encouraging his little group of ragtag followers to fight physically for their independence.
Oh, my God, she thought, as they brushed past her to funnel out of the basement through an exit used exclusively by her family. Spying snacks laid out on their table, she turned to see what Martí had pilfered from the kitchen.
Her resentment rose. There wasn’t money in this week’s budget to replace the churros he had laid out, not with the tourist season being as dismal as this one. With jerky movements, she began to tidy up, combining the leftovers into a box.
“What are you doing down here?” The question, had it been a whip, would have flayed her with how harshly it was spoken.
Turning, Katrina found Martí and one loitering guest standing behind her, their expressions hostile.
“This is my home,” she answered levelly. “I wasn’t aware that I was forbidden from it.”
Older than she by twelve years, Martí’s sour disposition had carved deep grooves on either side of his thin lips. “Only pure Catalans may attend my meetings,” he stated, sharing a superior look with his friend.
Katrina had accepted Martí’s dislike of her. She obviously reminded him of her mother, Laura, a woman who’d captured Felipe’s heart so soon after the death of Martí’s own mother, that Martí had never viewed Laura as anything but the other woman. After Laura’s death, Martí had transferred his resentment to Katrina. Jordi, at least, had been kinder to her.
Katrina pointed to the churros. “These are not to be given away for free,” she stated. “They come at a cost, right out of our pockets.”
“All things come at a cost,” he surprised her by agreeing.
As he and his friend smirked simultaneously, she recalled his words about strife and fire. “I hope you’re not planning to tangle with the Benemérita,” she cautioned.
“Benemérita?” He scoffed at her use of the respectful term for the Spanish Civil Guard. “La Guardia Civil have no jurisdiction here. We have declared ourselves an independent republic. Therefore, they are nothing but foreign oppressors. We owe them no respect.”
Katrina’s concern deepened. She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm to reason with him. “Your way of thinking is dangerous, Martí. Violence is never the solution.”
“Don’t talk to me.” He shook off her touch. “You’re not even one of us.”
His condescension stung. Being half-American, she could never be fully Catalan—that was true. But she’d lived her whole life in northeast Spain, surrounded by the Catalan language and culture. Barcelona was her home.
“What are you planning?” she demanded, ignoring his taunt.
“It’s none of your concern.” Throwing an arm around his companion, he turned away with that man, murmuring directions under his breath.
Katrina wondered where Jordi, her more level-headed brother, was. Apparently, he hadn’t attended this little rally. Perhaps he hadn’t been invited.
Boxing the remaining churros, she carried them out of the sala to return them to the kitchen. When she handed the box to cook, that woman rolled her eyes and flung the box into the trash. Hotel Leonardo served only one meal a day in the small café. Cook clearly took pride in her fresh breakfast pastries.
A premonition of something terrible churned in Katrina as she returned to the lobby. She had caught wind of a dark plan—something involving strife and fire, ashes and revenge. What, exactly, was Martí and his small band of malcontents intending? Did he really think he could teach Madrid a lesson without landing himself in jail?
She needed to discover what her brother had in mind. Perhaps his rhetoric was just that, and his plans weren’t as dire as her gut was insisting. Jordi would know. If he refused to tell her, she would threaten to expose his indiscretion with the cleaning woman to his wife.
One thing she would not do was discuss the matter with her father, whom she found still on the phone. Taking in his defeated posture and subdued voice, she kept her concerns to herself. Felipe was no doubt well aware of his sons’ radical leanings. Yet he lacked both the energy and the resolve to stop them. To some extent, he likely even sympathized.
Katrina swallowed uneasily. She had just reassured their American guests that the Catalans were peaceable people. What if Martí went through with whatever act of violence he was planning and innocent people died or were hurt in the process? He’d be no different than the ISIS extremist who’d run down tourists and locals alike on Las Ramblas last summer.
My God, what was the world coming to?
Chapter Three
“Lordy, my feet hurt,” Austin griped, propping his smart-looking cowboy boots on the cross bar at the base of Mitch’s stool.
Across the pub table, Mitch shot Chuck a dry look. They had both told Austin before leaving the hotel to wear his sneakers as they were going to walk all afternoon throughout the city, exploring every nook and cranny before taking refuge in a cool, dark tavern. As it was only eight, they would drink a couple of beers at the bar first, then move to a table for dinner, resting their feet before dancing the night away.
“The only source of knowledge is experience,” Chuck murmured.
“Who said that?” Austin challenged him.
“Albert Einstein.”
“You can’t argue with Albert,” Mitch chimed in.
A wedge of evening sunlight entered through the establishment’s front door, and all three SEALs looked up from the bar to see who was coming in.
Austin recognized her first. “Hey, isn’t that the receptionist at our hotel?”
Mitch straightened on his stool. Pleasure shot through him at the sight Katrina made, haloed by the sun’s gold rays as she stood in the open door a minute searching the restaurant area. She wore the same white blouse she had worn at the front desk that morning. It was obvious she had come straight from the hotel to meet someone.
Loath to have her turn and walk out, Mitch stepped off his stool. “I’m going to go say hi.” As he started out in her direction, Katrina caught sight of whomever she was looking for and struck out in their direction, disappearing behind a partition separating the bar from the dining area.
Mitch moved to where he could see her again, then froze to find her standing, arms akimbo, over a table littered with empty beer bottles and occupied by four men. One in particular, stocky and several years older than she, returned her disapproving glare with a belligerent expression.
Damn, she has a boyfriend, was the first thought that flitted through Mitch’s brain, and she just caught him out drinking with his friends.
Well, of course she would have a boyfriend, as gorgeous as she was. On the other hand, he consoled himself, their
break up looked imminent.
Keeping himself tucked out of sight, he waited to see what happened next. Katrina’s tense voice reached his ears. She was issuing a request in Catalan. When three men scraped back their chairs and left the table, it was obvious she’d asked for a moment alone with her boyfriend. As they sauntered to the bar, Mitch pretended to tie his shoelace.
An urgent conversation reached his ears. Uttered in rapid Catalan, he could make no sense of it. The man whom Katrina addressed as Jordi refused to answer her pointed questions. It sounded like she threatened him. He thumped his hand on the table, causing Mitch to straighten in the event he needed to intervene.
He peeked back at the bar, where Jordi’s three companions were ordering more drinks, taking no notice of the Americans. Hearing Jordi mutter something in a growl, Mitch eased out of hiding and slipped into a chair unnoticed.
Katrina stared at Jordi with an expression of horror. The pallor in her face wasn’t simply a product of the pendant light hanging over their table.
She hissed something at the man across from her. Jordi then shoved his chair back, violently, causing Mitch to slide a hand into his pocket reaching for his spring-loaded, folding dagger as Jordi shot to his feet.
“Calla!” he shouted, which Mitch recognized as shut up.
Mitch was about to spring out of his own chair and cross the room to dissuade the boyfriend from further outbursts when the man tossed down a wad of euros and left the table. Passing Mitch, he skewered him with a suspicious glare, then made his way toward the door, gesturing with an impatient wave for his friends to follow him.
Looking back at Katrina, Mitch found her staring at him with her mouth hanging open.
She did not look happy to see him. Summoning his courage, he released the dagger in his pocket and crossed to where she sat.
“Where did you come from?” The way she switched so effortlessly from Catalan to English impressed him.
“I was sitting at the bar with my friends. We saw you come in.” He glanced back at the door just as Jordi’s friends were leaving. “Everything okay between you and…that guy?”
A crease appeared on her smooth forehead. “My brother,” she said. “Half-brother, actually. We had different mothers.”
Their familial relationship cheered Mitch immensely.
She, on the other hand, looked devastated as she dropped her gaze to the table.
“Sounded like you were arguing,” he gently pressed.
She drew a deep breath as she lifted her eyes. “It’s not something you want to hear,” she said, politely telling him to butt out of her business.
He nodded with acceptance. “Would you care to join us for a drink since you’re already here? Then maybe dinner after?”
Pulling out her cellphone, she glanced at the time. “Sure. I could use a drink right now.”
Whatever her reasoning, he was just happy for the company. “Great. We’re at the bar.” Subduing a grin to a mere smile, he pulled her chair back. Then, with a light hand on her sleeve, he steered her around the partition back to the bar, where Chuck and Austin sat waiting. They both came to their feet, looking impressed at his accomplishment.
“Katrina, this is Chuck,” Mitch said, making proper introductions.
Haiku ignored her proffered hand and bowed to her Japanese-style.
“And this is Bam-Bam,” he added, ribbing the kid by using his pet name.
“Austin,” Bam-Bam corrected him, pumping Katrina’s hand over-enthusiastically.
“Nice to meet you, Austin.”
Mitch swiped a seat from the empty table and set it behind Katrina’s sweetly shaped bottom, right next to his stool. As she perched herself on it, he caught a whiff of her perfume, something sweet, yet bright and sensuous. It made him want to put his nose to her neck.
He put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “What can I get you from the bar?”
She tipped her head back to look at him. “I’ll take a dry martini,” she said, adding the type of gin she preferred, “and three olives, please.”
“You got it.”
Whatever she and her brother had discussed, it had clearly rattled her. With his teammates engaging her in conversation, Mitch stepped toward the bartender to relay her order. He made up his mind right then and there, he was going to divert Katrina from whatever unpleasantness had just ensued and give her something good to think about.
Chapter Four
Katrina laughed so hard tears squeezed out the corners of her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Being this drunk was a little frightening. If not for the secure arms on either side escorting her along one of the many crooked side-streets splintering off Las Ramblas, she would have fallen on the paving stones. Mercifully, it was Saturday night and Sunday was her one day off each week. She suspected in a few hours, she would rue her over-indulgence. Then again, what might have been the worst night of her life was proving highly entertaining.
Mitchell Thoreau and his two friends had just about succeeded in helping her forget what Jordi had confessed earlier that evening. Even in her present state of hilarity, though, the memory of it had the power to sober her. It lay against her conscience like the sharp edge of a razor pressed against her jugular. She couldn’t afford to ignore it much longer, but for the next hour or two, she would do her best.
Joining her fellow carousers in a song she didn’t know, she led them toward the only dance club that stayed open until dawn. Since breaking up with Armando, Katrina had ceased to visit Razzmatazz. But what better time to make an appearance, should Armando be there, than in the company of not one but three virile men?
As they waded into the crush of humanity, ears assaulted by throbbing techno music, Katrina’s gaze went straight to the head of coal-black hair on the dance floor. Armando gyrated against the lush curves of a brunette. The betrayal to which he’d subjected Katrina the year before scarcely stung. With relief, she grabbed Mitch Thoreau’s hand and tugged him toward the dancers. Of her three new acquaintances, she felt powerfully drawn to him, like she’d known him all her life.
To her delight, he moved with subdued grace and perfect rhythm. Pinning his laser-blue eyes on her person, he watched her as she danced. A suggestion of a smile hovered on his handsome, ruddy lips. From the corner of her eye, she saw Armando do a double-take as he caught sight of them. Glimpsing jealousy in his expression, she proceeded to give her ex-lover something to regret and executed a move that would have made Beyoncé jealous—if the floor hadn’t suddenly tipped.
Feeling herself fall, Katrina braced herself for humiliation, only to feel herself snatched upright again. Mitch set her back on her feet, only this time she was in his arms, properly subdued, and suddenly, pleasantly aware of how solid and strong he was.
“Okay, there?” He managed to sound concerned even while there was laughter in his voice.
“Fine.” She felt her face grow hot.
He regarded her a moment. “You sure?”
An unexpected wave of nausea rolled through her. “Actually, I think I might throw up,” she amended.
“Let’s go sit down.”
Supporting her as they went, Mitch helped her off the dance floor and away from the deafening music to the corner of the club. His friends had managed to secure a table there. Chuck guarded their camp while Austin cruised the dance floor’s perimeter looking for potential dance partners.
As Katrina went to climb onto a stool, Mitch spanned her waist and set her effortlessly atop it. He pushed a full glass of water into her hands. “Time to hydrate,” he suggested.
Touched by his thoughtfulness and a little bemused by his manhandling, Katrina stopped thinking of Armando and regarded Mitch over the top of her glass before taking a long drink. Until they’d touched shoulder to thigh minutes ago, she had never considered getting involved with a guest in her hotel. Having felt an unmistakable spark—one that was still warming her insides—she wondered if she ought to let her hair down a little and enjoy herself while she could.
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“I almost made a fool of myself,” she admitted, lowering her glass.
“My fault.” His blue eyes seemed to burn through the shadows as he considered her. “Shouldn’t have let you drink so much.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “You think that’s up to you?”
Her feisty question made his mouth twitch. “Apparently not. The least I can do is catch you when you fall.” He glanced toward Armando, who had left the dance floor himself and was brooding at the bar. “Old flame?” Mitch guessed.
His astuteness surprised Katrina. “Yes,” she admitted, hearing bitterness in her voice. She had let her rose-tinted glasses blind her to Armando’s philandering nature.
Mitch, still standing, moved closer. His thigh brushed her knee, heightening her awareness of him. The scent of sports soap teased her nostrils.
He sent her a crooked smile. “What’s his name?”
“Armando.” She couldn’t recall what she’d ever seen in him.
“Don’t look now but he’s watching us.”
The intel made her pulse quicken.
“Want to make him jealous?”
His smile widened to a grin, making him suddenly, unbearably appealing.
Thoughts of Armando could not have been farther from her mind. “Honestly, I don’t care what he thinks,” she retorted with a toss of her head.
Mitch caught her chin with warm fingers, bent at the waist and brushed his lips lightly over hers, causing Katrina’s eyes to widen in surprise. When he straightened again, she searched his expression with puzzlement. “Did you want to make him jealous?” she asked.
Mitch shrugged. “Not really. I just wanted you.”
“Oh.” Well, that was different. His words stoked the warmth inside of her, turning it into a bonfire. “I’m sorry, but that kiss happened so fast I think I missed it.”
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