Flash Fire

by Dana Marton

  “He owes me a couple of favors.”

  Curiosity came into her eyes. “Why did you cut his ear off?”

  A dab of sour cream sat in the corner of her lips. The sudden impulse to lick it off took Walker by surprise. When she didn’t have those lips pursed in disapproval of him, they didn’t look half-bad. Especially her bottom lip that was fuller than the top one and creased in the middle. He wouldn’t say no if she wanted to put those lips on him.

  Out of the blue, his body tightened.

  He cleared his throat. “We met under strained circumstances.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  She was no GI Jane by any means, but there was a doggedness about her that was beginning to worry him. She might be a rookie investigator, but so far she’d stood up to everything he’d thrown at her. He was beginning to have a dreadful suspicion that she might be more difficult to get rid of than he had first anticipated.

  He swallowed the curse pushing to his lips, and instead asked, “Do you ever just mind your own business?”

  “I’m an investigator. My job is to ask questions.”

  He stilled and narrowed his eyes at her as an uncomfortable thought popped into his head.

  He watched her closely as he ran through everything she’d done and said so far, tested it for holes in her story. Then he put the question to her straight. “Are you investigating me?”

  Maybe the Rosita Ruiz case was bullshit. A setup.

  Clara smothered a snort. “If I was sent to investigate you, you’d be in jail already and the paperwork for your extradition to the US would have been filed by now. I saw you commit murder.”

  “Dog with a freaking bone,” he muttered under his breath, but relaxed his shoulders.

  She was right. If he was her target, no way could she let something like Pedro’s death slide. She would have taken him in and used a murder charge as leverage to try to make him confess his other sins.

  “About two years ago, Jorge was sent to kill me,” he said to change the subject. “As his gang initiation.”

  She choked on her enchiladas, then coughed as she stared at him.

  He pushed her water bottle closer to her. “I knew him from the boxing circuit. I knew he was a good kid. We talked about it.”

  First fought like dogs, then talked when Walker had finally pinned him down.

  Clara didn’t look convinced. “If he didn’t complete his initiation hit, how are you both still alive?”

  “I did the gang a favor.”

  “Kill someone?”

  He grinned at her. “Now that’s just plain presumptuous.” He shook his head. “A different kind of favor.”

  “So you just go around doing favors for people all day long?”

  He shrugged. “It helps to have a few markers out. When I need something, I call them in.”

  “How did he make gang leader in two years?”

  “Promotions in gangs are not like in corporate America. No slow slog up the corporate ladder. When a member is strong enough to gain control, he takes it.” Hell, two years was practically forever, the way those kids kept getting killed.

  Jorge was a pragmatic kind of guy. He did what he needed to survive. He’d say he liked staying on the winning side of history. History was written by the survivors.

  “His neck tattoo,” Clara said. “Was that how he got to be on top?”

  “No. He didn’t stab anyone in the eye with a fork. Brunhilda did.” Walker grinned.

  Then he decided to tell Clara the whole story. “Jorge lost his mother early. His father was a black-hearted bastard who used to beat the shit out of him. Brunhilda fed Jorge more than once when he was a kid. When he got older, right when he was beginning to do well with boxing, he started liking one of Brunhilda’s girls, used to hang out over here. His father found out. He was mad that Jorge was giving the girl money instead of giving it all to him. He beat that girl nearly to death. Then Jorge showed up, and his old man pulled a gun on him. Brunhilda came in from the back and as the guy turned, she stabbed him in the eye with a fork. I think he’s buried somewhere behind the outhouse. As a precaution. That way the smell couldn’t give him away.”

  Clara sat in silence for at least five whole blessed minutes without interrogating him, digesting the story. Then she asked, “Were you on the boxing circuit?”

  She didn’t seem to be able to help herself.

  “Not the official one. A few matches here and there in cantinas.”

  Fighting in those impromptu matches was how he’d gotten accepted down here. People gave him a chance because they’d seen him fight. Or because they’d made money betting on him.

  Little by little, they’d begun trusting him. Then small jobs started coming his way. Then bigger jobs. Until he was now finally next to the people he needed to be next to.

  “When do you think I can go back to Furino?” Clara asked as she finished her food.

  “Best would be never.”

  She frowned. “Let’s see how things stand tomorrow. I’ll call the guesthouse in the morning and ask if any banditos have been looking for me. Honestly, I don’t see why Pedro would be blamed on me. I didn’t do anything.”

  He watched her, trying to decide on his next course of action. His first choice would have been putting her on a plane, but she wasn’t ready yet to cooperate. Jorge and his shed hadn’t scared her off.

  His plans for Furino definitely would. But Walker wanted to spare her Furino.

  There were things that shouldn’t be seen, that could never be unseen, that would haunt a person for the rest of his life in nightmares. Walker knew better than most. He didn’t wish that on her. But it didn’t look like she would give up unless she was taken to the extremes.

  He kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, then lay back and stretched out on the mattress. The attic had no power, no light fixtures, so as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, they were shrouded in darkness, save what moonlight peeked in the open window. He shifted to the side and made room for her.

  She lay down on the folded tarp instead, her back to the wall, facing the window. She put her gun within easy reach, then wiggled around as if trying to find a comfortable spot. Good luck with that.

  In any case, not his problem. “Suit yourself.”

  She watched him. He could almost hear her thinking. He wished she’d stop, knowing it’d end with more questions.

  “Do you really smoke?”

  She’d been wondering about that? He said nothing.

  “You haven’t gone for a cigar since the cantina. And you’re less…brash.”

  She was observant, he gave her that. “Are you asking if I’m putting on a play titled Fuck with me, and I’ll fuck with you harder?” If it was a play, it was based on a true story.

  She flashed him a look that was somewhat schoolmarmish and at the same time surprisingly sexy. “You can’t scare me with swearing. I grew up on army bases. Military brat.”

  He bit back a smile. He closed his eyes, signaling that the Q&A session was over, but as minutes ticked by, sleep refused him.

  She stopped moving around eventually, then her breathing evened. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward her again. He didn’t seem to be able to help himself.

  She was a soft heap on the tarp. Sleep made the angles of her face disappear. Maybe she was only unguarded when she slept. Better than him. He couldn’t relax even in his dreams.

  He let his gaze travel up her long legs. The shorts—edged with that thin band of lace—fit her a little too well. They were certainly nothing like her no-nonsense jeans that, pre-swim in the river, had had a crease going down the middle of the pant legs as if she’d ironed them.

  Good riddance to those.

  With her hair loose and those shorts, she looked like a different woman from the one he’d met at the cantina, and for some reason, it pleased him that even in as little time as they’d known each other, he’d left his mark on her.

  His gaze moved u
p and over the lean curve of her hip. Her shirt had ridden up, and he could see two inches or so of skin above her waistline in the semidarkness. She had soft skin. He’d grabbed her enough in the jungle—by the wrist, arm, elbow—to know.

  In fact, thinking back, maybe he’d grabbed her more often than had been strictly necessary.

  His gaze hesitated on the patch of bare skin. And he felt a sudden impulse to run his fingers over it. To taste it.

  “Chica’s mine for the night,” he’d said at the cantina, and now he suddenly wished it were true.

  He shook off the thought. He was a man, and she was a woman in his bedroom, that was all. No need to read anything more into it. He made an effort to shake off his growing lust and forced himself to look higher up, at her face.

  She had a good face: open and honest, tall forehead, straight nose. His gaze dipped to her mouth. He swallowed an annoyed grunt.

  He’d never brought a woman up to the attic. The whole point of hidey-holes was that nobody knew about them.

  Yet he hadn’t hesitated to bring her.

  How did that happen?

  When he’d gone to Furino to meet whomever the DOD sent, he’d been determined to send the guy right back home. When he’d spotted Clara, at most he’d been willing to drive her to the nearest airport to make sure she got on a damned plane.

  But here she was, sleeping practically within reach.

  Since when did ex-accountants win when they went up against ex-Navy SEALs in a battle of wills?

  She’d handled Jorge and the shed well, which partly exasperated Walker—it would have been so much easier if she’d just folded—but also earned his grudging admiration.

  She was determined to find the missing girl. Hell, he could relate. He would never forget the long months he’d spent searching for Ben.

  He understood her drive, but he couldn’t help her. They were working at cross-purposes. She needed a couple of weeks to turn up and run down leads. And he was about to blow up the place.

  Chapter Eight

  The temperature dropped enough overnight to sleep but was rising again by the time Clara woke, alone, her muscles stiff from the hard boards. A moment passed before she recalled where she was and how she’d gotten here, then, the very next second, the rest of the previous day came to her, and she remembered Pedro’s untimely death.

  Walker had killed her prime suspect.

  The man was out of his ever-loving mind.

  And now that he’d thrust her investigation into a tailspin, he seemed to have little intention of helping her. She’d been dealt a rough hand with the guy. He was undisciplined, overbearing, impulsive, murderous…

  She sat up and stretched.

  She was a professional. If she couldn’t work with Walker, she’d work around him. How much trouble could he be?

  His machete and semiautomatic were leaning against the wall, so she didn’t think he’d gone too far. Maybe out to get breakfast and—oh, please, dear God—coffee. She was willing to wait ten minutes for him, but no more than that.

  As soon as she cleaned up a little, she had to go back to Furino. She needed her things. The guesthouse was on the last street in town. If worse came to worst, she could sneak in through the back, without anyone seeing her.

  She would talk to Consuela, who ran the place. If any bandits had been by, asking questions, Clara could come right back here. If nobody had been looking for her, she could stay and move her investigation forward.

  She hadn’t given up on finding out where the bandits’ hideout was. If she couldn’t follow Pedro there, she’d follow another bandit. Even if Rosita wasn’t there now, Clara might find some sign that the girl had been there earlier. Then that would be a new lead.

  She pushed to her feet, ready to search out one of the downstairs bathrooms Walker had mentioned. The outhouse, with its stunning assortment of spiders and weeds growing right inside, was more like the Little House of Horrors. And while the garden hose was better than nothing, she wouldn’t have minded having the basic necessities for her morning routine, like soap and a mirror.

  She climbed out the window and went down the fire stairs, determined to make progress today. First of all, she was going to—

  The sight that greeted her when she reached the first landing had her stopping in her tracks. Her eyes strained to pop out of her head, but she couldn’t look away from the room below the attic. The breath caught in her lungs.

  Holy Jungle Jesus.

  Walker stood in the middle of the room, stark naked.

  He was casually talking to a woman—the one who’d been standing on the corner the evening before. Carmen, Clara suddenly remembered the name Walker had called her when he’d greeted her.

  Carmen wore a very short, very sheer slip, with no underwear, as far as Clara could tell—another lush beauty like Margarita at the cantina, all soft curves and cascading ebony hair.

  She had sensuously full lips and voluptuous breasts that would well overflow a man’s hand. Her dark nipples and areolas showed clearly through the slip. Clara pushed out her chest in a subconscious gesture, before she caught herself and sternly ordered herself to stop.

  And Walker… Walker…

  She seriously needed to look away. She couldn’t.

  He was built like… Huh.

  All thought process came to a grinding halt as her eyes roamed over hills of perfect muscles. His biceps were… His abs… Oh, dear Lord. And then the long, sinuous muscles of his powerful thighs…

  She’d seen men like him, or almost as hot, in movies. Never in real life. The three boyfriends she’d had… Looking at Walker, she couldn’t even remember their names.

  She was so not shallow. She hated that she was just about drooling. What was wrong with her?

  Then something else caught her gaze past the physical perfection. His scars.

  He had suffered a serious cut on his left thigh in the not too distant past. Two old bullet wounds decorated his hip, then a few smaller scars on his upper arm.

  He also had tattoos on his left side, near his heart: a trident and three letters, BEN.

  A name?

  An acronym? Body Excellent Naked?

  Maybe it was a club. The image of a roomful of men all built like Walker flashed into her mind and fried her brain. She blinked to restart her circuits.

  He shifted as he chatted with Carmen, and Clara got to see him from a slightly different angle.

  She stifled a sigh. Neither the scars nor the tattoos detracted from his sheer masculine beauty; they added another layer.

  Carmen and Walker matched. The dark-haired woman was über-feminine, every man’s dream. And Walker had the kind of body that made ovaries sing in rapture. Sing, dance, and do backflips. Women probably rubbed against him like cats, like Margarita had done at the cantina.

  Not Clara, though. She was in control of her physical desires, thank God.

  She wasn’t a fan of out-of-control anything. She liked to plan for her moments of passion. Make sure everything was perfect. That there’d be no interruptions. That the sheets were freshly ironed. That birth control was there and ready. Being intimate with a man was a big decision that required prior thought and planning.

  Still, the sight of Walker naked… She had to close her eyes before she could step back. And then she nearly tripped. She grabbed the railing, thankful that she hadn’t fallen and drawn attention.

  She eased back up the stairs step by step, then into the attic through the window, and collapsed in a heap on the folded tarp she’d spent the night on. She was breathing hard, for heaven’s sake.

  She curled her fingers into fists. She was not going to be attracted to Light Walker. She refused the idea. Not going to happen.

  He was…disorderly. And extremely uncontrolled.

  Everything that he was went against everything she believed in. Principles. Honor. His showing up on Saturday when he’d said he would meet her on Thursday.

  But Walker naked…

  Her eyes fl
uttered closed. Then they flew open as a wild thought slammed into her brain: Did he just have sex with Carmen?

  Had the iron bed been creaking? Had that been what had brought her awake? Clara couldn’t remember.

  Or… Was he about to have sex with Carmen? As in right now?

  Clara sat up, ready to bolt. No way could she lounge around up here and listen to that.

  Then she heard steps on the fire stairs, and she threw herself onto her back again. She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. She couldn’t bear facing Walker. At least not until he put some clothes on.

  He came in, moved around. Minutes passed before the small noises he was making ceased.

  What was he doing? Where was he standing? How close to her? Was he looking at her?

  “Did you like what you saw?” His voice held laughter.

  She swallowed a groan. Of course, he’d seen her.

  He chuckled. “You can open your eyes now.”

  She did, fraction of a millimeter by fraction of a millimeter. Whew.

  He wore a fresh pair of cargo pants. And nothing else, although he held a faded T-shirt in one hand. Entirely too much tanned skin and muscle showed still.

  She dropped her gaze to his bare feet.

  He had big feet.

  Her cheeks flushed with heat as she sat up.

  “Did you have fun with Carmen?” she snapped at him.

  He humped down onto his mattress and crossed his legs, Indian style. He watched her with amused curiosity. “Are you asking if I had sex with her?”

  “You were naked.”

  “I took a shower.”

  “Where were your clothes?”

  “Julieta came in while I showered and took them to toss them in the wash.”

  Julieta in the shower, then Carmen on his way out. Didn’t the man just have stamina to spare?

  Not going to think about that. Clara drew a deep breath and looked him in the eyes as she pushed to her feet. “I need to go back to Furino. I’ve wasted too much time waiting for you. I need to find Rosita and get her home.”

  He stood. And then he stepped toward her, leaving only a foot or so of distance between them.