Sweet Devil

by Lois Greiman

  She stiffened. “You think me the liar.”

  “No, sweetheart. I know you the liar.”

  She nodded, pride dripping from her like honey on the comb. “Very well. If you could but allow me to speak to Señor Durrand, I would not bother you any longer with my dishonesties.”

  He chuckled. “If ya think you’re gettin’ anywhere near Gabe, you’re sadly mistaken, darlin’.”

  A quirk of her brows asked the question.

  “He’s a dumbass and a busybody and a know-it-all, but I ain’t gonna be the one to split up his marriage.”

  “Ahhh…” She nodded. “You think I would seduce your friend.”

  “I think you’d do just about anythin’ to get your way, Lotta.”

  She stepped closer. “And what of you, Linus Shepherd, what would you do to get…” She smoothed a hand down her waist, undulated it over one come-hither hip. “…your way?”

  It was a brazen offer. A barefaced challenge.

  His gut, where her countryman’s bullet had torn into his flesh six months before, bitched like an ulcer, but she was drawing him in, pulling him under.

  “Well, luckily, no one’s ever accused me’a bein’ over smart.” He leaned in, against his will, against his dubious better judgment.

  And that’s when she struck.

  Her knee slammed up. If he hadn’t sensed her intentions in time, his testicles would have taken a quick trip into his thorax. As it was, he partially blocked the blow with his thigh. Still, pain struck him like a lightning bolt, starting at his core and screaming toward his extremities. He doubled over at the waist, staggered backward, and struck his still-healing arm on the corner of Kelsey’s desk. His fingers went numb, and his biceps throbbed in concert with his balls. His toes curled in his ostrich-hide boots. Something crashed to the floor behind him, but he barely heard the noise over the wail of his assaulted private parts and the bang of the office door.

  In some dim, still-functioning corner of his mind, he understood she was gone.

  It took him longer to realize Kelsey Durrand had entered the room. “Holy shit, Shepherd, what happened to you?”

  He tried to straighten. Failed, and winced up at her from a cock-eyed angle. “What makes ya think somethin’ happened?”

  “Did she kick you in the balls?”

  “Could be,” he croaked.

  “Really? I mean, I liked her right off, but now I think I’m in love.”

  “Stop her,” he ordered.

  She made a funny sound in her throat, something between a snort and a laugh. “No,” she said finally and disappeared from sight.

  He rasped a curse, marshaled his flagging self-control, and hobbled from the room.

  “Carlotta!” His right leg wasn’t fully functional, wanting to let the corresponding foot drag pathetically behind, but he finally reached the sidewalk. Squinting through the slushy rain DC liked to serve up this time of year, he realized she was halfway down the block…and ignoring him completely.

  He followed at a paddling jog. “Lotta!”

  She neither sped up nor slowed down, but damn she could do a good clip in those fuck-me heels.

  “Hey!” he shouted and managed to increase the speed of his hobbled shamble until he could reach out and snag her arm.

  Already swearing, she swung toward him, yanking from his grip and sending fresh pain shrieking through his biceps. Her hands were fisted, her eyes flaming, and even though he was a Ranger, an Okie, and one hell of a man, he retreated.

  “Listen,” he ordered and, cradling his left arm, tried to ignore the smoldering agony in his lower regions.

  She didn’t do as commanded. In fact, there wasn’t the slightest break in the fluid curses.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She paused for an instant to toss her head at the hand that cradled his throbbing biceps. “Your arm, it is injured?”

  “It’s nothin’,” he lied and dropped his hand from the bitching wound.

  She snorted, examining him. “I did not kick you in the arm.”

  “Nah. Your aim’s pretty damn good.”

  “Nor was it hurt while you were in my country.”

  “Ya think you’re the only gal needs rescue’n?”

  Her lush, raspberry lips bunched while her eyes narrowed. “So it was cause by a woman.”

  He raised his brows, wondering. Could there be…was it even within the realm of possibility, that a hint of jealousy colored her voice?

  “What was her name?”

  “Angel,” he admitted and couldn’t quite stop the grin. “Eyes so big they’d steal your soul.”

  “So this Angel, she was pretty?”

  He snorted. “I don’t like to waste my time.”

  She watched him, sorting rapidly through the implications then said, “Go to the hell, Linus Shepherd.” and swiveled away.

  He tried to let her go. Honest to God he did, but the words came out nevertheless.

  “I’ll help you.”

  She stopped, slowly turned back. Her lips were closed and pursed, but her eyes were snapping Spanish curses. “You will find my sister?”

  “Yeah.” God help me, he thought. He deserved to be shot. Hell, he probably also deserved to be stabbed and bitten…again.

  “Very well,” she said, then turned and sashayed away.

  There was nothing he could do but limp after her like a gimpy gargoyle.

  Chapter 8

  “See it for yourself,” Carlotta said and, pulling a magnifying glass from her bag, handed it to Gabe’s sister. It had taken Shep a quarter of an hour to convince her to return to the office for Kelsey’s opinion.

  The redhead frowned as she studied the postcard. “Those four letters do seem to be larger than the others.”

  “Sí!” Carlotta agreed. “That is what I say. It is a cry for the help. So she is not in New Orleans.”

  “Oh for—“ Shep began, but Kelsey interrupted him.

  “She could be right.”

  “What?” Shep rasped.

  Kelsey shrugged. “Corporal Larry Pine deserted his unit overseas four years ago. Since then, he’s sent postcards to his girl back home from a dozen different states. A hundred different cities. As far as Uncle Sam can determine, he hasn’t visited a single one of them. Pine still hasn’t been located.”

  A moan trickled from Carlotta’s lips. They turned to her in tandem.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to imply you’ll have that trouble with your sister,” Kelsey said.

  “What is the fast way to the nearest airport?”

  “Just… Slow down,” Shep said.

  She turned toward him, all eyes and breathy hopefulness. “You said you will help me.”

  “I will. But I can’t just—“

  “Then I go alone,” she vowed.

  And that was how Shep found his bushel-sized body shoved into a pint-sized seat on a 737 heading south. Two cramped hours later, it was nearly time to disembark.

  Beside him, Carlotta stared at the postcard in question as they began their descent. She turned it over for the hundredth time as the jet’s wheels hit the tarmac.

  The passenger in the window seat had already been asleep when they boarded, but he woke now, flexed his neck with groggy slowness, then turned toward Carlotta and straightened with a snap. Shep had known enough nervous travelers to recognize a pre-flight binge when he saw one. But this dude seemed oblivious to his impending headache. Smoothing out his salon-streaked hair, he crafted an unctuous smile. “Hello.”

  “Hola.” Carlotta’s tone was distracted, borderline rude. Salon-Hair seemed to neither notice nor care.

  “You couldn’t get a seat in first class either, I take it?” He was fortyish, tanned to an apricot hue, and wore a suit coat that probably cost more than Shep made in a month.

  “Raymond Everson…the second,” he added and offered Carlotta his hand. His fingernails were buffed, his wristwatch expensive. “You been to Miami before?”


  “No,” she said.

  “I come quite often…for the courses.”

  “Courses?”

  “Golf.” He smiled, flashing a mouthful of well-groomed teeth and unfortunate breath. “Seven-point-four handicap. You play?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. How about your”—he glanced quizzically in Shep’s direction—“husband?”

  Carlotta made a noise that suggested she was either asthmatic or found his assumption astronomically ridiculous. “This is not my husband.”

  “Oh?” Interest fueled by hope flared in Everson’s eyes. “My apologies. Boyfriend?”

  She snorted.

  Shepherd ground his teeth and lifted his lips into a hungry-wolf kind of smile. “Lotta and I are friends.” He reached across her sumptuous body for their introduction. “Good friends.”

  “Ahh… Well, my dear,” he said, leering at Carlotta even as his hand met Shep’s, “you must visit the Virtuoso while in town.” Everson’s palm was as soft as a bunny’s behind. “Their entrees are rather uninspired, but they serve quite a nice Kahlua martini that... ”

  “What of los postres?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said, wincing painfully as he withdrew his hand from Shep’s.

  “Key lime pie? Do they serve it there?”

  “I’m uncertain.” He gave her a preening smile. “An athlete and well-known financier such as I is wise to avoid high-calorie treats. But I have a friend…I mustn’t reveal her name, who very much enjoys the desserts at Decadence. When she’s between photo shoots and not on the runway in Paris or London she absolutely reveres their tiramisu. But you know these supermodels…always starving or binging or who knows what.” He chuckled as if they shared some little-known secret and let his gaze drop a few inches below Carlotta’s chin where a large, tear-shaped emerald was nestled between the soft globes of her breasts. “Honestly, I prefer a woman with a few more—“

  “This Decadence? Do they serve the pie of lime?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I was a bit too involved with Gigi to— Oh, my mistake, I didn’t mean to talk out of school. The paparazzi would kill to learn—“

  “What of gardens?” Carlotta rolled over his intentional slip like an armored tank charging downhill.

  “Gardens?” He was beginning to look a bit peeved but rallied, hope—and hormones—springing eternal.

  “Flowers, trees.” She fluttered her hands, tacitly indicating that he might be an idiot. Shep couldn’t have agreed more. “Do they have the gardens?”

  “Ahh. Not attached to the eating establishment, I don’t believe. But there are several parks close to hand. Gigi and I have strolled there on occasion…when we didn’t have anything more”—he raised his brows suggestively—“exciting to do. But I must admit, that is a rare occur—“

  “Where is this restaurant?”

  “Not so very far.” Irritation was beginning to creep into his tone. Apparently, old Raymond Everson II didn’t care to be interrupted even when he was drunk off his ass and dumber than a poleaxed coon. “It’s a bit tricky to find. However, I’d be happy to assist, should you need an escort.”

  Carlotta raised her brows, showing the first spark of interest. “That would be—“

  “Unnecessary,” Shep said.

  Challenge shone in Everson’s blurry eyes as he shifted his attention back to Carlotta. “It would be no trouble. And it would free your friend up for…” He skimmed his gaze over Shep’s pearl-snapped shirt and silver belt buckle. “Wrangling steers or…whatever it is he does.”

  She smiled. “How nice this is of you.”

  The plane was slowing now. Their fellow passengers beginning to rise, stretch, reach for luggage in the overhead bins. Except for Everson, who was tipping ever closer to Carlotta’s cleavage.

  “Listen, I know a great little beach. Tres secluded. We could do some snorkeling…or other sports.” Everson leaned even closer.

  “Do they have the pie there?” she asked.

  “On the beach?” He chuckled. “I don’t believe—“

  “Bon Ventre,” said a fat man who turned to speak over the back of his seat.

  “¿Le ruego me disculpe?”

  “The Bon Ventre. Just a small café in a middling inn, but they make a pretty fair key lime pie.”

  Shep could hear Carlotta sharp inhalation. “What of jardines? Does it have the jardines?”

  “Sorry,” he said and patted his belly. “I’m a foody first and foremost, but I’d be happy to introduce you to some of Miami’s little-known eateries.”

  Really? Every male who’s his

  Pampers is hitting on her? Shep thought and rose to his feet with a gritted smile. “Hey, Lotta, remember that fella in Nashville who got fresh durin’ line-dancin’?” he asked congenially and, grabbing the nearest carry-on from above, swished it past the fat man’s face to thump it into Everson’s lap. “I wonder if they’ve ever found his other hand?”

  Chapter 9

  They took a taxi to Bon Ventre. Sitting in the back seat with an acreage of vinyl between him and Carlotta Osorio, Shep considered the situation.

  “I figure ya either really have a thing for key lime pie, or it’s got somethin’ to do with findin’ your sister.”

  She shook her head. “Why would anyone bother with a dessert that does not involve the chocolate?”

  He stared at her, awaiting an explanation.

  “Lime pie…Sofia favors it.”

  He nodded as understanding bloomed. “She said she was doing all the things she enjoys.”

  “Sí,” she agreed and hurried from the cab.

  Bon Ventre was housed in a tall, narrow building painted an odd blend of purple and orange. More hostel than hotel. Miami, Shep thought as they hurried up the steps.

  A young man with an upswept ‘do dyed to match—with almost perfect precision—the bi-colored exterior of the building, was manning the front desk. He was busy tapping away on his phone, thumbs flying like mad monkeys. “Be right with you,” he said but did nothing to follow up on that promise. The plastic nametag on his vested chest proclaimed him to be Rube.

  “We are close,” Carlotta breathed.

  “What?” Shep dragged his surprised attention from the boy’s tattoo, a quirky yellow something with the word Despicable beneath, to Carlotta’s face.

  “Sofia. She was nearby. I can feel it in my soul.”

  “In your soul,” Shep said and wondered if the whole world had gone mad. Rube’s left ear boasted a trio of tiny cupie dolls.

  Carlotta stiffened at his tone. “Sí. Have you never simply felt something?”

  “Rangers generally work on facts, darlin’.”

  “So you are not ruled by your sentiments?”

  “Not hardly.”

  She huffed a disbelieving breath. “I am certain the helpful gentlemen on the plane, whom you all but beheaded with a suitcase, will be most happy to hear this.”

  “The gentlemen on the plane were…” he began but stopped himself, pulled short by the surprisingly caustic tone of his voice. It almost sounded like jealousy. But that was ridiculous. He wasn’t jealous. Never had been. In fact, he’d always thought that particular emotion was the stupidest of the seven deadly sins. While pride was, in his humble opinion, unavoidable, and sloth simple good sense, lust was his personal favorite on the list of—

  “May we get the service?” Carlotta asked and propped her elbows on the counter.

  “Don’t get your underduds in a tangle. I’ll be with—“ the boy began then stopped, brows bouncing like jumping beans when his gaze landed on her.

  “Hola,” she purred.

  The phone plummeted from the kid’s fingers without seeming to make any noticeable connection with his brain. Shep snapped his attention to Carlotta, only to realize her arms were pressed together, causing her breasts to do things that were, most likely, illegal in a good number of states. As for him, he tried not to stare…failed…endeavored to avoid cursing�
�and was only marginally more successful in that regard.

  “Sorry,” the kid said, eyes plumbing her maple sugar cleavage. “Can I help you?”

  “I very much hope so,” Carlotta crooned. “I am look for my sister.”

  “You have a sister?” The kid blinked, lost. “Honest to God?”

  Shep gritted his teeth and lost the war against cursing, though he tried to keep it quiet.

  Surprisingly, the boy noticed. He blushed, blinked, and seemed to find a modicum of professionalism. “Your sister. Right. What’s her name?” “

  “Sofia Angelina Perdillo-Osorio.”

  He scowled, fingers tapping computer keys. “When did she check in?”

  Carlotta did nothing to correct his assumption. “Not more than these five days past.”

  He scanned his screen like a gold miner searching for the mother lode, only to be disappointed by a vein of pyrite. “Naw. Sorry.” His tone suggested that he truly was and might, in fact, break into tears over it. “She ain’t been here.”

  Frustrated but still hopeful, Carlotta leaned closer. “Perhaps she use the alien.”

  The boy looked monumentally confused, but maybe that was his normal expression.

  “Alias,” Shep explained.

  “Oh. Sure,” the kid said as if all their patrons changed their names before checking in. “What would she call herself?”

  “I do not know.”

  His scrawny shoulders shrugged, clearly hating to disappoint. “You got a pic?”

  “A pic?”

  “Picture,” Shep translated. He was beginning to feel tired. “Of your sister.”

  “Oh, sí,” she said and dug through a hundred weird items in her bag.

  Holy shit. She’d brought enough stuff to sink a ship, while he’d barely managed a change of clothes and his ever-present Bowie knife. And that, of course, in a checked bag towed in the underbelly of the plane. He’d felt as naked as a spider monkey without the blade strapped to the inside of his boot. But it was back in place now, ramping up his feelings of security.

  “This is she,” Carlotta said and, dragging a flip phone from the depths of her bag, showed the kid an image barely bigger than her thumb. He squinted at it.