by Nina Bruhns
Women who made their living by betrayal, lies, and death could not shift back into the civilized world without causing destruction.
Women who made their living as agents in his employ should remain, always, off-limits.
So why had he nearly destroyed the tentative hold he had on Titan by touching Marisela’s skin in the privacy of a cheap motel room?
The buzzer broke into his thoughts.
“He called back?” he asked Max, surprised Javier Perez would be so insistent.
Max hesitated, then replied matter-of-factly. “Brynn would like to speak with you.”
Ian’s gut suddenly filled with burning hot lead.
“Is she here?”
“No, sir. Calling from an undisclosed location in Toronto, if my triangulation is correct.”
Ian swallowed his annoyance. His sister rarely came back to North America. But so long as Brynn wasn’t on the other side of his door, he didn’t give a damn where she was.
“Patch her through. I’ve apparently had what little rest I’m getting tonight.”
And what little peace of mind.
Ian shook his head and delivered the cheeriest hello he could summon to his twin. He anticipated that she’d chitchat a few minutes, then fill him in on her exploits in whatever case she’d undoubtedly made great progress on. And just after she’d lulled him to relax in their familiar sibling exchange, she’d slide in a loaded question—a query he couldn’t avoid without outright lying. He’d done enough of that over the past few months and each mistruth chipped away at him. Still, he had to do whatever was necessary to keep Titan in his hands, where his legacy belonged.
* * *
Javier Perez’s hotel, a tiny boutique establishment with a prime location on snowy white sand in the heart of South Beach encompassed everything Marisela had ever dreamed about Miami. From the salsa beat piped into the mirrored elevator to the pastel, art deco designs of the furnishings and tile floor, she half-expected to see Gloria Estefan sipping a mojito on the balcony as Perez’s bodyguards ushered them through the luxurious penthouse. Instead, she found Javier Perez and a woman with a fake tan and vapid blue eyes sitting at a table set with fine china and crisp linens that fluttered in the ocean breeze.
Perez stood the minute his bodyguards stepped aside and Frankie and Marisela, as Rogelio and Dolores Tosca, walked through the impressive archway onto the terrace. The arms dealer looked exactly like his pictures, only more in focus. He was slim, but not tall. Elegant, and yet quick—just like a man who’d orchestrated his own rise to wealth and power should be.
He held out his hand, which Frankie accepted. “Señor Tosco. I’m honored, And señora,” he said to Marisela, offering his cool palm to her next, “you are indeed as beautiful as I’ve been told.”
Marisela cocked an eyebrow. Either this was a lame compliment or Dolores’s beauty had been highly exaggerated. Not that Marisela had seen more than the one grainy picture, but she wasn’t exactly a classic beauty, Latina or not.
“You flatter me, señor.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, winking warmly. “But it is deserved. Please, sit down.”
He spoke in rapid-fire Spanish to the blonde, who didn’t even bother to look offended that she hadn’t been introduced or that she’d been instantaneously dismissed. Arm candy. Once the bimbo left, they were alone, except, of course, for the two formidable bodyguards that flanked the entrance to the second-story suite.
Frankie cleared his throat, but otherwise remained silent, his gaze drifting over the balcony while his ears clearly remained trained on the conversation at the table. From all accounts, Rogelio Tosca allowed his wife to do most of the talking, especially the niceties and chitchat. He was the executioner; she the planner.
Secretly, Marisela couldn’t help but enjoy the situation. If not for the Toscas’ established roles, Frankie would never have allowed her to take the lead. He had reservations about her inexperience, reservations she’d probably heightened with her poor judgment the night before. And yet, when Frankie had slipped into their room last night, he’d said nothing except to report Pan’s tentatively stable condition. She’d taken Perez’s call while he was in the shower and with him nearby, she’d finally fallen asleep. During the night, he’d swung his arm possessively across her belly, and damn if the accidental gesture hadn’t warmed her to the core.
Now, as he held out the chair for her, he glanced at her with eyes that revealed nothing—reminding her to do the same.
Perez snapped his fingers and one of the bodyguards fetched two silver carafes, one piping with hot coffee and the other with equally steamy milk. Marisela directed him in Spanish on the ratio she preferred. Frankie waved away the milk altogether.
“Señor Perez,” she said, taking a sip from her coffee. “My husband and I appreciate your hospitality, but we are anxious to leave Miami. If you don’t mind, we’d like to hear your proposal so we can consider our immediate options.”
Perez watched her intently, as if every word crossing her lips contained a secret code. Luckily, she’d prepared for such scrutiny.
“I understand, of course,” he assured her. His voice was rich and languid, not unlike the ocean breeze swirling through the palms on the terrace. “But my proposal is complicated and requires the input of my top associates, which is why I would like you to accompany me to Puerto Rico.”
Marisela glanced at Frankie, who sullenly shook his head. “My husband and I have other obligations, señor. Perhaps we can join you, let’s say, in a week?”
Perez neither smiled nor frowned. He merely contemplated her suggestion. Marisela hoped their plan to not appear too anxious didn’t backfire.
“I’m not a patient man, I’m afraid. But I am generous. If you join me now, you will enjoy a relatively uninterrupted vacation in the tropics, as a reward for the fine job you did last night.”
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 betwe
en 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.”
Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter 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 the 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.