by Nina Bruhns
“Maybe ‘for now’ will turn into something more.”
They didn’t have a lot of time to ingratiate themselves into Perez’s organization. Since the moment they walked into Perez’s hotel room, they’d focused on finding the opportunity to snatch Jessica. As soon as they accomplished that goal, they could get the hell out of Ian Blake’s control.
Or at least, Frankie could. He wasn’t so sure Marisela would be satisfied with only one mission in this seductive world. He’d watched her savor the fine food, admire the top-of-the-line training equipment, and covet the free supply of chic, designer clothes. And she’d performed exceptionally well last night under extreme pressure. And yet, she still had much to learn, though Frankie had no doubt that Ian Blake salivated at the chance to teach her himself.
Frankie shook the infuriating thought aside. For now, they had an idea to implant into Perez’s ambitious mind—and this conversation was the perfect chance to move toward that goal.
“What are you talking about, mi corazón?” he asked, improvising the script they’d discussed earlier.
“I’m talking about working for Perez long-term,” she answered, right on cue.
“He may not want us long-term.”
“Verdad,” she said with a convincing nod. “Pero, we could change his mind. We’re valuable, Rogelio. We know the alliances and blood feuds in the arms game. We’ve made friends with men who could further Perez’s own operation. Or take him down.”
He slipped his hand onto her thigh. “What are you thinking?”
Marisela’s eyes flashed in warning, but with an even gaze, he convinced her there was no harm in surrendering to one slim thread of the desire that connected them with the tenacity of a spider’s web.
“I’m not saying anything,” she insisted. “I’m just thinking we should consider the value of Perez’s power to our own ambitions. How rare is it that we meet a man like him?”
“You’re weary of this life, aren’t you, mi amor?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped.
She could be tough as nails and cold as ice and every other cliché of a kick-ass mujer she projected to the world, but damn it, he knew her better than to buy what she showed on the outside. She might have skillfully assumed the role of Dolores Tosca, but the real Marisela was never far from the surface.
He turned his hand over, laying his knuckles softly over her bare skin. “We live such isolated lives. You long to try something different. You want change.”
Her gaze darted aside, but her hand inched closer to his. He broached the final distance and wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Sí. Change.”
“Then I’ll hear what Javier Perez has to say and then if you like what you see and hear, you can offer him what we know. Nunca te olvides que eres mi reina.”
At this, Marisela rolled her eyes again and tugged her hand free and returned to looking out the window. Okay, so that was a little over the top, reminding her of her gang days while whoever was listening thought he was just claiming her to be the queen of his heart. Still, when their gazes met, she snickered, which elicited a smile from him despite his strong resistance. When was he going to learn? Resisting Marisela was a mission doomed for failure, no matter how hard he tried.
* * *
As they prepared to land on the ten square mile swatch of land Javier Perez had dubbed Isla de Piratas because cutthroats and privateers once used the land to hide and protect their booty, Marisela glanced over at Frankie, stunned. The aerial tour Marisela had convinced the pilot to give them made one point painfully clear. Javier Perez’s stronghold was impenetrable.
Nearly entirely flat, the island boasted at least a half-dozen concrete block towers tucked behind slim sky-reaching palms. The guards posted in the third-story turrets made great show of their M-16s, waving them toward the pilot in greeting. Though Perez had stayed in San Juan to attend to a personal matter, his men had just made sure his guests understood what sort of home he ran here.
Taking Jessica Perez off this island was not going to be easy.
Marisela’s stomach swirled about three seconds behind the chopper as it flew toward the landing pad within a Spanish tile complex some might call a grand hacienda. Marisela thought fortress was a much more accurate term.
The main house was stunning and seemingly precarious from a security standpoint with large open windows and grand archways. Slipping in and out would entail nothing more than a casual stroll. But to his security-minded credit, Javier Perez had surrounded the house with a single story, circular building which resembled a wall in shape and form—except this wall was about twelve-feet thick, hollow, with ten-foot ceilings and ample windows on either side, windows Marisela would bet were bulletproof.
As the copter landed, Marisela watched the guards inside the circular building stop and observe. With their three hundred and sixty degree view only thirty yards from the main house, they could easily monitor both the activities in the house and courtyard as well as any and all movement approaching the house from the sparse jungle or beach. She could see only one entrance through the circular outer building which boasted a rather spiky looking iron gate. Chances were, the painfully pitched roof of the protective structure was fitted with pressure-activated alarms. The only way to penetrate that building would be to somehow elude the guard towers and fly over in something much smaller and much quieter than a helicopter. Like bird’s wings, maybe?
Shit. Shitshitshit.
“We’ll be safe here, won’t we, mi amor?”
Marisela spun toward Frankie, who grinned at her with the kind of verve reserved only for a man who relished a true and dangerous challenge. In an instant, the painful churning in her stomach subsided and the fiery spread of excitement rushed through her veins. He wasn’t afraid. Why should she be? The worst that could happen was death, right?
“I’m very impressed,” she replied. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to truly relax. Enjoy each other.”
She’d just removed her earphones and reached out to stroke Frankie’s arm to counter his teasing when the pilot swung open the cabin door and invited them to disembark. The wind from the slowly churning blades tugged at Marisela’s hair, despite the slick ponytail she wore. She couldn’t help but duck, more out of instinct than necessity. In the past week, the girl who’d never gone anywhere had traveled by luxury yacht, private plane, and now in a helicopter that Perez told them once belonged to a sultan in the small but wealthy country of Brunei. But to counter the glamour of such travel, she’d also been nearly raped, shot at, smacked across the face so that her teeth still rattled with the memory and nearly blown up by a bomb she’d had a hand in setting. All in a day’s work, she supposed.
A tall, dark-skinned man emerged from the house, dressed impeccably in a starched, long-sleeved tan guayabera, coordinating linen pants, and sandals. His grin reached his eyes, but didn’t show his teeth. He greeted Frankie with a curt, efficient bow. He was apparently the tropical version of a rich man’s perfect butler. He snapped a quick bow toward Marisela, then gestured toward the house, not bothering to try and shout over the dying but still deafening noise from the helicopter. After grabbing their own bags despite the wordless protest of their host, they followed him through the courtyard and into an open-air foyer that fluttered with thick-leaved banana plants and was perfumed by the distinct and sun-sweet scent of birds of paradise.
“Welcome to Isla de Piratas, Señor y Señora Tosca. Me llamo Alfredo.”
A butler named Alfred? No way.
“Mucho gusto, Alfredo,” she greeted, offering her hand. He accepted, but not without a moment’s hesitation. Though he was likely the most prized servant in the household, Marisela wondered if most guests even noticed his presence except when they wanted something. “Muchas gracias por sus atenciones. Señor Perez es un hombre muy afortunado. Y generoso.”
Alfred’s grin widened, but still failed to show anything more than lips that
seemed lined in smoky kohl. “Señor Perez has made his luck, señora. He takes care of the people who help him achieve his goals.”
He grasped her hand quickly, but tightly, with both deference and confidence. Marisela immediately liked him.
Frankie must have sensed her softening because he took her by the elbow a little roughly when Alfred gestured them farther down the impressive, arched and airy breezeway.
“I’ve been instructed to offer you anything you need to make your stay here comfortable and relaxing. Señor Perez emphasized that you both deserve a rest.”
Marisela and Frankie followed behind silently, Frankie’s tight grip on her arm acting like a vise around her mouth. She didn’t like submitting to his instructions, but she knew she’d nearly started down a wrong path. She’d allowed herself, even if momentarily, to forget she was Dolores Tosca—a reticent killer whose murderous profession had made her a woman unimpressed by wealth rather than a sheltered mujer who once thought a nineteen-inch color television with cable was the height of wealth and riches. Still, neither one of them bothered to hide their appreciative perusal of the dark, hand-carved teak furniture, junglelike collection of plants, and especially, the vast collection of art—from paintings to sculpture to hand-woven rugs—that filled every inch of the house with a distinctively Caribbean-flavored elegance. Marisela wondered if all men who made their billions selling arms to criminals and two-bit dictators surrounded themselves with such illusions of class and intellectual superiority. She supposed they must have or the stereotype wouldn’t exist.
The bedroom suite Alfredo led them to was spacious and entirely self-contained, down to the gas-powered fireplace and a tiled bathroom that, if she wasn’t mistaken, was bigger than her parent’s entire house.
“This room is yours, but feel free to explore the hacienda as you wish. I will allow you to settle in and then would be honored to give you the, ¿cómo se dice?, grand tour.”
Marisela nodded as Frankie tossed their bags on the bed—a California king that seemed to have more pillows and shams on it than the entire linen section of Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Alfredo bowed, then backed toward an intimate table set for two. A colorful ceramic pitcher sweated with the icy, pinkish-red drink inside, which Alfredo poured into tail glasses and garnished with a long stick of cinnamon. “This is my own recipe. Very refreshing after a journey.”
He handed Marisela a glass and the scent teased her nostrils with the promise of sweet wine and fruit juice. Sangria. She sipped and hummed her appreciation even as the cold nectar burst with flavor in her mouth and then slid smoothly down her throat.
“Delicioso, Alfredo.”
“Gracias, señora.”
He fetched a second serving for Frankie, who accepted the glass but made no comment after he took a quick swig. With a slight frown, Alfredo took his leave, making a quick beeline for the door. “I’ll return in half an hour. If you need anything, simply press the green button on the wall beside the bed.”
With that, he disappeared, shutting the door soundly behind him.
Frankie took a second, more enthusiastic sip, his arched brow displaying his pleasure at the taste.
“Do the Toscas always have to be so rude?” she asked.
Frankie’s gaze narrowed, but she stood her ground. Okay, so the room likely contained as many listening devices as potted plants and fresh flowers. In fact, the potted plants and fresh flowers probably hid top-of-the-line surveillance equipment. She stamped her foot in frustration. She supposed referring to herself in the third person wasn’t the worst slip-up, but she had to be more careful.
“I’m not being rude, mi corazón, he replied. “Just cautious.”
Point taken.
She downed about half the drink while she walked around the room, exploring the beautiful knickknacks and looking for any sign of listening devices. She found none, but that meant nothing. Perez could have built the gadgetry into the walls. How were they going to plan a hostile kidnapping and a bloodless escape when they couldn’t even speak freely?
“I want to explore the island,” she announced, pushing back the, soft, gauzy sheers that muted the view out the window. She tapped the glass. Just as she expected—bulletproof. The room was sultry with tropical warmth, but she shivered all the same.
Frankie slipped in behind her and snaked his hands around her waist while his mouth made subtle contact with the sensitive skin on her neck. She had to close her eyes to the point of inducing dizziness to expel the realization that the last man to assault her neck so deliciously had not been Frankie.
“A perfect idea, mi amor,” he said huskily. “I hope you packed a sexy swimsuit.”
Marisela allowed herself to laugh, amazed at how his amorous attention, even if merely a ploy in his role as the devoted Rogelio, immediately dispersed the sense of dread thrumming through her body. Though there hadn’t been much time between Javier’s invitation to their departure to the island, she had made time to shop for a few extra things—items Titan wouldn’t have thought to provide—at a South Beach boutique. The anticipation of Frankie’s first glimpse of the grossly expensive suit shot a thrill through her that transformed the last of her fear into pure molten fire.
She reached over her shoulder and ran her hand through Frankie’s hair, allowing herself to fully enjoy the sensation of the thick, soft strands against her hand. The stubble on his cheeks rubbed roughly against her neck and shoulder as he trailed wet, warm kisses across her skin. Even through her blouse, her flesh burned and she had to concentrate to remember that his suggestion of a beach-romp wasn’t about seduction.
“You might not be able to control yourself when you see me,” she teased.
“Who said I want to control myself?” he asked.
She spun around in his arms and caught the devilish flash in his infinitely deep and dark gaze. That was Frankie talking, not Rogelio. And for that, she was very, very glad.
“It’s already too dark for a swim,” she said.
“The ocean isn’t the kind of wet I’m craving right now.”
He pressed her completely flush against his body and the feel of his hard sex against her belly dispersed any and all thoughts of listening devices and amorous bosses and secret plans from her mind. What would the mission suffer if they acted like the married couple they were pretending to be? The insatiable, eternally hot for each other married couple?
She grabbed his shirt, ripped the hem from his jeans, then flung the soft fabric over his head. He undressed her similarly, then stopped. With a wicked grin, he strolled to the table beside the bed and pressed the green button with a forceful jab.
“Sí, señor?” Alfred asked dutifully on the other end of the speaker. “You wish the tour now?”
“No. Give us an hour. Maybe two,” he suggested, his dark brow arched.
Marisela licked her lips and surrendered to the buzz shooting through her veins. She unsnapped and unzipped her skirt, giving Frankie a flash of her bright red panties.
He swallowed thickly.
Alfredo’s voice broke into the thick tension tugging between them. “I’ll contact you when Señor Perez arrives.”
“Perfect,” Frankie finished, clicking off the intercom and then dropping to his knees at Marisela’s feet to press his lips against the scarlet triangle. “Let’s hope he takes his sweet time.”
Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter Sixteen
Marisela kicked off her sandals and in one bold flash, removed the chocolate brown sarong she’d tied artfully around her neck to conceal her body. Not that Frankie hadn’t seen her body in multiple positions last night, but something about teasing him in the sunshine of a brand-new day appealed to her. With Frankie standing just a few feet behind her on Perez’s private beach, she expected an immediate reaction to her barely-there choice of swimwear. But instead of a wolfish whistle or amorous growl, she heard a high-pitched girlish squeal.
“¡Dios mio! My father would faint if I ever bought something so wicked
!”
Though still twenty paces away, there was no mistaking the source of what Marisela decided to take as a compliment. Jessica Perez marched across the sand, flanked on either side by two female bodyguards. Bodyguards who made no secret they were bodyguards, though they didn’t exactly broadcast their gender. They wore their hair short, slicked-back and out of their faces. They’d traded the requisite dark suit for simple light cotton shirts and slacks, but they wore their holsters and guns on the outside, within quick, intimidating reach.
“If my father were still alive,” Marisela responded, slipping easily into Dolores-mode, “he’d faint, too. Right after he tore the eyes out of any boy who saw me and locked me in my room for thirty years.”
“How long has your father been dead?” the girl asked, tempering her chuckle in light of the subject.
“Fifteen years. Doesn’t matter. I still think he’s why I bought it.
She winked and the young girl instantly lit up, her grin a serious rival for the morning sun. Just like in the picture in the locket, Jessica’s hair gleamed black as night while her skin glowed pale and porcelain. She was a regular Snow White, Marisela decided, only with thugs at her side rather than dwarfs. Jessica pulled a woven beach mat out of her oversized bag, then without looking, handed the rolled pad to the guard on her left, who quickly placed it on the sand. The girl dropped her bag without so much as an acknowledgment.
Spoiled, Marisela decided, but she couldn’t blame her. There was a price to pay for the combination of insane wealth and undoubtedly crazier isolation.
“I’m Jessica,” she said sliding her sunglasses down her nose so that Marisela caught a quick glimpse of the pale blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother. Just as keen as her mother’s, too. Not much got past this chiquita.
“I guessed,” Marisela answered.
“You’re Dolores.”
“Thanks to my parents.”