I run ahead and toss my purse over the boulder to my right, making the less obvious choice. Sucking in a deep breath, I squeeze between the boulders, retrieve my purse, and don’t wait around to discover if they’ve stopped to give chase.
Please be the right choice.
For roughly five minutes, I tear through the thick line of trees. Only to come to a stop at the sight of the boulder-filled landscape ahead of me. The ground’s flat and less mountainous here, and the sun’s begun creeping up on the horizon. Still, there’s a strong probability I might break my neck if I’m not careful.
Fast and careful.
The sirens abruptly stop and the silence is so startling, I jump. My foot slips out from beneath me, and I’m falling, straight between two boulders half the size of a Fiat. As I land, my stomach connects with my overstuffed purse, knocking the wind out of me.
I lay there, stunned. Gasping for breath. Until I hear them, two men cursing. Far too close for comfort.
They’ve found me.
I don’t dare move.
“She’s been spying on Señor Mendoza,” one man says. “He wants her dead.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I heard him loud and clear.”
“No one can know about those crates.”
There’s a brief pause. “Mendoza isn’t cut out for keeping things quiet. Why host a party the night before their arrival?”
“Guess that’s why he wasn’t in attendance. Last-minute arrangements. No one was thrilled about the early-morning departure.”
“Forced departure.” The man laughs. “You think she’s spying for his father? Why else wouldn’t she have left with the rest of the guests?”
“You didn’t hear. She wasn’t on the list.”
“And Diana?”
I stiffen at her name, yet despite my dislike for her, I want no harm to come to her. “She’s been warming Señor Mendoza’s bed. It began that same night.”
I bite my lip. So Diego didn’t leave me to go to her last night. Yet I’m too afraid to bask in the sudden rush of pleasure this news brings me.
“Señor Mendoza is insistent nothing go wrong. His father doesn’t know about this shipment.”
“Think it was her who saw us?”
“Doesn’t matter. A dead women can’t squeal.”
My mind lets out a silent squeal.
A. Dead. Woman.
What do I do now?
“I told you she didn’t go this way. No woman would attempt these jagged rocks in the dark. She’s either headed toward the cliff or our friends tracked her further along down the driveway.”
“There’s a straight drop about a mile long on the other side.”
Silence, like they’re imagining my body lying broken at the bottom.
“That bitch probably saved us some work. Let’s go.”
I keep quiet and still. Curled over my bag, the closest thing to the hug I so desperately need. Waiting for them to find me. Waiting for them to discover that I’ve fallen a mere three feet away.
How am I going to get off this mountain? No one except Zoey, who at this point has proven herself to be undependable, knows I’m here. Not my family back in Sacramento.
Not even Diego.
Who was also out in the predawn dark, half-naked and barefoot.
Seriously, the man has one wicked aversion to clothing. But I’m still too shaken to find humor in anything.
I wait, then wait some more before I cautiously rise and peek over around a boulder, searching for any signs of company.
Clouds have rolled in, filtering whatever predawn light there is to the point where I can barely see my hand before my face. I find the handle of my bag, grit my teeth, and begin to move forward. Two steps. Ten steps. Twenty. Thirty. It’s at forty that I hear a bloodcurdling scream.
Far too similar to the scream the man who fell off the dance floor made. A long, drawn-out shout of terror followed by abrupt quietness.
A man who, according to Diego, may or may not have been pushed to his death.
Go. Get moving. I’ve got to get out of here.
But my feet won’t move. A noise escapes from deep inside my throat. A whimper.
Hold on, Aubrey. Steady. You’ll make it out of here. You’ve got a lot of important work ahead of you. Finances to be found. Homes to be built. Love. Marriage. Babies.
Another whimper, slightly louder.
Don’t scream. Do. Not. Scream.
I inhale sharply, and that’s when a hand covers my mouth as I’m slammed from behind. Except I don’t land on rock. I land on . . . him, Diego, who at the last second, rolled to the side to break my fall and who is now lying on his back beneath me.
He removes his hand from my mouth.
“What the hell—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, cutting me off.
The boulder field suddenly sounds like a real-life reenactment of the landing on Normandy beach. Guns blazing; bullets sailing overhead, pinging against the rocks; men shouting.
Tears coat my eyelashes but I blink them away. If I die, I’m going out stoic and proud, and crushed between an overstuffed purse and a boulder of a man.
His hand squeezes my arm. It’s not a gentle, comforting squeeze, but more of a firm, don’t-goddamn-lose-it-now one.
I can’t get my mind to slow, it’s racing so fast, so furiously. Trying to process that what’s happening is real and not some television show. I calm myself by focusing on the feel of him. His bare chest burning warmly against my back. The strength of his body. His groin, which is fully pressed up against my ass. He’s hung like a porno star. Fucks like a porno star.
I press my eyelids closed tight. Seriously? I might be killed and the last thing I die thinking about is his cock?
My lips lift. But an all-too-persistent fear keeps me from smiling.
The gunfire stops.
There’s more shouting.
Seconds give way to minutes, which brings us closer to a half hour passing by. With no sound except for Diego’s breath beneath me.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Keep quite for five more minutes,” he replies in a low, gruff voice.
I stiffen and his hold on me tightens.
I mentally begin counting off the minutes. When I reach two, someone begins shooting. A lone gunman. When it grows quiet again, Diego nudges me. “You can get off me now.”
I grind my teeth together but do as he says, rolling off to his side and onto my knees, pulling my purse up onto my lap.
Despite myself, I eat him up with my eyes, watching his fine eight-pack abs flex as he rolls up to sit.
“Open your purse,” he demands.
“Ask me nicely.”
“Chavita, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He sits up and stares at me in disbelief. With lightning-quick reflexes, he grabs me beneath the elbows and hauls me up against him. “Listen and listen carefully. I’m scratched, bruised, and bleeding. Wet and beyond pissed off. You started this shitfest. What I should do is leave you behind to split open your skull on these rocks. Or better yet get shot up like an amateur target practice. But when I saw you standing there, a few steps away from tripping over me and about to cause a racket that’d bring every one of Mendoza’s men raining down on us, the dumb-ass pendejo inside of me decided to step in. You ruined everything. Mierda, every goddamn thing.”
God. He’s furious. Yet so am I.
“I started this shitfest? And what where you doing, half-naked and running around so late at night? And your shorts are wet? Did you go for another swim?” Did you steal Juan Carlos’s drugs? Is he after you as well as me?
“Chava, a word of advice. Keep your nose out of my business or you’ll be the next one to fall off a cliff. Now open the goddamn purse.”
I stiffen.
“Mierda.” He shoves me aside and comes up onto his knees, his fingers snagging hold of my purse handle. Prying it open, he begins sorting through the haphazardly snatched contents, littering the surrounding a
rea with one of my black dresses, one black loafer, a handful of conservative white cotton briefs, and the one thong I own. A purple one with a little purple bow that sits a few inches below my belly button. According to Cosmo, thongs are an acquired taste. I tried one on for size and felt so sexy in it, I’ve decided to replace all future conservative cotton briefs for thongs in every color on the rainbow. He pauses to hold it up.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, reaching for it. He jerks it out of reach then tucks it into his bathing-trunks pocket. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
He ignores me.
Jerk.
He pulls out my pink bathing suit cover-up with a mesh weave, two deep pockets, and a hoodie. Like the sweater I’m wearing, it’s designed for fashion more than for necessity. And pink instead of black because, let’s face it, only an ultraconservative would wear sun-absorbing black to a pool. To my shock, he ties the arms around his neck so it hangs across his back.
“Don’t say a word,” he warns, sliding on a pair of matching colored flip-flops, two large pink daisies wedged between his big, sausage-like toes. He scowls down at them. With a cautious look around he stands and waves for me to do the same.
I scramble to my feet, quickly collecting the mess he’s left scattered around me.
“No time.”
I pause, my eyebrows furrowing. What about the time you took for the impromptu fashion show you’re treating me to? I want to ask him but don’t. Getting off this mountain as quickly as possible is my priority as well.
He climbs onto the boulder directly in front of us.
Big feet. Big hands. Big . . . attitude. That’s right. Attitude.
I shake my head and, placing my housing drawings back inside my purse, I zip it closed. The drawings are smaller renditions of the larger ones in my apartment. But still, I’m not leaving them behind on this mountain.
“Come on,” he tells me before disappearing over the boulder.
I stare up at where he’d been a second ago before hastily scrambling after him. Praying that the last thing I see of Diego isn’t the two pink smiley faces etched into the bottoms of the flip-flops.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Diego
Hijo de Dios! I’ve hit an all-time low.
Hayden is going to kill me. No joke, he might genuinely put a hit on me. No fuckups allowed. And on a scale from one to ten, ten being the worst, this rates an eleven.
It’s all her damn fault.
I scowl at her.
She glares right back.
The farther away from Casa Bella we head, the greater the tension between us grows. Off come the boxing gloves. Because if this beautifully annoying gringa thinks there will be no consequences resulting from her ruining the easiest freaking job ever, she’s gonna learn the hard way I’m not a man you fuck with.
Fucking—now that’s a different story. But my screwing up this assignment in an arena-worthy performance . . . sirens, cameras, action . . . goddamn it.
Hayden is going to put a bullet between my eyes. Or worse, replace me with that good-for-nada Irishman.
I stop midstride and pull out a pebble lodged between my foot and the damn flip-flop.
“Mierda.”
“It’ll be less irritating if you took them off.”
She’s right. But I ignore the suggestion, what’s left of my pride, the machismo I always seem to be fighting against, driving me forward in what has to be the most useless, impractical, ridiculous pair of shoes ever known to mankind.
Or womankind.
I wince as the cut on my heel scrapes against a rock. Ridiculous shoes, yet one step better than crossing this terrain barefoot.
As we descend, the boulders cropping up are larger yet less frequent. We’ve been slowly working our way down the mountain, and judging by the sunrise on the horizon, we’ve been at it for five hours.
Five hours wasted. Dios, I could have been on my way already if not for her.
She grunts behind me. I don’t stop to help. Better that I keep us moving, lead us out of this shit hole and back into safer territory.
The past five hours I’ve been contemplating my next step—no pun intended. The instant those sirens began blaring like some fire-truck parade, my cover was blown. Even on the off chance no one witnessed me crawling across that field, my disappearance from Casa Bella is going to cast suspicion on me.
Sooner or later, someone will find the license I planted by the crates. Little-Man will be questioned. I could have continued my investigation. Easy peasy.
There’s no going back now. My cover is ruined. And all I have to show for months . . . hell, almost a year . . . of effort is the grayish-colored rock safely stashed inside my bag.
And her.
I glance over my shoulder. Her head’s down so she doesn’t see me checking on her progress. Yeah, she should have been a redhead with all the angry fireworks going off around her.
Most now . . . directed at me.
The tension between us is wreaking havoc on an already screwed-beyond-repair situation. And I can’t wait to get the fuck off this mountainside.
She tumbles then curses. “Shit.” To give credit where credit’s due, besides fucking up my entire operation and slowing me down, I’m proud of how she’s managing to keep up.
What a dumb-ass pendejo I am. A turtle could keep up with me in these freaking shoes.
We’re almost to the base when I hear her curse again.
“Holy crap. How the hell are we getting down from here?”
I turn and scowl at her. We’re standing on the bluff of the final obstacle, a six-foot drop. A baby drop in comparison to the steep ledge I scaled earlier. Yet it’d be a much easier descent if I’d kept the rope, which now lies somewhere in the boulder field we crossed.
Without answering her, I shake off the flip-flops and give them a swift kick over the ledge. With great satisfaction, I watch them hit the unpaved roadway below. Sitting down, I turn my body, my toes finding stable footholds and my hands doing likewise, my mountain climber’s experienced fingertips holding me steady and in place as my feet do all the work.
Easy work—I’m down in no time.
“Are you planning on leaving me here?” she shouts.
I press my finger to my lips. Mendoza could have men positioned around the base of this mountain for all I know. Though it’s unlikely he’ll find us—it’s too large an area to search. Still, I detest surprises and I’ve had my quota of them today.
I brace my feet apart and wave at her. “Jump.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Yeah, I am. I should have left your ass back a ways. Come on, Aubrey. Stop wasting time.”
“I don’t like heights.”
“I don’t like getting shot at. Or dying. I’ll catch you. Do it.”
She glares down at me, her hands on her hips. Even with her cheeks rose-colored from exertion and the smudge of dirt on her cheek, she’s a stunningly beautiful woman.
But that attitude, the disobedience, has to go.
“Jump or I’m leaving you here.”
That does it. Before I can suck in a breath, she’s airborne. Surprise, surprise. Afraid or not, she’s willing to take risks. Being a master risk-taker myself, I admire that in a person.
Shit. The uranium.
I quickly snap the belt on my bag and lower it to the ground with one hand then straighten and brace myself.
She hits me full-frontal, grabbing wildly onto my bicep and shoulder. Hooking her fingers into the holes on the shit excuse for a sweatshirt. We fall backward as the material rips apart beneath her fingers.
I fold an arm beneath her ass and bounce her in the air. Using my free hand, I pull her in tight. As much as I’d love to drop her for singlehandedly obliterating my cover, I’m not that big of an asshole.
She settles into my arms, and the angry tension between us . . . changes.
Her tits press into my chest. Her body fits perfectly against mine. She smells like jasmine mixed w
ith the sexy, earthly scent of sweat.
She blinks and stares. Disbelieving I actually caught her? Or maybe she likes the way her nipples—feel like two rock-hard pebbles rubbing against me? Maybe she feels this change of energy that’s got my cock hardening within my damp shorts.
“You can put me down now.”
I like sex. I probably like it more than most men, meaning I fucking love it. But there’s a time and place for everything.
I drop her onto her feet rather abruptly, like she’s suddenly caught fire.
No way should I want to fuck a woman who’s ruined a year of hard work, my patient struggle to get inside Mendoza’s inner circle, my working my way into a position to gather information on his prick of a father.
Maybe she is a subcontractor? Working for a different private contracting company? Maybe she’s just that good, intentionally making amateur mistakes to throw me off. Was she assigned to ruining my plans? I shake my head. “Mierda.”
“Are we going to stand here all day, cursing our mothers and lord knows who else?” she says.
Cojones. The set of balls on her, despite what we’ve been through. Probably pissed off at how I dropped her. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me.
Just as well.
I retrieve the flip-flops and, cursing beneath my breath, slide them on.
“Oh my God. Your feet.”
“No big deal.”
“They’re almost the same color as my flip-flops. Bleeding profusely and shredded like they’ve been pushed through a cheese grater. It must hurt.”
“Now who’s standing around, wasting time?” I scoop up my bag, adjust the ripped sweatshirt across my shoulders, and stalk off, leaving her and her misplaced compassion behind.
“You don’t have a gentle bone in your body, do you?” she says breathlessly after she finally catches up to me. Yeah, despite my barking dogs, I’m moving at a fast clip. Daybreak is in full swing and I want to be as far away from this mountain as possible before someone spots us. Still, her question can’t be ignored.
I cup my cock. A vulgar move on a woman like her. But hey, it’s not like we’ll be exchanging cookie recipes anytime soon. No, the sooner she’s out of my hair, the better.
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