by Jo Robertson
She followed him into the bedroom and stood in the door frame. "Where will you sleep?"
"Couch," he said shortly, ripping off the used sheets and replacing them with fresh ones from the linen closet.
She watched him silently. He wondered what was going on in that pretty little head of hers. Was she thinking about their earlier flirtation? Their interrupted passion in the alley? His fingers had touched her and found her wet right before the attack. Had she even been aware that he'd felt the moist heat of her ... there?
"There," he said aloud. He pulled an extra blanket from the closet and laid it at the foot of the bed. From the bathroom, he retrieved his toothbrush and shaving gear, and a clean change of underwear from the dresser.
He paused at the door to the hall and looked back at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. "There's an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet." He waited for her to respond. "Well then, goodnight." He shifted awkwardly before adding, "Are you going to be all right?"
She stared at the black maw of the windows. "He won't come here, will he?" Her voice sounded small.
He knew instantly what she meant. "Of course not. He doesn't know where I live."
She nodded slowly as if contemplating how valid his claim was. "But he knew who you were when he attacked us in the alley."
He hesitated. "Don't worry. I have a friend in the LAPD. He's taking care of everything."
"I'll call my sister," she answered by way of consent to remaining for the night.
After she'd made the phone call, she sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed him tentatively. "Rafe?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want to be alone." She flushed and he thought the admission embarrassed her.
He stood beside the bed while Bella crept beneath the sheets and pulled the covers up to her neck. Then he lay down on the top of the bedspread beside her.
Damn, if he'd known she'd end up wanting him to comfort her, but not ... well, sleep with her, he'd never have made that first invitation for her to sit down in the booth opposite him. A chaste night in bed with a gorgeous woman was not what he imagined when he'd first noticed her across the room at Stuckey's Bar.
Chapter Seven
Diego Vargas' white, powdered gold played a significant role in the import-export business along the northern California coastline.
An inland deep water port, the Port of Wintuan lay thirty-two nautical miles northeast of the Port of Stockton. It rested on the rich delta of the Cache River and emptied into the San Francisco Bay. The channel itself was a mere thirty-odd miles long and over thirty feet deep, but sufficient for the ships to make their way into port.
Always less popular than either the Stockton Port or the Port of Sacramento, the Wintuan Port had been an important route for importation and navigation from San Francisco during the mid-nineteenth century. After the gold rush fever dwindled, however, the decrease in commodities shipments to miners gave way to an increase in agricultural transportation.
But the other two ports garnered the lion's share of this business, and most cargo ships no longer followed the Cache River inland to Wintuan Port. Although it had fallen into less and less usage, construction materials like lumber and concrete, as well as bulk and bagged rice still made up a major portion of the port's cargo volume.
Therefore, the port was ideal for the kind of shipping a businessman like Diego Vargas engaged in.
Vargas' cargo of white gold was easy to slip among the packages of legitimate products. This expensive, powdered cargo was small in volume, but very profitable for a man intent on creating new drug trade routes. Diego intended to carve out a hefty share of the profits from the prolific trafficking of a drug seldom seen on the west coast – China White heroin.
The seclusion and erratic use of the Wantuan Port appealed to a man of Vargas' enterprise. The irregularity of these cargo deliveries up the Cache River was his best protection against government detection and interference.
Standing now on the dock, staring out at the murky blackness of the Cache River, Vargas awaited his next shipment from the green hills of Afghanistan. The cargo made its way weeks ago from the Golden Crescent, the world's largest illicit opium production, to end up here on the shores of northern California.
Grinding out his cigarette under the heel of his Bruno Magli Calvos, Vargas jammed his hands in his overcoat. The winds blowing through the delta penetrated his woolen full-length coat. Mexican-born, he complained often about the early coastal chills of northern California.
"Santos," he barked at his bodyguard, "¿Qué va mal? What's the delay?" He could see nothing through the pitch of the night and his eagerness to receive the new shipment stamped out all patience.
"Nothing's wrong. Está bien," Santos responded, waiting until the ship made anchor and the workers began to unload the cargo before turning back to Vargas. "She's here now. No problem, El Vaquero."
Forty-five minutes later the crates were unloaded and stacked five deep on the dock. Buried among the packaged rice were the one-kilo plastic bundles which half a dozen Mexican workers then recovered and stacked inside canvas bags. Several vans stood at the ready and the workers rapidly stowed the canvas bags in them. The entire process was completed in less than ninety minutes.
"Wait," Vargas commanded before the workers could close the back doors of the last van.
He extracted a kilo from the van, slit a one-inch opening in it, and dipped his knife into the white, powdery substance. A very tiny amount, for the smack was so pure it took his breath away, and Diego did not wish to become euphoric. Only a foolish businessman used his own product, especially in this particular business.
He sighed with satisfaction. "Ésta es droga muy buena."
At one hundred thousand American dollars a kilo, Santos thought, the supply should be very excellent dope indeed. He slammed down the back of the van and slapped the palm of his hand firmly on the side. Immediately, the van pulled out, followed by a second, and then a third vehicle.
Santos and Vargas watched until the red taillights could no longer be seen, and then Santos opened the door of the black sedan while Diego eased his sturdy bulk into the back seat. "Buen trabajo, a good night's work," Diego said.
"Do we head north, then?" Santos asked. El Vaquero would have a strong need for a woman tonight and the whorehouse in Storey County was a mere three-hour drive.
"Si, necesito a puta esta noche," his boss laughed, a harsh guttural sound that spoke more of pain than pleasure. "I need a whore tonight. We will go south. No nice college girls tonight."
And no Magdalena, Santos added mentally. Tonight El Jefe would not force himself on his wife. Northeast through California and over the border into Nevada would take them to La Casa de Mujeres, one of two legal brothels Vargas owned in the only state in the country that allowed legalized prostitution.
Going south meant something entirely different. Crossing the border into Mexico would take eight hours or so and meant that Vargas wished to procure more girls for his other brothel in Nevada – the one which was both legal and not-so-legal.
Santos clamped down hard on his jaw. He preferred to take his boss north to La Casa de Mujeres, the House of the Women, to slack his lusts. Santos did not like El Vaquero's second whore house, the one which housed young girls like his sister Rosario.
"Wake me when we arrive," Diego ordered and slid down on the leather seat.
#
Bella opened her eyes to the alien green glow of a clock on an unfamiliar bedroom nightstand. Four-thirty-five. Morning still. She'd slept over an hour. A firm band of flesh supported her shoulder and another draped casually over her hip. Her rear nestled against a hard body.
The moment she moved, she sensed a change in the rhythm of Rafe's breathing. He remained silent, but the subtle pressure against the juncture of her legs gave him away. She knew by the quiet rigidity of his body and the controlled breathing against the back of her neck that he wanted her.
She felt a sudden giddiness an
d the urge to have his body tighter around her, on top of her, inside of her. Alive with anticipation, she thrust the dark moments of the alley to the back of her mind. Turning eagerly, she wrapped her arms around his middle, buried her face in his chest, and worked her fingers up under the tee-shirt to the smooth flesh of his back, hot against her cool hands. The pressure against her thighs increased. She snuggled against him and inhaled the scent of citrus and warm flesh.
She trailed her lips along the side of his jaw and then followed with her tongue. "You taste good." She liked the huskiness of her voice, making her feel strong and bold and sexy. She edged her way to the corner of his mouth.
Rafe groaned and flipped her onto her back, nudging his knee between her legs, grinding his mouth into hers and plunging his tongue inside. The insistent thrusting of his tongue urged her on, his weight on her body a heavy welcome. A warm gush of arousal dampened the flesh between her legs and she thrust her hips upward to meet him.
"I want more of you," she breathed rapidly, tearing at his shirt.
"Ah, Isabella, wait, slow down," he groaned against her temple. He lay unmoving on top of her a moment, his weight supported by his arms. His heart raced against her breasts, and she held her body still, knowing he was trying to control himself, even as she fought every screaming instinct to undulate against him.
Finally, he lifted himself off her and jerked her tee-shirt over her head. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of the sweats, he pulled them smoothly down her legs. They landed on the floor with a soft thud, followed quickly by his own shirt. She reached for him, trying to loosen the thick shaft of him from his sweat pants.
"No, God, no. I'll be too fast. You first," he panted and trailed his fingers lightly between her breasts and down her slick thighs before cupping her buttocks with both hands and lifting her to his mouth.
As he planted firm, moist kisses low across her belly, her muscles spasmed in anticipation. His lips, those beautifully carved lips she'd watched all night, continued a sensuous journey to the crevice of her leg and trailed along her inner thigh. He lifted her hips higher and, like a man well used to satisfying a woman, circled his thumb with exquisite pressure around the perfect spot.
All thought vanished with the next ragged wave of pleasure. Bella bit down hard on her lower lip and hung on for the sweet, tortuous ride. She dug her fingers into the wiry crispness of his hair and let the first throbbing waves of release wash over her.
"Oh, oh," she gasped and then gnawed at her bottom lip again to keep from moaning aloud. When she came, his fingers joined his tongue and she felt filled and stretched, pulsating in hard, rolling spasms of pleasure that crested again and again like foaming breakers on the shore.
"Oh god," she whispered on a groan, unable to hold back any longer. "Oh my god."
He slid up her moist body to kiss her mouth, continuing to kiss her, fondle her, and nuzzle her neck, his fingers deep inside her, until her throbbing climax ebbed and crested again and finally gave way to a tender fullness between her legs.
At last, he rolled to his side and pulled her naked body close to him, covering them both with the sheet. She felt the still-hard thrust of his erection against the back of her thigh. His heart thrummed an urgent bass rhythm beneath her ear until it gradually gave way to a sure, steady drum beat.
She drifted off, incredibly relaxed, the concerns of her current case on hold, her meeting later today with the stubborn DEA agent forgotten for the moment. She thought smugly that she owed Rafe. And in a few hours, she'd let him collect on the debt.
Chapter Eight
The vibration of his cell lying on the bed stand roused Rafe from a light sleep. He struggled to remember why his head pounded as the naked ass tucked against him and the warm body attached to it tortured his hard-on. He swung his gritty eyes toward the alarm clock sitting beside his cell phone and watch on the bed stand.
Eight-sixteen! He should've been in the office already. In the fraction of a second before he saw the black strands of hair draped over Isabella's face and remembered the events of last night, he reached for the phone and swung out of the bed.
In the bathroom, he sat on the closed toilet seat and flipped open the cell. "Hashemi."
"Agent Hashemi, you'd better get down to the office right away." The normally unflappable voice of his assistant quavered through the receiver.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Roberts?"
"Detective Jensen is waiting for you." She paused and lowered her voice, heavy with disapproval. "Waiting. In your office. You know I don't like anyone going in there when you're not here."
Marilyn Roberts had been with Rafe nearly seven years, his first secretary – assistant she insisted on being called – in his Los Angeles office. She organized his life and ran his office with military efficiency. She protected him with the ferocity of a pit bull and made the best damn coffee he'd ever tasted. But she was a little obsessive about the sanctity of his office.
It was in his best interests to keep her happy. "I'll be there right away," he promised, closing the phone.
He relieved himself, flushed the toilet, and stared at his scruffy reflection in the bathroom mirror. He splashed cold water on his face, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. The rest of his grooming he left for later. By now he was sure the bathroom noises had woken Isabella up, and he was already regretting his lapse of judgment last night.
When he opened the door, she was sitting upright, her legs crossed yoga-style, her hair in wild tangles around her naked shoulders. The bed sheet covered what he vividly remembered as very full and beautiful breasts.
She smiled. "Hi."
He smiled back and sat on the edge of the bed smoothing a black strand from her cheek. "That was my office," he said tilting his head toward the open bathroom door where the cell phone lay. "I'm sorry, but I have to leave."
"Oh." Her face deflated like a disappointed child, and after a moment she scrambled off the bed and retrieved the tee-shirt from the floor. She pulled it over her head and tugged downward, but the shirt barely covered the tops of her thighs.
"Hey, you don't have to go, though. I have to put in a few hours following up on that incident at Stuckey's. I'll be back by noon." He glanced at the bedside clock. "One at the latest. I promise."
"You know, really, I should just go. This ..." She waved her hand vaguely at the jumble of bedclothes. "This isn't ... I don't usually ... "
"Look, stay, relax, have some coffee." He walked to the closet and pulled out his blue striped dress shirt. "I'd like to see you again. Honestly. So, if you feel the same, stay until I get back."
Isabella lifted one dark eyebrow and he knew he'd tossed out too casual an offer.
"Or leave a phone number, okay?" he said hurriedly.
She gave a tiny nod and appropriated the bathroom. Moments later he heard the water running. As he dressed in fresh underwear and socks, his mind raced with a dozen questions about what the investigators had discovered last night. Nothing definite or Max would've tagged him. Still, he needed to get there as soon as possible.
He glanced toward the closet where last night's jacket hung, Lupe's information folded carefully in the inside pocket. Christ! Last night he'd let his senses get so addled that he'd risked blowing his informant's cover. Let his guard down so that he hadn't even seen the attack in the alley coming. Gotten entangled so deep with a woman that he'd taken her back to his apartment when the smart thing to do would've been to put her in a cab and send her on her way.
Now his white-knight conscience was intervening. He sighed heavily. God knew, he was no saint, but something innocent and almost virginal about Isabella made him believe her. She'd told the truth. Last night wasn't typical behavior for her.
He opened the closet and grabbed his tan suit and silk tie off the clothes dowel and finished dressing. Gathered his briefcase and holstered his weapon. When he heard the water shut off, he listened at the bathroom door. He rapped softly.
No answer.
"I'm
sorry, Isabella," he said through the door. "I really am. But I've got to get to work."
The door eased open and Isabella stepped through the archway. Desire shot through his loins like a flame-thrower's sword. Steady, he warned himself, but his heart thundered in his ears like a herd of mustangs and his forehead felt suddenly clammy.
He shoved aside the shards of lust that ran through him. At least he could keep his hands off her now and not complicate an already awkward situation.
They hadn't really had sex, not the real kind, the kind that could get her pregnant or ... Jesus Christ, what had he been thinking of? Taking a strange woman to his apartment, to his bed? Doing those intimate things to her body.
He wouldn't go there again. Wouldn't compound the problem.
Decision made, he reached for his suit jacket. "Look, it's late and I've got to get to work ... " He shrugged helplessly. "Uh, why don't you grab some coffee and, uh, maybe you can let yourself out. Last night was great, but ... look, we hardly know each other and ... maybe last night was a mistake," he ended in a rush.
"A mistake," she echoed, her eyes wide with an emotion he couldn't read.
He watched the heightened color edge upward toward her face and clenched his jaw. "You seem like a nice girl. I'm sure you're not used to hopping into bed with strangers, so let's chalk this ... situation up to the intensity of the attack or too many drinks, and leave it at that."
As he closed the door behind him, he reminded himself again of the reasons last night should never have happened. First, agency matters ought to be at the front of his mind at this delicate stage of his investigation. Also, he had no business taking advantage of Isabella.
Last night neither had been thinking straight.
#
"You're telling me that isn't blood in the alley?" Rafe tented his fingers, elbows resting on the arms of his desk chair, and tried to stare down the homicide detective who sat across from him in his East Temple Street office.