by Julie Leto
Which was why she was here.
“So what have you been up to, Marisela?”
Her turn to snort. “Nothing too exciting. I did nails for a while. Worked at Wal-Mart. Graduated to Saks. Did some phone work and filing for Alberto Garcia, on the side. Now, I’m looking again.”
She conveniently left out the parts his mother couldn’t possibly have told him. Hardly anyone knew that her work for Alberto went beyond answering calls and shoveling papers. The owner of AAA-Able Bail Bonds had helped her out when her gang activity landed her in juvie. Instead of processing the teen and sending her on her way, he’d promised her a job. A real job. One where she’d put her fighting skills and gun experience to good use. She’d run little errands for him and trained her ass off until she turned twenty-one. Then, he’d put her in enforcement. For seven years, she’d tracked down bail-jumping bozos all across the state.
But Alberto had been careful not to send her into her own neighborhood to pick up strays. Called it a conflict of interest. So her secret life was safe. A good thing, too, since Frankie might not be so anxious to relive a little heat from their past if he knew she still carried a gun.
Illegally, but that was a fact she continued to ignore. She’d lost her license to carry and immediately thereafter, her position with AAA-Able. But she hadn’t given up her piece. What the cops didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, but ditching her weapon could get her killed.
“So, you’re short on cash,” Frankie said with a nod, his lips slightly pursed, hinting that maybe he knew more than she’d hoped.
“Who isn’t?”
“Chasing deadbeats doesn’t appeal anymore?”
Damn. Frankie might have been away for a while, but he obviously still had contacts. Still, she wiggled her newly polished nails, the index fingers tipped with tiny fake diamonds, and hoped to play down his knowledge of her enforcement activities. “Too hard on the manicure.”
He chuckled. “Were you good?”
She sipped her Cuba Libre, enjoying the burst of the sweet carbonation against the smooth tang of the rum. “I’m good at lots of things.”
“I remember.”
Man, Frankie had some incredible eyes. Technically, they were hazel, but the flecks of green glittered as deep and vivid as fine oriental jade. Offset by his swarthy skin, his irises simmered with hot intentions—every one of which Marisela could imagine in great detail.
“Wanna dance?” she asked, flicking a glance at the dance floor. At Club Electric, the music pulsed as hard and bright as the neon lights. The minute Marisela allowed herself to acknowledge the sounds, the rhythm seeped into her veins. Her shoulders and hips rocked and her feet itched to hit the dance floor and work off some of the fiery vibe slashing between her and Frankie.
“No,” he answered.
She didn’t hide her disappointment, pushing her lips into a thick pout. “Why not?”
“Not in the mood.”
She leaned forward, her lips inches from his ear as the crowd around them whooped and sang a chorus of “Yo Viviré,” a cover of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” by Celia Cruz. “I can always put you in the mood, Frankie.” She shimmied her shoulders ever so slightly. “Like no other woman ever could.”
“We were young, Marisela. Didn’t take much to put either of us in the mood.”
She laughed, punched him in the shoulder then downed a few more gulps of her drink. A flush of warm heat surrounded her skin and she didn’t know if the reaction stemmed from their proximity to the writhing masses of dancers or from being so close, and yet so far, from her first love.
Back in high school, she and Frankie had melted more than one dance floor—not to mention the damage they’d done to various backseats. He’d loved her wild ways, her innate curiosity. She’d wanted to explore the world, find her place outside the tight community she loved, but still resented. To date, she hadn’t gone anywhere too exotic, but her ambitions hadn’t died, even if they were harder to pursue with bills hitting the mailbox like baseball-size hail.
Even after he’d chosen his gang over her, he’d kept her secrets. He’d never popped off to his hombres about her sexual appetites. The worst thing he’d ever done was break her teenage heart.
Now she was about to screw him in the worst possible way. Or maybe, the best way? Didn’t matter. Bottom line—she was going to royally piss him off, although for a good cause.
A very noble cause. The noblest. Marisela may have skirted the law from time to time—well, she’d actually flashed and mooned the law on one or two occasions—but give her a benevolent purpose and she could be downright patriotic. And ruthless. Not that she needed a good reason to spend a little quality time with sexy, dangerous, Frankie Vega. But lucky for her, she had a good reason all the same. He was about to jump bail and she was going to stop him.
She finished her drink, slipped her fingers into her jacket pocket, threw a ten onto the bar, and nodded toward the door. “If you don’t want to dance, let’s go.”
She twisted off the bar stool, but Frankie moved only to tilt his head toward hers so she’d hear him over the music and the crowd.
“How do you know I’m not waiting for someone?”
Surrendering to her instincts, Marisela drew one of her long fingernails over Frankie’s angular jawline. “I don’t. But you just got a better offer.”
Knowing she had to seal the deal, she dropped her touch slowly down his neck, until the ruby red enamel on her nail sparkled beside the gold chain he’d worn since his confirmation. Unlike the other Cuban-American males in this part of the world, Frankie didn’t dangle a crucifix or saint’s medallion from the necklace. No sense in contradicting his daily activities. He wore the gold serpentine necklace flush to his dark skin, even if the links probably pinched the hell out of his chest hair every once in a while.
Marisela grabbed his open collar and with surprise on her side, yanked him to his feet. Frankie wasn’t the tallest man in the world—just shy of six feet—but to her tall-for-her-genes five foot seven, he towered over her just enough so she could glance through the veil of her eyelashes when she spoke.
“Do you understand what I’m offering?”
Before he could answer, she slipped her free hand between them and cupped her palm over the bulge in his jeans. She smiled, a thrill streaking through her like lightning.
He was hard. As a rock. Thinking he’d want her again was one thing. Knowing stole her breath.
Like the charmer he was, Frankie seized her winded moment and kissed her. Not hot and impatient like he used to. Oh, no. The son of a bitch took his time, pressing his lips against hers like a warm iron on a silk blouse, careful not to scorch her by pressing too hard. His hands inched from her hips to her ribs, his fingers tantalizing the bared skin of her midriff with hungry, yet contained caresses.
Harvesting all her self-control, Marisela forced a step back, breaking the connection so quickly, Frankie’s lips were still puckered.
He had the audacity to grin as if he’d been the one to push her away.
“Blast from the past too much for you, vidita?”
Marisela slipped her hands into the pocket of her jacket. Feeling the handcuffs she’d hidden there, she remembered the true purpose of this seduction.
She scooted away from her stool, away from him—knowing he had every motivation to follow. “Too much for me?” she asked, sassy and doubtful at the same time. “I’m just getting started.”
Two
DAMN IF MARISELA’S ass didn’t look even better aged ten years. He pushed through the crowd to keep up with her, knowing that if he’d had any sense, he’d realize that meeting up with her tonight was no accident. Maybe Blake moved in without Frankie’s answer? Not plausible. Ian Blake was desperate, but he wouldn’t act haphazardly.
Still, before Frankie left town tomorrow, he wanted to make sure Blake didn’t pursue Marisela for his operation. Why Frankie cared, he didn’t know. The chica could take care of herself. But Frankie had b
een the one to bring her name to the table and since he was ditching the deal, he’d decided to make sure she wasn’t sucked in to a dangerous, treacherous world without him there to watch her back.
And yet, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d come to the club armed. Maybe Blake had made contact. Maybe he’d sent Marisela to lure him back to the fold. Or was she simply being Marisela, ready to protect herself from the lowlifes he’d heard weren’t too happy with her job hauling in criminals for cash? She’d tried hard to conceal her piece under that sexy black jacket, but Frankie’d become quite good at spotting guns. ¡Coño! He didn’t need this distraction!
His arrest last week had been the final straw. Yeah, he’d left Miami seriously entertaining Ian Blake’s job offer, but being booked for possession five minutes after he cruised into town mhad changed his mind. He’d had enough of the life. Serving six years in prison for armed robbery, most of the time spent doubling as a DEA mole, had cut out the last of his cancerous obsession with high stakes thrills. Now, he just wanted to lie low until his hearing tomorrow morning, take care of business, and then get the hell out of town before he burned his cojones on the big trouble brewing so close to home.
Trouble that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Trouble Marisela didn’t ask for. And probably didn’t deserve.
Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe his running into his ex had been a simple stroke of good luck. And maybe Marisela’s flirting was just because she was hot to trot, and for once in his hard-luck life, he was in the right place at the right time. He might as well take advantage while he had the chance. Once he left Tampa this time, he was gone for good.
Marisela waited for him at the exit, leaning suggestively against the door, one foot flat against the surface, her knee drawn up, sexy and bold. She always did have a way of broadcasting exactly what was on her mind at any given moment. Lying and manipulating took too much time and effort. With Marisela, what he saw was what he got.
And man, he liked what he saw tonight.
He slapped his hand on the door above her shoulder, then eased forward, inhaling her spicy scent as his nose neared her neck. “You want to start right here or take it outside?” he whispered, brushing his lips across her fragrant skin.
She chuckled softly, but enough so that her breasts bounced gently against his chest. “Either way, we’ll have an audience.”
He ran his tongue against the cool gold of her hoop earring. “Does that turn you on?”
“Who says I’m turned on?”
In a flash, she’d ducked away from him and pushed into the thick, outdoor air. The bouncer pretended to ignore the overheard exchange, but as Frankie strutted past the oversized cue ball of a man, he caught the glimmer of lust in the man’s eyes. That same hungry shine reflected in the stares of the half-dozen or so punks hanging out with their backs to the wall, swinging their Colt 45 malt liquors. He smirked, confident that Marisela not only wanted him, but that for the first time in a long while, every guy in this joint wanted nothing more than to be in his zapatos.
As Marisela predicted, the parking lot outside Club Electric was jammed with nearly as many hot bodies as inside. Under aged girls sat on the hoods of cars driven by boys they had no business messing with, boys with knives in their back pockets and oversize beer cans clutched in angry hands.
It wasn’t so long ago that he’d been one of those jerks. In a lot of ways, he still was. But now he had the chance to jump back to a simpler time in his life—when the only thing that mattered was hot sex and cool living.
He caught up with Marisela as she approached the one-of-a-kind rust bucket his mother called her second car. Most of the time, she tooled around in the practical four-door Chevy Malibu she’d bought herself after hitting good numbers on the lottery. But to accommodate any one of her six children who often returned to the nest with one sob story or another, she kept the beat-up Impala. Frankie hadn’t thought much about the car parked perennially in his mother’s garage until he’d found himself in quick need of wheels to make a fast escape, his own ride impounded.
“Why does your mami keep this old thing?” Marisela asked, running a tentative finger over the oxidized paint of the dented outer shell.
He leaned one hip on the door, knowing he looked just as cool now as he used to back when Marisela thought he’d owned the world because he had wheels at his disposal. “Yo no sé. I think she’s sentimental. I may have been conceived in this car,” he said half-joking. The Impala hadn’t been around quite that long, though he wouldn’t doubt if some of his brothers hadn’t spawned a few of his nieces and nephews in that spacious backseat.
Marisela rolled her eyes, and then leaned in through the open window to inspect the interior more closely, giving him a view of her backside that made his cock tight.
No way was that move unintentional.
“What the hell are you doing, Marisela?”
She wriggled back out. He had to adjust the seam of his jeans. He didn’t try to be sly about it, either. Why should he? She certainly wasn’t.
“Just seeing if the old juices still flow between us,” she explained.
“I could be an old man sitting in my wheelchair on the front porch and you’d get my juices flowing, vidita.”
Marisela stalked toward him slowly, allowing him time to appreciate every soft bounce of her unbound breasts, every swing of her sexy hips.
“Why don’t you let me taste some of those juices, Frankie? I’m thirsty. Aren’t you?” When she stood toe-to-toe with him, her nipples brushed against his chest. His entire body tensed, hard and electric as if he was on the job, ready to jump, react, strike, flee.
He swiped his tongue around his lips, then yanked Marisela close and pressed his mouth over hers. In an instant, she soothed the parched thirst crackling through his body. Just as fast, they were in his car, barreling out of the parking lot and over the half-bricked city streets of the old neighborhood. She climbed onto his lap, laughing her deep, throaty laugh, kissing his ears, sucking his neck, untucking his shirt, popping buttons so she could dip her fingers into his waistband.
Several skidding turns and rolling stops later, Frankie killed the engine, allowing the momentum of the car to propel them up the driveway beside his mother’s house. When he’d first hit town, he’d planned to take up residence in the tiny apartment above the detached garage, but his arrest changed all that. Instead, he’d crashed in some flea-bit motels on the port side of town, avoiding Ian Blake and his far-reaching grip. Instinct alone steered him here, to the same apartment where he’d lost his virginity to Marisela—and she to him—all those years ago.
He fished the key out of the flowerpot beside the door and by the time he turned to Marisela, she’d kicked off her boots and jeans, right there in the open air.
Lust surged and he grabbed her, not thinking about anything but feeling her naked against him. They fell into the apartment, landing half on the bed, half on the floor. Before Frankie could remove his own shoes and pants, Marisela lost her jacket and her T-shirt. For an instant, he spied the black holster she’d worn around her shoulder and waist, but the minute she crawled onto his bed, wearing nothing but pale pink panties, he willingly forgot about her gun. She hooked her hands under the lower rod of the cast-iron headboard, tested the strength of the metal with one wanton tug, then waited, her breasts round and tight-tipped, her areolas dark, her mouth slightly parted and still a blurry red from his kiss.
Frankie stopped, just for a fraction of a second, to drink in her illicit beauty. He tore off his own shirt, but swallowed a grin when her deep brown eyes sparkled with appreciation. Not much for a man to do in prison but work out, and his last job on the docks had enhanced his physique. He wasn’t some scrawny schoolboy anymore—if he’d ever been.
“Jesus, Frankie. You look good,” she said, slicking her tongue over her lips. He loved her mouth. He’d always loved her mouth. How it felt pressed against his skin. How she could use all that hot, wet flesh to drive him insa
ne.
“Vidita, I could come right here, just looking at you.”
She glanced down at her own prone and posed body, then shifted into the moonlight streaming in through the window. “That would be a big waste, wouldn’t it?”
The glow emphasized the gloss of sweat forming over her skin. The air inside the apartment was hot, stuffy. He hadn’t noticed. He glanced at the dormant air conditioner unit shoved between the window and the cracked wooden frame.
In a rush, he marched to the window, pressed buttons, turned knobs, and cursed until the ancient unit kicked to life, blasting tepid air against his naked chest. He adjusted the thermostat, breathing easier when the temperature dropped just enough to let him know the junker still worked. But the last thing he wanted to be was cool. He spun around, just in time to catch Marisela fiddling with the pillows, propping them purposefully against the slender wrought-iron bars of the old headboard.
“Comfortable?”
She snuggled into the cushions, patting and fluffing as she spoke. “Not as comfortable as I could be.” When she had the bed arranged as she wanted, she stretched her arms toward him. “Come here,” she said, her voice husky.
Frankie crawled across the mattress, ignoring the pop of the tight springs beneath his hand, his knee, his foot. He stopped and placed one hot, delicious kiss on her thigh. Sweet cocoa butter teased his nostrils, taunting him with hints of the musky scent he’d discover when he kissed her a little higher.
But just as he moved into position to taste her through her panties, Marisela rolled aside, quick and agile. He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him by pressing her now free lingerie against his face. He growled, inhaled like a junkie, and while he wondered how she’d taken off her underwear so quickly, she pinned him, her bare breasts inches from his face.
“Screwing around with you again can’t be a good idea,” she said.