When Twilight Comes

by B. J Daniels

  “Sexual frustration,” she said with a grin. Her laugh sounded hollow even to her own ears.

  The dream had felt so real. The warmth of him. Lying in his arms, his touch arousing her in ways—

  She stopped, staring down at the bed, as her body turned to ice. Her heart began to pound erratically.

  There were two impressions in the down-covered mattress. One on her side, where she always slept. The other where someone else had lain next to her.

  Chapter Six

  There was only one thing Raymond Valencia hated more than being treated like a fool, and that was allowing someone to think he was one.

  Lorenzo Dante’s story didn’t hold water. Franco wouldn’t cross him. At least not on his own.

  Raymond could think of only two ways in which Franco could be coerced into doing something so stupid as stealing from the man who’d picked him up out of the gutter.

  One would be if he had no other choice. Like a knife to his privates. But even that was hard to believe, given that Franco knew Raymond would do far worse to him when he caught him.

  Two would be by a woman. If Lorenzo was right, some female had Franco confused. Raymond knew that a woman could turn any man’s head around. But Franco? Franco had women, of course. But he made no secret that they were only the kind he paid for, the kind a man could depend on not to let him down.

  Was it possible Franco had an honest-to-goodness girlfriend he hadn’t let on about?

  “You know anything about Franco having a girlfriend?” he asked one of the two men he’d called the moment Franco hadn’t shown up.

  Both men, now weary from lack of sleep, shook their heads. “I never saw him with anyone,” Rico said. Rico was small, wiry and deadly. Raymond never turned his back on the man.

  “You never heard him talking on his cell to any broad?” he asked the other man, a massive Neanderthal everyone called Jolly, short for Jolly Green Giant. Jolly was anything but.

  “I never heard nothin’,” Jolly said.

  Raymond studied the expressions of the two men: bored and half-asleep, but seemingly not hiding anything. “Okay, Jolly, I want you to find the girlfriend.”

  “There is a girlfriend?” he asked in surprise.

  “That’s what you’re going to find out,” Raymond snapped. “Rico, I want you to take over the tail I have on Lorenzo Dante. If he blinks I want to know about it. Got it?”

  Rico showed only slight surprise. There had never been any love lost between Rico and Lorenzo. Probably because they were so much alike. Another reason Raymond didn’t trust Rico. Both were capable of killing their mothers without the least bit of remorse if there was something in it for them.

  Raymond couldn’t understand that. He’d bought his mother a huge house, sent her on expensive cruises, made sure she had everything she’d ever dreamed of. A man had to have someone in his life who loved him no matter what he did. That, Raymond had realized a long time ago, was only one person: his mother.

  Lorenzo hadn’t understood that. He hated his mother and instead had attempted to find love through marriage. Raymond had tried to warn him, but the man hadn’t listened. Not that Raymond hadn’t liked Jenna. In truth, he thought of his associate’s wife with a deep-seated envy. Jenna had been too good for Lorenzo. The man hadn’t known how to treat a woman like her and Lorenzo had lost her—and his child.

  Lorenzo was a fool. He had proved he wasn’t reliable. Raymond had been relieved when Lorenzo had offered to buy his way out of the business and leave the country.

  But Jenna…well, she was another story. Raymond still didn’t regret that he’d helped her during the divorce. Otherwise Lorenzo would have ended up with his daughter. A man like that had no business with a child like Alexandria. Raymond knew he’d done the right thing helping Jenna get her divorce. And with fake passports, he had trusted that she would never tell Lorenzo who had helped her.

  But Raymond wondered now if Lorenzo had somehow found out the truth. The thought brought a cold dread. It would make Lorenzo a liability that had to be taken care of immediately.

  The problem was that Lorenzo had friends. It wouldn’t be good for business to hit Lorenzo. Especially now that Raymond was legit. It would be better if Lorenzo just left the country as he’d planned.

  But if Franco hadn’t taken his money and run off, then who did that leave? Lorenzo. And if Lorenzo had taken it, then he obviously was waging war.

  Raymond checked to make sure the security system was on and the guard dogs were patrolling the area inside the fence around his house, just in case. So he’d have to find out who had taken his money—and why. First he would try to find Franco and this alleged girlfriend. If that lead proved false, then he would have to deal with Lorenzo. If Dante had his money, Raymond would be justified in killing him. And killing him in the most painful way possible.

  He started to pick up the phone to call Jenna. He felt a small thrill at just the thought of hearing her voice. But he was also worried. Lorenzo was a hothead. If he had found out that Raymond had helped Jenna, then the woman was in danger.

  What would it hurt to call her and make sure everything was all right?

  JENNA QUICKLY PACKED UP what little she’d unpacked last night, pulling the duffel out of the closet and putting it beside her suitcase. She couldn’t stop shaking.

  As she turned to put the last item in the suitcase she felt something brush by her. She caught her breath, freezing in place as the cool air caressed her cheek and trailed down her throat to the crest of her breasts above the silk gown. She leaned back, closing her eyes, caught again in the dream. She surrendered to it, washed with a yearning that made her tremble. And then it was gone.

  She opened her eyes and looked around the empty room. My God, she was losing her mind. These feelings, this fantasy… Upset with herself, she finished packing and angrily snapped shut the suitcase. What was wrong with her?

  It was the hotel. The old photograph of the man at the bar. What had she seen in him that made her call him up in her dreams? She hated to think. He wasn’t anything like Lorenzo, she realized. He was dark like Lorenzo and there was no doubt he had a confident air about him that verged on arrogance, but he was nothing like her ex.

  How did she know that?

  She felt a shiver. She couldn’t know anything about the man in the photograph. But there had been a man who resembled him. The man she’d seen from the third-floor window when they’d arrived. Except according to the security guard, she and Lexi were the only guests here.

  She’d imagined him. Because she needed someone to love?

  Jenna scoffed at the idea. She wasn’t sure she would ever trust another man. And the dream had nothing to do with love, but a whole lot to do with lust. She could well understand why she would imagine a gentle lover in her dreams. Even why she would draw him from out of the past to come to her. She’d never known a man’s loving touch. Lorenzo had been a fierce, brutal lover who took rather than gave.

  Better to have a dream lover.

  Except, Jenna thought with a frown, last night he’d only frustrated her. Made her want him, ache for him. She shivered, caught between desire and revolt. She didn’t want to need any man—even a dream lover, but part of her feared he would return in her dreams tonight. Another part feared he wouldn’t. She had the oddest feeling that he only existed for her here, in this eerie hotel with its ghosts.

  How pitiful that if she wanted a man to love her with any tenderness, she’d had to find him in a dream.

  She looked down at her left hand, to her engagement and wedding rings. She’d put them both back on, thinking it would make it easier to pretend to be married when she and Lexi were living in another country.

  But just the thought of Lorenzo… She painfully wrenched both rings from her finger and threw them into her purse.

  Jenna glanced back at the bed that she’d hurriedly made, leaving no sign of the impressions she’d thought she’d seen earlier. Imagined? Just as she’d imagined the man fro
m the photograph coming to her in her dream?

  Suddenly she just wanted out of this place. It made her feel things, sense things, yearn for things she couldn’t have.

  This hotel scared her. It was as if it knew her needs and desires. She and Lexi would be safer on the road than here, Jenna told herself. She was sure of it.

  ROSE GARCIA GOT UP every morning and ran five miles no matter the weather. This morning it was drizzling. That’s what she got for living in Seattle.

  At the time she’d moved here, rain had seemed enjoyable compared to the winters where she’d grown up, in North Dakota. Her family had been Spanish royalty at some point, but her great-grandfather had gotten into trouble in Spain, been forced to catch a boat and light out for a new life. On the boat, he’d befriended some Norwegians and ended up a general store owner in North Dakota.

  Rose stretched on the porch, listening to the drizzle turn to full-fledged rain as she prepared for her run. She loved living in Beacon Hill and had bought the house cheap because of the depressed area. But with the cost of houses around Seattle now, Beacon Hill was making a comeback. People like her were buying up the older houses and renovating them.

  She’d done the work herself, watching those home improvement shows for tips. The guys she worked with made fun of her, but she could swing a hammer better than most and she was hell on wheels with a power saw.

  She stretched her other leg, then quit stalling and bounded down the porch steps. As her luck would have it, the rain began to fall even harder. She ducked her head, burrowing down in her jacket, determined to do five miles even if it killed her.

  It almost did.

  A car came around the corner, moving too fast, as she was crossing the street. She lunged out of the way, feeling the bumper just miss her. The car’s tire dropped into one of the potholes in the road. A wave of muddy water splashed over her, making her feel like a drowned rat.

  She swore at the retreating car, noticing that it was black and expensive. The downside of an improving neighborhood, jerks like that one, she thought, and resumed her run, not worrying anymore about getting soaked by the rain.

  LORENZO DANTE GLANCED back in his rearview mirror at the runner he’d almost hit, and cursed her. Stupid health nuts. Why didn’t they join a gym like normal people? Or better yet, buy equipment and stay home?

  Not that he wasn’t already in a bad mood. And then to have some stupid pedestrian almost dent his rental car… He swore and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. Damn Jenna to hell and back. This was all her fault.

  He was so angry he missed Rose Garcia’s house address the first time and had to turn around and come back, circling the block, driving down the alley.

  It was a small house. There were potted plants on the porch, checked curtains at the kitchen window, a red-and-white Mini Cooper out back. A house that said a woman lives here—alone.

  But still he drove around the block a couple more times before he parked down the street. This didn’t feel right. Franco and the woman who lived in that neat little house? Didn’t add up.

  Finally, taking his umbrella, he walked through the pouring rain up the steps to her porch and knocked softly, thinking she might still be in bed, since the car was out back.

  No answer. He knocked a little harder, then surreptitiously peeked into her mailbox by the door. No mail. Glancing in a window, he saw that the place was neat, freshly painted, nice hardwood floors, modest carpets but well tended.

  This was definitely not the kind of woman who would have dated Franco. Lorenzo wondered if he was dead wrong about her. But how could he be, after what she’d said when he’d called her number? She’d been expecting Franco to call her. She’d been worried about him. Had stayed up half the night. Sounded like a girlfriend. One who had Franco on a short chain.

  Lorenzo double-checked the address, but remembered that she’d also sounded about the right age. Late twenties, early thirties.

  He tried the number on Franco’s cell phone for her. The phone rang and rang inside the house. No answer. She wasn’t home. Someone must have picked her up.

  He walked around back, and almost started to break into the rear door, but something stopped him. What if she had an alarm system? He decided a window was safer and, using his elbow, knocked out a pane.

  No audible alarm went off as he reached through and unlatched the window. He shoved it up and, cleaning off the jagged glass, stepped through, annoyed his life had come to this.

  Dusting off his favorite slacks, he ventured deeper into the house just to make sure she wasn’t home. Apparently she didn’t have an alarm system. Stupid, trusting woman.

  There weren’t any photographs of Franco. No sign Franco had ever been in the house. Lorenzo was going through a desk drawer when the phone rang, making him jump.

  He checked caller ID and recognized the number. One of Valencia’s other thugs, Jolly. So Valencia had put him on the task of finding Franco’s girlfriend. Lorenzo wondered how Valencia had latched on to Rose Garcia’s number so fast without Franco’s cell phone. Valencia must have supplied Franco with the phone.

  Lorenzo couldn’t help feeling relieved he’d gotten here when he had. Now if the chick would just get her butt home…

  He’d barely had the thought when he heard footfalls on the porch. He flattened himself against the hall wall and waited as he heard the sound of a key in the lock. A gust of cool damp air brushed past him as he heard her open, close and lock the door.

  If he’d guessed right, she would come walking by him at any moment. He waited. And waited. Then, straining, he heard what seemed to be her taking off her shoes at the door and cursing softly. He didn’t have all day.

  He peeked around the corner to see her stripping out of her wet clothing, and was shocked to realize that she was the runner he’d almost clipped with his car.

  If only he’d known, he could have saved himself a lot of time and trouble. But then again, it would be better if she just disappeared. That would make it more believable that she’d talked Franco into taking off with the duffel bag of money.

  She’d stripped down to a gray jogging bra and a pair of hot-pink bikini panties by the next time he stole another peek around the corner.

  She wasn’t what he’d expected, but he could definitely see why Franco had been interested in her. She was hot, late twenties–early thirties, in great shape.

  She looked up as if sensing his presence. He jerked back, but realized he couldn’t wait for her to come to him. Not now. Pulling his gun from behind him, he stepped around the corner of the wall.

  “Hello,” he said, pointing the barrel at her heart. “I’m a friend of Franco’s. Scream and I’ll kill you. Keep quiet and you get to live. Put your clothes back on. You and I are going for a little drive.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t scream. She didn’t move. She glanced at the gun, then at his face. “I’m not putting those wet clothes back on.”

  Why couldn’t he for once find a woman who just did what she was told? No, he always had to find one that put up an argument.

  It was his last cognizant thought before she took a tentative step, seemed to wobble as if tired from her run, and flew at him. He never saw her foot coming until it slammed into the side of his head. He dimly felt her painfully twist the gun from his hand an instant before her other foot caught him in the groin.

  But by then he couldn’t isolate the pain, and he was already headed for the floor and unconsciousness, anyway.

  ROSE BALANCED ON the balls of her feet, hopping back, poised to kick him again if necessary. She had the barrel of the gun trained on a kill spot just in case he was still conscious and lunged for her.

  She waited a few seconds, then nudged him hard with her bare foot. Out cold.

  She released the breath she’d been holding.

  Lorenzo Dante. She’d recognized him right off. Until recently, he had been Raymond Valencia’s top lieutenant. She’d heard he was planning to skip the country, and thought he’d alread
y gone. She wondered what he was still doing here. More to the point, what he was doing flat on his back in her living room.

  Her mind worked up several scenarios before going with the one that seemed most likely. Only one person could have led him to her: Franco. And if that was the case, then Franco was dead.

  She felt sick to her stomach as she stared down at the man on the floor. She’d known what she was getting into, but that didn’t make it any easier now.

  Whatever she did, she had to move fast. Had Valencia sent Lorenzo to take care of her, as well?

  The phone rang, startling her. She edged around Lorenzo, just in case he decided to come to. She checked the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. A bad sign. The caller didn’t leave a message. Another bad sign.

  In the kitchen, she pulled a roll of duct tape from a drawer, noticing the window Lorenzo Dante had broken to gain entrance. Bastard.

  It seemed a pretty good bet that if he didn’t report in, someone would come looking for him. If they hadn’t already. Best to make sure that Lorenzo didn’t come to before she could decide what to do with him.

  Back in the living room, she taped his wrists, ankles and mouth, then dragged him back into the kitchen, out of sight of the front door. She was chilled and trembling, her undergarments still soaked.

  The hell with it, she thought as she ran upstairs, turned on the shower and stripped off the rest of her wet clothing before stepping in.

  She would have loved to have stood under the hot spray long enough to really warm up, but that was too risky.

  She shut off the shower and dried herself, listening for any sound that someone else had broken in. At least the next intruder would have easy entrance, thanks to Lorenzo Dante.

  She dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt and boots, then took the packed small suitcase she kept for just such an occurrence. Back downstairs, she was relieved to see that no one else had shown up yet.

  Lorenzo had come to, though. He was giving her the evil eye. She chuckled to herself, remembering her Spanish grandmother’s evil eye. Lorenzo Dante, killer that he was, had nothing on Rose’s grandmother, Rosamaria.