Dirty Little Lies
Authors: Julie Leto
First came
DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS
…now comes
DIRTY LITTLE LIES
, the next action-packed, super-sexy thriller from New York Times bestseller, Julie Leto!
DIRTY LITTLE LITTLE LIES
JULIE LETO
Praise for
Dirty Little Lies…
“A must read for anyone enjoying a little female butt-kicking with a little flare.”
C.J. Yasay
Bookstove
“Leto's style is fast, breezy and loaded with tension. She's created a complex plot that's executed with precision. Her characters have no middle ground and are worth a second look.”
Donna M. Brown
RT Bookreviews
“Compelling drama, engaging and vibrant characters, along with a spicy Latin flavor all combine together to make Julie Leto's latest story a must-have for fans of truly well written romantic suspense.”
Sonya
Fallen Angel Reviews
Main Menu
Dirty Little Secrets (Excerpt)
Dedication
To Helen Breitweiser, agent extraordinaire.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed this Marisela Morales Adventure. The first two books in the series,
Dirty Little Secrets
and
Dirty Little Lies
, were originally released by Pocket Books, but the series was cut short and the third book,
Talk Dirty to Me
, was never published. I’m considering writing this book and releasing it on my own…if reader response to the digital re-release of the first two books proves there is enough interest for me to keep going. I love Marisela, Frankie and the gang and would LOVE to explore more of their down and dirty world, so please, if you’d like to see the third book, send me an email to
http://www.julieleto.com/
or contact me on
Facebook
or
@JulieLeto
on
Twitter
.
Happy Reading!
Prologue
“DON’T STOP, MARISELA
. God, don’t stop.”
Ian Blake forced his eyes open, pushing aside the languid fog coursing through his brain. No matter how heavy his muscles, no matter how dry and parched his throat, he fought to focus on this fantasy come true.
Marisela in his bed.
As she moved atop him, he swallowed deeply, the mingled tastes of bourbon and woman lingering on his palate. The rows of richly scented candles behind her created a halo against her luxurious black hair. Her skin, so naturally brown, glistened with the sheen of sweat, tempering the friction that sparked between their naked bodies. Her thighs tight on his waist, she pumped them closer and closer to orgasm, a forbidden end to a mating that never should have begun.
“Eres tonto, tu no saber quién soy yo.”
Tonto?
Fool? He couldn’t disagree. He’d lost his mind. He’d drunk too much. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time with a woman so wrong, she should have come with a warning label.
She leaned forward and captured his mouth just as his groin tightened and pulsed. He groaned and surrendered. To the lust. To the insatiable need. To Marisela, the woman who’d made it her mission in life to drive him insane.
Once he was spent and fell instantly to sleep, Yizenia Santiago climbed off her lover and sighed appreciatively while working out the kink in her back. He was handsome, this
hombre
. Maybe even more dashing than his father, a man she’d known so long ago. And even high on too much
whisky americana
, he’d been sinfully proficient in bed, even if he’d called her by some other woman’s name.
As she slipped into the living room and prepared to close the pocket doors behind her, Yizenia stopped and looked at Ian Blake’s lithe but well-muscled body draped across the sheets in glorious male splendor. She hadn’t happened upon him in that Back Bay bar by accident. But the state of his sobriety had come as a surprise—one that she’d immediately exploited for both of their pleasure.
In the burgeoning morning light, Yizenia dropped the window blinds, closing out the view of the impressive pond glistening outside her window. She hadn’t expected such beauty in the middle of a big city like Boston, but then, the last time she’d come here, she hadn’t stayed long enough to see the sights. She vowed to explore this Jamaica Plain area, where the vast influx of Hispanic residents would allow her to blend in and go unnoticed.
That is, until she wanted to be noticed.
She quickly brewed and poured her morning
cafécortado
, then reached for the newspaper sent to her months ago; she wanted the article close at hand when she contacted her client. She stretched, working out another of the knots in her lower back, then punched the prearranged number into her phone.
Despite the early hour, the client answered on the first ring.
“
Señora
Santiago?”
Yizenia sneered. The voice on the other end was mechanically disguised. A sign this client didn’t trust her. Did her reputation mean nothing?
“The altered voice device offends me,
señor
,” she said.
“I apologize, Ms. Santiago, but I cannot be too careful. Until our arrangement is settled, such precautions protect us both.”
Yizenia tapped her red-tipped nails on the table beside the phone, noticing yet again how wrinkled her skin was becoming. She reached for the bottle of French lotion she’d purchased on her last holiday, and worked the emollient into her hands as she spoke.
“You will reveal yourself to me before I commit to your cause,” she insisted.
“Of course.”
The answer came quickly. Without hesitation. She supposed that her potential client could be ruined if anyone found out they’d engaged the services of an assassin. Or, as Yizenia preferred to think of herself, a minister of justice.
“
Bien
,” she agreed. For the time being, she had the upper hand in this negotiation.
“Did you receive the information I sent?”
Yizenia eased into the chair beside the phone, the dossier nearby. “
Sí
, but I will need to know more before I decide whether or not these men deserve my attention.”
As the client offered to send her any information she required, Yizenia glanced at a photograph she’d unpacked a few days ago, frowning at how the watercolor hues had faded, how the smiles of her mother and father and younger sister seemed so…forced. Far away. Dead, even though the image had been created nearly a year before they’d been slaughtered by Franco’s secret police.
“According to what I have read, Rebecca Manning received no justice from your courts,” she said finally.
“I thought we would agree on that point.” Even with the mechanical camouflage, she could hear the smile in the client’s voice. The relief. “I’ve lived with this injustice for too long. Now, to watch these men receive accolades and monetary rewards when a beautiful young woman I dearly loved died at their hands…it turns my stomach. I cannot live with this any longer. I’ll pay any price.”
Yizenia listened keenly. The desperation she heard seemed genuine. She should know. She had once attempted to live with the knowledge that the monsters who murdered her family had gone unpunished. When living had become unbearable, she’d decided to take justice into her own hands and mete out the retribution her country’s regime had denied her. Her tragedy had turned her life in a new powerful direction. For nearly forty years she’d traveled the world, killing on behalf of the victimized, risking her life to ensure that God had His chance to punish the unforgivable acts of the arrogant and the cruel.
But now, she was tired. Old, really, though she could still push her slender body and keen mind when she needed to do so. When the price was high enough. When the retribution was swift and sweet.
And this particular case brought an added incentive, one her potential client need know nothing about. She glanced at the pocket doors leading to the bedroom and was satisfied by the sound of snoring.
“My price will be
exorbitante
,” she assured.
“Name it.”
She did. With no hesitation, the client agreed to her terms.
“We must meet,” she demanded. “I insist on shaking the hand of the person courageous enough to engage me.”
Yizenia smiled as the voice described several sites in Boston where they could rendezvous unnoticed. She had fond memories of this quaint American city. Contacts born here. Rivals she’d acquired. And now, the possibility of finding someone to pass the torch to, someone to carry on her mission to right the wrongs of the world.
She committed the meeting place and time to memory. “Then I say
hasta luego
,” she concluded. “You will have your justice soon, I assure you.”
And ultimately, so would she.
One
“SILK SUITS YOU.”
Marisela Morales tried not to jump at the sound of Max’s voice, but his sudden, unexpected presence was the final stomp on her last nerve. It was bad enough being dragged to some society soiree where she stood out like, well, like a Cuban American ex-gang chick amid a mansion full of blue-blooded Boston big shots. But she didn’t appreciate Max, Ian Blake’s right-hand man, reminding her that no matter how honed her instincts were, he could trump her. Every time.
“Would…you…stop…doing that,” she insisted through clenched teeth.
“Doing what? Complimenting you?”
She leveled her gaze into Max’s steely gray glare. She knew he was laughing at her. Gloating. She dropped the subject. Max was a mystery she had no interest in solving tonight.
“Where’s the boss?” she asked.
“Mr. Blake will be along shortly.”
“He can take his time,” she said with a sneer.
Max frowned. “Time to let go of the past, Marisela.”
Marisela’s jaw dropped open.
Max’s expression froze and not surprisingly, he didn’t say a word. Max was nothing if not loyal. But on Marisela’s last mission, Ian Blake had used the life of one of his agents as a bargaining chip against her. And not just any agent, either. Some nights, she still could feel the slick gloss of Frankie’s blood on her hands. And Max expected her to just up and forgive Ian for calling her bluff? Not likely.
“He nearly let Frankie die.”
“But he didn’t die, did he?”
She glanced aside and blew out a frustrated breath. No, Frankie hadn’t died. He’d recovered. Not that she knew how he was doing since he hadn’t bothered to contact her in three months.
“Mr. Blake asked me to bring you this,” Max explained, handing her a flute of pale gold champagne.
“Fancy hooch isn’t going to erase what he did, Max.”
“No, but it might erase that god-awful look on your face.”
“What god-awful look?”
“The one that makes me wonder if you didn’t step in a pile of dog shit on the way up the red carpet?”
Marisela took a long sip of the sparkling wine, rolling her eyes at Max’s earthy assessment. Okay, so she didn’t want to be here, in blustery Boston, at some highfalutin shindig fund-raiser, acting as arm candy to Ian Blake, who, so far, hadn’t even bothered to show his face. She wanted to be back in Mexico, where she and Brynn Blake, Titan International’s majority stockholder and Ian’s twin sister, had been finishing up a case involving the kidnapping and rescue of a corporate CEO who should have known better than to venture into some quaint Chihuahua village just to pay for a piece of ass. The retrieval operation had been dangerous and bloody. She was still riding on the high of their success. Marisela had wanted to stick around when the Titan contingent handed the perpetrators over to the authorities, but she’d been recalled to the home office instead.
“So where are these jewels we’re supposed to be protecting, anyway?” Marisela asked. Several women attending tonight’s masked ball were wearing borrowed jewels as if they were actresses at the Oscars rather than the trophy wives of bloated politicians who showed their generosity toward those less fortunate by planning parties. Thanks to the guest list, security for the event was under the jurisdiction of the state police and the Secret Service. But the guy throwing the party had wanted extra attention paid to the jewels, so he’d hired Titan.
