Dirty Little Lies (2 page)

“You have half an hour until your shift,” Max informed her. “Finish your champagne. Mingle. Get a feel for the layout of the place. But stay out of trouble.”

She turned to blast him for his parental tone, but not surprisingly, Max had disappeared. She found some measure of comfort in the fact that she caught sight of the back of his head as he eased through the crowd.

He wasn’t a ghost, but he sure as hell acted like one sometimes.

Mingle, he’d said. Get a feel for the layout.

She’d rather get a feel for the dark-skinned, long-haired
hombre
on the other side of the dance floor, staring at her as if she were the only woman in the room.

He wore a sequined black mask, but with the slim line of a beard tracing the hard edge of his chin, he oozed machismo. His tuxedo emphasized his physique—not too muscled, but by no means slim. She arched a brow, intrigued. With a cool stride, he walked from the foyer and into the ballroom, stopping to raise his champagne toward her in invitation.

Moving in his direction, she downed the rest of her own champagne and deposited the empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray. She did look hot tonight. And she still had a good thirty minutes before Max would miraculously find her and escort her to her post. Might as well find someone…er, something…interesting to do until then.

As she moved, she enjoyed the soft, friction of her silk gown against her skin. One perk of working for Titan was the wardrobe. She’d been hustled from the private airstrip where the Titan plane had landed from Mexico, to an exclusive Newbury Street boutique, where she’d chosen the most expensive gown in the shop. Royal purple and spaghetti strapped, the dress curved deliciously over her body from the plunging neckline to the fitted bodice to the skirt that flared at the hips with just enough Latina swish to hide the LadySmith revolver she had strapped to her inner thigh.

But she doubted she’d need the piece tonight. Anyone who tried to rob this bunch would have to be certifiable. As she wove through the dance floor seeking out the sexy man in black, she noticed security guards posted near every exit. The Secret Service had blocked off access to large portions of the expansive grounds, and even Titan’s operatives had to check in through a special clearance procedure.

But none of that mattered to her when she caught sight of her mystery man talking to the bandleader. A few seconds later, the music segued into a Latin beat. A salsa. Not a boppy, cheerful salsa, but a sensual, sultry one. The music instantly pulsed deep in her belly. A crowd surged around her. Even the
gringos
couldn’t resist such an undeniable rhythm.

She dosed her eyes. Listened. Son of a bitch. He’d requested
“Reina de Reinas.”
Queen of queens. She moved the bangle bracelet she wore on her left wrist and glanced at her tattoo, the only physical evidence left of her gang days, except for the scar behind her ear, hidden by her thick, dark hair. The brand at the base of her hand was a small purple crown, tipped with red jewels—the color of rubies, the color of blood. The color
las Reinas
wore when they wanted their enemies to be very, very afraid.

Her eyes flashed to the man in black. He stood in front of the stage, his face hidden behind a mask she could now see was tied with a bloodred ribbon. He raised a hand toward her, beckoning, inviting, demanding.

With an intrigued smile, she stepped nearer, inviting the music into her blood. The bongos beat a sway into her hips and the horns blared the shimmy into her shoulders. The minute the flesh of her fingers finally slid into his warm palm, he tugged her forward against his chest, rock hard and flowing with pure male power. She’d just danced herself into danger of the most carnal kind.

And after one glance into his hazel eyes—flecked with slivers of deep jade green—followed by the tandem swivel of his hips pressed close to hers, she knew.

Danger with a capital
F
. She smiled cryptically. The
cabrón
. Did he really think she wouldn’t recognize him?

He grinned, emphasizing the thin, sculpted line of facial hair that traced from his sideburns down his strong chin, then spiked up toward his full lips. The dark streak of a moustache dashed across his upper lip and the wicked triangle below his bottom lip made him look like
el diablo
himself. To anyone else, his disguise might have been convincing.

But not to the girl who’d given him her virginity.

“So, where have you been all my life?” she asked him in Spanish.

Or more specifically, for the last three months. On their last mission together, Frankie Vega had taken a bullet that had nearly cost him his life. Before she’d left for Mexico, she’d stayed by his side, making sure that he lived long enough to turn her life upside down at least one more time.

He didn’t answer her question, but instead, spun her skillfully beneath his arm, then stepped into the dance with sure and certain fire. Marisela matched him twist for twist, turn for turn, and kicked-up heel to kicked-up heel. Gazes locked, they danced the full breadth of the song until just before the final verse, when he slid his hand to the small of her back, yanked her flush against him, and then spun them off the dance floor into a corner behind the bandstand.

He pressed his palm against the paneled wall and a door slid open. Marisela bet the cops out front didn’t know about this hiding place, though she wasn’t surprised Frankie had found it. He had a talent for finding places he wasn’t supposed to know about. With a slight gesture, he invited her inside. Once they were through a narrow archway, a steep and winding stairwell emerged from the shadows. Marisela freed herself from his bone-melting embrace and placed her palm squarely on the center of his chest.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?” she whispered, her nose skimming the rough texture of his chin.

“A cielo encantadora.”

She laughed. Frankie had called her many things over the years, but “witch” had always been one of his favorites.

“To heaven, huh?” She traced his slim beard, enjoying the textures beneath her fingertip—the smooth heat of his skin, the prickly pinch of his razor-thin beard that effectively covered the scar she knew lingered beneath his bottom lip. “You look more like
el diablo
than any angel I’ve ever known,
señor
. But then, that’s the idea, isn’t it?”

He tilted his cheek into her palm, then turned to kiss the sweet spot on the inside of her wrist, squarely on the tattoo he had watched her get over ten years ago.

“Venga con mi, mi amor. Tengamos una noche divertida.”

Come with him and have a wild night? She could think of worse offers. Like listening to Ian Blake schmooze with plastic politicians. Or watching over a bunch of rich women who didn’t have the sense not to flaunt jewelry that could finance a few small third-world nations. Still, if she’d learned one thing from Brynn, it was that the job had to come first.

“I’m supposed to be working,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Darkness enshrouded them, but she could hear the music just beyond the wall.

With an insistent touch, Frankie turned her chin toward him. His mouth curved into a half-frown, half-pout as he took her hand in his and led her up the stairs.
“¿En que trabajas?”

Only half reluctantly, she followed, amused at Frankie’s game, asking her what she did for a living when he’d been the one to get her this gig in the first place. But tonight, he was leading her astray and likely enjoying every minute. She figured he’d be damned happy if she got fired. Again. Without Brynn to run to her rescue this time.

“I usually spend my time looking for bad guys,” she answered.

Her comment inspired a smile that cracked beneath the edges of his mask.
“Tu a encontrado.”

Yeah, she’d found a bad guy, all right. One of the baddest around—and damn if that didn’t thrill her to the bone.

At the top of the staircase, Frankie led her into the darkness of a shadowed niche. To her left, Marisela could hear the sounds from the ballroom drifting upward. He’d led her into the dome above the dancers, where a balcony, hidden by velvet curtains, kept them from view. From here, they could watch the activity below unseen.

If they were interested.

Which Marisela was not.

Frankie tugged her in close so that her body, covered in silk so delicate she’d eschewed traditional undergarments in favor of a skimpy thong, instantly molded to his hard, unyielding muscles. She leaned close and inhaled the scent on his neck. The fragrance was musky and male. The aroma curled around them, drawing her so close, his breath brushed her neck only seconds before his lips followed the same erotic path.

He whispered in Spanish, but the words didn’t matter. Her mind was a swirl of color and sensation and she could focus only on the press of his hands over her hips, the scratch of his moustache across her neck, the heat of his lips on her shoulder. Against her ribs, the familiar jab of his sidearm heightened the polarity of safety and danger she felt in his arms. She speared her fingers into his hair, breaking the string that secured his ponytail. Suddenly, she realized that the hair she’d always known to be thick and wavy flowed through her fingers like threads of silk, fine and polished.

Doubt slammed into her. She opened her mouth to question his identity when he captured her lips with his own. The kiss was classic Frankie—possessive, urgent, and oh-so-thorough.

She yanked off his mask. With a push against his hard chest, she forced him back so that his cocky smile emerged in the shadowy light.

“You didn’t know it was me, did you?”

She wanted to slap that smirk right off him. “I knew it was you the whole time!”

“Sure you did,
vidita
. I’m thinking a couple of months without me in your bed made you so hot, you’d do any guy with dark skin and an accent to make up for what you’ve been missing.”

Keeping her rage in check, Marisela stepped farther into the alcove above the ballroom. The salsa music had given way to a disco tune. “Turn the Beat Around.” They’d escaped just in time.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Getting you excited,” he answered, reaching forward and flicking her tight, aroused nipple.

She’d backed up against the velvet curtain, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from pushing this challenge too far.

“You’re some piece of work,” Marisela claimed, borrowing one of Brynn’s favorite phrases. “You think just because I’m back you can take up where you left off, with your hands in my pants?”

“Worked last time.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been up to the last few months,” she claimed haughtily. “Maybe I’ve moved on.”

“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Marisela. I know everything you’ve been doing the last few months, right down to the vibrator you bought at that little sex shop in Tijuana with the
horchata
lollipops shaped like dicks in the window. I could give you a play-by-play of what happened next. Want me to?” He eased closer, and unless she planned on performing a backward flip out of the curtained archway onto the dancing crowd below, she couldn’t retreat any farther.

Not that she wanted to. It seemed silly to protest when the feel of his hand inching up her inner thigh ignited a fire that hadn’t been stoked in entirely too long. His eyes narrowed when he found her thong, and with a hard snap, he invited a rush of blood and sensation to the intimate lips of her
concha
.

She let her head fall back, inviting Frankie’s lips to taste the sensitive skin of her throat. He complied, and the mixture of the soft, moist heat of his mouth with the stiff, cool friction from his beard nearly drove her plummeting over the edge. Her eyes fluttered open just in time to realize that she was leaning so far back, she was halfway outside the curtain, exposed to the crowd below.

With a startled laugh, she glanced down, hoping no one—particularly Ian Blake—had witnessed her indiscretion. Confident they hadn’t been spotted, Marisela turned back toward Frankie—just in time to see the flash of a gun barrel—a gun trained on the crowd below.

Two

WITH A SHOVE
, Marisela sent Frankie flying out of her way, his Glock now gripped tight in her hands. She aimed and pulled the trigger—a split second before the rifle across from her fired. Or maybe a split second after. She wasn’t sure. But the curtain flared and from the other side, she heard a startled curse.

A cacophony of screams erupted from below and the music stopped mid-note. Marisela looked down. A man lay on the ground, blood pooling behind his head on the polished dance floor, his eyes staring blankly upward.

She tossed Frankie his gun and retrieved her own from beneath the folds of her skirt. Pointing to the curtain she’d fired at, Marisela then jerked her thumb to the left while she started down the circular hallway to the right, gun leveled ahead of her.

Behind her, she heard authoritative shouts spiraling upward, likely inside the narrow, hidden stairs she and Frankie had taken earlier. Great. What if some rent-a-cop confused her with the assassin, shot first and asked for ID later?

She met up with Frankie, both of them having completed their half-circle of the balcony. The opening to the main staircase mawed in front of them, brightly lit and covered in plush carpet. The ultimate escape route.

“I found this,” he said, flashing the spent cartridge in front of her.

“Security’s coming up behind us,” Marisela said.

Frankie grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the wall. “If security in this place was any good, the congressman wouldn’t be dead.”

“You know him?”

Frankie shook his head. “Heard him introduced earlier. His wife is wearing several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of ice around her neck.”

When the cops appeared, Marisela and Frankie held their weapons above their heads and identified themselves as Titan operatives. While two uniformed officers from the state police checked out their names by walkie-talkie, the rest of the contingent headed downstairs via the open stairway.