Savage Secrets (Titan #6) (18 page)

“Almost.” Rocco nodded him away.

“I could’ve been talking about murder and mayhem.” Actually, that was exactly what she was talking about.

“Even better.” The dimple teased her. Rocco dropped to his knees, peering up at her. “Let’s ditch these goons soon as we get to civilization. Time to take advantage of our marital status.”

Her jaw dropped, and she smacked his shoulder. The solid wall of muscle guarded her. “You’re awful.”

A one-sided smile curled on his face. “Oh, come on. Get your mind out of the gutter. Friday night TV. PJs before the sun goes down. It’ll be all laid back and without a care. No one to impress. And room service.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, but if he’d been talking about mind-blowing sex, she’d take him up on that too.

“Hell, Kitten. If chillaxing doesn’t help, you can go back to your Spanish cussing bonanza.
Donde. Grande. Escargot
.”

“Is that all the Spanish you know?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“You know
escargot
isn’t—”

He closed the distance between them. Surprise morphed into something more, something hot. Soft, full lips brushed over hers, and her stomach tumbled. That was it. She was done for. She’d fallen for her partner, her fake husband. Fallen so hard she knew it would hurt when she landed. How could she have thought this wouldn’t happen? Because it couldn’t happen. The husband-wife routine was a game. A ruse. They could kiss, fall into bed, but none of the emotion was supposed to be there. Too bad it was.

Her arms wrapped around his hard muscle and broad shoulders, and her fingers crept up his shoulder blades, along the strong slope of his neck, and into his hair. Soft and silky and thick, strands threaded between her fingers. She’d had many kisses before—many unmemorable moments—but this kiss? Need blasted through her, searing her veins and scrambling her senses. This kiss was a memory-maker.

A low groan vibrated from Rocco. It made her hungry for him, naked and crawling all over her. Flesh on flesh, legs and arms twisted in a fury of abandon. Trembling for his touch, she tightened her fingers in his hair. Pulling him to her. Wanting desperately for this kiss to last forever. It was just too good. Impossible to replicate if it ever stopped. His palms rasped down her cheeks, the callouses so different from the softness of El Mateperros’s sick handshake. The contrasts between the two men boggled her mind. One, she’d die to have between her legs, the other she wanted to kill for even looking at her like that. Rocco was all man. The Dog Killer was nothing but a vile excuse for a human.

“Let’s go.” The driver opened his car door. “Blindfolds are in your seats.”

Rocco’s lips stilled. Her eyes opened to stare deep into his. Warmth covered her cheeks where he kept his cupped hands. Staying still, they locked in a moment.

His smile blossomed against hers, and he chuckled. “
Ay. Dios. Mio
.”

“
Ay Dios mio
?” He was too much fun.

He smacked a kiss back on her lips, lifted her knees, and swung her legs into the car. “That’s about the only thing I know what you’re saying.”

He winked and shut the door. Unable to wipe the glow off her face, she looked out the window before she pulled on her blindfold. El Mateperros stood in the window, watching. His evil eyes nearly glowed. His gaze was on her. No one else. Not the car. Not Rocco. Then his lips moved. She couldn’t read lips, but she knew what he said.
I know who you are
.

CHAPTER TWENTY

All his time at Cambridge and the London School of Economics had taught Yassine how to take his fledgling group and turn them into a money-making organization. Growing up homeless on Algerian streets, he hadn’t had much outlet for his anger other than what the outside world deemed terrorist groups. He’d started on the coast of northern Africa with a fanatical mission, but that had changed long ago. All it took was new life experiences. He was intelligent and street smart. Made a profit running guns between his home and the Spanish coastline. Even though the ACG started as a terrorist organization, it was now nothing more than a means to an end. He, ironically enough, was a capitalist. He liked money, liked to earn it, loved to spend it. Plus, he was smart enough to realize that living as an angry idealist was pointless. His goal was to be rich and soon enough, famous. The cloak of anonymity had been useful for creating an international allure, but now it was time for his great reveal.

Daniel Locke held the key to his next job. Big Ben would be London’s disaster. An attack on the old clock tower would propel him into the limelight. The newspaper headlines would read “The Search for El Mateperros,” while the tabloid headlines whispered about sightings with his favorite footballers and the like. The ACG would leak his photo. His looks had always worked to his benefit. And move over, FBI Top Ten List; he was gunning for the number one position. The ladies would clamor for this attention. And this all started by moving small shipments of guns through tiny coastal towns. Not too bad.

Yassine stood in the window and watched Daniel Locke with his wife, kissing her as though it were the first time. His stomach turned. That was something Yassine had never enjoyed, the kissing. He never enjoyed the warmth of a woman, feeling her move underneath him, or worse, on top of him. He liked them cold and still. Eyes open. Pleased to be with him. Caterina Cruz wanted him, and he knew it within seconds of meeting her. It was the way she stammered through the introduction, how her eyes widened and her hand shook in his.

As Daniel walked to his side of the Mercedes, Caterina stared at the house. At him. Obviously, wishing that it had been Yassine to kiss her instead. “I know what you want.” He put his hands against the window glass. It was cold and lifeless, just as he liked most things.

***

An hour after Caterina, Rocco, and Roman had returned to the hotel, she had on Rocco’s sweatpants and oversized cotton t-shirt. She was sans makeup and had her hair in a messy bun. Her toes curled as she pulled the comforter around her on the couch. Who was she kidding? There was no doubt that kiss at the Dog Killer’s house was for real and not to put on a show for the ACG. There was no doubt she’d fallen for Rocco, desperately, terribly hard.

Roman had left them soon as they hit the lobby. Rocco ditched her for the hotel gym. Not once did he ask what happened when she met El Mateperros. He simply made small talk on the way back to the hotel, helped her sweep for listening devices, then ordered everything on the room service menu for her to spend the night with, along with her thoughts. Forty-five minutes had passed since he’d left, wearing a shirt and shorts that clung to his body. That vision stayed in her mind. Surrounded by plates of food, she should have brought up her meet-the-Dog-Killer freak out, could’ve explained why she’d gawked and couldn’t manage a basic hello. She took a giant scoop of half-melted chocolate ice cream and watched it drip off the spoon. For all she knew, he was at the gym trying to figure out how to continue on with a partner who got stage fright.

Her cheeks burned again, and she shoveled another scoop of melting ice cream into her mouth. What if he was speaking with Roman about how foolish she’d looked? About how she talked a big game but was nothing more than a flake? She blew out a breath over sticky lips.
Get up. Go talk to the guy. Explain what happened, and you won’t feel like such a moron
.

Maybe the guilt and embarrassment would go away. Another bite of soupy ice cream. Maybe not. Maybe she’d just stay here with the ice cream and everything else she’d been picking at. Sampler. Soup. Sandwich.
Get up and go
.

She didn’t change out of Rocco’s clothes. After all, tonight she’d been practically ordered to pull the old married couple act, sweatpants and all. A quick ride to the lower level of the hotel and she followed the signs for the gym. Hotel gyms always smelled the same: plastic and sweat and disinfectant cleaner, all trapped on a lower level.

The sound of one person working out prickled her ears. Of course. It was a Friday night, and the gym wasn’t a happening place at that day and time. She peeked around the corner.

Shirt off and wearing those sinful gym shorts that hung off his hips, Rocco Savage had a body that froze her in place. His biceps and triceps bulged as he pumped in time with a hard run on the treadmill. Her eyes followed the taper of his shoulders down to the curve of his—

“Kitten?” Rocco’s gaze nailed her in the mirrored wall.

Her cheeks flamed. “Hi.”

He planted his feet on either side of the revolving ramp and punched a few buttons to lower the incline. Chest heaving as he wiped his face with a towel, he studied her then drained a bottle of water. She studied the newish scar on his chest.

“Did you need something?” He stretched arms overhead, and every muscle, from pecs to torso, rippled.

Those shorts hung dangerously low. Did she need something? Um, yeah.
I need…

Caterina shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to fess up about El Mateperros. “I’m going to bed. Just wanted to say good night.”

He jumped off the treadmill, seared her with a glance that probably wasn’t meant to be as hot as she took it, and he meandered to the free standing weights. Taking two that weighed about as much as she did, he pulled them to his chest. Those biceps curls made her weak in the knees.

“You came all the way...” Biceps curl. “Down here.” Biceps curl. “To say good night?”

“Should you be doing that? Your chest. That wound looks too fresh—”

Thin smile and a biceps curl. “All good. Ignore it. I do.”

Sore subject.
Got it
. “Like I said, good night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He turned back to the mirror and let her go without another look.

She huffed in the elevator, then again at the hotel room door, frustrated with herself. She hadn’t known where to start, and his bare chest made her dizzy. Now she stared at the bed and remembered how he powered over her and into her, making use of every inch of that king size bed.

“How am I going to survive him?” She stared at the bed.

“Who says you have to?”

She jumped out of her skin, spinning around. “Rocco!”

Her mouth started running before she could stop it. Startled, the Spanish flowed, and that look,
that dimple
, appeared on his face. She took a breath.

“Don’t let me stop you. You’re on a roll.” He still had his shirt off, and she couldn’t be any more aware of how gorgeous he was.

“Bad habit.” She took a deep breath again, always trying to catch her breath around him.

“That’s all right. I like it.” He walked toward the bathroom, shrugging, and threw his shirt over his shoulder. At least he admitted to liking it. She watched him, so confident and unaffected. He could say anything. That was brave, the exact opposite of how she was feeling.

“I have to tell you something.” She tried to put a blast of gusto in her voice, but it didn’t sound as strong as she wanted to.

“What’s up?” He turned and threw his sweaty shirt at her, hooking a landing on her head. The shirt smelled masculine—sweat and cologne—and it made her throat go dry.

“Um.” She snagged the damp shirt. Gross, yet she didn’t want to let it go.

“Want a divorce already?”

“What?” Her jaw fell, and his dimple appeared when he smiled, amused. “No, Roc.” She wasn’t letting go of him until he walked away. “I’m being serious.”

He raised his hands in surrender, and the colors tattooed on his biceps flexed, distracting her from the dimple. He walked into the bathroom but didn’t shut the door. “Jokes are done. What’s up, Kitten?”

She wilted. Plan B: make something up, change the subject, maybe pick a fight. She could just start with the Spanish again. That’d throw him off. “I’m…”

“I won’t tell anyone you snore.”

“Rocco!” She rolled her wrist, staring at the ceiling.

His gaze raked over her, and she felt the caress. “Come on. Just playin’.”

“I lost my train of thought.”

He stared, unconvinced. “Nope. Bullshit. Spit it out.”

“Seriously, it will come back to me. Go. Shower. You need it.” She needed him out of sight for more than one reason. First, to avoid the discussion. Second, to avoid staring. She wanted to kiss his chest, the scars, the muscles, all the way down to where his shorts hung precariously. And, third, she was exhausted. Standing there, exhaustion made her delirious.

“Whatever you say.” He turned his back to her.

The shower faucet turned on, and she shut the bathroom door for him since she would’ve otherwise sat there ogling.

The sounds of water splashing preoccupied her. She killed the lights and listened from the edge of the bed, ignoring the images of what he looked like naked. Her imagination was creative, but the real thing was so much better than anything she could have come up with. Sleeping with a man like Rocco was instant distraction and eventual heartbreak. There was a reason she had nothing. No roots. No home. No loyalties. She didn’t deserve him.
But what about after El Mateperros was gone
? Well, then she would figure out how her life could change. Maybe they could see each other. But right now—