Actually, Melodía, but I prefer Mel.”
“Melody is pretty. Melodía even prettier.”
“Exactly. Pretty like a song, la-la-la. No, thanks. I want people to take my work seriously. Plus Mel is gender neutral.”
“One of the toughest reporters I know goes by Chrissie, so I don’t know that that makes much difference. Your work will speak for you, Melodía.”
Her name on his lips didn’t sound weak or frivolous. It sounded like a beautiful, powerful song. He lay back and pulled her on top of him, looking up at her with so much heat it took her breath away.
Noah made love the way he worked, with persistence, curiosity and a hunger to get at her core, her essence, her truth. What better way to launch her new life?
CHAPTER TWO
“MY PLANE LEAVES SOON,” Noah murmured near Mel’s ear, hating the fact that he would have to get out of this bed they’d rarely left all weekend.
Mel snuggled into him with a little moan of pleasure—a fainter version of the sound she made when she climaxed. In response, he went hard as a rock.
Damn, he didn’t want to go yet. He studied her golden skin, the way her dark hair shone in the gray light leaking through the hotel curtains.
She had the best smell—reminding him of that old-school tropical drink, the Zombie—sweet with a peppery stinger. The cocktail was red, too, which felt like Mel’s color. Intense and fire-bright.
He would have to hustle once he got to Fort Bragg to get his advance work done before he flew out with officers headed to Iraq, where U.S. troops remained to advise and train Iraqi soldiers.
Not the way he usually approached a big assignment, but he wasn’t sorry he’d spent his last free days with Melodía Ramirez. She was one of a kind. A straight shooter and passionate as hell, with a laugh like liquid silver.
She reminded him of himself after J school—hard-driving, totally on fire for the work. Which was how she was in bed, too, he’d been happy to discover.
She lifted her head to shove her thick hair out of her face. He helped her with the rest, running his knuckle along her cheek, enjoying the buttery firmness of her skin—strong and soft like her personality and her name. She had the best mouth. What she could do with that sweet tongue of hers…
She noticed the tent he’d raised and smiled, taking hold of him. “How much time do we have?”
“Enough for what you’ve got in mind.” He rolled her onto her back, she shifted her hips and he entered her, easy as breathing.
All weekend long, when they weren’t having sex, they were talking nonstop and they kept at it all the way to the airport. Mel had a million questions and more ideas than that. At the terminal curb, she bounded out of the car. “I had a great time,” she said, clearly trying to sound cheerful despite the wistful mood that had descended on them both.
“Me, too, Mel.” He pulled her against him, holding tight. I’ll miss you. He had the urge to say it. She was a smart, sexy woman who knew who she was and what she wanted. In life and in bed. It didn’t get much better than that.
“I wish I could go with you,” she said, quickly adding, “to take pictures.” As if he might think she was being clingy. Not Mel.
She stood on her own two feet. He liked that about her.
“Me, too,” he said. “Sadly, I’m taking my own shots, since they won’t spring for a photographer. I’m no Mel Ramirez.” But he wanted her along for more than her camera.
Predictable, he supposed. The result of that postcoital glow, when it all seemed perfect. That was where he’d gone wrong with Pat, his girlfriend for almost a year. Because she was a reporter, he’d figured she would roll with the punches, but he would return from weeks on the road to stony silence and slammed doors, then tears and bitterness when she finally did speak. It was a mistake he hadn’t made since. He knew better than to let anyone or any place sink its hooks in him.
“You’re my hero, you know,” she said.
“God, don’t say that. I’m just a news monkey. I’m all about the byline.”
“We both know better than that.”
He’d told her how hard it had been to convince his editor there were still important stories in Iraq. “If I don’t hit this one out of the park, I’m dead.”
“I have no doubt you will.”
“Talking with you has been good. You remind me why I’m in this crazy business. I owe you for that.” To lighten the moment, he added, “And for the sex. Man, do I owe you for that.” He wrapped both arms around her and she tucked in tight. Damn, she felt good in his arms.
Don’t drag this out. He released her for the crucial reality check. “I’m not good about staying in touch,” he said. “Once I get deep into an assignment, I’m lost. The bases have good internet and cell reception, but away from there, there’s next to nothing, so I—”
“We had a great weekend, Noah,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
She was making it easy for him. He leaned in and kissed her goodbye. “You’re something else.” He couldn’t get enough of her eyes, which crackled with intelligence, humor and fire. They stayed with him on the plane.
Her mother’s story stuck with him, too. She’d risked her life in Salvador to speak out for the truth. And Xavier Sosa, who had died trying to force the world to see a reality it refused to admit.
Mel would carry Sosa’s mission forward, with her eye and her art, exposing truths, large and small, beautiful and surprising, hard to look at, but crucial to see. She was strong-willed, idealistic, but practical, too, with her head on square and her heart as big as hearts got.
Noah had had a weekend he wouldn’t soon forget with a woman he doubted he ever would. Her scent lingered on his clothes all the way to Fort Bragg—one last pleasure to hang on to before the hard work ahead.
Two months later
Phoenix, Arizona
“BE RIGHT BACK.” MEL tossed her camera bag over her shoulder, and hightailed it to the gas station restroom. It was big and shiny and very clean, gracias a Dios.
Since she’d been working for Arizona News Day she’d become a pro at identifying good restrooms from the outside. Lately, she’d spent more time in them than usual. She’d assumed it was some weird stomach flu, since her mother had complained, too. In fact, Irena had gone to the doctor that morning to find out what was causing her cramps and nausea.
Lately, though, Mel had had another idea about her own stomach upset and it had nothing to do with a virus.
She and Dave Roberts, the reporter she was working with, were about to leave for the housing development where police believed human smugglers were using foreclosure homes as drop houses, but she had enough time to test her theory about her health. She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.
Five minutes
