think you got them all,” she said, trying to be ironic but instead sounding breathy and turned on.
He decided to press his luck and hooked his index finger under the thin ribbon holding up her tank top. “I missed one right here.” He slid his finger down the ribbon to the seam above her nipple. She inhaled sharply, and the top of her bare breast swelled against his knuckle, its hard peak grazing his hand.
She stepped back abruptly, forcing him to release her shirt before he ripped it. Their eyes met and held, blazing blue tangling with hot hazel. She looked away first and strode over to her desk and opened her appointment book. “Can you come at ten on Monday?”
Yeah, he could come anytime she wanted him—now, tomorrow, the next day. “Sure.”
“Great.” She swallowed hard, her delicate throat throbbing.
Monday he’d make her forget she was paying him to get naked. In fact, he’d do it for free, out of the goodness of his heart.
“I’ll see you at ten o’clock, Marco.” She sped him to the door. He turned to say goodbye and saw the loft’s thick door close in his face.
She wasn’t as indifferent to him as she pretended. If his Nordic goddess needed some encouragement to thaw, then he’d apply some Cuban heat.
“WHERE IS MARCO FLORES?” Juan Carlos Rodríguez clicked a solid-gold cigar lighter with his manicured thumbnail and stared at the glittering expanse of Biscayne Bay sixty stories below. Tendrils of silence twined around the sumptuously furnished office as he rotated his massive cordovan leather chair to face his assistant, Gabriel. Gabriel, who had been suspicious of Flores since the beginning. Rodríguez had discounted it as jealousy, since Flores was not only an astute businessman but also willing to get his hands dirty, unlike Gabriel.
“The feds don’t know where their key witness is. He disappeared from the safe house several days ago.” Gabriel met his gaze without flinching. “Our informador hasn’t been able to find him, either, señor.”
“How much do we pay this scum informant to pass us information?” Rodríguez opened his rosewood humidor and picked up a thick cigar. He held it to his nose and sniffed, more from habit than anything. The fumes from years of cooking cocaine and methamphetamines had ruined his sense of smell, much to his regret.
“Several thousand a month, if you include the cocaine,” admitted Gabriel. “But he was able to discover that Marco Flores was his real name instead of the alias he used with us.”
Rodríguez cut his cigar with tiny gold scissors and lit the cigar’s cap, rotating it slowly. He let the flame equalize throughout the tip and took a puff. At least he could taste the tobacco. The Cuban cigar rollers had finally gotten his special blend correct. If only everything in his life were as perfect.
Rodríguez had seen Flores as a possible successor. Both Cuban, both self-made men, both ruthless in dealing with their enemies. Except the man he now called Flores had his ruthless streak aimed at an unexpected enemy: himself, Juan Carlos Rodríguez, El Lobo. The Wolf.
And like the wolf, he would track down his prey, despite the incompetence surrounding him.
“Why am I wasting my drugs and my money on this man that you hired? What do you know?”
The younger man shrugged uncomfortably. “We do know that Flores is no longer in town.”
“And that narrows it down to the tiny part of the United States that lies north of Miami!” The drug lord blew a smoke ring, squinting at Gabriel through the haze. “My conspiracy trial starts in just over a month and Marco Flores knows enough to ruin the whole cartel.”
If Flores were alive to testify, the Colombians had made it clear that their esteemed business associate Juan Carlos would not live to see the inside of a prison cell. “So tell your source to find Flores. If he can’t, cut off the money. Then cut off the drugs. Then cut off his balls.”
3
MARCO BOLTED UPRIGHT, his hands gripping an imaginary weapon, his stomach churning. It had been years since he’d dreamed about the raft, that miserable hunk of rotting wood and worn-out tires. He was still amazed it hadn’t sunk and drowned them in the Florida Straits, the ninety miles of dangerous waters between Cuba and the Keys.
He ran a hand through his sweaty scalp. God, he hated his long hair. If he hadn’t agreed to impersonate Francisco, he’d cut it with his brother’s manicure scissors. It only reminded him of the scumbag he’d played in Rodríguez’s organization. He gave a dry laugh. His baby brother wasn’t the only actor in the family.
Marco lay down and grimaced as the futon frame dug into his neck. It reminded him of the time he’d been hit with a two-by-four on a previous sting in Tampa.
He’d fallen asleep last night watching some action flick dubbed into Spanish. One glance at the clock and he groaned. It was already close to eleven in the morning. He swung his legs off the wooden torture device and stood. He couldn’t believe how rotten he felt. The stress from the past year had finally caught up to him, and his body was paying the dues.
He padded into his brother’s kitchenette to scrape together some Cuban-style coffee. He prowled through both cabinets, finally finding a half-empty bag in the freezer. Inhaling deeply, he smiled. The scent of the finely ground Jamaican blend made him homesick for the coffee stands on the streets of Miami.
He pushed away thoughts of home and measured several scoops into the froufrou German coffeemaker. The slightly burned odor of the liquid dribbling into the pot made Marco start to feel better. He opened the fridge to find some milk for his café con leche. It was nearly empty, no dairy products of any kind. Maybe there was some nondairy creamer.
He pulled out a five-pound can of protein powder. Ugh. The label guaranteed maximum increase in muscle. What was wrong with weight lifting?
The fine print read, “With a minimum of sexual side effects.” ¡Caramba! He threw the can into the fridge and checked his fingers to make sure the protein powder hadn’t leaked.
Francisco’s pene was going to shrivel up and fall off if he wasn’t careful with his crazy supplements.
He poured himself a big cup of brew and dumped in some powdered creamer and sugar from dusty containers. He’d found a couple of stale almond biscotti next to the creamer, probably leftover from their mamá’s trip to Chicago last summer. Once the biscotti were dunked in his café con leche, they were somewhat edible. He stared out the kitchen window at the steel-gray sky. He’d better lay in supplies before he got snowed in and had to resort to eating Francisco’s Amazing Penis-Shrinking Powder.
By the time he’d finished his skimpy breakfast, it was almost noon, ten o’clock in L.A. Francisco might have dragged his ass out of bed by now.
Marco grabbed the phone and dialed his brother’s cell phone number.
“Yeah?” a voice crackled.
“Francisco, is that you?”
“Hey, Marco, how’s the Windy City treating you?” His younger brother’s carefree voice floated back to him.
“If it gets any colder, my cojones are going to freeze off.” Marco was wearing a T-shirt, a long-sleeved thermal
