felt that warm awakening in his belly again under Lana’s scrutiny. If this woman could turn him on just looking at his picture, he couldn’t imagine what her touch would do to him. He shivered.
“This—” he tapped the card “—was taken in the summer. My hair tends to get darker in the winter. Any other questions? Do you want me to shed my jacket so you can check out my…weight?”
Lana’s eyes widened for a second, and a pink blush touched her mocha skin. “I’m not questioning you. The ID matches the man. Do you like Mexican?”
He blinked. He liked this Mexican. A lot.
“Food. Do you like Mexican food?” She stomped the dirt from her boots like a filly ready to trot.
“I’m from Texas. What do you think?”
“I’ve eaten Mexican food in Texas before, and if you think that salsa is hot…you’re dreaming.”
His lips twitched into a smile. If California salsa was as hot as Lana Moreno, he’d love it and ask for more. “Then I’m in for a treat because I like it hot and spicy.”
Ignoring his innuendo, she turned her back on him and marched toward the street.
When they turned the corner and reached the front of the strip mall, someone in Congressman Cordova’s office flicked the blinds at the window. Was the congressman afraid Lana would come storming back in?
She hadn’t mentioned what she and Cordova discussed during their private conversation but judging from her tears after the meeting, it wasn’t what she’d wanted.
She must’ve noticed the blinds, as well. Squaring her shoulders, she tossed her head, her dark mane shimmering down her back. “The restaurant’s about ten minutes away.”
She gave him the name and address and then hopped into an old white pickup truck with a flick of her fingers.
Could she reach the pedals of that monster? As if to prove she could, she cranked on the engine and rattled past him.
Logan shook his head as he ducked into the small rental. He’d gotten more than he’d bargained for with Sergeant Gilbert Moreno’s sister. He just hoped they could help each other, and for that, he needed to stay on Ms. Moreno’s good side, which just might involve a little lying or at least some omission of the facts.
He plugged the restaurant’s address into his phone and followed the directions that led him several miles away from the congressman’s office. The buildings and streets on this side of town lacked the spiffy newness of the other area, but the restaurant stood out from the rest. It occupied a Spanish adobe building with a colorful sign out front and a small line at the door.
Logan parked his car and strode toward the entrance, his cowboy boots right at home with the ranchera music blaring from a bar two doors down from the restaurant.
Lana waved from the arched doorway of the restaurant, and he wove through the line of people waiting for a table.
“How long is the wait?”
“I already have a table in the back.”
Logan raised his eyebrows. “Are you a regular here?”
“You could say that.” She turned her head over her shoulder as she led him to their table, a small one that looked like an afterthought, tucked in next to the bar.
Logan reached past her to pull out a chair.
Putting a hand on the back of the chair, she said, “I’m going to wash my hands first.”
“Probably not a bad idea.” He turned his hands over and rubbed a thumb on his dirty palm.
“This way.” She pointed down a short hallway behind the bar, and he followed her to the restrooms, his gaze slipping to her rounded derriere in her tight jeans.
Several minutes later, he made it back to the table, where two glasses of water waited for them, before she did.
Lana strolled from the kitchen, chatting with one of the waitresses, and Logan had a second chance to pull out her chair.
Lana thanked him as she took her seat. “Iced tea for me, Gabby.”
“And for you?”
“Water is fine.” Logan tapped the water glass on the table.
As soon as the waitress left, a busboy showed up with a basket of chips and a small bowl of salsa.
“Is the service always this good, or is it just you?”
“The service is always good here. It’s one of the oldest Mexican restaurants in Greenvale, and one of the most popular—at least with the locals.”
“And you’re a local? Have you always lived in Greenvale?”
“My grandfather was a bracero in the Central Valley, worked the fields on a seasonal basis and then brought over my grandmother and their ten children. My father was third to the youngest.”
“So, you have a big family here.”
“Not here… Salinas. Most of them are still in Salinas. My father came to Greenvale to work with horses on a ranch. When the work became too much for him, he started cooking—here.”
“Is he still in the kitchen?”
“He died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Your mother?”
“My mother went back to her family in Mexico. My grandmother is ill and Mom takes care of her.” She picked up a chip from the basket and broke it in two. “And you? Dallas native?”
“Born and raised outside of the Dallas–Fort Worth area.” He dipped a chip in the salsa and crunched it between his teeth. He waved his hand in front of his mouth as he chewed it. “You weren’t kidding. This stuff is hot.”
“I can have Gabby bring a milder version for you, Tex.”
He grabbed another chip and scooped up even more of the salsa. “Oh, them’s fightin’ words. Now it’s a matter of pride.”
Lana smiled, and their dark, little corner of the restaurant blazed with light.
“Competitive much?”
He nodded as he dabbed his runny nose with a napkin. Luckily Gabby saved him from stuffing his face with any more of the hot stuff as she approached their table and took their order.
When Gabby left, Logan took a sip of his water and hunched forward. “Tell me, Lana, why do you think there’s more to the story than the government is telling us about the attack on the embassy?”
“Because my brother told me there was.”
“He died in the attack.”
She flinched. “He suspected something was going on before the attack.”
