Beneath the booth he stretched his legs, glanced at his wristwatch for the tenth time in as many minutes, and swore under his breath. Damn Lupe! Even though notoriously late, he'd never failed to show up altogether. Now the man was nearly an hour overdue.
The dumb bastard probably got himself made. Or worse, the somber thought intruded, killed by some very bad hombres. The possibility of losing his informant disturbed him, not only because Lupe Rodriquez was an excellent source, but because he genuinely liked the man.
Nah, he finally concluded, Lupe Rodriquez was far too wily to be caught.
Chapter Three
Rafe slouched against the plush bench of his corner booth, idly running his finger around the wet circle rings on the table. He'd give Lupe fifteen minutes more. He checked his watch again as if sheer will power could urge the lethargic minute hand forward. He suppressed a yawn, loosened the knot of his tie, and finally reached for his wallet.
That's when he noticed the three women.
They surrounded a small round table across the room, flimsy, high-heeled shoes on their feet, their bare legs swinging above the floor as they sat on backless stools. A healthy row of Margaritas and Piña Coladas lined up on sturdy paper coasters in front of them, and the empty glasses showed they'd been at it a while.
He shook his head. Been too long, old man, when a bevy of pretty girls doesn't catch your attention right away. Even as he pulled a twenty from his wallet, he observed from the corner of his eye that one of the women rose from her chair and wended her way toward him.
Deliberately and very provocatively, her legs stretched, thighs flashing beneath the deep blood red of her skirt. Her hips swayed gently and the hem of her dress swished like satin on silk as she moved straight toward his booth.
As she got closer, he saw that her skin was flawless, pale and creamy as pearls. Her eyes never wavered from his, deep coals set in a smooth face, cheekbones that spoke of the ancestry of some long-ago Spanish conquistador.
Holy Mother of God. Had it been that long?
Her tangle of dark brown curls fell messily to her shoulders, bare except for two ridiculous tiny straps that rose from the mounds of her breasts. And very lovely breasts they were, displayed from the deep vee of her neckline.
Rafe tilted his head to look around her. Behind her, the remaining two women stared at the girl's back, their hands shielding mouths that held back laughter. Their eyes sparkled and twin dimples flashed in their cheeks.
Sisters, he thought instantly. Older than the sultry vixen making her way toward him, but definitely sisters. Macbeth's three witches, concocting some seductive brew for their unsuspecting thane.
He flashed his most congenial grin and watched the woman approach.
Bella hesitated and then ploughed on, undaunted by the grin on the stranger's face. Damn her sisters. Come on, Bella, don't be so serious, Bella. Let down your hair, Bella. And here she was. Over an hour and too many drinks later, she rose to the challenge of her meddling sisters.
After all, what did it matter? Except for her family, she knew no one in Los Angeles. As soon as she delivered the papers on Diego Vargas to the DEA field office tomorrow morning, she was heading straight back to Sacramento. She'd never see this man again.
And that was a good thing because she was dressed to the nines in a borrowed garment that surely made her look like a hooker, neckline plunging clear down to the Promised Land. Her hair pulled from its usual tidy knot, curled and then ruffled so it looked like a tempest had swept around her. Her sisters had pinched her cheeks until she looked like someone who'd just tumbled out of bed after a very satisfying romp.
And now this very lean, dark stranger with crisp black hair and an attractive five-o'clock shadow looked like he wanted to do things to her that she'd only read about in magazines.
Faltering at the last moment, she stumbled in the four-inch heels Anita had pushed on her, toeless shoes with thin red straps. A startled look crossed the man's face as he rose to catch her. Perfect, she thought, but the idea was foiled when another man, a short Hispanic dressed shabbily in Levis and tee-shirt brushed past her.
That gentle bump was all it took.
As graceless as a top spinning down, she wavered, wobbled, and crashed to the floor. Her dress front dipped dangerously close to her nipples and her hands reached backward to cushion her fall. She felt the jolt from wrists to elbows and wondered briefly if the tiny crack she heard was the breaking of some small bone. Or her stupid pride.
Worse than anything, the hem of her dress bunched around her waist and she remembered the devilishly skimpy panties she'd purchased last Christmas and wore for the first time tonight. She opened her eyes to the amused look and extended hand of the stranger.
Up close, she recognized the swarthy complexion of a desert tribe descendant, the black slash of brow across his face, the kink of curl in the cropped dark hair. He skimmed oddly flecked green eyes down her body, reminding her again of her underwear.
While she lay there in a stupor, he grabbed her hand, a knowing smile carving a perfectly sculpted mouth as he pulled her to her feet. "Are you all right?"
Good God, he was lovely, Bella thought, imagining his eyes sparkled with more inane questions. Are you single? Are you available? Are you really wearing underwear because I wasn't sure what I saw while you sprawled in front of me?
Bella shook her head mutely, heat creeping into her face and chest, and glanced over her shoulder. Her sisters sat twirling thin straws in colorful drinks. They smiled calmly and waved. They knew she'd hurt little more than her pride.
The stranger's hand, large and warm, enclosed hers in a strong grip. "Why don't you have a seat?" So polite, so suave.
She wrenched a modicum of dignity from within and tugged her hand from his gentle grip. "I believe a trip to the ladies room might restore a little of my decorum."
Rafe swept his arm to the right where the restrooms lay and executed a courtly bow. She laughed. Classy woman, he thought. She'd need a moment to recover her pride, and he needed to deal with his very tardy informant.
When Rafe turned back to the booth again, Lupe had already settled into the opposite corner, a toothpick protruding from between his teeth, a whiskey in front of him.
"You're late," Rafe growled. "Again." He slid into the booth across from his informant.
Lupe Rodriquez tilted his head to observe the retreating figure of the woman Rafe had just pulled off the floor. "Hey, man, seems like you was passin' your time real nice."
Rafe glowered and leaned across the space between them. "Don't screw around, Lupe. What have you got for me?"
Rodriquez withdrew a crumpled envelope from his jeans pocket, smoothed out the crinkled edges, and handed it across the table. Rafe scanned the contents quickly. Dates, docking times, and pier numbers, but no ship names or ports of entry.
"What the hell, Lupe? I need more information than this." He slipped the paper into his inside jacket pocket and crumpled up the envelope.
Lupe glanced around and lowered his voice. "Don't worry. I'm seeing a guy tonight. He has the rest of the info."
Rafe nodded. "Were you followed?"
"Possibly." Lupe spread his hands and grinned. "But, hermano, I am as slick as the oil on my mama's tortilla pan. No one sees me if I do not want them to."
"Some day that cocky attitude is going to get you killed," Rafe warned, wondering again why he trusted this exasperating, over-confident man. He opened his wallet, extracted a large bill, and pushed it across the table. Lupe swiped it up faster than a street huckster.