"You're amazing," he said, sliding a finger inside her and flicking his thumb on the taut button of her sex. She felt her climax build and wriggled her hips against his hand.
"Now," she said, "I want you inside me now."
He pulled her down to the bed, shoved his shorts off and covered her body with his heavy weight and her lips with his mouth. "Is this what you want, Isabella?" Her name on his lips was an aphrodisiac as she thrust her hips upward to meet the hard, moist tip of him at her entrance.
"Yes," she groaned.
His voice sounded as if he were in control but his heart raced on top of her, a filmy sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he strained to hold himself back. "Say it, sweetheart, say you want me."
"I want you. Oh, God, I want you!" she fairly screamed and at that moment, he thrust into her hard and fast, filling her until she knew she'd come without any movement on his part.
But he held himself still, held himself back, and held her quietly, willing the sweet release of climax to subside. He lay on top of her, breathing heavily until he began a slow, sexy thrusting in and out of her. She felt the pressure building again to an exquisite pleasure that exploded through her body like a dam bursting. She bit her lip and tried to hold the sounds back but they erupted in tiny, helpless gasps and moans.
Rafe pounded into her long moments as she rode the length of her climax out and he emptied himself into her. After their hearts had slowed down and he'd slicked back her hair from her forehead, he kissed her softly and rolled off her, tucking her backside tightly against him.
Bella must've drifted off to sleep, or at least thought she'd dozed because when she awoke, the room was chilly and Rafe was gone. She stretched and looked at the bedside clock. One o'clock. She slipped from the bed and pulled a robe over her naked body.
In the kitchen Rafe leaned against the counter, talking quietly on his cell phone. When he saw her in the doorway, he quickly snapped the phone off.
She padded quietly across the cold tile floor. "Who was that?"
"A cop friend in L.A. I think I've mentioned Max Jensen?"
She smiled slowly, still languid from their lovemaking. "I remember Max. I met him at your office."
"Right." He reached over and pulled her against his side, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Hey, you're cold. Let's go back to bed. I'll warm you up again."
She laughed and ran her hands up his chest, feeling the smooth muscles and sinews beneath the skin. "I'd like that."
In bed she snuggled beneath his arm as he pulled the covers over them. She loved feeling her naked body against his side, the strength in his arms and the power in his thigh nestled between her legs. She trailed her fingers over his chest. "What did Max Jensen want?"
"Personal stuff." He paused to cup her breast and nuzzle her neck. "Family trouble."
"Hmmm."
His hands slid up and down her hips to distract her completely. "Max is taking a couple weeks off work and coming up here. He'll give me a hand on the Vargas case."
"Oh," she said. And then again, louder this time, as he worked his magic with his clever fingers and hands.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The untraceable cell phone by Santos' nightstand blared out a strident sound, Diego Vargas' tone signal. Santos glanced at the clock before reaching for the phone. Two a.m. Ay, did El Vaquero never sleep?
"¿Sí?"
"The shipment has arrived."
A shipment of China White through the Port of Wintuan. Why had Vargas called to relay information which would have come to Santos within the hour?
"¡Venido aquí rápidamente!"
Santos was instantly alert. "¿Por qué? Why? What has happened?"
"There are problems." Vargas coughed out the words.
"What kind of problems?"
"Do not speak over the phone," Vargas growled.
He spat out the next words almost as if he'd forgotten the disrespect Santos had shown. "And do not ask why when I tell you to come. Get your fucking ass over here! Now!" He cut the connection.
Santos' security men swept Diego's phones and home every week. There was no possibility that he was being bugged, but El Jefe had become rabidly paranoid. A man like that made serious mistakes.
Santos arrived less than twenty minutes later. This current shipment was scheduled for distribution north to Reno and south to Bakersfield. If something was wrong, they would have difficulty getting the price they'd asked. Their contacts did not like to wait for their product.
As he approached Vargas' guarded fortress, Santos noted the added security men at the gate and outside the front door. They recognized him, however, and passed him through at once.
At the door, he knocked lightly, not wishing to awaken Corazon, and seconds later, Diego swung open the heavy oak door and waved him in. For the first time since Santos had come to work for Vargas at the age of nineteen, Vargas looked haggard – old. He'd been a robust forty-year-old man then and now was nearly sixty, but tonight he bore the lined face and stooped shoulders of a man nearly a decade older.
Perhaps now was the time for Diego Vargas to retire.
"What is the problem with the shipment?" Santos asked, looking around the huge industrial kitchen where Vargas had led him. This room was Magdalena's sanctuary. She loved to cook and the low ceiling dangled with an array of cooking utensils.
Vargas poured himself a Jack Daniels neat, and Santos could tell by the slack mouth that this was not the boss's first drink of the as-yet very early day.
"Pedro thinks the shipment is light. We must weigh it again." Vargas threw back his drink in one swift gulp. "Mi Dios, I do not have time for problems!"
"How light?"
"He did not say."
"Pedro always worries unnecessarily," Santos said, leaning against the island counter. "Tomaré el cuidado de problema."
"You will straighten it out tonight?"
"Sí, right away." Santos turned to leave as the wall phone in the kitchen rang.
A flash of panic ran over Vargas' slack features. "¿Qué ahora?" What now?
He grabbed the phone off the hook and muttered into the receiver. "Who?" Pause. "Yes," he said shortly. Another pause. "Are you certain that it is him?" Pause. "Allow him to pass."
He hung up and turned to Santos. "Another problem. Alejandro is here."
That meant something had gone wrong with the hit.
Alejandro was brought by two armed guards into Santos' office. El Jefe sat behind his gaudy, over-sized desk of expensive teak that he'd had specially made several years ago.
Vargas took in Alejandro's appearance. "What happened?" An ugly line of stitches crossed Alejandro's forehead and ran along his right arm. His face was bruised and battered. "You reported that everything went well." Vargas twirled the liquid in his third drink since Santos had arrived.
"Creímos que todo estaba muy bien," Alejandro babbled, "pero entonces – "
"English! Speak English!" Santos roared.
"¿Que?" Vargas asked, his tone like death. "What went wrong?"
The man was too frightened of Santos looming over him to remember his English. "Uno de la muchacha escapada."
¡Mierde! One of the girls escaped.
"¡Qué!" Vargas screamed again. "How could that happen?"
"No sé, El Vaquero," the man whispered. "No sé."
"Calm down," Santos said. "Here." He thrust a drink into the man's shaking hands. It was hard to believe Alejandro was a hired killer, but his fear of Vargas and Santos ran deep. "Give us the details."