"See you around, amigo," the little man said, sliding across the bench.
At that precise moment, the woman in the red dress glided past the table on her way back from the restroom.
"Chica," Lupe hailed her retreating back, "mi amigo está aquí." My friend is here.
When she turned at the sound of his voice, he added. "Por favor. Mi amigo piensa que usted es muy bonita."
My friend thinks you are very pretty. Christ, no one was more of an ass than Lupe with a few whiskeys in him.
Rafe stood belatedly and indicated the seat opposite him. The woman hesitated a moment, then inclined her head as regally as a queen and occupied the place Lupe had just vacated.
"Buenos noches," Lupe tossed over his shoulder as he sauntered across the room and exited through the large wide doors of Stuckey's entrance.
Now what?
What did this bold, dark-eyed beauty want? If Rafe hadn't glimpsed the underlying vulnerability in her eyes, he'd have thought she was a high-priced call girl. If he hadn't observed how the sisters watched like hawks from their position nearby, ready to swoop down at the first sign of danger, he'd have thought she wanted something quick and elemental.
At her smile a swirl of desire quickened his groin. A few hours with a woman like her would do wonders for his mood.
He stretched his hand across the table. "Hello," he said, giving her the slow smile his mother always said could melt the icebergs of Greenland. "I'm Ashraf, long A, call me Rafe."
Chapter Four
Lupe almost reached Francisca's apartment.
He had delivered the information to Rafe. Tomorrow he would meet with the young Norteño gang member who could supply him with the last pieces of information to pass along to Rafe. Life was good. The night was still young, and the thrill of his love for his girlfriend overshadowed his natural caution.
Lupe was only half a block away, deep in the thought of snuggling up close to his esposita, when a warning raised the hackles on his neck. The limousine appeared out of nowhere, its windows tinted so darkly Lupe could not see inside. He did not need to.
He had no doubt who drove the black sedan. Who sat in the backseat. Though he had no reason to believe his cover had been blown, he felt irrational fear as he fingered the Guadalupe Virgin's medallion.
The driver's door swung open. Gabriel Santos climbed out and rested his giant's hands covered in expensive leather gloves on top of the car. "Hola." The single-word greeting sounded ominous to Lupe's guilty ears.
"El jefe," Lupe said, "¿Porqué está usted aquí?" But he was very much afraid that he knew why Santos was here, so close to the home of the woman he loved.
"Consiga en el coche." Get in the car.
Lupe did not dare disobey Santos' command, so he quickly slid into the back seat.
At first he thought there were two passengers in the back. He smelled the distinctive cologne and knew one of the occupants was Diego Vargas, El Vaquero. The other person sat in the middle, but his head slumped forward and his limp hands dangled between his legs. Lupe feared to look at either of the men and kept his eyes drilled to the back of Santos' head as he pulled the car onto the street.
They drove in silence for thirty, forty minutes. Lupe lost track of the time. His only thoughts were of Francisca. He pictured her waiting for him, a bowl of salsa and chips on the coffee table, the television tuned to her favorite show. Waiting. But he was not sure he would return to her this night.
He desperately wanted to ask the name of the third man.
Abruptly the car stopped and Santos reached up to turn on the dome light. Lupe glanced involuntarily toward the person beside him like a man drawn to a fatal car crash. Jesús Novato, the young Norteño.
His face was a bloody pulp, but Lupe recognized the tattoo on the left side of his neck, a red X4, fourteen. Home-grown, a prison tat. He glanced at the hands between Novato's knees and saw the missing fingers and the dark stain that covered the groin of his jeans.
¡Madre del Dios! Lo castraron. Lupe would never see Francisca again. Nor his beautiful baby boy. They would castrate him too.
Fueled by the unaccustomed liquor, Bella had babbled about her family's immigration from Zihuatanejo, Mexico, before she was born, of her three older brothers and sisters and the family's difficult adjustment to life in North America.
After two hours of conversation and coffee – no dancing – her loose-tongued chatter revealed that she had three older sisters, one who'd died at a young age. Died, she'd told Rafe, although in her heart of hearts she believed Maria was still alive somewhere.
Frivolous chatter between strangers. Neither had revealed a last name.
All the while, she'd escaped in the swirling emeralds of his eyes slashed through with tiny black flecks like angry cuts. Sharp and probing, the eyes were a strange contrast to his coppery skin and short thick lashes. A wide scar bisected his left eyebrow and gave him the roguish look of a pirate. A rush of pheromones flooded her as his gaze wandered to her mouth and lingered there, then dipped to the cleavage that spilled from the juncture of her breasts.
By contrast to her, she realized, he'd revealed almost nothing about himself. Which was fine because all she wanted was a few hours of casual flirtation.
Breaking off from his steady gaze, she glanced around the bar. Consuelo and Anita gave her the sign it was time to go. For all their urging, they had no intention of letting their baby sister go home with a stranger. Not that she would, even though she quite liked Ashraf, call him Rafe, long A.
Isabella, she'd said in turn, call her Bella. No last names.
Which was exactly how she wanted it.
She liked his wry sense of humor and gentlemanly manners. And there was the assurance of his badge which he'd flashed early on. They were practically comrades in arms, she thought, but of course, she didn't tell him that.
A part of her almost wished he hadn't revealed that he worked for the government. Although, in truth, she'd hardly glanced at the badge.
Was he FBI, CIA or…? Some triple-letter acronym. And Bella didn't want to know which one.
What she really wanted to know was if he were as sinewy and muscled as he appeared beneath the fine white shirt and the expensive gray suit. If his skin were as cool and smooth as it looked. His fingers lay on the table top, long and dark, strong and capable looking.
She imagined all kinds of clever things those hands, those fingers, could do. Involuntarily, she ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips. A delicious chill ran up her spine.
"Are you cold?" Without waiting for an answer, he scooted around the booth, removed his jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. He lingered there, his arm draped around her body while her fingers caressed the expensive wool. She wanted to savor every moment of the evening with this exciting man.
She stared at the cup of coffee in front of her as the caffeine hit her brain. Her eyes lowered, she pulled the jacket closer around the deep red of her dress.
What now? How would they end this delightful seduction? She wished she'd paid better attention to Romance 101 in law school. But, no, discovery motions and appellate court cases had always been more interesting to her than socializing. But now, in spite of knowing next to nothing about Ashraf, call me Rafe, she wasn't eager to leave.
He placed a warm hand over hers and smiled a flash of brilliant white. Her eyes flickered toward the bartender, a rotund, heavily-bearded man who used a gigantic bar mop to wipe down the backsplash. With swift, efficient movements, he stacked clean glasses beneath the counter and restocked the liquor section.