KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (6 page)

“A tactical error on my part put you in unnecessary danger tonight,” he said. “For that, I apologize.”

She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t. Believing him meant trusting him and she wasn’t about to let her primed and simmering hormones cloud her already foggy judgment. She uncrossed her legs and balanced both feet firmly in front of her, leaning her elbows on her knees. He’d interpret the move as casual. But she was ready to strike if she didn’t like the more detailed version of his explanation.

“Nestor Rocha wanted me dead,” she spat. “Has for a long time. How come you didn’t know that? Everyone else in West Tampa did.”

He nodded. “Yes, well, I don’t know much about West Tampa, Ms. Morales. My initial contact here made himself scarce and time constraints forced me to move without him. Mr. Rocha was employed simply to lead us to you. We had no idea he’d manipulate the situation for his own benefit.”

“Crooks and killers like Rocha don’t give a damn about anyone’s agenda but their own. You should choose your hired help more carefully. You’re out of your league. Your ‘ivy’ league, if you know what I mean.”

He chuckled softly. “Very good. Yes, I know exactly what you mean. In fact, my deficit in that particular area is why I need a woman with your expertise for an operation I’m putting together.”

“My expertise?” she asked, a doubtful laugh in her voice. “What, you need a manicure?”

He leveled her self-indulgent grin with a steely glare. Apparently, he was no longer in the mood for jokes.
Well, hell
. After tangling with clearly unresolved attraction to her ex, killing a man in her kitchen, and then grappling with some fantasy man who clearly held her future in his hands, a little cheesy comedy could go a long way.

“No manicure, I had one Tuesday,” he claimed, and she believed him. He was just the type of guy both vain enough and man enough to have his nails professionally done. “I’m more interested in your… natural abilities.”

He hadn’t said anything the least bit offensive, but Marisela felt her skin ripple with gooseflesh all the same. His pause, just before he said the word
natural
, gave the word a lurid ring. As if he knew what she’d done tonight. Not with Nestor, but with Frankie. As if he wanted a piece of the sexual action for himself.

“Sorry,” she answered, ignoring how her mouth suddenly dried. “I ain’t selling.”

She balanced her hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed to her feet, her shoulders tensed, ready to counter any attack that might keep her here one minute longer. He matched her stance, unrestrained in his desire to meet her point for point. Did he sense how he unnerved her? Did he think pumping up the charm would lure her to play his game, whatever it was?

She didn’t know his name or where he was from. Or what he really wanted. But she couldn’t forget that he’d been responsible for a scenario that forced her to take a life—and yet, she experienced a familiar tug of attraction nonetheless. With this
varón
exuding sex from his expertly clipped tawny hair to the dark threads in his silk socks, how could she fight her intrinsic reaction to get busy?

By reminding herself that this bastard had her parents, that’s how.

She wanted to go home, make sure her mother didn’t find so much as a crocheted doily out of place, not to mention bloodstains on the new kitchen rugs with the swaying palm tree motif. But most of all, she wanted out of here before her jumbled emotions led her into the exact kind of temptation the nuns at St. Joseph’s had warned about.

“Don’t you at least want to hear my offer?” He made no move to touch her, but kept her captive with his tone. He had an enticing voice to match his expressive eyes and expensive shoes. If he wasn’t a politician or a gigolo, he was missing his calling. “I’m willing to pay more than you’ve made in your entire lifetime.”

That stopped her. Currently out of work, Marisela couldn’t ignore a chance at big money. At least, not until she heard exactly what he had in mind.

“To do what? A makeover?”

“You’re a bail enforcement agent.”

She shook her head. “Your intel is old. I
was
a bail enforcement agent.”

“Fired, four weeks ago last Thursday, after an unfortunate plea agreement with the prosecutor’s office. You allegedly beat one Rob Dalton within an inch of his life after he jumped bail, abandoning his devoted wife and their four children to skip town with his gay lover. The prosecutor allowed you to trade your license to carry for your freedom and a clean record. You accepted. A smart move.”

She arched a brow, conceding the accuracy of his information.

“Sometimes I lose my temper.”

“Don’t we all?”

A laugh burst out of her before she could hold it back. “I’m willing to bet you never lose your temper. At least, not when people might see.”

This time, he arched his brow. “You’re a good judge of character.

“I try.”

“You’re also physically adept, formally trained in
krav maga
at the Twenty-second Street gym by an ex-NYPD sergeant named Whiskey Parker. You also have extensive informal training courtesy of a rather brawl-happy group of women who call themselves
las Reinas
. You’re mentally quick, a fast draw and an accurate shot. You speak fluent Spanish with a Cuban dialect, and you need money. Other than the little problem with your temper, you’re the perfect candidate for the job I’m offering—especially since without your license, you can’t work in law enforcement in any capacity.”

He recited the condensed version of her past and the bleak reality of her future with total confidence that he’d missed nothing—which he hadn’t. Nothing of consequence, anyway. And he’d delivered the rundown in a deep throaty voice that evoked thoughts of sweaty sheets and iced champagne rather than skanky jail cells and unemployment.

She hooked the thumb of her left hand in her waistband, leaving her right hand free, just in case. “I’m a hot tamale, what can I say?”

“You’re a lethal hot tamale, Ms. Morales. Which is why I’d like you to work for me.”

Again, acute speculation lit his blue eyes, reminding her of the aquamarine earrings her parents’ had bought her for her
quinceañera
. God, this man was magnetic. He seemed to appreciate her sharp quips and irreverent comments. And most perilous of all, he seemed to know when she was acting all that to make a point.

“Look, I still don’t know who you are, much less what you do,” she pointed out, desperate to regain the upper hand. “Kind of hard to make a life-changing decision without more information.”

He stood, unfolding to his full height, his chest mere inches from hers. “I’m not sure that you’re ready for all the details yet. You’ve had a trying evening.”

A trying evening? More than likely, the women in his rich-ass, pampered world had “trying evenings” when the designer dress they’d chosen for dinner at the club had a rip in the hem and the maid had the night off. Yet, for all his spit and polish, she sensed a man who knew, at least by rumor, the true nature of violence, crime, and risk.

They matched stares, stances. His gaze lowered, sweeping over her in appreciation that didn’t seem lecherous, and yet, taunted her. Enticed her.

“I’m not a killer,” she insisted. “Despite what happened tonight.”

“Mr. Rocha’s job was to lead us to you, help us test your ability to stand against several men in a fight. He obviously had his own agenda.”

“You might have known how he hated me if you’d checked him out with the right people. Like me, for instance,” she challenged.

“No argument. And because of my unfortunate lapse in judgment spawned by a tight timetable, you now have the upper hand in our negotiation.”

“You have my parents.”

He shook his head. “Not for much longer. They will be home any minute. I won’t use them as leverage. Doesn’t exactly engender trust between employer and employee, does it?”

Narrowing her eyes, she searched his face for any sign that he was lying. She found none.

“I’m not an ex-cop or ex-military,” she said. “I’m just a girl who once had a semi-interesting job and a past in a gang. Besides, I’ve got a rap sheet, though that didn’t stop you from hiring Nestor.”

“In my business, a dubious past can be an asset.”

“Really? And what business is that?”

With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to sit again. He also brushed her arm with his fingers, sending a spark of electric awareness crackling around them. For a moment, Marisela considered chastising herself for allowing this man’s buff body, devilish good looks, and well-cut suit to excite her so intrinsically. He’d nearly gotten her killed. He’d set her up, forced her into a situation where she’d had no other option but to kill a man.

On the flip side, toying with the sexual tension coiling between them beat the hell out of waiting in the church parking lot to be first in line for confession after what she’d done to Frankie. Not to mention Nestor.

She eased into the chair, but instead of crossing her legs casually as she had before, she kicked her heels up onto his desk ankle over ankle. With his back to the desk, she’d blocked him from moving in any direction—except backward. Retreat.

He remained still. “My company is a varied conglomerate, mostly private investigation, protection, security. We need someone like you—well acquainted with the criminal element. You know how to move in and out of their circles and you speak the language of the man I’m currently after. You’re beautiful and you can take care of yourself in a fight if your backup is somehow diverted or delayed.”

“You certainly think you know a lot about me,” she said.

“I do, and you know it. Besides, your reputation precedes you,” he answered.

“Really? Maybe yours does, too… of course I wouldn’t know because I still have no idea who the hell you are.”

“Forgive me. My name is Ian Blake.”

She kept her hands folded across her stomach, a sliver of bare skin poking from beneath her midriff tee.

He took her coolness in stride. “I’m the president and CEO of Titan International.”

She rolled the name around in her head. Nothing.

“Tell me when I’m supposed to be impressed. I wouldn’t want to sound stupid for not knowing you. Or Titan International.”

His grin quirked up on one side, bringing one dimple into sharp relief against his rugged jaw, smooth shaven, yet still dangerously angled. “We’re one of the top private investigation firms in the country. We handle some of the business the CIA, DEA, and the FBI don’t have the manpower for.”

She looked around, refusing to appear dazzled by his claim. “And you have a location in Tampa?”

Ian glanced around. “In the United States, we’re headquartered in Boston. This is a small, discreet satellite office, one we may or may not keep in operation after our business here is complete.”

Marisela laughed. Though blindfolded before she’d left the car with Max, she’d traversed yards of hallway before arriving at Ian Blake’s private lair. If this office was small, then so was her Jennifer Lopez butt.

“You can check us out,” he offered. “Information is readily available through various sources. I actually didn’t plan to discuss the details of the case tonight.”

“What? You were going to wait until after I got out of the hospital? How kind.”

“You look no worse for wear,” he insisted.

She swiped a finger over the cut on the side of her mouth. The sting had dulled and the blood had stopped seeping onto her tongue, though she could feel the ugly swelling of moist flesh. She didn’t even want to think about what she’d discover when she peeled off her blouse and examined her back from where Rocha had flung her against the table. There went wearing her teeny-weeny red bikini to the beach tomorrow.

She shook her head, and felt the strain in her neck. “Yeah, I’ll bet I look like Miss America.”

“I’ve known quite a few Miss Americas. You have entirely more panache.”

She rolled her eyes at the compliment, then forced herself to stand. “I’ve got a lot more than panache going for me,” she said, eyeing him up and down with unhidden appreciation.

“No doubt. Would you like to hear my offer?”

She shrugged as if the money didn’t matter. “Hit me.”

He complied. The dollar amount nearly knocked her off her feet.

At her stunned silence, he grinned. “Too little?”

She couldn’t think. No one promised cash payments of that ilk just for knocking a few heads around, maybe digging into some dirt. Still, she had no means of comparison and wasn’t about to let this smooth talker take her for a ride. “Maybe.”

His stare skewered her, but then an indulgent grin lightened the mood. “You need time to think over the compensation package. That’s understandable. Take the night. I’ll find you in the morning,” he promised.

To regain a semblance of power, she flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off the shoulder of his suit. Marisela had her bold moments, but touching a stranger, hunk or not, without a reason, was brazen, even for her.

She broke the contact, winked, then strolled to the door.

“Just sit tight, Mr. Blake. If I’m interested, I’ll find you.”

Five

“Marisela, wake up!
The traffic is going to suck if we don’t hit the road.”

Marisela rolled over, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. Her brain throbbed in time to Lia’s pounding on the door.
Dios mio
. Why was Lia here at daybreak? To torture her?

“Marisela, open the door right now or I’m leaving without you.”

“Cállate!”
she shouted, but the reverberation of the volume and pitch sent her flopping back into her pillow. “
Por favor, mija, cállate
.”

The last part came out in a pathetic croak, so Marisela pulled the sheet over her head and whimpered.

Apparently, her friend heard the desperation in Marisela’s voice and toned down her knocking to light taps.

“Marisela, your mother’s getting suspicious.”

With a groan, Marisela whipped off the tangled sheets. She sat up and staggered to the door, flipping the lock. Wavering, she waited for Lia to slip her skinny body inside before she crashed back on the mattress.