Red Hot Christmas (36 page)

      “Now,” she demanded.

He plunged into her. She stopped breathing for a while. Oh…it was divine. The sound of their fast breaths rivaled the beats of her heart that hammered in her ears. Her world was about to explode already. She contracted around him at first, giving her inner walls some time to get used to his size, and he teased her. He licked her lips with the tip of his tongue, setting ripples of arousal through her. Leaving her no choice but to arch toward him, her hands scratching his hard ass.

      “That’s my girl,” he growled, and started to thrust deeper and stronger.
 

      His girl? She wasn’t anyone’s girl, but the endearment—in the midst of a powerful sex session—melted her bones.
 

      He continued to cheer her on, saying sweet nothings in Spanish, and that did it for her. She clutched her legs around his butt, and nipped his ear. He groaned, and continued to impale her until they both convulsed together, his heartbeat frantic against her own.
 

      Her thighs still trembled by the time he rolled off her. She was almost fully clothed, and her natural instinct to pull up the sheets and cover herself was futile.
 

      She propped on her elbow and studied him as he composed himself. “What happened? And don’t you dare say sex. You told me the detective would get in touch, and you’re gone most of the morning, then storm in and screw me like the world is about to end.”
 

      He stared at her in silence, and a flicker of pain hit his chocolate irises. “I got devastating news.”

      “Meaning?” She sat up, pulse racing. Her instinct was to dash out of bed and put her jeans back on. One thing she learned from working for Mr. Phillips was that money had the power to minimize bad news. What if—

“I found out my uncle is my biological father. Which makes Amparo my half sister.” The frustration in his voice pulled her to reality.
 

His uncle?
 

“He had an affair with my mother for years.”

      She curled her fingers on the sheet, and brought her knees to her chest. “I’m sorry. How did you find out?” Constanza was an elegantly aged woman, and back in the day she would have been exquisite. Besides, didn’t affairs and compromised happiness come along with political entanglements and marriages? She peered at Alejandro.
 

      An exasperated sigh from his parted lips filled the room. “The detective told me my uncle had a meeting with Frank in New York. I went to talk to Evandro to find out.”
 

      She crossed her arms over her chest. When exactly had the detective called him? Was that why he hurried them out of the beach house and left her alone all morning? A pang of frustration hit her. She shook her head.
Keep focus
. “Do you think your uncle killed him?”

      “The writer?” He swung one leg over the other and got out of the bed, then reached for his pants. “Why would he kill him if he was paying him?”

      “Because he didn’t want to be a target?”

      “Evandro did not kill him,” his mother’s voice came from the closed door behind them. “He’s not that kind of man. Open the door, Alejandro. We need to talk.”
 

      Sydney scrambled out of bed, and slid her undies and jeans on in Olympic record time.
 

      Alejandro thrust his fingers through his hair and pursed his lips.
 

      Why would his mother listen behind a door? Wasn’t there a limit for what the woman would do?
 

      He opened the door.
 

She stepped inside and narrowed her eyes at Sydney. “Can we talk alone?”

Sydney’s cheeks heated. Annoyance crept under her skin. Was Constanza worried that Sydney would see right through her? Sydney made to leave, embarrassed, but he lifted his hands, gesturing for her to stay put.
 

“Whatever you say to me, Sydney can hear it,” he said, and a wave of empowerment surged through her. When was the last time someone had made her feel like she mattered? “And make it fast, because I’m leaving soon.”
 

His mother frowned, hands perched on her waist. “Christmas is in a couple days. You can’t abandon your family.”

      He gave a sarcastic laugh. “You can’t expect me to be part of this charade after what I found out.”

      “Have you ever considered Carla might be responsible for the writer’s death?”

      He sat on the edge of the bed. “She’s somewhere in Europe.”

      “No,” his mother said in a low voice. She paced in a circle, her fingers fidgeting over her ruffled shirt. “That’s what her mother told us. But I heard from a friend she’s in a psychiatric clinic in the country. Maybe she left the clinic and traveled.”

      He raised his gaze to hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      His mother brought her hands together in a soundless clap. “That she went bonkers after you broke up with her? I wanted to protect you.”

      Sydney’s heart thrummed in her ears. His ex girlfriend went to a clinic because of him? And he didn’t even know?
 

Alejandro rose to his feet, making a thumping sound on the carpet. “In case you haven’t noticed, mother, I’m not six anymore. I don’t need your so-called protection,” he said, and without looking at his mother, proceeded to grab a briefcase from the closet and throw some items inside. “Amparo is dead. She was my half sister and neither of us knew.”
 

“Mi querido…,”
she strung along a few words in Spanish, no doubt to throw Sydney off track.
 

      Sydney wasn’t an idiot. She saw Constanza erasing the gap between them, trying for a conciliatory hug. Alejandro lifted his hand to stop her and stepped back. His lips thinned in a set, stubborn line.
 

      Sydney chewed on her bottom lip. What could she say? Hadn’t she been a part of several failed relationships at her foster homes? Disappointment was a constant in her life, whether she had caused it or witnessed it. Her heart swelled in sympathy for Alejandro, growing so fast so quickly that she feared it would burst.

      “Grab your things, Sydney. We’re leaving.”
 

Chapter 9

      During the drive to the Four Seasons, his lips remained sealed in a tight line. She tried to leave him alone, but her gaze strayed to him as if she had no say in the matter. Besides, leaving him alone was out of the question.
 

      Alejandro checked them into an amazing suite, larger than her doubts. Two bodyguards followed behind them, exchanging a few sentences in Spanish.
 

      The look in his mother’s eyes haunted her memory. She’d witnessed all the accusations. What if at the end of the day, they screwed her over? What if, his mother and uncle set out to get her? She needed to think through the options, because if one of them—his uncle or mother—were to blame for Frank’s death, she would have to disappear from sight. Disappear from Alejandro’s life. In the end, he would side with his family.
 

      Wasn’t that what he’d done, by choosing not to tell her about his suspicion of his uncle? She found out much later because he had needed to vent. Certainly not because he trusted her to find a solution. Why would he? She was a former inmate.
 

      “What if we talk to your ex?” she asked.
 

      He continued to pace the suite. The living area had a set of taupe sofas, and tanned polished side tables that gave the ginormous space a French country flair. From what she had seen in magazines, anyway. She had never flown out of the States, besides this trip. And flair wasn’t exactly her forte.

      Neither was walking on eggshells. However, before voicing her suspicion of his mother, exploring the possibilities was critical. She couldn’t just blurt out her thoughts, not this time.
 

      He turned to her and rubbed the back of his neck. “I called the clinic. To be able to visit Carla, I need to get written authorization from her mother.”
 

       A chilly sensation brewed in the pit of her stomach and spread throughout her body. She would get to know someone who, despite how badly it ended, had been romantically linked to Alejandro for a while. A twang of jealousy spiked her, and she shook her head. Out of all the crazy things that she had done and seen, jealousy over a mental patient had never been one of them. Until now. “Do you think that will be a problem?”

      He let out a sigh. “Her mother used to like me, but if I’m the reason she lost it and was admitted, that’s a different story.”

      She walked to a cherrywood chess table and picked out a black king. The piece felt good in her hand as she palmed it. In her second foster home, her parents had played on an old chessboard, and she’d watched them in silence. Whenever they went to the backyard for a smoke or hurried into their room for one of their constant fights, she scurried to the table and clasped the pieces in her hand. “Let’s give it a try.”

      “Yeah.” He stalked toward her.
 

      She fidgeted the king from one hand to the other, to distract her from his proximity. “Are you prepared to find out the truth about Frank’s killer?” She raised her gaze to his.
 

      “Whoever killed Frank Lewis must pay.” Determination flickered in his eyes, and for a moment she almost believed him. She clamped her lips, and set the king piece back on the smooth checkered surface where it belonged. Would a man like him really go forward and bring his mother or uncle to the authorities if needed? Would he throw his uncle’s, no, his father’s political career in the trash along with his own reputation?
 

      Crossing her arms around her chest, she sucked in a breath. “Do you want to order anything from room service?”

      “I’m not hungry.” He grabbed the menu from the console and handed it to her. “Go ahead.”
 

      She slid her fingers over the smooth edges of the leather bound menu. “I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff in my life, but tonight caught me by surprise. Do you want to talk?”

      “No.” He pursed his lips. “I want to see you naked.”

      Holding the menu against her chest like that was some kind of protection against the sparkle in his eyes, she balked. “Why?”

      He removed his shoes and socks and tossed them to the side. “Because I had a pretty shitty day, and deserve to be rewarded.”

      With a sigh, she loosened her grip on the menu until it dropped on the floor. Her sex clenched. “I don’t know that that’s a reward.”

      He loosened his collar so fast, a couple of buttons flew from his shirt. “Why can’t I decide for myself? I’m fucking tired of people deciding things for me,” he said, his voice firm. “I am thirty-three years old, Sydney. Trust me, I can handle it.” He cleared his throat and stared at her, and a veneer of vulnerability hit his otherwise hardened features. She saw the bob of his Adam’s apple work its way down, and the frustration in how he jammed both fingers into his pockets.
 

      “Fine.” She lifted her chin, but her resolve dissolved as she unbuttoned her jeans with trembling fingers. She managed to slide the jeans off, the rough denim clinging to her skin like a warning. Her last chance. Her plan was to avoid looking at him until she was bare, but he squashed it with a demand.
 

      “Eyes on me.”

      With a lump in her throat, she removed her shirt over her head and tossed it on the floor. Her fingers itched to flip off the subdued lamp, which was soothing yet bright enough to show him everything she would rather conceal. She lifted her gaze to his, and he gave her a reassuring nod.
 

      
You can do it, girl
. She chewed on her inner cheek, and shuffled her weight from one foot to another. Right. She slid her fingers over her bra, and realized that and the scrap of undies were her only protection against what was about to happen
.
Her stomach fluttered, and she almost moved her face to escape from his scrutiny. Then…his eyes sparked with fascination and he leaned back as if he wanted to give her a good look.
 

      She unclasped her bra, and let it slide down her shoulders. Next, she pulled down her panties.
 

      “Exquisite.” He angled closer and traced the scarring path that started at her neck, swirled down the side of her chest, all the way down her hip. “You make me forget about everything else.”

      She sucked in her breath. He kissed her scars, one by one. Her limbs loosened and her belly burned as if she’d downed a shot of tequila. “Alejandro…”

      “You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever met,” he said in a low, growly voice.

      Okay. Two shots of tequila.
 

When he lowered to her marred hip, he slid his wet tongue over her flesh, lifted his hand to her buttocks, and massaged her. With wobbly knees, she fought to stay upright. He pushed her against the wall, and brought her legs over his shoulders. Relentless, he buried his head between her thighs, and she leaned back, slipping out a moan.