Intimate Enemies (21 page)

“
Dios mío
,
Cassie
. I want you.”

His words still shimmered in her ears and shot heat through her body every time she remembered.

With one arm crossed over his chest and tucked under the opposite arm, he spoke softly into the silver phone at his ear—in a language she didn’t know but that sounded suspiciously…Middle Eastern?

“Good evening.” Saul greeted Cassie in a cool voice, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked straight back, ivory shirt and tan slacks perfectly pressed, and those refined, classically handsome features rigidly blank.

Something had changed. The sickening-sweet demeanor he’d been using had shifted. Cassie knew him well, knew his moods, and there was definitely something amiss.

All her senses sharpened, and she found her gaze seeking Rio again, attempting to read his body language, his expressions.

From across the room, he glanced over his shoulder. When their gazes met, she felt the connection like a physical click, two pieces fitting together. Then his speech turned to English, and that coupling broke, leaving her uncertain. As if that weren’t enough of a roller-coaster ride, Rio swept her with a long, slow look that mirrored the desire she’d been restraining for days. Her body responded with radiant heat deep in her belly.

Rio disconnected from his call and greeted her. “Cassie.”

He didn’t even attempt a smile but pulled out her chair with the gentlemanly grace of someone raised with money, though somehow she doubted he was raised in that environment. She found herself wondering about his family again. About his sister and what had happened.

When he slid the chair smoothly underneath her without a whisper in her ear or brush of his fingers, Cassie experienced a pang of disappointment. Her reaction was so passive-aggressive, a wash of shame heated her face.
She
was the one who’d put
him
off. He’d tried to break the ice several times throughout the day, and she’d rebuffed every attempt, unable to decide whether she was angry, hurt, confused or…all of the above. Still didn’t.

“Rio. How many languages do you speak?”

Marta hustled out with salads and wine. Rio pulled the bottles from where they lay tucked under her arm and took his own seat. “Four, fluently. I can get by in another three.”

Her mouth fell open. Okay, maybe she’d been wrong about him growing up without money.

She was formulating questions when Saul said, “Natividad Anza would like to set up a meeting to talk to you about the clinic,
mija
.”

Cassie put Rio’s affinity for languages aside and searched her mind for name recognition. “Who’s Natividad Anza?”

“The woman I was telling you about.” He picked up his wine and set his gaze on Cassie. An eerie dullness veiled his expression, one that had always meant huge conflict would follow. “The one who can help you with setup and operations.”

Anger spiked. Her jaw twitched. “Oh, right. No, thanks. I’m not interested. How’s your business going? Still exporting?”

Something hit her shin. She startled, looked up at Rio, whose face held a clear warning:
Don’t.

She hoped hers conveyed the return communication:
Screw you.

“Yes,” Saul drawled. “I’m doing all right.”

She pushed Rio’s foot away and returned her attention to Saul. “No…problems?”

He paused in the act of spearing cucumber and lettuce. “No, why?”

“Because I’m still trying to figure out what possible trouble would warrant the need for someone of Rio’s”
—
she shot him a look
—
“obvious skill…in your business.”

Saul stabbed the salad, then glared at Cassie. Nice. She’d hit a nerve. “I don’t dabble in finger paints, Cassandra. The artwork I handle is very valuable. Artists this skilled are rare. I spend a great deal of time locating them, coaching them, and wooing them into trusting me to represent their work. I can’t take care of the shipping and receiving as well. Rio secures the art during travel, collects payments, and sees that my customers are completely satisfied.”

She knew this was all bullshit; still, a streak of jealousy heated her face. She tipped her head at Rio, who was now filling Cassie’s glass with wine. “And do you always leave his clients satisfied?”

The bastard grinned. Not much and there was no humor in it, but still… He stopped pouring and looked directly into her eyes. “One hundred and fifty percent satisfied, one hundred and fifty percent of the time.”

Sensual heat slid through her body. He dropped his gaze to her wineglass and started pouring again. Cassie watched the crimson liquid swirl against the crystal.

“Yes, these artists are diamonds in the rough, to be sure.” Saul’s voice chilled the sexual heat. He put down his fork, picked up his wine, and admired the light play in the burgundy liquid. “I’m the first to export and sell their work in the United States.”

A tingle ran across the back of Cassie’s neck at the same time the clink of glass sounded. Her gaze darted back to the wine just as a deep red splash hit the crisp white tablecloth. Rio swore under his breath and covered the imperfection with the napkin from his lap.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“No worries, Rio,” Saul said.

Cassie picked up her glass, collected the crimson drip on the outside with her finger, and licked it off, but she wasn’t feeling playful or seductive as she had this morning when she’d been teasing Rio with the donuts.

God, had that only been just hours ago? She’d felt so close to him. Hadn’t felt that connected to someone she cared about since…well, probably Santos. Yet, here they were, all cool formality and shadowy games again. This yo-yo action wasn’t getting old—it was dead and rotting.

She refocused on Saul. “You export to the States?”

“Oh, yes. And Europe and Asia.”

Cassie had to suppress a snort of disgust. Saul’s arrogance bit him in the ass every time. Only this time it had taken a bite out of Rio too.
This
was why she went to the trouble to dress for dinner and tortured herself with his company. Ironically, Saul had always been the best source of information against himself.

“Rio?” She waited until he looked up—reluctantly. “You travel? To the States?” She smiled…sweetly. “How do you do that?”

He filled his own wineglass, nearly twice as full as the others, and watched her over the rim as he drank half. He set his glass down, met her gaze steadily, and said, “The way all Americans do—with a passport.”

It took a full three seconds for that information to register. All amusement vanished. Her fork slid from her fingers and hit the plate. The
clink
startled her out of her stunned state. “You’re…
American
?”

He picked up his wine. “Not by birth, but yes, I’m American.” Drank another quarter of the glass and settled a
stop pushing
look on her. “Traveling is not an issue.”

American.
American?

Her mind flashed back to the smooth way he’d slid the gun from his jeans that morning. To his supreme confidence. To the authoritative tone of his voice.

She struggled to bring up Mike’s information. After he’d killed her hopes of Rio’s honor as a Mexican cop, she’d only been half listening.

She studied Rio. Police? Mexican cop, maybe. But an
American
cop? Hard to imagine. He was just too… Manipulative? Dark? Bad? But Mike had always said the best cops had some criminal edge. It made them think outside the box, gave them the cojones to do what it took to get the job done, allowed them to stay one step ahead of the bad guy.

If Rio was a cop, that made Saul the bad guy Rio was getting the jump on. Now, that was easy for Cassie to imagine. And if Saul went to prison, Cassie got her home back—no questions, no problems, no lawyers.

Rio watched her watch him. He knew she suspected him of…something. But he looked as cool as ever. He was evidently secure in the secrets he held.

This only meant he’d hidden them well. This only meant that Cassie would have to dig farther and search longer. But in the end, she would uncover them. Her happiness, her future, her very sanity hinged on knowing the truth.

Thirteen

Cassie leaned back as Marta took her salad plate and replaced it with a platter filled with enchiladas dripping in sauce, rice, and beans. Her stomach clenched in approval, but she was too busy thinking to eat.

“Saul,” Cassie said as Marta continued to serve. “I’m going to be going over the estate’s finances tomorrow. After dinner, would you make sure all the numbers are up to date in the computer?”

She’d actually already skimmed the accounts. In fact, she’d printed out copies of every month’s expenditures for the last two years with the plan of looking them over on the move between the clinic and wherever her investigation took her. While she hadn’t seen anything glaring—other than what she already knew of the money shift from Casa del Refugio to the estate to the prostitutes, which of course he paid for in cash—she hadn’t been looking for anything specific.

And after Ray had told her that wouldn’t invalidate her mother’s will, she’d pushed her inspection of the estate’s books down on the priority list. But the possibilities jumbling her mind now brought it right back up to the top.

Who knew what she’d find among those numbers, but she’d be looking at them with an eye toward the activities Mike had mentioned—drugs, weapons, smuggling—and anything else that looked the least out of the ordinary—extortion, political bribes, contract killings. Because if Rio was a cop, that meant Saul wasn’t just a creepy, selfish bastard. It meant he was bad in a major way.

Cassie didn’t know if Rio had access to the finances, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to spot discrepancies like she could. She knew every nuance of this estate. Knew every expense. And she’d know if money had gone astray. Saul sat back in his chair, palms resting against the edge of the table. “That’s what we have accountants for, Cassandra.”

“I have an appointment scheduled with him as well. But I want the most recent numbers.” And now that she’d given him a heads up, she wanted to see if those numbers changed from when she’d printed them yesterday.

He fluffed rice with his fork. “He’ll be here Saturday night. Why don’t you just talk to him then?”

“Why will he be here Saturday night?”

“I have a get-together planned this weekend. Many of your mother’s acquaintances will be here, people who have asked after your well-being and would love to see you. Remember to keep Saturday night open.”

Cassie’s heart contracted. The pain spurred anger. “A party?” She spoke before she thought, never a good plan with Saul, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Six months after your wife’s and son’s tragic deaths?”

“Your mother had this planned last year. You know she’d want us to go on with our lives, Cassandra, which is why I’m trying to help you with the clinic. You should get back to your medical career, your friends, your…” He tipped his head and looked toward the cathedral ceiling in thought. “What’s your boyfriend’s name,
mija
?”

Rio made a strangled sound, and Cassie darted a look his way. He pulled his glass away from his mouth and coughed into his fist.

“Excuse me.” Rio’s voice came out raspy, his glare searing Cassie. “I choked on my wine.”

“Your mother told me about him,” Saul continued, his brow dipped in thought, “Blaine, or…Blake. I think that was it.”

His name sent a cold stab through her stomach. Blake’s name hadn’t come up from any outside source in a very long time. And never by her family. Certainly not by Saul. Cassie would never have shared personal information with Saul.

She must have told her mother about Blake, though she didn’t remember ever doing so. If she had mentioned him, it had been before the attack. Because after, she hadn’t trusted her mother to keep the incident from Saul, even if only exposing it by accident. Or coercion. If Saul had suspected her mother had known something, he wouldn’t have relented until he’d been told. And Cassie had decided that neither she nor her mother had needed that kind of stress.

The bastard had taken even the intangible from them
—
that precious mother-daughter bond. Looking back, Cassie had seen the tactic for what it was
—
just another weapon in Saul’s master plan of divide and conquer. But she hadn’t been able to change the outcome, because Mamá had refused to see her husband’s scheming ways.

A slide show clicked off in Cassie’s mind. Images of all those extreme tactics Saul had undertaken during the early years to keep her and Santos under his control. Hidden cameras, listening devices, GPS trackers. Then he’d graduated to hiring spies. Even paying their friends to turn into snitches.

Her mind twisted toward the parole hearing and Blake’s complete lack of regret. In the months after the attack, he’d been offered deals to explain his motivation. Interviewed and examined by multiple psychiatrists. But had never talked. Never explained why he’d done what he’d done. He’d had an opportunity to shorten his sentence and hadn’t taken it. Granted, his sentence had already been far too lenient after his expensive lawyer chipped away at the charges, getting several thrown out on technicalities. But even a day in prison was too long. Wasn’t it? Even Saul at his manipulative best didn’t command that kind of loyalty. Did he?

“Why don’t you invite him down for the party this weekend?” Saul took a bite of his enchiladas.

She could feel Rio’s stare on her face like a laser, but she ignored it. That ugly rage she associated with Sharpe oozed from old wounds, and she wanted to keep her thoughts of Sharpe isolated from her feelings for Rio. “I’m not interested in a party. Between the clinic and the estate, I’ll be plenty busy.”

“Oh, no,
mija
. You have to be there. Everyone will be asking for you.”

Now with Sharpe’s memory under her skin, her anger ramped even faster than usual, but this farce made Cassie think of the people her mother usually invited to her parties—political leaders, law enforcement, businessmen, community leaders—and a new idea surfaced. But she wasn’t quite ready to submit. “I don’t have anything to wear.”