Just the Messenger

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Electronic Release: April 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

When Graciela Merced fumbles a package she’s delivering for her mysterious and sexy boss, Gene Hardy, she finds out he’s more than just a wealthy photographer. Prepared to lose her job, she confronts him…and ends up embroiled in the tricky takedown of a powerful drug cartel pushing cocaine into the heart of New York City.

Marco Valencia is an undercover agent, working against time—and against Gene Hardy—to crack Angel’s Drug Cartel before the story makes it to the press. When Hardy’s luscious Venezuelan messenger literally falls at his feet, he has no idea just how well he’ll get to know the beauty or how difficult it will be to drop her.

Hardened by experience, Gene Hardy takes his undercover work seriously and charges a hefty price. When Grace makes a careless mistake and hurls him back into the path of Marco Valencia, he must either fire her or involve her in a twisted plot that could kill them all.

As the two men battle over their feelings for Graciela—and their attraction to each other—one thing becomes perfectly clear.

Grace is much more than just the messenger.

Dedicated to Jackie Monck and Caitie George.

Chapter One

It was a mere slip, an accident.

When Grace Merced’s heel stuck in the crack of the underground warehouse’s cement floor that morning, she let out a curse as pain seared through her knee. She didn’t even notice the papers had scattered from within the folder she was delivering until a pair of chocolate brown eyes and a rich voice brought her back to reality.

“Are you okay?”

She shrugged, speechless and embarrassed. The man appeared to be Latino, perhaps Spanish, judging by his accent. His hands were rough to the touch when he helped her up, and standing next to him in her pumps, Grace came up almost to his height. That would put him at five foot ten. She made a mental note. In the messenger business, her boss insisted, it paid to remember every detail about your encounters.

The man brushed a lock of jet black hair behind his ear and gave her a brilliant white grin before turning to collect the strewn papers. “What’s your name?” he asked, while bent precariously close to her short-cropped mini. He didn’t look up, though she could feel his breath on her calf.

“Grace,” she stammered. “I mean, Graciela.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” he said, straightening. “I’m Marco.”

She saw his eyes flit across the top page, as if scanning the information there. He looked up to catch her staring at him, his mocha complexion only deepening in the warehouse’s shallow floodlights. He handed the pile back to her with a flourish.

“Now, who are you looking for? Maybe I can help get you there in one piece.”

Grace flushed. She wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone on these “missions”. Just hand over the files, get what her boss was receiving and deliver it back to him. Still, this one time couldn’t hurt. She’d already talked to him, hadn’t she?

“I’m looking for Rinkleton. LJ Rinkleton.” She nodded at the now mussed folder in her hands. “These are for him.”

Marco cocked a brow. “They are, are they?” He seemed to have an inner battle then shrugged. “Well, he’s this way. “Room 231.”

As they walked down the dingy corridor, Grace felt claustrophobic. Then Marco opened the door to the last room and led her into a lavish office area, complete with Oriental rugs and cast-iron chandeliers.

“Wait here,” he said. “It looks like Celia is out to lunch.”

And that was when it happened. Alone in the sitting area of LJ Rinkleton’s warehouse office, Graciela Merced broke her promise and opened the folder to see blueprints, maps and photos—some sightseeing shots and some of gruesome murder scenes. They all seemed to connect to a building in central Manhattan. Before she could flip further, a noise startled her and she slammed the folder shut.

Turning her head, she saw a graying man in a sweater vest with small glasses perched on his wide nose. He had the air of a disgruntled assistant manager. Under normal circumstances, he was the type of person Grace never would have noticed at all. How could such an unassuming persona be involved in…whatever this was?

He said not a word to her in greeting, just took the folder and turned away from her. After exchanging the files she had with others, LJ told her to go back to Mr. Hardy and dismissed her with a wave of his thick hand.

Half an hour later, Grace hurried across the street from the metro stop to the huge office complex on the Upper East Side, her heels clicking over the sidewalk. A gust of wind picked up her short skirt, and she patted it down in vain, ignoring the catcalls from the nearby construction site.

She clutched the manila folder to her chest, protecting it against the strong breeze. She hadn’t looked at the new files. All she knew was that she needed to get them into the hands of her boss, Gene Hardy, before four o’clock. Pushing the revolving doors and stepping inside, she checked her watch. 3:56. She’d just make it.

When Grace had taken on the clerical assistant job for the blond business tycoon, she hadn’t had any idea how engrossed she would become in the organization’s secret operations. Now, just three months in, she found herself the messenger, running secrets from place to place, never looking, just delivering. She felt a surge of pride at how much Gene had come to trust her in such a short span of time. She’d never breeched that trust. Until now.

She shuddered to think of the disappointment that was sure to cross her boss’s emerald eyes at her betrayal. He’d peer down his Romanesque nose at her, over his small reading glasses, click on the desk lamp and shake his head, not a strand of his blond hair moving out of place.

Unless he never found out. She didn’t intend to tell him, after all.

The bell buzzed, and she walked through the door of Gene Hardy Photography and Stills.

“Go right through,” the receptionist said without looking up. “He’s waiting for you.”

Grace glanced at the clock on the wall. 4:00 on the dot.

Perfectly coifed, Gene Hardy met Grace at the office door, rushing her into a seat on the other side of his sleek, black desk. In full business attire, a charcoal gray suit and ice-blue tie, Gene knew he looked like a rich stock broker rather than a small photography business owner. But his appearance didn’t bother him. He worked with clients through a thick network of messages and messengers. None of them ever saw him, whether they were photography customers or espionage workers. It was Gene’s job to bring them together, never being seen himself. LJ only knew him through Gene’s previous job.

Even if Gene hadn’t received the phone call fifteen minutes earlier from the mole he had placed in the warehouse months ago, he would have known Grace had seen the files simply from the embarrassed look on her face. Instead of meeting his gaze as usual, she focused her gray eyes on the floor, robbing him of the sight of the gorgeous amber flecks that he knew played upon them in his office light.

Without a word, he held out his hand and she placed the folder in it. Inspecting the package, he frowned.

“This looks like it’s been through the wringer,” he prodded, his voice soft, concerned.

She fidgeted, and he appreciated her naïve innocence. The buxom brunette had been a Godsend when she’d shown up from the temp agency that day in late June, three months ago. She’d been pliable and friendly but with a hint of ambition, and Gene knew right away she would be perfect for the messenger duties on this particular project. Her stormy eyes showed an eagerness to take direction, and within a few weeks, Gene had fallen for her charm as well as her dark chestnut locks and high cheek bones. Her backside only sweetened the deal. At thirty-one, Grace knew how to hold herself, how to walk the way a woman should walk. Minutes after she left his office on multiple occasions, Gene had found himself staring at the closed door, remembering the swish of her skirts clinging to her teardrop-shaped buttocks. To find a woman so pure at her age was a rare treasure, one that Gene would not take for granted. Still, today he had to be the bad guy. She’d breeched policy. As much as he’d wanted to keep her for himself, it was time for her to sink or swim.

Before he could speak, Grace made a soft sound in her throat and started to talk. Gene sat back, surprised as the truth poured out of her.

“I tripped, and the folder slipped from my hands. Papers went flying everywhere. Some guy helped me pick them up. I can’t remember his name. I don’t know what he saw.” She looked up at him, calm and collected. “I hadn’t intended to tell you, but I’m ready to turn in my resignation over this mishap.”

Gene leaned back in his chair. Her breech of conduct had not been appropriate for a spy, but his regard for Graciela Merced as a human being shot up a few notches. It was not often he’d run into a woman who could accept blame, anticipate consequence and be truthful anyway. And Grace did it all with a look of determination on her pretty face. The only giveaway of her nervousness was the slight trembling motion of her bottom lip, so plump and rosy that Gene practically missed its movement in his surge of desire. Those lips would soon be his. But first, business.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my dear,” he said, raking his gaze over her full breasts which rose and fell with each deep breath she took, straining against the flimsy fabric of her pink silk top. She apparently noticed his appraisal and jutted them out a bit. He smiled. Clever girl. “What did you see?”

Her cheeks turned crimson for just a moment before she regained her composure.

“Not much,” she said, finally meeting his stare, her gray eyes large, her long lashes fluttering before she looked away again. “I saw some blueprints. Some graphic photos.”

Gene allowed himself a chuckle. “That’s one way to describe them.”

Grace said nothing, and Gene let the silence fall and stretch.

When she seemed sufficiently uncomfortable, Gene started to speak. Softly, so she had to lean forward to hear him, those perfect breasts nearly tumbling out of her low-cut shirt.

“Grace, you’ve compromised this business. Those photographs were not to be seen by anyone, including you, including whoever that other man was. You’re welcome to hand in your resignation right now, but I’ll have to insist on strictly monitoring your home and travels for the next eighteen months. You’ll never be alone, you’ll always have a shadow. I must ensure that my client is safe. You are not allowed to move during this time or take on any other employment.”

“How will I survive?”

His eyes flicked up, and he was gratified to see she hadn’t meant the question literally. “That’s up to you. I’ll ask my superiors about a stipend, but we’re not usually generous with those who have potentially ruined a major project.”

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