Traitor, The (14 page)
By the time Bella had walked through the laundry room into
the kitchen, Rafe had already removed his jacket, flung it over a wing chair,
and sprawled comfortably on her living room sofa. She placed her briefcase on
the tiled floor, hung her jacket in the entry closet. Toed off her shoes.
"How about something to drink?" he asked from his
place on the sofa.
"You're not going to be here that long," she
snapped.
"Maybe not, but I'm not leaving until I know where you've
been and what you've done."
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Now you're
starting to sound like
mis hermanos, my brothers.
And maybe I was working
on the case at the office."
"Nope, you weren't. And you don't have to translate
Spanish for me.
And,"
he flashed a cocky grin, "maybe I
already checked the office."
"Look, Hashemi, you have no right to make demands about
how I spend my time."
"I like the way you pronounce my name," he
responded irrelevantly. "I'm the lead on the case. I have every right."
He was so damned infuriating. "I'm the ADA on the
case," she countered.
"We've had this conversation already." He rose to
meet her, stood inches within her personal space, and put his capable hands on
her shoulders. She shivered and pushed him away a second too late to be
effective. Damn pheromones!
"Okay, truce," she said, lifting her hand in
surrender, stepping back to put distance between them. "I'll tell you what
I've done – but you can't get angry."
He looked suspicious, but nodded.
"And remember, I don't
have
to give you an
explanation at all."
"We're supposed to be working together," he
reminded her, stopping when he caught the mutinous look on her face. "We'll
talk about that after I hear what you did today."
Buying time, thinking how much to tell him, she looked into
the refrigerator. "Beer or wine?"
Settled with a glass of fine rosé, Rafe propped his feet on
Bella's coffee table while she tucked hers beneath her. This position was
beginning to look both familiar and dangerous, but she didn't ask him to leave
again. They spoke around the case for nearly thirty minutes before she decided
to tell him about her proposed deal with Santos.
"We've dried up the small talk," he said placing
his wine glass on a coaster. "What about tonight?"
She cleared her throat and sighed. "I went to see
Santos." She looked at him from beneath her lashes, waiting for the
explosion, but to his credit, he controlled his temper. However, his jaw worked
and his eyes blinked as he made every effort to refrain from yelling at her.
His words confirmed her suspicion. "I'd like to
throttle you," he said tightly, "or turn you over my knee and spank
the daylights out of you. Or – "
"Okay, I get the idea." She stood and took both
their glasses into the kitchen. "Do you want to hear the rest, or just
pummel me?"
"I want to do both," he grumbled, following her
into the kitchen. "What happened?"
She shrugged. "Nothing. I decided to offer him a deal
and he said he'd think about it."
Rafe scoffed. "A deal? You can't offer him a deal. He's
going to get federal charges and do federal time, no plea bargaining, nothing."
"Right now, he's in my jurisdiction and if I say plead
him out, that's what will happen." She tried to remain calm, but really,
the man was a bully.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, a
thoughtful look on his face. "What did you offer him?"
"Full immunity."
"Jesus Christ, Torres! You can't give a man like Santos
full immunity!"
She bristled with stubbornness. "I can and I will."
"What do you imagine he can give you for this full
immunity?"
"Diego Vargas."
"Just like that? On a silver platter," he jibed.
"What part of Vargas?"
"Everything," she answered smugly, "the
drugs, the trafficking, and the girls, enough to put him away for life, or give
him the needle if we can show special circumstances."
"And who do you think is going to take over Vargas'
business?"
"No one. The organization will be over, finished,
destroyed."
"No, it won't. It's like a star fish. Chop off one part
and another grows back. It doesn't matter," he said dismissively. "Santos
will never betray Vargas."
"I think he will."
"Don't be so naïve, Torres. It doesn't become you."
Somehow his disappointment in her hurt more than his anger.
He snatched his jacket off the wing chair and headed for the
front door. "I'll see you in the morning."
He'd turned the knob and begun to open the door when she struck
out viciously. "Go ahead. Run away again. I don't know what made me think
I could work with a ... a giant lug like you."
She blinked furiously so he wouldn't see the tears threatening
to spill down her cheeks. And why was she crying anyway?
He waited for long moments before he answered, back facing
her almost as if he didn't want to look at her. Then he spun around, anger
etched in every line of his face, his eyes dark and furious.
"Damn you," he ground out before he grabbed her
and kissed her.
The kiss was hard and punishing and bruising, and she couldn't
say when exactly she wound her arms around his neck and clung for dear life. When
he released her, she staggered back, breathless and weak in the knees.
"Don't go," she heard herself say as if from a
distance.
"If I stay, it won't end like last time,
Isabella," he warned softly.
God, the sound of her name on his lips made her tremble. "I
don't want it to be like last time."
"The case – "
She stepped closer and wound her fingers around his neck,
running them through the thick, soft hair at his nape. "I don't want to
talk about the case."
She felt hot and cold at the same time, lethargy and urgency
warring within her. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath caught in her
throat, and fire raced through her veins.
She longed for the slow, exquisite pleasure-pain of arousal,
but her arms, legs, and body had a mind of their own. She ground her hips
against the thrusting bulge in his slacks and pressed against his chest, her
nipples hard and peaked through her thin blouse and filmy bra.
"Oh, God," he spoke against her mouth. "You
have no idea how sweet you taste." He trailed a line of soft, moist kisses
down her neck. "How incredibly soft your skin is."
When his lips met hers, she opened her mouth beneath them
and met his tongue with her own. His breath smelled of the faint tanginess of
wine and a clean sweetness. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth against her
bottom lip as he drew it into his mouth. She ran both hands through his hair,
loving the way the dense strands curled around her fingers. He reached behind
her to undo her hair clasp, and her unruly mane of hair tumbled around her
shoulders.
"So beautiful," he said, running the hair through
his long fingers, rubbing the ends with his thumb and forefinger as if he were
assessing an expensively-textured fabric. Undoing the first three buttons on
her blouse, he shoved the edges aside, exposed the lacy top of her white
brassiere. He trailed his fingers down her throat and scraped his knuckles over
the tops of her breasts.
She shivered again, an uncontrollable spasm like the start
of an orgasm, threw back her head, and invited him to devour her neck. He
followed his hands with his lips, gently pressing kisses along her breasts,
pulling down the bra and exposing her nipple to the cool air. She gasped as he
took one peak into his mouth and gently licked it, swirling his tongue around
the hardened button. Then he sucked, softly at first, but harder as she pressed
his head against her chest and moaned quietly.
A wet gush of sex flowed between her legs and suddenly she
couldn't bear the gentle teasing. She wanted hard, pounding passion. As if he'd
read her mind, he returned to her mouth and deepened his kisses until the
assault left her bruised and swollen. Lips locked with his, she scrambled to unbutton
his shirt. He labored to help her, jerked out the tails, loosened his trousers,
and kicked them to the floor.
"Bedroom," he gasped against her open mouth. "Where's
the bedroom?"
She gestured with her head down the hall behind her as he
stepped out of his pants, picked her up and gripped her buttocks while she
wrapped her legs around his waist. He continued to assault her face and neck as
he stumbled down the hall. Reaching behind her to open the bedroom door, Bella
almost tumbled out of his arms, but between laughing and panting, they made it
to the edge of the bed.
Rafe fell clumsily, turning to keep his weight from crushing
her. Holding himself off her by propping up on his elbows, he framed her face
with his large hands.
"We can stop now, Isabella." He pushed her hair
back from her face and trailed his fingers over her cheeks. "We don't have
to finish. We don't have to do this."
"You're kidding, right?" she panted. "There's
no way we're going to stop now."
She twisted her body to flip him over, knowing he let her
because her weight was too slight to accomplish the move without his help.
Straddling him, she finished opening his shirt and spread her hands over the
fine, springy hair on his chest. His erection pushed aggressively through her
slacks, the thick head seeking her wet, hot center.
"I can't wait any longer," she whispered as he
watched her climb off the bed and unfasten her slacks. She stood in her bikini
panties and disheveled bra, arms akimbo, as his eyes raked hungrily over her.
He clutched his hand over his heart. "Jesus, you're
killing me."
She smiled, heady with sexual power, and reached around to
unclasp her brassiere, letting it dangle from one hand before she dropped it to
the floor. He sat up and pulled her close so that she stood between his knees.
Licking each nipple in turn, he began sucking on them again. Oh, God, she felt
as though she would explode even before he entered her.
Trailing his mouth under her breasts and down to her
stomach, he kissed her navel and dipped his fingers under her panty waistband
to slide the garment slowly down her body. He gently spread her legs and
touched her between them, probing the wetness there.
"You're amazing," he said, sliding a finger inside
her and flicking his thumb on the taut button of her sex. She felt her climax
build and wriggled her hips against his hand.
"Now," she said, "I want you inside me now."
He pulled her down to the bed, shoved his shorts off and
covered her body with his heavy weight and her lips with his mouth. "Is
this what you want, Isabella?" Her name on his lips was an aphrodisiac as
she thrust her hips upward to meet the hard, moist tip of him at her entrance.
"Yes," she groaned.
His voice sounded as if he were in control but his heart
raced on top of her, a filmy sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he
strained to hold himself back. "Say it, sweetheart, say you want me."
"I want you. Oh, God, I want you!" she fairly
screamed and at that moment, he thrust into her hard and fast, filling her
until she knew she'd come without any movement on his part.
But he held himself still, held himself back, and held her
quietly, willing the sweet release of climax to subside. He lay on top of her,
breathing heavily until he began a slow, sexy thrusting in and out of her. She
felt the pressure building again to an exquisite pleasure that exploded through
her body like a dam bursting. She bit her lip and tried to hold the sounds back
but they erupted in tiny, helpless gasps and moans.
Rafe pounded into her long moments as she rode the length of
her climax out and he emptied himself into her. After their hearts had slowed
down and he'd slicked back her hair from her forehead, he kissed her softly and
rolled off her, tucking her backside tightly against him.
Bella must've drifted off to sleep, or at least thought she'd
dozed because when she awoke, the room was chilly and Rafe was gone. She
stretched and looked at the bedside clock. One o'clock. She slipped from the
bed and pulled a robe over her naked body.
In the kitchen Rafe leaned against the counter, talking
quietly on his cell phone. When he saw her in the doorway, he quickly snapped
the phone off.
She padded quietly across the cold tile floor. "Who was
that?"
"A cop friend in L.A. I think I've mentioned Max
Jensen?"
She smiled slowly, still languid from their lovemaking. "I
remember Max. I met him at your office."
"Right." He reached over and pulled her against
his side, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Hey, you're cold. Let's go back
to bed. I'll warm you up again."
She laughed and ran her hands up his chest, feeling the
smooth muscles and sinews beneath the skin. "I'd like that."
In bed she snuggled beneath his arm as he pulled the covers
over them. She loved feeling her naked body against his side, the strength in
his arms and the power in his thigh nestled between her legs. She trailed her
fingers over his chest. "What did Max Jensen want?"
"Personal stuff." He paused to cup her breast and
nuzzle her neck. "Family trouble."
"Hmmm."
His hands slid up and down her hips to distract her
completely. "Max is taking a couple weeks off work and coming up here. He'll
give me a hand on the Vargas case."
"Oh," she said. And then again, louder this time,
as he worked his magic with his clever fingers and hands.
The untraceable cell phone by Santos' nightstand blared out
a strident sound, Diego Vargas' tone signal. Santos glanced at the clock before
reaching for the phone. Two a.m.
Ay,
did
El Vaquero
never sleep?
"¿Sí?"
"The shipment has arrived."
A shipment of China White through the Port of Wintuan. Why
had Vargas called to relay information which would have come to Santos within
the hour?
"¡Venido aquí rápidamente!"
Santos was instantly alert.
"¿Por qué?
Why?
What
has happened?"
"There are problems." Vargas coughed out the
words.
"What kind of problems?"
"Do not speak over the phone," Vargas growled.
He spat out the next words almost as if he'd forgotten the
disrespect Santos had shown. "And do not ask
why
when I tell you to
come. Get your fucking ass over here! Now!" He cut the connection.
Santos' security men swept Diego's phones and home every
week. There was no possibility that he was being bugged, but
El Jefe
had
become rabidly paranoid. A man like that made serious mistakes.
Santos arrived less than twenty minutes later. This current
shipment was scheduled for distribution north to Reno and south to Bakersfield.
If something was wrong, they would have difficulty getting the price they'd
asked. Their contacts did not like to wait for their product.
As he approached Vargas' guarded fortress, Santos noted the
added security men at the gate and outside the front door. They recognized him,
however, and passed him through at once.
At the door, he knocked lightly, not wishing to awaken
Corazon, and seconds later, Diego swung open the heavy oak door and waved him
in. For the first time since Santos had come to work for Vargas at the age of nineteen,
Vargas looked haggard – old. He'd been a robust forty-year-old man then and now
was nearly sixty, but tonight he bore the lined face and stooped shoulders of a
man nearly a decade older.
Perhaps now was the time for Diego Vargas to retire.
"What is the problem with the shipment?" Santos
asked, looking around the huge industrial kitchen where Vargas had led him.
This room was Magdalena's sanctuary. She loved to cook and the low ceiling
dangled with an array of cooking utensils.
Vargas poured himself a Jack Daniels neat, and Santos could
tell by the slack mouth that this was not the boss's first drink of the as-yet
very early day.
"Pedro thinks the shipment is light. We must weigh it
again." Vargas threw back his drink in one swift gulp.
"Mi Dios,
I do not have time for problems!"
"How light?"
"He did not say."
"Pedro always worries unnecessarily," Santos said,
leaning against the island counter.
"Tomaré el cuidado de problema."
"You will straighten it out tonight?"
"Sí,
right away." Santos turned to leave as
the wall phone in the kitchen rang.
A flash of panic ran over Vargas' slack features.
"¿Qué
ahora?"
What now?
He grabbed the phone off the hook and muttered into the
receiver. "Who?" Pause. "Yes," he said shortly. Another
pause. "Are you certain that it is him?" Pause. "Allow him to
pass."
He hung up and turned to Santos. "Another problem.
Alejandro is here."
That meant something had gone wrong with the hit.
Alejandro was brought by two armed guards into Santos'
office.
El Jefe
sat behind his gaudy, over-sized desk of expensive teak
that he'd had specially made several years ago.
Vargas took in Alejandro's appearance. "What happened?"
An ugly line of stitches crossed Alejandro's forehead and ran along his right
arm. His face was bruised and battered. "You reported that everything went
well." Vargas twirled the liquid in his third drink since Santos had
arrived.
"Creímos que todo estaba muy bien,"
Alejandro babbled,
"pero entonces – "
"English! Speak English!" Santos roared.
"¿Que?"
Vargas asked, his tone like death. "What
went wrong?"
The man was too frightened of Santos looming over him to
remember his English.
"Uno de la muchacha escapada."
¡Mierde! One of the girls escaped.
"¡Qué!"
Vargas screamed again. "How could
that happen?"
"No sé, El Vaquero,"
the man whispered.
"No
sé."
"Calm down," Santos said. "Here." He
thrust a drink into the man's shaking hands. It was hard to believe Alejandro
was a hired killer, but his fear of Vargas and Santos ran deep. "Give us
the details."
"There was a great deal of confusion. We thought the
job was complete, but later, when we counted the bodies, we were short one."
"Which girl?" Santos asked because that was the
most important question.
"Tell me she is not one of the older girls,"
Vargas said, rising abruptly. "Or one who speaks English."
An older girl might be more outraged about what had happened
to the younger girls. One who spoke English could relate a compelling story. Often
Mexican girls who spoke English were educated, intelligent, and outspoken.
Vargas did not like either older girls or ones who complained.
"I believe it was Esperanza," Alejandro said. "Most
of the bodies were small."
Ay,
Esperanza, she could cause serious trouble. "Where
is she?" Santos asked.
"Our contact in Nevada told us she's under guard at a hospital
near the Tahoe turnoff. I don't know which one. She is under heavy guard."
At the sound of the girl's name, Vargas turned ashen and
then angry. He raised his hand to strike the man, but Santos stepped between
them.
"Do not blame the messenger, Diego," he cautioned
and motioned Alejandro to step outside.
After the man had left, Santos said, "I will find out
where the girl is."
"She can destroy me," Vargas said. "She knows
too much and she is the only girl who speaks fluent English."
"I will take care of the girl and the shipment,"
Santos promised. "Do not worry."
At that moment, a noise from down the hallway to the left
drew Santos' attention. When he turned in that direction, he saw a naked blonde
stumbling through the archway into the living room.
"Wass goin' on, honey?" she mumbled. "Come to
bed, baby." She held her bare arms out toward Vargas. Her brassy hair
glimmered in the pale light and her tanned, toned body looked lean and muscled.
A showgirl, Santos thought sourly, barely of legal age.
"¡Salga de aquí!"
Vargas yelled harshly. "Go
back to the bedroom, bitch!"
Even around his young daughter, Diego behaved like a pig. At
least when Magdalena was here, he did not conduct himself so carelessly.
His boss was deteriorating rapidly.
#
"I need a shower," Bella said, climbing off the
bed.
"Great!" Rafe smiled, slipping his hands beneath
the sheet and running them over her hips. "I enjoy team sports."
She adjusted the shower spray and water temperature, dropped
her robe, and jumped in. Suddenly shy, she was grateful the steam blurred the
image of her naked body behind the textured glass of the shower. Through the
foggy glass she watched Rafe pull off his shorts and open the door. She thought
again how magnificent his dark, coppery skin looked, how the muscles rippled
beneath the surface of his flesh, and how fine thick hairs covered his chest
and legs.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and cupped her
breasts. "You have the most gorgeous breasts."
He kneaded them gently and teased the nipples. "They
feel like satin, smooth as silk." He nuzzled her neck, moving his mouth
over her ear and gently nipping the lobe.
"Your nipples are so small and pink I want to do this."
He turned her around and bent his head to take her nipple and breast into his
mouth, the rasping of his tongue an erotic and scintillating texture against
her sensitive peaks. He reached for the soap and lathered his hands, running
his slick palms over the breasts he'd just teased with his mouth. His caresses
lit tiny fires in her blood as he smoothed her arms, belly, between her legs.
When he finished, she performed the same for him, reveling
in the smooth, soapy feel of him beneath her hands. She took his penis and
rolled it between her fingers, loved hearing him groan. This time he entered
her from behind, languidly and slowly, pressing her against the glass shower as
he moved within her and touched her in an exquisite rhythm. At last he pounded
into her with an almost desperate urgency and she came at the same time as he
spilled himself within her.
When her heart had stopped racing and she no longer felt the
thunder of his chest against her back, he turned her around and kissed her
sweetly on the mouth and cheeks and neck. "That was nice," he
whispered, rubbing her wet arms and back. "You are nice."
Nice? she thought, what a ... mild word.
Later they toweled off and wrapped their nearly naked bodies
in warm quilts. They sat on the sofa in the living room, drinking hot
chocolate. Bella stretched her legs across his lap and he rubbed her feet with
his free hand. "This is nice," Rafe said, running his hand up her
bare thigh.
"What's with the N word?" Bella teased, half
disgruntled.
"What?"
"Nice, you keep using that word."
"You don't like it?" He laughed. "I'll find another
one."
"It's just so ... pedestrian."
"Pedestrian? Like a jaywalker?"
She punched him lightly on the arm. "Not like a
jaywalker, silly, just ... ordinary, average."
"Oh, baby, you're anything but ordinary." He leaned
over to kiss her knee, opened the front of the quilt, and gazed at her chest. "And
those are ... God, nothing less than spectacular."
She flushed and pulled the blanket around her. "You're
embarrassing me," she protested.
He ruffled her still-damp hair and laughed. "But you're
so gorgeous when you blush." He winked. "Gorgeous," he repeated,
"not at all pedestrian."
She stood, let the quilt fall away from her body, and
reached for his mug, wiggling her hips in her skimpy panties as she strutted
into the kitchen.
Rafe followed her, reaching for her waist and missing. "Oh,
no, baby, not ordinary at all." He caught up to her at the sink and swung
her around, bringing his lips down to hers. "I think I'm addicted."
She felt his erection pressing through his shorts into her
stomach and laughed. "At least some part of you is."
He lifted her long hair off her neck and pressed a gentle
kiss behind her ear. "Wanna try again?"
She reached inside his shorts. "I'm game."
Then Rafe's cell phone vibrated annoyingly on the counter. "Hell,"
he mumbled.
"Leave it," she said, working her hand up and down
his hard length.
"Ah," he groaned before pulling away with a
painful grimace. "I can't." He took a deep breath and flipped open
the phone. "Slater," he said, nodding at Bella.
Suddenly embarrassed for no reason she could have explained,
other than Slater was on the other end of Rafe's cell phone, she went into the
bedroom and slipped on jeans and a heavy shirt. Rafe remained standing at the
counter, naked but no longer at full alert, she noticed. His brow was furrowed
in thunderous disapproval. He reached down and pulled up his shorts, then
brushed by her on his way to the bedroom.
She stood in the doorway, watching him put his clothes back
on. "What's wrong? What did Slater want at this hour?"
"The girl's ready to talk," he said. "Slater's
driving her down here himself. Has a safe house all picked out."
"Good, that means she's well enough to travel."
"Evidently." Anger etched every line of his face
and his movements were stiff and hurried. "He wants us to meet him there,
but won't identify the place until I'm on what he calls a secure line."
"Why? Doesn't he trust you?"
"He says there's a leak." He paused before
scooping his wallet, badge, and change off the dresser. "And he's sure it's
not in his department."
"He thinks it's on your end," she confirmed.
