

Salsa

Sultry Nights

Melanie Munton

Copyright © 2019 Melanie Munton

Salsa

Sultry Nights, Volume One

Copyright © 2019 Melanie Munton

All rights reserved

Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations

www.mayhemcovercreations.com

eBook Edition

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This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Bonus Scene

Sneak Peek of The Divorce Attorney

More books by Melanie Munton

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Melanie Munton:

Brooklyn Brothers:

Lace & Lies

Scars & Sins

Sultry Nights:

Salsa (Sultry Nights 1)

Tango (Sultry Nights 2)

Rumba (Sultry Nights 3)

Samba (Sultry Nights 4)

Mambo (Sultry Nights 5)

Standalone romance:

King of the Court

The Unforgettable Kind

Slow Seductions series:

Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)

Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)

Cruz Brothers series:

Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)

The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)

Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)

Timid Souls novellas:

Stubborn Hearts

Unexpected Love

Possession and Politics Trilogy:
Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Prologue

Sophie

I can't believe it.

It's snowing.

In Miami.

I've never even seen snow before and now I'm watching it blanket one of the most southern cities in the continental United States, following a summer that saw some of the highest temperatures on record.

It's a Christmas miracle.

I can't help but glance behind me at the footsteps I leave on the pristine white canvas along the sidewalk of my familiar street. It's dark out but the streetlamps guide my way as I skip along my usual path toward my home. I told my mamá I was leaving our neighbor's Christmas party because I was tired and bored. But really, I just wanted to walk in the snow and catch snowflakes on my tongue like the kids at school talk about.

Who knows when the next time this will come around again?

Mamá doesn't like me walking alone, but my family knows everyone in this neighborhood. We're all friends with each other. This area isn't like the dangerous boroughs of Bogotá, Colombia, my family's homeland. This is a safe neighborhood, and nothing bad ever happens here.

Plus, my papá stayed home because he wasn't feeling well and I want to see him. Maybe I can make him some of Mamá's ajiaco santafeñoto—a chicken and vegetable soup—to help him feel better.

I so badly want to make snow angels in our meager front yard or build a quick snowman, but I tell myself to be patient and check on Papá first. I skip down our walkway and push through our front door after I find it already unlocked.

"Papá?" I say to our empty living room.

Assuming he must be asleep in his and Mamá's bedroom, I quietly tip-toe to the back of the house. Instead of silence, I hear a flurry of activity just as I reach their closed door. Confused, I ease open the door to see him frantically throwing clothes and toiletries into Mamá's big green suitcase with no thought of organization.

"Papá, what are you doing?"

His head whips around to me, his eyes wider than I've ever seen them. "Sophia? Mi princesa, what are you doing home? You're supposed to be at the Christmas party with your mamá and Manuela."

Manuela—or Manny, as I've come to call her—is my sixth-month-old baby sister who already looks exactly like our mamá. She's our little angel.

"There weren't very many other kids there, so I told Mamá I'd come home to check on you." I dash to the window and pull back the curtain, bursting with excitement. "Did you see, Papá? It's snowing! Isn't it pretty?"

"Sophia, no!"

Papá lunges for me and yanks my arm back, moving me toward the door.

"Stay away from the windows," he says gravely, his voice sounding strange.

"What's wrong?" I ask, taking in the sight of the disheveled bedroom. "Are we going on a trip?"

He leans down and takes me by the shoulders. That's when I notice how badly he's sweating and...shaking. The hands he's holding me with are trembling.

"Yes, princesa. We are going on a trip. We're going to leave as soon as Manuela and your mamá get back from the party. So, I'm going to need your help to make sure we're ready, okay? Can you do that?"

I nod eagerly, always ready to help out Papá. "Where are we going?"

"To the farm in Colombia," he says as he goes back to throwing things into the suitcase.

A huge smile spreads across my face. "We're going to visit Tía Christina and Tío Miguel?"

My aunt and uncle still live in Guasimal, Colombia on my family's farm, along with my many cousins that I've missed so much since we moved to Miami years ago. Guasimal is more of a territory than a town and in such a rural area that it's essentially secluded away from most of the surrounding towns. Moving to a larger metropolitan area like Miami was a big adjustment for us. But Papá thought there would be more opportunities for him here, so we packed up our entire lives and left the only place familiar to us.

"Yes," he says, shooing me. "Hurry now."

I sprint across the hall to the room I share with Manny and grab my Bratz backpack out of my closet. Mamá will probably help me pack when she gets back, but I can at least pick out my favorite shirts and books I want to take.

All of a sudden, Papá bursts through my doorway and wraps his arms around me, dragging me out into the hallway.

"Papá! What's going on?" I screech.

His behavior is so odd, I'm no longer excited. I'm scared.

"Sophia, you have to hide." He opens the hall closet doors and shoves me inside. "Crawl into your favorite hiding place back there and don't come out until I tell you to."

He means the crawl space in the back of the closet—my favorite place to go when he plays escondidas with me. It's similar to the American game of hide-and-seek.

"But why, Papá? You're scaring me."

He cups my face, tipping my head to look at him. "Everything's going to be all right, mi princesa. I just want you to do as I say. Stay hidden and don't make a sound. Do you understand?"

Tears gathering in my eyes, I nod. I don't know what's going on, but I know that look on his face tells me it's bad. He pulls me close and hugs me so hard I can barely breathe. I hug him back just as fiercely.

"You're a big girl now, Sophia," he whispers. "My big eleven-year-old. I want you to take care of your mamá and sister, okay? No matter what happens, you be strong for them."

"What do you mean?" I say, my voice breaking. This feels like a goodbye and I hate goodbyes. And I definitely never want to tell my beloved papá goodbye. "I thought you said everything's going to be fine."

He kisses my forehead. "Everything will be. But you have to promise me that you'll be a big strong girl and take care of them for me. Will you do that?"

I nod again, tears now running down my cheeks. "Yes, Papá. I promise."

He grins. "Good girl. Now, get into your hiding place."

On shaky legs, I push aside all of the clothes that won't fit into our closets and crouch down near the crawl space. Just before he closes the doors, I meet his eyes one last time. I can't be sure but it looks like he's about to cry.

I've never seen my papá cry before.

"I love you, Sophia."

I swallow, my throat burning. "I love you, too, Papá."

"Remember, stay quiet."

With those final words, he shuts the doors and I move aside the panel to my hiding place and crawl in. My heart pounds as the silence in the house is broken by our front door slamming open. More than one set of feet walk across the old hardwood floors, heading into the living room, from the sounds of it.

"Diego," Papá says in a low voice.

Diego? He's Papá's business partner, his friend. He's been to our house before, so why is Papá making me hide now?

"Andre," Diego responds. "We need to talk."

"So talk."

My heavy breathing is loud in the small space, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stay quiet. Papá told me I had to, and I don't want to disappoint him.

"You sure the other three aren't here?" Diego asks.

"Sí, jefe," someone else in the room answers. I don't recognize that voice at all. "They're all at the neighbor's Christmas party down the street. Won't be home for at least an hour."

How do they know that? Have they been watching us?

They probably do think I'm still at the party because I left the house through the backyard. With no streetlamps back there, they wouldn't have seen me climb over the fence and come out one street over. It's just something I always do. I've been climbing trees and fences since my days of growing up on the family farm in Colombia.

"You stole from me, Andre," Diego says in a calm, yet angry voice.

Papá steal? No. He would never.

Papá murmurs something, but his voice is too muffled for me to hear. Then I hear the distinctive sound of flesh hitting flesh and my stomach turns. I know that sound because I've seen older boys in the neighborhood fist fight each other sometimes. It makes me sick to think that Papá was on the receiving end of that hit.

"Don't lie to me," Diego growls. "Your life is going to end right here, right now, so you might as well tell the truth before I send your betraying ass straight to Hell."

My entire world comes to a halt.

His life is going to end? That means...

No. It can't be.

I scramble for the closed doors, but a voice stops me just before my fingers peel them open. It's Papá's voice, telling me to remain in here and stay quiet. I told him I would do as he said, and I never disobey Papá. He's my best friend.

So, I will do as he said.

There's some shuffling sounds and more things said, but I can't hear most of it. And what I can hear doesn't make a bit of sense to me. I don't care what they're talking about, though. I just want them to leave my papá alone.

"I trusted you, Andre," Diego hisses.

"You didn't trust me at all," Papá says. He sounds weird, like he's having trouble breathing. Maybe he's hurt. Oh, please don't let him be hurt. "If you did, you would have paid me my fair share. I'm not the crook here, Diego. You are."

"No one calls me a crook. I've killed many men for a lot less."

I place both hands over my mouth to suppress my cries. Diego just admitted that he's killed people. What kind of man is he? Certainly not the man who's acted like Papá's best friend for so long.

"Maybe it's time that you admit the truth to yourself, Diego," Papá continues. "You think you're God because you peddle poison to the masses and get rich off of it. But God doesn't disguise himself in a fancy suit and hide his sins behind a wall of lies and deceit. The devil does."

Unable to stop myself, I carefully push open the doors, just a crack.

What I see almost makes me vomit.

Diego is standing in front of Papá, who's on his knees and bleeding from his nose and mouth, while his business partner presses a big black gun to his forehead.

Dios mío.

Papá has a gun, but he taught me to never, ever touch it. Because they're dangerous and they hurt people, even kill them.

Diego leans in close to Papá, spittle flying from his mouth as he says, "I'm not the devil, cabrón. But I am going to send you to meet him."

It looks like Papá smiles, but my eyes are so blurry with tears that it's hard to tell. "I'll save a seat for you in Hell, then. Because men like you, their lives only end one way."

Diego's jaw hardens as he straightens his spine, keeping his arm outstretched and the gun centered on Papá's forehead.

Part of me knows it's coming. Knows I should look away.

I watch, anyway.

Watch in horror as Diego pulls the silent trigger, sending my papá's body careening backward, landing with a loud thud on the floor. I scream into my hands, though no sound comes out. I shake my head violently back and forth, convinced that I must be dreaming. I'm imagining the whole thing. I have to be.

I hadn't even noticed the black tarp spread out across the floor. But as I watch the two bulky men I don't recognize roll my papá's prone body up in it and lift him off the floor, I realize its purpose.

"Make sure there's no trace left," Diego commands.

I can't believe I haven't passed out yet with as hard as I'm breathing. The collar of my shirt is soaked through from my dripping tears. I give no thought to them coming back to find me here in this closet as I witness my papá's murderers carry him out the front door of our home. It's not until I hear their car drive away and at least twenty minutes tick by that I come out of my hiding place.

I half walk, half crawl down the hall toward the front door, my legs too weak to support me. I peek out the windows in the living room, but I know the bad men are gone. With Papá.

Desperation fueling my actions, I rip open the front door and run down the snow-covered walkway. I don't know what I expect to find. But this is the last place I know my papá was before they took him away.

That's when I see it.

A small puddle of blood, standing stark against the pure white of the untouched snow.

It's about the size of a softball, but it sickens me all the same. Because I know who that blood belongs to. I collapse onto the ground, overwrought with emotions. Devastation consumes me as I finally let my restrained sobs fill the crisp night air. I kneel beside that puddle of blood, never once taking my eyes off of it.

My heart completely shatters. To the point that I doubt I'll ever be able to repair it.

I never want to see snow again for the rest of my life.

Chapter 1

Sophie

Thirteen years later

Welcome to the belly of the beast.

The entrance to Hell.

The devil's lair.

"Hey, mamí."

"Want to come home with me, baby?"

"Damn, suga, you fine."

I ignore every lude comment crooned my way as I walk across the scratched hardwood floors of Calor, an underground nightclub owned by my father's murderer, with a practiced sway to my hips. In my skintight black halter dress and sky-high heels, I grab the attention of every male I pass. But that's the goal when I'm on shift.

Because technically, I'm at work.

That's right. I work for Diego Suarez now. El diablo.

Confused yet? Wondering why I still have anything at all to do with that monster?

Well, I don't really have a choice in the matter. I'm working at his sketchy nightclub as his drug mule in order to repay the debt my father owed him—allegedly owed him—when he was killed. By Diego. A fact that Diego, nor anyone else on the planet, knows that I know. I never saw Papá at the house that night thirteen years ago. When I returned home the house was empty. At least, that's what I told Mamá and everyone else. As far as they all know, the last time I saw him was before we left for the Christmas party.

Here's the irony: I can have Diego locked up with the key thrown away in a matter of hours if I peep a word of what I saw that night to the cops.

But I won't.

Because Diego is the most powerful man in Miami with unlimited resources. He probably has half of the Miami PD in his pocket. He's reminded me on numerous occasions that if I ever double cross him like my father supposedly did, he would torture and kill not only me, but my mamá and Manny as well. And I will never allow that to happen. I promised Papá I would take care of them, and that's what I'm doing.

"How about a drink, honey?"

I walk on. Because the floppy-haired drunk who just asked my boobs that question is not following proper protocol.

I still don't know the story behind Papá's debt, either. I can only recall bits and pieces of their conversation that night while I was hiding in the closet, and Diego would never tell me specifics. All he ever says is that Papá was a thief. Which I don't believe. I don't exactly know what his position was with Diego's organization, but I know beyond a doubt that he was an honorable man. So, if he did steal Diego's money, I'm sure he had a damn good reason for doing so. I just wish I knew what it was.

Not that it would help us either way.

Right after Papá "went missing"—his body was never found—Diego visited our house with a warning, masked as a proposition, for Mamá. She could either work for him until Papá's debt is paid off, or he killed all of us right then and there.

She went with door number one.

She worked for him for years cleaning all of his dirty money in the back of a laundry mat, ironically. All while holding down a day job at a greasy spoon in order to provide for Manny and me. Unsurprisingly, it changed her. Still grieving from the loss of Papá, and also being wracked with guilt over working for such an evil man—willingly or not—she became a shell of her former self. In the beginning, she often spoke about sneaking us away back to our family's farm in Colombia, but those pipe dreams were eventually flushed right down the toilet.

Diego would find us anywhere.

So, when I became of proper age, I went to Diego and took my mother's place. Not at the laundry mat, though. No. Diego thought my "talents" could be of better use elsewhere.

Now, I use my body and seductive wiles to help run drugs through this den of sin and deliver them into the hands of Miami's most notorious and skeezy skumbags.

Hey, nobody's job is perfect.

And there's no way in hell I'd be doing any of this if it wasn't a matter of life and death.

I'll do anything to protect my family.

Which is why I have to put off this Queen of the Hussies vibe whenever I work at the club. It's part of Diego's master plan of selling drugs right under everyone's noses. He thinks he's so goddamn smart for coming up with it.

I stride up to the bar and catch the bartender's eye. Juan doesn't even have to ask what I want. It's my usual, the same drink I order right before every shift.

A shot of Aguardiente.

And nothing else.

Diego has this shit imported from Colombia because it's some of the best, strongest stuff on the market. It's twenty-nine percent alcohol in volume, and the name roughly translates to "fire water." The first time you taste it, it feels like you're swallowing lava. It's pretty lethal. But my family all grew up on it, so for me, it's like the equivalent of an American sipping on some damn good Kentucky bourbon.

I slam the glass down and rise to my feet. It's the only drink I allow myself to have all night because I have to keep my wits about me in this place.

When I turn back around to the rest of the club, I've got my game face on.

The Queen of Calor is in the building.

Most of the patrons are either associates of Diego's in one way or another, or they're familiar enough with the club's and Diego's reputation to know not to mess with me. For the most part. There are always those super lit idiots that take the flirtation too far. Those are the worst nights.

I shimmy my way around the tables on the ground floor, heading toward my usual spot to receive clients.

Receive clients.

Dios, I sound like the madam at a whore house.

The ground floor of Calor features a raised stage for the live music Diego hires, a sprawling dance floor that sees varying levels of debauchery every night, and a wooden bar that runs the length of the back wall. Tables are scattered around the floor, with mahogany armchairs placed at each one. Diego wants his customers to feel like they're paying for upscale entertainment, rather than the cheap skin tickets of your average Miami strip bar. Not that any stripping takes place in here. At least not officially.

He can put as much mahogany in this place as he wants. Hell, he can wallpaper the place with pure gold.

It will still feel seedy.

Upstairs consists of roped-off VIP areas for Diego's most honored guests. And himself, of course. He rarely comes down to the ground level unless there's sensitive business that requires his immediate attention.

Otherwise, he stays up there watching the action below.

Like a king looking down on his subjects.

Or in my case, a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette.

The club is packed tonight so I expect a lot of customers. It doesn't take long to spot my first one approaching me.

My skin begins to crawl as I get a good look.

He's not much taller than my five foot six, and looks to be in his late forties. There's a noticeable paunch in his mid-section, and his shirt is far too tight. His dark hair is slicked back, which only looks worse with his Zorro-inspired mustache. And he's sporting an ugly smirk as his gaze zones in on me. Or more specifically, on my ample chest. Really anywhere but my face.

I swear I'm never sent any hot men. Or even marginally good-looking ones.

And if they are even the slightest bit attractive, their involvement with Diego and his enterprises disgusts me to the point that I'm immediately turned off by their presence.

Slick holds out his hand as instructed, and my gaze lowers to search for my sign.

There it is.

A smudged stain on his hand that's only illuminated under the particular kinds of fluorescent lights in this section of the club.

Each customer who wants to purchase a little baggie for the evening knows to go to the bar and order a cocktail called a Snowflake. Subtle, right? The customer hands over the exact cash amount to the bartender, who then marks each Snowflake glass with a special kind of ink that is invisible to the naked eye but shows up clearly under these lights. Kind of like how a black light works.

Then they come find me for their product.

For the first half of my shift, I only deal out bags of Ecstasy and PCP. The second half of the evening is strictly for cocaine. A different cartel faction has a handle on the pot trade, so Diego doesn't even touch it. Plus, it's typically not as lucrative as the hardcore drugs. He's been trying to squeeze his way into the heroin game lately, but hasn't made much progress.

It's unbelievable how much is made off of these transactions alone.

Everyone who buys knows my schedule and the rules. Period.

According to Diego, my involvement is like a misdirection. Between my looks and my dancing, I'm distracting enough for anyone watching for nefarious activities to completely miss what's staring them right in the face. I'm basically the Trojan horse.

Don't judge me.

I know this blackens my soul. I know I'm going to Hell. I visit my priest and say my Hail Mary's as often as I can to avoid eternal damnation.

My only solace is the fact that these are small quantities of drugs. The customers can't exactly take these little bags and distribute them to the masses. Diego runs his bigger deals from secured locations that the cops don't even know exist. And every guy who buys from me is a lowlife bastardo, so I don't really feel that bad for giving them poison.

I do this because I have to.

They do this because they want to.

Therefore, I'd feel no sympathy if one of them turns up in a ditch somewhere. The fewer men out there like Diego Suarez, the better.

I focus back on my newest customer.

"Good evening, Miss," he says as he continues to leer at me. "Would you care to dance?"

Having seen the mark on his hand, I know he's paid his money, which gives me the green light. I turn down any man who doesn't have that mark because I always look first.

"Certainly," I purr. "I hope you can salsa."

He smirks. "I'm sure the steps will come back to me. You're no doubt an easy partner to have."

Ew.

I take his hand, which is disturbingly moist, and allow him to lead me onto the dance floor. While I do my best impression of someone who's not about to puke all over the place.

You'd think I'd be used to it after all this time.

But it never gets easier.

I fear the day it ever does.

The live band starts playing a new salsa number and Slick spins me into him. Clumsily. Yeah right, the steps will come back to him. I don't think he ever learned the steps in the first place.

But he's right.

I can make any partner of mine look good because I'm pretty damn good myself.

I've been dancing since I was four years old, and my dream has always been to become a professional ballroom dancer. Of course, Latin dances are my créme de la crème. I even work at a dance studio during the day, teaching all the Latin styles to people of all ages.

Despite Slick's obvious inexperience, I lose myself to the beat of the song and the flow of my movements. If I have to work for the Anti-Christ, at least I get to dance while doing it. His foot fumbles and rigid technique make it difficult to completely distract myself from the situation, but it's all for the best.

In the blink of an eye, as I'm doing some fancy footwork and fast spins, I slip my fingers into the cleavage of my dress and quickly tuck the little baggie into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

No one watching us would have been able to spot the exchange.

And if they did, they would just assume it was part of the dance.

I've been honing my skills since my pre-teen days, when I developed a nasty little pickpocketing habit because money around our house was tight. Mamá found out and gave me a good scolding for it, but nevertheless, my fingers are like magic. If I'm ever desperate enough for money, I could probably do fairly well by performing slight-of-hand tricks on the street. Or robbing people blind.

It's one of my many skills that Diego uses to his advantage.

"You dance like a dream, bonita," Slick says into my ear, speaking loudly over the music.

"Well, you picked it up pretty quickly." Not.

"Might I have the pleasure of buying you a drink after the dance?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to fraternize with the guests while I'm working."

He pulls me into him, way too close for my liking. His putrid breath reeks of alcohol, and the fumes coming off him from his cologne set my nostrils on fire.

"Well, when do you get off work?"

"I'll be working all night," I say a little more forcefully.

I disguise my desperation to get away from him with a quick twirl and side-step move. He's not as eager to let go of me, though.

"Playing hard to get? Because I like games."

When his hand travels toward my ass, I pull back and shoot him a chiding look, while playfully shaking my finger at him.

He just chuckles.

Diego never likes his customers pissed off, so part of my job is to also keep them happy.

From the outside, I probably do look like a prostitute. Dancing with man after man all night, perhaps lining up my johns for the evening. I don't sit and have drinks with my partners. I don't have any girlfriends here with me to shoot the shit with.

It's just me, a sexy dress, and drugs stuffed into my cleavage. Or in the garter on my thigh.

I try not to be disgusted with myself, but it's hard sometimes.

Thankfully, the song ends and I extract myself from Slick's grabby hands.

"Thank you for the lovely dance," I say with an easy smile.

He takes my hand and lays a lingering kiss on it. Gross. "The pleasure was all mine, bonita. Perhaps I might get another later?"

Just my luck. He's a repeater.

"In that case, I'd say another Snowflake would be in order."

Because he sure isn't getting anything for free.

His upper lip curls over his crooked teeth. "I am feeling rather thirsty. I'll find you later."

With a final wink that sends bile rising up my throat, he walks off.

The rest of the evening passes without much excitement. My other customers are much less talkative than Slick. Half of them are more interested in getting the product and being done with it. And the other half forego talking altogether and settle for groping me instead. But that's nothing new.

At one o'clock in the morning, I discreetly meet with Ivan, one of Diego's closest consiglieres to switch out my product. I can only carry so much with me at a time, so I have to meet with him a couple of times every night. I disguise the trips as bathroom breaks or drink refills if we're at the bar. You never know who could be watching.

Undercover cops.

Diego's enemies.

Or dumbass cokeheads who just want to rob me.

Then there are moments like right now when I actually do have to use the bathroom.

I catch Ivan's eye across the room—it's usually him or another guy named Kai keeping an eye on all club operations—and give him the signal for the bathroom. Because he or Diego always has to know where I am at all times. In case I decide to cut and run.

I'm not that stupid.

He replies with a curt nod, and I dash off to take care of business. I check my appearance in the mirror after I'm finished. I inherited my mamá's thick chocolate locks, so my curls aren't going anywhere anytime soon. I don't need a ton of eye makeup thanks to my heavy dark lashes and big brown eyes. And of course, my olive skin never requires bronzer. My one indulgence at Sephora is lipstick, in every shade available. I apply another layer of bright red, and I'm ready to face my life again.

The second I open the bathroom door, I come face-to-face with Slick.

Mierda.

It's much later in the evening and he's clearly drunk and high off whatever pills were in that baggie I gave him. Never a good combination.

"Hello again, bonita," he slurs. "I've changed my mind. I don't want another dance. I think I want something a little more private."

Before I can process his words, he's pulling me down the hallway with my arm in his tight grip. I desperately glance behind me, but we're already shrouded so far in the shadows, Ivan wouldn't see me from so far away.

Well, damn.

This is not good.
Chapter 2

Max

As I step inside the darkened, smoke-filled club, a mix of alertness and adrenaline streamlines through my system.

I am no longer Max Romano, undercover DEA agent.

I am now Maximus Ramirez, leader of a powerful LA drug syndicate who wants to partner up with Miami's most infamous cartel overlord, Diego Suarez.

Countless sources have informed me that Calor is where I can find Diego most nights out of the week, unless he's dealing with other business elsewhere. Thanks to my tech department at the DEA, I now have a full background profile as Max Ramirez. I have an extensive arrest record and no personal connections whatsoever to any law enforcement agency in the country. Not to mention zero personal connections. As far as Diego is concerned, I don't have a family to speak of.

I also know he can't even ask around about me because it's a well-known fact that Diego doesn't have any affiliation with the LA drug trade. Therefore, he has no avenues through which to seek intel on me. He's tried for years to get his foot in the door out there, but to no avail.

I'm here to change all of that.

Or at least pretend that I am.

It's a perfect cover for my investigation. It's relatively simple. Infiltrate Suarez's organization, establish a relationship of trust with him, gather enough evidence to lock him up for the rest of his miserable life, and then take the son of a bitch down.

I've met some nasty characters in my six years with the DEA.

But Diego Suarez is quite possibly the worst of them all.

The Drug Enforcement Agency, along with every other agency in the country, has been at him for years. But it was the rumor of Suarez's recent dabbling into the human trafficking business that finally allowed this undercover operation to be approved by the higher ups.

I straighten the cuff links on my suit and walk toward the bar with an air of authority. I have to look like I belong here. I've spread the word around the city for the past week that a new player is in town and wants to meet with Suarez. I had to get him on the hook first and let him dangle a bit, build up his curiosity and anticipation before making my appearance.

With his eagerness to expand his reach into LA, he'll already have his guard down.

The bartender approaches me with an expectant look.

"Jameson, neat," I tell him.

Seconds later, he passes the glass over to me and I slap down a bill. Adjusting the gold pinkie ring on my right hand before lifting the glass to my lips, I savor the damn fine whiskey. I like my liquor any way but clear.

I probably look like a douchebag standing here leaning against the bar, sipping my drink and appearing like I don't give a fuck about anything or anyone around me. The all-black suit sans tie and gold jewelry don't help.

But it's quite the opposite. I actually give a huge fuck, and I've got my eye on everything around me.

My gaze is searching for one thing in particular. More accurately, a person. A woman to be exact.

One of my informants told me that if I want to get any information on the kinds of drugs being filtered in and out of Calor, I need to talk to a woman who works here. He didn't know her name, but the whispers around the city refer to her as Miss X or the Queen of Calor. He couldn't even give me a fucking description of her, so that was helpful.

But I have to play this delicately.

I can't come in here and start asking a bunch of questions because so many suspicions would be raised, I wouldn't get within fifty feet of Suarez.

Twirling hair on the dance floor catches my eye, breaking my concentration on my task.

Jesus.

Now, there's a body that will get a man's attention.

This woman...this dark-haired, black dress-wearing, dancing goddess expertly spins around on the dance floor underneath colorful lights in the arms of a younger, skinny man who clearly doesn't know what the hell he's doing. She practically pays him no attention, though, as she sensuously rolls her voluptuous hips and sways her perfect curves, flipping her wildly gorgeous hair like no one is watching.

But I am.

And I can't fucking tear my eyes away.

It's the first moment I've been even the slightest bit distracted since I walked in here.

Her dress has a generous slit up one leg that gives me a marvelous view of her smooth olive skin. Most of her back is exposed in the low V-cut, allowing a man to imagine all sorts of things. Like bending her over the nearest table while driving into her from behind as he watches her bare ass buck beneath his hands.

She lifts her leg up and wraps it around her partner's hip as she dips backward, practically bending her body in half. Her partner doesn't know what to do except stare at her tits. She has her eyes closed, like she's savoring every moment of the dance and never wants it to end.

Fuck, she's stunning.

And her partner...isn't.

How the hell did a guy like that get a dance with that phenomenal creature? Doesn't make any sense. Women like that don't just dance with any Joe Schmo who approaches her.

A bleak thought forms in my mind.

I want to quash it, but I have to be rational. She could be a working girl.

I want to deny it. This magnificent woman couldn't be the type to sell her body by the hour. But I've seen too many things in my time to be surprised by anything these days. There are high-end escorts everywhere who do more than just escort. They may not work the streets, per se, but their job still falls under the same umbrella of prostitution.

Despite all of that, I'm inexplicably jealous of the peckerwood currently holding the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.

He doesn't deserve to touch her.

I do.

Whoa. Where the hell did that come from?

You're on a job, dumbass. And a woman like that is trouble.

True. But she could be useful. She might have some information I need. I just have to keep my mind focused and my dick under control.

I'm about to tell the bartender to send word to Suarez that Max Ramirez requests a meeting with him when I notice the dancing beauty leave the floor and make her way toward a hallway. Bathroom?

Curious, I wait about two minutes and then follow her.

I don't have to take a piss, but if I end up running into her and getting an impromptu introduction, bully for me. The problem is I don't know if that's a bully for me personally or professionally.

I have to put a lid on this sudden fascination before I open Pandora's Box. Nothing good can come of bedding a woman who may or may not be involved with Suarez. No matter how amazing her rack is.

I see her exit the bathroom before I reach the hall, but another man is already standing there waiting for her. A short, overweight, slimy-looking prick who's having a hard time standing upright. A bad feeling curls around my stomach as I watch him grab a hold of her arm and haul her away from the main floor.

She doesn't look willing.

Motherfuck.

I take off in their direction, outrage fueling my movements.

I hear them before I see them. And what I hear makes me want to grab the asshole by the throat and choke the life out of him. He's growling angrily at her, slurring his words. Her voice is shaky, telling him to let her go or there will be trouble.

Damn right there will be trouble.

And here I am.

I finally see them and have to bite back a roar of fury.

He has her shoved up against the wall, his thick arms caging her in as she struggles to move him back. She's able to push him away for a second, but he comes right back and grips her jaw in his pudgy hand.

"You'll shut up and take what I give you, puta," he says with a snarl. "Don't act like you don't spread your legs for a different man every night."

I'm surprised to see her smile, though it definitely isn't a nice one. She leans forward, getting into his face. "And you definitely won't be one of them, cabrón."

I almost smile myself. The woman has a backbone.

If this were any other situation, I'd be pitching a tent in my suit pants right now at hearing the steel in her voice. Gone was the shakiness from before. But I'm way too pissed off to appreciate how much of a turn-on her sass is.

The man pinches her face harder. She doesn't made a sound, but I can see the slight crinkle of her forehead, indicating that she's in pain.

"We'll see about that."

"Yes, we will," I say, stepping into the light so they can see me.

Their heads whip around, his face showing shock and hers displaying relief.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asks. "This is none of your damn business."

I meet her gaze. "Do you want his hands on you?"

It takes her several moments to register that I've spoken to her. I wait patiently while she processes, silently enjoying the seconds when her eyes rake down my body. She eventually shakes her head.

I switch my attention back to him. "The lady has spoken. So, if you would kindly remove your hand and step away from her, we'd both appreciate it."

He removes his hand from her jaw but doesn't move away. "You don't know who the fuck you're messing with—"

My patience snaps.

I surge forward. The woman gasps as I grab the asshole around the throat and slam him up against the wall, lifting him up with one arm until his feet no longer touch the floor.

"No, you don't know who the fuck you're messing with," I grate out. "If you think I won't break your neck right here and now and dump your fat ass into the sewer, well, that's your second mistake of the night. The first was touching her."

He's clawing at my hand, gasping for air. I tighten my grip.

"If you value your life, you'll never set foot in this goddamn place again," I continue. "And you'll never go anywhere near her. Comprende?"

He vigorously nods his head. With a final disgusted sneer, I drop my arm, fighting the urge to finish the job and take his last breath. I have a reputation for being a hothead, but this reaction is well out of the norm for me. I don't know if it's because I have no patience for any guy manhandling a woman. Or if it's because it was this particular woman being assaulted.

A woman I don't even know.

The prick scampers off. I take one deep breath before I turn around and face her. God, her body was created for the temptation of man. Every curve is on display under these hall lights. And the way her full, round breasts heave as she gathers herself is pure sin incarnate.

"You okay?" I ask, working to get all of my protective impulses under control.

She nods her head and smooths her hands down her dress. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for that. I left my pepper spray in my other dress."

I ignore her attempt to lighten the moment as I wave my hand at her. "That happen to you a lot here?"

Her eyes dart away. "Not very often. Some guys just don't know how to lay off the sauce."

She's being way too cavalier, acting like this is par for the course in her life.

The thought enrages me.

"Maybe you shouldn't hang out in clubs like this," I say, taking a step toward her. "A nice girl like you should spend her time in nicer places. Safer places."

She quirks an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm a nice girl?"

The inflection in her voice leads me to believe that she might be the exact opposite of a nice girl. Intriguing.

I stop less than a foot away from her and shove my hands in my pockets. It's a technique they teach you in undercover training. Invade the other person's personal space to establish dominance and intimidation. Another way of throwing them off their guard in hopes of wringing more information from them.

"Well, you didn't want that bastard's hands on you, so I have to assume that you're not all bad," I answer smoothly. "Does the nice girl have a name?"

She assesses me for several moments, confirming my initial impression of her. She's smart and aware. Intuitive and perceptive. I suspect I may not have thrown off her guard as much as I'd hoped.

"Sophie."

Satisfied that I now have something to work with, I extend my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sophie. Can I buy you a drink?"

I purposely don't offer her my name. I have to keep the upper hand in all situations by any means necessary.

She cautiously takes my hand and squeezes it lightly, acting as if she hasn't figured me out yet and doesn't trust me. Like I said, she's a smart woman. But that isn't enough to distract me from the insane level of electricity that zings up my arm from our connected hands. I can't tell if it's simply my dick reacting to her mere touch, or if it's my subconscious trying to tell me something.

"No, thanks," she says, dropping my hand much too soon. "I need to get back to work."

Work? Shit. That bad feeling comes back, hitting me square in the stomach.

"I apologize. I didn't realize you worked here."

Her chocolate eyes go flat. "In a way, I do."

Double shit. My mind screams at me with the only explanation I have after putting all these puzzle pieces together.

She is a prostitute.

But that doesn't make any sense. Why would she turn down the dickwad I just pulled off her? In my experience, desperate ladies of the night in need of cash don't blow off a score like that.

I inwardly cringe. Wrong choice of words.

Another thought comes to mind. Maybe I can use that angle. Bottom line, I would never actually pay her for sex, but acting like I'm a willing customer could get me somewhere. Worth a shot, I guess.

I prop my hand against the wall, creating a barrier between her and escape. Her eyes flare at the gesture. I turn on the charm.

"And what exactly is the nature of your work here?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. I can tell she's careful with her expressions. "If you have to ask, maybe you're the one who shouldn't be hanging out in places like this."

I'm grinning in spite of myself. She just basically confirmed what she is, but I admire the sharp edges of her demeanor. Despite how I found her, she's certainly not the type to play victim.

"I can assure you I have plenty of experience in places like this," I manage. "And with business like yours."

Is that disappointment I see? I swear that's what it looks like. It becomes a little unnerving when she doesn't immediately respond.

"So, how do I become a customer of yours?" I prod, bringing my body closer to hers.

I fight to keep my hands off. She was just assaulted, for Christ's sake. She doesn't need me taking advantage of her vulnerability.

But fuck, she smells so good.

Like jasmine.

And I know that prostitute or not, a night of fucking this woman would be nothing short of spectacular. My mind produces an image of her naked body spread out on my bed before I can tell it to stop. Her legs spread wide. Her lips parted in excitement. Those round tits—

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," she rasps, refusing to meet my eyes. "But I really do have to get back."

Wanting to speak to her more but knowing I can't push too fast, I step aside. "Then I won't keep you any longer. Have a nice night, Sophie."

I watch her walk away, then suddenly spin back around with questions in her eyes. "You never told me your name."

Parroting her words back to her I say, "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Judging from her expression, she doesn't know what to think of that. I can't help but stare as her perky ass twitches in that painted-on dress when she saunters away.

I'm definitely keeping my eye on you, Sophie.
Chapter 3

Max

My first impression of Diego Suarez comes as no surprise.

The man has no soul. Shocker.

"Ah, Señor Ramirez," he greets me as he rises from his private booth. "I've been expecting you."

I shake his hand, hiding my hate for the man. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Señor Suarez."

His thin-lipped mouth stretches into a smile. If a sneer could be considered a smile. "Well, I must say I was very pleased to hear you're interested in doing business. If not a little curious. It was certainly unexpected."

He waves down at the booth, indicating that I sit. I unbutton my suit jacket and stretch out in a causal manner, assuming my role as a powerful criminal figure who makes himself at home anywhere he goes, uncaring if he offends anyone. DEA training is great and all, but when you've seen Scarface as many times as I have, you tend to pick up a few things.

He straightens the collar of his red silk shirt, worn beneath a black velvet smoking jacket. Really, a smoking jacket? Who the fuck does he think he is? The Miami Don Corleone? His eyes are almost as dark as his thinning black hair, all made worse by a severely receding Widow's Peak. His face is clean-shaken and shiny, as if he used far too much aftershave.

"Let's just say that I've been re-assessing operations, and I think there are more profits out there to be had." I tip my head at him. "I can see an arrangement between us to be mutually beneficial."

He relaxes back in his seat and smiles like he just pulled off the greatest con in history and got away with it.

Sorry, Charlie. The only one getting conned here is you.

I've more than done my research on Diego Suarez. Born in Argentina in 1953, his parents immigrated to Mexico when he was ten. Scarce information is available on his parents' activities in Mexico, but it's reported that they were heavily involved with the cartel and certain militant guerrilla groups, until around 1967 when they were both killed by a hail of gunfire in a run-down Mexico City apartment building. A fourteen-year-old Diego was not there at the time, and he was left in the care of friends of his parents. He eventually immigrated to the United States in the early seventies.

After that, the storyline gets sketchy.

Not much is known about how he spent his time during his younger years. In fact, he sort of fell off the map until about thirty years ago when he suddenly re-emerged as a threatening figure in Miami society. As ruthless of a criminal as he is, but he's never actually been arrested in the US. Not even for a traffic ticket. The man is elusive and has a slew of connected individuals—and a team of high-powered attorneys—to keep him out of a cell.

That ends now.

"Excellent." He pours two tumblers full of a clear liquor from a decanter in the corner of the table. "But I'm not in the habit of brokering deals with someone until I have all the information."

I take the glass he holds out to me and clink it with his. "To your health."

He dips his chin. "Salud."

We pound them back and I struggle not to gag. Just as I suspected. A man like him wouldn't know good liquor if it came up and bit him in the ass.

The sounds of the live band playing a slow tango number reach my ears from downstairs. I don't allow myself to think about the mysterious angel from the hallway and whether or not she's down there on the dance floor right now tangoing with some other schmuck. Instead, I focus all my energy on the man seated in front of me.

He rests his intertwined hands on the table between us. "So, how is it that you need me and my city to help you acquire these profits?"

"Well, it seems we are both in need of something," I answer smoothly. "You need my bombita." Spanish code word for heroin. "And I want your connections with Mexico."

Technically, his cartel here in Miami is an entirely separate faction from the Mexican cartel, but he's also been in bed with them since the beginning. He needs their land routes, and they need his water routes. At least half of Suarez's product comes and goes through the port, all the way from Colombia. The DEA has known about this for years, but we've never been able to figure out how he's actually bringing it in. There have been seizes of his shipments over the years, but those searches have always come up empty. He claims he's only a businessman, importing coffee, sugar, fruits and textiles from the South American country.

Bullshit. He's dealing Colombia's other biggest cash crop: cocaine.

And he's hiding all that coke in those shipments somehow.

We just have to figure out where it is.

"Who says I need your bombita?" his voice snaps.

I keep my expression neutral. "I know you've been trying to get in that game for years. I'm here to help."

"From what I hear, you tend to keep your business pretty private."

It would seem that way since Max Ramirez literally didn't exist until a few weeks ago. He wouldn't have heard much else about me.

"Why come out of the woodworks now?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

Suspicious. I would expect nothing less. "What can I say, mi madre always said I was never good at making friends." His mouth twitches. "But I suppose I can make exceptions when certain potential friends could make me an even richer man."

He taps his finger against his empty glass, assessing me. "You're talking about a partnership. With me and with Mexico."

"In a sense. You clear the road for me in Mexico, and I'll open a route from LA to Miami at a discounted price."

He chuckles darkly. "A discount? What's your best offer?"

My smile is cold this time. He notices, his shoulders visibly stiffening. "It's my product. I don't make the offer."

"Yet you were the one who came to me," he points out.

He thinks he has leverage in this situation? Wrong.

"I'd consider this more of an...interview."

His jaw hardens. Oh, he doesn't like that.

"With all due respect," I say, "I didn't have to make this trip, Señor Suarez. There are other avenues I can take to get through to the Mexicans. Yours is simply the fastest, and I'd like to expedite these new business developments." I shrug. "Mi madre also accused me of being impatient." I lower my voice. "But getting bombita when you have none is not so easy."

His eyes grow flinty at that. "Don't make the mistake of assuming I need anything from you just because I agreed to this meeting, and I'm being hospitable. I don't need anyone."

Dial it back, Romano. We need his cooperation.

"Nor do I," I retort. "As long as we both understand each other." I pull a pen from my jacket pocket and scribble a number on one of the cocktail napkins. "This is my price for your first shipment. You will only receive that shipment after I've made contact with your people in Mexico and have secured safe trade access for my product. After that, we can re-negotiate terms."

His jaw hardens as he glances down at the number. I can't tell if it's in displeasure or contemplation. After another minute, he huffs out a breath and grins.

"Mi madre always used to say that I was too cautious. I never jump in with both feet."

I return his grin. Got him. He's locked in. "A smart man never does."

He tips his head in agreement. "The curse of being a shrewd businessman." He pulls a fat cigar out of his jacket and rolls it between his fingers. "Lower your price by twenty percent, and we've got a deal."

I pretend to consider this because I don't give a flying fuck. I just have to make it look real.

"Ten percent."

He holds the cigar under his nose and slowly inhales. "Deal."

"I've got shipments ready to go out in three weeks," I state firmly. "Can your contacts down South be ready by then to provide safe transpo?"

His features twist. So cocky. "They'll be ready in two."

That should give me time to gather enough concrete evidence that will put him behind bars for three lifetimes. No trumped-up conspiracy to distribute drugs charges. No getting off on technicalities. I want to get him on everything. And as long as I can stay in his good graces, there's a decent chance I'll become privy to his Miami business. Maybe even be present at one of his product shipments at the port. Catch the bastard red-headed.

"Can I expect that first bombita shipment in two weeks, as well?" he asks.

"That shouldn't be a problem."

He takes out a gold-plated cigar cutter and snips off the end of the cigar. "Then, Señor Ramirez, I think you were right." He lifts the cigar to his mouth, puffs once, twice, and blows out a plume of smoke that drifts in the air between us. "I think this arrangement will be immensely beneficial for both of us."

He pours each of us another glass of the clear cat piss and raises his to me.

I salute him for a second time. "I'll drink to that."

I revel in the slow burn of the alcohol when it slides down my throat, my muscles slowly loosening as it works its magic on my tension.

I just made a deal with the devil.

And I couldn't be happier.

Two weeks and Diego Suarez will be finished.

You're going down, cabrón.

Chapter 4

Sophie

I don't like to admit it when I'm frazzled. In fact, I don't even really like that word. I've survived working for el diablo all these years by maintaining my control at all times and never allowing my emotions to take over and make decisions for me.

But I am so frazzled right now.

I can't stop thinking about my gorgeous savior from the hallway. The tall, swarthy hunk with dark stubble on his cheeks, a square jawline, and impossibly broad shoulders. Oh yeah, and he has the voice of every woman's dirtiest fantasy. A mix between Batman and Dermot Mulroney. Gawd.

He stopped that cretin from taking what wasn't his and...I can't figure out why.

The characters that frequent Calor aren't exactly the noble or honorable type. If they saw some shady business going down anywhere, they weren't the Good Samaritans to step in and stop it. Hell, most of what goes on at the club is shady. So, why did this guy? He looked the part of every other creep I've seen in this place before. Mostly. He was way sexier. But the expensive suit, the gaudy jewelry—that all fits the description of one of the many goons Diego often does business with.

But if he's such a bad person, why did he save me?

I have to shake off these thoughts. I only have half an hour left of my shift, and then I can go home to Mamá and Manny. Trying to solve the enigma of one random man isn't going to solve any of my problems.

I only get about a three minute break after my last customer before I feel an imposing presence behind me in my "pick-up" area on the floor. Pasting on my usual seductive smile, I turn around to greet—

Him.

My gorgeous savior.

Dammit, I don't even know his name. But he knows mine.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he...bows? Like a gentleman?

"May I have the next dance?"

My mouth is suddenly filled with a million cotton balls. All I can do is nod and take his offered hand. His big, strong hand that surprisingly isn't smooth like Diego's. My savior's hand is rough and callused, which I find comforting somehow. A guy who might actually work for a living.

Maybe his work is knocking people off and burying the bodies in undisclosed locations.

Oh, shit.

His presence at the club isn't a good sign for him. He might be a drug dealer, an enforcer for a drug dealer, or your average every day junkie murderer.

But why does he have to be so hot?

"I'm not sure I can keep up with you, but I'll give it a shot," he muses as we find a place on the floor and start to move in a relaxed rumba.

"How do you know I can dance?"

He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. "I was watching you earlier."

Something coils low in belly at the thought of him watching me. Something that feels strangely like excitement. Maybe even arousal? God, what is wrong with me? This man is most likely a dangerous criminal. I don't get turned on by criminals.

"I'm not sure if that's creepy or...very creepy."

He belts out a laugh and oh, it's a good one. He's got a great laugh. Deep and guttural.

"Take it as a compliment," he says. "You tend to catch the eye of every man in the room when you dance. It's sort of mesmerizing."

I flush at his praise, but still feel the need to admit, "I don't really notice."

His eyes spark with something I can't name. "I know. You don't do it for the attention."

Needing to break the spell he puts me under every time he looks at me that way, I avert my gaze as he slowly spins me around his body. He's surprisingly light on his feet and seems to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of the proper technique, which is refreshing. I don't usually dance with anyone who's so competent in skill.

I have to wonder how far those skills stretch.

As a test, I perform a triple turn, which is usually followed by some sort of lift in this dance. Right when I expect him to take us back into closed position, he wraps his steely arm around my waist, pulls me against him, and easily lifts me off my feet. I'm so shocked, I can't help but wordlessly stare down at him. His expression is smug, but not arrogant, if that makes any sense. It's like he's pleased he's impressed me, but he's not the type who would sing his own praises.

I'm unaware of my own movements as he carefully sets me back down on my feet. These dances are so familiar to me, I never have to think about the correct steps and partner connections. They just come naturally. And even if I needed to concentrate I couldn't. Not when he's spearing me with that piercing gaze of his, those eyes tracking my every move, like a predator anticipating his prey.

Then the song ends, and a spicy samba number immediately ensues.

The need to take advantage of the music claws within me, desperate to break free. I raise a challenging eyebrow at him.

His answering smile is devious.

"Let's see what you got, Sophie."

He asked for it.

Never breaking eye contact, I stand alone and provoke him with my favorite hip rolls. I know the slit in my dress rides up my thigh as I bend my knees, reveling in his heated gaze. His eyes find that slit and don't stray until I start taking slow, measured steps toward him on my toes. Recognizing my challenge, that devious smile reappears as he grabs my wrist and hauls me into him.

He doesn't wait for me to take his hand.

He doesn't ease into the motions.

The slow rumba is gone.

Now, his aggression comes out. And I freaking love it. That's what a samba is. It's aggression, it's passion, it's lust and desire on the dance floor with some quick footwork thrown in.

He takes the dominant role as he leads us around the floor in the forward basic steps. I'm following with no problem, but if he wants me to spin, he grabs my hips and makes me spin. If he wants me to dip, he grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls me down into a dip. And if he wants to lift me, he doesn't hesitate to boldly grab my hips or just below my ass and lift me as he pleases.

God, this feels good.

Dancing with a man who knows how to take charge. Who knows exactly what he wants and just fucking takes it without asking for permission. I have a sense that he would ask if he felt even the slightest hesitation on my part, but he doesn't have to wonder about that.

I'm so damn willing in his arms it's almost embarrassing.

I'm so desperate to experience passion with another person that I'm pathetically throwing myself at this guy.

It doesn't stop me, though.

A light sheen of sweat covers my skin as he presses our bodies close together. So close that I can't tell where my body stops and his begins. Our feet are completely in sync. Our breaths come out in the same staccato rhythm. It's like we were born to dance together.

"What do you think?" he murmurs. "Do I meet your standards?"

Our faces are only inches apart, our eyes locked together in a battle I didn't realize was ever started. I feel his warm breath skate across my cheek. His features cloud with lust and without giving it a second thought, I know mine do, too. I can't control my visceral reactions to this man.

"I've seen worse."

When the song hits the slower beats of the bridge, he abruptly spins me around so my back is against his front. Shoving my mane of hair off my shoulder, he buries his face in my neck and thrusts his hips against my ass. My breath catches in my throat at the noticeable bulge he's grinding against me.

"Funny, because I don't think I've ever seen anything better than you," he whispers into my ear.

I tip my head back until it's resting on his shoulder. "I find that hard to believe."

His hands drift down to my thighs and slowly inch my dress up, exploring my bare skin. He's still controlling our movements, and I'm still letting him.

It's fucking thrilling.

"Why?" he breathes. Then he forcefully drives his hips against me, placing his cock right at the crevice of my thighs, drawing a gasp from me. "Is this not proof enough?"

Dios. His dancing is like sex.

And I'm sure he's equally phenomenal at both activities.

Just the feeling of having his demanding hands on me causes my pulse to spike, my heart already beating out of control.

Like a flash, he spins me around once again to face him. His pupils are so dilated, his chocolate irises have disappeared.

"What about you, Sophie?" he asks. "Are you feeling this, too?"

I don't get the chance to answer. He lifts my leg up and wraps it around his waist, effectively placing my sex right over his hardness. He drags his erection over my center, back and forth, making my eyes roll back in my head. My dress is thin and my panties are a scrap of nothing, so I know he can feel how hot I am down there.

I get my answer when his brow furrows. He lets out a long groan. "Christ. You're wet for me, aren't you? I can feel it."

I don't know how to answer that, so I don't. All I get out is a muffled whimper as I delight in the delicious friction.

When the final beats of the song ring out, he dips me backward and runs his callused palm down my chest, right between my heaving breasts. My head is thrown back, my eyes closed, but I can feel him breathing against my stomach, telling me his head is dipped into my body. Savoring, perhaps?

He brings me back up to face him when the song is over. I think we're both too stunned to say anything. We just stare at each other, panting, fighting to catch our breath. He's looking at me like he's trying to figure out the quickest way to get my dress off. And I'm looking at him like he's an alien from a planet billions of miles away.

But damn, do I want him.

Bad.

I want his mouth on me. Immediately.

He must see it in my eyes because he snatches my hand up and drags me off the dance floor without a word. I follow, teetering a few times on my stiletto heels. He takes me to the same hallway where we met earlier, not stopping until we're hidden from prying eyes by the shadows.

I don't think.

I can hardly breathe.

All I want to do is lose myself to the moment. To him.

This doesn't happen to me. Ever.

I just want one moment that isn't consumed by fear and responsibility and conflicted morals. One brief window where I can pretend like none of it matters.

In this hallway, with the sexiest man I've ever seen in my life, I want to be a completely different person. Someone who isn't afraid to go after what she wants.

He takes me by the shoulders and slams me up against the wall.

Yes.

His hands frame my face. I have a brief glimpse of his heavy-lidded eyes before our mouths meet in a frenzy. His lips are soft but insistent as they ease my own open, allowing his tongue to thrust inside and stroke mine. Our hands are frantic, groping, squeezing, getting as much of each other as we can before we have to go back to reality.

He rips his mouth away. "Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are?" His lips trail down my throat, sensuously tasting my fevered skin. "Fuck. I'd do anything to be inside you right now."

It seems the desperation is mutual.

I arch into his hands when they fall on my breasts, massaging, his fingers running across my raised nipples. I hear a snap and feel the small chain around my neck give way. I know he's just broken my necklace, but I don't pay attention. I don't care about anything as long as he keeps his hands where they're at.

Which is why I say—and do—the inconceivable.

"Take your cock out," I whisper.

He tenses. Panic flares to life inside me. He can't stop now. I need this.

My hands fly to his zipper and slide it down.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

But I'm supposed to be a different person, right? So, I'm going to let this random stranger fuck me right here in this dirty hallway in the pits of my own personal hell.

"You can fuck me."

He lets out a low moan and attacks my throat with his hungry mouth.

"Goddammit, Sophie. Don't say things like that."

Why not?

"You don't want to encourage a man like me."

What will a man like you do?

His hips are torturously grinding against mine, but our bodies are still restrained by our clothing. I snap open his button. But just as I'm reaching inside his pants and simultaneously lifting up my leg for easier access, he freezes.

"Wait, stop," he grunts. "I can't."

He pulls on my wrists until they're no longer anywhere near his manhood, and my whole body stills.

Oh my God. Did I read all of the signals wrong?

He said he wants to be inside me, right? But he can't?

Mortification rolls over me in tsunami-sized waves.

I yank my arms back, gluing them to my sides. He has a look of regret stamped on his face as he steps away and discreetly zips himself back up.

"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice. "I didn't mean to take it this far."

Gee, that makes me feel so much better.

I run my trembling hands through my hair and straighten my dress, needing something to do other than just stare at him, dumbfounded. This situation is too humiliating. The one time I try to escape and experience a few seconds of ecstasy and it backfires horribly.

Should have known, Sophie. Life is never that easy.

"Y-yeah, me either," I stutter, sounding completely lame. "I should go."

I need to get away and hopefully never see him again. Part of me is crushed at the idea that I'll never have another dance like that again. Or have another kiss like that. But it's for the best. In this life, I don't have the benefit of relationships. Or even quickies, apparently.

He looks conflicted as I turn away, clenching his jaw, but he doesn't stop me.

Until he says in an almost angry voice, "I think you forgot something."

My blood turns to ice.

Everything suddenly clicks into place. His presence at the club, his reason for approaching me and asking for a dance. Hell, he even asked me about my "work" earlier.

He's a customer.

He's only after the product he paid for. Which currently rests in the swell of my cleavage. I never even thought to check his hand earlier because I was too enthralled in his masculine magnetism. It's the first time I've ever slipped up on the job. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

And the humiliation just keeps on coming.

He must have just been horny and saw an opportunity with a woman who looked easy. Like Slick in the hallway earlier. That's the only reason I can come up with for the way he just mauled my mouth like a starving man. Only unlike Slick, this guy isn't drunk and didn't force himself on me. But I guess he didn't have to. I was humping his leg like an animal in heat.

I don't have an explanation for why he stopped, though. Why didn't he just take the quick fuck? That part doesn't make any sense.

But I push all of it away. None of it matters.

He just wants his drugs.

With my back still facing him, I reach into my dress and pull out the little bag of white powder. I refuse to look him in the eye, so I only turn around enough to pick up his hand and slap the bag into his palm.

Hiding my crushing disappointment, I deliver the same rote I do to all my customers.

"Enjoy. And thanks for the dance."

I walk away with a bruised ego and an emptiness in my chest that is all too familiar. And not surprising.

After all, I lost my hope a long time ago.

Chapter 5

Max

What. The. Fuck.

I stare after Sophie as she walks away from me. After handing me a bag of fucking cocaine.

My head is spinning.

I had my suspicions about her being involved with Suarez somehow, but I never thought she, of all people, would be an actual dealer. I guess this means she isn't a prostitute? Despite how willing she was just now to let me fuck her. Take your cock out.

I almost did. I was so, so close to giving in and fucking up an undercover operation in record time. Her voice when she whispered that, it was so husky, so needy. Desperate, but not for attention. The woman clearly needed a release in a bad way, and I'd been on the verge of offering up my left nut if it meant I got to be the one to give her that orgasm.

But shit! She's Miss X?

I'm so goddamn mad right now my vision is getting blurry.

Anything can happen to a woman who looks like her and carries God knows how much money worth of drugs on her. The asshole I pulled off her earlier is proof of that. How in the ever-loving hell did she get wrapped up in this shit storm?

I stuff the bag in my pocket—as much as I want to flush it down the toilet and pretend she never gave it to me, this is my job and it's evidence—along with her necklace. That's what I was trying to return to her. I thought I'd scared her for a second since I said it in such a pissed-off tone. But I am pissed. I stepped over the line by touching her. I hadn't been able to control myself. I'm angry because she was right there for the taking and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Now, I'm angry for a whole set of other reasons.

And all on my first night.

I finger the plastic bag in my pocket as I exit the club and step out into the sticky night air. I'm still not sure why she gave this to me. I didn't pay for it in any way. Did she figure out who I am—at least, who I'm pretending to be— and passed it along as a gift from Suarez or something?

Either way, this isn't good for her.

She just handed a DEA agent a bag of narcotics.

My heart squeezes at the thought of anything bad happening to her. And the insane part? I already feel like I'll do anything to prevent that from happening. I want to protect her.

You dumbass. You don't even know her.

True. Looks like I have some research to do.

I pull out my cell phone and dial my partner, Ian Thorpe. "You get all that?"

"Loud and clear," his voice comes over the line. "Except for the last few minutes at the very end. The line cut off."

Because as I'd been dragging Sophie toward that hallway, I twisted the top of my gold pinkie ring, turning off the microscopic recording device hidden inside. I'd known what I was about to do and didn't want him perving on any of it.

She'd practically demanded that I fuck her.

That was for my ears only.

"I was pissing," I explain, fully aware that I'm already lying to my partner. "Didn't think you'd want to hear that. I just left. Nothing exciting happened from then until now."

I hear some papers shuffling in the background. "Sounded like you made a good connection with Suarez. I think we're in business."

I think back to our meeting upstairs. "Seems so."

"Klausen will be happy to hear this." Lieutenant Klausen. Our boss and all-around hard-ass.

"Making a deal with the target on the first night? He's going to get a boner the size of the Empire State Building."

Ian chuckles.

"I'll be in tomorrow to debrief and go over the next steps."

"Copy that." He yawns. "Get some sleep. I'll see you bright and early."

I hang up and climb into my red Ferrari that's not actually mine. The department would never shell out money for this. It's a good thing that my brother-in-law is super rich and has an affinity for collecting exotic cars. It's not the first time I've borrowed one of his expensive little toys for a job. After changing the license plates, of course.

As I maneuver through the 3am traffic, I glance at the delicate gold chain dangling from my fingers. It isn't tacky like my gold jewelry. It's simple and understated, with a small diamond hanging in the center. The rock looks real. If she's working for Suarez, she can probably afford to buy her own diamonds. My stomach twists as bitterness creeps in. I'd have to save up more than a few paychecks to buy her real diamonds.

Or maybe he bought it for her.

My hand clenches into a fist.

I take a few extra turns just in case one of Suarez's men is following me. I wouldn't be surprised if he wants to keep tabs on his new associate. When I don't spot a tail, I pull into the lower level of the parking garage at the Hyatt Regency Hotel. As far as Suarez or anyone else at the club is concerned, this is where Max Ramirez will be staying while he's in town. This case is too high-profile, and I'm not going to risk my cover being blown by going back to my apartment.

For at least the next two weeks, Suite 1302 at the Hyatt Regency is home sweet home.

The worst part is not having my dog with me. I rescued my boxer, Trip, from the pound almost three years ago. Apparently, his former owners had been real assholes, always leaving him caged up in a crate, twenty-four seven. He even wore down most of his teeth after trying to escape so many times. He instantly latched on to me after I brought him home, desperate for any bit of love and affection he could get. We've been inseparable since. He's staying with my sister and brother-in-law while I'm undercover.

By the time I reach my room, I'm too damn tired to play back tonight's recording and take notes on the things I heard. I just want to shower and crash hard.

I empty my pockets onto the dresser but pause when I pull out the cocaine and the necklace. I carefully place the feminine gold chain onto the nightstand next to the bed. I don't want to think about what motivates me to put it there.

The cocaine, however...

I'm bound by law and the oath I took to turn it over as evidence in this case.

But something stops me.

I don't know what it would mean for Sophie if she's implicated in all of this. Nothing good. And I can't bear the thought of seeing her behind bars. My cop's intuition tells me she's not a criminal mastermind—she's an innocent, caught up in something nefarious for whatever reason.

Something deep down tells me that she needs help.

My mind made up, I swipe up the TV remote and remove the cover to the battery compartment. I toss out the batteries and replace them with the small bag of illegal powder. I return the cover and place the remote back onto the dresser, next the TV.

That's the second line I've crossed tonight.

What the hell is happening? It's my first night on this case and I'm already losing control. I have to get my shit together.

I stomp to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes, and turn on the spray as hot as it will go. Stepping under the stream, I force objectivity to the forefront of my mind. We've been trying to nail Suarez for years, and the last thing I need to do is make the case personal.

But fuck, did she feel good in my arms.

Her soft lips moving against mine. The taste of sin, the smell of jasmine. The touch of silk as I buried my hands in her hair before running them down her tight body. And holy shit, the sounds she made. The sighs, the whimpers, the fucking moans as I thrust my cock against her.

She wanted it inside her.

And I was practically mindless with my desire to give her anything she wanted.

My hand falls to my cock before my brain comprehends my actions. I'm already hard as granite, replaying my encounter with her, pre-cum dripping off me.

You can fuck me.

I've never wanted a woman in my entire life more than I wanted Sophie in that moment. Every inch of her was begging for me, calling out to me. Jesus, she acted like she hadn't been pleasured in ages. At that thought, I stroke my shaft harder, almost punishingly. I've had blue balls since I watched her walk away.

I need relief.

I picture the way she looked at me, with glazed eyes that were sparkling with lust. Her cheeks flushed with excitement. I increase my tempo, pumping faster, needing the pain to subside. I could have had her right then. Could have been inside her, feeling her tight pussy clenching around me as she came all over my cock. I could have slammed so hard and so deep into her that I stole her breath. I could have felt her milking me until I came inside her heat—

Instead, I have to settle for pathetically coming all over the tiled shower wall of a chilly hotel room.

My head is officially fucked.

Sleep may not be coming too easily tonight after all.

I need to find out everything I possibly can about little Miss Sophie.

I don't know how she fits in yet, but something tells me that she is the key to bringing down Diego Suarez.

I crank the faucet all the way over to ball-shrinking cold.

Looks like I won't be having anymore hot showers for a while.
Chapter 6

Sophie

After quietly easing open the door to the two-bedroom house I share with Mamá and Manny, I hang my purse on the coat rack and lock all three of our deadbolts, feeling way more strung out than I usually do after leaving the club.

All thanks to my drug-buying, hot-as-hell dance partner slash make-out buddy.

It's really late and all the lights are off except for the one lamp in the living room that Mamá always leaves on for me. Sometimes she's awake when I come home, sitting in her special recliner when she can't sleep. I saved for ages to buy her that recliner because it's supposed to have the best lumbar support on the market. Ever since she started working at the diner years ago, she's had terrible back pains. Her doctor says she needs to have surgery to repair her herniated disc, but there's no way we can afford that right now.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I don't see her anywhere, hoping that means she's having a restful night's sleep.

I pour myself a glass of water and head for Manny's bedroom. Mamá and I did our best to make it look exactly like she wanted, despite our limited income. Dark purple walls. Silver stars stuck to the ceiling. Posters of Harry Styles taped up everywhere. I guess it could be worse. It could be Taylor Swift she had the obsession with. Thank Cristo she never became a fan girl of hers.

I frown as I watch her still form lying on her bed. She may swoon over Harry like any other thirteen-year-old girl would, but sometimes she says or does things that are way beyond her age. It scares me a little.

I bend over her bed and kiss her forehead. She stirs and blinks her eyes open, looking up at me with a quick smile. "You're home," she says groggily.

"I am, querida. I just wanted to see you. Go back to sleep."

"Love you, Sophia." She's already fading back into unconsciousness.

I brush her dark hair off her face, my heart squeezing at her innocence. "I love you, too."

I can't imagine how Mamá feels about me working for Diego, even though she knows we have no choice. It's either work for him or get sent to an early grave. But I can't even bear the thought of Manuela ever going anywhere near the man, let alone being under his evil thumb like me.

I'll kill him myself before I'll ever let that happen.

Even if I have to die trying.

I quietly close her bedroom door and am about to walk into the bathroom to take a shower—I have to every night after I leave that decrepit cesspool—when I hear movement from the kitchen. Mamá is standing at the counter when I come in, pouring herself a glass of milk. I've lectured her a thousand times about getting her proper daily dose of calcium.

Her eyes run down my body briefly before darting away. I know she disapproves of what I do at Calor, although she doesn't know everything because I don't tell her. I'm doing all of this for family, which she understands.

Nobody has to like it.

Her smile is tight. "Rough day, mija?"

"Just like every other day," I reply wryly, falling onto our futon that folds out every night as my bed.

There's a small dresser in the corner of the living room I use, and the rest of my clothes are in Manny's closet. I get in so late most nights, it makes no sense for me to share a bedroom with her and force her to witness one low point in my life after another.

"How was the diner?"

She sits down at our second-hand kitchen table with her milk and begins peeling a banana. "Worked a double."

I cringe. It's good money for us, but bad for her back.

"Wanda's kid's got the flu, so I covered for her. Tips were good today."

I rest my head on the back of the cushion and exhale. "Margie opened up my classes at the studio to more students, so I should have more money coming in from that." Margie is the owner of the studio I teach Latin dance at during the day.

When Mamá's hand freezes in mid-air as she's taking a bite of her banana, my senses go on alert. "What?"

"The landlord came by yesterday." My stomach sinks at her dejected tone. "He's raising the rent another seventy-five dollars."

I spring forward on the seat cushion. "He can't do that. Our lease states our monthly amount. It's under contract."

She sighs wearily. "Apparently, the small print says he has the right to raise it whenever he wants."

I'll be checking into that later, but I doubt it will do any good. Our landlord is a greedy monster and doesn't have any sympathy for us whatsoever. And we're barely scraping by with rent, utilities, and groceries as it is.

"Maybe I can talk Diego into giving me a waitressing shift at the club." The words are like acid on my tongue.

She shoots me a sharp look. "You know he won't like that."

I shrug, forcing nonchalance onto my features. There's no point in upsetting her. "There's no harm in talking to him about it. I've done my job well for years now, and we've made him a lot of money. It's not like I'd be asking for a handout. I'm asking to work more for him."

"That means you'd be working there pretty much every night, mija. And teaching during the day."

I grin. "I get my work ethic from my mamá, what can I say?"

She snorts and shakes her head. "Always so smooth with your words. You're too charming for your own good, you know that?"

I wink. "That I got from Papá."

The words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to suck them back in. We usually only mention Papá around Manny because she never knew him and we want her to. But it comes at a cost for both of us. Thirteen years and it still hurts like it happened just yesterday.

Her face immediately falls, but she offers a small smile. "Yes, you did, mija. Every time I look at you, I see him. You have his features."

"And Manny has yours." I stand up and go to kiss her cheek, wanting to escape the monotony and pain. "I'm going to take a shower. Goodnight."

"'Night."

I'm usually desperate to wash all the day's grime off me by the time I get home from the club, particularly the touch of every man who's laid his hands on me.

But tonight, as insane as it sounds, I don't want to wash off his touch.

My dark stranger.

I can still feel his breath on my neck, his tongue in my mouth. I wonder if I'll see him at the club again. Part of me hopes I do.

But the smart part of me hopes I don't.

He's the type of man who can make me want things I can never have. Make me need things that will keep me up at night. He's the type of man who could be very bad for me.

And I certainly don't need any more bad in my life.
Chapter 7

Sophie

"Am I ever going to get a date out of you?" Mr. Robbins asks after my last class of the day is over.

I laugh and close the cap of my water bottle. "Now, what would your wife have to say about that?"

He smiles sheepishly. "She'd probably be happy I've still got it after all these years."

I smother my giggle with my hand. Mr. Robbins is seventy-three years old, and he's taking dance classes to surprise his wife for their fiftieth anniversary party. She's always loved to dance, but could never convince him in the past to take lessons with her.

I swear, the first time he told me that story I was close to bawling like a baby in front of the entire class. He and his wife might come from a different era, but it's nice to know that romance is still alive. Especially at their age.

While I haven't experienced any kind of romance at any age.

But a love story like that isn't for me.

None of them are for me. I accepted that a long time ago. Love and romance and a happily ever after don't exist in my world anymore. You can't expect to find sunshine and light when you live your days in the darkness.

I pat him on the back as we exit the studio. "Well, I bet that's exactly what she'll say after you get her on the dance floor next month."

"If she doesn't, I want my money back." He winks and walks off.

My smile is still stretching across my face as I head toward my car. That's when I feel an odd sensation, like I'm being watched. I thought I felt it this morning when I was leaving my house for the studio. At the time, I shrugged it off as paranoia.

But if I've learned one thing over the years, it's to trust my instincts.

And my instincts say the suspicious-looking silver sedan parked across the street isn't empty. I can't see who's behind the wheel because the windows are too tinted. I try not to be obvious as I commit the make and model to memory.

Is Diego having me followed?

Why would he do that? I haven't done anything. He has no reason to suspect me of any wrong doing.

Something tells me I'll really have to be on my toes tonight at the club. And not just on the dance floor. If Diego has some sort of agenda he's working behind my back, my senses will need to be on high alert. The worst thing about snakes is that they strike when you least expect it.

Considering the unexpected reminds me of my close encounter of the gorgeous kind last night with my mysterious savior. And my near-orgasm from a mere kiss and some fondling. Talk about unexpected. The man was like sex on a stick, oozing all kinds of sensual prowess and dominance. His eyes had been filled with an infinite amount of filthy promises.

But something had stopped him, and it still doesn't make sense.

I'd been angry with him for that last night, but even more at myself. There is no room in my life for that kind of weakness.

Though it hadn't stopped me from fantasizing about him in my dreams. Dios, they'd been so vivid it was as if he'd actually been there in my house, so close I could feel his hot breath on my naked flesh...

I adjust my position on the futon for the thousandth time since I laid down for bed two hours ago. The house feels abnormally hot. Is our air conditioning going out? Because I definitely don't need that bill. The cheap sheets feel unusually itchy, chafing my bare breasts—

Wait, when did I get naked?

"Problems sleeping, Sophie?"

My head shoots up at that gravelly voice, yet I'm strangely not surprised to hear it. For some reason, that particular deep timbre incites more excitement in me than fear.

My mysterious stranger silently stalks from the shadows of our living room, his eyes hooded, his gait menacing. He's wearing the same black suit from earlier tonight at the club, the same white shirt with the open buttons, exposing his throat. And his gaze is sliding over every inch of me, his fists clenching when I move my leg, spreading my thighs wider.

For God's sake, Sophie! When a scary dude breaks into your home and creeps up on you while lying naked in bed, you should run to the kitchen for a steak knife and call the cops! You should not be planning the steps you're going to take to get him naked, too!

"Not usually, no," I find myself saying in the darkness. "But tonight..."

He stops next to the end of the futon, his features tightening. "Tonight you were thinking about me, weren't you?"

I nod.

His pupils dilate. He grabs the corner of the thin sheet that's barely been covering my center—and literally nothing else—and slowly pulls it off. The soft rustle of the material is the only sound in the room, other than my pounding heartbeat, until it falls to the floor. His breathing turns ragged when his gaze locks on my sex.

I jolt when his hand wraps around my ankle and squeezes. "Were you thinking about my mouth?" he asks darkly.

Another nod.

His hand caresses up my calf, his finger tracing circles in my skin. "What was my mouth doing, Sophie?"

I don't even know what to call this man, and yet I'm picturing the dirtiest of scenarios with him. I mean...seriously. I want him to do the most wicked of things to my body.

"You were k-kissing me." My voice breaks when he reaches the back of my knee and finds a ticklish spot. Rather than make me laugh, the action sends heat coursing through my veins.

"Where was I kissing you? Be specific, bonita."

He thinks I'm beautiful? That endorsement boosts my confidence, driving me to boldly spread my legs even wider.

"My m-mouth. You were kissing my mouth."

He lowers himself to the futon, placing one knee between my legs as his hand delves higher. His suit jacket grazes my naked skin. I feel so on display like this—completely bare while he remains fully clothed. It's a delicious sensation to be at the mercy of a man like him. When his hand begins to knead my inner thigh, arousal spreads through my belly like warm honey.

"Did I kiss you anywhere else?"

My eyes begin to drift closed, but pop back open when the pad of one fingertip taps against my lower lips. Just once. His eyes are challenging, demanding I say the words he wants to hear. That we both want to hear.

My gaze flicks down to where his hand is hovering above me. "There. You kissed me there."

His face inches closer, his other hand clamped around my hip, holding me still. "Tell me where, Sophie. Be more specific."

I swallow, needing more moisture in my mouth. "M-my...pussy."

He groans, lowering his gaze to said area. "You want me to kiss your pussy, baby?"

My pulse quickens at his words. "Yes."

He does. He lowers his mouth and presses his firm lips against my slick ones. Again, just once. My toes curl. My hands unconsciously fly to his head to hold him there by the dark strands of his hair.

"So wet for me. Do you want my tongue?"

En serio? Is that a trick question?

"Yes."

"Tell me to lick your pussy, Sophie."

I dig my heels into the mattress, pushing my hips closer to this mouth. He chuckles, his hand on my hip keeping me in place.

"Say the words, and I'll give you what you need," he commands.

"Lick my pussy," I whisper.

He makes a sound of approval. "Good. Now, tell me to make you come. Tell me you need it."

I moan, pulling on his hair in desperation. "I need your mouth. I need you to make me come. Please."

"Goddamn, woman," he groans. "I'll give you exactly what you fucking need. Hold on."

With a loud growl, he dives forward and buries his head between my thighs. I throw my head back and feel his tongue spear into me—

That's when I woke up in a cold sweat, dressed in the regular shorts and tank I usually sleep in, alone in the futon.

So, that's where I'm at in life now. That's how low I've descended. Having random sex dreams about hot strangers who like to buy drugs off me.

And I didn't get to come, even in my dreams.

Story of my life.

I get in my car and drive off. I won't forget about the silver sedan and the feeling of being watched. But I will shove my mysterious stranger and his addictive mouth out of my mind. He's a weakness I can't afford.

I'll never see him again, anyway.

Chapter 8

Max

Despite getting almost zero sleep last night, I have a plan.

A plan that's probably ass backwards crazy, but a plan nonetheless.

In fact, a lot of things I've been thinking lately seem to be generated from the head between my legs rather than the one on my shoulders.

I didn't tell anyone about the bag of coke Sophie gave me last night. Not even Ian, my fucking partner who I'm supposed to trust with my life. It's wrong on so many levels, and that's not how I operate. I don't skirt rules and protocol in my job. I'm not one of those agents.

But there's never been a Sophie before.

I never prepared myself for a woman like her to become part of the job. Her involvement shouldn't change anything, but it has. Too much. Case in point, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.

My God, I fell asleep last night with her face in my mind and my hand wrapped around my dick. I followed her to her damn job this morning, like a sick, psycho stalker. I could call it surveillance, but who am I kidding? I'm curious about her, and I just wanted to see her again.

An inexplicable obsession with a woman—a possible witness—is so not the way to begin an undercover operation.

My background check on her didn't reveal much. Sophia Fuentes was born in Colombia, her parents immigrated to the United States when she was a kid, and her father went missing thirteen years ago. His body was never found. She lives with her mother and younger sister in a small house in a run-down part of town, and she works at a dance studio during the day, something I was pleased to discover. It's befitting of her. I like the thought of her teaching dance and doing something she loves in a much safer environment than the one I met her in.

She has no arrest record, and there is no official information that she has any affiliations with Diego Suarez.

I have my suspicions, though.

I read the missing persons report on her father. The fishy stench coming off of it was appalling. If I had to guess, I'd say her father had a run-in with some shady characters—possibly Suarez—and something went wrong. His body was never found because men like Suarez don't leave evidence of their crimes. And if Sophie's working for Suarez, there has to be a logical explanation. He must have something big on her or her family, or—

He's simply threatening her.

Whatever the reasons, he has to be controlling her somehow. I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, and nothing else makes sense for a woman like her to even know Suarez.

The whole situation fucking pisses me off.

I have to find out what kind of power he's wielding over her and demolish it.

Which is why I'm back at Calor for the second night in a row, setting in motion my ill-conceived plan.

I approach the big dude standing at the entrance to the VIP area. His dark skin and tattoos suggest a Pacific Island heritage, possibly Samoan. His facial expression suggests a take-no-bullshit-from-anyone type of personality.

"Tell Diego I'm here to see him."

I don't offer my name because I know I don't need to. Suarez would have spread the word to his men about who I am.

He sizes me up for about two seconds before turning away to speak into his headset. He's speaking Spanish, so I catch every word. Being based in Miami, I've had to become fluent in Spanish or else I'm at a huge disadvantage. Due to my Italian heritage I'm also fluent in Italian, but that doesn't come up as often in cases.

He turns back to me, the same hard expression on his stony face. "Go on up."

I make my way up the red carpeted stairs, dodging women decked out in dresses that would be illegal on the streets. They all give me their best bedroom eyes, one even slinking her hand up my arm when I pass. I politely smile but otherwise ignore them. When I reach the second floor, I find Suarez near the same booth we sat in last night.

But the rest of the scene is not the same as last night.

He's menacingly standing over some guy on his knees, snarling in his face with a furious expression. I slow my steps as I watch the situation unfold. The man on his knees looks like he's pleading with Suarez, tears running down his cheeks. He already has a split lip that's oozing blood and a black eye. Suarez grabs him by the hair and roughly yanks his head back. I can't hear what he's saying from my position, but I can guess this is someone who probably works for him and the guy has screwed up.

The next thing I know, Suarez fucking loses it.

He just starts pounding on the guy with his fists. Suddenly, I can't hear the music downstairs over the sound of flesh meeting flesh. I show no reaction, quietly observing from the shadows. He's got a pretty mean right hook, I'll give him that. I'm finally seeing firsthand why he's so feared in this city. He's showing absolutely no emotion as he delivers blow after blow to the man's face. His eyes have glazed over in a way that tells me he's enjoying beating this man to within an inch of his life.

Finally, he stops.

And with careful control, Suarez stands up straight, slicks his hair back with his hands, and re-buttons his suit jacket. Completely ignoring his bloody knuckles and the sweat dotting his brow.

It's at that moment that he notices me. And he smiles.

"Ah, Señor Ramirez. I did not expect to see you again so soon."

I step forward. "Nor did I. But I have a proposal I'd like to discuss with you."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Sounds intriguing." He flicks his wrist toward the man sprawled on the floor, but doesn't spare him a glance when he speaks to his men. "Get this panocha out of my sight."

I redefine my impression of Suarez a little as I watch him take his place across from me in the booth. Last night I saw the cutthroat businessman. Tonight I'm seeing the ruthless dictator who never hesitates to use force and violence to get whatever he wants. I knew all of this about him beforehand, but seeing it in person helps refresh my awareness of who I'm dealing with.

Sizing up my opponent and all that.

"What can I do for you?" he asks as he meticulously wipes off his bloodied knuckles with a lily-white handkerchief. "I trust this is about our deal?"

"Actually, this involves another matter."

His eyes gleam with interest. "Do tell."

My eyes flick over to the balcony that overlooks the dance floor. She's down there somewhere. My skin itches with the need to go find her.

"I confess that a particular woman caught my eye last night," I say. "I believe she may work for you. And since I'm going to be here for at least the next two weeks, I suddenly find myself in need of...entertainment."

His mouth slowly spreads into a vicious sneer. For him, I think it's the equivalent of someone looking genuinely happy.

"I understand your plight, amigo. I'm sure I can arrange for this woman to keep you occupied. Which one was it?"

"She said her name was Sophie."

His sneer vanishes.

Shit. She better not be his woman. If she lays in bed with him every night, I might have to shut this place down and arrest his ass tonight. Undercover operation be damned.

"Sophie would be a good choice," he says slowly, as if testing out the words. "I've known her for many years now. But I'm afraid she isn't available for loaning out. Perhaps I could interest you in some of my favorites? I can guarantee they're all experienced and know how to satisfy a man."

I fist my hands underneath the table. I hope to God he's never had Sophie satisfy him in such ways. Otherwise, he's signing his own death warrant right fucking now.

"I have no doubt they do," I muse. "But let's just say my appetite has been whetted. And when I get a taste for something, I don't like to move on until I'm completely satiated. You can understand that, I'm sure."

A muscle in his jaw ticks. I'm pushing my luck, I know it, but this has to happen. I know it in my gut. So, I decide to sweeten the deal.

"In exchange for her, I'll give you that first shipment of bombita for fifteen percent less than my normal price."

He narrows his eyes. "I'm sorry, but Sophie is too valuable to my operation."

He's playing hardball.

Well, I can play, too. After all, it's not my money we're dealing with.

"Twenty percent," I throw back. "And you must understand this is the only time I'll ever offer this. The offer will expire in approximately five minutes when I stand up and leave this booth. And I don't change my mind."

He tucks the reddened handkerchief back into his jacket, another man's blood smeared around his cuticles. His eyes never leave mine. He's looking for an angle, wondering why the hell I'm so willing to lose out on money for one woman. I can't explain it to him even if he asks.

Maximus Ramirez might be brokering this deal.

But Max Romano is the man who really wants Sophie.

"My little Sophie must have really impressed you with her...skills."

I suck in the expletives that want to fly off my tongue at the implication that Sophie is his anything. "You could say that."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "She is lovely, isn't she? A fine piece indeed."

My hands clench again. He says it like he knows firsthand, in an intimate sense. Or he could just be messing with you. I can't stand the thought of him touching her with his slimy, psychotic hands. A woman like her being tainted by a bloodthirsty man like him makes me sick to my core.

"She is," I finally manage. "Do we have a deal?"

He responds with a slow nod. "Twenty percent less and Sophie is yours for the duration of your stay."

Sophie is mine?

My dick stirs in my pants.

Sophie is mine.

Fuck. Yes.

Chapter 9

Sophie

Did I wear my sexiest dress tonight in hopes that I run into my dark stranger again?

Hell no.

Am I lying right now?

Posiblemente.

But whatever.

He may have rejected and humiliated me last night, but I haven't been able to get him off my mind, despite my earlier vow to forget all about him. And I feel extra feisty in the slinky red number that dips low and ties in a crisscross fashion in my cleavage, the flirty skirt hitting well above my knees. My silver jeweled heels are the sparkly finishing touch.

The look gives me the extra confidence I'm going to need tonight when I talk to Diego.

Juan has my shot of Aguardiente ready for me before I even get to the bar. I immediately snatch it up and pour it down my throat. If I'm going to ask el diablo to give me a waitressing shift, I need all the liquid courage I can stand.

And when I say waitress, I mean it in the loosest sense of the word.

The girls here at the club might bring drinks to their customers and work for tips, but they also serve as moving eye candy in the barely-there crop tops and microscopic skirts that Diego forces them to wear. It incites a lot of groping and manhandling that Diego's goons sometimes stop and sometimes don't. Some of them don't really care because they like giving the girls a good squeeze themselves. A few of the guys actually do step in, though, when needed.

Speaking of waitresses, the one person I can actually call a friend in this place strides up to the bar next to me with an empty tray.

"How you doing tonight, sugar?" Cece asks.

I don't know much about Cecelia "Cece" Ward, but I do know she hails from the swampy Everglades of Florida and still carries the accent around with her, is a former beauty queen, and has a whole lot of dark secrets lurking in her ice blue eyes.

I hold up the empty shot glass in front of my face. "I'm seriously considering another one of these if that tells you anything."

Her eyebrows fly up to her blond hairline. She knows I never have more than my one shot. "Any particular reason? Or is it just one of those nights when you feel like a part of your soul has died from working in a place like this?"

I smirk. "Maybe just that."

She bumps her shoulder with mine. "Buck up, babe. Only a few more hours, and then you can go home to your vibrator."

We both giggle.

"I'm spending all day at the beach tomorrow if you want to come along."

That's another reason why I like her so much. There's so much sweetness—kindness—underneath her layers of makeup and teased hair that just doesn't fit in at a place like Calor. If I didn't detect a distinct edge to her at times, I would say that she's too soft to work here. But I've seen her street smarts. Witnessed the sharp knowledge that only comes from a life predicated on only having yourself to rely on. The girl has seen a thing or two in her life and part of her has hardened because of it. Just like me.

Suddenly, making a new friend doesn't sound half bad. Lord knows I don't have many.

"I might just take you up on that. How's the waitressing game tonight?"

She throws a look of disgust at the rest of the room. "Gearing up to be a dodgy one tonight. And by that I mean I'll be spending the majority of my time dodging all the lingering hands. There's a table of suits that are already drunk off their asses and thought it would be cool to start grabbing mine. Kai had to come over and actually pull one of the douchebags off me."

Kai No Last Name—at least, I don't know his last name—is one of Diego's goons. A hired hand that will do whatever needs done, including working security at the club, roughing up some of Diego's customers for reneging on payments, and other stuff I probably don't want to know about. An enforcer, of sorts.

He started at the club around six months ago, just before Cece did. But I can't say that he's like the rest of Diego's men. For one, he doesn't touch the girls. Just assholes who cause issues around here. And he's probably the only one of the henchmen I find attractive. Okay, he's smoking hot. Has the whole tall, dark, and badass thing going on. And a whole lot of scary. Broad, linebacker shoulders, thick arms roped with muscle and decorated with tattoos. Dark skin and hair as black as night, tied in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. I'm guessing he's Samoan. I have to wonder how the hell he wound up working for a man like Diego.

It's interesting to hear that he has once again protected Cece from handsy customers. That's happened a lot ever since she was hired. Not that I'm surprised. The man's eyes never leave her when she's on shift. He sees everything when it comes to Cece, including every time another man gets too close. It would seem that Kai wants to be the only man noticing her. And she doesn't seem to mind the attention. In fact, I've seen her blush in his direction a time or two. Very interesting.

My dark stranger's face flashes through my mind. He hadn't seemed to like another man getting too close to me either. Which makes zero sense. He doesn't know me.

I lay my hand on her arm comfortingly. "Just remember that when you have to smile and flirt a little with them, you're not condoning their behavior. You're just taking more of their money."

She chuckles as she loads up her tray with drinks. "Damn right, sugar. And mama's about to go get her some of that."

She sashays off at the same time I notice Kai approaching me. Well, approaching me but watching Cece like a hawk. His eyes never stray from her until he's right in front of me. Hm. He's definitely got himself a thing for our little blonde.

"Boss wants to see you," he growls at me.

"What about?"

He shrugs. "Didn't say. But he wants you upstairs now."

He stalks off without another word, knowing I'll follow because no one ignores an order from Diego. I step back from the bar to head toward the stairs when a hand grabs my upper arm, stopping me. I snap my head around, ready to unleash holy hell on the bastard who thinks he can just go around grabbing women when I see who it is.

"Hello again, Sophie," my dark stranger purrs, leaning his face down to mine.

Hot damn, he looks even better than last night. The white shirt he's wearing underneath his black suit contrasts with his golden skin, making my fingers itch to unbutton the whole thing just to see what he's hiding underneath.

"You," I breathe. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

His eyes briefly drift down to my chest before meeting mine again. "Oh, I think you'll be seeing a lot of me from now on."

My brow furrows. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He flashes me a hint of his white teeth. More contrast to his dark skin. My pulse races. "You'll find out soon enough."

My heartbeat stutters in my chest. What is he talking about? Whatever it is, I'm not sure I like the sound of it.

My vagina, however...she's definitely sure she likes the sound of it. That bitch.

His heated gaze lowers to my parted lips. "Scared, Sophie?"

Um, a little?

"Should I be?" I whisper.

I can't help but be mesmerized by his dark brown irises. And that scar above his upper lip that gives him a rakish quality. Like a pirate, ready to pillage and plunder. Not to mention it looks like he hasn't shaved since yesterday morning. I know what it feels like to have that stubble scratch my cheeks and dios mio, I want him to do it again. Until it burns.

His nostrils flare. "Not of me, no. But the things running through my mind right now?" His grip on my arm tightens. "I think they'd scare any woman."

There's no rational reason for me to want to challenge him.

But I do.

My body is practically screaming with the urge to pull more of that possessiveness from him.

"Well, I'm not just any woman."

A groan rumbles up from his chest. "No. You're certainly not."

I rise up onto my toes, pressing my body against his.

Holy shit, he's hard.

What the hell is he smuggling down there?

"Careful, stranger," I murmur. "Don't show all your cards too soon."

He thrusts his hips against mine, eliciting a gasp from me.

"Max," he grates out. "My name is Max."

Max. I like the sound of that.

"Do you have a last name to go along with that?"

He slowly grins. "You'll find that out soon, too." He glances over my shoulder at something. "You should probably go. I think you're expected somewhere."

He lets go of my arm as I peek around to see Kai waiting for me with a glare. But the glare isn't aimed at me. He's locking deadly gazes with the man in front of me. Do they know each other? Confused, I turn around and—

Dammit, he's gone.

Max disappeared.

Max.

At least now I have a name to scream out when I orgasm into my own hand.
Chapter 10

Sophie

I walk up the stairs to Diego's "lair" with strength and confidence. Like all villains in every story, he can smell fear. And I refuse to give him any more power over me than he already has.

He's leaning over the balcony railing talking on his phone when I reach him. He sees me out of the corner of his eye, ends the call, and greets me with a smile.

"Ah, lovely Sophia." He places his hands on top of my shoulders. I want to shrink away from his touch but I don't. "Did everything go well with our sales last night?"

I push Max and our steamy encounter out of my head.

Diego does not need to know that I almost hooked up with a customer. That's on the short list of no-no's for my job. Unless, of course, I'm willing to accept payment for it and give Diego all the profits. That would be acceptable, which he's alluded to several times over the years.

Never going to happen.

"No problems at all," I answer.

"Bien, bien. Then you are still happy with the job, yes?"

He fucking knows I'm not. He knows I hate it. Hate having to be here to do his dirty work. This is just another one of his methods to keep me in line.

It's not even a real job. I don't get any cut of the sales. Not that I would really want his tainted money, anyway. Hence why I teach dance classes during the day. This gig at Calor is simply a way of paying off my father's debt that we inherited when he died.

After Diego killed him.

I take comfort in the fact that this cocky SOB who thinks he knows and sees all doesn't know the one thing that could send his entire cartel empire crumbling to the ground. I've got more power in this relationship than he knows. No one's invincible, cabrón. Not even you.

But I can't tell anyone what I know. Not until the right time.

My life depends on it. Mamá's and Manny's lives depend on it. My silence is our own personal life insurance policy.

Which is why I should have realized that what I'm about to say next is not a good idea.

"Actually, I was thinking that maybe I could pick up a couple of waitressing shifts here and there." His face instantly hardens to stone. "Our landlord increased our rent, and I could use the extra money."

His hand lashes out and grips my hair before I have a chance to react. I suck in a sharp breath as he squeezes and pulls on my roots, sending pain shooting through my scalp.

Like I said, you never know when the snake is going to strike.

"Why in the fuck do you think you can get a single cent out of me?" he spits in my face. "The only reason you're here, carina, is because your family owes me money. Not the other way around. Don't forget your place here."

I try to force words out of my mouth, but they don't come. He takes the moment of silence to let his eyes slowly wander down my body. The fingers of his other hand trace over the crisscrossed material holding my dress together at my chest.

"You're lucky I haven't done worse with you, you know," he snarls. "I could have had you for myself. I could have passed you around to my men. Fuck, I could have sold you off years ago for a damn good price. So, you should thank me that I haven't done any of those things. I've spared you, Sophia. Be fucking grateful."

Just the thought of being sold as a sex slave sends shivers down my spine. Which he notices. And if his expression is anything to go by, he's enjoying it, too. The sick freak.

But I remember Manny. Pissing off Diego could have repercussions on her, so I have to suck in my pride and fall in line.

"I'm sorry," I find myself saying. "I am grateful. I won't forget what you've done for me."

He narrows his eyes, as if trying to sniff out my lies. Apparently satisfied, he removes his hand and steps back to the balcony.

"I didn't call you up here to punish you, carina." There's that bipolar behavior. Trying to be all sweet and amiable again. "I called you up here to discuss a proposition, of sorts. I've entered into an agreement with an associate of mine."

"What does that have to do with me?"

He lazily turns around and leans back against the railing. "He approached me earlier today. It seems you've captured his interest."

What?

"Me?"

He nods. "Si. He's going to be in town for a couple of weeks and would like some company during his stay. He specifically asked for you."

I swallow, dreading to hear more. "Asked me for what?"

He chuckles under his breath. "For your company. He wants you to...spend time with him while he's in town. I made a deal with him, and now you're his for the next two weeks."

What in the effing eff is happening right now?

I don't even know what that means. I'm his for two weeks? Who the hell is this associate? And what, I'm supposed to be his...his whore or something? His little play thing at his beck and call twenty-four seven?

Fuck that.

Diego must see the defiance on my face because his features sharpen.

"You will do this, Sophia. Remember what I hold in the palm of my hand. The life of your precious little sister. You may not care anything for your life, but I'm sure you care something for hers. If you don't do this and do exactly what he says, I'll make it hurt for her. You know I can do it."

Yes, I do.

Goddammit.

This is the kind of shit that happens when you're a pawn on someone else's chessboard.

"Who—" I have to clear my throat. "Who is he?"

He angles his body around and points down to the lower floor. "He's sitting at the far table, in the white shirt and black suit."

My stomach twists before I can even look to make sure it's him.

And mother of all things holy, it is.

Max sits at a darkened table with two other men, partially covered by a sheer curtain, sipping from a glass tumbler. My hands clench the railing so hard my knuckles turn white. Diego comes up behind me, speaking into my ear as we both gaze down at the man below us. My future for the next two weeks.

"His name is Max Ramirez, and you will do exactly what he says. He'll tell me if you don't, and then I'll take it out on your sister."

Ice flows through my veins. This man wants me for his own. And he went to the man I hate most in the world and demanded to have me. As a possession. As his property.

So, I have no choice.

I have to hate him, on principle. I can't be flattered by his compliments or aroused by his sensual attentions. I can't be turned on by his hard body or get lost in his deep eyes.

He's now my enemy, as much as Diego is.

"When do I start?" I ask, resigned to my fate.

I have no idea what I'm about to walk into, but I know this man will not break me. If I can survive Diego Suarez for all these years, I can surely survive Max Ramirez.

I will come out of this alive and whole.

"Tonight."

  *

Don't worry! Max and Sophie's story heats up in Tango (Sultry Nights 2)!

Order it now!

BUT FIRST...

Keep reading for bonus chapters and get a peek at Kai and Cece's story!!

Bonus Scene

Cece

You need the money.

You need the money.

You need the money.

I repeat the words to myself over and over again, just like every other night I have to work at Calor. Moving to Miami, I knew my small waist, perky breasts, big blond hair, and southern accent could earn me some good money. And since I'm not willing to take off my clothes for dollar bills, I'm stuck as a cocktail waitress until I can pad my bank account.

I guess I can't complain too much. At least there's a nice view.

A sexy, tattooed, caramel-dipped mancake of a view.

Kai.

One of Diego Suarez's men. He acts like security when he works at the club, but I know he does far more than that for the drug lord. Things I'm sure I don't want any knowledge of. And ever since I started working here, he's dubbed himself as my own personal bodyguard.

But he's never made a move.

I don't necessarily need the complication of having a man in my life right now, but it's not like I'd turn the man down if he wanted to burn up the sheets a little. A girl's got needs, after all. Plus, Kai doesn't exactly strike me as the relationship type, which works for me because commitment doesn't really fit into my current plan.

Not when I might need to make a quick getaway.

Almost six months of mounting frustration, and all the man does is stare at me with those amber eyes from afar while maintaining a healthy distance between us. He seems to only do that with me, too. There are plenty of gorgeous women strutting their scantily-clad butts in and out of this place every night, many of whom try to get Kai's attention. But he never so much as glances at them.

Just me.

It unnerves and excites me all at the same time.

I approach the bar with my empty tray and relay my drink orders to the bartender, Juan. I feel Kai's intense eyes on my back, making me all jittery. I might as well be on a stage stripping with the outfit Diego requires all of his waitresses to wear. The silver sequined bikini top pushes up my cleavage, giving all of my customers a front-row seat to The Bouncing Twins Show. And the short black skirt might as well be underwear for how little it actually covers.

Not that Kai seems to mind.

He might only watch me from a distance, but that doesn't mean his eyes are always on my face. I've caught him checking out my ass plenty of times. I've seen the lust in his gaze after it's fallen on my chest. And I've noticed the way he licks his lips every time he zones in on my very exposed flat stomach, decorated with my rhinestone belly button ring.

It's also hard to miss the way his hands fist anytime he sees another man even talking to me.

Which is why I'm beyond shocked to hear his voice come from my right while I wait at the bar. Very close to my right. He's practically whispering in my ear when he starts speaking. It's a struggle not to melt at the mere sound of his deep liquid voice rolling over me.

"How are things going tonight, Cece?"

He's talking to me? Since when?

I turn my head and flash him my beauty queen smile. "Pretty good, Kai. How are you? Give anyone a bloody nose yet?"

I've certainly seen him do that once or twice. With ridiculous ease, I might add. The man is at least six foot five and nothing but pure muscle. To make the image even more intimidating, I've never seen him smile. Not that there's much reason to in a place like this, but still. I was raised to always have a polite smile and hospitable attitude ready for anyone, anywhere.

"Not yet, but the night's still young," he deadpans.

I gasp, dramatically clutching my chest. making sure to ham up my accent. "Oh, my stars! Did big bad Kai just make a joke?"

The corner of his mouth barely twitches as he pins me with an intent look.

Is that his version of a smile? I made him smile!

"It's a regular laugh riot whenever I'm around. Haven't you noticed?"

I laugh, loving this other side to him. I seriously didn't think the guy had a single humorous bone in his body. "More like just a plain riot."

A small light sparks in his eyes for only a second before it's snuffed out. "That table of trust fund douchebags giving you a hard time?"

I drop my gaze to the bar, shrugging. "Nothing I can't handle. I know you think I'm a little pipsqueak, but I grew up in a place where you had to look out for you and your own. I know how to bring a man to his knees as well as I know how to bake a cherry pie."

I feel my eyes widen as I realize what the hell I just said and how it probably sounded to his ears. Lord Almighty, the first time we ever have a real conversation and I've well and truly embarrassed myself. He'll never want to talk to me again.

Instead of laughing as I expect, he does some kind of growl rumbling thing. I glance up to see that his face has darkened, heat flaring from his eyes.

"I have no doubt you can take care of yourself," he rasps. "Though you don't have to force a man to his knees. For a woman like you, he'd gladly go willingly."

My lips part. Did he really just say that? Is quiet, intense Kai finally coming on to me?

He continues before I can reply. "And for the record, I don't think you're a pipsqueak. You're more like...sunshine." His gaze roams over my blond hair, my bright blue eyes, and finally lands on my glossy pink lips. "You can brighten and burn all at the same time."

My heart is pounding like a drum.

I don't know what's happening here. He's completely thrown me off my game by saying more than five words to me.

He stares for a few moments longer, and eventually shakes his head, his features hardening. He almost looks angry at himself. For saying those things? He shouldn't be. I want more.

"Let me know if those assholes bother you anymore," he grates out.

Then he's gone.

Great job. You stood there like a fish out of water, and made the man feel awkward by not saying anything.

I inwardly groan, mentally kicking my own ass. I've wanted Kai to speak to me for months, and I blow it the first chance I get.

He's really never going to want to talk to me again.

Kai

I swear to God, if one more of those drunken, designer-suit-wearing assholes touches her, I'm going to take out my gun and shoot his dick clean off.

Then I'll dump his body into the ocean and let the sharks feast.

Cece isn't yours. Let it go.

I snort to myself.

I haven't listened to that damn voice inside my head for the last six months. At least, not when it comes to her. I doubt I'm suddenly going to start now. Especially not when she needs someone to look out for her in such an irreputable place like Calor. A tiny little thing like Cece needs protection, and it damn sure won't be coming from any of Diego Suarez's other henchman. They leer at her as much as these degenerate customers do.

Not that I would let the other henchmen look after, even if they tried.

Cece belongs to me.

For whatever reason, I've made her my responsibility these last several months. Regardless of whether or not she wants me to be her guardian angel, I've taken it upon myself to keep her safe.

Another derisive snort. She's the angel in this scenario.

I'm more like a demon.

One who should stay away from a girl like her.

But I can't, so I won't.

And goddammit, I made a complete fool of myself earlier talking to her. I have no idea why I even approached her in the first place, let alone why I opened my mouth and said the moronic things to her that I did. Her ice blue eyes bugged out of her head when I called her sunshine, and I felt like an idiot. Not that it wasn't true.

When she said she could bring a man to his knees? Christ, I wanted to raise my hand in the air and volunteer right then and there. With her perfectly round tits staring me in the face, and the bottom of her ass cheeks spilling out, I was hard the moment she walked in the building...three hours ago.

And that tiny twinkle of a belly button ring is driving me fucking insane.

I don't know what it is, but something about that damn thing makes me want to spread her out on the bar and lick every inch of her tight stomach. Then I'd move my tongue up to her chest and suck both of her pink little nipples into my mouth. After that, I'd head south and lift up that microscopic skirt so I could bury my tongue in her—

The same guy who's been doing most of the hassling all night from the table of suits makes another grab for Cece's barely-covered ass. She dodges it once again, but the suit seems to get mad this time, especially when his buddies all snicker at his failed attempts to woo her. Or grope her. His face screws into a furious glare. He rises from his chair and makes a move in her direction.

I'm on him in seconds.

I grab him by the neck and haul him toward the exit. His friends don't follow or try to have his back because they're all pussies. They take one look at me, noticing how my size dwarfs all of their puny bodies, and keep their asses planted in their chairs. The murderous expression on my face is probably an extra incentive to not get involved.

I catch Cece's wide blue eyes as I pass and hold her gaze. I hope she understands that I don't do this for any other girl here but her. Sure, I might keep the other girls from getting molested while they work. But I don't get anywhere near killing mad if they get their tits squeezed or their asses slapped.

Only Cece.

She may not understand what that means for me yet, but she will soon.

The crowd promptly parts for me and my captive as we make our way toward the back exit. Don't need the local cops getting a free show to the ass kicking by throwing him out the front door. No, I prefer privacy for these moments.

I kick open the heavy black door and shove the guy against the brick wall of the alleyway. The dickface shuffles his feet, trying to regain his balance, and straightens his suit jacket. He's fucking wasted and the guy is worried about getting wrinkles in his suit. Figures.

"Don't fucking touch me, man!" he slurs. "I'll sue your ass so fast—"

My laughter cuts him off. "Do you really think I'm worried about a lawsuit from you? Get your ass out of here. I don't want to see your face in this club again."

"All because I touched a whore?" he spews, spittle flying everywhere. "That bitch was teasing me all night, shoving her tits in my face and wiggling her ass at me. She wanted it."

I really was going to give him a pass because he's so drunk.

Despite the fire that sparked in my blood at the sight of his hands on Cece, I was actually going to let him walk away with all of his teeth still in place and bones left unbroken. There's just no sport when they're this hammered.

But he just shot all that to shit by calling Cece a whore and a bitch in the same breath.

And he'll be fucking lucky if I ever let him draw another breath again.

I hear his nose crunch under my fist as I launch my first punch.

The second one knocks the breath out of him.

The third makes him stagger before he falls to his knees.

I yank his hair back, forcing him to look me in the eyes. "You never talk about her again. And you never come back here. You do and you'll be picking up all those pretty white teeth off the ground. Understand, motherfucker?"

With a swelling eye and a bloody mouth, he actually has the balls to smile. "Ah, I get it now. She's your whore, huh? You're tapping that. Does her pussy taste as good as it looks?"

My fourth punch knocks him the fuck out.

I leave him bleeding in the dirty alleyway.

For the last six months, this is what's been happening to anyone who disrespects Cece.

No man is allowed to touch her.

Not unless that man is me.

Sneak Peek of The Divorce Attorney

A new romantic comedy from Melanie Munton

I show up to my own divorce dressed like a tavern wench.

Because looking like a raging moron has apparently become my new thing in life. My new brand.

(Insert pitying snicker here).

And as sad as it is to admit, walking into the Van Gordon & Associates law firm office while wearing an obscenely tight corset that makes my boobs bulge to an almost lewd degree barely even scratches the surface of my firmly established stupidity. I can barely stuff my dignity into this dress, let alone actual body parts.

Just when I think I can sink no lower...

My heavy messenger bag smacks against my leg as I amble up to the front desk in the lobby. The grandmotherly-type woman sitting behind the desk with a pair of half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose looks up from her computer as I approach. She spares my outfit one disapproving glance, punctuating it with a haughty sniff.

Yeah, whatever, lady.

She can't be thinking anything worse than what I've already thought myself.

"Hi," I say, suffusing polite cheeriness into my voice, despite her judgmental frown. "I'm Sloane Westbrook. I have an appointment with Tamra Duprey."

The unimpressed woman returns her stoic gaze to her computer screen. "Ms. Duprey is currently out on maternity leave. Your case is being passed on to another attorney."

Whoa, whoa. Hold the phone.

My mind mentally slams on the brakes so hard the airbags deploy.

"Pardon?" The woman looks like she knows what she's doing behind that desk, but this bulldog must have misplaced her bone. "Ms. Duprey told me she wasn't going on maternity leave for another month."

The bulldog swings her attention back to me, sighing impatiently. "Her labor started very unexpectedly. It was a premature birth. But Mr. Van Gordon has spoken with Ms. Duprey about your case. He has all of your files, so he'll be well-versed on the particulars of your proceedings."

"Mr. Van Gordon?" I ask cautiously. "As in, one of the partners?"

As in, the guy whose name is stamped on your letterhead?

The corners of her eyes crinkle almost condescendingly—and there's The Look.

The one I'm so sick of seeing. The one the older generations tend to give to a millennial like me when they think I'm fulfilling some kind of stereotype of being a too-young-for-life, clueless, entitled dingbat.

Maybe she's right in this one case, except for the entitled part. But it makes it no less grating on my pride.

"He's your new divorce attorney, dear. Carter Van Gordon. He's highly respected and very good at what he does."

I bite my lip, worried I'm about to push my luck with this one. "Is that common? Switching attorneys right before the settlement negotiation?"

This time, her expression says child, please. I'm sure she's barely restraining the urge to roll her eyes. "It's not unheard of. His office is the third door on the right down the hallway behind you. You may go on back."

Translation: Get out of my face and let the real adults get back to work.

Because I honestly can't come up with a good defense for my ignorance, nor for my outfit—and because yes, I'm a little scared of this consternating woman—I follow her directions down the hallway. Stopping at a frosted glass door with the name "Carter Van Gordon, J.D." emblazoned in big, intimidating letters, I knock softly.

"Come in," comes a muffled voice from inside the room.

Steeling myself with a measured breath, I push open the door and take two steps inside the room before I stop.

Hellooo, Counselor.

The distinguished man sitting behind the cluttered desk is focused on his computer screen, eyes narrowed in concentration behind a pair of black-frame glasses. His face is tan with a five o'clock shadow beginning to sprout, making him appear almost rugged. His dark, honey blond hair is pushed back off his forehead, dipping in way that indicates the presence of a cowlick.

But the suspenders... They're what really do it for me.

Because they frame a set of wide, sturdy shoulders that would look more appropriate at a CrossFit competition than in a law office. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, which also seem to have impressive definition. His biceps are straining against the shirt's material, the muscles rippling every time he types something on his keyboard.

All of that magnificence is wrapped up in a pretty red bow.

Literally. His red bowtie makes me think of a present dying to be ripped open.

The look almost doesn't seem right on him, yet it somehow works at the same time. Probably because a man like this can wear literally anything and will never make a mistake. There are special rules for his kind of man. The fashion faux pau doesn't exist for him. The laws of nature don't apply to someone who clearly defies them. On someone my age, his style would be termed as hipster chic or something along those lines.

But on this man—who is clearly not my age, though I can't tell by how much—I know instantly that his fashion choice is an authentic reflection of Charleston culture. It's not meant to be seen as modern and ironic or even fashionable. It's just an old southern thing.

And I know that before I hear his deep southern drawl.

It's not full-on Charleston where he drops his "r's." I'd guess maybe a North Carolina or Virginia accent. Regardless, the sound makes me want to hand-fan myself and flutter my eyelashes like Scarlett O'Hara.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he finally says, shifting his gaze away from the screen and down to a folder in front of him. "Are you Mrs. Westbrook?"

It takes me a second to find my voice. "Um, yes. I was told that you will now be handling my divorce?"

"That's correct. I'm taking over for Tamra while she's out. But don't worry, she's gotten me caught up on where we're at."

He still hasn't looked at me. His head is down, his attention focused on the documents in front of him as he furiously scribbles notes in the margins of the papers, clearly lost in his thoughts. I'm not sure whether I should feel offended or not. He's either being purposefully rude, or he's too preoccupied by his job to realize that he's actually speaking to another human being.

I clear my throat, hoping he takes the hint. "Okay. Will this cause any delays with the settlement?"

He shakes his head, still without looking up. "No, there shouldn't be any complications. It's a pretty straightforward case. I spoke with your husband's attorney, and she doesn't have any issues with the change."

"He's not my husband," I snap without meaning to.

But I don't want the term applied to that cheating bastard ever again.

That comment manages to grab his attention.

My attorney's head shoots up, his sharp eyes immediately colliding with mine.

I swallow, unnerved by the depth in those hazel eyes. The keen awareness I see there.

"I would appreciate it if we could refer to him as Mr. Westbroook," I add in a much gentler tone. "I'm fine with 'the ex,' too. Or even 'the douchebag.'" Probably didn't need to tack on that last one. "And I'd like to refrain from using the Mrs. if we could."

The corner of his mouth tugs up in amusement. "Of course. My apologies, Ms. Westbrook."

I shudder every time I hear that name.

The problem is...it is my name. At least for another few days, I guess.

Legally, my name won't be changed back to my maiden one until the divorce papers go through the courts. I'll still have to change it on all my IDs and documents, but at least it will be changed back in the legal system. And of course—to add salt to the wound—everything is in my married name. Bank accounts, apartment lease, W-2s, all of my bills, and everything in my student file at the Charleston College graduate school. In summation, I don't have any money, a reliable vehicle, a respectable credit score, my own apartment, but at least I'll have my flipping maiden name back.

I am so winning in life right now.

So, until all the documentation is officially filed, I am cursed to legally remain Mrs. Grant Westbrook.

With his gaze finally raised in my direction, my attorney suddenly takes in his new view.

And drops his pen.

His Adam's apple noticeably bobs as his eyes trail down my body. It's not quite languorous, but it's not exactly brief either. It happens almost absently—as if he doesn't even realize how much time his eyes remain glued to my plunging cleavage.

I know I should feel uncomfortable at being the center of his attention. This so-called "uniform" was tailor-made for one purpose: to turn a lady's bazongas into a flashing marquee. That's what customers come to see at The Suckling Pig, a colonial-themed tavern where the female waitresses dress like sultry wenches from the Revolutionary War days.

Don't judge me.

I need money. Desperately.

And in a touristy town like Charleston that has a lively downtown scene, working at The Suckling Pig is a surefire way for a well-endowed girl like me to rake in some extra dough.

But his intent expression as he looks me over does not at all make me uncomfortable. And again, it should. Now that I've seen his entire face, I realize this man is probably a good ten years older than me, at least. Not that he looks old, by any means. But the crow's feet around his eyes and laugh—or frown?—lines around his mouth put him in his mid-to-late thirties.

I'm twenty-three.

Yes, yes, and I'm already getting divorced. Make your jokes now, and stow the judgment.

I quickly scan his left hand but don't see a wedding band. Which is something. Checking out his apparently younger client isn't wrong if he's not married. Right?

For me, it's just...different.

I've only ever hung out with guys my age, and I foolishly married one.

And clearly, that's my problem.

Despite the fact that he's my age, Grant is still too young to handle marriage like a responsible adult. Too inconsiderate to speak up and tell me he doesn't love me anymore and that we never should have gotten married in the first place. Too much of a coward to admit that he felt pressured into the whole thing by his overbearing father. And of course, he hadn't been about to share with me how unreliable he is with money. How he tends to piss it all away the second he can get his grimy little hands on it.

So, instead of communicating with me like a decent human being, he went and buried his relationship woes balls-deep in the barista at our favorite coffee shop.

Unfortunately, I didn't learn just how immature Grant really is until well after our marriage license was notarized. Hence, my presence here today.

Since Grant and I met in college, I haven't done much venturing outside of my own dating pool age group. For whatever reason, I never really look twice at older men. Even when they hit on me at my job, I just don't typically give them much thought.

Yet I'm giving my new attorney plenty of thought right now.

But it only takes me a second to realize he's a straight-up Maserati.

So insanely beautiful to look at, yet completely unattainable to someone like me.

I mean, why would a successful man like him, who clearly has his life together, ever find a frazzled, scatterbrained, twenty-three-year-old, soon-to-be-divorcee, hot mess of a graduate student attractive?

Although if I'm not mistaken, the gleam in his hazel eyes is one of...interest.

With my thick, layered black hair pulled up into a loose knot that shows off my long neck and aforementioned cleavage, sky-blue eyes that I've been told are a "mystical" color, narrow waist and hips, and pale Irish skin, I guess I'm not terrible to look at.

Your boobs are basically winking at him. He would probably show the same amount of interest to a stripper that motor-boated him during a lap dance.

No one can put things into perspective quite like my bitch of a conscience, that's for sure.

Then I have to go and make things awkward by actually addressing the elephant in the room. "Yeah, sorry about my attire." I pick at my asymmetrical skirt, trying to cover as much of my legs as possible. "I had to practically sprint here as soon as I got off work."

There was a crazy lunch rush today, so I had to stay later to help with the orders. Between that and the fact that my PMS-ing car decided not to start, forcing me to literally run all the way here, I didn't have time to change.

A coughing sound comes from the back of his throat as he averts his eyes, seeming to shake himself out of his daze. "No problem. It's actually not the strangest thing I've ever seen in this office."

My eyebrow goes up, curiosity piqued. "Care to share?"

His eyes dart back to mine.

I shrug. "I could use a laugh right now."

His upper lip twitches. He leans back in his chair, tapping his finger on the desk's surface. "There was this one client who came into the office for her divorce settlement...and brought along a friend for emotional support. One she'd never mentioned before. And one she failed to mention was an animal." He visibly shudders, staring at the wall behind me. "I just wish I'd known about the peacock before I went to use the facilities. One minute I'm alone in the stall, and the next, I'm face-to-face with the bathroom bird from hell."

I stare at him for four straight seconds—

Then burst into laughter.

My ribs are probably going to bruise from slamming against the tight-ass corset with my every guffaw, but it's totally worth it.

"So, you were 'peacocked' in a men's restroom?" I wipe away tears from the corners of my eyes. "You poor man. How traumatizing that must have been for you."

He slowly shakes his head, his eyes wide. "You have no idea. It haunts me. I avoid public restrooms at all costs these days."

"That's understandable. I mean, you never can be too careful with those pervert birds."

He visibly shivers. "I won't get cornered again. I carry a rape whistle with me everywhere I go now."

"You know, you should probably look into taking some self-defense classes," I suggest. "I hear that Toucan Sam is teaching some down at the community center."

He waves me off. "Nah, I've already got it covered. Woody Woodpecker is going to give me some private training lessons."

That brings another round of laughter from me.

It's refreshing to laugh at someone other than myself and the mess I've made of my life for a change.

"Thanks," I eventually say after catching my breath.

His gaze remains locked on me for several long, assessing moments, as if I'm an animal at the zoo. I find myself squirming in my chair at his silent scrutiny. When I almost can't take it anymore, he responds with a curt nod.

Funny how I don't even need to explain what I'm thanking him for. He seems to automatically know.

He glances down at his watch. "We've got a few minutes before the proceedings. You want to go over some details and get through any questions you might have?"

My mood sobers.

Back to giving my joke of a marriage the ax.

"Sure."

So, that's the story of how I meet my drop-dead gorgeous divorce attorney dressed like a lusty tavern wench.

And intriguingly...he doesn't seem to mind it.

  *

The Divorce Attorney will be here May 26, 2020!

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Goodreads
Also by Melanie Munton:

Brooklyn Brothers:

Lace & Lies

Scars & Sins

Sultry Nights:

Salsa (Sultry Nights 1)

Tango (Sultry Nights 2)

Rumba (Sultry Nights 3)

Samba (Sultry Nights 4)

Mambo (Sultry Nights 5)

Standalone romance:

King of the Court

The Unforgettable Kind

Slow Seductions series:

Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)

Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)

Cruz Brothers series:

Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)

The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)

Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)

Timid Souls novellas:

Stubborn Hearts

Unexpected Love

Possession and Politics Trilogy:
Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Acknowledgments

As always, to my husband Sean, I probably never would have started writing if it wasn't for you. You've supported and encouraged me from day one, and made me believe that I could accomplish great things. YOU make my dreams possible. Thank you for that, and for every other beautiful thing you bring to my life.

To my sister-in-law, Kim, thank you so much for your valuable insight and knowledge of Colombian culture. I know I can be annoying with my questions, but I appreciate your helping me out. The authenticity of your experiences has really added a special element to this story, and I couldn't have done it without you!

To my parents, as I embark on a new chapter of my writing, I'm constantly reminded of the foundation you both provided as I was growing up. You have influenced more of my decisions in life than you could possibly know...in good ways. Your love and support over the years has led me to where I'm at today, and helped me become the person I am.

To the rest of my family, it would be a cliché to say that you all inspire me. But you do. You inspire my stories, you inspire my characters, and you inspire my determination to do the very best I can with each and every project I take on. Despite all my quirks and craziness, you guys have always had my back through everything. Which makes me quirky and lucky.

Lastly, to all of my readers, those who have been with me from the beginning and those who are brand new, THANK YOU times infinity. Your feedback over the years has been amazing, and your support has been overwhelming. I know that if you guys aren't happy, then I'm not doing my job, so I always want to hear from you. Thank you so much for hopping on this rollercoaster with me, and for sticking with me throughout my journey! I so so soooo appreciate all of your love!

About the Author

Melanie grew up in a small town in rural Missouri. After marrying her husband, she decided she wanted to try coastal life because why not? A few months later, they moved to North Carolina where she discovered her passion for writing, and they never looked back. They are now enjoying life with their beautiful daughter in Savannah, GA and loving every minute with their little Georgia peach.

Melanie's other passion is traveling and seeing the world. With anthropology degrees under their belts, she and her husband have made it their goal in life to see as many archaeological sites around the world as possible.

She has a horrible food addiction to pasta and candy (not together...ew). And she gets sad when her wine rack is empty.

At the end of the day, she is a true romantic at heart. She loves writing the cheesy and corny of romantic comedies, and the sassy and sexy of suspense. She aims to make her readers swoon, laugh out loud, maybe sweat a little, and above all, fall in love.

