women, and children, could’ve easily ordered her execution with one snap of his blood-stained, stubby fingers. Instead, she’d stood by while he’d imprisoned innocent women and children in his bunker, all to gain his trust, to become part of his inner circle. Not like she could’ve stopped him. The monster had guards everywhere, all as ugly and evil as him.
Then along came Special Agent Juarez. While she’d been busy blending in, he’d stormed the bunker and ended the son of a bitch, once and for all. The worst part was that he’d had to go into that bunker twice. Two years earlier to save his son. The last time, ironically, to save Zapata’s son.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Persia glanced back through her home to her bedroom and the mussed bed, where she was pretty sure she’d slept soundly for the first time in months. Last night. Without a bottle of whiskey. With Hotrod instead. With his strong arms wrapped around her like steel ribbons on a Christmas present. With her head tucked under his chin. With her hands on his chest, her thumb in that narrow canyon between his pecs, and his warm, cinna-minty breath in her face. Listening to the steady, sure beat of his heart.
For the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, she hadn’t woken up screaming. She hadn’t even been drunk when she’d gone to bed, either. Which was annoyingly interesting. Yet the jerk had screwed her, then ditched her. Hotrod hadn’t enough class to say goodbye. Just slam, bam, not even thank-you ma’am.
That hurt. Persia swallowed hard, wishing she weren’t such an easy lay. But knowing, deep down, if she had another chance to be with Hotrod, she’d do it again. Like that would ever happen.
She swiped a finger under her runny nose, not going to cry over spilled milk, damn it. That rat bastard must’ve gotten up extra early. It wasn’t even five in the morning. It was late spring, nearly summer, but the sun had just broken through the East. What’d he do, swim back to Cuba in the dark?
The phone just kept ringing!
Persia marched back to her kitchen counter, where there was no freshly made coffee, warm, buttered toast, or icy cold OJ. Not even a hint that Hotrod had ever been in her home. Man, she was stupid!
Picking her phone off the charger, she snapped at her new boss, “What?”
Alex Stewart snapped right back at her, “When can you get back?”
“I’m on vacation. Two weeks, remember?” she reminded him tersely, her gaze on the breakers pounding her beach and the gulls caught in the breeze overhead. How damned idyllic. Looked like it was shaping up to be another freakin’ day in paradise.
“Vacation’s canceled. Now, I’ll ask again. When can you get here?”
Her eyes watered at the level of snark in his tone. If she’d been in Brazil, if he’d been Zapata, she would’ve handed that snark right back to him. Domingo would’ve respected her then.
But Alex wasn’t anything like the Zapata brothers. He was decent and fair. Yes, he was OCD about his people, and he had one helluva nasty temper when riled, but she respected him and the work he did. There wasn’t another company like his band of former snipers, The TEAM, anywhere in the States. They got things done, and many times, they did it for free—just because they really were the good guys.
She needed a damned break from all the federal alphabet agencies she’d worked for these past few years. Besides, The TEAM had a solid reputation, and oh, yeah, Alex paid one helluva lot more than Uncle Sam.
“I can be on a jet by noon,” she replied more calmly. Then she added with a touch of sarcasm, “Unless you need me sooner.”
“Be at US Naval Air Station by eight. I’m sending a chopper. Need you now.”
She wanted to ask how he could possibly need her, his newest agent, but he’d disconnected the call. He’d hung up. But hey, that was Alex for you. Badassed. Hard-charging. One of those absolute alpha males all the way. Damn him and damn Hotrod What’s-His-Name!
Angry and fed up with the world of men—all men!—Persia cocked her arm, meaning to fastball her phone into the wall, or out the door and all the way to Hell! But she saw it then. The tiniest piece of paper. Stuck in the edge of her front door jamb.
All it said was, “Later.” Oh, that was real sweet. Downright precious, if you were dumb enough to believe