Red Shoes and A Diary. Mia Zachary
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to the infamous Frankie Ramos. So Alex couldn’t trust anything about this trip, not even bright red panties that begged, “touch me.” Too many good agents had been compromised in situations just like this.
A third suitcase lay open on the bed. It was half full, as if she’d been interrupted. He didn’t hesitate over rummaging through the contents. He’d worked undercover too long to let a little issue like privacy stop him. He had to know who this woman was.
The “touch me” panties and “seduce me” sandals didn’t go with the clothes laid out on the bed. Quality, with recognizable labels, but kind of plain. The skirts were long, the necklines high and everything was a solid color, not a stripe or pattern in sight.
On the other hand, the underwear couldn’t have been hotter. He recognized it from his ex-wife’s catalogues that still came to the house. Bright floral demi bras, satin tap pants and lace camisoles spilled from the suitcase. Most of the stuff still had price tags attached.
Weird. Maybe Ms. Foster was going through some kind of identity crisis—something he could easily relate to. Still, this whole thing was making him uneasy. He’d turned to leave when he noticed a hardbound book on the window seat. It looked like an address book or a calendar.
Curious, he went over to check it out. Guessing from the handwritten paragraphs on the open page, he’d found Ms. Foster’s journal. He focused on the actual words and his brows shot up in surprise. Whoa.
Suddenly he appears, glorious in his nakedness. Tall and strong and beautiful, my fantasy lover stands beside me under the waterfall. He raises his arms to me and the bright sun lights the water droplets rolling down his magnificent body. He moves toward me, offers himself to me. No gesture could be more flattering, more seductive, than seeing the rigid proof that I am desired.
As the image burned itself into Alex’s brain, the effect was hard and immediate. His skin felt hot, his chest tight, as his pulse accelerated. He clapped the book shut before tossing it back onto the window seat. It slipped off the edge, pages flapping, and fell to the floor. He stared at the blue paisley cover for a second, struggling with his conscience.
Arousal won. He rifled the pages until he found the waterfall entry again.
He wraps his arms around me, lifts me off my feet, all the while plundering my mouth with his tongue. Our bodies join as he lowers me onto him. I cry out from the sheer intensity of the pleasure as he begins to rock his hips. Mating beneath the cascade, he lifts me repeatedly, my body sliding, his thrusting—
Knock knock knock.
Startled, Alex snapped the journal shut. In the space of a breath he went on alert, adrenaline pumping into his system. It couldn’t be Ms. Foster. She didn’t have to knock. Only two people knew for certain he was here—one a friend, the other a target. And his partner wasn’t due to arrive until later.
He reached around for the gun in the waistband of his jeans. Shit. His Beretta was back in Miami with his badge and his real ID. The finance geek he was impersonating wouldn’t be armed. He had to get himself together—fast.
His name was “Nicholas Alexander.” He owned a small brokerage firm in Coral Gables. He was here to discuss ways of moving the cartel’s money out of the country.
Show time.
Grabbing the knob, he closed his eyes, willing his rapid pulse to slow. He remembered the muzzle flash. A sharp crack of sound. Pain. His eyes flew open. “Nick” swallowed hard and answered the door.
A bellman stood in the entrance, a professional smile on his face. “Mr. Alexander? I have a delivery for you, sir.”
Alex controlled his expression, gave away none of his relief. He transferred the small book he still held into his right hand. “Do I need to sign anything?”
“No, sir. This came from within the resort.” The young man handed over a bottle of champagne and bid him a good afternoon.
Back in the living room, he put the bottle and the note that came with it on the coffee table. No problem. Just a delivery. He didn’t have to face Braga yet. He could relax.
Too bad his body didn’t respond as fast as his brain.
Sinking heavily onto the sofa, he rested his elbows on his knees and drew in a shaky breath. He swiped his palms up and down his face, irritated to discover beads of sweat around his hairline. The panic attacks were coming too often.
Deep unhappiness, resentment and frustration welled up inside him, making his eyes sting. The nausea slowly dissipated, but its aftereffect gnawed at his confidence. He brushed the fingers of his left hand over the scar on his temple.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.
He’d spent the past eight years in the Drug Enforcement Agency, three and a half of those with the Special Operations Division, a joint national task force of agents, prosecutors and analysts from the DEA, FBI and U.S. Customs Service. Alex considered himself one of the best agents the SOD had. He was the first one through the door, the first one to volunteer for assignments. The job had always been enough— Hell, it was everything until six weeks ago.
The meeting in Overtown had gone south when an informant double-crossed the team. She was killed in the ensuing gunfire and his partner’s cover was blown. “Nick” had inadvertently saved Rogelio Braga’s life, but landed in the hospital with a bullet graze on his forehead.
Over the past month, his mild anxiety had escalated to a sickening panic. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The DEA psychologist had patiently explained it. Most law enforcement personnel exhibited some symptoms following a traumatic stressor. Alex had silently glared through the mandatory therapy.
PTSD, my ass. He just had trouble sleeping, that was all.
After successfully infiltrating the cartel, he was under a lot of pressure to close the case. As the stakes increased, so did the dread of being shot in the face again. He hated this…weakness. And he was starting to hate this job.
He picked up the champagne and inspected the label before reading the note. “Alexander. Welcome to Cayo Sueño. I hope you enjoy my little gift. I’m sure you will put it to good use. Braga.”
A gift, huh? The smoky floral perfume lingering in the room tickled his nostrils. He needed to track down Meghan Foster and figure out whether she was here by accident or by design. Either way, he couldn’t wait to see how she looked wearing those cherry-red sandals.
“I JUST HAD sex on the beach. Wanna try it?”
A bony elbow nudged Meghan Foster in the ribs. She turned until she was cleavage to face with the hairiest man she’d ever seen. The fur on his chin and torso more than compensated for the lack of a single strand on his head.
“Excuse me?” She backed up against the rail of the pool deck, suppressing the urge to cross her arms over her breasts.
“It’s a joke. Ya know, Sex on the Beach. The drink?” He raised his umbrella-laden glass to indicate the pink liquid inside. “So, how ’bout it? We could have ‘Sex’ together.”
Meghan shuddered at the image of this hairy gnome wearing nothing but sand and a gap-toothed smile. “Um, no. I think not.”
“Ya don’t know what yer missing, girlie.”
“I do, actually.”
The gnome shrugged his fuzzy shoulders and went off to accost someone else.
Quite a few of her diary fantasies involved water. In fact, she’d written several versions of the famous scene in the movie From Here to Eternity. But if another man ever suggested making love in the surf, he’d better be younger, taller and better-looking.
A steel band played for the welcome reception and her hips swayed to the beat of the Calypso tune. Looking around, she couldn’t believe the crowd. The party had turned into good-natured chaos, overflowing from the veranda onto the sundeck above the main pool.
Pushing