Crazed: A Blood Money Novel (5 page)

Her hand came to rest on his chest, the heat from her fingertips seeping through his vest and dress shirt to brand the skin beneath. “It shouldn’t be easy for me. I transgressed against them, Toby. I can take my punishment.”

But he didn’t want her to be punished, the woman he loved by the people he loved. “You gave us good direction in there.” Of course she had; Chandler’s was a clever mind, filled to the brim with tactical knowledge from her years in the military and as a spy. Now she stood poised to take command of an elite unit within Britain’s MI6 tasked with preventing acts of global terrorism. His pride in her knew no bounds.

She patted his chest. “I won’t let anyone hurt your family, baby.”

“They’re your family now, too.”

“Not yet, but they will be.” She finally melted against him, and Tobias gave in, wrapping both arms tightly around her. “And you know I always protect what’s mine.”

Chapter Three

Medellín, Colombia

He knew he was dreaming. Dreams that were memories, and memories that were nightmares.

The sheets twisted around him...

He took a swig from the water bottle, trying to forget just how much he hated the heat. This below-the-equator bullshit was starting to get to him. He sweated all the damn time, even when he slept, even in the fucking shower. Even the cold spray couldn’t cool him off.

Laughter from the front of the private box, drawing his attention to where Pipe sat with his arm around his fiancée, surrounded by his inner circle. All wore green somewhere on their persons in support of the Nacional on the pitch far in front of them. Atanasio Girardot Stadium was packed to the gills, the entire city turned out for the epic match-up between Pipe’s club—because of course he owned shares in Atlético Nacional—and Independiente Medellín. Neighbor versus neighbor in today’s game, the fucking event of the
fútbol
season.

Which meant Casey ought to be on the alert, instead of sweating and bitching in his head, missing the blizzards of home. He was Pipe’s guard, for the time being, and that meant keeping a watchful eye.

The fiancée, Théa, lifted her head from Pipe’s shoulder and pointed down at the field excitedly. While Pipe leaned forward and smiled, Casey studied the box. One exit, windows on three sides, and the glass was bullet-proof. After the Escobar era, cartel kingpins took no chances. It made Casey’s job easier, and anything that simplified this particular mission fell into the plus column.

Abruptly, everyone in the box stood, hands over their hearts, and Casey followed cue. The first strains of the Colombian national anthem drifted over the stadium’s speaker system. He couldn’t see the field or the singer or the flag, but that didn’t matter.

Or at least, it didn’t matter until the truth of the voice hit his brain. Low and full-bodied, female, with just enough rasp in the rich tones to be undeniably sensual. She—whoever she was—had no instrumental accompaniment, but soon enough, the crowd had joined their forty thousand voices with hers, lifted in patriotic song, and she led them, beautifully, proudly.

From his position in the back corner next to the wet bar, he strained to see the pitch, find the source that had the tiny hairs on the back of his neck lifting and his pulse tripping. He didn’t really care about music, never had; he’d just as soon work out in silence and leave the radio off in the car. But there was life in this woman’s voice as the verses blended together, and finally he caught a glimpse of her on the scoreboard screen, the camera zooming in on her smiling face.

Because she was smiling, so big and wide and white and dimpled, staring at her was akin to staring directly into the sun. Pretty, he thought, then immediately corrected himself because, actually, she was gorgeous. Her hair was somewhere between blond and brunette, a long mane of tight curls lifting slightly in the breeze, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to sink his hands into all that hair. And pet it. And fist it.

He was still sweating when the anthem ended, when the camera feed shifted from the singer to the crowds, roaring and chanting as the teams took their positions on the field. Pipe and the others took their seats again, informal bets and good-natured jousting flying across the box. The bartender in the corner poured more drinks, and a knock on the door preceded the caterer’s overladen cart of sweet and savory morsels.

Except that the caterer wasn’t the only person Pipe’s guards had permitted through the door. In bounced her. The woman. The singer, all beaming grins and cheerful greetings as she rushed Théa, slinging slender arms around the woman.

Casey tried not to stare. Really, he tried. He managed to keep his eyes off her for at least five seconds, and then he drained the water bottle, his throat so parched he could barely swallow. And when he did look at her—just a glance, just one glance—he barely noticed the pale blue wrap dress clinging to curves he could sink his teeth into, or the tall shoes that would barely bring the top of her head to his shoulder.

That
did
barely bring her to his shoulder, because suddenly there she was in front of him, requesting a mojito of the bartender before she glanced sideways at him.
“Hola.”

He nodded. “
Hola
. You sing...well.” Smooth, Casey. Real smooth.

Laughing as though he’d said something amusing, when he knew full well he hadn’t, she shifted to stare up at him. Dark eyes twinkled, the edges crinkling, as she extended one slim, manicured hand. On her index finger was an intricate silver ring bearing some sort of opaque white stone. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

For a split second, Casey’s mind raced to uncover any cracks in his cover. Was she someone he ought to have recognized? Part of Pipe’s inner circle? When he came up blank, he shrugged and took her hand. Warm, soft, small but with a firm grip. He liked her handshake. “I know you’re the most beautiful woman in this room. Is that enough?” His thumb stroked over the bumps of her knuckles as he gave her a sly grin.

She grinned back. “Not from Medellín, then.”

Again, he wondered if his cover identity had holes visible only to this particular woman. “Not from Colombia at all. My people are from Maracaibo.”

“Venezuela?” Her gaze raked him from head to toe. “Yes, I suppose I can see that. Not to mention your accent.”

He fought not to stiffen. “What accent?” He’d studied for months prior to taking this assignment to master the regional shaping of his Spanish vowels and consonants.

“Don’t take it personally, big guy.” The corner of her mouth quirked. “I’ve got a good ear.” Finally, she appeared to take pity on him, squeezing his hand before releasing him. “Ilda Almeida.”

Théa’s sister. And that meant she was one half of the pop-guitar duo Almángel that had won last year’s Best New Artist at the Latin Grammys. He’d known who Théa was before taking this assignment, of course, but he’d barely bothered glancing at her professional photographs—the ones she took with her sister, Ilda—before focusing more acutely on Théa’s relationship with her infamous fiancé. “Casímiro Cortez,” he offered, lying easily.

“Oh, that is far too much of a mouthful for me.” And damn, he had to bite his tongue to keep from steamrolling straight into that deliberate bit of flirtation. “I think I’ll call you Casí.”

The dream shifted...

The club was drenched in darkness, red and gold lights flashing intermittently onto the writhing mass of drunken dancers. Casey felt like a lurker from his post at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes always coming back from their perimeter scan to latch onto the group of sequined women doing their best Spice Girls impression. Théa’s bachelorette party was in full swing, and central to all the festivities was Ilda, dancing like a goddess and drinking like a fish.

He’d been watching her all night. God, the body on that woman. Her hair was piled high on her head, baring the slender column of her neck and leaving her shoulders temptingly naked in that tiny strapless black dress. Though it hardly qualified as a dress—more a swatch of fabric covering the pertinent curvy bits. Neon-pink stilettos made her legs look ten miles long, and she moved in them effortlessly.

He hadn’t touched her since their handshake in the stadium box two weeks ago, but he still felt the imprint of her palm against his. After that brief exchange, she had settled in next to her sister and Pipe and never glanced his way again. Which was good. Smart. She shouldn’t be looking at him, and he definitely shouldn’t want her to, because he was CIA, damn it, and his cover necessitated him blending into the background as another of Pipe’s grunts. He shouldn’t want her eyes on him, or her hands on him, her mouth, her tongue—

Feminine arms banded around his waist from behind. “Casí.”

He tensed but didn’t turn. “Miss Almeida. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Here? In the club? But I like the club.”

Saucy. “With me, señorita.” Pipe’s future sister-in-law had no business fraternizing with a low-level brigadier, and the moment Pipe noticed her attention—or Casey’s, for that matter—there would be hell to pay. “Go dance with your sister.”

“I’d rather dance with you.” Her full breasts pressed against his back, her hips shifting and swishing against his ass.

Small hands flattened over his stomach before dipping lower, toward his belt, and he risked a glance downward to see her moonstone ring winking up at him, glowing ruby in the light of the club. “Señorita,” he warned.

“Ilda.” Her body rolled, a subtle, sensual writhing that immediately made him harder than stone. “Dance with me, Casí.”

Halting the movement of her hands by linking his fingers with hers, he allowed the thumping bass from the club’s speakers to infiltrate his bloodstream. No one had seen them together, not yet, so he stole a few brief seconds as the music washed over him and into her. Or maybe it was coming from her and infecting him, because Casey wasn’t a man who danced, just like he wasn’t a man who sang, or played, or took unnecessary risks while undercover in the world’s most dangerous drug cartel. He let his body move in time with hers, doing little more than swaying in place while she performed the equivalent of a blind lap dance. Him being the blind party.

Her fingertips curled into his abs, testing the resistance of his muscled flesh. “You feel good, Casí. Like a man.”

The hard points of her nipples brushed against his back. She was turned on. Dancing with him, touching him, had aroused her, and that was worth another spot of daring on his part. Because, evidently, he had a death wish.

Spinning, he broke her hold and dropped a heavy hand to her chest, the heel of his palm resting along the tops of her breasts. He pushed, gentle but purposeful, and she trustingly stepped backward, her gaze never leaving his. She was smiling when he maneuvered her around a corner toward a utility closet, and she kept smiling even when her shoulders hit the wall.

His fingers splayed over her collarbone, he bent until their noses brushed. “You like teasing me? Torturing me?”

Her tongue darted out to flick his lower lip. “Only because I want a taste of you, Casí.”

He dug deep for patience, for common sense, for some sort of self-preservation...and found none. Breathing in her scent—floral, light, sweet and fresh—Casey let loose a growl, unashamedly predatory. “You want a taste, Ilda? Because once I give it to you, you’re gonna need to keep coming back for more.” The hand on her chest shifted, lifting to circle her delicate throat. “You’re gonna need me.”

She gripped the front of his T-shirt in both hands. “That’s what I’m banking on.” Tugging hard, she brought his mouth to hers in a searing kiss.

God, why couldn’t he wake up?

He glanced in the Escalade’s rearview mirror, seeing not the traffic on the road but the woman in the back seat. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Ilda kept her face turned to the window, expression pensive. “I’m sorry.”

He gritted his teeth. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s on your mind.” He paused. “No one’s listening.”

“I don’t care if anyone is listening, Casí!” The words exploded from her, anger in every syllable, and he heard her move restlessly in her seat. “I want to tell Pipe about us.”

“That would be a mistake.” On so many levels would that be a mistake. Signaling, he made a right turn into the underground garage beneath Ilda’s luxury condo building in El Poblado.

“I already told Théa.”

Worry seized him as he pulled into one of the reserved parking spaces for her unit. If Théa knew, it was only a matter of time until Pipe found out, and the consequences of his secret relationship with Ilda would finally manifest. Likely involving some sort of pain for Casey. Killing the ignition, he hopped out of the driver’s seat, opened the door to the back and climbed in beside her, slamming the door behind him. Without a word, he cupped her lovely face in his hands and stole the kiss he’d been aching for all night as he stood guard over the rehearsal dinner. He’d been forced to witness Pipe’s groomsmen hit on her, though Pipe never permitted his men to go a step too far; being his future sister-in-law at the very least provided Ilda with a degree of protection.

She was beautiful tonight, but she was always beautiful. A silk gown in forest green draped her petite frame in what he thought might be a Grecian style, pounded gold metal accents at the single shoulder and beneath the bust. Her curls were gathered in an intricate twist just off-center from her nape, and gold links dangled from her ears. A goddess with a siren’s voice, yet she was more than that, as he’d come to learn over the last few weeks.

Ilda was sly and pushy and generous, constantly seeking the next moment that would lead to laughter and happiness. A bright ball of sunshine, if that sunshine had an attitude and a sex drive that threatened to bring a man to his knees.

Casey feared he might have been on his knees since day one with her. His lips parted hers, tongue sweeping in to get at the sweet taste of her. He’d had his mouth on every inch of her body in their stolen moments together, no part of her ignored or untested. During those interludes, she was a grenade in his arms, exploding with a violence he craved to his bones.

“I love you,” he breathed in between kisses. The words escaped before he had time to second-guess the wisdom of saying what had taken root in his heart. His thumbs stroked over her cheekbones, a caress that had become familiar in the short time they’d had together. “I love you, Ilda.”

“What?” She pushed against his chest, gasping for air and putting space between them as she searched his face. “Casí, do you really?” Her dark eyes gleamed wetly in the dim light of the underground garage. “Don’t lie to me about this.”

“I’m not lying.” Yet he was lying to her about so many other things. Such as who the hell he was. He smoothed the few escaped curls back from her temples. “I wouldn’t lie about loving you.”

Her breath hitched audibly. “Then stay with me tonight.” She reached up to run a fingertip along the line of his nose before tracing the shape of his lips, her touch as light and soft as a cloud. “You never stay.”