Lana's Lawman (26 page)

He really did have the most amazing voice. There was such steady strength and command in his tone.

“Can you climb?”

She scanned the rocky slope. Six months earlier she'd have attempted it. Even then it would have taken considerable skill and control. She scowled and sat up straighter. So she'd find another way off the mountain, preferably a less direct route. She'd been heading for the highway on the other side of the ridge, not wanting to catch a ride from anyone who might be coming to or going from Paradise. She'd left a note and an address in case there was any further paperwork for her to sign.

Despite it being against her doctor's recommendation, she was fully within her right to check herself out. The hike had become a personal challenge.

She'd taken short trails for the last month and during the last week she'd been making her own trails, progressively testing her ankle and the newly healed skin on her leg. The previous Friday, she'd hiked to the peak and back.

She wasn't ready to admit defeat yet. She looked downslope. She was sitting in a narrow depression on an otherwise smooth drop almost straight down. The hill bottomed out in a shallow but rocky ravine. If she tried to so much as stand, she'd likely take a shortcut straight into it. Even if her ankle would have allowed it, the steepness combined with the unstable footing made a controlled slide impossible. That left a parallel route. But a quick scan to her left and right wasn't too heartening. It was at least a hundred-yard crawl either
way, and the indentation she sat on only spread out about twenty yards to each side of her.

Her options were quickly dwindling to one. A low, ominous rumbling cut into her thoughts. Cloud cover that was supposed to burn off as the sun rose had suddenly collected into a menacing-looking mass. She shivered, telling herself it was a reaction to the first gust of wind. It whipped up the fine rock dust, making her squeeze her eyes shut. Thunder rolled ominously overhead. She worked to tamp down the whispers of panic trying to edge into her mind.

Shielding her eyes against the wind and dust, she looked uphill. “You'd better go!” she yelled. “I'll be okay!” Wet, but okay. She could—would—handle this.

“I can't leave you out here,” he called back, his rumbling voice underscored by another roll of thunder. The combination sent new shivers over her skin. Stop it, Jenna. She'd spent too many hours—thousands of them—out in the woods to be afraid of a little thunderstorm.

A jagged bolt of light shot across the sky.

No, she wasn't afraid of thunderstorms. It was the fire-igniting lightning that terrified her.

“This shouldn't last too long,” she called out, her voice getting rougher from yelling but thankfully steady.

Big fat raindrops began to splatter the ground. She had no idea how experienced a hiker he might be, but if he wasn't carrying rope, then chances were he was an amateur. She ignored the point that she, a
highly trained professional, had nothing more than a laundry-bag string on her supply list.

She tried not to look at the rocky ravine below. If the storm was strong enough and hit hard enough, with nothing but a laundry bag as an anchor, she could easily end up at the bottom anyway.

“Find shelter,” she instructed, yelling louder over the growing noise as the storm gathered strength. “When it's over, bring some help back with you.”

That should appease his sense of duty, get him off the mountain as safely as possible—and provide someone to help him scrape her stupid carcass off the side of this hill.

What was one more battering punch to her pride at this point anyway?

Wind whipped up again, enough so she could begin to feel the dampness right on through to her long underwear. Her Samaritan hadn't responded to her last shout. A quick, bleary peek uphill between wind gusts showed the dark outline had grown smaller. Considerably smaller.

He was gone.

Good. She rubbed her arms. He'd be okay. And so would she. He'd get help. If she was really lucky, it would be from somewhere other than Paradise Canyon, but she knew it was the only place of any size around for miles. Was he a patient there as well? she wondered.

Thunder shook the ground, loosening small surface rock, sending it skittering down and around her. She scraped the curly hairs escaping her braid from
her forehead and eyes and pulled the long, thick plait over her shoulder so it hung between her breasts. She grabbed for the laundry bag, stuffing it between her thighs and as much of it under her shirt as she could, hoping to keep something dry enough to change into after the storm. She grabbed for her boot, and was debating whether her swollen ankle would tolerate her putting it back on or if she should tuck it into the laundry bag, too, when a sudden shout rang out.

She shifted around in time to see a black shadow tip off the edge of the embankment from the other side of the boulder, sending a fresh shower of rocks hailing down on her. She batted them away, a scream locked in her throat as the shadow materialized, through the sheets of rain, into a man. A very large man. A very large tumbling man.

And he was heading right toward her.

 ONE

Diego Santerra made a killer salsa.

He also made a pretty damn good killer.

This was the first time he could recall getting paid to do both.

He pulled the dusty green Jeep around the side of the small stucco building and parked next to the shiny black Harley Fat Boy he knew belonged to the cantina's owner. Blue Delgado.

He knew everything about Blue a person could learn from constant observation. The briefing he'd received in Miami three weeks before heading here to New Mexico had filled in the rest. Yes, he knew more about Blue Delgado than the Villa Roja residents who'd known her all her life.

Except for one thing. When would Jacounda strike? That was why he had agreed to abandon his anonymous surveillance and step inside the dimly lit little bar in search of a job. As a cook, of all things.

Diego hadn't counted on the job being the one, and probably only, thing he did for himself, for whatever little pleasure there was in it. But he'd kept silent, agreed to the cover. He made it a rule to give away only what was absolutely necessary. And he had damn little to start with. So cook he would. Along with anything else that became necessary to get the job done.

It was that unshakable personal code that had made him first choice for Seve “Del” Delgado's elite tactical squad, known since shortly after its formation as Delgado's Dirty Dozen.

No one had to remind Diego that, almost ten years later, less than half the original team remained alive. And if Diego didn't complete this mission successfully, the next to fall would be Del himself.

He pulled his black Resistol down over his forehead a bit farther and pushed open the door to the bar. Even though it was barely ten o'clock in the morning, there were two men occupying barstools, sipping beer. Three more were playing pool on one of the two worn tables wedged into the space between the door and the bar. Several small vinyl-covered tables lined the wall by the front window, but they were empty.

Diego glanced once at the men, then dismissed them. He strode over to the end of the bar, propped his foot on the rail, and pressed his hands on the teak surface.

The bartender was an older Latino gentleman. Diego knew him to be Blue's uncle, Tejo Delgado.
The older man continued to wipe down a glass with the corner of his apron as he moved toward Diego.

“
Cervesa
, señor?” he asked, his accent noticeable, but not overwhelming. “Coffee?”

Diego shook his head. “I'm here about the job.” He nodded to the hand-lettered sign taped to the front window. It had been put up only two hours earlier. “You need a cook.”

Of course, the old man didn't have to know that Diego had known about the job opening yesterday. Del, or more likely another member of the Dirty Dozen, had seen to that little detail.

“
Sí
, that is true,” Tejo said, “Señor …?”

“Santerra.” Diego straightened and offered his hand. “Diego.”

Tejo smiled, revealing one gold-plated incisor amid a host of gleaming white teeth. “Ah,
Don
Diego. Just like in
Zorro.
”

It wasn't the first time he'd been reminded of his fictional namesake, and would likely not be the last. He hated being back in the Southwest. “Something like that, yes,” he muttered.

If the old man was aware he hadn't exactly flattered Diego with the comparison, he didn't show it. “Tejo Delgado.” He extended his hand. “My niece Blue, she's the one you need to see,
amigo.
”

Diego gave his hand a brief shake. He knew the man to be in his late sixties, a good ten years Del's senior, but there was plenty of steel in his grip. Diego wasn't surprised. Just as he wasn't surprised by the intensity of the quick yet thorough once-over Tejo
gave him before releasing his hand. Diego expected nothing less from Del's brother.

“She have an office?” Diego knew the layout of the cantina as well, if not better, than the owners did, but he waited patiently for Tejo to answer.

He nodded to the side. “Past the end of the bar, third door to the left.”

Diego nodded and pushed away from the bar.

“Knock first,” the old man added.

Diego paused at the sudden edge in the otherwise friendly tone. He respected that. He also knew that there were few women on earth who needed that protective instinct less than Blue Delgado.

Until now, anyway.

He looked over his shoulder, dipped his chin once, then headed to the back of the building.

The door to the small office was old, scarred, warped from the heat … and standing open at least a foot. The room beyond was one large mass of clutter, in which the desk in the center seemed to serve as nothing more than an oversized paperweight. Keeping his word, he rapped the door once with his knuckles.

The woman seated behind the desk, nose buried in a stack of what looked like old-fashioned record books, didn't so much as flinch. He wasn't surprised. As far as he could tell, nothing fazed Blue Delgado.

“Enter at your own risk,” she said, not looking up.

He'd heard her voice before, but only from a distance. Up close, there was a texture he hadn't heard before. One that slid across his nerve endings like a
taut bowstring. Not only was it warm and deep, but there was a rough quality, as if she'd used it once too many times the night before.

He stepped inside and found a relatively empty space of floor near the front of her desk. Not in the least unnerved by her continued silence, he took the opportunity to run a once-over of the room in the daylight. The room was a bonfire of paper begging for a match.

And the potential for that to “accidentally” happen—preferably with an unaware Blue inside at the time—didn't escape him.

“In a moment.” She flipped one book closed and shoved it aside to get to another one.

The hairs on his arms lifted in pleasure. He allowed himself the luxury of the sensation. It was all he'd likely get out of this job, and he wasn't a man to ignore life's small pleasures. His life didn't offer up any other kind.

Watching Blue Delgado for the past three weeks had not been a hardship. She was an incredibly striking woman. And she knew it. Diego respected that too. He never understood why anyone wasted time pretending to ignore the obvious.

Not that she flaunted the sleek waterfall of black hair that flowed down her back, or did anything to emphasize the prominent cheekbones and dark eyes handed down to her from her Spanish ancestors. She was of average height, but the rest of her body was a masterpiece of design. The clothes she chose were functional, not flattering, though he had to admit she
could wear burlap and twine and still turn heads. Certainly his.

No, Blue Delgado's awareness of her fortunate genetics wasn't obvious. He knew by the way she moved. The way she spoke. Laughed. The way she rode that Harley of hers as if it had been built to be put between her legs for her exclusive use and pleasure.

She slapped the book shut and looked up. “What do you want?” The question was straight and to the point. Blue Delgado in a thumbnail description.

“The job as your cook.”

She looked him over. The examination was swift and thorough in a way that would be the envy of some officers he'd had the displeasure of being interrogated by in past years. He didn't mind it in the least this time.

He was tempted to ask what his appearance had to do with his cooking ability, just to hear her answer. But he knew her sharp observation had little to do with the label on his jeans and everything to do with assessing the man that filled them. Something else he respected.

“You cook?” she asked.

“Daily.”

She didn't smile, but the gleam that entered her black eyes was reward enough. “For more than one person at a time?”