Chapter Sixteen #2
The memory still haunted her. The guilt clawed at her insides. Rather than do the right thing, she’d run.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, querida .”
So smooth. She’d almost believe him if she didn’t know better .
“You can stop pretending, Vincente, this phone isn’t tapped. Leave Caleb Varella alone. Leave the Navajo alone. If you do, I’ll keep my mouth shut. If you don’t…” She left the threat hanging.
Silence. Then a sigh. “Listen to how you speak to me. Such disrespect when all I have ever done is treat you like a queen.”
His voice turned ice cold. “Have you slept with him?”
“No.” Only in her dreams.
“Make sure it stays that way. Varella will be safe—as long as he stays out of my business, and you return to Miami.”
Liar.
“Give me two months. I have work commitments I can’t just ignore.”
The request was a long shot. Her contract was up in six weeks. If he actually agreed, she’d have two weeks to disappear before he expected her to return.
“Unacceptable. You will come home immediately.”
“One week,” she bargained. “I have patients here. People who rely on me. And if your men come near Caleb or anyone else, I’m going straight to the authorities.”
She hung up before he could make any further demands.
One week.
To either run, or stay and agree to serve as Caleb’s bait.
Because there was no way in hell she’d ever go back.
Her emotions already on a razor’s edge, Gia lost all the air in her lungs at the sight of Caleb in exam room two .
Long legs dangled over the table, his black leather jacket slung across the metal chair in the corner.
His sheer size and the aura of controlled power he radiated made the sterile white walls close in, shrinking her vision until it took in only white cotton, denim, and gold flecks in dark eyes that watched her too closely.
“What’s wrong?”
The man missed nothing.
“Other than the fact you could have died today?” Her voice came out sharper than intended.
She gestured to his shirt, needing something for her hands to do besides shake. “Take it off.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His lips curved with lazy, lethal charm.
He tugged the t-shirt from his jeans and peeled it off, dropping it beside him on the table. “Look at you, giving orders like an officer.”
Sculpted muscle flowed like water beneath his smooth tanned skin and dusky brown nipples. She’d think of a snarky comeback if she wasn’t busy trying not to drool.
Her gaze dropped to the t-shirt. No red stains. That was a good sign.
“I’m a doctor.” The reminder was for her as much as him and would have been more effective if she didn’t sound so out of breath.
She’d seen plenty of bare-chested men. So what if this one had abs that looked carved from stone?
The box of examination gloves was mounted on the wall next to his shoulder. Caleb spread his knees just enough that she had to step between them to pull out a pair.
Sandalwood and spice teased her nose. His body heat warmed her—every inch of smooth, bare skin urging her lips closer.
She jerked back. The snap of the rubber on her wrists stung—a small penance for the thoughts she shouldn’t be having.
Adrenaline let down from her conversation with Vincente. It had to be why she couldn’t focus.
The scar on Caleb’s neck caught her attention again. It arced from behind his left ear and widened to his collarbone, dangerously close to his jugular.
Her fingers itched to trace it. Somehow, it made him sexier. More lethal.
“Iraq.” Caleb’s voice was a low rumble.
He’d caught her staring. When she looked up, his gaze drifted down her body in a raw, sexual manner that shot lightning straight to her core.
Her thighs clenched.
His smile said he noticed that, too.
Mortified, she yanked her gaze away and tried to pull the tattered remains of her professionalism around her. Hard to do when she was standing between his thighs.
More scars marked his torso—some faint, some fresh. All illustrating a life familiar with violence.
She pointed to the black tattoo of a parachute, flanked by a set of curved wings, on his left arm. “What does this mean?”
“That I’m qualified to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.” A flash of humor lit his eyes. “A buddy talked me into it the night we earned our wings.”
So not on her bucket list. “Hard pass.”
“It’s not so bad.”
His right arm also sported a tattoo—a crest with a dagger intersecting two crossed arrows. Beneath the dagger and arrows were the words De Oppresso Liber .
She tapped his biceps. “And this one?”
“ To free the oppressed . It’s the Special Forces motto. ”
“How fitting.” He bled protector from every pore.
She motioned for him to turn. “Let me see your back.”
The wound from the other night was healing well. No signs of infection. There were several small knicks on his neck. “Glass?”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Hold on.” She left the room and returned with a headlamp and magnifier. “I want to make sure you don’t have any embedded in these cuts.”
“It was tempered glass, Doc.” A low, amused murmur that curled her toes.
She cocked a brow. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
Fortunately, none of the wounds were deep. She cleaned them and applied ointment.
“You smell good,” he murmured. Husky, sensual.
Her fingers froze. “So do you.”
Warm and earthy. Masculine.
She stepped back. Peeled off her gloves. But her heart didn’t follow.
Vincente’s men nearly took him from her today. She was done dancing around her attraction. If Caleb wanted her, she’d take whatever part of himself he offered in the time she had left with him.
Even knowing she’d get her heart broken.
No more keeping small.
He faced forward on the table, his gaze smoldering. “Thanks for patching me up. Again.”
That rasp in his voice—dangerous, intimate—called to a feminine part of her that hadn’t been awake in too long.
His hand brushed aside the hem of her medical coat and hovered.
He wanted to touch her—she could see it in his face. But he wouldn’t .
She had to make the first move.
With a sigh, she stepped into the space between his legs.
Her palms flattened on his bare chest. Silk over steel. Warm. Solid. Alive . She couldn’t help but shiver.
“You’re welcome. Don’t make it a habit.”
The desire, the need coursing through her like an addictive drug, turned her voice into a seductive murmur.
His hand landed gently on her hip. The other cupped her head.
He leaned in.
Gia’s eyes fluttered closed. His heart thumped beneath her hand. Her own beat wildly in response.
Warm breath caressed her lips.
His kiss was soft, a fleeting touch, then firm, insistent as he took control. When his tongue swiped across the seam of her lips, requesting entrance, she surrendered eagerly.
He tasted like safety and decadence, all rolled into a beautifully masculine package. Heat, need, and a growing urgency made her lightheaded. She clutched his shoulders, because if she didn’t, the firestorm of desire blasting through her would leave her boneless at his feet.
She wouldn’t ask if he cared for her or if his aim was to win her over so she’d agree to help him. It didn’t matter anymore.
One week.
The plastic clip holding her hair clattered on the tile floor.
A hand fisted her hair. Pinpricks of fire danced on her skull. Teeth grazed her neck.
The past crashed into the present, vivid and cruel.
“Vincente, you’re hurting me.”
He’d wound his fist in her hair and yanked her head back far enough she was staring at bright blue sky while he drove into her from behind.
Her breasts bounced against the low concrete wall of the penthouse rooftop in rhythm with his thrusts. He’d ripped off her bikini top and flung it onto a chaise lounge, out of reach.
He bit her neck. Another mark she’d have to cover with concealer.
“You enjoy this as much as I do, querida.” The hand that held her hip in a bruising grip traveled up her naked body to cup one breast. He squeezed. Hard.
“I love your breasts.” Hot breath blasted in her ear. “Not plastic like so many women in Miami.”
“Gia.” Caleb’s voice cut through her memory like a scalpel. Sharp. Commanding.
She blinked, shaken, as the present snapped back into focus.
His hands were gone. The desire in his face replaced by concern.
His eyes searched hers, seeing through clear to her soul. “Where did you go?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” She’d ruined the moment.
“Hey.” He caught her hands and gently placed them back on his chest. “Did I do something wrong?”
Humiliation shriveled her insides and blurred her vision. “It’s nothing.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice was gentle. Soothing. “What did he do?”
She searched his face, finding no judgement. “He liked to pull my hair during…”
It was more than that, but the words stayed locked inside her throat. She hadn’t minded rough sex, even a little kink. Vincente always took it past her boundaries .
As his cousin watched. She knew he did. Maybe Vincente’s other men did, too. Because he liked to have sex where someone might see.
Caleb’s voice roughened. “Next time, and there will be a next time”—a vow she felt clear to her toes—“we’ll go slow. Promise me you’ll let me know if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
The tears she’d been trying to keep at bay broke free and trickled down her cheeks. “I want to. Do it again. With you.”
Even knowing she risked losing her heart. She wanted Caleb’s hands on her.
Wanted him inside her.
“Please,” her voice cracked, “I need you to erase his touch.”
His gaze flared with heat and a promise that clenched low in her belly. “Oh babe, don’t doubt it. I’m going to erase him from every inch of your body and every corner of your mind.”
Light filled the darkness in her soul and firmed her resolve. It was only a matter of time before Vincente or one of Espina Negra’s assassins caught up with her. Even if she only had a week left with this man, she wanted the memories to sustain her for as long as she had left.
Caleb caught one of the tears staining her cheeks with his thumb.
“Vincente Lopez Garcia is a dead man.”