Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
B ecca hit the ground hard, but it wasn’t just the explosion—it was the solid weight of Dominguez’s body slamming into her, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the deafening blast swallowed her cry. The explosion was so loud it left her ears ringing, and she swore the ground trembled beneath her. Debris rained down, landing just feet away—wood, scraps of fabric, even a Panama hat spinning through the air.
Around them, people screamed, scattering like frightened birds. Chaos erupted all around, but she stayed frozen, too terrified to move.
Dominguez’s body covered hers, shielding her from the fallout. His chest rose and fell, each heavy breath hot against her skin. His face was just inches from hers, and as their eyes locked, she saw more than concern in his intense gaze—something deeper, something that sent a different kind of shockwave through her.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice gravelly, thick with adrenaline.
“I think so,” she managed, though her pulse was still hammering in her ears. He smelled good, surprisingly—like clean soap, hot metal, and a hint of sunscreen. His weight pressed down on her, and despite the fear still buzzing in her veins, her body heated in places she didn’t want to think about right now.
Get a grip, she told herself, but it didn’t help. She could feel every inch of him, his hard muscles pinning her to the ground, his body hot against hers.
Wrong time, her brain insisted. But her body wasn’t so sure.
She shifted slightly, trying to snap herself out of it, and he pushed up onto his elbows, his gaze still locked on hers.
“Sorry,” he muttered, helping her sit up. “Let’s get you on your feet.”
With one strong tug, he pulled her upright. His hand, warm and solid around hers, lingered a little longer than necessary.
“You’re sure you’re okay? No headache? No dizziness?”
She shook her head, still feeling a little breathless—not from the blast, but from the way he was looking at her. His gaze was so gentle, so careful, like he was afraid she might shatter. It was nothing like the tough guy front he usually put on.
“Come on,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “We need to get out of here. There might be a secondary explosion.”
She let him lead her down a narrow side street, weaving through the panicked crowd as people fled the scene. Dominguez didn’t let go of her hand, his grip firm and reassuring, guiding her like he knew exactly what he was doing.
They turned a corner and found themselves on a quieter road, far from the chaos of the market. They were in the heart of Panama City, surrounded by a blend of old and new buildings, but no one was stopping to admire the architecture now.
A few blocks later, they reached a small cantina, its brightly painted tables and chairs spilling out onto the sidewalk. The staff and customers were all on their feet, buzzing with nervous energy after hearing the explosion.
“Que pasó?” an elderly man asked, his weathered face creased with worry.
Becca didn’t understand much Spanish, but she got the gist—he was asking what had happened.
Dominguez replied in a string of fluent Spanish, his voice low and authoritative.
Huh.
She hadn’t expected him to speak the language so well, but with a name like Dominguez, she probably should have. It was one more layer to him she hadn’t seen before.
The old man asked more questions, but Dominguez just shrugged and led her to an empty table. Only when she sat down did he finally let go of her hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly, still catching her breath.
She looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the man behind the hard exterior. “I think you just saved my life.”
He grinned, but there was an edge of humility to it. “I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe I saved you from getting hit by a flying papaya.”
She laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. The tension eased just a little. She dropped her hands into her lap, hoping he didn’t notice how badly they were trembling. “I didn’t see that coming,” she admitted.
“Nobody did.”
She studied him closely, her curiosity piqued. “You did.” He had come running at her, shouting her name just before the blast. She was sure of it.
He didn’t meet her gaze this time. “I saw the bomber give a heads-up to some woman before she bolted. Didn’t take a genius to figure out what was about to go down. You just know what to look for.”
Was that all it was? she wondered. She still didn’t know much about why he was here or who he was meeting. “Who would do something like that?”
“Anti-American group, probably,” he said casually, picking up a menu like it was just another day.
Her hands were still shaking from the adrenaline, and she had this sudden urge to talk. “When I worked at the embassy, we were warned this kind of thing could happen. We did drills for it, but I never thought I’d actually be in one. When it’s real, it’s different. You freeze.” She knew she was rambling, but the words kept spilling out. “I always wondered what I’d do in a moment like that, and now I know. I froze. I didn’t move. I just stood there, waiting to get blown to bits.”
“You’re safe now,” he said softly, waiting for her to catch her breath.
She stared at him for a long moment. There was something about the way he said it, something that made her feel like she really was safe with him. “You’re used to this, though, right? Bombs going off around you?”
Before he could answer, her phone rang, breaking the tension. She fished it out of her bag, glancing at the screen.
“It’s Ramirez,” she mouthed to Dominguez, who shook his head, signaling her not to mention him.
She answered. “Yes, I’m okay,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “No, I wasn’t near it. I’ll meet you in half an hour.”
She hung up and turned to Dominguez. “Ramirez is coming to pick us up. We’re meeting him a few blocks away to avoid the chaos.”
In the distance, they could already hear the wail of sirens as police and ambulances rushed to the scene. The market was going to be crawling with officials and medics. She’d left her shopping, or what was left of it, back in the square. It was too bad.
“I hope no one was badly hurt,” she whispered, biting her lip as the reality of what had just happened hit her. She’d come so close. If she’d been just a few feet closer to that stall...
“It was a powerful explosion, but it was controlled,” he said. “The goal wasn’t to kill. It was to send a message.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, her heart still racing.
He gave her a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Four tours in the Middle East. You get good at recognizing that kind of thing.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed.
Despite his messy hair and scruff, he was remarkably composed. His big, strong hands held the menu with steady ease, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, she still felt shaky, her pulse erratic from the explosion—and maybe a little from his nearness.
His phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. She could have sworn he flinched, even if only for a second.
“That’s my notification,” he said, slipping it back.
Becca noticed the way he tensed up, his discomfort at being under Ramirez and Carlos’s constant watch evident. She couldn’t blame him—she wasn’t a fan of their overbearing presence either.
“Why didn’t you want Ramirez to know we were together?” she asked.
He gave a small shrug. “Didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.”
“What, that you’re actually a nice guy?” She smirked, enjoying the way it made him squirm.
“Something like that.” His grimace made her laugh.
She leaned in, dropping her voice into a teasing whisper. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. You can keep pretending to be the badass mercenary if it makes you feel better.”
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that did weird things to her insides. “Thanks.”
The waitress arrived, and Dominguez ordered for both of them, effortlessly taking control of the situation.
“I hope that has something strong in it,” Becca sighed. “My nerves are shot.”
“It’s saco,” he replied, his accent rolling easily. “You know it?”
She nodded. “I’ve heard of it but haven’t tried it yet.”
“It’s local—distilled from sugarcane. It’ll take the edge off.”
She pursed her lips. “Right now, I’d drink anything, even tequila, and that’s saying a lot.”
He flashed her a grin, and for the first time, his eyes softened in the sunlight. She blinked. Was this Dominguez, the dangerous mercenary who looked like he could snap someone’s neck with a flick of his wrist? How was it possible for him to have this... softer side?
Sitting across from him, it was hard to reconcile the two. She was so confused. This was the same man who had barreled into her like a human shield, protected her, held her hand all the way here... Where had the cold, calculating gun-for-hire gone?
Oh boy.
There she was again, making excuses for her attraction to a thoroughly unsuitable man. She’d sworn off bad boys—years ago, after a toxic relationship that had nearly broken her. Yet here she was, sitting across from one of the most dangerous men she’d ever met, feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling.
She watched him as he lounged in his chair, deceptively relaxed. His sharp eyes, however, were still scanning their surroundings, taking everything in. He might look calm, but his body was coiled tight, ready for action at any moment. The contrast between his easy slouch and the tension in his muscles was captivating.
He caught her staring and smiled again, this time a little more knowingly.
Her stomach flipped, but she steeled herself.
No. Do not let your guard down.
Dominguez fit into this dangerous world. He belonged in it. If you stripped away the muscles and the dark, brooding eyes, he was still a guy with a gun, lethal as hell.
And nothing good ever came from getting involved with men like that.
She reached for her drink the moment it arrived and knocked it back in one gulp.
Dominguez’s eyebrows lifted, amused. “It’s not a soft drink, you know.”
“I needed it,” she shot back, setting down the empty glass. But not for the reason he thought.
“Want another?” he asked, though she noticed he hadn’t touched his own drink yet.
She shook her head. “Just a bottle of water, please.”
He flagged down the waitress again and ordered, all the while keeping his attention on her.
“Where did you learn to speak Spanish?” she asked. His command of the language was too good to be anything but native.
“I was born in Cuba,” he replied, though his voice had a slight edge to it. Clearly, he didn’t like talking about himself.
She frowned, confused. “I thought you were American. Your accent?—”
“We moved to America when I was ten,” he explained, eyes shadowed. “But we spoke Spanish at home.”
Ah, that made sense.
The waitress brought her water, and Becca reached to twist off the cap but couldn’t budge it. Her hands felt weak, the adrenaline crash hitting her hard.
Without a word, Dominguez took the bottle from her and opened it with a single twist of his wrist, handing it back.
“Thanks,” she said, more softly than she intended. He’d done it again—this simple act of kindness, completely out of sync with the hard, violent image she’d built of him.
“You know,” she said before she could stop herself, “I can’t figure you out.”
“How’s that?” He took a sip of his saco, watching her carefully.
“Well, you’re obviously good with a gun, or Mr. Markov wouldn’t have hired you, which means you’re dangerous. Carlos and Ramirez both respect you, and knowing them, that probably means you must have a reputation. Yet with me, you’re... different. You protect me from explosions, carry my bag, open my water bottle.” She shook her head. “You seem to be two people, Mr. Dominguez. Which one is the real you?”
He didn’t answer right away, letting the sun beat down between them as he stared off into the distance. Then finally, his voice came low. “I’d like you to call me Dom.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Is that what your friends call you?”
“I don’t have friends,” he replied. “Not wise in my business.”
Fair enough. She didn’t have many either. Friends meant connections, especially to the past, and she didn’t want to drag the past with her into her present.
“Well, Dom,” she tested the name on her tongue. “Are you going to answer my question?”
He glanced away. “What was the question again?”
He was stalling, but she wasn’t going to let him dodge it. “Who are you? The mercenary or the gentleman?”
His voice dropped to a low growl. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
A thrill raced up her spine that had nothing to do with the alcohol working its way into her system. So he’s a bit of both.
She took another sip of water, trying to steady herself.
“How much do you know about your boss’s business?” he asked, his voice tighter now.
She gave the rehearsed answer, the official line. “He sells farming equipment.”
“That’s what he told you?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she challenged, lifting her chin. If he wanted to dig deeper, it would force him to admit the truth about what he was really doing here.
He shrugged, noncommittal. “I guess so.”
She sighed, deciding to level with him. “It’s not the whole truth though, is it? Otherwise, why would he need someone like you?”
His jaw clenched, but his voice softened. “I’m not just a hired gun, Becca. I spent fifteen years in the Marine Corps. I’ve earned the right to call myself a soldier.”
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
She kept her voice steady. “I did a background check on you. Standard protocol.”
His expression darkened, but before he could speak, the waitress returned, asking if they wanted anything else. He shook his head, dismissing her.
“What else did you find out?” he asked, his tone edging into something more dangerous.
She saw the tension in his jaw, the muscles flexing in his forearms, tight beneath that faded T-shirt.
God, those arms.
Her eyes flicked back to his face. “You joined the Marine Corps at seventeen, then went into special operations after ten years. You specialized in close combat and jungle survival.” She gestured around them. “I guess Panama must feel pretty familiar to you.”
“I trained in the jungles of Central America,” he muttered, as if that explained it all.
She leaned in a little. “What I want to know is, why did you go AWOL?”
“Enough about me.” His tone sharpened as he drained his drink, deftly avoiding the question. “Let’s talk about you.”
Becca raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing to talk about. My life’s pretty boring.”
He gave her a long, appraising look. “Come on, that’s not fair. I haven’t had the benefit of a background check. The least you could do is fill me in on the basics.”
She sighed, resigned. “Okay, here goes. I grew up in North Carolina with my mom. Pretty standard upbringing. But when she passed, I went off the rails for a bit. Moved to Cali for a while.” She paused, then added, “It didn’t go well, so I moved to Europe. Lived in Paris for a couple of months, then Amsterdam, then Prague. Eventually came home.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Eighteen. It messed me up for a while—we were very close.”
“What about your father? Where was he?”
She hesitated. “I never knew him growing up.”
“I’m sorry. My mother passed away when I was a kid, but I don’t remember much about her.”
“I recall reading that in your file,” she said softly. “It couldn’t have been easy, growing up without a mom.”
He shrugged. “My father did the best he could.” His eyes clouded over, but when he looked at her again, they cleared. “How did you end up here?”
“Oh, well, that’s another story.” She fast-forwarded ten years. “I went to Costa Rica on a surf trip.” With this guy... “And while I was there, I spotted the advert for the job at the American Embassy in Panama.” It had been time to move on.
“That’s where Markov found you,” Dom finished.
She glanced up in surprise. “He tell you that?”
Dom nodded. “Said he stole you from them.”
She tilted her head to the side. “You could say that. He was very persuasive.” She didn’t elaborate, but she didn’t need to—he got the picture.
“You’re a bit of a gypsy, aren’t you?” he remarked, taking out his wallet.
“Please, let me.” She reached into her bag, but he waved her away.
“I’ve got this.”
She smiled her thanks. He was full of surprises.
“I guess so. I haven’t found anywhere to settle down yet, but I hope to one day.”
Or anyone to settle down with .
To be honest, she wasn’t sure she was the settling down type. She’d been bouncing around for so long it had become a way of life. When things got stale, she moved on. When things got serious, she moved on. Maybe she was a gypsy, after all.
He stood, easing to his feet like a lithe panther. She tried to do the same, but she was stiff from her fall, and her shoulder ached where he’d barreled into her.
“You okay?” he asked as she grimaced. He didn’t miss a thing.
“I’m fine.” She draped her bag over her good shoulder, and they started walking back up the road.
“Here, let me take that for you,” he offered, removing the bag from her shoulder. It wasn’t heavy, and she was about to resist when he sent her a “don’t argue” look.
So, she shut her mouth and let him carry it.
“What’s it like working for Markov?” he asked.
She watched the cracks in the road as they walked. “It’s fine. I like the job. The estate’s beautiful, more like a resort, and I pretty much do things my way. No one’s looking over my shoulder like they did at the embassy. Alek only cares if things run smoothly.”
Dom glanced at her. “For what it’s worth, he was singing your praises.”
She smiled. “Good to know.”
“And you’re cool working for a guy without knowing what he’s really up to?”
They gave the market a wide berth, taking a street that ran parallel to it. Sirens and loud voices still echoed in the distance. They were only a block from the pickup point.
“It’s better that way,” she said. Why was he so hung up about that? Who she worked for had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t like he was a paragon of virtue.
“It doesn’t seem to bother you,” she blurted out.
He stared straight ahead. “There’s not a lot of work for guys like me. I take what I can get, and Markov pays well.”
“Really? I thought that in this part of the world, there was a lot of work for a good gunslinger.”
He didn’t reply.