Wait for You (Texas Heat)

CHAPTER 1

Imogen

The acid burning through Imogen Sanchez’s gut warned her she had made a terrible mistake. She could almost hear her mother’s voice calling it a fool-hardy, impetuous miscalculation. The nagging feeling lingered with each step she took across the terracotta-tiled floor. She tried her best not to heed it, but there was no denying she trudged down a path with no return.

Like the chasm of improbability within her plan, the understated corridor in the Spanish-style mansion stretched before her into a never-ending expanse. Muted white walls ushered her forward while the coffee-colored colonial-style beams on the ceiling threatened to close in on her if she didn’t keep moving.

She took a calming breath, and the faint scent of lemon cleaner drifted to her from the woman she followed. Their matching sensible low-heeled black pumps clip-clopped in unison against the square tiles. It seemed to echo her heart rate. The organ refused to settle, and sweat beaded on the back of her neck, soiling the starched white collar of her new maid’s uniform. She tugged at the gray material of the dress.

Too late to turn back now.

Imogen’s grip on the feather duster tightened as her skin pricked with nerves. The slim, rounded wooden handle would likely leave its imprint on her delicate palm.

Thankfully, the job application as a cleaning woman hadn’t required viewing her hands, or the head housekeeper for the Lazcano Cartel’s lieutenant would’ve known Imogen wasn’t used to hard labor. No callouses graced the supple skin at the base of her fingers. She kept her fingernails diligently manicured with no hangnails nor even an overgrown cuticle in sight.

She was accustomed to having maids, not being one.

“You’ll start here, in the guest wing,” Lucia instructed Imogen as she pushed open a set of tall double doors.

They were stained a deep mahogany, making the intricate details carved into the wood stand out. Imogen had only a moment to wonder what the carvings depicted before the doors swung wide, revealing a spacious parlor with a vaulted ceiling decorated in a muted color palette of light blues and grays.

As cold as the man it belongs to.

But the guest wing wasn’t part of her plan.

“Oh. Do I move onto Senor Morales’ quarters next?” The tips of the fingernails on her right hand dug crescents into her skin as she squeezed the handle of the duster, attempting to hold in her eagerness to gain access to the lieutenant’s private rooms. She hoped it hadn’t colored her voice.

Lucia’s shrewd gaze jerked to hers. Frowning, she stated, “For now, you are only responsible for the guest wing.”

Imogen forced a smile despite the stones that had just sunk in her stomach. “What a relief. I’m sure this wing will be enough to keep me busy.”

Lucia nodded. “Indeed, it will. Now”—she set down a bin filled with cleaning supplies, then shooed her hands at Imogen—“ haz una limpieza !”

The no-nonsense tone of the housekeeper’s voice telling her to get cleaning snapped Imogen’s spine straight. She flashed back to her catholic-school upbringing and the Spanish nuns who’d often yelled at her to pay attention. Not that she hadn’t been—paying attention. She’d simply had a habit of moving farther ahead in her lessons when she got tired of the slow pace they were taking.

She’d grown up with privilege, but attending an all-girls boarding school in Spain hadn’t been free of hardship. Namely, loneliness. She’d missed her brother fiercely during those years. Despite his being three years younger than her, they’d always shared a special bond—an understanding of the weight placed upon their shoulders because of the family they’d been born into. Whenever one of them started to falter, the other was there to help carry some of the load.

Until recently.

Shaking off the cloud of memory, Imogen realized Lucia had gone, apparently not needing a response from the likes of her.

The thought almost had her snorting a hysteria-tinged laugh. She might be the daughter of an energy magnate from a long line of successful oil barons, but she didn’t want Lucia—or anyone else for that matter—finding out who she was. So, for now, she would play the part of a maid.

But cleaning wasn’t the reason she was here. Not the real reason anyway.

Imogen took a deep breath and twisted her fingers in the auburn-hued feathers on the end of her duster. She’d willingly placed herself in the most feared man in northeast Texas’ household.

Risky? Definitely.

Unwise? Probably.

Loca? Maybe a little . . . okay, a lot . What she was doing was a lot crazy, but she would do anything to find her younger brother.

Despite her father’s money and influence, when it came to a missing Hispanic, the authorities in Gregg County couldn’t care less. Their small town of Liberty Station smacked of big money. It was located near Kilgore, whose economy ran on oil production. Big money meant big politics, and their focus remained on the border and the war against drugs.

A thought wiggled its way past her defenses. There was one man—one cop—who would’ve cared, but they no longer had a relationship where she could call and ask for his help. An ache pulsed around her heart, and she buried the memories of her ex-boyfriend, shoving the echoes of pain down with them.

If anyone were going to find Emiliano, it would be her .

She nodded, bolstering her courage. Two months ago, her brother vanished off the face of the earth. They’d never gone longer than twenty-four hours without contact, so when one day stretched into two, she’d known something was wrong.

He’d gone dark in the past, but not without a warning first. To blow off steam, he’d spend a weekend in Vegas, a few days in Ibiza, or even just a night in Austin. When he’d disappeared this time, there’d been no note, no texts, nothing to tell her where he’d be.

As much as she hated it, she knew he used other methods to let loose when the pressure became too much—cannabis, opioids, and MDMA. With her father roping Emil into his latest scheme to secure funding for a new drill site in the Eastern Pacific and her mother’s urging for him to settle down, he’d been using more frequently. She’d wanted to speak to him about it, but he went missing before she had the chance.

A pang of regret resonated through her, and she rubbed a hand against the tightness in her breastbone. She’d make up for that missed opportunity by bringing him home. Her current employment was a good start.

The Lazcano Cartel controlled the drug trade in the northern half of Texas. She didn’t know who Emil’s dealer was, so she’d gone after a bigger fish— Senor Morales , a lieutenant for the Lazcanos. He might not be the head of the Lazcano Cartel, but when it came to its foothold in the states, the lieutenant was the operation’s arm. Its very lethal arm. With enough autonomy to be dangerous.

It had taken her weeks to learn even that bit of information. She’d known the cartel had influential allies. After a few well-placed comments at the right function, she’d found a crooked politician to question. Money was good for greasing squeaky wheels, and this particular wheel hadn’t needed much before he’d given her the lieutenant’s name.

Juan Morales was her starting point because she’d bet her life the cartel had something to do with her brother’s disappearance. She didn’t expect the guest wing to provide any clues, though.

Imogen huffed out a breath, the air ruffling the tendrils of dark brown hair framing her face. The shorter strands refused to stay in the bun into which she’d twisted the rest of her long locks. With an impatient gesture, she brushed them aside.

Tapping the duster against her palm, she glanced around the parlor. The white sectional tempted her to take a seat, but adrenaline hummed in her veins strong enough that she didn’t think she could sit still. A flash of sunlight caught her attention, and the view past the set of triple windows drew her closer.

When she gazed through the arched frame of the center one, her eyes fell on a landscaped courtyard containing a fountain. The double-tiered, white marble water feature dominated the outdoor space. Rays glinted off the liquid flowing over its rims; she could hear it gurgling. The sound haunted, like a drowning man struggling for his last breath.

Perhaps her subconscious meant to tell her she was in over her head, but she knew that already. A punch of fear threatened to cripple her. While fighting it back, her gaze flitted over a hedge of golden privet, its yellow leaves as bright under the spring sunshine as they’d be in winter. The weather was already turning warmer to welcome the flowering season, and the evergreen plant flourished.

But it was far from warm inside this mansion. Like the soul of its owner, it was ice cold.

A draft from the air vent on the floor beside her feet made her shiver. She blinked and took in the carvings gracing the base of the fountain. They added to the piece’s ornateness. When she squinted against the morning sun, it became clear what animal they depicted.

El Jaguar.

Fitting, considering that was the nickname the Lazcano lieutenant went by. Behind the fountain, an arched opening cut into a wall covered in Mexican flame vine. The deep orange flowers grew wild over the stone, enticing butterflies to light on their leaves for a respite. Her mouth twisted. It irked her that a man as terrible as the lieutenant should have regular Monarch visits. He didn’t deserve to see the spectacle the butterflies made on their annual migration.

One of the flowers suddenly took flight, and she realized it wasn’t a flower at all.

Una mariposa.

Following the butterfly’s path, her eyes stared through the archway to what appeared to be another wing of the house beyond the courtyard. When she noted it, a tiny line bisected her brow.

Where am I?

El Jaguar’s mansion boasted ten bedrooms, not including his own, plus twenty bathrooms spread over a ridiculous 45,000 square feet. Not to mention a library, a ballroom, and a garage for his many classic cars. She supposed she should be grateful the house was so big he needed an army of maids to maintain it. Otherwise, she didn’t know how she would’ve gained access.

But if she had any hope of finding information about her missing brother, she needed to orient herself—learn the lay of the land. Not stand here watching butterflies.

A tenuous smile curved her cupid’s-bow mouth. It was her first day on the job. She could always say she’d gotten lost if she got caught wandering about.

◆◆◆

Mateo

One year, four months, ten days, and—he checked the Cuervo y Sobrinos watch on his wrist, which cost more than he made in a month—two hours. That’s how long Mateo Travers had been undercover with the Lazcano Cartel.

He hadn’t asked where the timepiece came from—the thing looked more like a compass than a clock—but an evidence locker seemed a likely source. He was damn positive the Department of Public Safety hadn’t shelled out the six grand for it. The thought almost made him smirk, but his mask—that of a loyal servant—stayed firmly in place.

The position he held with the Lazcano’s lieutenant meant he had an image to uphold. The fancy watch and suits had been their own form of torture at first since Mat was most comfortable in worn-in jeans, but he’d had enough time to get used to them.

The watch’s crystal case back flashed under the study’s lights as he shifted in his seat, nodding in response to what the lieutenant was saying.

El Jaguar sat behind a pale oak executive desk while Mat and a halcón sat in matching leather bucket chairs across from the lieutenant. He wore his black hair past his shoulders, slicked back from his face and parted in the middle. The man was only a few years older than Mateo’s thirty-four years, yet he looked younger. His almond skin didn’t show the strain Mat’s was starting to.

Maybe that’s what happened when you had unlimited resources to do your dirty work for you. As far as he’d gathered, El Jaguar spent as much of his day in leisure as possible. Often with his favorite hooker and powder up his nose.

The scout seated next to Mat continued reporting. At the same time, his thoughts stayed three steps ahead, plotting ways to use the information to the Rangers’ advantage.

He’d only been a Texas Ranger for the last three years, one of those undercover. Becoming a Ranger had always been his end goal, but he’d put in his time with law enforcement as a Special Agent in the Department of Public Safety’s Criminal Investigations Division. From the outset, he’d worked in CID’s Organized Crime Section. He’d had years to become intimately acquainted with the Mexican drug cartels wreaking havoc in the U.S. All the violence and death they wrought started and—if he had anything to say about it— ended in Texas.

It’s why he’d agreed to this operation. Ranger Company “B” didn’t have many Latinos, so he’d gotten pegged when they needed an undercover man.

He was only half. His father had been a gringo . A ranch hand who turned out to be a real son o’bitch. After taking a liking to the Mexican kitchen maid, he split as soon as he’d learned of Mat’s existence. The only thing he had of the man was his last name. But Mat’s heritage meant he could blend in here using his mother’s native language.

His mom had been a tough one, but she’d been overworked and underpaid. Who knows how long she would’ve made it if she hadn’t died when he was a boy simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A convenience store shooting between rival gangs when he was seven. After that, he grew up in the system. Bucked it a time or two before setting out on his own at sixteen. Somehow, he’d managed to make it through school. Then, he’d joined the police academy.

One of his foster homes had cable T.V., and he’d spent every minute possible watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger. Pinning on that star had always been his dream. Sometimes it still felt like one, especially over the last few months as his assignment dragged on and opportunities to wear the badge on his chest became fewer and fewer.

But he was close. His job had been to gain the lieutenant’s trust and locate the chemist for the Lazcano Cartel. The pill-maker was the key to taking them down.

Stop their drug production; stop the organization.

During the time Mat had been undercover, he’d spent it building up a case that would allow him to bring the Lazcanos to justice, ending their business inside the great state of Texas.

The clatter of pool balls colliding behind him nearly made him jolt. Since he’d woken that morning, he’d been on edge more than usual. He’d learned to trust his instincts, and the knots in his gut were a sign.

But of what?

The lieutenant ignored the sicarios playing eight-ball on the table across the room. They were directly behind Mat, which meant he didn’t have the advantage of seeing when the balls would hit. That was intentional on the lieutenant’s part. Everything in El Jaguar’s office served a purpose.

The caramel-colored leather of the chair Mat sat in might feel like butter under his palms, but the smooth material was a trick. Meant to relax you enough to let down your guard. Even the wall of books behind the lieutenant’s desk was for show. Mat doubted the man had read any of the works gracing his shelves. They were there to dazzle or intimidate. Like the illustrated history of torture prominently on display. Perfect for keeping people nervous. He’d watched firsthand how a little anxiety could be the tipping point for a man to spill his guts.

“I need you to take care of this, Mateo.” The lieutenant’s dark gaze bored into him.

Mat met the fierce look with a nod. This was a test, then. Instead of instilling fear, it sent excited adrenaline shooting through his veins. If he gave El Jaguar what he wanted, Mat would be that much closer to shutting the whole thing down.

The lieutenant’s face twisted with a sneer. “I want to know who the fuck betrayed us. Find the hijo de puta and bring him to me.”

The halcón seated beside Mat audibly swallowed. The young man was one of many scouts who served as the lieutenant’s eyes and ears on the street. This one had reported on a raid by Los Federales . Mat already knew of the bust, though. He’d provided the information that led to a multi-county drug task force conducting it. With his tip, they’d shut down one of the cartel’s production labs, but there were more.

They’d succeeded in cutting off one of the spider’s legs. Now, he needed to find its head.

El Jaguar fisted his hands and brought them down on his desk. “ Ahora !” he roared when no one made to move.

The lieutenant’s command of ‘now’ sent everyone fleeing his office like a terrorized herd, except Mat. He stood deliberately, buttoning the jacket of his navy suit with deft fingers before following. A man in his position couldn’t appear intimidated. He’d spent the last year working his way into the lieutenant’s inner circle.

El Jaguar trusted Mat enough to make him his right-hand man. Still, he’d only held that position the last three months after the previous man who’d had the job failed to meet the lieutenant’s expectations. His severance package had included a bullet to the back of the head.

Mat had no intention of letting that happen to him. So, he’d give El Jaguar a traitor, just not the real one . . .

With his chiseled face set in stern lines behind his closely trimmed beard, Mat exited the lieutenant’s office, heading for his own set of rooms to think and devise a plan.

Though El Jaguar’s mansion was a veritable maze, he’d had plenty of time to learn its layout. Walking through the windowed corridor, he nodded to the garden help, misting a nutrient spray over a potted palm. It graced a corner in the hallway connecting his quarters to the lieutenant’s. The older Hispanic man refused to meet Mat’s gaze.

He didn’t blame him. Most people employed in the lieutenant’s household were simply trying to support their families and give them a better life than they’d had before they crossed the border.

He couldn’t begrudge them that, even if they knew who the lieutenant worked for. Unfortunately for them, they would be out of a job once he finished his. Because El Jaguar was going to prison . . . if he were lucky. If he wasn’t, the Lazcano bosses would dispose of him in their own way.

Picturing that outcome deepened the hollows in Mat’s cheeks with a savage smile. Anticipation of the end of his assignment quickened his step as he turned a corner into the hall that led to his room, running smack into one of the housemaids.

She was tiny compared to his broad, six-foot frame, and the impact made her stumble. Mat caught her arms and kept her from falling but the duster she’d been holding clattered to the terracotta tiles.

Glancing down at the top of her dark hair, he started to apologize. “Sorry ’bout th—” His mouth dried out, and words failed him when the maid tilted her head to look at him.

Reality exploded, and its force racked his frame with a visible shudder. Shockwaves resonated under his skin, scrambling everything until his surroundings faded and his steadfastly maintained mask slipped.

Imogen.

He’d never expected to see her again.

They’d separated five years ago and didn’t exactly run in the same circles. “Gen.” Her name seared its way up his throat, coming out in a hoarse croak.

Her eyes widened with surprise, but she recovered faster than him. At the nickname, she jerked her arms free of his grasp and stepped back a pace. Her face shuttered, and her voice held the chill of a winter wind when she spoke. “Mateo.”

In the past, she’d always called him Mat. The use of his full name felt as deliberate as the way she managed to look down her nose at him.

Guess some things ain’t changed.

The truth of that stung him with the reminder of why he’d walked away. With a sigh, Mat reached for the cleaning tool she’d dropped, using the gesture to pull himself together and leave the past where it belonged.

When he rose, he offered it to her with the apology he’d started earlier. “Didn’t mean to bowl you over.”

She muttered something in Spanish he didn’t catch before she took the duster with a clipped, “You didn’t.”

The shock was slowly wearing off. Enough that he had to wonder at her being a maid. How had she gone from being a society princess to scrubbing floors? “What are you doin’ here?”

She gave him a deliberate dressing down with her gaze before crossing her arms and cocking out a hip. “I could ask you the same, po-li .” She dragged out the word, making every muscle in Mat’s body tense.

His senses went on high alert. She’d just referred to him as a lawman, and everything he’d forgotten when he’d run into her—about being on assignment—came screaming back. Being an orphan had made him the perfect man for undercover work because he had no outside or family ties to mess it up.

Except her…

Imogen could blow his cover.

Mat barely resisted the urge to glance around to make sure no one had overheard her. It was a surefire way to look guilty.

They were out of the lieutenant’s quarters, which meant a camera tracked their every move. El Jaguar had guards watching all the cameras in his home, but he refused to be monitored himself. His arrogance meant there was no surveillance in his private wing. The “big brother” situation was reserved for everyone else.

As far as Mat could see, there were two ways to play this. Take her arm and drag her to his room where he could explain everything or get close enough right here to tell her what a policeman was doing inside the lieutenant’s home. Knowing Imogen, she’d likely put up a fight if he attempted the former. That would draw more attention than he wanted or needed, but the frost dripping from her eyes said the other option wouldn’t guarantee her cooperation either.

Her back was to the camera watching the hall, so Mat let a slow smile spread across his lips. He planned to give it quite a show. Stepping into Imogen’s space, he herded her until she was pressed up against the wall. Her chocolate eyes grew wary, while the squinch of her nose hinted at her confusion.

When he braced a forearm against the wall, her candy eyes narrowed at him. Her mouth opened, ready to protest, but he leaned down, crowding her to whisper in her ear, “I’m undercover. You can’t call me that here.”

She didn’t say anything, but he could almost hear her pulse, where it pounded at her throat. Did it race with outrage over his handling of her or something else . . . like excitement?

If wishes were fishes . . .

Mat tilted his head, lingering in her warmth. Her perfume filled his nose, and the familiar coffee and vanilla scent awoke a need he had to fight to control.

Black Opium.

The fragrance’s name was a little too apt. He felt drugged breathing it in.

Anyone watching the camera would think he attempted to seduce one of the maids when, in actuality, she was seducing him.

Lips hovering over hers, he murmured, “I need you to pretend you don’t know me. Can you do that, Gen?”

Her dark pupils bled into the chocolate of her irises. When she gave him a hazy nod, he pressed his advantage. “Tell me why you’re here.”

With a blink, her gaze cleared. Though soft, her voice was laced with steel determination. “Emil.” She snapped her spine straight and pushed against Mat’s chest. “I have to find my brother.”

Despite her shove, he didn’t budge. A frown darkened Mat’s brow. He hadn’t seen or heard from Emiliano since they parted ways. If her brother had any dealings with the lieutenant within the past year, Mat would’ve known about it. It seemed to him she was barking up the wrong tree. A tree guarded by venomous snakes waiting for any excuse to strike.