Chapter One
ángel Rascón drifted in a sea of murky shadows.
Then a strange, dull pressure throbbed in his chest. In his shoulder.
The haze of oblivion promised slumber, peace, a chance to forget everything.
He longed to fall deeper into the abyss.
To succumb to the heavy weight seizing his muscles.
But no, he wasn’t a quitter. The distant, muted pain prickled at his memory.
Something had happened. Something important.
He clawed his way through the darkness and tried to move his body.
Jagged shards of pain shot down his arm.
Beneath the agony, a soothing touch glided across his forehead, over his closed eyes, and down his cheeks.
His skin tingled and his eyelids fluttered with each feminine caress.
And it was feminine. He’d know that no matter how drugged or wasted he was.
Against his will, the gentle warmth faded as if on the wings of a dream.
He lurched upward, desperate to reclaim the touch.
Sharp, stabbing pain flooded back in. He collapsed and held his breath until the flames licking beneath his skin settled back into that dull, persistent ache.
Mouth parched, he bit his tongue for a bit of moisture.
The stench of bleach and antiseptics scraped the inside of his nose.
His head pounded as if someone had mistaken it for a pinata.
He blinked rapidly to clear the last remnants of the fog from his mind and the crust from his eyelids.
Pinpricks of light blinded him with the force of an interrogator’s lamp.
Carajo. Fuck. That hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open.
White ceiling. Tiled. Ugly and sterile. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed like a rampaging bee. Monitors beeped a harsh rhythm beside him.
A hospital. Of course. Life wasn’t shitty enough without a hospital stay or a hit to his bank account.
Ignoring the pinch of the IV catheter in his right arm, he plucked at the fabric of his thin hospital gown and glared at the standard blue sling that immobilized his other arm.
Ugh. What an eyesore! He shifted sideways to relieve the ache in his hip, and a spike of agony seared him from the inside out.
A guttural groan ripped from his lips. Spots dotted his vision.
A firm, warm hand pressed lightly against his sternum and anchored him to the mattress.
“Easy, now. No sudden movements.”
The lyrical voice cut through his daze. He turned slowly toward a woman.
She sat beside him in a cushioned chair and scooted closer until her knee bumped the metal bedframe.
Loose strands of her messy braid framed her face.
The freckles on her nose and cheeks begged him to connect the dots.
A serious little frown tugged at her kissable lips.
She stroked his forehead in the lightest of caresses before she traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips.
Heat flashed through his chest and had nothing to do with pain.
His breath stuttered. Caught between the instinct to recoil and something far more dangerous to his peace of mind—the urge to lean into her touch—he clamped his jaw tight not to snap at her.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like this without wanting something in return.
In his world, kindness always had a price tag.
“Gracious a Dios,” she thanked God and rested her hand on the bed rail, depriving him of her warmth. “You’re awake. I was starting to think you’d sleep through the entire week.”
He half wished he had. ángel tried to push himself up on his elbows. White-hot pain shot through his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth against the groan threatening to escape.
“Stop. You’ll tear the stitches.” She pressed her hand against him again.
“Bullshit.” He nearly argued that he wasn’t some fragile puppy she needed to coddle, but his body betrayed him by collapsing back against the pillows with an undignified huff.
He slammed his eyelids shut as a blast of shame seared his face.
For a sexy-ass woman to see him so weak, he must be in Hell.
“Who the fuck are you?” he rasped and glared back at her. “And why do you keep touching me?”
Smiling, she settled her hands in her lap. “Marisol Cruz. I’m sorry if touching you was crossing boundaries. After what happened, I’m still a little freaked out. I just need to make sure that you’re all right. And before you ask—no, I’m not a nurse.”
If she were, she’d be the hottest nurse he had ever seen.
“Do you remember me? We haven’t technically met, but I saw you yesterday on the sidewalk. We made eye contact and flirted a bit.”
The way she said that last part, as if embarrassed, puffed out his chest. Well, puffed out as much as possible with the pain dwelling there.
He tilted his head, struggling to place her in his memory.
Then it hit. The hottie at the food cart.
She’d smiled and waved at him. If not for Lourdes, he would’ve approached her.
Lourdes? Carajo. Memories struck like gale-force winds. Gunfire. Screams. Agony. The taste of warm, metallic blood in his mouth, pumping from his body. The concrete, rough against his cheek. Failure. Darkness. Oblivion.
Again, he struggled to sit up and grabbed the handheld remote to raise the bed into a sitting position.
This time, Marisol didn’t stop him. The grinding mechanics of the bedframe screeched in his ears.
“W-what happened to the woman I was with? Is s-she alive?” He stumbled over the words, his hands shaking.
The steady beep of a monitor quickened.
“Shh. Mind your blood pressure,” Marisol chastised and stood.
He swallowed hard as she leaned over him to fluff the pillows behind his head.
Her faint wood-and-mint scent teased his nostrils.
The open neckline of her navy polo gaped, tempting him with her impressive cleavage, pushed up in a little beige bra.
Then the rusty-brown stains on her shirt snagged his gaze.
His heart skipped. Blood, it had to be. Even a bit smeared her khakis.
He dragged in a steadying breath and shoved his pain and panic to the pit of his cramping stomach. “You were in line for tacos.”
“That’s right.” She braced her hip against the raised rail and rubbed at a stain on her shirt before she crossed her arms over her chest. “After the shooting, everything was chaos. People were screaming. You were bleeding. Your phone kept ringing, so I answered it and spoke to your friend, Enrique. I told him what happened, and he said the woman those men took was his wife, Lourdes. But everything is fine now. Somehow, Enrique found her. She’s alive and well.
I met them this morning when they came by to check on you.
Lourdes was crying and worried sick about you. ”
ángel closed his eyes as Marisol’s words sank in. Lourdes was alive. Thank fuck. And the idiots who grabbed her were likely buried in an unmarked grave somewhere.
“Enrique sent a guard to watch over you last night,” Marisol continued, drawing his attention. She nodded toward the closed door where the shadow of a figure loomed beyond the frosted glass. “I didn’t want to leave until you woke up.”
Gaze narrowing, he studied her face for any sign of deception.
She fidgeted a little, but then she blinked back at him with pure spitfire in her eyes.
Good. He didn’t want a woman he could intimidate, not that Marisol was his.
Not yet. “Why did you stay with me? Certainly, you have better things to do.”
“Not really.”
“You saved me.”
Fragments of memory snapped into place. Hands pressing hard against his chest. Someone shouting for him to stay awake. Warm blood slicking his fingers before he passed out.
He laughed roughly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t worth the trouble.”
Marisol scowled, and the sound of the door opening surely saved him from a sound tongue-lashing.
A middle-aged man in a white lab coat entered. His shiny shoes resounded on the linoleum floor as the door swung shut behind him. “Ah, Senor Rascón. You’ve rejoined the living. I’m Doctor Garrido.”
Doctor? ángel almost snorted. From his pinched face, beady eyes, and shock of silver-streaked black hair, the man exuded the air of a coroner rather than that of a healer.
Garrido pulled a clipboard from the plastic chart holder at the foot of the bed and skimmed over the top sheet of paper. Then he scanned the monitors and cast his gaze over ángel with the detached precision of someone assessing a malfunctioning machine, not a person.
“Has a nurse come by?” the doctor directed the question at Marisol.
“Not since ángel woke up, no.”
The doctor harrumphed and faced ángel. “You sustained two gunshot wounds. One through the chest, which passed cleanly and missed everything vital. The other fractured your collarbone. We removed the bullet during surgery, gave you a blood transfusion, and kept you sedated overnight. No infection has set in.”
Broken collarbone? Mierda. Shit. No wonder he hurt so much. “When can I leave?”
“We’re going to keep you for a few days.
Observation, you understand,” Garrido added dryly as ángel scoffed.
“The collarbone fracture is clean, but given your—” he cleared his throat, the pause heavy with accusation, “lifestyle, I expect you’ll ignore my advice.
Still, avoid strain for three months if you don’t want permanent damage. ”
“Lifestyle? You talking about my job?” ángel bit out and gripped the gray wool blanket that someone, probably Marisol, had tucked in at his waist.
Before Garrido could respond, Marisol braced her hands on her hips. “With proper immobilization and guided therapy, recovery can be done in half that time,” she told the doctor and notched up her chin.