Run To You (2 page)

“Little Stella Bella.”

She glanced up as she shut the door behind her. Crap. Ricky. “Mr. De Luca.”

“Are you leaving so soon?”

“My shift was over half an hour ago.”

Ricardo De Luca was a good seven inches taller than Stella and easily outweighed her by a hundred pounds. He always wore traditional guayabera shirts. Sometimes zipped, sometimes buttoned, but always pastel. Tonight it looked like tangerine. “You don’t have to leave so soon.” His lifestyle had aged him beyond his fifty-three years. He might have been handsome, but too much booze made him pink and bloated. He had a black ponytail and soul patch because he was under the delusion that it made him look younger. It just made him look sad.

“Good night,” she said, and stepped around him.

“Some of my friends are meeting me here.” He grabbed her arm, and his booze-soaked breath smacked her across the face. “Party with us.”

She took a step back but he didn’t release her. Her Mace was in her backpack, and she couldn’t get to it one-handed. “I can’t.” Anxiety crept up her spine and sped up her heart.
Relax. Breathe
, she told herself before her anxiety turned into panic. She hadn’t had a full-blown attack in several years. Not since she’d learned how to talk herself out of one.
This is Ricky. He wouldn’t hurt you.
But if he tried, she knew how to hurt
him
. She really didn’t want to shove the heel of her hand in his nose or her knee in his junk. She wanted to keep her job. “I’m meeting someone,” she lied.

“Who? A man? I bet I have more to offer.”

She needed her job. She made good money and was good at it. “Let go of my arm, please.”

“Why are you always running away?” The lights from the back of the bar shone across the thin layer of sweat above his top lip. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem, Mr. De Luca.” And she pointed out rather reasonably, or so she thought, “I’m your employee. You’re my boss. It’s just not a good idea for us to party together.” Then she topped it off with a little flattery. “I’m positive there are a lot of other women who would just love to party with you.” She tried to pull away but his grasp tightened. Her keys fell to the ground, and an old familiar fear turned her muscles tight.
Ricky wouldn’t hurt me
, she told herself again as she looked into his drunken gaze. He wouldn’t hold her against her will.

“If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

“Please let go.” Instead, he gave her a hard jerk. She planted her free hand on his chest to keep from falling into him.

“Not yet.”

A deep rasp of a voice spoke from behind Ricky. “That’s twice.” The voice was so chilly it almost cooled the air, and Stella tried in vain to look over Ricky’s left shoulder. “Now let her go.”

“Fuck off,” Ricky said, and turned toward the voice. His grip slid to her wrist and she took a step back. “This is none of your business. Get out of my fucking lot.”

“It’s hot and I don’t want to work up a sweat. I’ll give you three seconds.”

“I said fuc—” A solid thud snapped Ricky’s head back. His grasp on her relaxed and he slid to the ground. Her mouth fell open and she sucked in a startled breath. Her Amy pouf tilted forward as she stared down at the tangerine lump at her feet. She blinked at him several times. What had just happened? Ricky looked like he was out cold. She pushed at his arm with the toe of her boot. Definitely out cold. “Holy frijole y guacamole,” she said on a rush of exhaled breath. “You killed him.”

“Not hardly.”

Stella glanced up from Ricky’s tangerine shirt to the big chest covered in a black T-shirt in front of her. Black pants, baseball cap, he was almost swallowed up in the black night like some hulking ninja. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt his gaze on her face. As cool as his voice and just as direct. There was something familiar about him. “I don’t think that was three seconds.”

“I get impatient sometimes.” He tilted his head to one side and glanced down at Ricky. “This is your boss?”

She looked down at Ricky. He
was
her boss.
Not now
. She couldn’t work for him now, which was moot because she was pretty sure she was fired. “Is he going to be okay?” And that made her mad. She had rent and utilities and a car payment.

“Do you care?”

Ricky snored once, twice, and she glanced back up into the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. Square chin and jaw. Thick neck. Big shoulders. Anna’s G.I. Joe. Did she care? Probably not as much as she should. “I don’t want him to die.”

“He’s not going to die.”

“How do you know?” She’d heard of people dying from one blow to the head.

“Because if I wanted him dead, he’d be dead. He wouldn’t be snoring right now.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know anything about the man standing in front of her, but she believed him. “Is Anna out here with you?” She looked behind him at the empty parking lot.

“Who?”

Stella knelt down and quickly grabbed her keys by Ricky’s shoulder. She didn’t want to touch him, but she paused just long enough to wave her hand in front of his eyes to make sure he was good and truly out. “Ricky?” She peered closer looking for blood. “Mr. De Luca?”

“Who’s Anna?”

“Anna Conda.” She didn’t see blood. Which was probably a good sign.

“I don’t know any Anna Conda.”

Ricky snored and blew his gross breath on her. She cringed and stood. “The drag queen in the snake gown. You’re not out here with her?”

He folded his arms across his big chest and rocked back on his heels. The shadow from the brim of his hat brushed the bow of his scowling top lip. “Negative. There isn’t anyone else out here.” He pointed to her and then to the ground. “Except you and Numb Nuts.”

Sometimes tourists wandered into the lot or parked in it illegally. What did a girl say to a guy who’d knocked out another guy on her behalf? No one had ever come to her defense like that before. “Thank you,” she guessed.

“You’re welcome.”

Why had he? A stranger? G.I. Joe was big. A lot bigger than Ricky, and it didn’t look like an ounce of fat would have the audacity to cling to any part of his body. She’d have to jump up to deliver a stunning nose jab or eye poke, and she suddenly felt small. “This is employee parking. What are you doing out here?” She took a step back and slid her pack off her shoulder. Without taking her eyes from his, she slid her finger to the zipper. She didn’t want to Mace the guy. That seemed kind of rude, but she would. Mace him, then run like hell. She was pretty fast for a short girl. “You could get towed.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Stella.”

That stopped her fingers and brought her up short. “Do I know you?”

“No. I’m here on behalf of a second party.”

“Hold on.” She held up a hand. “You’ve been out here waiting for me?”

“Yeah. It took you a while.”

“Are you from a collection agency?” She glanced toward the front of the lot, and her PT Cruiser was still in its slot. She didn’t have any other outstanding debts.

“No.”

If he were going to serve her with a subpoena, he would have when he’d first walked into the bar. “Who is the ‘second party’ and what do they want?”

“I’ll buy you coffee at the café around the corner and we’ll talk about it.”

“No thanks.” She carefully stepped over her boss but kept her eyes on him just in case he woke and grabbed her leg. “Just tell me and let’s get this over with.” Although she could probably guess.

“A member of your family.”

That’s what she thought. She was so relieved not to feel Ricky’s pervy hand on her leg, she relaxed a fraction. “Tell them I’m not interested.”

“Ten minutes in the café.” He dropped his hands to his sides and took several steps back. “That’s it. And we should get moving before Numb Nuts comes around. I don’t like to put a guy down twice in one night. Could cause brain damage.”

What a humanitarian. Although she’d really rather not be around when Ricky woke up, either. Or when one of his sleazy “associates” rolled in. Or have G.I. Joe “put him down” again and cause brain damage. Or in Ricky’s cause,
more
brain damage.

“And it will save us both the trouble of me knocking on your door tomorrow,” he added.

He was as relentless as he looked, and she didn’t doubt him. “Ten minutes.” She’d rather hear what he had to say in a busy café than at her front door. “I’ll give you ten minutes and then I want you to tell my family to leave me alone.” Behind her, Ricky snorted and snored, and she looked back at him one last time as she moved toward the street.

“That’s all it will take.”

She walked beside him from the dark lot into the bright, crazy nightlife of Miami. Tubes of pink and purple neon lit up clubs and Art Deco hotels. Shiny cars with custom rims and booming systems thumped the pavement. Even at three in the morning, the party was still going strong.

“Maybe we should call an ambulance for Ricky,” she said as they passed a drunk tourist puking on a neon-blue palm tree.

“He’s not that hurt.” He moved closest to the street as he dug into a side pocket of his pants.

“He’s unconscious,” she pointed out.

“Maybe he’s a little hurt.” He pulled out a cell and punched a few numbers on his phone. “I’m on a traceable. I need you to call Ricky’s Rock ‘N’ Roll Saloon in Miami and tell them there’s someone passed out on their back doorstep.” He laughed as he took Stella’s elbow and turned the corner. The commanding touch was so brief, it was over before she had time to pull away. So brief, yet it left a hot imprint even after he dropped his hand. “Yeah. I’m sure he’s drunk.” He laughed again. They moved to the curb and he stuck out his arm like a security gate as he looked up and down the street. “I’m headed there in about an hour. It should go down easy.” Then he pointed at the café across the street as if he was in command. In charge. The boss.

No one was in charge of Stella. No one commanded her anymore. She was the boss. Not that it mattered. She’d give this guy ten minutes of her time and then it was sayonara, G.I. Joe.

Chapter Two

S
tella plopped her backpack on the seat of a metal and vinyl chair at the little Cuban café tucked between restaurants and bars in Miami Beach. G.I. Joe pulled out a chair for her and waited for her to take a seat. “Thank you.” Nice manners from the guy who’d just punched Ricky in the head? The two just didn’t quite fit.

“You’re welcome.” He sat across from her, and her gaze landed on his chest. Hard muscles covered in a black T-shirt. This was Miami. Men didn’t go to clubs dressed like ninjas or stunt doubles in an action movie. Not even on Back Door Betty Night. They wore cotton or linen button-down shirts tucked into designer jeans they probably couldn’t afford. Even if they had to eat hot dogs every night, they dressed like jetsetters and ballers who had money to burn.

A waitress in a tiny pink T-shirt, smooth black ponytail, and big gold earrings set two menus on the table. “You back already?” she asked, her accent barely discernable.

“I’ve changed my mind about that flan.” He reached for his hat and tossed it on the chair beside him. He looked up at the waitress, and Stella got her first good look at him. Like his muscles, his face looked hard, too. Hard like he’d been chiseled from stone. Like an action figure in an action movie come to life. “Black coffee.” Captain America with a nasty case of hat hair.

The waitress turned her attention to Stella. “For you, miss?”

“I’ll just have decaf.” Caffeine was the last thing her central nervous system needed. As it was, she was going to be awake a long time anyway, trying to sort this night out in her head. “Cream and sugar.”

Joe watched the waitress walk away and combed his fingers through his short blond hair. “What time do you have to meet your someone?” He glanced at the big watch on his wrist, then looked across the table at Stella. “Or was that a lie?”

Gray. His eyes were gray. The color of storm clouds and smoke. Anna Conda had said he looked like Channing Tatum, but Stella didn’t really see it. Perhaps the shape of jaw and mouth was similar, but Joe was older than the
Magic Mike
star. Late thirties maybe, with tiny creases at the corners of his eyes. She couldn’t imagine that he was a smiley guy. They were probably scowl lines. “What?”

“You told your boss you were meeting someone.”

Oh. “I just wanted him to let me go.” She shook her head, and her Amy bouffant shifted. “How long were you out in the parking lot?”

“About twenty minutes.” He sat back in his chair like he was irritated and folded his big arms across his bigger chest.

“Sorry.” She reached above her head and untied the red scarf from her hair. “If I’d known I was being stalked, I would have hurried.” She shoved the scarf in her pack, then started pulling out bobby pins.

“The laws of stalking vary from state to state, but generally they are defined as a person who repeatedly follows and harasses another person and poses a credible threat of physical harm, whether expressed or implied. Of course that’s the short version.” He paused a moment to watch her pull the pins from her hair before he added, “The key word is ‘repeatedly.’ Tonight is the first time I’ve seen you, so I think it’s safe to say I’m not a stalker.”

She didn’t know if she should be alarmed that he knew the rules of stalking. Long or short version. She shoved a fistful of pins into her backpack, then pulled the bouffant from the top of her head and set it on the table. Instantly she felt cooler. “So what are you?” she asked, although she could guess. Stella wasn’t exactly hiding from anyone, but she didn’t make finding her as easy as a Google search. She’d never been involved in any sort of social media and mostly used the Internet to look up drink recipes and YouTube videos. “Are you a private investigator?” She ran her fingers through her hair, from the top of her forehead to her crown.

His stormy-colored gaze moved from her face to the bouffant on the table. “No. Private security.”

“Like a bodyguard?” He looked like he could be a bodyguard.

“Among other things.” The waitress returned with two cups of coffee and a small plate with flan drizzled in caramel.

“What other things?”

He waited until the waitress walked away before he answered, “Things you don’t need to know about.”

“Secret spy things?”

He picked up his fork and pointed to the wig. “What is that?”

The subject of secret spy things apparently not a topic for conversation, she answered, “A hairpiece.”

“It looks like one of those yappy dogs.” He paused to cut into his dessert. “Like a fat Pekingese.”

Out of everything that had happened that night, he wanted to judge her Amy bouffant? She poured a splash of cream into her coffee and added a packet of sugar. “So, who paid you to look for me?” She stirred, and with her free hand, she reached behind her neck and pulled her hair over one shoulder. The fine black strands brushed the top of her bustier and curled beneath the curve of her left breast. She thought about her family and wondered which one had actually coughed up their own money to find her. It wasn’t her mother. Her mother knew where she lived, but Stella doubted Marisol had told anyone. Not because she was tight-lipped, but because Stella had made her mother swear secrecy on the life of baby Jesus. And swearing on baby Jesus was deadly business. Her first guess would be her mother’s ex-husband. “Carlos?” Although she couldn’t imagine what he’d want from her these days.
Money
. Her biological father had died recently and Carlos had to think she’d received some money. She hadn’t. Her mother would have mentioned money.

He shoveled a piece of flan into his mouth, then raised the solid white mug and washed it down. “No.”

She took a drink of her own coffee, then wiped off the smudge of red lipstick with her thumb. “Tio Jorge?” She liked her uncle Jorge. He was one of the few people in her family she wouldn’t mind seeing. He’d always been good to her, but she couldn’t imagine Jorge parting with a dime to find her. He was a good man, but an extreme tightwad.

He pointed the mug at her. “Your sister.”

Equal parts relief and amusement curved her lips into a smile and she chuckled. “You’ve got the wrong girl.” He’d hung out with drag queens, waited in a parking lot until two-thirty in the morning, and knocked Ricky out. For nothing. “I don’t have a sister. Tons of cousins, but no sister.” Thinking of Anna Conda and her interest in Joe’s sexual aura turned Stella’s chuckle to laughter. She placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together beneath her chin. “Maybe you should think of a new line of work.”

His gray eyes stared into hers from across the table as he took another drink of coffee. Nothing registered on his face, as if the mere possibility of a mistake was so absurd it wasn’t worth the effort of a single thought or expression.

“Whoever paid you is going to want her money back. I hope it wasn’t much.” She needed to get going. It wasn’t her style to bullshit with strangers. She had to do a lot of that at work and preferred not to on her own time. There was nothing to keep her here now, except a perverse desire to see if she could get a reaction out of Mr. Stone Cold. “This stealthy ninja, lurking-in-the-shadows gig isn’t working for you.” And to be extra helpful she added, “I don’t know what they taught you at your security school, but the next time you’re working undercover at a drag queen pageant, you might think about blending in. Maybe wear some leather chaps or at the very least . . . pastel.” The thought of him in assless chaps or a pink shirt with maybe a scarf cracked her up.

Too bad he didn’t have a sense of humor. “I’m not undercover, and your name is Stella Leon. Correct?” Without breaking so much as a smile, he picked up his fork and shoved more flan into his mouth.

He knew her name. She didn’t know his but didn’t ask. First, because she didn’t care. And second, if he told her he might think he had to kill her. She tried and failed to control her laughter. God, she was funny sometimes. Maybe she should try stand-up comedy as her next career. She’d tried just about everything else. “Yep.”

“Your sister, Sadie Hollowell, is looking for you.”

Her laughter died and everything within her stilled. Shut down and off. Her heart. Her breath. The blood in her veins. Her hands fell to the table and she unlocked her fingers. “Sadie?” The name sounded odd coming from her mouth. She never talked about Sadie out loud anymore. Tried not to think about her and was for the most part successful. She pressed her palms and fingertips into the hard tabletop as if she could hang on to the smooth surface as her world tilted. “You know her?”

He shook his head and said between bites, “Never met her. I know her fiancé, Vince. He contacted me.”

“Why . . .” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. Obviously, Sadie was just like her father. Hiring someone else to deal with a problem. “Why didn’t she contact you?”

“Don’t know. I’m sure she has her reason.”

Her stilled heart gave a painful thump and lifted in her chest. A high-pitched buzzing started in the center of her head and moved to her ears. Stella knew the reason. The Hollowells had always hired someone to take care of their dirty work. Her. “What does she want?”

He took a drink of his coffee and looked at her over the top of the heavy mug. His gray gaze studied her as he slowly set it on the table. “Are you going to faint?”

“No.” Maybe. Most definitely have a panic attack if she didn’t remember to breathe, though. She pulled air into her lungs and slowly let it out like she’d been taught. She resisted her body’s natural urge to pull shallow gulping breaths into her lungs as if she was drowning. “What does she want?”

“To talk to you.”

“About what?” She probably wanted to make sure Stella stayed away. Away from the ranch and Sadie’s inheritance, but Sadie didn’t need to worry. Stella got the message a long time ago that she was not welcome in the state of Texas. Her anxiety leaked out of her toes and she tapped her feet.

“I don’t know.”

“Why? Why after all these years?”

“Now that is a question that I do know the answer to.” He dug into his flan again. Far more interested in his dessert than in her. “She didn’t know about you until her father died last month.”

Her feet stopped. “What?” That wasn’t possible. Could that be possible? Stella had always known about the sister she’d never met. The older blond sister who got to live with their father in Texas. The girl who lived on the JH Ranch and raised calves and won 4–H ribbons. The debutante who wore a white gown and long white gloves and got her picture taken for the newspaper. “How could she not know?”

“That’s what I was told.” He shrugged and raised the fork. “She didn’t know about you until after your father died.”

Clive Hollowell had never been her father. She remembered seeing him only five times in her life. He’d just been the man who’d accidentally knocked up her mother and set up a trust fund to take care of his mistake. Carlos had never been a father, either. He’d just been the man who’d moved in and lived off the Hollowell money like some people in her family.

She pulled her hands into her lap and stared at her blunt nails painted black. What did Sadie want to talk to her about? What could they possibly have to say to each other? Their father had loved Sadie. Sadie was the golden-haired golden girl. Stella was the dark-haired dirty secret.

“Sadie would like to know if you are open to speaking with her. She’d like to contact you.”

“I don’t—” She lifted a hand and dropped it back into her lap. Old feelings of rejection and the ache of wanting tumbled in her stomach and tangled around her heart. Emotions she thought she’d buried long ago. “On the phone?”

“Yes.”

Her sister wanted to call her. She didn’t know how she felt about that. Part of her wanted to tell her sister to go to hell and stay out of her life. The other part wanted . . . What? To at long last hear her sister’s voice? “I don’t know.” She forced herself to look up at the man across the table from her. She didn’t know him. Didn’t even know his name, and yet he’d turned her world sideways and she felt like she was sliding off. “Does she want me to give you my phone number?”

“I have your number.” He set his fork on the empty plate and drained his coffee. “I know your work schedule, driver’s license and car tag numbers. How many parking, speeding, and various moving violation tickets you’ve had in the past ten years. I know how many times you’ve appeared in court, and your last four known addresses.” He set the mug on the table and reached for his hat. “I know all that without really digging too deep . . .”

“How?”

He adjusted the hat on his head a few times. “Stealthy ninja secrets I learned in security school.” He stood and pulled out his wallet. “Call the middle number when you make up your mind. Leave a message and I’ll let Sadie know your decision.” He slid a business card toward her, then threw money on the table.

She didn’t know what to do. “What if . . .” She shook her head. She would not voice her deepest fear. Not even to herself. Especially not to this hard-eyed stranger.

“Talk to your sister. Don’t talk to her. I don’t care one way or the other. I told Vince I’d find you and I did. Once I hear from you, I’m out of it.” Then he walked away, and she raised her gaze to his broad shoulders. Within a few long strides, he moved out the front doors and disappeared into the darkness.

Stella lifted a hand from her lap and picked up the card. Black, of course, with bold silver print. “Junger Security and Logistics Inc.” appeared in the middle of the card with three numbers below: office, cell, and fax. She pressed the pad of her thumb into the card’s sharp corner. She concentrated on the pressure and pinpoint sting. It was too much. Tonight had been too much. Ricky’s slimy antics and Joe punching Ricky in the head. She didn’t have a job now, and she didn’t know when she would get another. Oh, she could probably sling drinks in a dive bar, but the tips weren’t as good as in South Beach. If she didn’t hurry and get a job, she’d lose her tiny apartment. True, it wasn’t much, but it was currently home. There was money in her trust fund account from Clive Hollowell, but that money had never been hers and had always caused more problems than it had solved.