Texas Hold 'Em (10 page)

At the end of the main street, they spotted the unmistakable blue lights of a police car flashing one block over. Cutting the engine, Santos coasted to the curb and backed the bike into a parking spot, pointing to the rusted sign on the corner. Someone had spray-painted over part of the letters, but they’d left enough to make out the name of the street if you already knew it.

“
Calle Cinco
,” he said softly over the intercom they shared in their helmets. “What do you think’s going on?”

She took her helmet off and set it on top of the saddle before running her hands through her hair. “I’ll go see. One person will attract less attention than two.”

“No. We’ll both go.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you trust me?”

“You, I trust.” He tilted his chin toward a car heading in their direction. “Them, I don’t.”

A speeding vehicle rounded the corner on two wheels and raced for the spinning blue lights. As the car swept through the glow of a nearby bar’s neon rainbow, she recognized the black and white paint job. It was a
Policía Federal Mexicana
cruiser. “That’s not good.”

Santos nodded grimly. “We’ll need to be careful. Stick to the shadows. I don’t have answers for the questions they’d ask.”

They eased toward the direction of the lights, keeping their backs to the buildings along the sidewalk. The cops’ raised voices grew louder as they drew close, but there was no sense of urgency in their tone. She would have understood even if she didn’t speak Spanish. Cops all spoke the same language.

Someone was dead.

She glanced at Santos in the inky darkness. His expression was hidden, but the set of his shoulders told her he understood as well. Had something already happened to Carlos Hernandez’s sister?

They retreated into a recessed doorway across the street from the crowd of men in black uniforms with Mexican flag patches on their sleeves. Mixed in with the federal cops were local law enforcement officers. They looked as if they’d stumbled onto a party they hadn’t been invited to.

An ambulance waited but the lights on top of the vehicle were off. “Damn. We’re too late.”

“It might not be the sister,” Santos countered. “Let’s go one street over and see if we can move in closer from the back.”

The house behind Concepción DeLeon’s home had been abandoned. Dodging cobwebs and empty beer cans, they walked through the broken front door straight to a sagging porch that spanned the rear of the hovel. The sound of scrabbling nails preceded them, the flick of a skinny, hairless tail catching Rose’s eye before its owner disappeared into the gloom. From the small deck’s elevated position, they had an even better view than they’d expected.

Santos’s soft curse said it all.

On a tiny concrete pad big enough for two chairs, the naked body of a woman had been staked out, each arm and leg anchored with a rope to a short metal rod. She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe older. Her dark hair shone in a grotesque parody of beauty, the soft light by the back door bathing a body that was slim and toned. She had been pretty, but she wasn’t now. Her
café con leche
skin was dotted with myriad small round burns and a series of equally small cuts. She’d been tortured before her wrists had been slit, and she’d been left to die.

The door of the house burst open, and a sobbing woman ran out, one of the soldiers stumbling behind her trying to halt her progress. The woman took in the sight, shrieked, then covered her mouth, collapsing against the uniformed man who’d finally made it to her side. Her agonizing cries filled the air. “Concepción…
Dios mio
, Concepción!”

For a second, Rose wished she could cover her ears and her eyes, then the shellac of hardness she’d been forced to adopt as a police officer fell into place. The cartels were equal-opportunity purveyors of suffering. Race, religion, family…nothing mattered but money. The crying woman crumpled to the ground, and despite the soldier’s best efforts, he went with her.

“Son-of-a-bitch. We getting shit for information now.” Santos pivoted and headed for the front of the broken-down house. His coldness would have shocked someone else, but not Rose. He was thinking about his informant and saw her face when he looked at the dead woman. He knew if he didn’t find his CI soon, she’d be just as horribly dead. Rose took a deep breath, her shock segueing into pity. She would feel the same angry frustration if she were him.

He was straddling the motorcycle with the engine running when she finally caught up to him. As she reached his side, he tossed her helmet to her. “Put it on,” he ordered. “We’re going on to San Isidro. There’s nothing left for us here.”

San Isidro was not where Juan Enrique lived. Instead of asking who did, she slung her leg over the seat and clasped Santos around his waist, her senses suddenly filling to the brim and running over. The smell of his leather vest, the warmth of his body, the stubbly beard that darkened his jaw…the contrast between her heightened sensations and the evidence of brutality she’d just seen was overwhelming.

As they raced down the highway, all she could do was hang on. To her sanity…and her heart.

Chapter Eleven

After riding for almost another hour, Santos unexpectedly turned off the main highway and followed a rutted road, Rose hanging on tightly. Finally, after a mile or two, he pulled up to a wrought iron gate and pressed a brass button hidden among the vines that covered the stucco walls. A small camera perched at the top of the nearest column turned slowly around to take them in. She leaned to one side to peer around Santos’s shoulder. On the other side of the iron bars, a curved drive wended a path through a grove of citrus trees, a string of yellow lights woven among their branches like globes of fruit. Despite the hour, the gate swung open, and Santos drove through.

A cluster of buildings with red tile roofs waited for them, along with a woman poised just inside another gate. When she saw the lone bike, she pushed past the barrier and walked down the sidewalk to meet them. Santos climbed off the Harley and opened the storage compartment, grabbing the small totes they’d each brought, leaving Rose behind to wonder about the woman.

They’d obviously woken her. Dressed in a white cotton robe with slippers on her feet, she wrapped one of her arms around Santos and hugged him tightly. In her other hand, down by her side, she held a G30 Glock.

Rose wasn’t armed—they hadn’t wanted to risk it in case they’d been stopped—and Santos’s .45 was in the bag he now carried. She tensed, then Santos stepped back and looked down at the woman’s weapon.

He nodded in approval.“I see you’re still being careful.”

Rose exhaled silently, her relief practically tangible.

“This gun has become my lover,” the woman in white said in a regretful tone. “It never leaves my side, and I sleep with it every night. I only wish it could keep me warm.”

“It’ll keep you alive, and that’s more important.” He smiled in the darkness, and Rose felt a tremor of jealousy.

As if sensing her reaction, they both turned at the same time. Santos tilted his head and motioned for her to join them, introducing the two women when she reached his side. “This is Reina Salazar,” he told her. “She takes me in when I find myself on this side of the border.”

The woman shook Rose’s hand, then led them past an interior courtyard and into the
hacienda
. The thick stucco walls hid a home with stylish concrete floors and brightly colored paintings. Their discreet signatures were, for the most part, from artists whose names she actually recognized. The contrast between the traditional exterior and the surprisingly contemporary home made her wonder if the owner was just as complex.

Reina glided through the room and out the other side through a double set of French doors. Crossing another courtyard that guarded a separate wing of the structure, she stopped at a door, opened it, and stepped aside. “It’s all yours,” she said simply. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Without another word, she left them.

Rose glanced up at Santos and raised an eyebrow. “She’s a woman of few words. Who is she?”

“A good person I’ve known all my life.” His cryptic answer left room for no more questions. Holding out his hand, he waited for her to enter first.

A wide bed dominated the space, crudely fashioned nightstands of fragrant cedar flanking it, lanterns with low lights hanging above. Through an open door off to one side, she saw a cast-iron tub reflected in their soft yellow light. There was no other furniture or even art as she’d seen in the other room. Only white linens and white walls, all of which added to the stark austerity and monastic feel.

She glanced over her shoulder toward Santos to make a comment, then fell silent as his gaze swept over the bed and came back to her. The intensity in his black eyes was anything but monk-like, and the heated look ignited her buried need, the flames jumping higher than she expected.

The attraction between them had been building ever since he’d appeared at her side, despite the fact that she’d told herself over and over that what they’d shared was behind them. It was over, ancient history, old memories, and nothing more. But she’d been dishonest, and suddenly Silas’s voice whispered in her head…
There’s no worse lie than the one you tell yourself
. The relationship between herself and Santos, and all the emotions it entailed, wasn’t going to go away, no matter how much she denied it.

They moved at the very same time, a single step bringing them together. Without a word, he crushed her to his chest and pressed his lips to hers. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and a stab of pure need pierced the wall she’d tried to erect between them. No one but Santos could fill that need, and she knew it was useless to fight it. There was more to her need than lust, though. She was desperate to erase the bloody, tortured image lingering inside her head. She needed to connect with him and be reassured that life carried on, no matter how deep the evil they fought.

His obvious sense of urgency washed over her and took control. Had she known all along this was how the night would end? The question didn’t matter as a haze of recklessness descended over her. She didn’t care. All she wanted right now was Santos inside of her. If he filled her up, there would be no room for anything else.

…

Santos kissed Rose with a hunger he’d staved off for years. His fingers swept down her back and over her hips, the memories he had carried with him for so long paling in comparison to the reality. The barrier of her blouse fell under his demands, his hands reaching greedily for the buttons. One popped and rolled to the floor. Her leather jacket and the rest of her clothing quickly joined it. Naked in his arms, she clearly felt the same hunger he did, a hunger that could only be satisfied with the feel of their bodies skin to skin. She reached for his belt and fumbled with the heavy buckle. Thrusting his hands between them, he helped her, unzipping his pants then reaching for the nightstand for his wallet and the condom he kept there. His shirt and his vest followed, the pile of clothing at their feet growing until nothing was left to remove.

Stumbling toward the big white bed, locked in each other’s arms, he finally admitted to himself he’d been a fool to leave Rose. Especially the way he had. He should have tried harder…and been more honest. He should have made her understand how much she meant to him. He should have loved her better, and worked harder to save their relationship. They landed with him above her, but before he could draw her closer, Rose crawled on top of him, her touch darting over his body as she straddled him. Her fingertips burned a trail across his chest. As her hand drifted lower, she felt his stomach tense. He wanted to roll over and be the one of top, but she wouldn’t let him. Cradling his face in her hands, she stared into his eyes. Tightening her fingers in his hair where it curled, she tugged until his chin was lifted and his throat exposed.

Her eyes were dark and strange as they stared into his. He had warned her that he was a different man when he was on this side of the border, but looking at her right now, he realized he wasn’t the only one who had changed. This was a Rose he didn’t recognize. When had this happened?

She jerked her head toward their slick bodies, the heat of their passion trapping them in a place with no escape. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she said harshly. “You understand that, don’t you? Promise me you do.”

She could have asked for anything, and he would have promised her the world. But he knew that wasn’t what she sought. She didn’t want him to hurt her again, and without a commitment, there was no pain when it was over. On one level, the demand made his heart ache even though he knew he deserved it. On another, he didn’t care about anything other than this moment.

“I understand,” he said thickly. “No strings, no tomorrows, no ties.”

She nodded once then let him enter her, a gasp escaping her lips as he rose to meet her. Their bodies fit as if they’d never whispered their raw goodbyes. When they finished, they started over again.

…

Rose rolled to one side and quietly eased from the bed, moving as slowly as she could. She didn’t want to wake Santos and face the questions she knew he’d have, and she didn’t have answers, anyway. She knew he’d agreed to her conditions only because he’d thought she would stop if he’d said no. He didn’t know she wouldn’t have been able to walk away from their lovemaking any more than she could have stopped her heart from beating. She’d had to have the feel of his lips on her skin and her hands on his body. Her desire had been more than just that. Much, much more.

They’d stopped at some point to take a shower together, which had, of course, segued into something beyond the effort to wash off the road dust. Now she filled the tub and took a longer, more luxurious bath, then dressed in the fresh jeans and T-shirt she’d tucked into her bag. With a brush through her hair and a quick swipe of lipstick, she was ready. Under the covers, Santos stirred and turned in his sleep, murmuring quietly. She shouldn’t have worried about waking him. Whoever Reina Salazar was, she had made a sanctuary here, and Santos felt safe. Rose tiptoed past him, opened the door, and slipped outside to the courtyard.

She saw the child before he saw her. He was young, maybe five or six, and he held a toy vehicle in each hand, one a tiny police car, the other a black SUV. He was racing them around the edge of the fountain. The imaginary road must have been a dangerous one; accompanied by the sounds of squealing tires and terrified cries, the cruiser slipped over the edge and tumbled into the water while the SUV kept going. He reached down to save the police car then went still when he saw Rose.

“
Hola
,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t scare me,” he declared. “Not at all.”

“That’s good,” she answered. “I’m Rose. What’s your name?”

“I’m Jonathan Salazar.” He extended his hand. “It is very nice to meet you, Miss Rose. How are you today?”

The phrase was one he’d clearly practiced. “I’m very well, thank you, Jonathan.”

She kneeled beside him and took in his delicate features. Big brown eyes, dark black hair, light brown skin. Was he Reina’s son?

Was he Santos’s child?

The thought had come out of the blue, and she shook her head to dislodge it.

She nodded at the dripping car in his hands. “Your policemen had a wreck.”

“There is much danger for the policemens here. I want to be a policeman when I grow up. They must be very brave men.” He held up the SUV. “The bad guys got away. They have big guns. We have to be careful.”

She remembered the weapon in Reina Salazar’s hand last night. “Your mother looks like she can take of you.”

“She is not
mi madre
. How do you say
mi tia, en ingles
?”

“She’s your aunt?”

“
Si
.” He nodded. “She is my aunt.”

Reina stepped out from the shade of the walkway as the little boy spoke, and Rose found herself wondering how long the other woman had been listening. She told the child in rapid fire Spanish there were fresh
churros
in the kitchen. Her message sent him flying, and Rose stood up.

“Would you like something to eat, too?” Reina wore a smile but looked pointedly at her watch. “Breakfast is over.”

Rose felt her cheeks flush. She would have gotten up earlier if she and Santos had actually slept. “I can wait for lunch.”

Reina dipped her head. “Then perhaps some
café
to hold you until then?”

“That sounds good.”

She trailed the woman back to the main house. The disparity between the beautiful home and the village hovels they’d seen last night was too stark to ignore. Mexico was a country that seemed unable to escape such dichotomies.

They ended up in a smaller, more intimate den Rose hadn’t seen the night before. The plaster walls were tinted a warm yellow, the satin smooth concrete floors covered by a soft rug. Against one wall, a series of open niches held a collection of blue-tinged pottery, some with mirror finishes, others unglazed as if waiting for their turn in the kiln. Before a leather sofa, a tray with a coffee pot and mugs perched on a low cedar chest. The woman waved Rose toward the couch while she took a chair nearby.

“Your home is amazing.” She accepted the mug Reina handed her. It matched the blue pots on the wall. “Are you an artist?”

“I dabble. When I have the time.”

“I’d call this more than dabbling.” Rose lifted her mug toward the stoneware. “I don’t know which is more beautiful, the pottery or the paintings in the living room.”

“You’re very kind, but I wouldn’t expect less from Sheriff Rose Renwick.”

“You know who I am?”

Reina looked at Rose over her coffee mug. “Santos called and said you might be with him if he made it to the border. You’re the first woman he has ever brought here.”

Startled by the woman’s knowledge of who she was but almost more surprised by that last sentence, Rose kept her reaction to herself. What had Santos told this woman? And what had he left out? She wasn’t sure, despite his apparent trust of Reina, and decided to keep the conversation vague. “We’ve known each other quite a while,” she said ambiguously. “How about you two?”

Reina smiled, her amusement obvious. “He hasn’t told you, has he?”

“Told me what?”

“I’m his sister.”

Rose barely held in the coffee she’d just swallowed. This time her astonishment couldn’t be checked. “You’re his
sister
? He never told me he had a sister.”

“We both decided a long time ago that keeping our relationship secret was for the best. There are people who would make life difficult for us if they knew the truth.”

“He told me his parents were dead. And that he had no other family.”

Reina nodded. “The first part of that is the truth.”

“And the little boy in the courtyard? He…he said you were his aunt.”

Her voice was as soft as the wind chimes outside the open window. “He’s the son of a friend. She was killed by
los traficantes
. I promised I would take him if anything happened to her. Something did happen, of course, because she had the wrong kind of associates. Afterward, Santos found him and brought him to me.”