Dirty Little Lies Read online

  She landed with a thud and a grunt, the wind rushing from her lungs. Marisela snatched and clawed until she had handfuls of the shooter’s slim knit dress in her grasp. The shooter fought back, jamming sharp nails in between the bone and sinew at Marisela’s wrist.

  With a scream, Marisela released her. After taking a split second to regain her equilibrium, she rolled on the ground, landing directly behind the assassin, who stumbled only a few feet away.

  With a vicious yank, Marisela tore the flouncy skirt off her own gown, kicked off her tacones, assumed a fighting stance and shouted for the woman to stop.

  Surprisingly, she did.

  The shooter turned slowly, oozing confidence. Elegant in a sleek, full-faced white mask and a soft-black gown that hid the identifiable features of her body, she straightened first, then matched Marisela’s crouch.

  “Something you want?” the woman asked.

  Her Spanish was perfect. Crisp, but chic.

  “Just admiring your dress. Did you get that from the set of a horror movie?”

  The woman made a sweeping gesture, showing off the dramatic neckline that curved stiffly behind her head. Maybe she didn’t realize that Halloween was over a month away. But the choice was clever, since the accessory made her height hard to judge. The bodice was fitted, but the skirt and sleeves flared, making it nearly impossible for Marisela to tell if she’d challenged someone thick, skinny, or even bottom heavy. She was betting, at least, on strong and wily, because her assailant had taken a stance that would only be familiar to someone who knew how to fight.

  “Back off,” the shooter said, the voice deep and throaty, but decidedly female. And she spoke in English. With no accent at all. “I’m not here for you.”

  “That makes me feel better. I don’t much like imagining myself lying in a pool of my own blood after being shot by a hidden sniper. It’s a lot like shooting someone in the back, don’t you think?”

  The woman’s eyes flashed behind her mask. Except for her flowing dark hair, thick and reaching well past her shoulders, Marisela would have no decent description to offer the cops. The assassin was dark-haired, sneaky, and spoke fluent Spanish and completely American English. She might as well have described herself.

  “The manner of death doesn’t matter; he pays for his crime in blood.”

  Marisela swallowed thickly. This wasn’t murder for hire. This was revenge.

  “Who are you?”

  “A shadow. An avenging angel. Don’t cry for that man, Marisela,” she said in Spanish. “He doesn’t deserve your pity.”

  Marisela stepped back, the use of her name catching her off guard. Instantly, the assassin feinted left, then right, but Marisela instinctively mirrored her actions, anticipating her next move so that when the assassin grabbed for Marisela, she spun, prepared to kick the woman to the ground. But before she could complete her rotation, the shooter shot out a foot and tripped Marisela, sending her careening onto the lawn.

  The woman turned to flee, but Marisela kicked from the ground, hitting the woman in the small of the back with her heel. She followed through with a second, higher kick, sending the woman sprawling. With powerful arms, the woman crawled forward, but Marisela launched on top of her, attempting to pin her arms behind her.

  “Let go of me!” the woman screamed.

  The assassin kicked and flailed, sending grass and dirt into Marisela’s face. She spit in between her gasps for breath, struggling to keep her grip on the woman’s legs. “Not…in this…lifetime!”

  With a twist, Marisela flipped the woman onto her back and propelled herself forward, raising her arm to strike down hard with a hammered fist, but the woman blocked her move. They rolled across the lawn. Seconds ticked by in excruciatingly slow motion, punctuated by scratches, punches, and kicks. When they finally spun to a halt, they both heaved for precious gulps of air.

  “This is not your business,” the shooter said, pointing her finger at Marisela.

  Marisela could hear someone shouting authoritative orders from the other side of the stone wall. The woman’s only escape route was over a fence at the far end of the property—and Marisela was blocking her path.

  Nearly simultaneously, Marisela and the shooter climbed shakily to their feet. Marisela stood, hands up, palms out, ready to strike. The shooter dipped her hand beneath her mask, which had cracked, but still hid her face well. When her gloved hand emerged, Marisela saw blood smear the white plastic.

  “Where’s your gun?” the shooter asked.

  “Where’s yours?” Marisela’s thigh holster dangled empty against her leg. Quick glances on the ground told her the weapon was out of sight, so it might as well be out of mind. “Besides, shooting people in cold blood is your MO, not mine.”

  “Cómo dulce,” the shooter commented, her tone dripping with false sweetness. “Why stop me at all? I’m not your concern. Yet.”

  “I don’t know,” Marisela replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I was just thinking that some people inside might want to talk to you. You know, guys with badges. Maybe the friends of the dead guy you left lying on the floor. Or maybe I just wanted to catch you because I could.”

  By now, sirens filled the air. Flashes of red and blue lights caught Marisela’s peripheral vision. She wondered where Frankie was. Why hadn’t he emerged from the house after doubling around to rendezvous with her on the back lawn? But mostly, she tried to figure out what the hell she should do next.

  The assailant took two steps back. Marisela matched the move.

  “I have no intention of going with you peacefully,” the assassin said.

  Marisela shrugged. “Violently’s been fun so far. No need to change tactics now.”

  The shooter’s first volley of kicks and punches came hard and fast, giving Marisela little time to block. She got in a few good licks, but not before the woman clocked her with a roundhouse kick to the chin. Marisela went down, but managed to grab the woman’s ankle on the way, crashing them both to the ground.

  The struggle was messy and ugly and hurt like hell. Every move Marisela made was countered, every punch blocked, or at least hampered by the woman’s incredible strength and skill. Marisela allowed herself a split second to respect her opponent before she locked onto the woman’s arm and twisted. The woman groaned, but broke off the attack by unexpectedly surrendering to Marisela’s momentum, catching her offguard.

  The shooter’s gloves, glossy and slick, slipped from Marisela’s grip, but with a determined yank, Marisela ripped the fabric off her opponent’s hand.

  Bright orange and green flashed from the woman’s wrist. The odd shape, clearly a tattoo, mesmerized Marisela just long enough for the woman to break out of her hold.

  She held the wrist up proudly. “Take a good look. Interesting, isn’t it? Yours is more básico, but we both wear our tatuaje where the blood pulses, where the pain is great.”

  The realization stunned Marisela. In that moment, the shooter kicked out hard. Marisela caught the woman’s foot and moved to throw her off balance when she struck Marisela across the back of the neck. Marisela tumbled backward cursing and the assassin, without another word, disappeared into the darkness and shadows.

  Marisela scrambled to her feet. Frankie finally emerged from the house and jogged down the steps and across the lawn.

  “Holy shit, woman. What happened to you?”

  Marisela wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. “I found the shooter.”

  “You let her go?”

  Marisela took a brief, exhausted look at her ripped dress and scratched and bloodied skin. “Yeah, poor woman. She’d had a tough day. Who was I to stand in the way of her scheduled spa massage?”

  “She kicked your ass?” he asked, eyebrow arched in disbelief.

  Marisela stalked over to the portico and retrieved her abandoned shoes. The dress, on the other hand, was headed for the trash can. She plodded around the grounds, searching for her gun. “She knew what she was doing. And where the hel
l were you anyway? Some partner you are, disappearing. Does the word backup mean anything to you?”

  He smiled coolly and she suddenly noticed he’d lost not only the mask he’d worn earlier, but his tie. He still looked sexy enough to eat. “Lo siento, vidita. The cops stopped me on my way through the hall.”

  She snorted. “Isn’t that always your story?”

  Three

  COCOONED IN THE back of a Titan limousine waiting for the police to clear their car for exit, Frankie tugged Marisela’s wrist to his lips and kissed the very spot where her tattoo throbbed with the beat of her heart. She was dirty and bloodied and sore—and yet, when a flash of light from outside streaked across Frankie’s midnight eyes, so dark with hunger, warmth pooled deep in her belly. And lower.

  “Your skin is so soft.” He swiped his tongue across her pulse point, blew a heated breath across the moist path, and then smoothed her palm against his cheek.

  Pleasure eased over her skin at the touch of his hot breath, but pleasure had cost her a hell of a lot tonight. She yanked her arm back. “What are you talking about?”

  Frankie dug into the limousine’s built-in bar and mixed her a Cuba Libre. The car even had a stash of fresh lime. He went light on the cola, but heavy on the rum, just the way she liked it. “If you had shot the assassin, you’d likely be in jail right now, vidita. Or worse.”

  She took a sip of the rum and cola. The icy trickle slowed her racing pulse. “There are worse things than jail?”

  “Dead is worse. If the cops thought you’d just shot a party guest, I’m thinking they would have returned fire first and asked questions later.”

  “Even if the party guest I shot just killed some congressman?” she pointed out.

  “Could you prove that?”

  She skewered him with a sharp look. “I know what I saw. What I heard. Trust me, this woman had one purpose and one purpose only. Revenge.”

  “For what?”

  Marisela slid an ice cube into her mouth. “It wasn’t like we were shooting the shit, Frankie. She just said a few things while we were kicking each other’s asses.” Marisela combed her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp to appease the headache threatening to split her skull in two. She did love a good fight, but the aftereffects sucked.

  Frankie changed seats, moving beside her. Her body ached to lean into him and let his natural heat envelop her, but she resisted. This was exactly why she hated having Frankie around—and exactly why she missed him. He could be a stone wall, surrounding her, protecting her—and that’s precisely what she didn’t need.

  “You’re beating yourself up for not shooting her when you had the chance in the garden.”

  “She wouldn’t have gotten away.”

  “You don’t even know for sure if the woman you fought with in the grass was the same woman who fired the shot that hit the congressman.”

  “Uh-huh,” she grunted, doubtful. Who else would fight like that to get away? “I know what I saw.”

  “What you saw,” Frankie emphasized, “was the barrel of a rifle through a curtain on a dark balcony. Then you saw some woman in black come out from under the portico.”

  “You think Boston socialites regularly hang out with the rats under the porch?”

  “Depends on who you consider a rat in this town,” he quipped.

  Marisela didn’t want to laugh, but the combination of Frankie’s logic, the rum, and the glamorous comfort of the limo inspired her to at least crack a sardonic smile. “I could have fired a warning shot.”

  “And what if she ignored it? Then, the cops book you for endangerment or some shit. I’m sure threatening rich people gets you a hefty fine around here, if not a twenty-year jail sentence. And let’s say you just wound her. And let’s say the cops screw up and don’t get any physical evidence linking her to the crime. You end up in jail for reckless endangerment or even attempted murder and she goes on to collect her fee. Stop beating yourself up.”

  He knew her well—too well—which was why she hated how he could sneak into her brain uninvited and figure out the complicated workings of her mind. Half the time, she didn’t even understand the crap running through her brain. Ordinarily, she wasn’t one to harbor regrets or even look back ten minutes into the past. But all that had changed when she joined Titan.

  The limousine finally started to move. They’d crawled about twenty feet away from the house when it jerked to a stop, splashing the contents of Marisela’s drink across her chest and lap. She screamed, and as she let lose a string of curses, the door wrenched open.

  Frankie turned, his arm stretched protectively in front of her. “What the hell?”

  “I’m so sorry,” said the man who climbed gingerly inside the limo, uninvited. “My security guards can jump the gun when I’m anxious. One of the reasons why I hired your outfit in the first place.”

  His annoyed grumble belied his smooth exterior. His black tuxedo contrasted starkly with his thick white hair and pale blue eyes, but when he looked up and smiled, Marisela felt her anger diminish.

  “Ms. Morales, your dress is ruined. I insist you send the tattered remains to me immediately so I can have it replaced.” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to her. “You looked so stunning tonight.”

  She arched a brow. “Do I know you?”

  He didn’t answer until she accepted the cloth, which she used to mop her drink off her cleavage.

  “Leo Devlin,” he said, his voice deep and arresting. “We hadn’t yet been formally introduced, but every man at the masquerade noticed you, I’m quite certain. I was your host this evening.”

  Marisela waved the sopping rag at him. “Great party. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  Frankie sat back against the seat. “Marisela, Mr. Devlin is also our client.”

  Marisela frowned. “Oh. No one’s jewels got swiped, did they?” She’d never made it to her shift on diamond patrol. She’d been too busy messing around with Frankie, and then, trying to avert an assassination.

  Devlin’s smile reached his eyes. For an hombre de poder y dinero who owned a house that could double for a small town, he seemed incredibly comfortable talking to “the help.”

  “Everyone’s jewelry was perfectly safe, thanks to Titan. But the police informed me that you may have tangled with the person who shot the senator. Is this true?”

  Marisela exchanged glances with Frankie. She’d given the police a report, but she hadn’t exactly told them everything. Old habits died hard. And she wasn’t sure she should talk to anyone else before she’d been debriefed by Titan. She’d learned the procedures recently enough that she actually remembered them. However, Devlin was the client. Or had been up until the time when the party came to a bloody end.

  “I confronted a woman who seemed intent on leaving the party in a hurry,” Marisela offered.

  Devlin’s eyes widened. “A woman?”

  She quirked a grin. “We can be very dangerous.”

  Devlin chuckled, shaking his head. “Apparently so. I don’t wish to impede the investigation in any way, but this shooting happened at my event and in my house. Congressman Bennett and I weren’t on the same page politically, but the idea of him dying in my house…you can see how I’d want to make sure the perpetrator is brought to justice as quickly as possible.”

  Marisela shrugged. The man wasn’t talking out of his ass. If he were a political rival, he’d likely rush to the top of the suspect list.

  “Talk to the police, then,” she offered.

  “You didn’t hire us to protect your perimeter,” Frankie reminded him.

  “Perhaps I should have,” Devlin said ruefully. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Marisela shook her head and returned his soiled handkerchief.

  Devlin’s eyes twinkled and his smile reflected the kind of humor that looked good on a man who was richer than God. “You will send me the dress?”

  Cool and cocky, this one. He was three times he
r age, she figured, but he was still flirting.

  “I don’t have much use for ball gowns,” she concluded.

  With a nod, Devlin said good night and exited the limousine. Moments later, the car was released and they sped off to rendezvous, Frankie told her, with Ian Blake. She was tired and sore and now damp and sticky. He was so the last man she wanted to see.

  Fifteen minutes later, the limousine pulled to a stop behind a large white building with stark brick architecture and institutional iron doors. A tall, blond, tuxedoed man emerged from the back seat of the limo parked ahead of theirs and started toward her and Frankie. Ian Blake opened the door and leaned inside, looking cool and contained and, damn him, delicious.

  “Don’t you look…spiffy,” she said, admiring Ian in his tuxedo, a classic Giorgio Armani with slim satin lapels that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the golden hue of his tan. His dark blond hair was close-cropped, but with fashionable spikes that defied conservative expectations—which made sense, since the man defied just about everything, including Marisela’s instinctual need to hate his guts.

  Under the dim dome light, he gave her a quick once-over. “You, on the other hand, have looked better.”

  She gave him the finger. The first time they’d met, she’d been bruised and bloodied. They were starting to establish a pattern. “No thanks to you. Makes me wonder if you don’t get your rocks off when I’m in pain.”

  He held out his hand gallantly. “Sadism really isn’t my preferred fetish, truth be told.”

  His accent was a mix of urbane British and pure American snark. She cast a glance at Frankie, who plunged out of the car, forcing Ian to move out of the way. The coast cleared, Marisela climbed out after him. She might be stiff and sore, but she didn’t need her boss’s help to get out of the car. Especially when that help involved touching him. Last time she’d done that, they’d almost ended up in bed together.

  “In case you’re wondering,” she said, “I don’t ever want to know your preferred fetish.”