ROGELIO BRAGA SLAMMED his fist against the oak surface of his desk. Bloody useless fools!
Frustration mingled with disgust and had him moving to the wet bar to pour a tumbler of dark rum. One of his first tasks when his takeover was complete would be to reorganize. He would eliminate anyone who dared substandard performance. Incompetence could not, and would not, be tolerated under the new regime.
The thug he’d hired from outside the cartel to take care of the Madison woman had failed him. He managed to deliver the messages, but had stupidly taken it upon himself to ravage her apartment, thereby alerting her to the extent of her peril before he’d planned. Then, not only had he lost them in traffic, he’d ended up in hospital. Braga would see to it he never left.
He swallowed a mouthful of the rum, hissing through his teeth as its fire trickled down his throat. He had bigger problems than the messenger.
His former boss, Frankie Ramos, had been offered the chance to make a deal in exchange for information about the cartel. Ramos was going to spill his guts in the courtroom unless Braga spilled them first. But so far none of his people had been able to find out where Ramos was being held.
Braga slumped into his wing chair, splashing rum against the side of the tumbler. He refused to settle for less than total control. He would find the woman and he would find Ramos. It was time to call in an old and very valuable debt. There had been small favors over the years—recanting witnesses, “lost” evidence—but now something more was required.
EMELIO GUIDED the Jeep along the main street through the Old Naples section of the city. The picturesque Fifth Avenue South was crowded with people strolling along the landscaped promenades or lunching in one of the many open-air cafés. He felt the tension ease from his shoulders. Only his family and best friend knew he stayed here, so he and Stevie should be safe from Braga’s spies.
He loved vacationing here, loved the escape from everyday life the quaint Gulf Coast town offered. Stevie’s head swiveled from side to side, her gaze trying to take in everything at once. Emelio knew how she felt. No matter how often he came here, the city’s charm and grace still affected him.
Old Naples boasted a low skyline of pastel-painted stucco-and-glass buildings tucked among palm trees and lush foliage. Upscale boutiques nestled beside jewelry stores and antique shops. Each structure was uniquely designed with columns or archways, recessed plazas with murmuring fountains and flower-draped balconies.
Stevie pointed to a series of six-foot fiberglass reptiles decorating the sand-colored brick sidewalks. “I can’t get away from the alligators.”
Emelio chuckled. “Those are part of the ‘Gators Galore’ public art project. It’s to raise money for the Boys and Girls Club. Kind of like the ‘Fish Out of Water’ project in Baltimore and the ‘Cows on Parade’ in Chicago.”
“They dress better than the gators back in the swamp. I like that one over there, with the sparkly purple evening gown, pink shoes and gold eyelashes.”
As he breathed in the scent of warm sea air and tropical flowers, he made a right turn onto Gulf Shore Boulevard. He immediately felt the cool breeze coming off the greenish-blue water. Glancing to his left as he drove, he could catch glimpses of the sugar-white sandy beach. Only a few more minutes and he’d be home.
Funny that he thought of it that way. Mamá, Pápi and his sisters lived within walking distance of his house in Coral Gables. His parents’ house was always full of relatives and friends, music and raised voices and his family was the most important thing in the world to him.
And yet… All of that love and togetherness could be stifling at times.
As the firstborn and the only son of Cuban immigrants, he carried the burden of responsibility and parental expectation. From the earliest age, Mamá and Pápi instilled in him a strong sense of family, honor and duty. How could he face his family if they ever found out that his informant, a woman he was responsible for, had been killed? He’d never allow that to happen ever again.
Still, he looked over at Stevie and wondered if he’d made the best decision by bringing her to Naples. Of course, he knew it was right—he had to protect her—but his chest tightened with more than a little resentment over having to take her to the beachside cottage. It was his solace, his sanctuary, and in taking her there he’d have to reveal his secret perhaps.
Then he remembered the mess in her apartment, and the look of devastation in her eyes when she saw it. He’d made the only decision he could. Keeping Stevie safe from harm was his chance to regain his honor, a belated attempt to make things right again, to find some peace.
Stevie’s belly rumbled and she turned her attention from the scenery to the matter at hand. “I’m starving. Can we stop somewhere for burgers and onion rings?”
“Sorry. There are a lot of cafés and restaurants in Old Naples, but no fast-food places.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “No golden arches, no yellow bells, no red-and-white buckets? How am I supposed to survive?”
“That stuff is poison. We’ll stop by the grocers and I’ll make us an early dinner.”
Half an hour later, Emelio guided the Jeep through the security gates of an exclusive resort community. Stevie’s eyebrows shot up and she yanked her sunglasses off. Not many private detectives traveled in the kind of circles that allowed them to stay in a place like this.
After passing several streets, he turned onto a circular driveway shaded by a canopy of palm trees. Behind a wrought-iron gate, the butter-beige stucco walls and white tile roof of the Bermuda-style house gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The front formed a U-shape with tall mullioned windows overlooking the central courtyard.
Stevie looked from the house to Emelio and back. “I thought you said your friend had a ‘cottage’?”
He shrugged. “That’s what the realtor called it.”
“Hiding from deranged drug-dealing stalkers won’t be so bad after all.”
Emelio pulled onto a parking pad beside one of the sandstone gateposts and shut off the engine. He took off his own sunglasses and gazed over at the house with a pensive expression for a moment. Then he climbed out of the Jeep and walked toward the cargo section. “I’ll get the groceries.”
Stevie opened her door and got out, as well. She took only a few steps before her heel twisted on the crushed shells and gravel. In an instant, Emelio was there, cupping her elbow to steady her. His large hands felt warm and strong, and she ached to feel them on her naked body. When their eyes met, she saw the awareness mirrored in his gaze.
Would he kiss her again? The memory of that first contact had been seared onto her lips. With little effort, she recalled the shock of desire and need, the feel of his hard, aroused body against hers. But even as she waited for a repeat experience, Emelio stepped back. Though a twinge of disappointment settled in her chest, she didn’t push. She was willing to bide her time and she’d bet he was worth waiting for.
She followed the driveway, carefully picking her way on the high-heeled sandals. He reached over to the gatepost and pushed one of the sandstone cobbles aside. When he punched in a sequence of numbers on the hidden security keypad, the tall iron gates slid silently apart.
“Wow. So this is Golden Eye.” When he glanced over with a curious expression, she explained. “Ian Fleming’s tropical hideaway. He wrote most of the Bond books there.”
Amusement lit the hazel depths of his eyes. Emelio lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Wait until you see the secret laboratory of spy gadgets hidden in the cave under the dining room.”
Stevie laughed as they walked along the pathway leading to the front door. The courtyard was landscaped on either side with dark green palmetto, sweetly scented Indian blanket, graceful sword fern and lantana in shades of purple and violet. Alone in this fabulous house, miles and miles away from danger,