Caught in the Act (5 page)

“Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked, her voice wavering.

He gave her a speculative glance. “Do you remember me?”

She moistened her lips. “Yes.”

“I saw the sign on your van,” he explained, gesturing to the dancing skeleton figurines. “My mother collects these.”

Kari almost sagged against the shelves, giddy with relief. Apparently he wasn’t here to arrest her
or
to flirt with her. He was just a nice guy buying a gift for his mother. How embarrassing.

“Now I realize that I should have studied her collection before I came in,” he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m not sure which ones she already has.”

Her brain kicked back into gear. “The figurines are fairly common,” she admitted. “No two are exactly alike, because they’re handmade, but many are similar.”

“Some of them look familiar.”

“All of the pieces in the display case are one of a kind,” she said, trying a different tack. The skeleton-embossed stemware and blown-glass skulls were unique, original, and much more expensive than the papier-mâché sculptures.

“I think she only collects the figurines.”

“If she’s been here before, I can access her previous purchases,” Kari offered.

“No,” he said quickly. “She always shops in Mexico. I’ll take a look at her shelves and come back.”

Kari walked toward the register, picking up her newest catalogue. “Many of the skeleton figurines are shown
here, and I have a bigger selection online,” she said, flipping through the glossy pages.

He didn’t glance at the catalogue, but another display caught his eye. Between the Day of the Dead memorabilia and the impulse items at the front counter, there was a wicker basket full of baby gifts. Tiny little socks, alpaca wool mittens, soft knit caps. Grandmothers couldn’t resist such adorable things.

“What’s this?” he asked, fingering a colorful silk-blend garment.

“It’s a
rebozo
,” she said, moving forward to demonstrate. She draped the fabric around her neck, fashioning a sturdy knot at one shoulder and leaving a little pouch over her belly. “For a baby?”

He nodded, recognizing the traditional infant carrier as soon as he saw it on her.

“Some women wear them on their shoulders, as a shawl,” Kari explained in a rush. “It can also be used in many different ways.”

His gaze met hers, curious. Her cheeks heated under his examination. She’d been self-conscious before; now she was squirming. There was something unbearably intimate about modeling an infant sling. She felt more exposed than she had been yesterday, as if her secret desires were written all over her face.

He seemed intrigued by her discomfort. “I’ll take it.”

Kari removed the sling with care, untying the knot and folding the garment neatly on the glass-top counter. Maybe he was picturing his wife or girlfriend in the
rebozo
. Although he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, that didn’t mean he was single. He might be happily married, the proud father of a half-dozen children.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” she asked in a formal tone.

“Sure,” he said, his mouth quirking into a smile. “It’s for my sister. She’s expecting.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling back at him. A pregnant sister was much less disturbing to her conscience than a pregnant wife. She ducked below the counter, where she kept the tissue paper, and tried to squelch a tingle of excitement.

“Is this her first?” she asked.

“No, her third. She has a boy and a girl already.” He said this with affection, his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

Kari’s heart melted at the sight. She put a bow on the gift bag and turned to the cash register, ordering herself to stop staring at him. One of the reasons she’d been attracted to Brendan was because he’d seemed like excellent father material. She saw some of the same qualities in Officer Cortez. Heroic job, athletic physique, rugged good looks. He appeared to respect his mother and love his sister.

She named the price, and he took a wallet out of his front pocket. It was black leather, like his belt, embossed with an eagle. He placed two crisp bills in her upturned palm and she processed the transaction, watching him put the change away. His hands looked strong. She wondered how they would feel against her skin: callused or smooth, rough or gentle.

Blushing, she pushed the gift bag across the counter. “Have a nice day.”

He picked it up, glancing around the store. She thought he might ask her another question about the figurines, but he didn’t. “You too,” he said, putting his
sunglasses back on. Carrying the package under one arm like a football, he left.

Kari wasn’t sorry to see him go. At any other time, she’d have enjoyed the attention of a good-looking guy. Right now Cortez was a dangerous distraction. She couldn’t afford to keep company with a border protection officer.

Her sister’s life was in danger.

When her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to normal, she picked up the phone to call Sasha.

Maria entered the hotel’s front lobby, studying her surroundings while the receptionist gave a key card to an amorous couple.

The man palmed the woman’s backside, giving it a firm squeeze.

Cheaters
, she guessed, dropping her gaze. Only newlyweds and teenagers groped each other in public like that. But these two weren’t young, and this place was no honeymoon getaway.

The Hotel del Oro had “good bones,” she believed the term was in English. It was Spanish-style colonial with an open courtyard and stucco exterior. The exposed beams and arched entryways were a nice touch, but there were also signs of corruption and disrepair: chipped paint, broken tiles, outdated light fixtures.

Maria felt right at home. She’d worked in hotels like this before.

After the couple paid for their room—by the hour, she noted with an inward shudder—Maria stepped up to the front desk.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked in Spanish, a
bored look in her eyes. She was young and pretty and glamorous, trapped in an easy, dead-end job she felt was beneath her. Maria imagined that she wanted more from life. Her name tag said Sonia.

“I’m Maria, the new maid.”

“We’re not hiring.”

“I spoke with Señor Pena yesterday,” she explained. “He told me to come in.”

Sonia gave Maria another once-over, her smooth brow furrowing. Maria got the impression that she was summing up the female competition. Perhaps she was Pena’s girlfriend. Maria slouched a little, trying to look unattractive. Dismissing her as a threat, Sonia picked up the phone to check out her story.

Maria relaxed a little, glad for the “disguise.” This receptionist might have turned her out on her ear had she looked halfway decent, and Maria needed this job. Kari seemed to think she could convince her sister to leave Carlos Moreno, but Maria was skeptical. She had a backup plan—to collect dirt on Moreno’s men. They didn’t know she understood English. Maybe, while she was cleaning up after them, something would slip.

At the very least, she could earn money to send home.

Sonia hung up the phone and busied herself with paperwork, not bothering to tell Maria her fate. After a few moments, an older woman in a blue smock appeared. She had sturdy black shoes, a round face, and graying hair.

Maria stepped forward to introduce herself.

The head housekeeper, Irma, was no friendlier than the receptionist. Ignoring Maria’s greeting, she led her away from the lobby to a laundry room that was overflowing with sheets and towels.

Irma handed Maria a uniform shirt, gave her a supply cart, and took her up to the second floor. Then she lit a cigarette, gesturing for Maria to get started. “You’ve worked in a hotel before?” she asked in Spanish.

Maria nodded, her arms full of cleaning products.

“You should take off your hat.”

“I’d rather not.”

Irma shrugged, puffing on her cigarette. She didn’t care.

Maria went through the motions quickly, collecting the dirty sheets and towels, emptying the trash and ashtrays. When the room was spotless and stocked with the meager amenities available, she stuck her head out the open door.

“Finished?” Irma asked.

“Yes.”

She inspected the interior, offering no praise or criticism.
“Bueno,”
she said finally. “You’re responsible for this entire floor.”

Maria didn’t complain, although it was a huge amount of work. There were ten or twelve more rooms that needed service, from what she could tell, and it wasn’t even checkout time yet. She’d have to move fast to keep up.

“Don’t poke around anywhere else,” Irma continued. “Put your trash in the dumpster, and do your own laundry.”

She only had one question. “When do I get paid?”

“Friday.”

Irma left her alone and Maria got down to work. By noon, she was sweating, resenting the itchy baseball cap on her head and the voluminous T-shirt under her smock. She didn’t stop cleaning for lunch, but she drank plenty of water.

At the end of the day, when the work was done, she felt drained but satisfied. After returning her cart to the laundry room, she trudged across the courtyard, almost bumping into a man who’d walked in off the street.

“Excuse me,” he said in a low voice, going around her.

He was tall, dark-haired, sort of rough-looking. His T-shirt was dingy, his jeans were torn, and his goatee was scraggly. He seemed on edge and a little scary. Not the kind of person she wanted to stop and chat with.

And yet she did stop. Because … she
knew
him. His appearance had changed dramatically, but she knew him. When he glanced back at her, their gazes locked for a moment. She’d never forget those eyes, a calm hazel, fringed by dark lashes.

This was the last place she expected to see him. The man who’d saved her life.

4

Maria
.

It was almost as if Ian’s subconscious recognized her first. He’d noticed the slight figure in the baseball cap but he hadn’t studied her closely. His job was to focus on the men who came and went here. Chuy didn’t have any female customers.

He was aware that she’d stopped in her tracks, which was odd. These days, women crossed the street to avoid his path. Sensing her stare, he’d glanced back. Their eyes met for a split second before she turned and kept walking, her head down.

Maria Santos.

What the hell was she doing at the Hotel del Oro? Cleaning rooms, apparently. There was a pale blue smock slung over her shoulder.

Ian didn’t think she remembered him. He hardly knew his own face in the mirror anymore, and years had passed since she’d seen him. She’d also been only semiconscious during most of their interactions. She might have fuzzy memories of a clean-cut border agent, but he
doubted she could reconcile those images with the man he appeared to be now.

Maybe she’d paused to size him up as a possible safety threat. Or, worse, a messy hotel guest.

No worries on that front. Unlike Chuy, he didn’t live here.

Ian was almost certain she hadn’t recognized him, but he felt pretty confident in his identification of her. Even with the hat pulled down low on her forehead and a shapeless T-shirt disguising her slender curves, he knew her. He knew the shape of her face, with its fine features and dramatic eyebrows.

He’d memorized every detail.

The last time he’d visited her, the bruises on her neck were fading and the swelling on her cheek had gone down. He remembered holding her hand, rubbing his thumb over the delicate bones in her wrist.

Ian shook his head, impatient with himself. He’d done this before. There were thousands of young, pretty Hispanic girls in San Diego. More than once he’d thought he’d seen Maria, only to realize his mistake when he got closer.

That’s all it was. His imagination. A remnant of a dream.

As hallucinations went, this was the most disturbing to date. If it
was
her, his cover might be blown.

Brushing the matter aside for now, he continued through the dilapidated courtyard, toward Chuy’s apartments. The dealer inhabited two rooms on the first floor, a manager’s suite and small office. It was a cover for his real business, which included distributing black tar heroin to a variety of buyers.

Chuy’s partner, Armando Villarreal, did most of the
dirty work. A jack of all trades, Armando managed the seedy hotel, watched Chuy’s back, and provided a bit of extra muscle when the situation called for it.

At the moment, Armando was leaning against a stucco pillar outside Chuy’s office, whittling a small figure out of wood. His movements were quick, silent, precise. He had a sharp knife and a good eye for detail.

“Don’t fuck with the maids,” Armando said, not glancing up.

Ian realized he’d been caught staring. It wasn’t a big deal—most men noticed attractive women. Damned if he was going to apologize for it. He nodded vaguely, wondering if Armando had staked a claim on her.

A few seconds later, the office doorknob turned, and Sonia Barreras walked out, straightening her pencil-slim skirt. She had little bumps on her knees from the carpet. It was a telltale sign, like her worn-off lipstick.