Caught in the Act (7 page)

Adam watched her house from a distance, annoyed by the squeaky-clean image she presented. Yesterday her behavior had been friendly and professional. She’d even seemed embarrassed, as if the sexy vixen routine at the border had been a joke.

He shifted in his seat, picturing the expression on her face when she donned that baby sling for him. She’d looked sort of … bare, and vulnerable. Emotionally naked.

Jesus
.

There must be something wrong with him to find that appealing. She liked babies—so what? Lots of women did. Usually a ticking biological clock was a major turnoff. His libido must have its wires crossed.

While he pondered the anomaly, she returned from her morning jog, cooling down on the front lawn. She was wearing a snug sports top and nylon jogging shorts. A fine sheen of perspiration was visible on her forehead and upper chest. Breathing hard, she bent forward, resting her hands on her thighs.

Adam acknowledged that she was in great shape. He’d noted this several times now. She had a body like a Playmate. She was curvy and feminine, but firm in all the right places. Drug users didn’t have taut thighs, bouncy ponytails, or flawless skin.

Maybe she was innocent.

In the past two days he’d collected some basic information about her. She’d graduated with honors from the University of San Diego, earning a degree in cultural anthropology. Her arrest record was clear. She volunteered for Hands Across the Border. Her father had once owned a chain of popular furniture stores.

On the surface, Karina Strauss was a real Goody Two-shoes.

But criminals didn’t always look like lowlifes. Carlos Moreno was handsome and fit. If he used drugs at all these days, he did it sparingly. Addicts broke the law to fuel their habits. Other people had more complicated, and often very compelling, motives.

After she went back inside the house, he took out his laptop, accessing a criminal information database. Chuy Pena had a checkered past and a long record, but Adam already knew that. His partner, Armando Villarreal, was more of a mystery. The Mexican national had been an armed guard in the capital city. Interesting.

Karina came out less than an hour later with the slender Hispanic female he’d seen yesterday. Her companion was wearing light-colored jeans and a pale blue smock. The cap, pulled down low on her forehead, seemed incongruent with her otherwise neat appearance.

He waited a full minute before following, keeping
several car lengths between them. When her van turned into the Hotel del Oro parking lot, he passed on by, swearing under his breath. Doing extracurricular surveillance was a real bitch. He had to worry about being seen by both sides of the law.

About a block away, he pulled over and waited. Karina’s van reappeared a moment later, without a passenger.

It dawned on Adam that the smock was a maid uniform. The girl worked there.

Karina parked behind the store and went inside, flipping the sign in the front window, opening for business. Adam lingered a few minutes and drove around back, idling next to her parked van. He had an inexpensive GPS device ready. There didn’t appear to be any security cameras in the immediate area. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he got out and affixed the GPS to the van’s chassis.

Now he could track her movements.

The device would need to be recharged eventually, but Adam could triangulate her location until the battery wore out. The tactic was frowned upon in court, but this wasn’t a legit investigation. He didn’t have to worry about justifying his behavior to a judge. The moment he’d started tailing her, he’d thrown ethics and proper procedure out the window.

It felt pretty good.

He drove around to the front of the store and parked, as if he’d just arrived. His heart started thumping hard in anticipation of seeing her again, and not just because he was here under false pretenses. He liked her.

As he walked through the entrance, a bell chimed to
alert her of his presence. She was behind the counter, staring at a sheet of paper and nibbling on the end of a pencil. Looking up, she met his gaze.

“Back again?” she said, her brows rising.

Yesterday she’d been flustered by his presence. Today she seemed cooler, more reserved. Perhaps it had occurred to her that he was lying about buying a gift for his mother. And he was—sort of.

“It’s on my way to work,” he said, going straight to the papier-mâché skeletons. “Besides, my mom’s birthday is this weekend.” That part was true, although no one would be throwing her a party.

Adam picked a tambourine-playing character in an elaborate hat, his mouth twisting at the irony. He was buying a
dia de los muertos
figurine for his mother. Maybe he would give it to her on that day, when Mexicans celebrated the memories of their loved ones.

He brought it to the counter and took out his wallet, glancing at the clock on the wall. His shift started in twenty minutes.

“Gift wrap?” she asked, avoiding his eyes.

“Sure,” he said, perusing the store. As a cover for a smuggling operation, it was pretty elaborate. Somewhere between a fine arts museum and a quirky curiosity shop, Zócalo managed to look authentic
and
classy. A lot of the crafts sold in Tijuana were crap, but her inventory looked hand-selected and high-quality. He recognized Oaxacan black pottery and Guatemalan textiles, along with hammered metal jewelry from Copper Canyon. She stocked some inexpensive novelty items, but none of the bobble-head Chihuahuas or faux velvet paintings that were an insult to his culture.

It was a nice place. His sister was going to love the
rebozo
.

With her back to him, Karina folded the figurine in colorful tissue paper, placing it lovingly in a simple brown gift bag. Her dark blond hair was caught up in a tidy knot, leaving her shoulders bare. She was wearing a soft white tank top with a gauzy green skirt. Her skin looked smooth and tanned.

As she reached under the counter for a ribbon, his gaze was drawn to her curvy backside and the lacy outline of her thong panties.

“How’s that?” she said, tying the ribbon into a jaunty bow.

Adam managed to avert his gaze, but it took him an extra second to process her question. “Uh, perfect,” he said, clearing his throat. She told him the price and he paid in cash. “I like your store.”

Pride warmed her honey-colored eyes. “Thanks.”

Adam looked around, seeing gleaming shelves and spotless glass. “What’s a girl from the Czech Republic doing in a place like this?”

“How do you know where I’m from?”

“Just a guess. I saw the stamps on your passport.”

“Oh,” she said, flushing at the reminder of their first encounter. She must know that he recalled her passport, the sign on her van, and her unbuttoned blouse—in exquisite detail. “I was eight when we came to San Diego. I didn’t speak much English, so they put me in ESL classes. Guess what I learned there?”

“Spanish,” he ventured.

She smiled, pleased he understood. “Right. Every student in my class spoke it, so I picked it up quickly. I
learned English, too, of course, but Spanish was easier at first.”

“Is Czech a Romance language?”

“No,” she said, her gaze flitting over his mouth. “But the structure is similar. Feminine, masculine.”

Adam hung on her every word, moistening his lips.

“I couldn’t go back home often, but Mexico was within reach. I went to college there for a year, immersing myself in the culture. I liked the artwork, the bright colors …” She broke off, seeming self-conscious.

“Which college?”

“San Miguel de Allende.”

“I took a summer session there.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Really? When?”

“Eleven years ago,” he said, thinking back. “I was eighteen.”

She’d attended more recently, but their experiences had been similar. They spent the next few minutes reminiscing about the quaint colonial town and its nearby attractions. Adam had done quite a bit of barhopping while he was there, and they both remembered a cantina that was famous for its dirty-talking parrot.

He laughed at her impression of the barkeep, who charged patrons for every epithet. Karina Strauss was full of surprises.

“What courses did you take?” she asked.

“Spanish for native speakers,” he said. “I grew up here in the U.S., so I never learned to read or write it.”

“I suppose that comes in handy at your job.”

Adam nodded. He was paid at a higher rate because he could translate documents and converse fluently. But he didn’t want to talk about work. A tiny crease had
formed between her brows at the mention of his profession, suggesting that the subject made her uneasy.

It made him uneasy, too. She seemed smart, sweet, and genuine. He wished he wasn’t here to deceive her.

“You own this place?” he asked, switching back to a safer topic.

“Yes,” she said, her troubled expression clearing. “Well, the bank owns more than I do. But I’m getting there.”

He wondered how she’d managed to come up with a down payment. Property values had fallen some in the recession, but prices were still astronomical in historic areas such as Old Town. If Zócalo wasn’t doing well, she wouldn’t be able to afford the mortgage.

Not without help, anyway.

Karina Strauss had a successful business right out of the gate. Either she was incredibly savvy and hardworking or she’d made a deal with the devil.

“I haven’t been totally honest with you,” he admitted.

Her lips parted in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t come here just to buy gifts.”

While they were talking, she’d leaned forward, getting closer to him in a subconscious indication of interest. Now she retreated a step, wary.

Adam didn’t have to pretend he felt awkward. He wouldn’t normally pursue a woman like her. Drug smuggler or not, she was the commitment type, a certified nice girl. She reminded him of Penelope, in a way. Passionate, ambitious, beautiful. He could tell that she needed a steady guy—and he wasn’t one.

“I wanted to see you again.”

Color rose to her cheeks.

“I feel this connection to you,” he added, forcing himself to meet her eyes. It would have been easier to lie, but he knew intuitively that she couldn’t be swayed by half efforts. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime.”

A pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m dating someone,” she said in a rush.

Adam studied her face, searching for signs of deception. Her actions at the border weren’t that of a taken woman. He hadn’t imagined the eye contact they’d made over the
rebozo
. She wanted a man, a family.

She wanted
him
, damn it.

“It’s kind of a recent development,” she explained. “We just met.”

Over the past few days, Adam had watched her interact with a handful of people. His mind balked at the thought of her with Chuy Pena or Armando Villarreal. The only other person he’d seen hanging around was the hotel maid.

Her roommate.

“Oh,” he said, finding that mental picture much more palatable.

She flushed darker, avoiding his gaze. “Sorry.”

Adam had noticed them touching yesterday, but he hadn’t read anything into it. Women were always hugging and kissing each other. Now he found himself wallowing in speculation. Even with a boyish cap on, the maid was young and pretty. Were the lovely ladies more than friends?

“Well,” he said, thrown for a loop, “good luck with that.”

“Thanks.”

He grabbed the gift bag by the side, ignoring the delicate little handles, and said goodbye. Outside, when he was thinking clearly again, it occurred to him that she was probably not having a lesbian affair. Anything was possible, and he’d enjoy reflecting on the matter at his leisure, but he suspected her of lying to get rid of him.

Just as she’d unbuttoned her blouse to distract him.

Again Adam reevaluated his opinion of the very sexy Ms. Strauss. Perhaps she wasn’t so innocent after all.

Although her sister was always late, Kari rushed to get to the mall before sunset, dropping Maria off at home on the way. If Sasha showed up on time and Kari wasn’t there, she might not wait.

The store Sasha had recommended, Smash, offered an eclectic mix of ripped jeans and punk rock couture. Kari glanced around for her sister, wincing at the ear-bleeding music an employee had turned up full blast. No one else seemed to notice the noise. Two teenage girls with pierced eyebrows were browsing the racks, heads close together. At the front counter, a young woman flipped through a magazine, her arms sleeved in tattoos.

Sasha wasn’t here.

Kari shifted the purse on her shoulder, feeling out of place. She liked skulls as much as the next girl—Zócalo was decorated with them—but these clothes didn’t suit her at all. Metal-studded bracelets and black leather miniskirts weren’t her style. On the back wall, there was a giant poster of a woman screaming into a microphone, her mostly nude body covered in sweat. She was wearing combat boots, black panties, and electrical tape.

Kari slipped back outside, checking her phone. No messages.

The smell of hot pretzels made her stomach twist, but the smoothie stand looked inviting. She was about to cut through the crowd to buy one when Sasha appeared, all smiles. Kari made a sound of delight and embraced her, holding tight.

Sasha felt painfully thin in her arms, almost brittle. Unlike Maria, there was no hint of strength or sinew. Sasha held herself stiff and aloof, seeming uncomfortable in her own skin. She didn’t like being touched anymore.

Kari pictured one of the fashionable skeletons on her shelves and her throat closed up. She released Sasha with great reluctance, her eyes flitting over her. She was wearing designer jeans with a low-cut tank top and a fitted jacket, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her breasts were the only substantial part of her body.

Lifting her gaze, Kari pasted on a friendly smile. Even scary skinny, Sasha was gorgeous. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp definition, and her pale blue eyes were striking, accentuated with charcoal shadow and sooty mascara. Kari didn’t mention Sasha’s noticeable weight loss. “What did you do to your hair?”