Crazed: A Blood Money Novel (6 page)

With good reason. It didn’t matter if he was off duty or on patrol, there was no such thing as privacy in the cartel. One night away from the hacienda would raise notice, which was why he’d never risked spending the night with Ilda. No matter how much he needed to know what it was like to sleep with her in his arms until he woke up with her at dawn. Needed to kiss and pet her from slumber as sunlight filtered through the windows.

So he broke the rules. Again. Perhaps it was time he recognized there were no longer any rules when it came to Ilda Almeida. “I’m staying.”

He couldn’t breathe, his lungs bruised against his rib cage.

The black birdcage veil did little to conceal the shock in her big brown eyes, or the pain. The long-sleeved black linen dress was the most conservative he’d ever seen on her, worn like armor to protect a fragile heart. She had needed that armor when she’d stood at the front of the church that morning and lifted her tear-roughened voice in song. That she hadn’t broken once during the mournful hymn was a testament to her strength.

Casey had never been prouder of anyone in his life than he had been of Ilda Almeida singing her sister’s soul into heaven. His phoenix, her wings dusted in the ashes of grief, dappled in the kaleidoscope light from the stained-glass window of the Madonna and Child overhead.

He’d made his decision in that moment, and now it was time to act. Straightening his shoulders, he approached her where she stood at the balcony rail on the second floor of the main house, staring sightlessly out at the southern courtyard. They’d returned to the hacienda following Théa’s burial, and shortly thereafter, he’d seen Ilda slip away from the subdued guests gathered downstairs, so he had followed her. It wasn’t smart, to pursue her so publicly, but fuck, they’d laid her sister to rest today. She shouldn’t have to bear the weight of that armor alone. “Ilda.”

Her hand lifted from the rail as if to ward him off. “I can’t handle your half-truths right now, Casí. Leave me be.”

His chest ached but he ignored her hand, and her words. “I’m not leaving you. You need me.”

Her sharp laugh was entirely without humor. “You’re right, I do,” she confessed, like it was no big deal to admit her feelings for him, though her blunt words staggered him. “But I need to be alone more.”

Stepping behind her, he looped his arm over her chest, urging her to lean against him. After a tense moment, she did, the breath leaving her in a shaking sigh. His palm curved around her upper arm, squeezing comfortingly. “I disagree, baby.”

A little gasping whimper escaped before she could stifle the sound, and her head tipped back on his shoulder. The veil shivered as she gripped his forearm, not tugging him away but simply holding on for dear life. “I always knew cartel violence would touch us someday. For some reason, though, I thought... I don’t know. I thought being so close to Pipe might protect Théa from the worst of it. Naive of me.”

Casey pressed his lips to the top of her head. “It should have protected her, you’re right.” But the feud between the Orras and Marin cartels was epically bloody, and eventually violence against the lords’ families was bound to occur, though to target a loved one was a declaration of war. Casey refused to let Ilda be caught in the crossfire. “Marry me.”

“No.”

“No?” He wrapped his other arm around her waist, and now he held her, tight and secure. “Is it because of my secrets?”

“It’s because I’m in mourning, you ass.” Her words lacked heat but not conviction. “And somehow I doubt you’re willing to wait a year, not with all those secrets of yours.”

“You’re right, I can’t wait.” Again, he kissed her crown, breathing in the scent he knew now was gardenia. It made the knots inside him loosen, ever so slightly. “But I need to get you out of this hell, and you can’t tell me Théa wouldn’t want me to.” Not after this.

Ilda heaved a watery sigh. “Are you proposing because you want to save me?”

His jaw clenched. “I want to save you because I love you.” He loved her so much he couldn’t breathe without thinking of her, without needing to seek her out and coax her into taking him inside her body, where his heart lived. He loved her so much that he...he trusted her. “I’m leaving here in a matter of days,” he whispered. “I have to, I don’t have a choice, and once I’m gone, I can’t return.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Do you see that the only way we can be together is if you come home with me, as my wife?” He wasn’t playing fair here, but he was a desperate man. “I know you’re in mourning, and I understand tradition, but damn it, Ilda. I can’t leave you here.”

“Then don’t leave.”

Stubborn. She was so fucking stubborn, and even when her heart was breaking, her attitude had teeth. He breathed through his frustration, reaching for a well of patience he was pretty sure he didn’t possess. “You keep asking me to stay, and this time, if I do, it’s a fucking death warrant.”

She sucked in a breath. “What did you do, Casí?”

Too much and yet not enough, because Ilda had lost her best friend and older sister. Instead of answering her, he tightened his hold. “Do you love me?” She hadn’t ever said it back to him, but he knew. He knew.

“Casí...”

“Do you love me?”

A tense silence grew between them until her quiet, husky voice broke it. Blessedly. “I do.”

Euphoria blasted through him at her confirmation. “Enough to tie your life to mine?”

Her answer came much quicker this time. “Yes.”

“Then tie it, and let me love you for the rest of our days.”

Yes.

He lurched to a halt behind the tree line, staring in horror at the smoldering chapel, smoke and ash thick in the air as orange flames continued to lick along the devoured framework. The walls had collapsed, the doors and windows exploded outward, the roof invisible in the heavy black haze. People, neighbors, hauled water and dragged hoses, while actual firefighters attempted to dampen and control the damage.

The sun barely peeked over the horizon, much of the sky over the hills still purple in the pre-dawn light. Stars winked out one by one to the north as smoke wisped its gray way into the atmosphere, stinging his eyes. Fuck, his eyes stung.

“Casey, bro. What’re we doin’?” Gavin’s voice beside him yanked him from his reverie, his drawl clipped as he took in the destruction. Hearing English again, speaking it, felt weird after his half-year immersion, and it jarred him into action.

He lunged for the edge of the trees, knowing in the pit of his stomach that Ilda was in there. With the fire. Ilda. Even his beautiful phoenix couldn’t survive those flames.

Strong arms caught him around his middle. “Dude, stop.” A grunt, as Casey’s elbow inadvertently connected with Gavin’s ribs. “Seriously, man. You’re dead, remember? We just left your shit on some bastard’s body for a goddamn reason, and if you pull a Houdini and show up where you’re not supposed to be right now, you’re going to ruin the entire op.”

“But she’s in there.” It didn’t matter that Gavin had no idea who she was. “She’s in there, waiting for me.” His voice cracked, broke, and he scrambled in his pocket for his cell, punching in her number from memory. She wouldn’t recognize the US country code, but if she was trapped...surely she would pick up.

The other end of the line rang. And rang. And rang.

With a hoarse curse, he hung up and redialed, hoping against hope to be sent to voicemail. Maybe she’d left the chapel against his instructions. Or maybe...maybe she was in the woods, hiding, waiting for him to find her. He pocketed the phone. “Search the trees for a young woman in a white dress,” he commanded Gavin. “Five-one, hundred or so pounds, curly light-brown hair.” Without wasting another second, he retreated deeper into the surrounding forest, eyes peeled for a flash of white cotton in the dirt or stuck to a branch. For twenty minutes, he tromped across every meter, until the foliage grew too thick and the sun rose higher, shedding dangerous light on his position.

“She’s not here, bro.” Gavin, again, this time gripping his shoulder, and it was then that Casey realized he’d stopped moving and was staring at the chapel through the veil of tall tree trunks. “Was she—?”

“Inside. She was inside.” He covered his mouth with his forearm, biting down hard to keep from shouting, eyes blind with sudden tears that he let fall, uncaring that Gavin watched him with more than a little apprehension.

“Casey, we have to
go
...”

Casey woke with a gasp, eyes stinging, naked torso damp with sweat. The woven blades of the ceiling fan moved the air over the bed, but did little to cool his body tangled in the sheets. Blinking, he patted his chest blindly until he found what he was looking for, and his fingers curled around the chain he rarely took off. The chain carrying his dog tags...and Ilda’s moonstone ring, which she had given him on their wedding day in place of the band she hadn’t had time to purchase.

The dreams—memories—hadn’t been this vivid in years. No doubt being back in Medellín brought them all rushing to the surface. Okumura had flown him in-country early that morning, and Casey had made his way to the crappy hotel where he’d checked in under the name Casímiro Cortez. The DEA informant embedded within Pipe’s organization was supposed to make contact with him this afternoon, so he’d used the time to get his head on straight.

The plane ride ought to have been enough, but instead he’d spent it cleaning his weapons and reviewing his cover. And avoiding thinking of those too-short weeks in the arms of his now-dead wife. Too bad in sleep he couldn’t hide from that on which his mind wished to dwell.

He pushed himself from the bed, leaving his khaki cargos unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. The dwelling had gotten worse, even before arriving in Colombia, pushing its way into his daily consciousness. The demons were no more than dark, heavy clouds, fueled by futile anger and massive self-recrimination, but they were persistent motherfuckers, dragging at him with claws and teeth.

But here, in Medellín where the nightmares had happened, the claws were poison and the teeth were serrated.

Prowling to the window, he flicked aside the sheer curtain to glance out at the street below. Kids rode by on bicycles, shouting and laughing, and young teens played a pick-up soccer game at the end of the block. Shopkeepers sat under colorful awnings, while music drifted from the upstairs windows of the building across the way, a cheerful dance number accompanied by the off-key singing of whomever lived in the flat. All in all, a normal afternoon on a mostly residential street bordering the Parque Periodista neighborhood. Money from the Marin cartel had funded a huge revitalization effort in the neighborhood over the past decade, working to drive out local drug dealers and modernize the urban landscape. Young people were beginning to feel safe in starting their families in the area, but trouble plagued the residents after nightfall nonetheless.

Casey had chosen the small hotel because it sat safely within Pipe’s territory, though only those with intimate knowledge of the cartel would be aware of that. Casey possessed such knowledge, and staying here sent a very distinct message, should the DEA contact fall through.

He didn’t fear the cartel. Probably made him an idiot, but he didn’t. Pipe Marin was a terrifying bastard when he needed to be, no two ways about it, but Casey had been under with the organization for several months. Respect functioned as the core tenet of Pipe’s leadership style, and with the exception of his dalliance with Ilda, Casey had never done a thing to lose Pipe’s respect. If nothing else, that history ought to ease his transition back into the cartel.

Stepping away from the window, he moved to the mini-fridge humming in the corner and snagged a water bottle, relishing the cold drink as he struggled to shove aside the remnants of his dreams. “Fuckin’ hate this country,” he muttered, swiping at his eyes to rid them of sweat and...other wetness. Being back here was like immersion therapy, if immersion therapy made one feel like shit on a Humvee tread.

He thought it probably did. Perhaps this stint would finally get the demons off his back, and he could move on with his life.

That was what he was supposed to do, right? Move on and find a good woman. Another good woman, that is. Maybe when he was stateside again, he should give Sara a call, and a real chance this time. They’d had fun, and if he’d suffered a spate of guilt afterward, that was his issue, not hers.

It wasn’t cheating if his wife was dead, regardless if his heart said otherwise.

Jesus, he hated this fucking country.

A sharp knock sounded on the door to his hotel room. Setting aside the water bottle, he yanked off his tags, shoving them in his pocket before he grabbed the handgun off the desk, checked the safety.
“Quién es?”
he called, standing to the side of the door on the off-chance the person out in the hallway decided to start shooting.

“Busco niño del miercoles.”
The code phrase was delivered softly, and correctly. “
Es un Faraday ahi?
”

His ears...they had to be playing tricks on him, because he couldn’t breathe. No, wait, he was breathing. Too fast, too hard, his chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted a mile instead of just standing frozen in place. A sudden chill cooled the sweat beading his skin, and the hand gripping the gun trembled lightly.

Making quick work of the safety chain, he threw back the dead bolt and yanked open the door. Oxygen left him in a rush, his stomach abruptly knotted with rusty iron chains. “You can’t be real.” His voice shook as he stared, wild-eyed, at the DEA contact. “You died.”

“No,” said his wife, her face draining of all color as she stumbled back from the doorway. “
You
died.”

Chapter Four

When Ilda Almeida had woken up that morning, it had been with a smile on her face. Even the text message waiting from her handler hadn’t worried her overmuch, not enough to dim her good mood. She’d eaten a hearty breakfast, gone to mass and returned home to run a few kilometers on the treadmill. Hours later, her escort had dropped her at the club and gone about his business, while she’d slipped out the back and jogged the few blocks to the hotel where she was supposed to meet an American named Faraday.

She forgot how to smile as she collapsed against the wall, her shaking knees barely holding her upright as she stared at a dead man. A face that was older, harsher, his bone structure almost violent in its blunt masculinity. Dark hair buzzed nearly to the scalp, brows black as a raven’s wings and shrewd gray-hazel eyes. An uncompromising mouth she’d once felt on every inch of her body—begged for, in fact, on countless occasions.

Casímiro Cortez had been a singular force in her life. Not a day passed where she didn’t think of him, not once in four years, and to see him standing within touching distance after believing him to be
deceased
did not compute. Her brain was on a permanent record skip the longer she stared at him. “What do you mean,
I
died?”

He appeared shell-shocked. “The chapel...the chapel was leveled. With you inside.”

The memory of searing pain, thankfully dulled with time, slashed across her upper back. “Yes.”

Evidently her simple response wasn’t enough, because he gripped the doorframe in one white-knuckled hand, as if he needed the support to remain upright. “I was there. I saw the satellite footage. No one left that rubble—not the priest, not you.
Not you
, Ilda.”

“You...were there.” She couldn’t process this. What did he mean, he was there? If he were there, wouldn’t he have gotten her out? It almost sounded as though he’d sat on the sidelines and observed her entrapment within the chapel, doing nothing to help, letting her hurt for what seemed like decades before help came along.

A throbbing started in her temple, and she suddenly remembered where she was, where they were. Barging past him into the hotel room, noting that he practically leaped out of the way to avoid touching her, she whirled, shoving her fists into the pockets of her flowing white linen trousers to keep from reaching for him. He didn’t want to touch her? Fine. She didn’t need her hands anywhere near him, either.

Ilda watched in silence as he bolted the door and drew the chain before moving to the windows to twist the blinds closed and adjust the curtains. The light in the tiny hotel room dimmed, but not enough to lessen the impact of him in all his bare-chested glory. Casí, with his brute strength and the unvarnished power that had always radiated from him. Casí, her Casí.

“Who is Faraday?” An American named Faraday, that was who her handler’s text had said was in this particular hotel room—an American for whom she needed to facilitate an introduction with Pipe. Except Pipe would know this man’s face. “We found a body, in your clothes, with your ID. You...you died in a firefight with the Orras cartel.”

Shaking his head, he tossed his pistol on the bed, and she did her best not to glare at it. “We had to make it look like I died.”

“We?”
The throbbing increased, painfully, and she rubbed at the offending spot on her temple. “I ask you again, Casí—who is Faraday?”

“I am.” He propped his hands on his hips—hips with that lickable pair of divots winging from bone to groin—and dropped his head back for a bare instant until he snapped into watchfulness again. A watchfulness directed entirely at her. His Spanish, when he spoke, was as perfect as it had been when she’d known him; she never would have him pegged as an American, though he couldn’t pass for Colombian either. “My name is Casey Faraday. When we met—” His throat bobbed in a swallow. “When we met, I was with the CIA, part of a long-term undercover operation where I reported on Pipe to the US government. A week before...before the chapel, Pipe captured three spies who had sniffed too close to his activities in the city—two American and one British. I was in the best position to rescue those hostages, so that’s what I did. That morning, when I left you, that’s what I did.”

Casey Faraday. His name was Casey Faraday, and he was a spy. She’d married an American spy who
saved
people for a living. Just as he’d attempted to save her. Attempted, and failed. She massaged her temple, wishing desperately for her mind to finally make sense of all that she was hearing. “Why are you back in Medellín?”

“Because he did it again.” Casí’s—Casey’s—voice was gruff, unforgiving. “Pipe took another hostage, and I have to get that hostage home to his family.”

The man had a savior complex, and she told him as much.

Frustration flushed his face and he paced forward a step. “And you have a death wish. What the hell are you doing, snitching on Pipe?” Too close, but not close enough, he got in her space, emotion bright in his stormy gaze.

Her own anger locked into place, giving her a moment of peace in the hurricane of her current thoughts, long enough to turn that anger into a divining rod pointed directly at this lying American spy. “I’m doing what is right,” she snapped, drawing her hands from her pockets to prop them on her waist, squaring off against him and wishing, not for the first time, that she stood taller than her five-foot-one height. Today’s wedge-heeled sandals weren’t helping much, either. “The information I pass along brings us one day closer to ending the war between the cartels.” One day closer to putting Théa’s soul to rest.

A shiver wracked her as dark memories pounded on the door to her mind. Her sister’s violent death was indelibly intertwined with the culmination of Ilda’s relationship with Casí—Casey—and the horrific fashion in which that relationship had ended. In explosions and fire, bullets and blood. “I mourned you.” She whispered the accusation, as there was no softness in her for him, not in this specific moment when she was forced to question everything she had known to be true for the past four years.

“No more than I mourned you,” but his murmured words didn’t carry the barbs hers had. “I would never have left Colombia without you,
fénix
.”

“Don’t call me that.” Her skin felt shrunken over her limbs, tight and itchy and not hers. Nothing about her body was hers in this moment, including her feet, which drove her toward him, to him. She stumbled as she tried to halt her forward momentum, but it was too late. His hand shot out to catch her elbow, steadying her with a callused grip that opened the floodgate to their shared past.

They both gasped at the contact.

She had known he wasn’t a simple thug from the moment they met in Pipe’s swanky box at the stadium. His eyes were too intelligent, his hands too careful, and the heat that had forever existed between them flared to life. Her nipples hardened, pressing through the cups of her bra into visible points in her navy silk blouse. Sensual, sexual need as fresh as if they had been parted only yesterday swept through her, from her tight braid to her painted toenails.

He’d always been a big man, looming larger than his six feet with shoulders that blocked out the sunlight and an upper body packed so tight with muscle there wasn’t a spare millimeter of softness to be found. How was it she looked at him now, four years later, and found him bigger, broader and a thousand times more dangerous to her person?

Did she know him at all? The answer was, of course, no. She’d never known him. He’d lied from the moment they had met. He’d lied all the way to the altar, but Ilda had loved him, with such reckless depth and promise that any qualms had been shoved aside in favor of a permanent fix of him.

She was as bad as any junkie when it came to this man she’d married, this stranger. And the threat he posed to her now—not violent but physical nonetheless—was potent enough to send her spiraling.

She’d been so good, she thought desperately.
So good
. After his death, she had prayed for forgiveness. She had devoted her life to family and good works and the Church and bettering her community, but here stood Satan incarnate, every delicious inch of him, tempting her into sin once more.

But is it sin when he’s your husband?
asked a smug voice inside her head.
The
real
sin would be to deny him his marital right.
To deny herself. “You’re touching me,” she breathed, unable to silence the voice, her fear, her need. Oh, how she needed him. She ached between her thighs, the years apart disintegrating to dust as she remembered just how perfect the first slide of him into her had always been. The tug of tiny inner muscles, fluttering, stretching, holding him prisoner. And the sounds he’d made, the groans against her ear with his breath hot and panicked against her skin as he thrust into her, driving her up up up until—

Hell.
She fought the urge to cross herself. Because she was about to sin, undeniably and without shame in this moment. “Casí.”

“It’s Casey.”

A stranger. She’d married a stranger. “Cay-zee,” she enunciated, trying to mimic his American pronunciation, before falling back into the rhythm of her own language, Spanish rolling off her tongue in a breathless rush. “If you don’t get me naked in thirty seconds,
marido
, I’m walking out of here, and you’re on your own with Pipe.”

A noise escaped his parted lips, pained, animalistic, shocking her into stillness as her eyes flew to his. His pupils were blown, his rugged face flushed with more than the heat of a Medellín afternoon, and he grabbed her with both hands, dragging her roughly against that big, bad body. “I never...” His low voice rumbled. “I
never
thought I’d hear that word again.”

Her palms flattened on his chest, pressing harder when she felt the erratic thump of his heart. “What word?”

“Husband. You called me your husband, Ilda.” A shudder rippled through him, and her, as he bent his head, lips hovering so close to hers that she could taste the salt and sweat and sweetness of him though they didn’t kiss. Not yet. “I’m gonna reward you for that word so good, baby.” Then his strong fingers gripped the panels of her blouse and ripped.

Buttons flew as his mouth crashed down over hers, and her whole world went up in flames. His lips were soft but firm, forcing her to open to him, to his hunger. He moved without finesse, ravenous for every nipped taste he stole, his need infecting her with identical madness. He groaned as he yanked away her ruined shirt, and she answered that thrilling noise with a starved moan of her own.

The years disappeared, old pain evaporating in an instant as he kissed her and she kissed him. Equal partners in the give and take—with far more take than give, until they fought one another for who could lick, bite, suck harder—their mouths a battleground where they met and clashed and struggled for dominance. Ilda didn’t want to win, but she refused to surrender without drawing blood from the man who’d so utterly broken her heart with his death.

A sob caught in her throat as she shoved that terrible thought aside and laid her palms flat on the solid slabs of his chest. His skin sizzled under her touch, hot and perspiring, and she dragged her hands over all those delicious ripples and ridges until she reached the unbuttoned fly of his utility trousers.

“You gonna touch me, baby?” He licked a path along her jaw to catch her earlobe between his teeth, hips thrusting into her hands. “Do it. Put your hands on my cock and make me alive for the first time in years.” His fingers made quick work of her bra before attacking the button at her waistband, racing to get her naked with a desperation she more than recognized, and reciprocated.

Boldly gripping the thick length of his erection through his trousers, she squeezed him, hard, and laughed in delight when his big body trembled. “Oh, Casí, look at you shake.” With her thumb, she drew down the zipper and reached in to heft the significant weight of his arousal. Warm satin skin, insatiable hardness and the slick drip of pre-ejaculate easing her grip.

She grabbed his chin in her other hand and directed his mouth back to hers, losing herself in his kiss as a bubbling brightness, like sunshine, pushed against the insides of her bones, desperate to break free. If it did, would she disintegrate under its unbearable lightness? Would this stolen freedom be the end of her?

Fear coursed in her blood, but the nerves only heightened her reaction as he rid her of everything but her panties...and then those, too, disappeared with the swipe of one greedy hand. He didn’t give her a chance to strip him before shimmying out of his trousers and briefs, needy little sounds leaving his lips as he kissed her wildly.

She remembered those sounds—he’d always been vocal in bed—but they affected her all the more now, standing naked together, soul mates and strangers in the same instant. Crazed by the knowledge that lived in her cells, she flung her arms around his neck and infused her kiss with every emotion running rampant through her vibrating limbs.

Casey wasn’t the only one who shook.

His hands skated over her shoulders, her back and rib cage, until he bent and grabbed her by the thighs and, without any assistance from her whatsoever, lifted her off the floor, urging her legs to wrap around his waist. Linking her ankles over his backside, she squeezed him tight, aligning her upper body with his and whimpering at the sensation of her breasts pressed to his chest. It took him zero effort to hold her, and she loved that. Loved his obvious strength, loved the way he moved her where and how he wanted her simply because he could. Because he was in charge here, as he’d always been.

Sure, she had goaded him. Teased and flirted and flaunted until he’d lost control giving her what she wanted—his body. Those bossy hands and that dirty mouth, and a cock that had filled her better than any who came before him, and all that, combined with the intelligent gleam in his eyes, had done her in. As soon as she waved her invisible white flag, he had taken the reins and never, ever loosened them.

She never, ever wanted him to.