Just the Messenger (3 page)

Through lots of coffee and sucking up, Marco had ingratiated himself with the reporter enough so that Warren had agreed to let him tag along on some of his minor stories. Next week, Marco would start riding in the news truck with him, becoming his personal associate producer. If Bell lived to next week, that was.

Right now, he was getting dangerously close to the underground coffee shop where the cocaine dealers operated. Bell was ballsy. Marco knew once the man had an angle, he’d walk right in. Right in to his death. If the reporter stuck his nose into that café, he could disrupt months of IIB operative work. Marco’s organization had moles set inside the shop. Waiters, cooks, even a few posing as first-rung dealers. When the next shipment came in, they would strike. Unless Bell struck first. Then they’d have to abandon the mission and start all over again to protect innocent lives. Bell was important for their information, but he was working toward an opposite end.

Marco caught a glimpse of a brunette as he turned his head. Grace.

Not now, honey.

Warren Bell walked down a ramp and into the underground café.

Marco broke into a sprint, praying to get there before the gunshots.

* * * *

As she rounded the corner hot in pursuit of Marco Valencia, Grace thanked God she had thought to wear practical shoes. Was the man actually running from her? Of all the possible outcomes of her lumbering observation of Marco, she hadn’t expected this. Her sneakers squeaked sharply against the concrete, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a door swoosh shut to her right. It was half-hidden under the streetscape with only its top hinges visible, and she moved toward the ramp leading down toward it. Once she caught up with Marco, Grace still wasn’t sure what she would do. She’d decided to aim for seduction, first. When he trusted her, she’d convince him to concentrate on another project. She didn’t think she was capable of murder. The whole thing seemed like a work of fiction.

To enter the shop, she had to walk around a jutted building front and down another small incline. The black paint on the door was peeling. She leaned against the wall to catch her breath and whipped out her phone.

At strange door near Central Park. 012 inside. Will follow?

After Gene’s surprise visit to her new apartment, she’d not seen her boss again. Instead, he’d sent her a “company” cell phone and began calling and texting her on it. “012” was Marco. “015” was the news reporter Warren Bell. She hadn’t had to use that code yet. Gene said he wasn’t part of her mission. He’d sent her pictures of the reporter, telling her that he was trouble and she was to steer clear of him.

Gene had never mentioned the kiss again, never expressed worry for her welfare. She’d pined for a few days, the emotions stirred up calling to her in ways she hadn’t dreamed possible. The blond man haunted her dreams, dominating her and sometimes loving her. And when she awoke, it often took her a half hour to come back to the cold reality that was her lonely life. Eventually, with no contact to go on, she’d had no choice but to decide that it meant nothing to either of them and resolve to do her job and do it well, with no romantic strings to anyone.

Her phone beeped.

Dispose of 012. Is a threat. Back up coming.

Dispose of Marco. She decided right then she wouldn’t kill him. She couldn’t kill a fly, and Gene had given her no training. For the millionth time this week, she wondered what she was doing in this role. The posh apartment from “Hardy Photography” didn’t ease her conscience. It only made her more certain that whatever they were really doing, they were trying hard to hide it. And when people tried to hide things, those things usually weren’t right. She should have listened to her mother and gone into library science after college. No, she wouldn’t kill Marco. But she would get him out of there. Back to her place, if she could. Alone in a safe space, she’d be able to concentrate on the contrived romance with him without her nerves getting the better of her.

She pushed open the black door, and it let out a heavy creak. Everyone there looked at her. Stared at her, agape, and the various conversations dropped off into silence.

Marco stood in the corner of the smoke-filled room, gazing out a dingy window. He turned to her and gave her a miniscule nod. He’d known she’d been behind him, she realized. She felt her cheeks burn. How naïve of her to think she’d hidden herself well. She had failed in even that minor task.

On the other side of the cramped space sat Warren Bell, sipping an espresso at the bar. It looked as if he’d been deep in conversation with the baristas before her arrival. There were about ten other patrons, all men. Grace wondered fleetingly if this was a cover for a brothel. The thought deepened her embarrassment, and the silence continued.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out, putting on her best helpless female act and praying Marco would play along. “I was looking for the Salon De Plume! I heard it was a hidden gem on this street! Can’t get more hidden than this place,” she babbled on, “but, obviously this isn’t the salon. You don’t have the right chairs, or scissors, or—”

A broad hand touched her arm, cutting off her words.

“I know where it is, and I was just leaving,” Marco said. “I’ll take you there.”

She nodded weakly, and the noisy din of the small restaurant picked up again as they left the building.

Gene stepped out of the cab on the wrong side of the street, two blocks from the Iron Flower. The café might not have a sign on the door, but he knew its name well. He walked at a brisk pace toward the coffee shop but stopped in shock when it came into view.

There was Grace, being dragged outside by the arm by one intensely handsome, dark-haired man. Marco Valencia. Gene smiled at the memories he shared with that man. As if the two sensed him, both Grace and Marco looked up at him at the same time, which jolted Gene back into action. He made his way toward them with a slow, meaningful gait, watching them scurry away from him. To her credit, Grace was trying to break away, but Marco held fast, and she went with him. Gene assumed she didn’t want to make a scene on the sidewalk. He knew where they were going and crossed the back lot of a building to wait for them at the opening of the Metro.

Gene stood amid the throngs of people weaving by him, and his targets apparently didn’t notice him in front of them. They were still checking to see if he trailed them. He stuck out his arm, skidding them to a halt.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll take her from here.”

The fire burning in Marco’s deep brown eyes took Gene aback. The smaller man set his brows in an angry scowl and yanked the woman to him, placing his arms around her waist.

“I don’t think so,” he growled. He dragged Grace with him as he hurried down the steps.

Gene watched them retreat, and he gave Marco a wink and a wave when the man looked back up at him just before the train came to a halt. Then he turned, exited back to the street and hailed a cab to take him back to his office. She was in good hands. Enemy hands, but good ones.

And Marco was right to try to get her away. She wasn’t cut out for espionage. Poor Grace really didn’t know what she was doing. Still, it had worked out perfectly. With no one left watching Warren Bell, his men could move in. He flipped open his phone.

“Jackson, call Perry. Bell will be at the Iron Flower for another thirty minutes or so. He’s getting information for his trip to Colombia, finding contacts. Go take his picture. We may or may not need it to prove he’s investigating the story, depending on whether or not he actually does a report.”

He hung up without waiting for a response. Gene stretched out in the taxi and relaxed. At least he had the comfort of knowing that the IIB wouldn’t kill Grace or Warren. Really, the government and his company were on the same side. The only difference being that if the government stopped the cocaine trade before Gene did his job, he was out five million dollars.

No, Gene had to keep Bell on the case until the story broke, otherwise Hardy Photography was worthless to CableNette. The station needed the glory, and for that to happen, they needed their main reporter alive. If Warren Bell could break this case, it would save the news corporation from going under. It was a Hail Mary plea to the gods for the station to hire Gene’s company, and one for which they were willing to pay through the teeth.

Gene made another call, dialing the number he still knew by heart from three years ago.

“Valencia.” The greeting was rough.

“Just make sure you get her back to her apartment by this time tomorrow. She has a fundraising event to attend. With me.”

The only answer was a resounding click.

Gene sat back and smiled. He had a feeling he’d be seeing Marco again very soon. Probably at the CableNette dinner tomorrow night at the Bellisimo Hotel.

* * * *

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Marco couldn’t help himself from shouting at the woman sitting in front of him. He hadn’t known where to take her, so he’d brought her to one of his many apartments, this one in Brooklyn.

“No. Maybe you’d like to tell me?” Grace jutted out her chin, lifting her breasts under the tight sweater.

Marco felt desire rush through him like an avalanche, clouding his vision. “Not my job,” he ground out, trying to regain his center of gravity. “I’m to have nothing to do with you from this point out, but for Christ’s sake, tell that boss of yours to keep you out of the direct line of fire if he’s not going to give you any information.”

“If you want that,” she said with an edge to her voice, “you’ll have to stay out of the heat, yourself. The one thing Gene did tell me was to follow you. That’s my only instruction. And I plan to do it. I will not let him down again.”

Her gray eyes shot him a piercing look, and in their recesses, he saw a longing that matched his own that made his heart ache and his jealousy rear up. “Oh, you’ve got a thing for him, do you? Get in line.”

“Behind whom?” she said with a laugh. “You?”

Marco glanced at her in surprise. She was a sharp one.

“No. I don’t even know the man, plus, I’ve got other flesh on my mind.” He allowed his attraction to her to show for a few moments, raw and hard through his face, and enjoyed her startled expression before she turned her head in modesty. He put on his stoic IIB mask again before speaking. “What are you, anyway?”

“Me?” Her voice grew soft. “I’m a messenger. Or, I was a messenger. Now I don’t know what I am, or what I’m doing. I was supposed to be a librarian, but…that didn’t work out.”

A pang of regret hitched in Marco’s chest at what would have been a perfectly normal life for the curvy firecracker in front of him. “That’s a shame,” he said thickly. “You’d have been great with books.”

Grace just stared at him, her eyes empty. “I like helping people,” she said in a flat voice.

“So I see.” Marco knelt in front of her where she sat. “In some ways, you are in the right business, then,” he said, happy when her face brightened. “Hardy helps people. So do I. We just do it for different reasons.”

“Can you just tell me what you do, and why we are doing it?” Her voice was full of hope, almost quivering with it.

Again Marco felt need wash over him. To have that innocence and purity of heart wrapped around him in a tangle of sheets would put him over the edge. He bit back the urge to touch her. “I can’t,” he said. “Ask Hardy.”

“I did!”

“Ask again. Ask tomorrow, before you go to the fundraiser.”

“What fundraiser?”

Marco smiled then and shook his head. “Do you have an evening dress?” he asked. “You’ll need to buy one this afternoon.” Thinking it over, he spoke again. “Actually, the way Hardy works, I’d just go home. An outfit is probably waiting for you there.”

He meant to send her on her way then. He’d give her directions back to the city then follow discreetly until she made it back to her apartment, making sure she was safe. The reporter had desk duty for the rest of the afternoon, so assuming he made it out of the coffee shop alive, Marco would go back to CableNette and speak to him about tagging along to the event tomorrow for experience. Marco would be back at the station before anyone realized he’d taken a double lunch. He meant to do all those things.

Then Grace touched him.

Her smooth, cool fingertips traced over his jaw, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine.

“You really seem to care about me, for not knowing me at all,” she said.

He opened his mouth to answer her, to tell her he couldn’t afford to care about anyone, to tell her she’d only get hurt playing with men like Hardy and himself. The look in her eyes silenced him, like a storm at sea, amber bits of light reflected within the gray, and Marco stared deeply into them, until they were so close the image blurred.

Marco slanted his lips over hers and let out an involuntary groan. She was soft and giving, and the heat of her seeped into his mouth until he could no longer control his urges. She smelled of fresh summer raspberries, the kind he used to pick with his
abuela
in Colombia. She tasted like home.

“Are you Colombian?” he asked, breaking the contact on a murmur.

She shook her head. “Venezuelan. Good guess, though.” She smiled, and he leaned into those lips again.

With a slight tease from the tip of his tongue, they opened for him, and he went about exploring the contours of her, until he was drunk on her scent and flavor. The kiss seemed to last forever, Grace’s fingers tangling in his hair, her breasts pushed up against his chest as she leaned forward off the sofa where she’d been sitting.