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Chapter 1
“Excuse me, Sister Angelica, I... I…” Stupendous, she not only looked like Maria in The Sound of Music—black habit, white tunic, suitcase at her feet—she was stumbling over an apology. “I didn’t mean to suggest these habits aren’t—”
This was not like her. In the ten or so years that Dada Parish had been going undercover on vigilante ops, she’d taken on dozens of false identities: wealthy Nigerian heiress, international model, security guard, translator, Special Envoy to the UN, to name a few. Leaving behind her real identity as Dada Parish and taking on another was as easy as putting on a coat.
Or had been.
Her palm on her cane, Sister Angelica fanned her fingers. “No apology necessary. If I took affront at every little thing, Sister Dee, I’d be a piss-poor servant of God. Besides, I agree; these habits do belong in a musical.”
Piss-poor? Determined not to laugh, Dada smiled at the abbess. The sister in charge of the abbey in Mexico was short, maybe four-feet-eleven, her blue eyes dusty beneath black-rimmed glasses, with silver hair peeking from beneath her habit, and skin as white and dry as talcum powder. If not for their matching outfits, this nun would be Dada’s—six feet tall with silky, dark skin—polar opposite. “Thank you, Sister Angelica.”
The abbess shook off the thanks. “Stop the men your mother thinks are trafficking women through Mexico. That, more than the money she donated, will be thanks enough.”
Dada cringed, horrified she’d voiced the truth about her reconnaissance mission to stop a human trafficking ring. Especially when raised voices funneled around them from the corridor.
Five nuns of diverse backgrounds came from the hallway that led to a stone-lined, courtyard heavy with green plants. They surrounded Dada, greeting her with a mixture of curiosity and eagerness and varying levels of Spanish.
“Hermana Dee, estás aquí.” “Sister Dee, you’re here.”
“Not a moment too soon.”
“Serendipity.”
“You should come with us.”
“Yes, come,” the final nun said with the directness of someone who has lived beyond forty. Round face, reddish-tan skin, and a gap-toothed smile, the sister took Dada by the arm and spun her toward the door. “If we don’t hurry, we won’t be ready for the lunch crowd.”
“Lunch crowd?” Dada asked, blinking at the noonday sun as she found herself back on the streets of Oaxaca, a city tightly lined with colorful buildings that surrounded the ancient abbey.
Sister Angelica closed the door with a, “I’ll see your bag gets to your room.”
Stupendous. Nuns, it turned out, could be a little bossy.
#
Ten minutes after walking into the Benedictine abbey, Dada stood behind the counter at a soup kitchen. Clouds of heat wafted up from the steel food well. Moisture slid from under her habit and along her face. Stifling hat—and she had short hair. What must it be like for the women with longer hair?
Though sweaty, she offered smiles and greetings to the numerous refugees filing along in the cafeteria line. She had no problems communicating with the mostly Spanish speakers.
Languages, she could do. Now, if she could just get this nun thing down.
A man began to play on a worn guitar, and, as the music drifted inside, people took up singing a familiar Mexican lullaby. She hummed along.
With a sudden drop, the music stopped, and like a wave around a sports arena, tension rolled down the line of sisters. They paused serving the food, their heads swinging left.
Dada scanned for what had caused the unease.
Not what.
Who.
Six-feet-something, and that something was fine with a capital F. Wavy auburn hair, sexy trimmed beard, and summer brown eyes. The kind of toned body that a man couldn’t hide, even under the long-sleeved over-shirt. Why long sleeves? Was he hiding a conceal-carry? He walked with a slight limp, but in a way that almost looked like a swagger.
Yum. No lie. He was glorious.
And vaguely familiar.
Her heart ratcheted up its pace. Each beat, like a cart ascending on a roller coaster, clicked higher and higher into her throat as this man, this gorgeous swaggering man, made his way toward her.
How did she know him? More importantly, did he know her? If so, would he recognize her? Doubtful. She had on a nun outfit and brown contacts covering her distinct honey-colored eyes. Still…
She brushed the shoulder of the sister next to her. “Who is he?”
The sister’s expression soured. “Juan The Forger. Works for traffickers—men aligned with the cartel that owns this area. He donates every week—”she nodded toward the donation boxes dotting the room—“then takes a tray for an older woman in town who can’t leave her home.”
“So he’s a nice devil?”
Scooping rice for the next-in-line, she said, “What’s worse—a man who does bad with no concept of right and wrong, or a man who does bad, allows bad, because he benefits from it? And then, to assuage his guilt, donates?”
Dada knew the answer to that. In a flash, she was nine again, held prisoner in a room while one man, a very rich French man, raped her. He’d brought her many gifts over her four years of captivity. Taught her. Spoke kindly to her. But that was to assuage his guilt. And none of it made up for the pain, humiliation, and fear he’d caused her.
Dada slapped down her attraction to the man walking toward her. Slapped it down and put it in chains. Chains as heavy as the loss symbolized by the woven leather bracelet she wore as a talisman. She grasped the familiar band.
After accepting a scoop of yellow rice, the man stopped in front of Dada and his eyes widened.
Her heart plunged. He did recognize her. He did.
Heat spiked in her body. A knowing warmth and an unexpected, and unwelcome thought... It’s him. Him.
Him who? Dada shook herself. Blink. Must blink. Not easy when those dare-me-to brown eyes, framed in a bounty of lashes, locked on her.
Beside her, the sister said, “Do you want beans or are you filling your belly looking at Sister Dee?”
His pale skin flushed. “Disculpe, Hermana. Frijoles, por favor.” “Excuse me, Sister. Beans, please.”
His Spanish was good, but accented. A British accent, Welsh specifically. That was it! That was how she knew him.
The memory of a sleek young man driving down the pitch with a soccer ball surfaced. The surge of admiration and longing. Her heart in her throat. Her eyes glued to the screen.
She knew him from her love of sport. Specifically, her favorite sport. He was a soccer player. An amazing one. Or… he had been. If she remembered correctly, he’d been injured right before signing a contract for the Premier League—which explained the limp.
He worked for traffickers? And the ones she wanted information from since they owned this area? Lords and ladies, the mighty had fallen.
A flare of excitement lit her chest. The luck that had followed her escape from French Guiana continued. Because of this staggering luck, she’d learned to accept and jump at opportunity. Just as she’d learned to accept and find a way around complications—knowing something would eventually turn in her favor. Too good to be true didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Not for her.
Not exactly a nun-thing to do, but she could use what she knew of him—his past and his obvious guilt—to pressure him into being her asset. She’d get cl
ose to him, exploit his weakness, and ignore the way he made her feel. A minor complication, that.
With her heart still in her throat, she scooped the beans into a small paper cup then handed it to him.
Their fingers brushed. A strong, certain flash of awareness shot up her arm and down her spine. Primitive heat thrummed through her, arousing every gasping nerve. Longing. Need. Surrender.
They made eye contact and she saw the same want reflected in his burning gaze. His mouth curled into a grin. Oh, this could be a big complication.
Noticing, the sister cleared her throat.
With a jolt, he drew back the foil-lined cup. His face reddened and he moved off with a, “Sorry, Sister. Sorry.”
No need to ask what he apologized for. It was obvious. One did not make lust-eyes at a nun.
Chapter 2
Making his way around the locals and tourists crowding the sidewalk, Sion envisioned his room in Hell. The Devil was probably preparing his bed right now. Here, boyo, lie down on this dry straw. Right smack dab in the middle of hellfire. He’d just... merciful heaven, he needed to have sex. Been too long. What other reason could he give for making googly eyes at a nun?
Googly eyes, mate?
All right. Fine then. Everything else in his life was dishonest, so he could face the truth in his own bloody head. He’d lusted on her hard. Couldn’t really help himself. His gaze had traveled the length of her tunic, one that couldn’t hide those hips and swells and... Good lord, he was doing it again.
Stop it, you daft bugger. There’s a line you need to step away from. Drive away from. Speed away from.
He tried to blink away the heat of his shame and the scorching hot memory of her. Just hadn’t expected... skin as silky as the finest sheets. And her stare, so direct. Like she knew him. Like she wanted him. Like... she knew his soul was destined for Hell.
Bugger. And he had to come back here at the end of next week? Ah, well, something to look forward to.
Stop it!!
“Hold on, there. Hold on, please.”
The whisky voice slid into his stomach and warmed it. That was a good voice. He turned. Bollocks. It was her, jogging down the sidewalk toward him, her breasts bouncing under her—
Nun tunic, you perv.
He stopped staring. His face heated to hellfire levels. At least he’d get accustomed to the heat of his future destination.
She slowed, then pointed at his hands. “I’m sorry. You can’t take the tray.”
What? He looked down. Ach y fi. He’d been so determined to get out of there that he’d forgotten to put the food into the containers and insulated carrier he’d brought. “Sorry, Sister. I’ll just transfer the food. I have a sack.”
She laughed. “You have a sack, huh?”
What? He stared at her twinkling brown eyes. Had she— What kind of joke was that? What kind of nun was she?
He cleared his throat and his obviously confused mental direction. “Sorry about the tray.”
Pursing her lips, she dismissed the issue with a jaunty, “I’m told you do false papers. But other than that, you’re honest. A good man. A man willing to bring food to a woman in need.”
Humiliating. She thought he worked for the traffickers. As did everyone else around here. Ah, well, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d sacrificed his dignity and a morality he thought unbreakable in his search for Sophia.
With a hand to her chest, she said, “I’m Sister Desdemona. Dee for short. And you’re Welsh.”
She had a good ear. He balanced the tray and tried to work his sack out from his backpack.
She reached forward. “Let me hold it.”
Hold what?
She licked her lips with a pink tongue.
The pinkest tongue he’d ever seen. Ach-y-fi, the tray. She meant the tray.
Hellfire, boyo. Think about that.
“Thank you, Sister.”
He swung off his backpack, took out the square insulated container, then transferred the food as she held the tray. When he was done, she slipped the tray under one arm, smiled at him, then threw the coldest of cold water right in his face.
“I saw you play. Before your injury, I mean.”
Fuck. Balls. Fuck. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”
His denial didn’t seem to bother her. Probably used to degenerates lying to her.
“Juan is a form of John,” she said. “And Sion is the Welsh form of John. Your name when you played, soccer... ah, you call it football, was Sion Bradford. Clever.”
Not so clever. She’d picked that apart in two seconds. Tidy. And a sports fan. And hot as hell. And a nun. Shame. “I’m not interested in being that guy, Sister.”
“Dee.”
“Sister Dee.”
“Just Dee.”
There’s a lovely. “I’m not interested in being that guy, Dee.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t be that guy. Not here. Do you understand?”
Her eyes turned serious. “In your line of work, I imagine it could be dangerous.” She fiddled with the tray. “I’ll keep your secret.”
She’d spoken English. “You’re American?” And unlike her perfect Spanish, with the hint of some other accent under her American accent. “Not what I’d expected.”
She gave him another of those sly grins. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
No doubt. They stared at each other. God, she was beautiful. And funny. And kind.
Ach. Enough.
“Thanks for your help, luv—uh, Sister. I mean, uh, Dee.”
Feeling like an absolute sod, he fled before he could get himself into any more trouble. Glancing back to wave or make things less weird, he found her eyes on his arse.
She caught him catching her. She smiled, shrugged, and said, “I’m a nun. Not dead.”
Heat, like exploding fireworks, pop-pop-popped, shooting through his body. He stumbled.
Bloody. Hell. Fire.
Chapter 3
Through the swirling smoke rising from the joint pinched between his yellow-stained nails, Armand Stoker watched the couple across the street. Shifting on his red plastic chair, he lifted the wet tip to his mouth.
Acrid relief glided down his throat, nestled into his lungs. He bit back his breath as ash floated from the joint to land on and disappear against his pale skin. Even drugs couldn’t dilute his rage. It was her, dressed as a nun, talking with Juan the Forger.
A man passing by stopped and blocked his view. “You can’t smoke here,” the man said, pointing to the restaurant’s No-Smoking sign shaded by the restaurant’s faded awning.
American, judging by the accent and shoes. If he’d been from around here, he wouldn’t have said a word. Not just because Armand had a reputation and an imposing frame, but because all here knew his boss owned this restaurant, and used it to launder money. The locals enjoyed cheap drinks and food.
Giving the American idiot a look that would curl the blood of any beast with sense, a look that goosed the man and sent him shuffling off, he took another drag. Across the street, Dada had turned and walked away with a tray tucked under her arm.
She didn’t look his way, but, even if she had, he doubted she would recognize him. Prison had not been kind to him. She bore no scars, but had become a nun. A waste of all that beauty.
A beauty that made him ill. It was as his mother often said, “If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty. If there is none, beauty becomes ugliness.”
She should be buried with the child she hadn’t even been woman enough to birth. And he should still be in French Guiana, still handsome, having inherited a successful business.
If not for Dada… Bile rose into his dry, smoke-sore throat. His phone buzzed, sliding across the ash-covered plastic table. He winced at the number. Walid.
Grinding out the stub with his fingers, he answered. “Armand here.”
“Where is here?” Walid asked. “You’re not at the compound, and not where you should be, at my front gate. Do you have so
mewhere else you need to be?”
Red fury burst through his body, cementing in the molars of his grinding teeth. His mother, the earth surely rotten where she’d been laid to rest, had challenged him in the same demeaning way. If not for the girls and protection Walid provided, he wouldn’t put up with it.
He wouldn’t need to put up with it much longer.
“I was just headed back to the ranch, Walid. I was in town, seeing to”—he paused to fill his voice with what he hoped Walid understood was repressed disgust—“your entertainers.”
There was a longer pause on Walid’s end. Armand smiled. The man depended on him to a degree that was not wise. Despite all his cruelty, Walid had never learned to see his own weakness. A grown man who still thought of himself as a little brother.
Walid’s raspy voice filled the line again, but with less venom. “The last shipment sent to the Americas, you oversaw it, no?”
A worm of dread twisted in his gut. To be caught stealing from Walid—and more importantly, his older brother Aamir—would earn him a brutal, sadistic death. “I did.”
“Our buyer claims a specific item has gone missing. His man in El Salvador had described it, and he’d very much looked forward to receiving it. It never reached him. Do you know what I reference?”
“A missing item?” Merde. In all the years he’d been stealing girls from Walid, he’d never been challenged about his thefts. And this one? What had been so special about a plump, doe-eyed girl? “Yes. I’m handling it.”
“So you know where it is?”
He knew exactly where she was. How long she’d screamed. How long she’d cried, begged. And where she was buried.
“There was only one item lost in transport. I’ve men out looking for it. Not to worry.”
“I don’t want to hear reassurances. Reassurances are something for women and children when you direct them to the gas chamber. I want to know how this happened, where it happened, and who is looking for the item. Come with these answers. Now.” Walid ended the call.
