Page 19 of Winters Heat

She hissed and squirmed in his arms again. Her backside unintentionally rubbed on his forearm.

Christ, he might not live through this day. “Mia, would you cut that out? You’re distracting me.”

“No. I’m out of here.” Rub, rub, rub.

“Right. And where you going?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

She was too much. Enough with all the snark and scoots. They killed him. With each sway of her backside, he was digging his grave. Each time he hit the rocky bottom, he’d just start over fresh.

He stopped at the car. “Here you go. Down as you requested. Your chariot awaits.”

She crossed her arms and tapped a bare foot.

“Fine. We can do this again.” He scooped her up, jacked open the passenger door, and plopped her in, then moved to the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition.Excellent—easier than hot-wiring the thing. He twisted the key. The sedan turned over and idled. The radio came on. Elton John’s “Can You Feel the Love Tonight”.

Funny. So very funny.

“I can feel something.” Mia pressed buttons on the radio. Static and garbled stations filtered in through the speakers.

“You’re testy when you’re like this. It’s cute.” He repositioned his chair and chuckled. “This whole jealous thing is adorable.”

She jammed the buttons on the radio harder. “Jealous? You’re a piece of work. Stop talking to me.”

“You’re mad that we kissed. Thatyougrabbedme. Not used to the whole white knight thing? Or are you upset that you were turned on in the truck?” He slid the tip of a finger from her cheek to her chin. She batted it away, hard.

“White knight? Are you insane?”

She glared at him. Oh, if looks could kill, Winters would’ve been on the next bus to Morgue City.

“Some would say yes to both white knight and insane. But from you, I’ll take strategic, operational genius. Handsome man who keeps saving you. Take your pick.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“I thought you analyzed me already and turned up empty-handed.”

“That was before I knew you.”

“And where is all this coming from again? Oh yeah, cause you were eavesdropping and heard me say I love you.”

She turned up the static on the radio loud enough it hurt his ears. Calling her out wasn’t the best move he had in his arsenal but better than ignoring her.

He turned the volume down, steered them back on to the road with one hand draped over the steering wheel, and followed the road’s turn as it passed by the gas station. As expected, blue and red flashing lights flooded the area. Local troopers combed through the store and his truck, wondering what the hell just happened in their one gas station, two stop light town.

If they hadn’t found the bodies already, they’d be stumped. Podunk Kentucky didn’t see a lot of shootouts, and it didn’t have a regular body count.

CHAPTER SEVEN

After the gas station debacle and two separate motel incidents, Diego Cortes didn’t have the disk or the lady. She was on the run with a proficient partner. Sweat soaked through his shirt. If El Jefe knew of his failures, it would be a writ of execution. Juan Carlos Silva was as vicious as he was creative. This was bad, but he could salvage it. Diego’s reputation and beating heart were on the line, and if ever there were a chance to prove he was worthy, it was now.

Representing the Silva Cartel was an honor. He wouldn’t fail.

The Lady of the Rosary medallion under his collar stuck to his chest. He pulled it out and flipped the medal between his fingers.Santa Madre de Dios, please help.

Diego was the last man standing and, like he was told by Senor Silva, he needed to use his brains. He should have done that before, but, no, his head was too big. Hiring local criminals was a mistake. More than a mistake. They were amateurs. And now, they were dead. He’d handed them a handful of bills after trolling for sordid men jonesing for an American dollar. He should have found an investment instead of a quick fix.

He knew Senor Silva better than most. Diego slaved under his tutelage, earned his trust, and swore to the Virgin Mary his loyalty. If he didn’t complete his task, Senor Silva would take immense pleasure in his death. He would nurse a crystal glass of high priced liquor, bleed him out, and delight in calling his mama. Senor would torture her, recounting how Diego failed the Silva cartel. Their family, his legacy obliterated. How his mama would weep, mourning for so many reasons.

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