Page 681 of One More Kiss

“Ever met a tiger up close and personal?” His inky brow hitches.

“I’ve nursed a jaguar cub,” I announce in a gust.

He bends closer until bountiful lashes almost touch mine. I lengthen my neck, trying not to inhale him into my soul.

Those extraordinary eyes, so rich in depth, become the only color I can see. The glossiest shade of coffee rings dilated pupils, blending blackish brown and true black. There within lies secrets of his own—memories of heinous deeds and thoughts of criminality.

In the distance, an engine purrs. Tomás splays his palm on my lower back, leaning in. “The tigers are my father’s favorite pets, but they sure as hell aren’t friendly cubs. Given the chance, they’ll puncture your throat and eat you alive.” He ushers me the way we came, towards a shiny red Ford pickup truck parked up on the gravel driveway.

Reflective chrome trims mirror the gray clouds now suffocating the sun. The immaculately presented vehicle could have rolled out of a showroom. It's that clean. Never mind the monster-sized wheels for treading over all terrain, unsoiled and spotless.

With the engine idling, Shane exits the driver’s side, unlatches the tailgate, and jumps onto the flatbed at the rear

“Get in,” Tomás orders, cordially opening the passenger door.

I climb inside, flinching when he slams the door shut behind me. He casually strolls in front of the hood before joining me without muttering a word.

In the enclosed space, my senses are on overload from the polished leather upholstery to him. Woody, rich undertones, delicately fragrancing my hair, and his musky, intoxicating cologne makes my belly flutter. It’s too cozy.

Tomás finally slides his gaze from the rearview mirror to the ill-fitting outfit drowning my petite frame. Heat creeps up from my neck when I realize I’m wearing his mother’s clothes, and by no means appealing to him while they’re on me. My hair could do with a tangle teaser, and the gaunt reflection staring back at me in the glass resembles a bedraggled misfit.

His eyes linger on my bare thighs, the silent passing seconds make me squirm. I curse myself for even thinking there’s a mutual attraction simmering behind his lustful contemplation. This is business for the Souzas.

I glance over my shoulder at where Shane hunkers next to the Mexican’s cylindrical coffin. A jittery shiver runs through me, my heart beating so fast I could faint.

“Seatbelt on,” he orders, while throwing his arm behind me to the headrest, twisting his torso so his eyes leave mine.

As the truck reverses, I clip myself in and clutch the strap over my chest for comfort.

We leave the soulless mansion in a cloud of dust, me panicking and Tomás casually tapping the steering wheel. The further we drive, the more unsettled I become.

Abundant nature frames a sky preparing for a war of thunder against lightning. A clash of rain-drenched clouds and turbulent tropical winds. Sky soaring palms sway, dancing in the newly conjured breeze. It’s brewing miles away from the Souza residence, the promise of a downpour of godly proportions on the horizon.

“How did you get the scar on your forearm?” He finally breaks the amnesty of speech.

I swallow the shame, not wanting to admit the weakness a fourteen-year-old girl was driven to endure. “I did it,” I whisper, the confession so weightless under the past intention.

His gaze remains pinned to the dirt track hedged by hectares of strategically sown coffee plants in far reaching rows.

“Why would you do something like that?” His tone hardens to iron, the rough edges brittle with disgust.

“None of your business,” I snap in defense. “That’s personal and has nothing to do with why I’m here.”

Cool air blowing from the air vents curdles with my hot temper, made suffocating when he throttles the wheel as if it’s my throat. Lean muscles tighten beneath the sleeves of his fitted shirt. “Fine. Don’t tell me, but you will tell me when you’re staring into the jaws of a fucking tiger.” The vicious rasp to his voice immediately fills me with regret.

“Ask me something else. Anything, but that.” I pivot to face his side profile, his fixed glower darker than a thunderclap in the heavens. “I promise to tell you the truth.”

“What’s your real name?” The words strike, making him the human form of a tempest.

“Carina Ferreira,” I answer honestly. “Born and raised in Manaus.”

There’s an unnerving moment where his temperament seethes. Stones pelt the chassis and my blood gushes around my skull.

A second later, he returns my stare. “Who is Maria Rebello to you? Is she your boss?”

It happens without thought. A grunt of indignation rushes down my nostrils. “Boss?” I admonish. “I’d never work for a cruel bitch like her. Maria thinks she’s better than everybody else, because she’s pretty and has big boobs. She’s just like you, gorgeous with a mean streak. You’d like her. I think she’s your type.”

His lips curl before a bark of laughter rings in my ears. It takes me completely by surprise, the gruff distinctive sound so utterly carnal. “I didn’t mean…” I say breathlessly, embarrassed by the thoughtless admission. “I’m tired. My words are muddled.”

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