Illicit Desire

  Illicit Desire

  Taylor Michaels

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products.

  Copyright © 2014 by Taylor Michaels

  Illicit Desire by Taylor Michaels

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by A&A Literary

  Summary: Cora Milan has every reason not to trust Raphael Ortiz—but she can’t deny she wants the elusive bachelor.

  ISBN

  1. Mafia 2. Adult 3. Romance

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Edited by Brianna Shrum

  Cover design by Melissa Stevens of The Illustrated Author

  Cover art copyright©: A&A Literary

  For all the broken lovers…

  Chapter 1

  Raphael

  SHE CAUGHT MY EYE not because she was flamboyant or exotic. It was because of the way her head ducked to stare at the ground, the graceful curve of her neck as she walked with a dancer’s gait through the crowded Miami sidewalk. It was the dress, which was demure, with a long flowing skirt, a tight waist, and high neckline.

  It was the darting glances she made as she walked, and the way one hit me, a glancing blow like a shot from a gun, no less devastating because it hits like a flesh wound. Someone brushes by her, and she gives them a slight smile that screams innocence and hints of something sweet and seductive. She glances up again, and my blood heads south. My hands clench into fists, and I take a step in her direction.

  "Sir?"

  The voice is deferential and familiar—Miguel has been one of my right-hand men since I was given my first crew when I was twelve, and my best friend my entire life. His quiet questioning tone jerks me from my thoughts, from my fascination with her. I relax, uncurling my hands by a force of will, and releasing the breath that’s caught in my chest. I’ve fucked a lot of women, and I’ve been loved a few. But no one has ever pulled such a visceral reaction from me so quickly.

  I’m half hard, and all I’ve done is seen a girl, a stranger on the street. What the fuck is happening to me? I don’t have time for this, and I don’t want it—I haven’t wanted the complications that come with a relationship in over three years.

  "Let's go," I murmur, and with a final glance at the girl, I turn to the waiting limo.

  Lou opens the door for me, and I motion impatiently for him to slide in. I take one more look at the girl, the pale skirt drawing my gaze like a moth, and see the curl of black ink at the top of her spine, an intricate tattoo brushing along her shoulders.

  For a heartbeat, I consider saying fuck it and chasing her. Finding out just how far that ink trails down, and what makes a good girl in pink lie down for the needle. Her hand lifts, brushing a long lock of black hair out of her eyes, as she frowns.

  The thug moves fast, efficient. If it weren't for what—and where—he was doing, I would probably admire the skill of the snatch.

  One second, she's walking down the street, her head down and unconcerned. The next, the cheap leather purse on her shoulder is ripped away, so quickly it snaps and jerks her from her feet.

  "Miguel," I snarl, and he nods, darting away from me.

  I'm late, and I don't care. I move quickly toward the girl, abandoning my car and driver, crouching down to meet her eyes.

  Sky blue. So clear and innocent.

  And spitting mad.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, struggling to keep my own anger in check. She doesn't need that now.

  "Did you see where he went? Can I get it back?" She's craning to look around me and I think she will actually bolt after the thug. Then her gaze flicks up to mine and she blinks, seeing me for the first time. Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens, then clicks shut. I flash a smile and pull her gently to her feet, holding her arm when she sways slightly.

  "Jefe," Lou says behind me. My grip on her hand tightens, and she whimpers softly. I release her and take the step back that puts me out of her immediate space. What the fuck am I doing?

  "I apologize that this happened here, señorita." Confusion clouds her gaze and I use that moment to slip a business card into her hand. "My man will see you home."

  I don't stop to let her respond, or to confirm that Miguel will do just that. If I do, I won’t leave her, and I can’t afford to miss this meeting. No matter how intriguing this gorgeous creature is. Instead, I twist away and duck into the car.

  Cora

  I stare at the man as he disappears into a waiting limo—Where the fuck did that limo come from?—and try to swallow the panic rising in me.

  That purse had everything—my cell phone, rent for the month, the details on the job my temp agency found for me. My stomach heaves and I swallow hard. I'm going to be sick. Paul is going to be furious. And we're going to be out on the street.

  Tires crunch on the road next to me and a smooth voice says, just a little concerned, "Ma'am? Your car is here."

  I blink. The car is another limo, a long shiny thing. He had left in a limo, so where did this one come from?

  “Ma’am?” the voice asks again. I take a stumbling step forward, and a hand catches me, steadying me. “Easy, ma’am.” An charming smile, dark eyes, somehow similar to the one who just left. Dark skin and midnight black hair. Concern in his gaze, and pity. “You okay?”

  I nod, let him help me into the seat, too aware of his worried frown.

  This isn’t what I wanted. Miami is supposed to be a clean slate, a new beginning. How the hell did this happen?

  “Do you think if I filed a police report, they could find my purse?” I ask.

  A smile tugs at his lips, something unfathomable about the question amusing him. I arch an eyebrow and he goes serious again. “I believe Mr. Ortiz will be looking into it. You might wait to see what he finds before you contact the police.”

  He offers me another smile, and nudges me over to take the seat next to me. I stare at him, startled. “What are you doing?” I demand, baffled.

  “Mr. Ortiz’s orders, ma’am. He wanted to ensure you got home safely.”

  “My name is Cora,” I say suddenly. His face is carefully blank, and I extend a hand. “Cora Milan.”

  He nods, and ignores my hand. “Where to, Ms. Milan?”

  My hand is shaking and for some reason, the fact that he won’t shake it bothers me. More than it should. I let it drop, clenching my skirt, and give him the address. He passes it along to the driver, and I lean back into my seat. Without my purse, there is nothing to occupy my hands, nothing but the business card.

  My escort is ignoring me. This guy, for as gentle as he’s been with me, could get work in all the movies that feature bouncers. All that’s missing is the bad suit. The dude is decked out in a suit more expensive than my freaking apartment. I dismiss my nerves, and examine the business card.

  It’s elegant and expensive—the card stock is heavy, heavier than most business cards, embossed with his name.

  My dark rescuer is Raphael Ortiz. CEO of Ortiz Corporation.

  Holy shit. I stare at it, not really sure I’m reading it right. Because I didn’t just get fucking mugged in front of a CEO. I’m not that girl. I glance at the man at my side, a shadow of Raphael. Ortiz Lite.

  “Is this shit for real?” I ask, a little skeptically. He flashes me a grin, all white t
eeth and dark skin.

  His phone rings and I sit back, shamelessly eavesdropping. “Boss.” A pause. “Yes, sir.”

  He extends the phone, and my eyes go very wide. Oh fuck no. I shake my head, sharply. Ortiz Lite’s eyes widen, and he hits a button. “Sir, she’s a little surprised. I think she’s in shock.”

  A low noise rumbles from the phone, and then, “Take her home. Give her my apologies. This is not the best impression, but I hope to see her at Carlita Tower again.”

  He has to know he’s on speaker. It’s hard to miss, and I get the feeling Raphael misses very little. Ortiz Lite doesn’t look away from me. “Got it, Jefe.”

  “And Miguel? Make sure she has a way to contact me.”

  Surprise flicks across his face, and he nods. “Yes, Jefe.”

  Raphael disconnects before I can work up the nerve to say anything, before I can thank him. Miguel reaches over and gently plucks the business card from my nerveless fingers, and scrawls on it. Then he extends it back to me. I lick my lips, not sure I want it.

  Amusement flickers in his eyes. “Might as well, Ms. Milan. If boss wants to find you, he will. Make it easy on the man.”

  I make a face and take the card, slipping it into my bra. Because I have nowhere else to put it and because I don’t want Paul asking more questions than I already know he’ll have. And we’ll be there soon, now. Miguel glances out the window, and I see his jaw tighten. What does he think of this—of dropping me off at a bus stop in the worst part of Miami?

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  I flash a nervous smile as the car comes to a stop. Paul is leaning against the wall, and I watch him flick a lazy look at the limo before he goes back to smoking a cigarette.

  “Thank you, for the ride,” I say, eager suddenly to be out of the car and away from these people. Even his security is wealthy, far above my little one bedroom, roach-infested loft.

  “I can’t leave you here,” Miguel says. “Boss will be pissed.”

  “He’s not my boss,” I smart off. “And besides, I’m meeting someone.”

  Paul is watching us now, and his body goes stiff with surprise when I step out of the open door. I smile for the driver and Miguel grabs my hand. “Don’t go to the policias. Boss will find it—just give him a little time.”

  I don’t say anything. Because I want Raphael Ortiz to find my missing purse. And because as much as I need it back, I can’t help but hope he never finds it—I don’t need his distraction right now.

  A clean slate—a fresh place without the stigma of the press and our past hanging over both of us. I should have left Keyton years ago. I didn’t. I waited, while Paul finished a deployment in Iraq. But now he’s out and we’re finally able to start over.

  “Thanks so much for the ride. I really appreciate it,” I say, truthfully. Ignoring the request completely. I step away from the car, and to my brother’s side. Miguel gives us a searching stare, and then barks a foreign order to the driver and they pull away.

  Paul stares at them for a long minute, and then looks at me, a question in his eyes. “The hell was that?”

  I link my arm through his, and pull him into motion, heading for our tiny apartment. With my free hand, I crumple the card and toss it in a trashcan. “That, brother dear, was a great deal of bad luck.”

  Chapter 2

  Raphael

  THE ROOM WE’RE IN smells faintly of orange trees and Cuban cigars, and it’s sweltering in the mid-afternoon heart. A plate of churros and fried plantains sit next to us, largely untouched. I study the board, but my mind isn’t here.

  I make my play, laying out the tiny squares. L-I-B-R-O-S.

  My grandfather makes a soft noise of surprise, and stares at the Scrabble board.

  I have a cartel to run, a thousand and one things clamoring for my attention, a girl I want nothing more than to track down, and I’m sitting in a dusty, hot sunroom overlooking the ocean, playing Scrabble.

  Abuelo takes a crunchy bite of a churro, and then lays out the word, playing off the ‘i’ I laid. V-I-C-T-I-M.

  My hand clenches, and I look up at him angrily. Cool brown eyes meet my gaze.

  “You are distracted, mijo.”

  Dammit. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice. A stupid hope—he notices everything. “Is everything well at the office?”

  I study my squares, and the board. R-O-S-A.

  “Raphael,” my grandfather says, sharply. I flinch, and hate myself for it. I’m too old to let a decrepit old man bully me.

  I look up, staring at him, and my stomach twists.

  Not a decrepit old man. Benito Ortiz will never be a decrepit man.

  I clear my throat, and force out the words, waiting for his gaze to turn stormy and disappointed.

  “A girl was mugged on the steps of the Carlita Tower. I was on my way out.”

  Benni sighs, softly. “What are you doing to fix this?”

  “My men are tracking him down. The girl was taken home.”

  “You will make an example, yes? Show the carbon that we are not to be crossed?”

  I see her again, sweet and innocent and so bewildered. Anger fills my blood, as heady as good tequila. “Yes, Tato.”

  He grunts softly, and I see the letters laid out, playing off ‘return’ from our last game. R-E-V-E-N-G-E.

  It’s a silent command, one I know better than to ignore. I might be the cartel head now, but I will always be subject to Benni’s orders.

  I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I will attend to it, Abeulo.”

  “And the girl,” he says nodding at the board.

  I hesitate and shrug. “She’s just a girl. Nothing to concern ourselves with.”

  “An unsanctioned attack on our territory, against an innocent,” Benni snaps, his voice a whiplash of suppressed violence. I go still, and look up at him. I’m startled by the anger I find brewing in his dark gaze. “She will be recompensated.”

  I nod, and lay down the tiles. B-E-A-U-T-Y .

  He makes a hum of appreciation and I reach for my tea. “Compensated, tato.”

  A bushy eyebrow goes up, questioning.

  “It isn’t recompensated. It’s just compensated.” I explain. Irritation flares across his face, and he throws me a muttered thank you. Even now, after a lifetime in America, he struggles occasionally with the language. I know how much he hates it, which is why I’m here, when I should be so many other places, why I’m spelling out words in Spanish. The board is a muddle of our languages and our world.

  We play in silence for another hour, until the churros are gone and my tea has grown watery and warm. Then he waves me away. “Go. Tend the empire.”

  I nod and stand, adjusting my gun. Inside, Lou is rising. He looks out of place in Tata’s little kitchen, a kitten on his knee. I bend and brush a kiss over Abuelo’s forehead. “I’ll see you next week, tato.”

  Lou catches my eye as I enter the room, but I give him a minute shake of my head. Business will wait until I’ve said my goodbyes. I let Abuela fuss over me for a few minutes, chattering in Spanish a mile a minute. She can speak English, but will always prefer the language of her childhood. She presses me to take some food, and I agree.

  It makes her happy, to feed me.

  With my hands full of Tupperware, I kiss her once more and follow Lou outside.

  The car is waiting, looking ridiculously out of place in this quiet neighborhood of manicured lawns and golf carts. It’s what I wanted for my grandmother—a quiet life near the Gulf, with a pool and a beach and plenty of yard for the grandchildren. After a life watching her husband build one of the most feared cartels in the country, she has more than earned her rest.

  “Did she send tortilla soup?” Lou asks, glancing at the dishes. I give him a dark stare and he smirks. “Greedy bastard.”

  We slide into the car, and my phone rings as the driver pulls away from the curb. I glance at it and my pulse speeds. “You have him?” I answer, not bothering with pleasantries.

  Lou, Miguel, and I
have been working together long enough that none of us need pleasantries.

  “Jose has him in the back office,” Miguel says shortly.

  “And the girl?” I ask, not quite able to keep the tension out of my voice.

  “I dropped her off in Hialeah. She met a guy,” he adds, reluctantly.

  Irritation sparks in me. It was stupid to think she would be single. Miguel is talking still, and something he says filters through.

  “She’s going to the cops?” I say, my voice full of disbelief.

  “Maybe. She mentioned calling them and I told her to wait. She has your personal number.”

  I nod, not really thinking about what I’m doing or that he can’t see me. “Meet us back at the Tower. We just left the beach.”

  “You got it, boss,” he says amiably and hangs up.

  Lou is a quiet shadow in his corner of the car, staring out the window. His silence is comforting, and I toss the phone in my hand.

  She belongs to someone else. There is a small, but insistent, part of me that says so fucking what? It would be easy enough to remove—no. I shake my head. She’s suffered enough on my turf—I won’t add to it.

  Even if I want her.

  I shift in my seat, glancing out the window as we drive. The farther we get from my grandparents, the deeper we delve into the city. I can see the beauty of it, wrapped in dirt and grime and tossed in the street. It is, as Miami has always been, filth mixed with beauty, a sinner praying to a saint.

  It is ridiculous, to want her. She is sweet innocence and purity. Even with the thirty seconds I spent with her, I know she is nothing like me.

  There is nowhere in my world for innocence.

  The Carlita Tower is a new addition to the Miami skyline. Something we financed because it cleaned drug money—real estate and venture capitalism are the easiest ways to launder, and in the recession and shit real estate market, that left business.

  I glide through the quiet building—most of the offices and companies who staff them have gone for the night, and there is little to disturb the still. Lou moves, a quiet shadow at my side. Ortiz Corp reserves the top three floors—prime real estate, and I lean against the rail of the elevator as Lou punches the button to take us to the forty-ninth floor. He stands, too rigid and tense, a few steps away from me, but I don’t address it.