Read Online Crazed: A Blood Money Novel by Edie Harris - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edie Harris
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painfully, and she rubbed at the offending spot on her temple. “I ask you again, Casí—who is Faraday?”
“I am.” He propped his hands on his hips—hips with that lickable pair of divots winging from bone to groin—and dropped his head back for a bare instant until he snapped into watchfulness again. A watchfulness directed entirely at her. His Spanish, when he spoke, was as perfect as it had been when she’d known him; she never would have him pegged as an American, though he couldn’t pass for Colombian either. “My name is Casey Faraday. When we met—” His throat bobbed in a swallow. “When we met, I was with the CIA, part of a long-term undercover operation where I reported on Pipe to the US government. A week before...before the chapel, Pipe captured three spies who had sniffed too close to his activities in the city—two American and one British. I was in the best position to rescue those hostages, so that’s what I did. That morning, when I left you, that’s what I did.”
Casey Faraday. His name was Casey Faraday, and he was a spy. She’d married an American spy who saved people for a living. Just as he’d attempted to save her. Attempted, and failed. She massaged her temple, wishing desperately for her mind to finally make sense of all that she was hearing. “Why are you back in Medellín?”
“Because he did it again.” Casí’s—Casey’s—voice was gruff, unforgiving. “Pipe took another hostage, and I have to get that hostage home to his family.”
The man had a savior complex, and she told him as much.
Frustration flushed his face and he paced forward a step. “And you have a death wish. What the hell are you doing, snitching on Pipe?” Too close, but not close enough, he got in her space, emotion bright in his stormy gaze.
Her own anger locked into place, giving her a moment of peace in the hurricane of her current thoughts, long enough to turn that anger into a divining rod pointed directly at this lying American spy. “I’m doing what is right,” she snapped, drawing her hands from her pockets to prop them on her waist, squaring off against him and wishing, not for the first time, that she stood taller than her five-foot-one height. Today’s wedge-heeled sandals weren’t helping much, either. “The information I pass along brings us one day closer to ending the war between the cartels.” One day closer to putting Théa’s soul to rest.
A shiver wracked her as dark memories pounded on the door to her mind. Her sister’s violent death was indelibly intertwined with the culmination of Ilda’s relationship with Casí—Casey—and the horrific fashion in which that relationship had ended. In explosions and fire, bullets and blood. “I mourned you.” She whispered the accusation, as there was no softness in her for him, not in this specific moment when she was forced to question everything she had known to be true for the past four years.
“No more than I mourned you,” but his murmured words didn’t carry the barbs hers had. “I would never have left Colombia without you, fénix .”
“Don’t call me that.” Her skin felt shrunken over her limbs, tight and itchy and not hers. Nothing about her body was hers in this moment, including her feet, which drove her toward him, to him. She stumbled as she tried to halt her forward momentum, but it was too late. His hand shot out to catch her elbow, steadying her with a callused grip that opened the floodgate to their shared past.
They both gasped at the contact.
She had known he wasn’t a simple thug from the moment they met in Pipe’s swanky box at the stadium. His eyes were too intelligent, his hands too careful, and the heat that had forever existed between them flared to life. Her nipples hardened, pressing through the cups of her bra into visible points in her navy silk blouse. Sensual, sexual need as fresh as if they had been parted only yesterday swept through her, from her tight braid to her painted
“I am.” He propped his hands on his hips—hips with that lickable pair of divots winging from bone to groin—and dropped his head back for a bare instant until he snapped into watchfulness again. A watchfulness directed entirely at her. His Spanish, when he spoke, was as perfect as it had been when she’d known him; she never would have him pegged as an American, though he couldn’t pass for Colombian either. “My name is Casey Faraday. When we met—” His throat bobbed in a swallow. “When we met, I was with the CIA, part of a long-term undercover operation where I reported on Pipe to the US government. A week before...before the chapel, Pipe captured three spies who had sniffed too close to his activities in the city—two American and one British. I was in the best position to rescue those hostages, so that’s what I did. That morning, when I left you, that’s what I did.”
Casey Faraday. His name was Casey Faraday, and he was a spy. She’d married an American spy who saved people for a living. Just as he’d attempted to save her. Attempted, and failed. She massaged her temple, wishing desperately for her mind to finally make sense of all that she was hearing. “Why are you back in Medellín?”
“Because he did it again.” Casí’s—Casey’s—voice was gruff, unforgiving. “Pipe took another hostage, and I have to get that hostage home to his family.”
The man had a savior complex, and she told him as much.
Frustration flushed his face and he paced forward a step. “And you have a death wish. What the hell are you doing, snitching on Pipe?” Too close, but not close enough, he got in her space, emotion bright in his stormy gaze.
Her own anger locked into place, giving her a moment of peace in the hurricane of her current thoughts, long enough to turn that anger into a divining rod pointed directly at this lying American spy. “I’m doing what is right,” she snapped, drawing her hands from her pockets to prop them on her waist, squaring off against him and wishing, not for the first time, that she stood taller than her five-foot-one height. Today’s wedge-heeled sandals weren’t helping much, either. “The information I pass along brings us one day closer to ending the war between the cartels.” One day closer to putting Théa’s soul to rest.
A shiver wracked her as dark memories pounded on the door to her mind. Her sister’s violent death was indelibly intertwined with the culmination of Ilda’s relationship with Casí—Casey—and the horrific fashion in which that relationship had ended. In explosions and fire, bullets and blood. “I mourned you.” She whispered the accusation, as there was no softness in her for him, not in this specific moment when she was forced to question everything she had known to be true for the past four years.
“No more than I mourned you,” but his murmured words didn’t carry the barbs hers had. “I would never have left Colombia without you, fénix .”
“Don’t call me that.” Her skin felt shrunken over her limbs, tight and itchy and not hers. Nothing about her body was hers in this moment, including her feet, which drove her toward him, to him. She stumbled as she tried to halt her forward momentum, but it was too late. His hand shot out to catch her elbow, steadying her with a callused grip that opened the floodgate to their shared past.
They both gasped at the contact.
She had known he wasn’t a simple thug from the moment they met in Pipe’s swanky box at the stadium. His eyes were too intelligent, his hands too careful, and the heat that had forever existed between them flared to life. Her nipples hardened, pressing through the cups of her bra into visible points in her navy silk blouse. Sensual, sexual need as fresh as if they had been parted only yesterday swept through her, from her tight braid to her painted
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