of her dress, now torn and bloodied, but still caressing curves that Yizenia couldn’t help but admire. That shapely body had provided quite the challenge. If she didn’t have this role to play, Yizenia guessed she’d be back in her apartment with ice packs and painkillers.
“Excuse me?” she asked again.
This time, Marisela skewered her with a suspicious, wary glare. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Marisela stood up straighter and dropped her crossed arms to her side. Always ready for a fight, this one. Perpetually prepared to defend herself. Could she do the same for others, especially those who no longer had the capacity to defend themselves?
“You look pretty beat up,” Yizenia commented. She’d taught this young one a valuable, painful lesson about underestimating an opponent. Could she teach her more?
Marisela returned to her defensive stance—arms crossed, scowl steady, eyes trained on the door across from her, one foot braced on the wall behind her in case she needed to launch herself into the line of fire. “I’m fine.”
Yizenia pointed to a slash of blood marring the girl’s face.
Marisela slapped her hand aside.
Taking on the persona of a strong-willed nurse, Yizenia fisted her hands on her hips. “Your lip is bleeding.”
Marisela gracelessly swiped at the blood coagulating at the corner of her mouth. “It’s just blood.”
Yizenia glanced at the door Marisela seemed so intent on watching. The congressman had been moved there not twenty minutes ago, and through the slit of a window, she could see a large man blocking the only way in and out of the windowless room. One guard inside. And clearly, one guard outside.
“A little ointment could keep away an infection,” Yizenia said brightly, returning her attention to Marisela. “Why don’t I take you down to emergency…”
The wild, trapped look in Marisela’s deep brown eyes caught Yizenia off guard. Interesting. The young woman was brazen and bold, but she had the good sense to experience fear. Fear of medical treatment wasn’t exactly on the top of Yizenia’s list of acceptable phobias, but she figured the kid had her reasons.
“Look, I’m going to be fine. I just gotta wait for my boss and then I’m out of here. Two minutes with a first aid kit and I’ll be good to go.”
Ah, her boss. Yizenia had experienced an odd little thrill when she’d seen Ian Blake standing guard outside Congressman Bennett’s operating room. The man had been a more than adequate lover even when drunk beyond reason. She could only imagine the sensual skill he’d display when stone-cold sober. Too bad she’d likely never have a chance to find out.
She doubted he’d recognize her again, even without her disguise. He likely wanted to forget the entire incident. In the throes of bourbon-induced delirium, he’d called out Marisela Morales’s name, and the knowledge that Ian wanted his new agent had nurtured an idea.
An idea sparked by Ian’s sister, Brynn, who had also mentioned the Cuban-American agent in passing, during Yizenia’s biannual rendezvous with Titan’s chief executive in Barcelona for tapas at the little bar overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
It was fate. A young woman half a world away, a young woman who was strikingly familiar. Marisela and Yizenia shared similar tattoos, both imprinted on the inside of their wrists. They both possessed the will and skill to fight hand-to-hand, a talent usually reserved for men. And both of them had blood spawned in Yizenia’s native Spain. Who was she to ignore what higher powers were forcing her to see?
The torch could be passed.
She’d once considered tapping Brynn to take her place, but Brynn was well past thirty, set in her ways, already seduced by the power of running Titan. Yizenia needed someone fresh. Someone she could mold into a crusader.
Someone like Marisela Morales.
Pretending to bow to Marisela’s desire to be left alone, Yizenia wandered over to the nurse’s station.
“Excuse me?” she asked again.
This time, Marisela skewered her with a suspicious, wary glare. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Marisela stood up straighter and dropped her crossed arms to her side. Always ready for a fight, this one. Perpetually prepared to defend herself. Could she do the same for others, especially those who no longer had the capacity to defend themselves?
“You look pretty beat up,” Yizenia commented. She’d taught this young one a valuable, painful lesson about underestimating an opponent. Could she teach her more?
Marisela returned to her defensive stance—arms crossed, scowl steady, eyes trained on the door across from her, one foot braced on the wall behind her in case she needed to launch herself into the line of fire. “I’m fine.”
Yizenia pointed to a slash of blood marring the girl’s face.
Marisela slapped her hand aside.
Taking on the persona of a strong-willed nurse, Yizenia fisted her hands on her hips. “Your lip is bleeding.”
Marisela gracelessly swiped at the blood coagulating at the corner of her mouth. “It’s just blood.”
Yizenia glanced at the door Marisela seemed so intent on watching. The congressman had been moved there not twenty minutes ago, and through the slit of a window, she could see a large man blocking the only way in and out of the windowless room. One guard inside. And clearly, one guard outside.
“A little ointment could keep away an infection,” Yizenia said brightly, returning her attention to Marisela. “Why don’t I take you down to emergency…”
The wild, trapped look in Marisela’s deep brown eyes caught Yizenia off guard. Interesting. The young woman was brazen and bold, but she had the good sense to experience fear. Fear of medical treatment wasn’t exactly on the top of Yizenia’s list of acceptable phobias, but she figured the kid had her reasons.
“Look, I’m going to be fine. I just gotta wait for my boss and then I’m out of here. Two minutes with a first aid kit and I’ll be good to go.”
Ah, her boss. Yizenia had experienced an odd little thrill when she’d seen Ian Blake standing guard outside Congressman Bennett’s operating room. The man had been a more than adequate lover even when drunk beyond reason. She could only imagine the sensual skill he’d display when stone-cold sober. Too bad she’d likely never have a chance to find out.
She doubted he’d recognize her again, even without her disguise. He likely wanted to forget the entire incident. In the throes of bourbon-induced delirium, he’d called out Marisela Morales’s name, and the knowledge that Ian wanted his new agent had nurtured an idea.
An idea sparked by Ian’s sister, Brynn, who had also mentioned the Cuban-American agent in passing, during Yizenia’s biannual rendezvous with Titan’s chief executive in Barcelona for tapas at the little bar overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
It was fate. A young woman half a world away, a young woman who was strikingly familiar. Marisela and Yizenia shared similar tattoos, both imprinted on the inside of their wrists. They both possessed the will and skill to fight hand-to-hand, a talent usually reserved for men. And both of them had blood spawned in Yizenia’s native Spain. Who was she to ignore what higher powers were forcing her to see?
The torch could be passed.
She’d once considered tapping Brynn to take her place, but Brynn was well past thirty, set in her ways, already seduced by the power of running Titan. Yizenia needed someone fresh. Someone she could mold into a crusader.
Someone like Marisela Morales.
Pretending to bow to Marisela’s desire to be left alone, Yizenia wandered over to the nurse’s station.
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