Kill Me Twice

  “Oh my God, this is so good,” she said after her first bite of a media noche. “This is heaven.”

  He took a bite of his own sandwich, enjoying watching her eat.

  “So how Cuban are you?” she asked. “Were you born in the United States?”

  “I’m as American as you are. My parents came over shortly after Castro took over the government, in 1961. They spent about eight years waiting to go home before they started a family, but they never did get home. I was born in sixty-nine, followed in rapid succession by the girls.”

  She smiled. “Yes. Four of them. I remember.”

  He swallowed the bite, then washed it down with water. “Five, actually.”

  “Five sisters?”

  “We lost Vivi as a baby.”

  “Oh.” She studied his expression. “How sad. What happened?”

  “She was born with a heart defect. She had to have emergency surgery, and died on the operating table when she was two years old.”

  “How awful for your parents. How did they handle something like that?”

  He set his sandwich down and looked at her, thinking of the dank halls in the very hospital they’d passed that afternoon in Hialeah. “My father never found out. He was in Cuba at the time. And he died there.”

  Her eyes widened. “How?”

  “He went back to San Tomás, his family’s village. He had hatched a plan to smuggle his only brother, Roberto, and his wife and children to the United States.”

  Jazz waited, her sympathetic look telling him she’d figured out the rest of the story.

  “He was killed trying to get them out. At least he didn’t have to live through the pain of losing Vivi.”

  Or the pain of a son who couldn’t keep a simple promise to look after the women. He took a deep breath, filling his nose with the familiar scents of cumin and coffee.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her eyes as soft as her voice. “Did Roberto and his family ever make it here?”

  He shook his head. “That was in the early eighties, right after the Mariel boatlift, when Castro dumped hundreds of thousands of refugees on Miami. Getting out was—and still is—difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Do you ever go there, to Cuba?”

  “Not once in all my thirty-six years.” That would certainly be pushing Lucy’s CIA-trained tolerance. “But I still hope that someday my cousins and relatives can find a way out.” In the meantime, he exceeded the limit of donations to family members by thousands and thousands of dollars every year.

  “So you were how old when your father died?” she asked. “Twelve?”

  He nodded. “With four younger sisters, who all grew up to be beautiful and wild. Not easy for me to take care of, I’ll tell you.”

  “What about your mother?” Jazz looked almost fearful that he would tell her his Mami died of a broken heart. “Didn’t she take care of them?”

  He felt the tug of a half smile. “In the Latin culture, querida, the man is in charge. No matter how young he is.” He ignored her raised eyebrows. “Of course my mother cared for us and made sure we were fed and clothed, but Cubans are patriarchal.” He took a sip of coffee. “Men make the final decisions.”

  She dropped both elbows on the table and stared at him. “You really think you can still live that way? It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”

  He shrugged. “I recognize the realities of our society, and I doubt anyone outside of our culture would understand. Anyway, it wasn’t like I asked for the job. My father died and my sisters, all younger, turned to me for protection.”

  “And how did you handle that?”

  “None of them had a date until I left for college.”

  She smiled at his deadpan, and he didn’t tell her it was only partially true. “Is that why you became a bodyguard? A passion for protection?”

  He imagined if he’d examined it closely enough, she’d be right. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Somehow my path brought me here.”

  “Where did you go to school?” she asked, sipping the espresso.

  “Notre Dame on an ROTC scholarship. Then I was in the army for six years. A Ranger.”

  “The perfect job for an alpha dog.” She studied him over the rim of her cup.

  He wanted the conversation off him. “So tell me more about Parrish.”

  “Not much to tell, really.” She raised a shoulder in disdain. “He quotes dead philosphers and votes Republican. He has his hands full with a bunch of protesters in Cincinnati right now.”

  He’d had his hands full of her leg about an hour ago. “You kissed him.”

  She looked up from her plate, a teasing glimmer in her eye. “He kissed me. Big difference.”

  A foreign sensation of envy pulled at his insides. “So how was that?”

  “Dry.” A sneaky little smile lifted her lips, that smoky invitation back in her look. “I bet you don’t kiss like that, Romero.”

  He leaned forward just enough to whisper, “If I kissed you, querida, nothing would be dry.”

  Her lips parted as she sucked in a tiny breath, moving infinitesimally closer to him. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  His gaze drifted down to her mouth, her glossy, full mouth looking way tastier than the food in front of them. She bit her lower lip enough to whiten the flesh, then let it slide free.

  “Neither.” He couldn’t resist touching that lip with the tip of his index finger. “It is just a fact.”

  A dish clanged and a howl of laughter erupted from the bar. The waitress zipped by with a sizzling platter of sweet fried plantains. But the only sense that functioned in Alex was concentrated on the tip of his finger. On the silky wetness of her lower lip.

  She opened her mouth and flicked her tongue against his skin, the sensation shooting a hot rush of blood to his loins. He slid his finger one centimeter farther. Inside. Inside.

  His whole being focused on the need to be inside of her.

  From his peripheral vision, Alex sensed a man approaching their table. In one move, he tensed, stood, and trained his steely glare to the intruder.

  “Miss Adams?” The man asked, setting a paper napkin and pen in front of her.

  “Yes?” Even in one syllable, she nailed the anchor voice.

  “My friend over there is a big fan.” He pointed to the other side of the room, where Alex saw only a sea of faces.

  Alex cleared his throat. “Miss Adams is in the middle of dinner.”

  The man gave him a wary glance, but pushed the napkin closer to Jazz. “Chill out, man. My girlfriend wants Jessica’s autograph.”

  “It’s okay,” Jazz said, picking up the pen and scribbling a great big J. “Here you go.”

  He thanked her, shot Alex a dirty look and disappeared. They finished dinner without any more discussions of how he kissed.

  But the damage had been done—now he couldn’t think of anything else but how wet he could make her, and the crushing need to be inside of her.

  As soon as the elevator door opened on the thirty-seventh floor, Alex froze and Jazz knew something was wrong. Seriously, majorly wrong.

  He looked at the floor in front of Jessica’s door, and held up one hand to silence Jazz and keep her back.

  “What’s the matter?”’

  Dark eyes flashed in warning, sending her pulse flying. “Don’t move,” he whispered, then he took a few slow steps toward the door.

  It looked utterly normal. Exactly as they’d left it. “What’s—”

  He silenced her again with a look, and produced a nine-millimeter Glock from under his jacket. What in God’s name did he see that she didn’t?

  With his toe, he lifted the corner of the green mat at the foot of the condo door. “Someone has been in there.”

  “Really?” She peered at the lock for signs of entry. “Maybe it’s Jessica. Maybe she’s home.”

  “Give me the key,” he ordered, holding his hand to her. “Wait here.”

  “Don’t you dare shoot her,” she
hissed at him, right on his heels.

  He seared her with a warning look. “Shhh.” Unlocking the door, he eased it open, revealing a condo as dark as it had been the night she’d slipped in. But they’d left lights on.

  Had Jessica come home, and gone to sleep?

  He stepped into the apartment and moved his free hand to the wall for the alarm pad, his attention directed straight ahead, along with the gun. Jazz stayed right behind him, every fiber in her being focused on the firm belief that Jessica was inside. She had to be.

  “The alarm’s still set,” he said softly, disarming it with four soft beeps.

  Of course it was set. Jessica set it. She was in the back, in her bedroom.

  Please God, let Jessica be here.

  “I’ll check the bedroom,” he said, putting his free hand out toward her. “Stay right here.”

  She started toward the kitchen.

  “Jazz.” His fingers closed around her shoulder. “You’re unarmed. Don’t move for one minute, okay?”

  She nodded in silent agreement, then he disappeared into the back bedroom. As her eyes adjusted, she scanned the room. Had she left that pillow leaning against the sofa? The armoire doors open?

  In a moment, she saw light spill from the hallway to the bedroom. “It’s clear in here,” Alex said, coming back out toward her.

  “She’s not back there?” She couldn’t help asking the question, hating that her hopes were dashed.

  “No. But someone’s been here.”

  Jazz looked around as he checked out the second bedroom and bath. Something was different, but she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. She tiptoed toward the galley kitchen, then stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s that noise?” she asked.

  Alex appeared from the second bedroom. “What—”

  “Listen. The dishwasher’s running.” A wave of sheer relief made her place both hands on her chest to laugh. “The dishwasher! Oh God, that’s my sister for you. She couldn’t stand that I left dishes in the sink.”

  He flicked on the kitchen light and they both stared at the pristine kitchen counters, and the red light on the dishwasher. Jazz gave him a victorious look as she bounded toward the humming machine. “This—” She flipped a handle and the door popped into her hand, a little burst of steam shooting up at her. “—is Jessica’s calling card.”

  She pulled the door open. Sure enough, the dishes they’d used that day were stacked inside, along with the two wineglasses that Alex had said were on the counter the night they’d arrived.

  Jazz sailed into the bedroom. It looked exactly as she’d left it—the bed a bit rumpled, some makeup strewn across the vanity of the bathroom. Wouldn’t Jessica have neatened the comforter, and put away the makeup?

  And God, why wouldn’t she leave a note?

  Alex walked to the dresser, opening a black and mother of pearl box. “Jewelry’s still here.”

  Glancing around, she searched for some definitive clue. She walked toward the closet door, which she’d left open, and flipped on the light as she strode in. Her foot hit something on the floor.

  A cell phone slid next to the laundry basket. She practically pounced on it. “That’s not my phone. Is it yours?”

  He touched his jacket pocket, the gun, she noticed, still in his right hand. “No. I have mine.”

  On her knees, Jazz opened the phone. Stabbing the on button, her heart thumped.

  “Maybe it’s Jessica’s.” She glanced into the closet, but didn’t know her sister’s wardrobe well enough to know if anything was missing. “She came home to get clothes or something, and dropped her phone.”

  The device vibrated and a beep told her she had service. She thumbed down the menu to a phone book. Alex crouched next to her to see the screen.

  “I’m accessing the call history to figure out the number to this phone and trace it to find the owner.” A bright screen flashed with a web ID, and the readout blinked. Welcome jadams0418. You have no new messages.

  “J Adams oh four one eight?” Alex said. “Is that you or her?”

  She looked up at him. “That’s our birthday and her e-mail.” Jessica had been here…and left. Why wouldn’t she wait or at least leave her a note? “This is Jessica’s phone. She was definitely here.”

  He looked around the room, and at the phone. “Not like her to drop something, is it?”

  No, it wasn’t. “But what other explanation is there?

  “That the phone was there all along and you didn’t see it?” he suggested.

  She jerked as the phone screamed a digital melody. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “Someone’s calling her.”

  She tried to hit talk but then realized it was a text message that had been sent while the phone had been turned off. She pressed a series of buttons to retrieve the message.

  jazz don’t stop cvr 4 me pls pls pls so impt J

  They always signed e-mails to each other “J”.

  “She’s fine,” Jazz announced as the pieces fell into place. “She realized that she left her phone here and is letting me know.”

  “Where did the call come from?” Alex asked.

  She thumbed through the calling history, but the message had been generated by a blocked phone number. “I can’t figure that out.”

  “So why wouldn’t she just call you on your cell? And how is she getting around? Her keys were in her car, remember?”

  “She didn’t call me because she didn’t have her phone, and this was turned off until one second ago,” she said, holding it out as though it were evidence. “She left this message over an hour ago. She has another set of keys—you said yourself the alarm had been reset. And we discussed switching cars a few days ago. She said hers would be too noticeable for what she was doing.”

  “Which was what?”

  “I don’t know, Alex.” Frustration made her voice crack. “But that’s why I rented that Taurus. She must have rented her own car.” This had to be the explanation. “She was here tonight; no one else could get past the guard. You’re being overprotective. I understand that’s your job, but you have to understand how important this is.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t. I can’t believe you would risk your sister’s life.”

  She blew out a ragged breath. How could she explain this to someone who didn’t know her? After a lifetime of being one step behind Jessica, of being the one who always needed a little rescuing, a little reminder, a little cover for a big mistake…Jessica needed her.

  “If I buckle and come clean to her boss, I blow this story for her.” She shook her head and looked at him. “For once, I don’t want to be the twin who takes the easy way out.” The one who slept in, missed deadlines, forgot Mom’s birthday, and couldn’t be depended upon. “For once, I want to be the capable twin.”

  “What if she’s in some kind of danger? Then you’ll be the stupid twin.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “The evidence isn’t compelling. All you have is a couple of cheesy letters from a fan, and a horny boyfriend who hired a bodyguard to impress Jessica. And she’s sent me two messages now.”

  “I see it differently.” He stood slowly, his gaze unwavering. “She asks you to fly to Miami, arranges to meet you here for dinner and never shows, never calls you and never leaves a voice message. We find her keys in the car and her cell phone on the floor. A woman who all but has her underwear alphabetized. I think the evidence is extremely compelling that she could be in trouble.”

  Jazz shook her head. “Jessica doesn’t get in trouble. You just have an overactive imagination.”

  “There’s a security camera in the hall.” He reached for her hand. “First thing tomorrow, I’m looking at the tapes.”

  “Okay.” She stood without assistance. “And if Jessica did come in here, will you back off then? Please?”

  “I’ll have to alert Lucy.”

  Lucy? I hate you, Lucy. She could still hear the tone of his voice, the resignation and dry humor. “Who’s that?”

  “My boss,
Lucy Sharpe.”

  He’d said it, she remembered with a morsel of shame, when she’d sleepily presented him her body that morning. Well, lucky Lucy. “Okay. You tell your boss and then you’ll leave, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  She slammed her hands on her hips. “Why not? Jessica’s not here, and you’re not here to watch me. I’m not your principal.”

  “Unfortunately, at the moment, you are.”

  “Unfortunately?” She choked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His lips tilted upward just enough to soften the dark warning in his eyes. He placed a single finger on her mouth and skimmed her lower lip with a feather touch, sending a flash of heat lightning through her as he had in the restaurant. “If you weren’t my principal, querida, I would take you up on your offer.”

  She swallowed and leaned out of his touch. “I haven’t offered anything.”

  His half-grin was slow and teasing. “Must be my overactive imagination.”

  He turned and left her standing with his touch still on her lips.

  Something snapped.

  Alex was out of bed and at the doorway to the living room within a second. The light of the television flickered, revealing a female form standing in front of the armoire pointing a remote control.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  He heard Jazz’s exasperated sigh. “Watching television. Is that okay? I’m a night owl.” As the picture came on, he could see she wore some kind of thin cotton T-shirt and dark underwear. And nothing else.

  Turning toward him, she caught him staring at her bare legs. “All that diesel fuel you call coffee didn’t help, either.”

  He moved into the room. “What are you watching?”

  She pulled out a drawer below the TV. “I was hoping to find a movie in Jessica’s collection.”

  “I’ll watch with you.”

  Her glare raked his bare chest and sleep pants. “That’s okay. I feel pretty safe out here.”

  “Sorry. Those are the rules. I can’t sleep if you don’t.” He approached the open drawer. “What are you looking for? Romance? Comedy?”

  “I prefer some dead bodies and action—Bruce Willis or Denzel Washington. How about you?”