Mia stood in the doorway while Joaquin led Elena onto a bit of open wood floor to cheers from their relatives.
“Quino taught Elena to dance when she was only four and he was fourteen,” said a woman standing beside Mia.
So, Joaquin was thirty-four—three years older than Mia.
Not that it mattered or meant anything at all.
“He’s a photographer,” the woman said. “He’s the artist of the family. I’m Isabel, his mother.”
“Nice to meet you.” Mia really ought to head home, but having seen him dance once tonight, she couldn’t get herself to move toward the door.
He and Elena stood there debating something in Spanish.
Isabel leaned close to Mia. “My son wants salsa dura—the classic salsa—but Elena wants salsa romantica. They’ve agreed on Marc Anthony.”
None of that meant anything to Mia. She knew nothing about salsa, apart from the kind that went on tacos.
Finally, the music started and Joaquin and Elena began to move. People cheered, the noise bringing people who’d been in other parts of the house and wanted to watch, too. They pushed past Mia, but she barely noticed them, her gaze fixed on Joaquin.
He moved with natural grace, every step, every motion of his hips, even the way he held Elena radiating masculine sensuality. The two of them seemed to be connected, mirroring each other with their steps as if they practiced this together all the time. Elena—down-to-business Corporal Ramirez—had transformed into a dance goddess, her short dress barely enough to cover her butt. She twirled and tossed her hair, never missing a step, a bright smile on her face. How could anyone dance like that in three-inch heels? Mia could barely walk.
Then Elena turned in Joaquin’s arms, thrusting her ass backward toward him, her hips moving in a way that was blatantly sexual. He laughed, answering with thrusts of his own, their hips grinding in sync.
Whistles. Cheers.
Mia’s pulse skipped.
If she had danced like this with a cousin… Well, let’s just say her conservative Baptist parents would’ve asked questions. But there was Elena’s mother, Aleta, and Joaquin’s mother, Isabel, and their little old grandma, laughing, their feet moving to the rhythm. None of them seemed bothered by this at all.
Then another thought struck Mia.
If Joaquin moved like that on the dance floor, what would he be like in bed?
God in heaven.
No. No, no. She couldn’t think about that.
She couldn’t help but think about that.
Elena had begun to sing along to the music, even her ribcage undulating as she turned in his arms once again, their feet keeping a perfect rhythm as they moved around the room. Although Elena was the showier of the two of them, Mia could tell it was Joaquin who was in control, his dominance clear—a touch here, his hand catching Elena’s there, his arms supporting her while she arched backward.
More cheers.
When the song ended, the room exploded into applause.
Joaquin hugged Elena close. “Welcome home, prima.”
“Joaquin is a good man,” Isabel said.
Mia looked over to find the older woman watching her. “I … um…”
Then Joaquin was there, hand out. “Dance with me.”
Mia shook her head. “I … I can’t dance. I’ve never—”
“Quino is the best teacher.” Elena looked at Mia, expectation on her face.
“Come on, Captain Starr,” Isabel said. “Give it a try.”
Her words were picked up by the others in the room.
“At least try it.”
“Quino can teach you.”
“You can do it, Captain.”
She glanced around at them. “Only if you all promise not to laugh.”
For some reason, they found this funny.
Joaquin looked into her eyes, the intensity of his gaze pinning her to the spot. “I won’t laugh. I promise.”
Against her better judgment, Mia took his hand. “I’m warning you. I’m probably no good at this.”
“The basic step is easy. Elena, come show her.”
Elena walked over to stand at Mia’s right side. “Just listen to Quino.”
“Step back with your right, step in place with the left, then step slightly forward with your right again. Then back with your left, step in place with the right foot, slightly forward with the left. Rock back, replace, step forward. Rock back, replace, step forward. That’s it. You’ve got it.”
They repeated that several times, Mia watching Elena’s feet.
“Now, try doing it without looking at your feet. Look at me, and follow my lead.”
Mia looked into Joaquin’s brown eyes, felt her pulse spike—and her step faltered.
“Relax,” he said in a silky voice that made relaxing impossible.
“I’d rather be taking enemy fire.” She blurted the words—but it was the truth.
The room exploded into laughter—and somehow that helped. No one here wanted to humiliate her. No one wanted to embarrass her. They were just having fun, and they wanted her to have fun, too.
“It will be easier for you to follow if we’re a little closer together.” Joaquin drew her closer—not so close that their bodies touched, but close enough that she could feel the warmth emanating from him and smell his skin.
She inhaled deeper, savoring the scent of him, the male feel of him.
“Let’s try again. One, two, three, rest. Five, six, seven, rest. You’ve got it. You’re doing it. Now let’s try turning.”
The next time she stepped back with her right foot, Joaquin turned her to the right—and she lost the step.
That’s okay. This is new. You’ll get the hang of it.” Joaquin coached her until she’d managed to get through a few turns, not once losing his patience with her. “Let’s try it with music.”
Someone put on the same Marc Anthony song, Joaquin counting out the rhythm for her. “One, two, three, rest. Five, six, seven, rest. Look at me, not your feet.”
To her surprise, Mia found herself dancing, the rhythm of the music showing her feet what to do. At first, they moved forward and backward. Then Joaquin led her through a few turns, putting a hand on her hip to guide her. The contact startled her, his touch seeming to burn through the fabric of her dress. Again, her step faltered.
“Hey, no one gets it right the first time,” he said. “Just keep dancing.”
Mia tried to concentrate. One, two, three, rest. Five, six, seven, rest.
“You’re overthinking it. Let go.”
She gave in, looked into his eyes once more, the rhythm taking over.
“You’ve got it.” Joaquin grinned, his face stunningly handsome.
Mia found herself smiling, too. She knew she must look stiff and awkward, especially compared to Elena, but she didn’t care. “This is fun!”
“More fun than dodging incoming fire?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes.”
Too soon the song ended.
Cheers and applause.
Joaquin stepped back, raised one of her hands to his lips, kissed it, the contact alarming. “Thanks.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Thank you.”
All at once, Mia needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else. “I should go.”
“So soon?” Elena looked disappointed. “It’s not even ten.”
“I’m an early riser, so this is late for me.” Mia gave Elena another hug. “It’s great to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you, too. Thanks for coming. I’ll get your coat.”
Mia thanked her hosts, accepting hugs from Elena’s mother and a kiss on her cheek from Elena’s father.
“Thank you so much for what you did for our daughter.”
When Elena returned with Mia’s coat, Joaquin took it and helped Mia into it. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
She was about to tell him there was no need for that, but the look in his eyes said that would be pointless. “Goodnigh
t, Elena. Welcome home.”
Joaquin grabbed his jacket and followed her outside, and for a time they walked without speaking. He broke the silence. “Thanks again for coming tonight. I know it meant a lot to Elena.”
“I try to stay in touch with all of my soldiers. Well, they’re not really my soldiers, not anymore.”
“Like Andrew Meyer.”
“Yes.” Mia’s mood plummeted.
“I’m really sorry about your friend—and the news article.”
“You just have a job to do. Nothing personal, right?” Mia clicked the fob on her keychain, unlocking her car door, her headlights flashing.
Was she being unfair to Joaquin? It was his job. And she was a person of interest—at least at the moment. The police would clear her.
He opened the door for her. “I hope you get good news soon.”
“Thanks.” She stood there for a moment, caught between anger and attraction. “Thanks for the dance lesson, too.”
“My pleasure.” He waited for her to climb in and shut her door.
As she drove down the street, she saw in the rearview mirror that he was still standing there, watching her.
3
Joaquin got to work Monday morning to find Sophie Alton-Hunter, one of the I-Team’s best reporters, at her desk in tears, Alex Carmichael sitting beside her, trying to comfort her, the two of them speaking quietly.
Matt Harker met Joaquin at his desk. “I think the Christmas party might have turned Carmichael into a human being.”
“Yeah?” That was a strange thought.
Then again, it had been one hell of a party.
Sophie had been struggling since then, and no one who’d been there could blame her. The terrorist leader—that hijueputa Moreno—had held a pistol to her head, threatening to kill her unless her husband turned himself over to his men to be murdered. Marc Hunter, a SWAT officer and certified badass, had put down his weapon and given himself up to save her life.
“It’s going to be okay, Sophie. You’ll be okay.”
“I love you, Hunt. I am so proud of the man you are. Chase and Addy are going to grow up so proud of their father.”
“You’re everything to me.”
Joaquin didn’t think he would ever forget Sophie and Marc saying goodbye to each other before Moreno’s men dragged Hunter away—or the shattered expression on Sophie’s face at the gunshot that had followed.
A person didn’t just get over something like that.
Joaquin put his camera bag down and booted up his computer, then made his way over to Sophie’s desk. He bent down beside her. “Hey, are you okay?”
She shook her head, sniffed, the strawberry blond hair she usually braided hanging loose. “Not really. I can’t sleep at night. When I do, I have nightmares.”
“I think we’ve all had nightmares.” Joaquin certainly had.
Sophie went on. “I feel sick all day, like something terrible is about to happen. I can’t focus. I’m going to ask Tom for a leave of absence.”
Joaquin met Alex’s gaze, saw that Alex was as surprised as he was. Sophie was a consummate journalist. She’d been on the I-Team longer than the rest of them. But maybe that was part of it. A person could only take so much.
Joaquin nodded. “That’s good. You need to take care of yourself and your kids.”
“Do you think Tom will get angry? Kat is on maternity leave for another few weeks, so you’ll be understaffed.”
Kat James, who’d had a baby in the middle of the terrorist stand-off last month, job-shared with Sophie, but she was recovering at her family’s home on the Navajo reservation with her husband Gabe Rossiter right now.
Carmichael gave a snort. “Who gives a shit what Tom thinks?”
“Don’t worry about Tom, and don’t worry about us. We’ll manage. Your job will be waiting for you when you’re ready to come back.”
“You think so?” Sophie looked at Joaquin, shadows in her eyes, dark circles beneath them. “You think Tom will let me come back?”
Joaquin rested a hand on hers, found that she was shaking. “Of course, he will. You’re one of the best, and he knows it.”
“If he doesn’t, he’s a fucking idiot,” Carmichael said.
Behind them, Tom’s office door opened, and Cate stepped out. There hadn’t been any shouting, and Cate didn’t look like Tom had raked her over the coals.
A good start to the day.
Tom was as big as a bear and had the disposition of a junkyard dog. “I-Team meeting now. Deadline is six hours away, people.”
Tom Trent was a pendejo—no doubt about it—but he was also an old-school journalist who worked as hard as his reporters. Joaquin respected him and his editorial judgment, even if he didn’t like the way Tom treated the staff.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” Joaquin gave her hand a squeeze. “You just tell Tom how it is, and we’ll be right there.”
“We’ve got your back,” Alex said.
Yeah, Alex was a different guy since the party. Weren’t they all?
Joaquin walked back to his desk, grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, and followed the other I-Team members down the hallway toward the conference room. He took a seat at the table, his gaze on Sophie, who had managed to stop her tears but was visibly upset.
“Alton,” said Tom, ignoring her hyphenated married name. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
“I’m going to take a leave of absence.” Sophie’s voice quavered. “I am not able to function the way I should here at work. I can barely keep things together at home. I need to focus on my health and my family.”
Tom frowned, tapped his notepad with a pencil. “I’m sorry to hear this. You’ve worked long and hard for this newspaper, and we’ll stand by you.”
Joaquin stared, wondering whether the man sitting at the end of the conference table was, in fact, Tom Trent. He glanced over at Harker and Carmichael and saw surprise on their faces, too.
“When were you thinking of starting your leave?”
“Today.” Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t imagine I’ll be ready to come back for a while.”
Tom nodded. “You and I will head down to HR after the meeting and see what we can work out.”
“Thank you.” Sophie seemed to melt with relief.
Tom turned to Cate. “Warner, you’re in the hot seat.”
Cate sat up straight. “I’m doing a follow-up piece on Andrew Meyer, the missing man from Aurora. Police found bullet holes in his shower stall and shell casings but no body. They pulled out some slugs, but they’re not saying what caliber they are. There’s one person of interest in the case—a woman who was the last person to see this guy. The neighbor said he heard some kind of argument. She was Meyer’s executive officer when he was in the Army. Police are looking into her. I thought I’d pull her military record and that of the missing guy and see if anything pops.”
Joaquin’s body tensed. “Have the police been able to verify her story yet—where she was and when?”
Cate shook her head. “I’ll ask about that again today.”
“Any chance you can get an interview with the woman?” Tom asked.
“I tried. She hung up on me.”
Joaquin didn’t mention that he’d spoken with Mia last night or that his cousin had served with her. He knew they would push him to get an interview with her or to meet with her himself. He couldn’t say why exactly, but he was certain she hadn’t killed anyone. Part of it was the way she’d acted when she’d arrived on the scene Friday night. Part of it was the fact that she was too brutally honest to make much of a liar.
You’re attracted to her.
Yeah, he was.
His cousin David had said Mia was too skinny for his tastes, but Joaquin was intrigued by her. Her delicate face. Her willowy figure. Those expressive eyes. The vulnerability she kept hidden beneath that controlled exterior. He’d seen it when he’d looked at her through his lens, and his camera never lied.
Tom mo
ved on. “Harker, what’s going on at City Hall?”
Mia sat in the greenhouse reviewing internship applications and ranking them in order from most promising to please, God, no. She didn’t make the hiring decisions—she was the newest member of the horticultural staff—but she appreciated being given a voice in the selection process. If only she could concentrate.
Instead of seeing the words on the page, she saw Joaquin. Joaquin smiling as he tried to teach her the steps to salsa. Joaquin dancing with Elena, his body moving in a way that made Mia’s thoughts go all X-rated. Joaquin’s dark eyes looking into hers. His naked body moving over hers. His bare chest beneath her palms.
Yeah, like that was going to happen.
Get your mind back on the job.
Right. Internship applications.
This applicant had almost completed her coursework at Colorado State University and was most interested in the research side of things—tissue cultivation, the propagation of rare and endangered species. Would she be open to weeding and shoveling compost in the hot summer sun?
The next one had three years’ experience working in community-supported agriculture and wanted to be a part of the community gardening program. That seemed like a better fit.
Kevin, Mia’s boss, stepped inside the greenhouse. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.” She set the applications aside.
Kevin sat on a stool across from her, his expression telling her something was up. “I saw the piece in the Denver Independent about that man’s disappearance and read that you’re a person of interest in that case.”
Fantastic.
“Yes.”
“This morning, human resources got a call from the Denver Police Department asking for your employment information—how long you’d worked here, whether you had a good record with us and so on. They wanted access to phone records from your work phone if you had one—which you don’t. They also wanted to know if you drove a company vehicle or were authorized to use the wood chipper, the bobcat, or any other large equipment.”
“Why would they want to know that?” The moment she asked the question, the answer hit her. “Oh, for God’s sake. Seriously?”