Filthy Secret

CLAIMING HIS PRIZE

LUPITA

There’s something about a man in a suit. The way it shows the breadth of his shoulders. The classic lines. The fact it screams he doesn’t belong.

The man’s body fills the doorway, the top of his head going right past the metal screen on the front door. His eyes are so dark, I could lose myself in them. And his attention is squarely on me, sitting heavily on my chest then sinking through me slowly until I have to fight an insane urge to take a step back.

I clear my throat, praying my voice won’t break. “May-may I help you?”

Cool and collected, he replies, “I’m looking for Jorge Torres.”

Something about the smooth, hard edge of his voice has me curling my fingers around the unadorned handle on my side of the security door. Dad’s going to have a fit. I’m alone at the house right now, and I shouldn’t have answered the door without checking through the peephole first.

Would I have opened the door after seeing him standing there? Yes, yes I would. Not that there’s anything I can do about it now. “May I have your name?”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze lowering to my cheek before coming back to my eyes. “Roman de Marco.”

The words flow over me, velvety and pleasing, sending a shot of something unfamiliar down my body. There’s a distinct note in his voice, as if the name should mean something. As if I’m missing something by not knowing him. We’re in a rural part of South Texas, where everyone knows too much about each other. Yet I’ve never heard of him, and he certainly doesn’t look like he’s local.

“May I take a message?” It’s the only way I can think of to avoid saying Dad’s not around. I glance toward the well-worn drive. Where is he? The rice I fixed is sitting on the stove’s back burner, getting cold.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“I was told he’d be in at this hour.” Roman checks his watch, a dark face on a black leather band straddling a solid wrist.

Of course you were. I manage not to make a face. Why would someone give that kind of information to a stranger? He may not mean any harm, but, as Mom likes to say, one can never know what’s in someone else’s heart. “He’s on his way in.”

“I can wait if I need to.” He sticks his hand into the pocket of his pants. Pants? Slacks? Trousers? What do you call the bottom half of a suit? Heat rushes across my cheeks. This is what it’s like to have someone who’s really country meet someone who’s from a big city. The only thing Dad has that comes close to being formal is what he uses for weddings and funerals. I don’t have to shop for suits to know what this man’s wearing, even without the leather shoes, is more expensive than everything Dad owns combined.

The sound of an engine draws our attention to the long driveway. Dad’s heading in with Mom sitting in the passenger seat.

ROMAN

The girl looks into the distance, apprehension clearly visible on her pretty face. I follow her gaze to the battered old truck racing down the dirt path in our direction. Even from where I’m standing, the man

behind the wheel doesn’t look happy.

He slams on the brakes, increasing the cloud of dust coming in behind them. I turn my face away to avoid a mouthful of dirt.

It’s a smart plan. The layer of grit ends up covering the visitor’s face, impeding his view while he tosses the door open with a loud crack. “Lupita, go inside,” he barks, without sparing her a look. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her step back, disappearing into the house. The waitress at the cafe in town mentioned Jorge could be an asshole, so this isn’t exactly unexpected.

He stares up at me with a sour expression, his hand hovering close to the holster riding low on his hip. I’d heard Texas could be like the Wild West, but this is too much.

“What are you doing on my land?” he asks without bothering with an introduction.

I smile inwardly. If this idiot knew anything about me, he’d realize this isn’t a good thing. But I can read people well enough to know this visit is a waste of time. Then again, it’s why I scheduled this stop first, so I could get it out of the way. The quicker I’m done, the quicker I’m out of this two-bit town and back to the city.

“I’m Roman de Marco.” I forgo a handshake but change my tactic, choosing to go with a secondary offer. “I understand you may consider selling or leasing out for a time.”

He frowns, the color of his face turning dark. “Who the hell told you that?”

“The agent we hired to survey the area suggested several properties, including yours.”

His gaze runs down my chest, taking in my suit, then returns to my face with disapproval. “You don’t look like no rancher I’ve ever seen.”

No, that would be a hell of a stretch. “My family’s interested in more of a real estate venture.”

He lifts his chin. “Ah. You’ve come to the wrong place, mister,” he ends in a solemn tone.

I’m at the exact place our contact said was the most favorable for crossing, thanks to a bend in the Rio Grande. I can’t help but goad him. “So you haven’t been having problems on your land?”

The mask slips for a moment, and I’m able to see how truly tired he is. Then he catches himself and narrows his eyes. “I don’t need you or your administrator poking around my business.” He juts out his chin, aiming it at my rental. “You can get in your fancy car and get the hell off my land.”

Fancy? I hardly think so. I could point out the issues he’s having with contraband, the fact it’s going to escalate, the money he’s going to lose, and the danger he’s bringing to his doorstep. But I don’t. It’s his life, his decision, his consequences. His and his alone.

Still, I find myself saying, “I’m staying at the Allende until the end of the week, in case you change your mind.” “I won’t,” he snaps.

I glance toward the truck, nodding once toward his wife before I turn and head to the car. Footsteps echo from inside the old house. Lupita. She was waiting. Interesting.