Cruz tapped his finger on the table. “I need to speak to Miles privately,” he said.
Karen appeared flustered. As the niece of a powerful and prominent senator, she was probably used to people doing as she asked and had expected an answer.
“All right.” She stood and looked at him with pleading eyes. “You know who I am, but I haven’t told my uncle that I was meeting with you. I will pay your fee, whatever that is.”
Cruz waited while Miles walked her out.
When he returned and sat down, Miles said, “Well? What’s your answer?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you think anyone else knows about the mistress?”
“Maybe, maybe not. She’s still alive, which means she knows nothing, or they haven’t found her yet. A few things I did learn, she never visited Dennis in jail, and she has a unique setup where she works in Miami. She works at a bookstore named The Bookish Attic, and the owner pays her under the table and rented her a room in her house. They live about ten minutes from the shop. Everything you need is in the file. We need you to get close to her and find out what she knows, and if she has that notebook. If she has it, we need you to get it.”
“A notebook? Are you shitting me?”
Miles shrugged. “I’m not judging anyone’s method of record-keeping.”
Cruz grunted and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Cruz, this is a simple job and easy money.”
“Nothing is ever simple.”
“This one should be. All you have to do is get the data. Whatever information Dennis gathered or stole, the mistress probably knows about it. Why else would she leave town so quickly?”
Cruz’s gaze was drawn to the screen again—the woman’s eyes, her smile. He scrolled through some more photos, admiring the way Shanice’s ample curves filled out her outfits, showing off a full bosom, generous hips, and thick thighs. He didn’t condone cheating, but he understood why Dennis had strayed. This was a sexy woman with a great ass.
“What about the national security angle? You believe that?” he asked.
Miles shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Cruz tapped his thumb on the surface of the table. Finally, he asked, “When do I start?”
Miles let out a sigh of relief. “Tomorrow. Your ID, a wardrobe, et cetera—everything you need for your cover—are waiting at the apartment we’re getting ready for you. Your name is Vicente Diaz, and you’re an accountant.”
“An accountant?” Cruz dragged his eyes from the screen and one of the surveillance photos showing Shanice at the grocery store examining a container of eggs.
“The investigator found an old profile for Shanice on one of those dating sites. She likes poetry and history. I think something low-key would be appropriate in this case.”
Interesting. Cruz enjoyed history and poetry, as well. He believed history was the key to understanding societal norms and firmly agreed with philosopher George Santayana’s famous quote: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Though he didn’t read a lot of poetry anymore, he appreciated the art form. His grandmother used to read poems to him as a kid. Her favorite poets included Cuban greats José Martí and Nicolás Guillén.
“What do I do if there are any…problems?”
“Do whatever you need to do,” Miles said gravely.
No one enjoyed killing, but sometimes it had to be done. Cruz had become immune to the emotional toll that would affect someone less seasoned in his line of work. In his profession, emotions were more than a nuisance. They could derail a mission and get him killed.
“And the woman, Shanice?” he asked, his stomach tightening unexpectedly.
“Whatever you need to do,” Miles repeated, his expression not wavering.
Cruz nodded. “Have Ms. Sandoval deposit that first payment in my account, and I’ll be in touch when it’s done.”
3
“There he is.”
Shanice tried not to look up when Ava made her comment in a hushed voice, but it was impossible not to.
She glanced up and saw him, walking toward the back of the bookstore. For the past week, he’d come in almost every night around the same time, an hour before the store closed at seven. He took his time browsing the shelves before coming to the front with his selections.
He was a mountain of a man. At five-nine, she often wore flats so she wouldn’t be taller than her dates, but she wouldn’t have to worry about that with this guy. She could wear heels and he’d still be taller by almost six inches. He had to be at least six foot five with a powerful build and wore glasses perched on a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. Long sleeves hid obviously muscular arms, and he was handsome in a rough, textured kind of way, exuding a quiet strength that intrigued her.
“Phew, he’s fine,” Ava whispered, fanning herself with a magazine that caused her wispy blonde hair to blow back from her face.
Although Shanice hadn’t worked at The Bookish Attic for long, Ava had been there for three years. Once Shanice started, they became friends. Ava had a good sense of humor and a great personality that meshed perfectly with Shanice’s. Both women were always glad when they were scheduled at the same time because they got along extremely well.
Despite liking Ava, Shanice didn’t share everything with her. She never told her about Dennis’s death and why she’d moved to Florida from Texas. Guilt still ravaged her when she imagined Dennis hanging in that cell, though she’d never actually seen him in that condition. Could she have done more to help him?
“I can’t argue with your assessment,” Shanice said, eyes following their customer as he browsed the poetry shelves. Pleated pants fit snug on his tight behind, and the dress shirt pulled a little across his broad back.
“I would wear him out if he ever gave me the chance,” Ava murmured.
Shanice used her ample hips to bump her skinny friend. “Stop. He’ll hear you,” she whispered.
“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Ava leaned closer. “Why don’t you make a move on him and stop drooling in silence? Do it, or I will, and I won’t hesitate to tell you all about it.”
Both women snickered and went back to taking care of the end-of-evening tasks. Shanice straightened the area behind the cash register and prepped for when their eye-catching guest came to the front to check out. Right now, he was one of only three customers in the store, and it was quiet, making this the perfect time to start closing up shop.
Fifteen minutes before closing, the last two customers were gone and Ava went onto the sales floor to straighten up and re-shelve stray books. Like clockwork, five minutes before they locked the doors, their favorite patron came forward with a thick hardcover book in hand. Shanice smiled, meeting his gaze head-on, heart racing way too fast over a man she barely knew, except for the fact that he seemed to like history and had a sexy, crooked smile. He also made her panties wet. She’d had way too many fantasies about loosening his tie and straddling his lap while she took full advantage of those succulent-looking lips.
“Found everything you’re looking for?” she asked.
“I think so.” He shoved the horn-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “You’ve really expanded your poetry selection.”