His fingers twitched. Damn. This was the closest he’d ever come to touching one.
Back in Texas, he’d taken up mechanic work to pass the time between vigilante jobs. He’d learned the trade. Self-taught. Motorcycles mostly. But he’d always had a deep appreciation for fast cars.
More Ferraris and Lambos filled his view, forming a glimmering, drool-worthy panorama of rolling works of art. Every hypercar here was worth over a million dollars. Some valued at three to four mil. Whoever owned this collection was a car enthusiast, someone who shared his obsession and had the money to buy the rarest, most expensive models in the world.
There would be other guests on the property, slave buyers like him. But they would’ve been escorted here in the limo, wearing hoods. These cars belonged to someone who could come and go freely.
“If you’re good with a stick, my brother will let you test drive one of his toys around the property.”
The sultry feminine voice turned his head. The click of approaching heels drew his gaze. Long, shapely legs hewed his breath. Sun-kissed skin for miles.
His insides drew taut as he took in the sinuous lines of hips in the simple black dress. Early twenties, brown eyes, black hair, slender build, golden complexion. Exquisite.
She stepped right up to him, too fucking close for someone he didn’t know, and dragged red-painted fingernails along the curve of his bicep. He dug through a swirl of potent perfume and male arousal and found his brain.
“Your brother owns these cars?” Prying her off his arm, he set her away. “Who is he?”
“Marco La Rocha.”
The eldest son. Of course.
According to Hector, he’d fathered four sons and one daughter. While in prison, Tula Gomez saw the paternity test that confirmed her unsavory bloodline. Hector La Rocha was her father. Gomez was her mother’s surname.
So who was this woman?
Dread sloshed through his veins.
“Welcome to Casa de La Rocha, John Smith,” she said with a sensual, south-of-the-border accent. Then she drifted back into his space and hooked an arm around his elbow, turning him toward the main entrance. “Except we both know that’s not your real name, handsome. Perhaps that’s what I’ll call you. Handsome.”
“What do I call you?”
“I… I think…” She touched her chin to her shoulder, peering up at him with a coy smile. “When you turn those arresting green eyes on me, you can call me whatever you want.” She cleared her throat and looked away, guiding him forward. “To everyone else, I’m Vera. Vera Gomez.”
Fuck.
It was no secret that Luke loved women. Graceful legs, voluptuous asses, small tits, pouty lips, skinny, curvy, tall, and petite… He appreciated all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. But more than that, he admired the female inner strength. The stronger her mind and spirit, the more he wanted her.
Lucky for him, women gravitated to him. Because he had a handsome face? A full head of auburn hair? Those were the only good things he’d inherited from the addicts who’d brought him into this world.
Years of dedication in the gym lent him a honed physique and the stamina of a horse. But he lived a dangerous life, had a deplorable past, a crass disposition, and he didn’t know a damn thing about relationships. Unless it involved his voracious libido.
Yeah, that was what he had to offer.
Sex.
Orgasms.
Hours of unadulterated, mutually satisfying pleasure.
He could coax an explosive release from anyone, anywhere, anytime, with only his mouth. A skill that had been ruthlessly enforced upon all Van Quiso’s captives.
But Luke wasn’t here to worship the sexy minx on his arm.
He was going to destroy her.
That made him the best man for this operation. He could separate sentiment from logic, extinguish every ounce of compassion, and get his hands dirty without losing focus.
By the end of this, his hands would be covered in blood.
Vera Gomez’s blood.
She wasn’t enslaved. She wasn’t chained in a cage, beaten into submission, and awaiting an unspeakable fate. Her confident steps escorted him into the yawning foyer, her painted lips curving into a soft smile.
What was her purpose here? Hostess? Liaison? Kinky party planner? Did she fuck the guests? Or hold down the victims while they were violated and abused?
Glancing over his shoulder, he exchanged a look with Tomas. On the surface, his friend wore the unflinching, alert demeanor of a bodyguard. That alertness was real. While Luke played the megalomaniac pervert role with the cartel, Tomas would discreetly scope out the lay of the land.
On Tula’s last day in Jaulaso Prison, a dying inmate had choked out, C-C-Calaaa. An attempt to tell her where to find her sister. Now, six months later, Luke was in California with Vera literally in his grasp. But where in California was he exactly?
Beyond the open windows, acres of land stretched out in every direction. At the farthest perimeter, a fortification of walls enclosed the compound, providing protection against the cartel’s enemies. It also prevented guests on the inside from identifying any landmarks around them.
What was out there? Desert? Suburbia? One of the edge cities in Orange County?
It was Tomas’ job to find out, as well as gather intel on the cartel’s security guards, weapons, and technology. Once he uncovered something useful, they faced the task of transmitting it to the Freedom Fighters, who waited on standby in Orange County. Their friends would come, armed to the teeth, the moment they knew the location.
Tomas’ expression didn’t confess their agenda. Nor did it show his outrage at seeing Vera Gomez greeting them with a smile. Tula had been so certain her sister wasn’t involved. Even now, Luke didn’t want to believe what was right in front of him.
He planted his shoes on the tile, bringing Vera to an abrupt halt. Startled, she whirled on him, her mouth opening to speak. He didn’t give a fuck what she had to say.
Knocking her hand off his arm, he grabbed her throat and yanked her against him. The force of his strength caused her to wobble in the heels.
Two men stepped forward, reaching for hidden weapons. She held out a hand, staying them, and he used that opportunity to angle her neck and put her left ear near his mouth.
“Never,” he breathed, cold and calculated, “ever touch me without my permission.”
At odds with his cruel tone, he tenderly curled her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. A gesture meant to confuse her as he imperceptibly exposed the skin behind her earlobe.
And there it was, exactly where Tula said it would be. A small black flower tattoo.
Fucking fuck.
The proof of her identity sank into his bones like burning ash. Disgusted, he stepped away, strolling ahead without waiting.
The click of her heels sounded, giving chase.
“Your rooms are this way.” She passed him, veering right, shoulders back, and chin raised. No eye contact. Probably because she couldn’t hide that butthurt look in her pinched expression. Good.
She guided him through arched doorways designed to let breezes flow through the estate. High ceilings added to the open-air concept, but his stifling unease didn’t abate.
Voices drifted from unseen rooms. Deep rumbles. Feminine titters. Sounds of flirtation and foreplay. He hardened himself against it, bracing for the hours and days to come.