Automatic Proposal

The last call was from Carmen Lopez, whose wedding was the following week. Julia smiled when she heard her say, “I hate to be a bother, but…” Carmen was a sweet woman who apologized with every other breath.

“My brother will be in your area this afternoon. I told him it would be okay if he stopped in for his fitting around three. If that’s a problem, you can call his cell phone.” Julia jotted the telephone number on her calendar. “Thank you and I’m sorry to do this on such short notice.”

Maybe something had been overlooked at Sonya’s place. Checking her watch, Julia decided she had just enough time to go over to the condo, do a second search and be back to meet Carmen’s brother for his fitting.

Grabbing up her bulky leather satchel, she dashed out of the building. In no time, she was behind the wheel of her Jeep, the wind blowing through her hair as she crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway and headed toward the oceanfront high-rise Uncle Carlos had given Sonya as a graduation present.

Carlos Botero was a generous man when it came to his daughter. Those qualities had extended to Julia, as well. Thanks to him, when her own father died, the Botero family had given her a home, paid her tuition at St. Francis de Salles High and then sent her to University of Miami. Had it not been for the kindness of Uncle Carlos, Julia was fairly sure she’d be working in a factory for minimum wage, sewing decorations on straw bags for the throngs of tourists roaming the streets of Little Havana.

Images of Sonya’s kidnapping flashed in her brain as she navigated the perfectly groomed street that ran parallel to the Atlantic Ocean. The air was heavy, building toward the inevitable midafternoon thunderstorm. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled her nostrils as she made a left into the secured entrance of the condominium. She would find Sonya, and somehow pay back a little of that kindness.

Pulling the scrap of paper from her purse, she pressed the four-digit code and listened as the metal gates creaked open in a wide, sweeping arc. Julia pulled into the first-floor garage and shoved her sunglasses up on her head, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior.

Sonya’s cherry-red Porsche was parked in the spot where her unit number was stenciled on the wall. Julia pulled into one of the guest spots and cut the engine.

The heat was oppressive in spite of large fans mounted near the elevators. The garage smelled dank, and occasional patches of beach sand crunched beneath her shoes as she walked to the entrance.

Stepping into the elevator was like stepping into the past, and it had nothing to do with Sonya. It was the smell. The faint scent of men’s cologne that brought a vivid and immediate image to mind.

Luke Young. The scent was woods and citrus, and a single whiff was all it took for Julia to flash back to when she’d last been in his embrace. Shivering, she rubbed her bared arms. She liked to think that the only reason Luke continued to haunt her after all this time was because of the way things had ended six years ago. Or rather, not ended.

After the arrest of Esterhaus in the middle of what should have been their wedding, she’d been a total wimp. And a rude one at that. She’d never returned any of his calls. It wasn’t as if she could tell him the truth. The DEA had strictly forbidden her from revealing her role in the sting. Not even to Luke. As far as he knew, she’d just vanished. A jittery almost-bride who had come to her senses. Why did she still care what he might think of her?

A ding sounded, jarring her back to reality as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a beautifully decorated hallway. Sonya’s condo, if she remembered correctly, was at the far end of the corridor. She pulled a small zippered pouch from her purse as she approached. By the time she was at the door, she had two small jimmies at the ready.

It took just under seven seconds for Julia to pick the dead bolt, and about half that time for her to dispatch the bottom lock and turn the knob. Ironically, her ability to pick locks was a skill learned not during her years with the DEA or even as part of the rigorous training for Confidential. Rather, she’d mastered this particular ability as a young child. Much to the chagrin of her father.

Julia was only three years old when her family had climbed into makeshift rafts in the dead of night to escape from Cuba to the United States. Like many refugees, freedom had come at a high price. Her mother and older brother had drowned during the crossing, leaving Julia and her dad to build new lives in America alone. As a single father, Ricardo had taken Julia with him to work when she wasn’t in school. While he was busy landscaping the lovely lawns of the Miami mansions, Julia developed a fascination for the large homes. By the age of ten she didn’t let something like a locked door prevent her from satisfying her curiosity. She never took anything, she just looked, amazed at how other people lived.

“I was damn lucky I wasn’t arrested for trespassing,” she mused softly.

Once inside Sonya’s condo, she was still smiling at the childhood memory, and her smile broadened at the familiarity of the room she hadn’t visited often enough over the years. Sonya’s home was an extension of her personality. It was bright and cheery and full of color. It also smelled of metallic fingerprint dust left by the crime scene unit going over the place. The maid had been through as well. A good thing since Sonya would have freaked if she ever saw what a search team could do to the place.

“Where to start?” Julia muttered as she dropped her bag onto an upholstered, modern purple chair that looked more like a sculpture than a piece of furniture. Though Sonya had been gone a couple of weeks, the smell of sunscreen lingered in the room. Sonya was a stickler for protecting herself from the harsh UV rays.

Julia could easily imagine her friend on that last morning, rushing around as she prepared to go to Weddings Your Way to finalize some of the details for her wedding to Juan.

Julia frowned as she gazed around the room. “Your fanatical neatness isn’t helping me, Sonya.”

There wasn’t so much as cushion out of place as she walked from the living room through the dining room, then into the kitchen.

The long, narrow room was equipped with top-of-the-line appliances in polished stainless steel. The cabinets were all glass-fronted, with the frames glazed white. The starkness was a perfect backdrop for Sonya’s colorful accessories. Julia was drawn to one item in particular, a ceramic soap dish perched at the edge of the sink. It was an amateurish creation, uneven and decorated with badly painted stripes, now used to cradle a sponge.

Lifting it, Julia ran her finger along the chipped edge before securing the sponge and flipping the whole thing over. There, etched into the back of the now-hardened clay, was “las amigas mejor”—best friends. Julia had ruined her nail file scratching the inscription before the dish was fired in the kiln as part of the required tenth grade art class. Sister Mary Intolerance had snagged the nail file and classified it as a dangerous weapon, and Julia had ended up in detention for a week. The punishment had been worth the crime.

“Why would you keep this?” Julia mused, wondering what the good sister would think of the gun in her purse or the backup weapon in the glove box of her car. Made the nail file seem pretty darn tame.

Putting the sponge holder back in its place, she began opening drawers and cabinets. Not much of interest. At the far end of the polished stone counter-top, she noticed a light blinking on the telephone’s base unit.

Lifting the receiver, she heard a series of rapid beeps, indicating waiting voice mail. She made a mental note to have someone make arrangements with the phone company to dump the messages when she got back to her office.

Finding nothing to inspire any immediate concern, she worked her way back to the master bedroom. Pushing through the double doors, she found herself embraced by a sea of turquoise, accented by splashes of deep coral. Sonya’s two favorite colors.

The room was dominated by a huge bed draped in silk. Matching tables bracketed the headboard, both sporting framed photographs of Sonya and Juan.

Julia rubbed her forehead, feeling her insides knot. Please let her be okay. Please.

Nothing in the massive closet had been disturbed. Likewise, the dressers were neat and organized. A small bookcase in the space that separated the bedroom from the spa-caliber bath gave her pause.

Julia found a tattered copy of The Secret Garden. Tipping it free from the shelf, she opened the book and grinned. “Thank you, Sonya. Remind me never to mock your predictability again.” As always, the pages were hollowed out, creating a small, snug home for Sonya’s diary.

Prying the smaller book free, Julia watched as a small scrap of paper fluttered soundlessly to the floor. The handwriting was familiar, as were some of the numbers on the paper. She just couldn’t place them.

A combination, maybe? There was bound to be a safe in the condo, behind one of the avant-garde paintings, or perhaps hidden in the floor.

Julia began checking the obvious places. Her hip bumped the nightstand when she searched behind the silk drape, knocking the telephone over. The cordless handset skittered across the floor.

Grabbing up the phone, Julia was suddenly inspired as she remembered where she’d seen the numbers before. Craig Johnson, Sonya’s chauffeur, had been hurt during the commission of the kidnapping. In his wallet, they’d found a business card with nine numbers on the back. To date, the MC team had been unable to make neither heads nor tails of them.

Retrieving the slip of paper, she read the numbers again. The last nine were identical to the ones they’d found on the chauffeur. A theory crystallized in her brain. She’d been thinking the numbers were related to a bank account, but what if Craig had jotted down a phone number? Or at least part of one? “Add an international code,” she said aloud. “Country, city… maybe?”

Testing her hypothesis, she pressed buttons, listening to a staticky series of clicks before a man answered. His voice was gravelly as he greeted her in Spanish.

Mentally, she translated the conversation. “Yes, sir. I’m calling from the United States. To whom am I speaking?”

“Ramon,” he said. The single word came out stern and guarded.

The name didn’t ring any bells. Julia asked, “How is the weather in Ladera today, Ramon?”

“Weather? Fine. Why? Who is this? What do you want?”

She had to think fast. “This is Julia and I’m with the Laderan-American Friendship League.” She rolled her eyes at her own lame explanation. “I got your number from the Boteros. They suggested—”

“I don’t know any Sonya Botero.”

“Really?” Then how did you know which Botero I was referencing, moron? “Because they said you might have some ideas about charities in your village that could benefit from our fund-raising efforts. We’ve collected close to ten thousand dollars and I—”

“I am a simple farmer. I have no charities.” The line went dead.

She considered calling back, but figured that would be a futile effort. No, she’d wait until she got back to the office and have Ethan Whitehawk, another Miami Confidential agent, check into it. He was already scheduled to go to Ladera, so it would be no problem for him to scope out whoever this Ramon was.

She hesitated before replacing the phone on its cradle. There was something weird about the phone call. Weirder than just Ramon-the-farmer supposedly pulling Sonya’s first name out of thin air. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Ramon was a tabloid reader and he’d heard of Sonya because she was a rich American about to marry a Laderan politician. But that didn’t explain the odd clicks on the line.

Julia made another mental note. Check the line for a trap. Maybe someone had put a tap or a listening device on it.

Glancing at her watch, she knew she had to leave or she’d be late for the three o’clock fitting. Raking her fingers through her hair, she silently cursed the annoyance of having to juggle two personas. She’d gone through everything in the condo with a fine-tooth comb, but she’d like to stay longer and do it again. And again. Until she found some small crumb of a lead. Unfortunately, she had to get back to the bridal boutique now.

The sky had turned threatening by the time she drove away from the condo, this time with the rag top up. In the distance, jagged spikes of lightning flashed down into the churning ocean. Soon the storm would blow ashore. She floored the gas pedal, hoping to make it back to Weddings Your Way before the downpour.

She was a few blocks south, on A1A, when the first large drops began to splat on the windshield. The wind picked up as she pulled into the driveway. The fresh scent of rain-washed air was lost on Julia as soon as she saw the big SUV blocking her way into the garage. What inconsiderate jerk did that?

Using her bag as an umbrella, she dashed from the Jeep just as the raindrops turned into a solid wall of water. Taking the front steps two at a time, she reached the covered porch ten seconds too late. Her purse was a lump of soggy leather. The dye from her sandals was already turning her feet an interesting shade of fuchsia. With the exception of a small part of her scalp at the crown of her head, she was drenched.

Droplets of water blurred her vision as she shoved hair off her forehead, then flapped the hem of her gauzy skirt like a dog shaking water from its fur.

A loud clap of thunder vibrated through her whole body. Reaching for the knob, Julia glanced down to assess the damage. The layered pink-and-white tank tops she’d selected that morning were soaked and clinging. Her skirt was practically transparent. It was bad. But not nearly as bad as looking up and seeing those chocolate-colored eyes narrowed in her direction.

Julia’s feet felt as if they’d been staple-gunned in place. That was nothing compared to her clenched stomach. The sudden stab of pain was just as real and palpable as if she’d been sucker punched.

He smiled then. A tight, distant expression. “Well, Julia. We meet again.”

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

“I’m here for a fitting.”

She winced. “You’re the brother?” Then her mind replayed a fast-forward version of their conversations from six years earlier. “Wait. You can’t be the brother. You told me you were an only child.”

“And you told me you’d marry me.”

Chapter Two

Even drenched, Julia Garcia had the ability to still the breath in Luke’s chest. Why did I mention the wedding?

She was even more stunning than he remembered. Damp, dark curls framed the perfect oval of her face. As always, he was transfixed by her eyes—big, expressive and a pale, sultry shade of gray that were as hypnotic as a swirl of smoke.

She must hate him. Big time. Given what had happened on their aborted wedding day six years ago, it was no wonder she’d never returned his calls and was now staring at him as though he were something the cat had coughed up. He was the one who’d gotten her involved—granted, unintentionally—with a major drug dealer.

Summoning all of his courage, Luke willed his taut muscles to relax. No sense in making this any harder than it already was. He glanced around, realizing that all eyes were trained in their direction. Great. He’d been in her presence less than a minute and already he’d managed to screw it up.

Again.

“Let me give this another shot. Hi, Julia, good to see you again.”

She peered up at him warily. “Y-you, too.”

“I’m here to be fitted for a tux for Carmen’s wedding.”

He watched as Julia grabbed a towel off a hook hidden discreetly behind a curtain, and began drying her arms and legs. He swallowed, trying not to groan as he watched the hem of her skirt rise, revealing a good amount of toned, shapely thigh. He began lifting his gaze, which didn’t help. She was wearing those clinging T-shirts, the kind with the thin straps. Because the fabric was cotton and wet, very little was left to his imagination. And Luke had an excellent imagination. He’d been thinking about Julia, and what her top was exposing, for half a dozen years. His pump was already primed. He could easily make out the outline of her tiny waist as well as the full swell of her breasts.

This was not going well. Carmen was right, much to his chagrin. The Weddings Your Way seamstress was Julia Garcia. His Julia. His plan had been to waltz into the shop as the poster child for the fully evolved guy. He’d break the ice by making a joke, then apologize for the whole Vegas thing. Let her take his measurements and be on his way. No harm, no foul. That had been the plan. Too bad it wasn’t working real well. Still, he’d felt like a jackass for allowing himself to get involved with Esterhaus, a guy he hadn’t fully trusted. He’d let a lucrative business deal override his hard-won common sense.

Now Julia watched him with the carefully blank expression one gave a stranger. An unwelcome stranger at that. She smacked her sodden purse into his midsection. “Hold this while I dry off the worst of it.”

Luke obediently held her purse, wishing he was the towel she was stroking across her damp, tawny skin. Once she was no longer dripping, Julia slipped off her shoes, grabbed her purse and padded barefoot toward an elaborate marble staircase anchoring the center of the first floor. “My workroom is upstairs. Come on.”

Here, boy. She was treating him like the dog he was, he thought as he followed her. Nodding to the rest of the staff was considerably better than turning his attention to Julia’s butt as she climbed the stairs ahead of him.

Apparently fully evolved wasn’t working at all.

Nope, by the time Julia had reached the third step, he was pretty much a walking heap of needy testosterone. Not much had changed in the six years since he’d gotten them both tangled in the drug-trafficking Esterhaus mess.

He tried not to notice the gentle sway of her hips. Tried to ignore the faint scent of her tuberose perfume lingering in the air between them. Tried, but failed.

Miserably.

“Nice place,” he commented. Croaked, actually, making him really glad that her back was to him. As glad as he could be given that his eyes were now fixed on the tiny tattoo just above her left shoulder blade. He’d lived in Miami long enough to recognize the Cuban flag on sight.

“It is,” she agreed as she neared the top of the stairs. “My office is back this way.”

Luke realized the second floor was neatly sectioned into all things wedding. Thanks to Carmen, he was becoming an expert on the subject. She wasn’t just getting married, she was having an event. He was happy for her and all, but man, it took about the same amount of planning as a shuttle launch. He couldn’t believe he and Julia had pulled off their almost wedding in less than a week, drug dealers not withstanding. Their wedding would have been efficient, expedient and just as binding as the one his crazy sister was planning. Hell of a lot cheaper, too.

Passing through the area devoted to invitations and calligraphy, they reached an etched glass door with the word private stenciled in gold.

Leaving the door ajar, Julia rounded a cluttered desk and sat down to face him—moving rather stiffly, Luke decided. He took one of the two chairs opposite hers, gripping the armrests as he leaned back against the cushion.

Almost every inch of wall space was utilized by fabric samples, bits of ribbon and lace and various drawings. Most were affixed with push pins. Beneath the tacked items, he spied some photographs. “Your work?” he asked, pointing to a glossy magazine cover in a Lucite frame.

She nodded. “Yes.” Her chair swiveled as she opened one drawer of the credenza behind her desk to retrieve a thick file folder. “Carmen Lopez and Dalton Mitchell, right?”

“Dalton Mitchell the third,” Luke remarked wryly. “I’m told the numeral is a big deal in the Mitchell family.”

He watched as her features softened. Not so much so that he could consider it a smile, but she no longer looked as if her face was set in concrete.

Her head tilted to one side, causing a curly tendril to fall free from the thick mass of damp hair she’d twisted into a knot at the nape of her long, tapered neck. Luke battled the urge to reach across the desk to tuck it behind her ear. Better for both of them if he stuck to business. He shifted in his seat.

“Carmen said something about a wool tux?” He grimaced. “She was kidding, right? That sure will be comfortable on a hot June day.”

Pulling a catalog page from inside the folder, Julia slipped it across the desk, then grabbed a pencil from a holder and used the eraser end as a pointer. “It’s luxe wool, very lightweight and breathable. I think you’ll be pleased.”

He met her eyes and smiled sincerely. “The key is for Carmen to be pleased. She started planning this day in elementary school.”

His heart skipped a few times when Julia rewarded him with a grudging smile. God, but she was beautiful. Perfect white teeth set against smooth, bronzed skin. And that mouth. Full, pouty lips sheened with a slick gloss that made him want to vault over the desk and kiss her senseless.

One of her perfectly arched brows rose questioningly. “Why did you keep your sister a secret?”

He shrugged and sat back, letting out a long breath as he redirected his thoughts. “Technically, I didn’t. Carmen and I aren’t blood relations. We spent several years together in the same foster home.”

“She adores you.” Julia stiffened slightly. “I never would have guessed that you were the wonderful brother she raves about all the time. Not in a million years.”

Luke frowned. He’d been hoping for some understanding. “I’m not a schmuck, Julia. That whole Vegas thing was—”

She held up one hand. The bracelets on her wrist clanked loudly in the sudden silence. “Let’s not go there.”

“I’d like to explain.”

“No need,” she assured him, opening a drawer and pulling out a bright yellow, cloth tape measure that she draped around her shoulders. “It was a long time ago, Luke. Let’s just be glad we didn’t go through with what would have been a monumental mistake.”

It rankled to hear the undiluted certainty in her tone. Not that he didn’t agree, he just didn’t like hearing it. “I didn’t know Esterhaus was a drug dealer.” Annoyed, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Something I would have explained at length if you hadn’t disappeared.”

She blew out a quick, irritated puff of air. “The DEA agents told me all that. Really, Luke, let’s not rehash our brief past. So…” She paused and stood up. “If you’ll step into the next room, I’ll take your measurements and you can be on your way.”

He rose and the chair legs scraped loudly against the tiled floor in the process. “I’m trying to apologize, Julia.”

“No need,” she repeated, though there was still a hint of frost in her voice. “Really.”

The instant Luke Young touched her arm, Julia felt a zing directly into the center of her being. Six years had done nothing to stifle her primal and instinctual attraction to this man. And what that was all about, she had no clue.

“Hang on.” Luke gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Hear me out. I really am trying to clear the air.”

The air I can’t breathe when you’re standing so close? she wondered. Slowly, Julia lifted her eyes, looking directly into his. The sincerity she read in his steady gaze whittled away all pretext. Relenting, she offered him a smile. “You’re right. There’s no reason we can’t be…civil.”

Cocking his head to one side, Luke studied her, his dark eyes never wavering. “Civil, eh?” he repeated, openly amused. “In this kind of explosive situation? That could mean anything.”

She attempted to shrug out of his grasp. It didn’t work. “It means,” she said mendaciously, “you should let go.”

His smile broadened as he began to stroke slow, tantalizing circles against her suddenly flushed skin. How was it possible that this man could make her want to melt into a puddle of need with just the pad of his thumb? Julia’s blood sang in her veins at his barely there touch. Warmth radiated from her arm, sending a surge of heat the full length of her spine. He’d always affected her like this, only six years ago she hadn’t appreciated how rare that heat was. In fact, she’d never been so instantly turned on since.