Faith took down the more expensive bottle, opened it in silence and filled a shot glass. She slid it toward him, her eyes watching his.
Santiago swigged his drink back, slammed the glass onto the counter.
“Another,” he demanded. “And pour one for yourself.”
She smiled. “I don’t drink on the job.”
But he did not return her smile, and a cool thread of warning snaked through her.
“I’ve seen you drink near closing time, Lili,” he whispered, touching her arm and softly tracing the backs of his fingers across her skin. Goose bumps shivered in the wake of his touch.
“The owner of this cantina,” he said quietly. “Do you love him?”
She swallowed at the brashness of his question. Clearing her throat, she said, “He’s good to me.”
“How good, Lili?” He brought his mouth close to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips.
“He gives me a job, a place to stay.” Her voice came out thick.
“And he’s good in bed?”
Heat pooled low in her belly, and her vision began to narrow. “He’s fine.”
He brought his mouth closer, and whispered, “I’m better. I want you, Lili. I know you want me, too—I’ve seen how you look at me when I come each night to watch you.”
She tried to smile again but the muscle in her lip quivered. Her breathing grew light.
“Your lover is away tonight,” he whispered. “Isn’t he?”
She’d wanted this, hadn’t she—for Santiago to dare to attempt to seduce her? She’d wondered if he’d have the nerve to actually risk his life in an effort to sleep with her—none of the other men here would even think of trying. And the fact that he did was a dizzying aphrodisiac.
Faith reached for a glass, and poured herself a shot of tequila, buying time to allow some logic back into her brain. “Tell me about yourself, Santiago,” she said, taking a sip. “Why are you in Tagua?”
His eyes darkened. A muscle pulsed under the dusky skin at his temple—he was exotic, a creature of masculine beauty and strength. And once she got out of this place, she’d never need see him again. Sleeping with him would be no threat to her—or would it?
“I’m here for a job,” he said.
“On the plantation?”
“Sí.”
“You running from something, Santiago?”
He smiled darkly, coming around to her side of the bar, and he cupped the back of her neck. Using his calloused thumb he tilted her face up to his. “Aren’t we all?” His voice was low, gravelly, seductive. It curled like dangerous smoke through her mind.
“You’re in trouble with the law somewhere, aren’t you?”
His lips feathered ever so lightly over hers, his strong hand holding her in place. “Does it matter where I left my troubles?” he murmured against her lips.
She swallowed, suddenly unable to think straight.
He slid his other hand down her waist as he spoke, down over her hip and around her rear. He caressed her butt and began slowly bunching her dress up her thigh.
Her vision blurred. She reached out for the bar counter, steadying herself. “This…could get you killed.” Her voice came out hoarse.
“I know.” He suddenly pressed his mouth down hard on hers. Faith’s knees turned to jelly. She opened her mouth under his, felt his tongue, slick, hot, teasing the sensitive inner seam of her lips, and her world began to spiral into dizzying concentric circles, like a kaleidoscope, a fairground carousel, spinning. Faster and faster.
She tried to remind herself to be careful—a slip in her cover now could not only blow her mission, it could get her killed.
But she was tumbling over the edge of reason. Like a shot of heroin to her system, one touch, a few seductive whispers from Santiago, and she was hooked.
Loss of control was an unfamiliar feeling for Faith.
But what harm could it honestly do to take him to her bed upstairs?
He was right, the cantina owner was away. The bar was empty, no one to see. She’d be clear out of South America by tomorrow afternoon. By nightfall she’d be on a U.S. military jet bound for her Maryland base. The following morning she’d be back in her sterile Washington, D.C., apartment, biding time, trying to act out a normal life without ever really being allowed to, until STRIKE assigned her next hit. A government assassin’s life was a lonely one. A cold one.