22

Veranda stood still, allowing Tiffany to unwrap the layers of black lace covering most of her upper body. Veranda had draped the filmy shawl over her head and shoulders during the somber graveside ceremony. To her, Día de los Muertos was meant to honor the dead respectfully. Now that everyone had arrived back at the family property, however, a more festive atmosphere had taken hold.

Tiffany, always ready to party, had dragged Veranda into her mother’s bedroom for a mini-makeover. “You look like my grandma,” she said, sliding the shawl away. “The one who died five years ago.”

Mention of Tiffany’s relatives reminded her to ask about Chuy while they were alone. “Speaking of your family, how’s it going at your parents’ house?”

“Dad and Chuy hit it off.”

Veranda had expected disaster, mayhem, and possibly gunfire before the end of the week. “Wait. What?”

Tiffany giggled. “I know, right?” She worked the pins out of Veranda’s updo. “Last night Chuy made margaritas. Dad said they were the best he’s ever tasted. He and Chuy got into a discussion about aged tequila, and it went from there. They stayed up half the night drinking and chatting.”

She imagined Chuy in a cloud of expensive cigar smoke deep in conversation with Baz. “No way. Chuy’s sober.”

“Chuy’s margaritas were virgin, but he definitely put the tequila in Dad’s,” Tiff said. “It’s turned into a bromance between those two. This afternoon they were behind closed doors in Dad’s office for two hours. Chuy wouldn’t tell me what they were talking about.” She ran her fingers through Veranda’s hair, pulling out the last pin. “They’re both acting real secretive.”

Veranda tossed her head and her dark mane cascaded halfway down her back. “What about your mom?”

Tiffany’s shoulders drooped. “Mom had an extra lock installed on her jewelry cabinet. And she had one of the security guards bring us Taco Bell for lunch.”

Veranda grimaced. “This party should take your mind off things.”

“Point taken. Time to get out there.” Tiffany stepped back to inspect her handiwork. “Much better,” she said, turning Veranda to face her mother’s full-length mirror. “What do you think?”

Veranda studied her reflection, taking in the black and white paint forming an artistic skull design covering her face. Her eyes traveled down to the clingy black dress trimmed in layers of bright red ruffles at the neck and skirt. The asymmetrical hemline reached to the middle of her thighs in front and angled down to skim her ankles in the back. Matching red stiletto pumps completed the ensemble.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m Halloween Barbie.”

Tiffany frowned. “You’re right. This is too cutesy.” She snapped her fingers. “Got it.” She tugged the elastic ruffled neckline down to the middle of Veranda’s arms, exposing her bare shoulders. “How about now?”

“Halloween Barbie joins a cartel.” She pointed at the Villalobos tattoos clearly visible above the lowered neckline. The red calligraphy V and the black wolf’s head would cause her family pain. “I can’t go out like this.”

Tiffany scooped two tubes of body paint from the nearby dressing table. “No one will know you have any tatts when I’m finished.”

As Tiffany began dabbing on a thick layer of black base, her blue eyes went to the shrapnel wound. Veranda had taken off the bandages to let it air. “That Vick’s VapoRub stuff kicks ass. There’s not much more than a scratch now.”

The corners of her lips tipped up in response. The mystique of the ointment in the blue jar lived on.

After a few minutes, Tiffany straightened and stepped back. “Hmm.” She tugged the neckline down a bit more. “Perfect.”

Veranda quirked a brow. “Only you could find a way to cover my ink and reveal my cleavage at the same time.”

Tiffany gave her arm a playful smack. “You’ve got a smoking hot bod. Own it. Your idea of sexy is opening an extra button on your oxford shirt.” Her eyes widened. “Hey, you’ve got to buy new clothes anyway, come shopping with me and I’ll find outfits that show off those Latina curves.”

She side-eyed Tiffany’s black spandex catsuit painted with a glowing white skeleton that matched her facial art. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re no fun.” Tiffany sent her a mock pout. “C’mon, let’s go. I don’t know what kind of costume your lieutenant changed into, but I’m sure he’s looking for you.”

With no place to tuck a gun, Veranda had resorted to a beaded purse slung over her shoulder on a decorative cord to conceal her duty weapon and cell phone. She opened her mother’s bedroom door, stepped into the hallway, and stopped short.

Tiffany followed her downward gaze. “What’s wrong with the
shoes?”

“These heels are even higher than Marci’s,” she said. “Can’t seem to walk in them without strutting like I’m on a catwalk.”

“That’s the point.”

“I left my tactical boots in the car. I can go get—”

“I put that whole outfit together for you. The least you can do is wear it.” Tiffany jutted out a spandex-clad hip. “You owe me.”

She blew out a sigh. “I’ll put my boots on in the car so I can drive home without killing myself.”

She sashayed out to the front yard and forgot all about the formidable footwear. This year’s party was bigger than ever. Guests decked out in every imaginable Día de los Muertos getup packed the common area between the five casitas. A mariachi band blasted festive music while partygoers ate, drank, and danced.

Tiffany peered at the throng. “I can’t find Chuy. Looks like he’ll have to find me.”

She scanned for Diaz, but the darkness between the glowing outdoor lights and the sheer number of milling people around made it impossible to pick him out. She shrugged. Tiffany had the right idea. He was the worried one, let him find her.

Her skirt swished against her legs as she moved past tables festooned with candy skulls and heaped with platters of pan de muerto. She stopped at the ofrenda, an altar honoring the dead, which displayed tall glass-encased candles burned down by half and photographs of departed loved ones.

Veranda paid her respects to all of them but lingered over two. She kissed her fingertips and touched a frame holding a picture of Ernesto, Lorena’s first husband, the man Veranda once believed was her father. She repeated the gesture and pressed a finger to the photo of Bobby, her young half brother, who had died from an overdose while still in high school. Both of them dead because of Hector Villalobos.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a man in a skull mask and black frock coat with matching trousers and a top hat eyeing her. Without uttering a word, he held out a gloved hand, palm up. He smelled of sandalwood soap. She vaguely recognized the scent, but the spice-laden air with the aroma of food wafting through the open courtyard played havoc with her nose and she couldn’t recall where she’d smelled it before.

Tiffany, who had followed her to the tables, elbowed her. “He’s asking you to dance.” She looked him up and down. “He looks yummy. You should go for it.”

“I can’t dance tonight,” she said to Tiffany in a lowered voice. “Had to put my my cell phone and Glock inside this.” The band had started a merengue, not ideal for carrying a heavy bag.

Tiffany held out her hand. “I’ll hold your stuff while you’re on the floor. Then we’ll figure something out.”

The music called to her Latin blood, but she hesitated. The aura of death from the ceremony at the cemetery and the cloud of sorrow surrounding the ofrenda weighed on her. Learning of her connection to Salazar had darkened her spirit further. She needed release to lighten her soul. If she surrendered to it, the dance would free her.

Tossing her bag to Tiffany, she grasped the man’s outstretched hand. He led her onto the floor near the band. The beat thrummed like a pulse in her veins. He swung her in tight against his hard chest. A reckless impulse drove her to slide along his body before spinning away. Moving with the rhythm, he twirled her before catching her waist.

Her partner danced well. She felt the wildness in him matching her own. The music grew louder, and the crowd clapped as they whirled together, apart, then together again. Behind the mask, his dark eyes watched her every move. She felt alive again. Hot, vibrant as the red edging her dress, and untamed.

As the song ended, he pulled her close and bent his head down to hers. She felt his chest heave from the exertion of the dance. She moved a fraction closer, raised her hand to the edge of his mask, and began to pull it away. His voice came out as a harsh rasp. “Veranda, I—”

She sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing the voice. “Lieutenant Diaz.” She yanked the top hat up with one hand and snatched the mask off with the other, flinging them to the floor. “What the hell?”

Infuriated by the deception, she turned to leave, nearly colliding with a man in traditional white pants and shirt with a red sash around his waist holding a single long-stemmed rose. His face was painted as a skull like hers, with black around his eye sockets and the rest in white pancake. He completed the outfit with an old-fashioned sombrero trimmed with a red fringe.

“Could I have the next dance?” he asked in formal Spanish, offering her the flower.

Veranda reached out to take it when a muscular arm circled her waist. She considered whether stomping his foot with her stiletto heel or jamming an elbow into his solar plexus would cause Diaz more pain. Before she could decide, the man behind her spoke. She knew the voice. And it wasn’t her supervisor.

“The next dance is mine,” Agent Rios responded in his native tongue. “And the one after that.”

“Maybe she should decide for herself,” the man in white said, lowering the rose. “And I don’t think she wants you to hold her like that.” He continued the exchange in Spanish. “Looks like she’s trying to get away.”

Lieutenant Diaz shouldered past the man in white and got in Rios’s face. “Get your hands off her.”

Veranda was sandwiched between two snorting bulls. The man in white melted into the crowd. She would have spent more time wondering if she would recognize him without the elaborate face paint and hat, but she was too busy plotting agonizing deaths for Rios and Diaz.

Rios grunted. “You’re not my boss, Diaz.”

Diaz made a fist. “I’m going to enjoy my time off after I break your nose, cabrón.”

The federale’s arm was still securely fastened around her waist. “Let me go.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged. No effect whatsoever. She lost her temper. “You will damn well listen to me, Rios.” She slid her hand down his arm, wrapped her fingers around his pinkie, and prepared to dislocate it. “This is your last chance.”

Both men looked down at her hand clutching Rios’s little finger, their startled expressions telegraphing their understanding. Each man had enough close-quarters combat training to comprehend her maneuver. A fact she’d counted on. Diaz grinned. Rios cursed and released her.

She took a step to distance herself. “You two don’t decide who I dance with or what I do on my time off. I’ll say goodbye to my mother, then I’m leaving.”

She found Tiffany standing with Chuy and retrieved her purse. Chuy told her Lorena was in the house getting more food. She worked her way around the yard making small talk with guests and entered the kitchen to find Diaz with her mother. What was he up to now? Even more frightening, what was Lorena up to?

“Ay, mi’ja.” Her mother’s hazel eyes were full of concern. “Why are you and Richard arguing again?”

She always found it odd when her mother called the lieutenant by his first name. “Because he’s an overbearing—”

“Stop.” Lorena held up a hand. “I don’t know why you will not see what I do.” She looked up at Diaz. “He is a good man. A man any mother would be proud to have as a son-in-law.”

Veranda briefly closed her eyes and wished for a hole to open in the floor and swallow her.

A ruddy scald crept into Diaz’s cheeks. He gazed down at her mother. “Lorena, I’ve already explained. Your daughter and I cannot date. It’s against the rules.”

“Rules,” Lorena said, scowling.

“I’m out of here,” Veranda said. The reckless abandon during the dance had been replaced by a strong desire to bolt. She stalked from the kitchen as fast as Tiffany’s heels would allow.

Maybe Cole had been right about Diaz being attracted to her. But the man who touted following the rules would never break such a basic one. Supervisors could not be romantically involved with someone within their chain of command. As long as they both stayed where they were, Diaz couldn’t touch her, gracias a Dios.

Footfalls crunched on the gravel and soon Diaz fell into step beside her. “Where are you going?”

She quickened her pace. “Away.”

“We should go somewhere and talk.” When she made no response, he added, “At least let me walk you to your car.”

She stopped in her tracks. “I don’t need you to walk me to my car and I don’t have anything to say to you. My personal life is not your business. My dance partners are not your concern.” She crossed her arms. “Why did you dance with me anyway?”

“Why not?”

“And that move at the end. The way you held me. What was that about?” She instantly regretted the question.

“That’s why we need to talk.”

“Not going to happen. Good night, Lieutenant.” She emphasized the last word in an effort to remind him she was forever out of bounds for him.

Lowering his head, he turned away and trudged back toward the party.

She reached the Tahoe parked at the far end of the long driveway and wrenched the door open. Sitting on the driver’s seat, she snatched her boots from the front passenger’s seat, trading them for the high-heeled pumps before swinging her legs inside and slamming the door shut. She tossed her purse onto the front seat where her boots had been. Still furious with Diaz, she crammed her key into the ignition. As soon as the engine caught, she executed a three-point turn, spewing gravel as she raced to the main street.

Muttering under her breath, she turned a corner and accelerated out of the neighborhood. Diaz still occupied her thoughts when she felt the muzzle of a pistol against her temple.

Two words came from the seat directly behind her. “Keep driving.”