Alex closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, resting his elbows on the dining room table. Something was bothering him—a detail so minute, so faint, that he couldn’t quite pull it into focus. He went through every moment of the day, from the trip to the security offices, to the studio, to the interrogation of the next-door neighbor, to the not-so-subtle message sent by a dark sedan. What was it? A missing piece teased him like a word he could practically taste in his mouth, but couldn’t give voice to.
“I’m going to work out.”
Jazz’s announcement yanked him out of his concentration, and when he opened his eyes, he had to struggle to keep his jaw from dropping.
She was wearing ass-hugging biker shorts and a white mesh contraption that did exactly what he wanted to do with his hands: gift wrap her breasts with just a few choice inches left exposed.
“Aren’t you going to put more clothes on?” he blurted.
She laughed. “I’m not your little sister, Alex. And I’m perfectly decent—this is a sports bra.”
Is that what they called it? He’d call it…the afterlife.
“I’m just surprised you’re going to exercise at midnight,” he said casually.
She threw a bulging bag over her shoulder. She was clearly staying in character: she’d put some makeup on to work out. “The condo health club is open twenty-four seven, you know I’m a night owl. I’ll be back in an hour.”
He shook back the hair that had fallen into his eyes, taking another slow trip over her outfit. Lucy had promised him an easy client, yet he got stuck babysitting a plucky PI with a rack that belonged on the cover of Maxim. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t have to go,” she insisted. “I’ll be fine. I just need to lift weights for a while.”
He scooped up the cell phone in case Lucy returned his call. And wouldn’t that be a great time? Watching a near-naked Jazz pump iron while Lucy chewed his ass out for total incompetence. She’d have Gallagher or Roper down here by dawn.
On the bright side, once Jazz wasn’t his principal, he could apply for a job as her personal sports bra.
“This is overkill,” she argued. “The gym is locked and no one else will be there at this hour.” She strode to the front door. “Plus, I’ll be surrounded by hundreds of pounds of iron for personal safety.”
He was next to her in less than two seconds. “You’ll be surrounded by me for your personal safety.”
Her gray eyes morphed to pure silver indignation. “I need some time alone, Alex. Don’t you give any privacy to the people you guard?”
“That’s contrary to the point.” He grabbed the house key from the table. “Privacy is exactly what your stalker wants you to have.”
She rolled her eyes but waited while he set the alarm, then marched toward the elevator, leaving him to lock the door and watch her gluteus max flex under the shiny shorts.
The health club was a multistory affair, as luxurious as the rest of the place. Alex insisted on walking through the whole facility first, including the dressing rooms, with her two steps behind him. Then he gave her a nod.
“You can work out now.”
She glanced around the empty gym. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Why hadn’t she gone before they left?
“I’ll go with you.”
She dumped her overstuffed bag next to the treadmill with an exaggerated puff of disgust. “Never mind.”
Confident that the place was secure, he leaned against the wall by the entrance. If someone came in, he’d see them first, and he still had a direct view of his principal.
Who was already in a light jog on the treadmill, her gaze on the computerized readout in front of her. Unable to resist, he watched the sexy, rhythmic bounce of her breasts, rising and falling with every step she took. And it wasn’t only her impressive chest that held his attention. His gaze moved to the mirror, which reflected a just-as-distracting rear view. She was slim but muscular, the shorts revealing every cut of her quadriceps and the sexy little dips in her buttocks.
As she picked up speed, the tip of her tongue peeked out from between her lips and a gloss of perspiration shimmered over the V-neck above her cleavage. She glanced up at him and their gazes locked.
He didn’t look away. Neither did she.
On the contrary, she smiled. Slow. Sweet. Sexy.
She tilted her head, just enough to make him think he’d been invited on the treadmill with her. Instantly, he turned to the second floor balcony. Scanned the training machines. Studied the glass door to the pool.
But his gaze meandered back to the treadmill.
She was slowing down a bit, her attention still locked on him. Oh, Jesus. His belly tightened. She had that look again. The one she had in the restaurant the other night.
She stopped the machine and grabbed a hand towel, dabbing at her throat, the nape of her neck, and her exposed midriff. She never took her eyes off him. She sauntered over to the dumbbells, choosing two fifteen pounders before laying her towel on a narrow bench. Now what torture did she have in mind?
She eased onto her back on the bench and placed a leg on either side, knees to the mirror. The position offered him a clear shot of the shiny material between her legs, dark from sweat.
His pulse raged, his body reacted. But whatever game she was playing, she was outmatched—he could do his job with a hard-on. He already had been, for a couple of days.
Taking a dumbbell in each hand, she spread her arms. Blowing out a breath, she brought the weights together in a chest fly, causing her breasts to firm up and rise into insanely sexy peaks.
The first drop of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Five, six, seven. He lost track of her set, counting backward from one hundred in a dismal effort to get blood flowing back to his brain.
Finally, she stood up. She turned and gave him a quick smile, her gaze raking him.
“You okay over there?”
He lifted his chin in assent. “What’s next?”
“Kickbacks.” She placed one knee on the bench and balanced on the other leg. Bending over, she looked up into the mirror and he looked straight down her bra. The curves of her breasts were completely visible.
His mouth went desert dry and his whole lower half hummed with heat. What the hell was she trying to prove?
She went through two fairly fast kickback sets, working her upper arms. Her triceps constricted with each push, along with the heart shape of her backside. In the mirror, he could see her breasts firm and relax with each movement.
The image burned his brain. That’s how they’d look if she were on top of him. And he could close his mouth over each nipple.
Arousal pumped through him in the same rhythm as her exercise, and he clenched his jaw.
“I need a spotter,” she said as she hoisted a weight onto a barbell. “Can you help me, Alex?”
Just what he needed. “Chiflada,” he mumbled, pushing himself off the wall.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that?”
He walked toward her. “I think in Spanish.” At the most awkward times.
“Come on, Alex,” she said, a laughing tease in her eyes as she swiped a damp lock of hair from her brow. “You know I don’t speak Spanish. What did you say?”
“I said of course I can spot you.” She didn’t need to know he’d called her a prick tease. Hell, she’d probably take it as a compliment right now.
As he stood behind her and the bar, she held his gaze in the mirror. “And what are you thinking…when you think in Spanish?”
He dropped his gaze over her white top, drinking in the sheen of sweat, the obvious points of her nipples.
“I’m thinking about you. That’s my job.”
“You can quit anytime,” she said flippantly. “You really don’t have to stay down here in this gym if it’s a drag for you.”
“I’m used to it. My job tends to get tedious.”
She drew her tongue against her lower lip again. “I’m sure you find ways to eliminate tedium.”
He almost laughed at her lack of subtlety. “I watch for security breaches. That generally alleviates boredom.”
She spun on her backside, then lay down on the bench, looking straight up at him. Even upside down she was sexy. Especially upside down. “I told you this place would be completely empty.”
“But not secure.” He placed his hands on the bar and stared down at her.
“It is secure.” She flattened her back and closed her eyes, smiling. “And it’s secluded.”
“Lift,” he commanded, rattling the bar gently against its brackets.
She curled her fingers over the metal. “I’m ready,” she told him, inhaling a slow breath that pushed her chest higher.
He touched the thirty-five-pound weights on either side of the bar. “Can you handle this much?” he asked.
She looked into his eyes. “Can you?”
He smiled at that, but simply lifted the bar and helped her ease it down over her chest.
“Let go now,” she requested as she took over the bench press. Her color started to heighten on the fifth press, so he took the barbell and placed it back on the rack.
“Not bad, Jazz. No wonder you damn near knocked the wind out of me the other night.”
With a grin, she sat up and pivoted to face him, inches from his visible erection.
She leaned back on her hands, the fabric of her thin top straining. “You’re being kind. I barely surprised you.”
He laughed honestly. “You surprised the hell out of me.”
She took the towel and wiped her neck again, this time sliding the terry cloth slowly over her chest. “Would you be a darling and hold my feet and count my crunches?”
A darling? She was definitely up to something. “Of course.”
She dropped to a floor mat, a clear summons in her eyes. Her lips parted as she lay back. She eased her knees up, then crossed her hands under her head.
“I need you now, Alex.”
She was making that pretty damn obvious.
He slowly walked to the mat, and placed one foot on either side of her and looked down into her eyes. If she did one upward crunch, her mouth would be level with his crotch.
A rush of blood screamed in his ears.
“You can’t do it standing,” she said, pointing toward her feet with one elbow. “Hold my feet. Wait.” She reached down and slipped her sneakers off, leaving just ankle-high socks. “Better yet, sit on them.”
No one in her shape needed that kind of help for a sit-up. She could hang upside down and touch her knees with her nose. She was definitely up to something.
She moistened her lips. “Please, Alex. I want you…to.”
He dropped to a crouch and encircled her ankles with his fingers. She tucked her feet under him and wiggled her toes. The sensation against his hard balls shot straight up his back.
He kept his face impassive. “How many can you do?” he asked.
“How many can you take?” she shot back.
“What are you trying to prove, Jazz?”
She eased one foot out from under him and slid it between his legs. Her eyes widened as her foot pressed against his erection. “I’m not trying prove anything. I’m trying to see…” She slid her foot up and down the length of him. “…If you’re human.” His shaft pulsed against her arch.
“Why don’t you just ask me?”
Her lips curved up. “What’s the fun in that?”
“Is this fun?”
She curled her foot over his hard-on, her toes caressing the sensitive tip, her heel prodding his balls. “You tell me.”
He didn’t move.
She sat up and threaded her hands at the nape of his neck, pulling him to her. “Kiss me, Alex.” Before he could, she did. Crushing his mouth with hers and sucking at his tongue, nearly unbalancing him.
Damn it all, he was cursed. With a quick moan of desire, she took his hand and placed it over her breast.
He closed his fingers around the soft mound and heard the groan torn from his throat.
Nothing about Jazz had signaled that she’d be so brazen. Once again, something wasn’t right.
But her breast filled his hand and her tongue filled his mouth and blood filled his cock so effectively that there was none left for his brain. Purring and moving like a cat, she slithered out of the sports bra in a quick, graceful move, and tossed it next to her shoes. Pulling him with her, she dropped back to the mat, arching toward him to offer two lush, womanly breasts.
“Just taste me, Alex,” she crooned in his ear, combing her fingers into his hair and pushing his head to her nipple. “Taste me.”
He flicked the tip with his tongue and she fisted her hand and ground her hips against him. His brain short-circuited with a flash of white light as he gave into the desire to suck her. He opened his mouth and took her in, pulling the nipple between his teeth, tasting the salt of her sweat and the cream of her flesh.
She wrapped her legs around him and rode harder, guiding his head to her other breast and pushing her pelvis against his erection.
“Me estás matando,” he murmured. And she was killing him. He couldn’t even think.
She laughed softly as her fingers dipped into the waistband of his pants. “What you said.” Her hand closed around him and he jerked forward, lost in the pleasure of her first, mind-boggling stroke against his skin. She moaned appreciatively and brushed her tongue over his jaw, his lips. Heat surged through him, and he grew even bigger in her fingers.
“Wow,” she whispered. “You hum.”
The vibration of his cell phone ripped him back to reality.
“That’s my phone.”
“You’d better get it.”
His gaze dropped to her breasts, the tips dark and wet and swollen. The phone vibrated again.
Jazz pulled her hand from the nest between his legs and raised one eyebrow.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the readout, confirming his suspicion. Lucy had flawless timing. Jazz reached up and suckled his lower lip. “Take your call. I need to run to the bathroom.”
Lucy vibrated again, and he could just imagine one long red fingernail tapping in frustration with each ring. Jazz slid out from between his legs and scooped up her shoes and the sports bra. “I’ll be right back.”
He opened his mouth to stop her and she leaned over, pressing one finger on his lips, trailing it down over his jaw, down his chest. Her breasts were inches from his face. “I’ll be quick. I don’t want to stop.”
Before he could answer her, she pressed her lips against his, giving him a long, openmouthed kiss. “I’ll be right back.”
If Lucy hadn’t been on the phone, he’d have followed her right into the women’s locker room, which he imagined would be the scene of his undoing. And hers. He watched her backside as she bent to retrieve her bag. Running a shaky hand through his hair, he answered the phone. “Yeah, Luce. I’m here.”
“I got your message.” The fact that there was no ice in her tone pulled him out of his sexual haze and forced him to focus.
“And?”
“It’s fine, Alex. Just continue to do what you’re doing.”
She didn’t want to hang him by the balls for losing the principal and guarding the wrong woman? No—she really didn’t mean that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that this is an unusual and interesting turn of events, but not the end of the world.”
He couldn’t comprehend what Lucy was saying. “You listened to my whole message, didn’t you? I don’t know where Jessica Adams is. She’s being replaced by her identical twin. There are threats against her.” He hadn’t even had a chance to go into the mysterious sex tape.
“Alex, just go along with it.”
What the hell did that mean? “What about the client? Does he know?”
She was silent for what seemed like forever. “Don’t get involved in that. Just protect her, and, as I told you, stay in front of him enough to make a positive impression.”
Alex dropped on a workout bench, noting the rapid disappearance of his hard-on. “Lucy, listen to me. I have no idea where the woman he’s paying us to protect is.”
“She’s on a story investigation.”
“Are you sure? Does Kimball Parrish know that for sure?”
“Have you heard anything at all from her?” Lucy’s voice was sharp, and she’d purposely avoided his question.
“Some bogus text messages.”
“All right. Until further notice, this is your assignment: provide personal security to the woman that you have. And get as much face time with Mr. Parrish as you can.”
Nothing made sense. “He’s left Miami, do you know that?”
“He’ll be back. You just do what I’ve asked you to do. Do you understand, Alex?”
No. He did not. He glanced toward the locker room door, pushing himself off the bench and heading in that direction.
“Do you understand, Alex?” The bite was back when she had to repeat her question.
“Yeah, I got it covered, Lucy.” He opened the door and listened. Silence. “But let me ask you a question.”
“Of course.”
He walked past the lockers, a long vanity, mirrors and sinks. Nothing. “Is this sister still technically the principal?”
Lucy laughed softly. “So the twin is as attractive as the real thing?”
“She has a certain appeal.” He checked the stalls. Every damn one was empty.
“Yes, Alex, my rules still hold.”
“Carajo,” he mumbled as the truth of what Jazz had done hit him.
“This is important. Stay on the course you’re on and don’t complicate things with sex.”
Alex spun around and stared at an emergency exit door that locked from the inside. Grabbing the handle, he swung it open to the hallway of the second floor.
“Your job is to keep everything under control, Alex.”
He managed to mute the blackest curse he could think of, but punched the wall as frustration and fury careened through him. “Everything is under control,” he lied.
“Even your libido?”
“Trust me, Luce.” He leaned into the hall and could have sworn he heard the ding of an elevator around the corner. The little witch had escaped. “With this one, that’s the least of my problems.”
Once Miles Yoder got the call and learned that Jessica was being “replaced” by a twin sister, he pulled himself from the bed and slipped down to the Palme d’Or. This he had to see. Otherwise he would have remained in his suite, snuggled peacefully with the woman he loved.
From the far end of the bar, Miles sipped his Highland Park single malt and remained in the shadows. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only man alone in the hotel bar that night. Would the imposter have the nerve to walk up to every one of them and ask his name?
If she was anything like Jessica, she just might. And he’d take it from there.
If she didn’t approach him, he wouldn’t approach her. As a twin sister, she may or may not be trustworthy. He couldn’t know from one quick meeting in a bar. Either way, she was doing him a huge favor, and he preferred to keep it that way. She was obviously good enough to fool some very discerning audiences.
When he saw her pause at the entrance and scan the bar, he tried to be objective. Would he know she was an imposter if he hadn’t been warned?
He’d spent quite a bit of time with Jessica over the past few weeks; they’d had several meals and long conversations. He had to admit, at first, he would think that woman was Jessica. Not just because of the face—which was eerily identical—but her posture, the tilt of her head, the body language as she nodded to the bartender and took a seat.
But Jessica would have known him on sight. And she never would have arrived twenty minutes late.
As she settled onto her stool, he decided he would have been suspicious because of her wardrobe. He’d never seen Jessica in anything but high-quality, elegant clothes. He couldn’t imagine her wearing army pants, or going out with her hair looking like she’d combed it with a rake.
Intrigued, he sipped his scotch and observed her. Everything in him wanted to talk to her, test her. But he hadn’t made it to the top of his game by gambling. He couldn’t take the chance that she’d tell the wrong person, the wrong “friend” at work.
He felt her gaze fall directly on him and he ignored her.
As the bartender brought her bottled water, she leaned forward and asked him something. He shook his head.
He saw her shoulders sag a bit. As the bartender walked away, she added, “Could you bring me a Cuban coffee?”
Miles took a bill from his wallet and slipped it under his cocktail napkin. Yes, Miss Jasmine Adams. You drink some coffee. You’ll be sitting here for a long time waiting for a rendezvous that will never take place.
He left the bar and strode through the historic lobby of the Biltmore, his curiosity satisfied. Now he was eager to get back upstairs to his soul mate.
The last thing Jazz expected when she opened the condo door at two in the morning was to find Alex watching porn. As she entered, he burned her with a look that matched precisely how she felt.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked, his voice low and humorless.
She shrugged off her bag and took a few steps into the living room, looking at the TV.
“I got stood up.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her pants and indicated the screen with her chin. On it, two women writhed around in a huge bathtub with a heavily tattooed man. “Hope I didn’t drive you to that level of desperation.”
“Not even close.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at the soundless TV.
She slowly approached his chair, wired from espresso and frustration. His gaze remained riveted on the TV, expressionless. He didn’t look like a sexually frustrated man reduced to watching porn to get his rocks off. His face didn’t have that raw lusty look she’d seen a few hours ago.
Her body instantly responded to the memory of the moment he’d lost control, the second that she saw him give into the power of passion. She’d never seen anything so flat-out erotic in her life. When Alex Romero lost control, she’d almost come right on the health club floor under him.
Then some guardian angel had intervened before her pitiable plan backfired in the most glorious way.
“So DR didn’t show, huh?” he asked.
DR? The question wrenched her back to the moment. “I didn’t go to meet with DR. I have no idea who that is.”
“Really?” He shifted in the chair, the colors of the screen casting an eerie glow on his jet black hair. A thick lock had fallen over one eyebrow, and another grazed his square jaw. Her fingers tingled to touch the strands.
“Allow me to introduce her,” he said, pointing the remote toward the TV. “As soon as she finishes that blow job, you can meet Desirée Royalle.”
Stunned, she turned toward the screen where a blond woman was indeed up to her neck performing bubble bath fellatio. “This isn’t the same movie we watched last night.”
“Nope. I hit the all-night video store.”
She dropped to her knees, and glanced at the bizarre scene on TV, then back to Alex. “How’d you figure out she’s DR?”
He froze the frame, then changed disks with a click of the remote. The machine droned and whirred, breaking the silence. Alex still didn’t spare her a single glance.
Sighing softly, she placed her hand on the armrest, as close to him as she dared. “I’m sorry about…how I did that.”
He barely raised one shoulder. “Forget about it.”
Like that would happen in this lifetime. If she hadn’t been hellbent on a mission, she’d have spent the last two hours…She looked at the frozen image on TV.
Like that. Upside down and inside out, underneath and on top. If he’d gone looking for a condom, she’d have run after him naked—instead of running to the Biltmore, only to get blown off by some mystery TV executive who wasn’t even a registered guest and never answered his cell phone again.
“Look,” he instructed.
The screen suddenly flashed to something more familiar. Wet Kiss. As the opening credits rolled over a woman’s face and pierced nipples, she slid her finger in her mouth and gave it a long, sensuous lick.
Jazz was in no mood to watch this trash again. “What am I looking for, Alex?”
“Her.”
“What about her?” The actress dipped her wet finger between her legs and said something to the camera before it cut away to the first scene.
“You didn’t recognize her?”
Jazz squinted at the screen. “Not a lot of face time in that last shot.”
“Come on, Jazz,” he prodded. “You’re the PI. Don’t you remember where you’ve seen that woman?”
He skipped back to the opening again and froze the screen on the actress’s face.
“Sorry, Alex. I’ve never seen her before.”
“You saw her today. She walked right past you in the parking lot of Channel Five.”
“No way!”
“And look at her here.” He switched to the other disk, skipped a few scenes and froze the screen on the same blonde, this time with waist-length hair, wet from her bathtub frolicking. “That’s your sister’s source. Or maybe it’s her good friend and coworker.”
Slack-jawed, she looked from him to the TV screen. “How did you figure that out?”
“I kept thinking about it, and finally decided that it was during that moment in the parking lot that the sense that I’d missed something started to bother me.”
She knew that feeling, but she hadn’t experienced it today. Was she so wrapped up in pretending to be Jessica that she overlooked obvious clues?
Alex continued his explanation. “I saw that woman walking toward us and I knew I’d seen her before. And it wasn’t in the newsroom or anywhere else we’d been. After you disappeared tonight, I remembered the video last night.”
Jazz inched closer to the TV, sitting on the floor in front of him. “Hit play again. I want to get a better look.”
The action started up again. “The closing credits list a woman named Desirée Royalle—DR on your sister’s calendar. To be sure, I stopped by the triple-X video store and found two more of her movies. Both produced in Miami, by the way.”
The actress in the tub pulled back from her lover for a close-up.
“That’s the woman we saw in the parking lot,” he stated. “No doubt about it.”
“I hardly noticed her.” She remembered the moment, however. She’d been trying to navigate the steps in Jessica’s high heels.
“She was carrying a backpack and smelled like cigarettes,” he said. “She also glared at you for a long time.”
Realization rocked her. “She probably thought I was Jessica—and that I ignored her.”
Alex turned off the TV, leaving the room lit only by a golden sheen from the nightscape reflecting off Biscayne Bay. “But that’s not our problem, is it? Just go about your life as your sister, and when she comes back, she can explain everything to us.”
Jazz looked at him, dumbfounded. “What? You don’t want to go find this woman? What if she knows where Jessica is?”
“Jessica is working on a story,” he said quietly. He reached over to the end table and picked up a bottle of water. He took a long pull and then let his head drop back, black hair falling against polished white cotton. “We’ll just wait for her.”
“Like hell we will.” She rose to her knees and suddenly realized she was in front of his lap, on her knees, in the dark, not two feet from his body. The vivid memory of his throbbing erection against the sole of her foot knocked her right back down. “I’m going to find this Desirée and talk to her, with or without you.”
“How are you going to do that, Jazz? Blind me with lust again?”
Without the TV, the only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioner. He stared at her from under half-closed lids, his long eyelashes making black circles under his dark eyes. “What exactly did you have in mind, Jazz? Did you think you could fuck me unconscious?”
The raw language cut through her. “I thought…you might have to come back up here for a condom. And then I could…leave.”
He shook his head with a caustic laugh. “Do you seriously think I’d make a mistake like that?” He held up a hand as if to correct himself. “Though I admit I’ve been a little off my game since you first walked in that door.”
God, she’d hate to see him on his game. “I knew it was a lousy plan.”
“Lousy? Nah. I liked it.” His smile was forced. “But you knew that.”
“I really needed to get out on my own tonight.” The explanation sounded as pathetic as she felt.
“Your technique was creative, I’ll give you that. But reckless.”
“How so?”
“I could have skipped the condom,” he said. “I could have just taken you.”
It was more like the other way around, and they both knew it. “But that would go against your training.”
Slowly, he leaned toward her. Without a word, he reached under her hair, taking her neck in his hands and pulling her so close that his breath warmed her face as her heart skidded around her chest. “Everything about this assignment goes against my training.” There was no disguising the loathing in his voice.
With one strong hand, he eased her head to the side and pressed his mouth to her ear. “I’ve never lost a power struggle in my life, querida.” His husky voice sent shivers to every nerve ending. “And I assure you I won’t lose this one.”
He released her, picked up the water bottle, and walked toward his room. The next sound she heard was the latch of his door.
Jazz sat on the floor and stared at the empty chair. Instead of indignation, or even a healthy dose of repugnance at his macho threats and cold dismissal of her, she ached. In the most physical way. In the most private places.
Not that he was about to ease that ache. No, that would be tantamount to waving the white flag in their power struggle.
There was nothing for her to do but figure out how to find Jessica. Tomorrow she would start a skip trace on the porn actress and find her.
Tonight she’d study her target, and lick her wounds. She settled into the club chair, soaking up the warmth that his body had left behind. She picked up the remote, prepared to watch Desirée Royalle do all the things she wanted to do with Alex.
But a sharp, unfamiliar sense of despair settled over her. She dropped the remote on the floor and pushed herself out of the chair, her eyes and throat suddenly stinging. What could cause that?
She shook it off and glared at Alex’s closed door. It must have been all that Cuban coffee—or all that Cuban man.