Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance by Stevens Camilla

Author:Stevens, Camilla
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One

Enrique

The image of Leira in that white dress follows me all the way back to my apartment.

A goddess?

Where the hell did that come from? As though I don’t know damn well where it came from. Everything about her is perfectly ethereal, awesome, untouchable.

Then there was that cross, conjuring up all sorts of unholy thoughts in my head.

On second thought, maybe she’s more like one of those vestal virgins, at least the way I always pictured them in my adolescent head during all those lessons on Ancient Rome. The only difference is, rather than pinned up on top of her head, her hair surrounds her like a shower of thick curls, somehow making her seem even more…raw. She’s like an unpicked fruit—a forbidden fruit. But still so very ripe for the taking.

All thoughts of Leira in that dress, or out of it, disappear as I turn the corner to my street. Once again, I stop, supporting myself and the scooter on one leg as I peer down the street. My eyes scan everything, trying to find what it was that gave me pause yesterday. Finally, my eyes land on it.

A large black Land Rover SUV, shiny and new. In this part of Ibiza, it stands out.

Almost too much.

I stare at it long and hard, deciding on my best course of action. What I told Leira this morning wasn’t a lie. If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead. A car like that spells “professional.” Which means they don’t want us dead. Not yet, at any rate.

If there is anyone in the car, they would have seen me by now, so there’s no use bothering with subterfuge. Might as well play their game.

I push off the street to right the scooter and drive down to meet them. I turn until I’m facing the car head-on and sit idling by the driver’s side door.

Through the windshield, I can see it’s a woman at the wheel. She smirks through the glass and lowers the window. Keeping a somewhat safe distance, I wait for her to speak first.

“We were wondering when you would make an appearance. My colleagues and I were getting quite impatient.” She has an accent—something Eastern European, which matches the light eyes and severe features of her face.

“What do you want?”

“My employer would like a word with you.”

“Is that so? And who is your employer?”

She smiles. There’s nothing friendly about it. “That is not important for now.”

“So, what is important for now?”

“What is important is that you be there one week from now—Friday at noon exactly. Barcelona. That is where you live these days, is it not…Enrique Marín?”

I expected almost anything, so this surprise of her knowing my name and the city that I call home doesn’t garner a reaction from me.

“One week?”

“He is otherwise occupied.”

I narrow my eyes with suspicion

“Marina Port Vell.”

I’m familiar with the port in Barcelona, being that it’s where I usually dock my boat when I head back. They know too much about me.

“What is this about?”

“Again, is not important for now.

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