Run To You
didn’t make finding her as easy as a Google search. She’d never been involved in any sort of social media and mostly used the Internet to look up drink recipes and YouTube videos. “Are you a private investigator?” She ran her fingers through her hair, from the top of her forehead to her crown.
His stormy-colored gaze moved from her face to the bouffant on the table. “No. Private security.”
“Like a bodyguard?” He looked like he could be a bodyguard.
“Among other things.” The waitress returned with two cups of coffee and a small plate with flan drizzled in caramel.
“What other things?”
He waited until the waitress walked away before he answered, “Things you don’t need to know about.”
“Secret spy things?”
He picked up his fork and pointed to the wig. “What is that?”
The subject of secret spy things apparently not a topic for conversation, she answered, “A hairpiece.”
“It looks like one of those yappy dogs.” He paused to cut into his dessert. “Like a fat Pekingese.”
Out of everything that had happened that night, he wanted to judge her Amy bouffant? She poured a splash of cream into her coffee and added a packet of sugar. “So, who paid you to look for me?” She stirred, and with her free hand, she reached behind her neck and pulled her hair over one shoulder. The fine black strands brushed the top of her bustier and curled beneath the curve of her left breast. She thought about her family and wondered which one had actually coughed up their own money to find her. It wasn’t her mother. Her mother knew where she lived, but Stella doubted Marisol had told anyone. Not because she was tight-lipped, but because Stella had made her mother swear secrecy on the life of baby Jesus. And swearing on baby Jesus was deadly business. Her first guess would be her mother’s ex-husband. “Carlos?” Although she couldn’t imagine what he’d want from her these days. Money . Her biological father had died recently and Carlos had to think she’d received some money. She hadn’t. Her mother would have mentioned money.
He shoveled a piece of flan into his mouth, then raised the solid white mug and washed it down. “No.”
She took a drink of her own coffee, then wiped off the smudge of red lipstick with her thumb. “Tio Jorge?” She liked her uncle Jorge. He was one of the few people in her family she wouldn’t mind seeing. He’d always been good to her, but she couldn’t imagine Jorge parting with a dime to find her. He was a good man, but an extreme tightwad.
He pointed the mug at her. “Your sister.”
Equal parts relief and amusement curved her lips into a smile and she chuckled. “You’ve got the wrong girl.” He’d hung out with drag queens, waited in a parking lot until two-thirty in the morning, and knocked Ricky out. For nothing. “I don’t have a sister. Tons of cousins, but no sister.” Thinking of Anna Conda and her interest in Joe’s sexual aura turned Stella’s chuckle to laughter. She placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together beneath her chin. “Maybe you should think of a new line of work.”
His gray eyes stared into hers from across the table as he took another drink of coffee. Nothing registered on his face, as if the mere possibility of a mistake was so absurd it wasn’t worth the effort of a single thought or expression.
“Whoever paid you is going to want her money back. I hope it wasn’t much.” She needed to get going. It wasn’t her style to bullshit with strangers. She had to do a lot of that at work and preferred not to on her own time. There was nothing to keep her here now, except a perverse desire to see if she could get a reaction out of Mr. Stone Cold. “This stealthy ninja, lurking-in-the-shadows gig isn’t working for you.” And to be extra helpful she added, “I don’t know what they taught you at your security school, but the next time you’re working undercover at a drag queen pageant, you might think about blending in. Maybe wear some leather chaps or at the very least . . . pastel.” The thought of him in assless chaps or a pink shirt with maybe a scarf cracked her up.
Too bad he didn’t have a sense of humor. “I’m not undercover, and your name is Stella Leon. Correct?” Without breaking so much as a smile, he picked up his fork and shoved more flan into his mouth.
He knew her name. She didn’t know his but didn’t ask. First, because she didn’t care. And second, if he
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