LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I take on each day as if it was my last, Russell. You disapprove?”

      “It’s your life.”

      “Yes, it is, and I live it as I choose.” She flung that at him like a challenge, but he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t dare.

      “Good for you, Ms. Castillo,” was his cool, distancing reply.

      He couldn’t see her face, just those expressive eyes. They blazed hotly. With passionate feeling. Those kind of emotions, whether anger or insult or something more, were the last things he meant to inspire in either of them. But they were there, simmering now as they had then, just below the surface. Dangerous and unpredictable.

      He’d been naive to think this would be just another job.

      “Your father’s waiting for me. Should I start walking?”

      His dismissing prompt dashed the heat from her stare. Her reply was equal in its disinterest. “Climb on. Or take a cab if you’re afraid the ride might be too much for you.”

      He snagged the spare helmet off the sissy bar and drawled, “I can handle anything with wheels or estrogen.”

      The corners of her eyes crinkled. He could imagine her sassy smile. “Ummm. We’ll see.” She snapped down her visor and goosed the throttle impatiently.

      Slipping on his sunglasses and the open fronted helmet, Zach swung a leg over the seat. Even as he touched the saddle, the bike lunged forward, forcing him to grab on or get thrown. With one hand clenched in the back of her jacket and the other working the helmet strap, Zach managed to find the foot pegs as Antonia Castillo slalomed between slower vehicles, leaning and weaving like a downhill racer.

      He wasn’t dressed for a winter ride. His wool pea coat didn’t shed the cut of the wind the way her leathers did. His bare hands and face burned as they headed out into the open air of the freeway southbound toward the lakeshore. Behind dark glasses, his eyes watered and blurred. But even as he grimaced into the brunt of the elements, a part of him enjoyed the fierce whip of the February air and the freedom of flying down the road unencumbered by convictions. Antonia’s laughter filtered back to him as if she felt his exhilaration and mocked him because of it. With hands resting firm and wide spread atop the curve of her hips, Zach leaned back to appreciate the irony of the trip.

      What was he doing here, on his way to meet with a man who’d tried to destroy him, with his hands enjoying the feel of a woman who, even when little more than a child, had turned him inside out?

      His simple intentions were about to go straight to a chaotic hell.

      Once they left the open highway for more sheltered suburban streets, neighborhoods went from large homes crowding the manicured boulevards to massive family compounds hidden behind high walls. He observed, not as a casual visitor, but as a potential protector, noting side streets, surveillance opportunities, and possible danger spots until they reached the Castillo’s residence.

      The walls and iron gates were a newer addition, as were the video cameras. Nothing like being proven vulnerable to encourage an escalation in security. They idled outside the gates for less than eight seconds before the way parted, so obviously someone was on the job.

      The house wasn’t visible from the street. A long drive made of brick and cobblestone wound through a thick stand of oaks and firs shielding the residence from view. Not a good scenario. It provided too many places for an undesirable to conceal himself. Zach liked wide open spaces. He liked to see an enemy coming.

      And that’s how he felt as they took the final turn and he saw Victor Castillo, himself, standing on the front steps of his palatial kingdom.

      The house was magnificent. Set on a bluff overlooking the slated waters of Lake Michigan, the sprawling three story stone and timber structure with its turrets, leaded glass and steeply pitched tiled roof reminded him of the estates that dotted the English North country. Though quaint in comparison to the true palaces of Europe, it made a statement of comfortable wealth and American arrogance. Much like its owner.

      The last and only time he’d been here, he’d arrived in an unmarked panel truck with a cluster of other highly trained, highly motivated fellows. He went unnoticed, like the invisible working class meant to serve without intrusion. His job was to not garner individual attention from those in residence. This time, he’d been invited. So why was he wishing for that anonymity again?

      He climbed off the back of the bike, moving cautiously until he was certain he had proper circulation in his legs. Antonia swung off and strode up and into the house without a word to him or her father. Why had she come to meet him herself if she was angry he was here? The number of questions piling up made him uneasy.

      “Mr. Russell, you’re prompt.”

      Unfastening the helmet straps with frozen fingers gave Zach an opportunity to observe his host. Castillo was a bit greyer at the temples, a bit thicker at the middle but he cut no less an impressive and inherently dangerous figure. He looked more like a drug lord thug than an international businessman. Or maybe that’s because Zach knew his history. Blunt workingman’s fingers tapped impatiently upon the weave of his Italian made slacks but Castillo was more than merely restless with the wait. Zach could sense his uncertainty and nervousness. Not much worried someone of Castillo’s stature, a man who had an entourage paid to fret over details for him. So that meant whatever reason he had for summoning someone for whom he had no respect was personal and threatening enough to want someone outside his organization. Why else would he be standing outside in the cold to greet the man he’d once tried to crush?

      “I pride myself on punctuality. Shall we get to the point of your invitation?”

      He saw it then, the intense dislike Castillo harbored for him. It passed briefly across his expression before he gestured to the front door.

      Step into my parlor.

      What was he up to?

      The foyer of the Castillo estate was meant to impress with its massive scale. The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, revealing heavy beams and an impressive chandelier. The tiled floor, ornately carved woodwork and plastered walls all aspired to an Old World feel, but to Zach, who’d grown up steeped in that Old World tradition, the setting was like Castillo, an artificial facade of respectability imitating something it wasn’t.

      What was impressive was the vista spread out before him. From the foyer, several steps led down into the living room and a wall of windows capped by fanciful stained glass designs. The breathtaking view of the lake was un-obstructed except for a sight even more amazing. The lithe, leather-clad figure of Antonia Castillo where she stood looking out upon that bleak winterscape. The four color photos hadn’t done her justice. As a connoisseur of fine things, he knew a masterpiece when he beheld one. And she was a work of art.

      Her dark hair hung down in a heavy braid, leaving her chiseled profile unencumbered. Hers was a lush, savage beauty like the lake beyond, all strong facial angles, slanting cat’s eyes and those pillowy lips that pouted and provoked a man beyond reason. The leather glazed her long legs and fit her tight backside the way a man’s palms itched to. She’d taken off the jacket. Beneath it, she wore a snug white top with thin spaghetti straps. Atop her sleek, willowy build, the bold, gravity-defying fullness of her breasts within that thin stretch of cotton knit was another marvel to behold. When she turned toward him, her chin notched up and her shoulders back, thrusting out her chest with all the challenge of twin nuclear warheads. Fascinating yet deadly.

      Of course, she meant for him to look. What man could help himself? So he did, staring at that awe-inspiring bounty with a cool detachment of someone in an art gallery.

      “Antonia,” her father barked. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

      “I meant to, Father.”

      At least she was honest in her intentions.

      “Put on something decent.”

      “Why?” she challenged with a higher tip of her chin. “Mr. Russell is hardly

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