Page 1 of Naked Truth

Chapter One

Valentina

My hands are shakingas the car pulls into the long line of traffic leading up to Dominic Hernandez’s fortress of a home, a mansion set into some of the most gorgeous countryside southern Texas has to offer. It’s taken us over an hour to drive here from the San Antonio Airport, and the most difficult part of this long and complicated journey is about to hit me square in the face.

“You have invitation, yes? Señor Hernandez has many guards and dogs to chase away the curious.”

I’m startled by my driver’s abrupt question. He hasn’t spoken much since I hired him at the airport, he was simply the next taxi up. I thought about paying for more luxurious transportation, but I don’t have that much money. Everything about this trip has cost more than I expected, but soon—it will be done.

“I do,” I say, with a confidence I don’t feel. The driver grunts in skepticism, but I try to ignore him and instead draw in the deep, meditative breath my tía taught me, channeling her calm, comforting voice. My story is a good one, I think. They will hear me out in this grand house, even if they don’t believe me.

I learned about Dominic Hernandez’s extravagant birthday party when I was doing research on prominent Mexican-American families in San Antonio. I identified the city more by chance than anything else, based on a beautiful mission church captured in one of the photos now packed carefully in my bag. But once I saw a picture of Dom Hernandez as a young man, I felt in my bones he was the man I was searching for. And if I’m wrong, well…there are enough taxis in this queue for me to catch another one back to the airport.

I have to be right, though. I have to!

“Where are you from?” the taxi driver asks as we inch forward. He’s speaking to me in Spanish, of course—we’ve been speaking Spanish this entire way. I know the language as well as I know English, my tía made sure of that…just as she made sure I always knew I wasn’t her blood-related niece, no matter what my official documents say. She’s the one who gives me courage now, though she passed on well over a year ago. She watches over me along with my beautiful abuela, whose picture I also have, but who I knew only when I was a baby. I wish I remembered her.

I shrug. “Up north,” I answer back, but I don’t give him any more information. I’ve paid this man extra to bring me here without delay, and he eventually realizes that if he wants the second half of his fare, he should focus on getting me to my destination, not on chatting me up.

We finally arrive at the great gates of the Hernandez estate, a sprawling property evolved from a Spanish hacienda centuries before. There’s a small army of staff to greet guests, and I pick out several rough-looking men among them: guards. I can’t see their guns from this angle, but they’ll definitely have them. Dom Hernandez is a very powerful man. Some of the articles I read even hinted that he was part of the Mexican mafia, though no one had the guts to come out and say that directly.

A renewed thrill of panic skates through me, and I swallow my fear. All I need to do is stick to my plan! Stick to my plan and be careful, something my tía always lamented I could never do. But I will be careful now.

I pay the driver the rest of his money and thank him in flawless Spanish, then get out of the car before his dark stare unnerves me further. I’m not dressed to attract the attention of men. I’m wearing one of the simple linen shifts my tía so favored, distinctive in its neutral tones. It’s definitely out of place in the midst of all the color, bright laughter and joyful music spilling out from Dom Hernandez’s home. Before I take three steps toward the gates, I pull out the unsealed box. It’s the key that will unlock the door to this grand house, I pray. If that doesn’t work, the photo in my purse will. At least, I hope it will.

“Pare!”The word is snapped so close to me I stop instantly in my tracks, obeying the halt command. Then I look up—and up further. Standing beside me is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen up close. He stares down with icy blue eyes below a sweep of rich black hair that beautifully frames his darkly tanned face. His mouth is soft, easy, and he’s smiling, but I don’t miss the intensity of his gaze. He wants something from me, wants it now, and I—I’m more than ready to give it.

“Yes,” I breathe, the word sounding impossibly soft to my own ears. My entire body vibrates in tune to this man’s energy, energy my tía taught me to listen to even before I could fully understand words. I take a step closer to the man, and his smile broadens. Something in his expression makes my heart pound and my skin heat, as a curious swirl of need coils deep within me, seeking any way out.

The man’s voice is much warmer when he speaks again. “Who are you, little bird?” he asks, and I realize with a jolt that he’s speaking in English—because I have spoken in English, betraying myself almost immediately when I wanted so much to be accepted by these people! But I shake away my dismay and hold up my precious gift.

“My name is Valentina Henry.”

“And you know Señor Hernandez? You are a friend?”

“I have a present for Dom Hernandez,” I say, switching to Spanish again to say my piece. “From the artist Maria Vantoro. He was kind to her when she was a young woman, but he may not remember that. She—she died, last year, and it was her wish that he receive this gift. I’d like to present it to him, nothing more, to see his face when he opens it.”

The man’s eyes sharpen as he narrows his gaze on me. Someone calls out a name near him, “Raoul,” but if that’s his name he gives no indication. He holds out his hand for the package and I lift my own hands, offering it like a sacrifice. Our fingers brush as he takes it from me, and my body reacts instantly. I gasp, struggling not to stop back, as a completely unexpected damp heat floods me from the center of my being, my mouth falling open in surprise.

“Relax, little bird. I won’t make you sing, not yet.”

I blink rapidly, but the man’s attention is on my gift now. Did I possibly hear him correctly? But what could—

“What is this?” He lifts the delicate vase from its thick packaging, turning it over in his big hands. It’s tiny, little more than five inches tall and three inches wide, but it’s one of my tía’s most beautiful pieces. In the most prominent western galleries, an authentic Maria Vantoro would sell for ten thousand dollars, but this close to the Mexican border? It may look like just another piece of pottery.

I rush to explain, still in Spanish. “My tía is—was—an artist. She’s quite well known, her work in high demand at galleries. This piece was one of her favorites. She—she wanted Señor Hernandez to have it.” My declaration has the ring of truth, because it is truth. My tía wanted me to find my family, and made this vase for them. I pray she’s watching me now, blessing my efforts.

The man turns to a woman who’s appeared beside him with some sort of paddle, and for one agonizing moment I think they’re about to smash the delicate vase. But the woman merely passes the paddle over the sculpted piece, nods, and moves on.

The man returns his gaze to me as he replaces my gift in its box. “You will get your chance to give Dom Hernandez your gift, little bird. Come with me.”

He reaches out his hand and I stare at it, my heart rate kicking up. “You—you’ll take me to him?” I manage, relief swamping me. My whole body has started to tremble, but not in fear, exactly. More in a rich, strange excitement, unlike anything I’ve experienced before.

But the man doesn’t answer me. He takes my fingers in his hand and lifts them high, brushing a soft kiss against the knuckles. The touch of his mouth on me practically makes my knees buckle, and I can’t stop the soft groan that slips between my lips. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m practically on fire for this man in front of me, sweet wet heat blossoming within me like a desert flower, and all I can do is go with him as he tugs me forward, through the flower-laden gates of Dom Hernandez’s beautiful home, and toward the music and dancing.

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