Page 22 of Drawn Blue Lines

“You know damn well who it is. Now open the door.”

I trailed a nail across the metal, and it scratched like nails on a chalkboard. “I’m sorry, I don’t answer the door for strangers. A lady can never be too careful, you know.”

“Adriana,” he warned, the low growl in his voice drawing me closer to the door until I pressed flush against it. “You’re staying in a motel that’s in the heart of a Carrera-run neighborhood. If you don’t open this fucking door by the count of three, I’m going to open fire on this lock and no one will give a shit. Do you understand me?”

My smile faded.

I did understand him, and I wanted to slam my head against the door for being so stupid. Yeah, I didn’t have the extra cash to go to a fancy hotel, but I should’ve remembered the Carreras had a lockdown on this part of town.

He was right. He could empty the gun in the door and me, and no one would bat an eye.

Moving quickly, I opened the door with a scowl. “You’re a real aguafiestas, you know that?”

Brody stood at the threshold with his palms braced against the molding. “Thanks. And you’re one hell of a perra tramposa.”

“I call you a buzzkill, and you have to take it over the line with sneaky bitch?”

“Be grateful,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “That was me censoring myself.”

My scowl deepened, but it didn’t stop me from taking him in. He was still dressed in the same half-destroyed button-up shirt and slacks as earlier but whereas before they just looked disheveled, now they appeared to have survived a three-day bender. One wrinkled sleeve was rolled up past his elbow while the other flapped loosely around his wrist. Only four, maybe five, buttons held the whole damn thing together, the others scattered on a breadcrumb trail from here to Caliente. But his clothes weren’t what tightened my chest and sent my pulse skyrocketing.

It was his face.

Brody clenched his jaw so hard, the muscles in his neck twitched, and a vein running down the center of his forehead throbbed with barely-restrained rage. He was more than pissed off. He was a man whose hands itched to feel the life drain from my body. Chills scattered over my skin, and for a moment, I considered backing off.

Then he opened his mouth.

“Drinking alone?” His lips curled in a smirk, and he nodded his head at the forgotten cup in my hand.

“Well, when in Rome…” I motioned to where he still stood in the doorway.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I assumed all the women who spend time in your company erase the memory with booze.” His face flushed a heated shade of crimson as I swung my hips back toward the table. Lifting the bottle of scotch in the air, I licked my lips and winked. “It’s your favorite, rock bottom scotch. I’m out of cups, but feel free to wrap your lips around the tip and suck.”

Okay, admittedly, maybe I took it too far. Way too far, because Brody stormed through the motel room like a charging bull and caged me against the table. His palms slammed against the wood on either side of my ass, and I fought hard not to breathe in the intoxicating scent of scotch and sage. But not the kind in my hand. I recognized indulgence when I smelled it. Single malt scotch, expensive as hell, and hard to come by. Paired with the rugged earthy sage scent of his cologne, the combined effect knocked me off track for a moment.

“Did you hear me?”

I blinked him back into focus. “Huh?”

He rolled his eyes. “I said, what the fuck did you do with Leo Pinellas?”

“Who?”

Brody shifted forward, the hard planes of his chest crushing my lace bodice. “Don’t play innocent, Adriana. It doesn’t suit you. After I read your little love note, I had one of my men go to the Mexican Embassy to check on him. He never returned from his lunch break, so I told them to check his apartment. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you he wasn’t there either.”

I set my drink down with a shrug. “Why are you asking me? Isn’t he your stool pigeon?”

Brody’s eyes turned black, and an inhuman sound rumbled in his throat. Before I could process what was happening, one hand from the table buried in my hair. Tightening his grip, he jerked my head back and forced me to look up at him.

“You don’t understand what’s at stake here.” His fingers twisted tighter around the strands. “I need him. Tell me where he is!”

Dios mío. Why the hell was I turned on? In one show of dominance, my heart raced, and an unbearable ache hit hard between my legs. What was wrong with me? The man was seconds away from putting a bullet in my head, not his dick in my vagina.

I had to get it together.

Curling my fingers around the edge of the table, I gripped the wood tightly. “Oh, I understand a lot more than you think I do, counselor.”

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