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infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Mexican Heat
Copyright © 2009 by Josh Lanyon and Laura Baumbach
ISBN: 978-1-60504-380-7
Edited by Angela James
Cover by Natalie Winters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles and reviews.
Original Copyright: 2008
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February
2009
www.samhainpublishing.com
Mexican Heat
Laura Baumbach and Josh Lanyon
Part I
Chapter One
He sauntered past the two shirtless, muscle-bound bouncers, the
C-note he slipped the man on his right earning his passage
through Club Madrone’s front door—and a quick grope over
his ass.
The air smelled like sex, sweat, and tequila, and the room
pulsed with an intoxicating, driving Latin beat. Gabriel felt the
pound of it in his chest, his heart picking up the rhythm. They
were playing his song all right, and the name of that tune was
danger.
He spared a grim smile as the vibration of the music tickled
down his spine and made a playful grab for his cock. Another
time, another place…yeah. But tonight he couldn’t afford to
lose focus. Literally or figuratively. The club’s door swung
heavily shut behind him; his sight adjusted to the dim lights and
unfamiliar surroundings as he searched for Benny.
The little weasel better not have dragged him down here for
nothing…
Gabriel shouldered his way through the crowd blocking his path.
A couple of annoyed faces turned his way, met his level stare,
and hastily averted their gazes.
He scanned the packed room. Not too many underage faces and
nobody falling down drunk yet. Club Madrone had a decent rep
for a bar rumored to be mob owned—though somebody
should’ve whacked the interior decorator who came up with the
idea of colored strobe lights and blue walls adorned by rough
wooden crosses. The Frida Kahlo-like nude behind the bar
wasn’t bad, though. Not that Gabriel was much into naked
chicks.
He pushed through another human wall—made up mostly of
oblivious bare or nearly bare backs. This time the surprised
looks turned flirtatious and inviting. He ignored them.
No sign of Benny’s red-tipped rooster’s comb at either of the
long black bars located at each end of the spacious main room.
There were a lot of bodies. But, none of them was Benny’s.
Where the hell was he?
All that bullshit about Don Jesus Sanchez and the Mexican
Mafia. Gabriel already knew about the big meet between Ricco
Botelli and Sanchez, and what other information would a small-
time grifter like Benny be privy to? Still, Gabriel couldn’t take
a chance. Once in a while Benny surprised them all with the
things he managed to sniff out. It was worth a risk to Gabriel’s
cover if Benny really had ferreted out information Gabriel
didn’t have access to. But that was a big if.
Increasingly edgy, he scanned the crowds both on and off the
dance area. The dark archways and thinly curtained alcoves half
hid a variety of activities, from panting, pawing couples to
group-shared snort.
Yeah. Nice clientele here at Club Madrone. His lip curled.
Gabriel caught fragments of conversation as he made his way
through the crowd to the bar on the far end of the room. Some
of the talk was in English, some of it in Spanish. Several of the
comments were addressed directly to him. He was used to it.
His shoulder-length black hair and tanned skin allowed his
Italian ancestry a free pass in this Latino crowd.
He ignored the challenging looks, the mutters, and the smiling
come-ons alike. Sidestepping a giggling platinum-haired
señorita, he reached the bar and ordered a Corona from the
sleek, tattooed bartender.
“Nine bucks,” the man said, sliding the glistening bottle down
the bar.
Paying for his drink and pushing back the six dollars change in
tip, Gabriel made eye contact long enough to let the man know
he appreciated the fast service. The bartender returned his bold
stare and gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Ah. Message
received. Leaning back against the wooden rail, Gabriel
surveyed the room, a faint smile touching his mouth as he
brought the bottle to his lips.
Too bad he wasn’t on his own time. He’d have liked to make
the most of these few hours of freedom outside his cage.
On the slick center floor the dancers wriggled and slithered to
the pounding music, a huge and coiling snake of mostly olive-
skinned flesh and dark hair.
Gabriel’s gaze moved on, automatically checking for faces he
might recognize from charge reports, or outstanding wants and
warrants or—God forbid—a previous bust. Nobody looked
familiar. And nobody seemed particularly interested in him past
the reason anybody in this dive was interested in anybody
else—sex. Gabriel relaxed a fraction. Everything was cool. And
that asshole Benny would show up any minute full of the usual
bullshit excuses.
He took another pull on his beer. This bar, tucked into an out-
of-the-way corner of the Latino neighborhood in a section of
the city he had never worked undercover, was the kind of place
he liked when he was off duty. It was difficult for an
undercover vice cop to find a place to hook up for casual sex.
And Gabriel liked his sex very casual—as in maybe even a little
risky. Rough, hard and silent. Certainly never with the same
partner twice. There lay the road to entanglements and
complications. With his life on the line 24/7, he couldn’t afford
emotional attachments. Hell, he couldn’t afford emotions.
Besides, even before he’d scored the long-term gig as one of
Ricco Botelli’s hired guns, he’d sort of been what was called
“high maintenance”. Never mind the brutal hours or the stress
and strain of undercover work: Gabriel’s aloof attitude and
sarcastic mouth hadn’t exactly endeared him to potential lovers.
Chugging the rest of his cold beer, he toyed with treating
himself to some fine hombre tail once he and Benny completed
their business. A smooth Spanish accent and a nice set of broad
shoulders topped with a handsome face would be a start. And
big hands.
He liked the feel of big, strong hands on his body—stroking his
skin, pinching his nipples, cupping his ass, holding him still.
Gabriel was always in motion: restless, impatient, edgy. Little
firecracker, his mama used to say. Hyperactive, the old man
used to say. Hell, maybe it was true. Even during sex he had
trouble turning off: twisting, wriggling, squirming—fighting
what he wanted, what he needed. It took a strong man, strong in
will and physique, to contain all that wiry, crackling energy.
Even if Gabriel had been willing, which he wasn’t, few guys
were going to make that effort twice.
That’s why God created occasional nights of knee-rattling,
fuse-blowing sex with strangers, right? Gabriel had figured out
a long time ago that was the best he was going to get. Hell,
maybe it was all he deserved considering that he betrayed
people—granted, not very nice people—for a living. By now he
had to have collected one shitload of bad karma.
Turning to order another beer, he glimpsed a tall man moving
through the crowd. Sleek black hair, white dress shirt, and black
trousers—that described three-quarters of the guys present, but
something about this man made it impossible for Gabriel to
look away. He waited for a better view—and there it was: a
tightly fitted white shirt unbuttoned to a lean waist revealed a
nest of rich dark curls on a brown muscular chest. The ebony V
dipped toward a silver belt buckle, emphasizing narrow hips
and long legs.
Eyes fastened on the man’s broad back, sexual heat blossoming
in the pit of his stomach, Gabriel followed his easy progress
through the crush.
Hungrily, he watched as the man reached the far wall. And then
his quarry paused as if somehow aware of Gabriel’s regard. The
man turned Gabriel’s way. Their gazes locked.
The heat in Gabriel’s belly coalesced into an electric sizzle that
sent sparks shooting to his groin. He felt unable to look away as
a wide, square hand reached up to rake thick, black hair out of
the stranger’s eyes. That grave dark stare never wavered from
his own.
The man raised an eyebrow. Just one elegant brow. The faintest
smile touched his mouth. Heat flushed Gabriel’s face, but he
didn’t look away—couldn’t.
Still waiting for Gabriel’s response, the man ran a blunt thumb
slowly, consideringly over his full bottom lip.
And just like that Gabriel was rock-hard and aching for it. Well,
hell. It had been a very long time. Too long.
A slender youth wiggled off the dance floor and tugged at the
stranger’s arm, forcing the man to break eye contact. Gabriel
felt a surge of irritation. He watched the tall man talk to the
insistent dancer, watched the shadow play of long eyelashes,
the tug and tease of full sensual lips, a silent pantomime to
Gabriel’s hungry eyes. Gabriel was adept at lip-reading, but in
that bad light he could only catch enough to know the man was
indulgent, amused by whatever the boy was offering.
Sighing, Gabriel turned back to face the bar, ordering another
beer. The bartender provided it with a sympathetic smile, and
Gabriel downed it in one long series of swallows, washing
away the sizzle in his stomach, leaving only a faint queasiness
behind.
If Tall, Dark, and Direct was up for a quickie with a pretty
twink, he wasn’t likely to be interested in going another round
with a guy ten years older.
Gabriel checked his watch. Just where the fuck was Benny? He
ought to know Gabriel couldn’t afford to wait around here all
night. He did know.
He risked another look across the room. The twink was near the
dance floor talking animatedly with a squat Hispanic with a
pockmarked face. There was something vaguely familiar about
that ugly face, but Gabriel was unable to place him. He gave it
up and looked back at the tall, sexy stranger.
He had vanished.
Gabriel scanned the room again. No. No sign of the man.
The disappointment he felt was out of proportion to…well, to
anything. Even the twink had taken rejection with better grace.
This time he ordered tequila. Picking up the wedge of lime, he
licked the curve between his thumb and index finger, flicked his
wet skin with salt from the shaker, licked it, tossed back the
tequila and bit into the lime.
Giving his head a quick shake, he pushed off from the bar. He’d
have one last look for Benny, and then he was gone. The night
was fucked—in every way but the one that counted.
Gabriel had already passed the roped-off staircase to the second
floor with its curtained alcove balconies once when he decided
to scope out the upstairs. After a quick check that no one was
watching, he went up the steps two at a time. He wasn’t looking
for Benny by now—the snitch would have shown if he was
coming—but the tequila was singing through Gabriel’s system;
he felt restless, strung out, and jacked up. He needed action,
needed the night not to be another dead end, another waste of
time—time being something he increasingly felt he was
running out of.
He reached the second level unchallenged. It seemed to be
deserted, the club’s other patrons more respectful of the velvet
rope at the foot of the staircase. Gabriel made his way warily
down the row of curtained cubicles. While the thudding bass of
the music below concealed his footsteps, it also made it
impossible to hear anyone else.
Down the hallway, a partially opened door led into what
appeared to be a private office. And all at once the night was
looking much brighter. Why the hell not? Why not take
advantage of this unexpected opportunity to gather information
about who exactly was backing Club Madrone?
In two steps he was in the doorway, brushing his knuckles
against the wood. “Anyone home?” he asked softly.
Silence.
Gabriel slipped inside the room. He eased the door soundlessly
shut behind him and felt for the wall switch. Light came on
overhead revealing a minibar in one corner, a red velvet couch
in another, and a heavy, antique desk. On the desk sat a
computer. Gabriel considered it, grimly hoping that its secrets
would prove more interesting than an inventory of glassware
and booze receipts.
The office smelled of recent sex and marijuana, and his body
reacted to the scents—and the risk he was taking—his heart
pounding in crazy time with the salsa rhythms insinuating their
way through the floorboards.
Christ. Maybe it was true what they said about him. Maybe he
was an adrenaline junkie.
When a couple moments passed and nothing insidious or
dangerous presented itself, Gabriel stepped further into the
room and got a better look at two large oil paintings hanging
behind the desk. They looked original, reminding him subtly of
the Kahlo-style nude downstairs, but these felt more…authentic.
Here the artist had copied no one, and the result was stunning.
For a moment even his cop’s instinct took a backseat while his
eyes feasted on the primitive colors and bold strokes. The
paintings, companion pieces, vividly depicted sensuous
couplings: two men and a woman, two women and a man. He’d
never seen anything like them: the brilliant, rich hues of tawny
skin and glossy hair, the way the men smiled knowingly at each
other, hands brushing bodies in tender caress. He’d never
thought of himself as particularly sensitive to art, but these were
amazing, even moving…
