Uncaged Love, page 5
“No, I want your given name. The one your parents and the church gave you.” Harper picked up the banana and peeled it halfway.
“Oh, I am Cesara Magdalena Rosado.” She straightened and squared her shoulders as though very proud of her name.
“What do you like people to call you?”
“Maggie,” she said with a huge smile. “It’s American, right?”
Harper had to snicker. “Yes, Maggie, it’s American.” She now looked at the waif and asked just before she took a bite of the fruit, “Who dressed me in this sleeping gown?”
With lowered eyes, Maggie admitted, “I did, miss. Your clothes…they smelled very bad. You were sick, you see. Segundo, he helped me, but he turned his head. He’s nice like that. He stayed with you for a long time. They ordered me to take care of you. I did my best, miss, but I’m not a nurse.”
Harper finished the banana and laid the peel on the tray. “You obviously did just fine. I’m alive and feeling better. Thank you, Maggie. Now talk to me as I shower. You’ve apparently seen me naked so don’t be embarrassed.”
Harper had never been concerned about being naked around women. She’d played several sports during high school and college and showered with more women than she could count. The Army was the same way.
She nudged the thin straps off her shoulders and allowed the satin and lace gown to fall to the polished tile floor. She stepped free of the pooled fabric and strode naked to the multi-head shower then adjusted the hot water.
“Maggie, do you know why I’m here?” Harper stepped under liquid heaven. She let the warm water drench her from head to toe as it washed away the feelings of helplessness with the smell of sickness.
“No, miss. Banita, she’s the head housekeeper, she said that you are a guest. A very guest especial.”
“Do you get many guests here?” Harper surveyed the bottles lined on the shelf. She flipped open one of the body washes and sniffed. Fruity. Not her personal style so she replaced it and moved on to the second. The familiar designer logo held promise. She breathed in one of her favorite perfumes and proceeded to use the liquid soap.
“No, miss. Not very often. You’re the first woman guest, I think.” Maggie paused for a long minute before she admitted, “I was a little afraid when Banita asked me to be your…helper.”
“Why?” Harper asked as she shoved her head under the warm spray.
“Because I didn’t know what you’d need me to do. What they’d expect.” She spoke quickly then, adding. “Momma went straight to Segundo as soon as you landed, and he explained everything. And Momma saw how sick you were. She told Banita it was all right for me to take care of you, but no men. Never I am allowed to take care of the men.” Maggie’s little voice was adamant, no doubt an echo of her mother’s words and sentiment.
“So Narváez has men guests? And they get personal helpers, too?” Harper wondered just how personal the helpers were as she soaped away the stench of the day and the previous night.
“Yes, but the house whores take care of them most of the time, and housekeeping just cleans the rooms.”
“The what? Did you actually call them house whores?” A chill ran from Harper’s wet hair to the soles of her feet that had nothing to do with the water temperature.
“Yes, miss. That’s what Momma calls them. They are here to entertain the sicarios and some of the other men who live here, whenever they want a woman.”
“Well, hell,” Harper muttered and wondered if Narváez was in the sex trade, too. Was she to become his perverted toy? No. She remembered him saying he didn’t want her for her body. What then? She needed to get everything she could out of this girl.
“Maggie, who lives here? I’d like to know who to expect at dinner.” Her request sounded reasonable as she tested the young woman’s knowledge and willingness to share. Harper placed a dollop of the matching shampoo in her palm and lathered her hair.
“Carlos Narváez and his new wife, Bunny,” Maggie said. “His last two wives are still here in the compound, but not in the big house anymore. The one before them now lives in Cartagena, according to most of the household staff.”
“Four wives? What’s up with that?”
Maggie snickered. “Not him.” She giggled this time. “He’s out shooting at nothing.”
Those words didn’t make sense. Harper had translated wrong. Out shooting. Oh, he’s shooting blanks. Harper laughed out loud, at herself and at Narváez. Maggie got to giggling harder.
Finally under control, Maggie added, “He wants a son to carry his name, someone to take over the business someday.”
Understandable. Most men wanted an heir, and in this part of the world, that meant a son.
“I wish he’d have a son soon. I do not like his nephew, Velez.” At the hate in her voice, Harper looked at Maggie who visibly shook. “He is not a good man.”
Harper made a mental note to find and keep an eye on Velez. “Has he hurt you?”
“No, he knows if he does Segundo will hurt him.” She crossed her arms over her small developing breasts and rubbed her biceps. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
Changing the subject, Harper asked, “Who else will be at dinner?”
Maggie continued. “Segundo, of course, and probably a few of the house whores.”
Guess Harper would get a first-hand look at these women. If she had the opportunity, she’d try to talk to them about their situation. She had no idea what she could do to help, but if they were being held against their will she’d do whatever she could. Hell, she wasn’t sure what she could do to help her own predicament.
Harper shook her head slowly as she repeated washing her hair. The heat and mist permeated the glass shower with the spicy scent she liked to wear out on dates. She took deep breaths of the moist, warm air as though cleaning out her lungs as well. “Is se…is that their only purpose here? Do they cook or clean or work?”
“Oh, no, miss. We staff cook all the food and clean all the rooms. The men are not allowed to touch the staff. Segundo makes sure.”
“Good for him.” Harper liked Blue Eyes for his protectiveness. She rinsed the expensive shampoo from her thick hair before working the coordinating conditioner into her scalp and hair. Someone here had good taste. She couldn’t afford this lifestyle, but she could enjoy the amenities as Carlos’s guest-slash-prisoner. Drugs and guns—and maybe human trafficking—made for high living.
“So, who else is in this house, Maggie?” Might as well ask the real questions. Harper had always been amazed at what people would reveal, especially staff. More than once she’d disguised herself as a maid or cook just to hear the household gossip to get to know a situation better. She liked gathering human intelligence and was good at it.
“Always guards.”
Figures. “Do they carry guns?”
“Yes, big rifles and pistols. Most have several guns all the time.”
“Great,” Harper mumbled as she took the hand-held showerhead and rinsed her hair. “How many people are in the whole compound?”
“Maybe forty.” The little girl was a wealth of knowledge, and so willing to share.
“Do they all sleep here in this house?”
“No, the men have a barracks, but some have rooms here in the big house…Valez.” Maggie practically spat out the man’s name. She continued, “The staff, we have our own place. Some have apartments because they are married. I still live with my parents above the garage. Since Father drives the limousines and takes care of all the cars and trucks, we have a big place—four rooms. My sister and I have our own bedroom. Mother is the second floor maid here in the big house. She has an important job.” Pride emanated through Maggie’s voice.
“I’m sure it is, and you’re very proud of her, I can tell.” Through the glassed enclosure, Harper saw red tinge Maggie’s cheeks. “So how many people sleep in the big house?” Harper asked as she stepped out of the shower. Maggie handed her a warmed towel for her hair and a bath blanket that she stood on tiptoe to wrap around Harper. How nice it was to have a personal attendant.
“There are ten bedrooms in the big house, but how many sleep here depends on how lonely the men are at night, and if Mr. Narváez takes one of the house whores or stays with his wife.”
“What about Segundo? Does he have a wife, or does he bed the whores most nights?” For some odd reason, Harper wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
“No, Segundo has no wife, and he doesn’t like the house whores. He says they are for the men. I think he goes into town and finds a woman. Maybe he has a special one at the East House. I’ve never been there,” Maggie offered as she plugged in a hair dryer and handed Harper a new brush.
Maggie bent and retrieved a white tray filled with new, boutique brand makeup. Harper tested a few foundations on her hand before she found one that matched her facial tones. A light blush and waterproof black mascara gave her face color once again.
Inching closer, Maggie watched her every movement as if she’d never seen anyone apply makeup before. Her skin was so young and smooth, she didn’t need a drop of color enhancement.
Noticing the girl’s interest, Harper asked, “Do you want to use this?” She pointed to the tray. “There are some colors here that would go well with your pretty brown tones.”
“Oh, no, miss. Mother says makeup is for whores.” Her innocent eyes told the rest of the story. “But you don’t look like a whore when you put it on. You are like a magazine lady.”
“Thank you. Where I come from, women use makeup to enhance their looks. Sometimes less is more. It’s a lesson every American girl learns soon after she starts wearing makeup.” Changing the subject, she asked, “So is this a farm? What is raised here?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Call me Harper, please.”
“Yes, Miss Harper, it’s a big farm, the biggest in this area. We raise flowers and vegetables and coca plants. Farmers from all around bring their crops here.” Maggie pointed toward the tall, slim windows which allowed the ocean breeze to wisp away the steam. “Over there are the processing rooms. They just built a new one last week. I heard some of the women talking about how tiny it is and wondering how they are supposed to work in such a small space. One of the men who helped build it said it kind of looked like a big kitchen, so maybe they’re moving the cooks out of the big house. They’re not happy about the idea.”
Maggie looked at her watch then said, “You should hurry. Segundo does not like to be kept waiting. You have five minutes before he opens the door for you. Please hurry. You can’t be late.”
Harper didn’t miss the urgency in her voice. As she quickly applied the final strokes of mascara, she asked, “Would Segundo hurt you if I was late?”
“No, Miss Harper, not Segundo.”
Seeing the fear in the young woman’s eyes, she pushed. “Then who?”
“The boss man, Mr. Narváez. He can be mean. Momma says he’s sampling the crops, and that’s a bad thing.”
Harper bent over and hugged the girl then dashed from the bathroom. As she slid on the thong, the image of Segundo fingering the lace popped into her mind. Part of her wanted to be grossed out, but another part of her wondered what it would feel like as he stroked his fingers over the lace with it on her body. Slipping into the halter bra, she had to readjust her breasts to fit comfortably in the barely-there cups. The meager cloth didn’t cover much more than her nipples and offer basic support.
She slid the dress easily over her head and adjusted her breasts again so the low V in the front revealed just a shadow of cleavage. She knew how to use her body to distract a man from her questioning, but she didn’t want them to get the idea she was sexually easy.
She liked the way the soft satin of the dress clung to the curve of her small waist and slightly rounded hips before draping to the floor. Slits up the sides, nearly to her hips, allowed glimpses of her shapely legs. She was proud of her body. Not bad for a twenty-eight-year-old. Her body was just another trick in her arsenal she’d use to escape.
She smoothed the luscious fabric over her hips and reached for the zipper at the small of her back. It moved a few inches and caught.
“Damn it.” Harper tried to move it downward and restart, but it wouldn’t budge.
Maggie emerged from the bathroom, damp towels in hand, and scooted to Harper’s back. “Let me,” she said and tapped on Harper’s hands.
There was a knock seconds before the door opened. Segundo stood framed in the doorway, broad shoulders nearly touching each side, his posture straight, his mere presence a command. When he stepped in, Harper took in his perfectly tailored navy blue suit with red striped tie expertly knotted at his thick neck.
Power. The word shot through Harper’s mind as her blood heated in reaction to his proximity.
Chapter 7
Standing in the open doorway of the guest room, Rafe let out a deep breath.
Harper was ready.
Backlit by the remaining traces of the setting sun, she looked like a goddess. The rays caught the slight golden highlights in her almost black hair. The long strands fell in soft waves over her shoulders and framed her heart-shaped face.
The maid’s dark brown hands dealt with the low zipper on the almost backless dress.
Rafe took in Harper’s fully curved lines and gym-toned muscles. He didn’t care for the skinny, model-thin look. He preferred women with a little meat on their bones. In truth, an athletic build did it for him every time. Beth’s body flashed through his mind but was quickly replaced by the woman in front of him. A body like hers was perfect in his opinion.
“I’ll do that.” Rafe knew his tone was harsh as he strode toward Harper. He softened his voice and looked at the maid whose hands shook. “I guarantee I’ve dealt with more zippers on formal dresses than you.”
Maggie bowed her head and stepped away.
Harper had recovered considerably, but Rafe didn’t trust her. As an agent, she was trained in hand-to-hand combat, perhaps she could even kill with her bare hands. He was sure he could counter anything she threw at him, but fighting with her was not what he wanted.
She carefully watched his every move as he approached.
He stopped, just out of arm’s reach. “May I?”
Harper gave him a short nod. “Thank you.”
He could tell she shoved down the urge to flinch when he touched the base of her spine. The open zipper revealed the tiny strings to the thong he touched less than half an hour ago. The idea of that tiny piece of cloth covering the most private part of her body stirred him like no woman had in years.
She stood, vigilant and still, as he examined the zipper. But he was too distracted by her bare skin, so smooth, laying open to his touch. Rafe wanted to run his hand up her back. He fought the urge to turn her around and take her face in his hands then gently kiss the thin line of her lips until they parted for him, letting him into the heat of her mouth. He’d then peel the dress off and caress every inch of her exquisite body. Carlos had given her to him after all.
He was not that kind of man nor would he ever be.
He forced himself to look at the dress and found the problem. Although he had large fingers, he gently released the cloth before succeeding with the zipper.
He shouldn’t touch her. He was Segundo, and she was Carlos’…guest. More accurately, his prisoner. Rafe had vowed to protect her, but who was going to protect her from him?
His position in her life at the moment didn’t stop him from desiring her, though. Rafe trailed his fingers up her backbone before fine light pink lines on Harper’s left shoulder caught his eye. He traced them with the tip of his finger. Nearly a dozen radiated from a single source about the size of a quarter. Exit wounds were nasty, shredding the surrounding skin like a fist bursting through paper, especially when compared to the pencil-sized entry point. He had an urge to kiss every inch of stitched skin then to follow the raised lines with his tongue.
Rafe leaned in and spoke in his native English so the maid wouldn’t understand. “You were shot.”
He could tell his slow Southern drawl had its intended effect. When she turned and looked into his eyes, he watched them slightly soften.
“Yes, twice,” Harper told him quietly in English.
Facing him now, he could see where the bullet had entered her body. “This one was a through and through. Tore your soft skin somethin’ fierce, darlin’, but it looks like you had a talented plastic surgeon.” He touched the straight pink scar, not quite an inch long, just under her collarbone, and felt a jolt pass through him. Her slight twitch and small gasp confirmed she felt it, too. That had never happened before, even with Beth.
“Yes, I did. Would you like her name? She has a prolific practice in West Palm Beach, Florida. Usually she’s tucking up aging movie stars, but you might need a little work around your eyes. They look so sad.” Harper touched the outer edge of his eye and ran a finger to his cheekbone.
He sucked in a breath. They were so close now. He considered kissing her, just a light brush of his lips on hers.
As he slowly slid his hand down her well-toned arm, he read the intelligence in her chocolate brown eyes. Her makeup was so slight, just a little to cover and warm her illness-paled skin, the total opposite of the house whores he was forced to dine with every night. It was such a pleasure to see a beautiful woman from his homeland.
The women in the big house were all painted bimbos, ready to do whatever he asked of them. All it took was a glance their way and they’d be in his lap, pawing at him, nothing seductive at all. He was Segundo, a very powerful man within this household, within the Narváez business, and even within the cartel. Women considered it a privilege if he so much as touched one of them casually.
