A Final Kiss

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I let the curtain fall back into place. "What do you mean, 'stay home for the time being'?"

"It's for the best—"

I don't allow him to finish. "It's my newspaper. How can I take a break? I have work to do. We're selling the building. The paper's been at the same location for a hundred and fifty years. I need to oversee the move. Or have you forgotten about that, with everything else that's going on?"

There's a long, audible intake of breath on the other line, and I imagine his plush lips pursing in anger. "You're going to step down as publisher until this situation with Christina dies down. It's best for your health, the baby's health, and the bottom line for the paper. I don't want to drag your business into my scandal. Not any more than it already is."

"I feel fine. Better every day," I snap. "And what do you expect me to do if I'm not going to work?"

"I want you to try and relax and be healthy. Get massages, do prenatal yoga, work on decorating the baby's nursery. I'll make sure you have everything you need delivered. We'll get you a private yoga coach..."

As he ticks off the list of things he thinks I want—the things most women would want—my teeth clamp together so hard that my jaw aches.

"That's ridiculous. The paper's my job. It's my life. I have to be there." I'm not going to tell him about the nagging back spasms that have bothered me off and on for a couple of weeks or the small cramps I've been having. My doctor says both are likely due to stress.

"Justine." His voice is suddenly loud and angry-sounding. "I don't want you harassed while you're working. And I don't want the paper's advertising to suffer from bad publicity."

"Oh, you don't want to lose money, that's it."

"It has nothing to do with the damned money. I could give a fuck about that. I don't want the stress of being stalked by paparazzi to affect the health of our baby. Or your health. If they stake out your house, we'll consider moving you to a safer location."

"Oh, please. I'm sure they'll go away after a few days. Jesus, Rafael. Don't be dramatic."

"I don't know when, or if, they will. I want you to stay home."

"No. Not going to happen. Why can't I work from home?"

He swears in Spanish. "Just listen to me for once. You need to take it easy. I talked to your doctor today, and she told me all about the cramps."

"I can't believe you. I can't believe her."

"You signed the release form saying I could have access to your medical records and information."

I pause. He's right. And he probably knows about my back pain, too. "So you checked up on me?"

"I always talk with your doctor after you have an appointment. It's the least I can do, considering I can't be with you. I told you when you signed the release form that I'd probably check in with the doctor. I have a lot of questions, too. I'm the father. And I'm worried about you and the child, after everything that happened when we were younger."

"You can't stop me from going to work. It's my paper. I can work from bed."

"Yes, Justine, I can stop you from going to work. I'm the majority owner of the Times." His voice is positively slashing now.

"You're firing me?" I whisper.

"No, I'm making the decision to appoint a temporary publisher while the current publisher is on extended maternity leave."

I gasp. "You wouldn't."

"I am."

I sputter, paralyzed with outrage. "You...you can't do this."

"I can. I will." The sound of papers shuffling in the background lets me know that the discussion is over, at least on his end. Not on mine, though.

"You're taking away one of the few things I love. The only thing I love at this point." Okay, that was mean. Maybe too mean.

My entire body is flashing with heat, and I'm sweating. I pull out a dining room chair and plop down.

"We're both making sacrifices here."

"Yeah, because of your stupid mistake of fucking that woman."

"I'm going to let that comment slide because I know you're upset. Don't worry, Justine. You'll be publisher again, but I need you to stay healthy for our baby. That's your only job right now."

"So what are you going to do? Lock me up in this villa alone? Make me a prisoner, barefoot and pregnant?" I must be shriekingly loud because Diana appears in the doorway with a concerned look on her face. I wave her off.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm going to do," he says coldly. "Until this situation is resolved, which will hopefully be in a month or less, I want you to keep a low profile. I'll arrange for everything. And when you need to go out, you'll have security."

"A month? I'll go crazy here alone! I won't accept this. I'll go back to my house."

"I could find you a more secluded place somewhere else. On the beach. On the Gulf Coast. Don't make things more difficult than they already are," he snarls.

I'm taken aback by his angry timbre. A little frightened, actually.

But the idea of being away from my paper and my hometown threatens to send me into an anxiety attack. I try to breathe evenly. Diana reappears in the doorway and gestures wildly.

"Hang on, Rafa." I walk over to her with a quizzical expression.

"The reporters are knocking at the front door," she says.

"Justine? What's going on?" Rafa's voice is loud.

"Nothing, nothing," I say hurriedly. I look at Diana in panic and mouth the word fuck.

"Did she just say that reporters are at the door? Justine! Answer me."

"Can we talk about this later?" I ask in a thin voice. "Diana's making dinner."

"Fine. Yes. Do not answer the door until I tell you to. Security will be there soon. I've hired around-the-clock protection. They'll be calling you within the hour."

"Stop overreacting." I should let Rafael handle this situation, should let him whisk me away to a secluded place. But I'm so pissed about not being able to work that I don't want to give in, not just yet. I don't want my independence to slip away.

There's a banging at the front door. Diana and I stare at each other in wide-eyed horror.

"I'll call you later, Justine."

A pang of irrational jealously rips through me, and I snort. "Going out with Christina? Whatever. Have fun."

"Stop it. I'm not seeing her tonight. I'm trying to avoid her because of the photos. I have a mountain of work. I'll call you. I love you. This is all for your own good. Remember that. I'm only thinking of you and the baby. Whatever you do, don't answer the door."

There's a click on the other end, and I'm so angry that he didn't say goodbye that I nearly throw the phone at the wall.

"What should we do?" Diana asks.

My nostrils flare. The image of Christina in the newspaper pops into my head, and my blood feels like it's boiling in anger. This is all her fault.

"We're going to have dinner, and we're not going to answer the door." I sweep past her into the kitchen, feeling the walls of the villa close in on me.




I pour sparkling water over two perfectly formed cubes of ice and stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of the swank oceanfront hotel suite. It's a dusky sunset tonight, and the sky is painted gray-streaked clouds and hues of fading sunshine. In the waning light, my gaze scans the white sand of South Beach and the shimmering Atlantic just beyond.

The view is everywhere I go in Miami, it seems. From my office, to my condo, to tonight, in this thirtieth floor hotel room. Will I miss this view when I move to St. Augustine to be with Justine?

Will I ever get to St. Augustine?

I breathe deep, in and out, as I pace the thick carpet in front of the window. Justine's pissed at me, again. I haven't talked with her since last night, when I told her she couldn't work. We've exchanged terse texts, but at least she obeyed me and stayed home today. It's only temporary, until this situation with Christina is wrapped up.

Which, hopefully, will be in a few hours.

I gulp the fizzy water and rattle the ice in the glass. Tonight's not a night to drink. Even a drop. That's what the agents suggested, and I agree. I need to be on my game, ready for anything. It's showtime.

There's a knock at the door. I shudder. My hands are ice-cold, not from the glass, but from nerves. Taking one last gulp of the water to ease the sandpaper feel in my mouth, I slam the glass down on the wet bar and stalk to the door.

With an inhale that starts deep in my stomach, I force a smile, remind myself to soften my eyes, and open the door.

"Christina," I purr.

Ah, shit, she's got the boy. He's curled around her, in her arms and against her hip. I hold out my hands, but she shakes her head, sweeping past me and into the suite.

I leave the door unlocked, so the agents can come in easily without breaking it down.

Everything's in motion. I just need to do my part. But I didn't plan on her bringing the boy. I'd told her I wanted a special, romantic night alone in the luxury suite. She'd been frosty ever since seeing the photos of me and Justine the paper yesterday—she'd cried and pouted on the phone three times in the past twenty-four hours, and I'd been able to hold her at bay, telling her I wanted to explain in person. The FBI agents knew there was one thing that would thaw Christina's anger and instructed me to lie.

"Christina," I'd said on the phone. "I'm going to get us a suite and tell you everything. Then I'm going to give you exactly what you want. Because you've been so very good, I'm going to be very, very bad with you."

I can tell by the shine in her eye that she wants me to pin her to the door and fuck her. The boy is complicating matters. It's obvious from the way she screws up her face as she glances at him.

"He fell asleep on the way here," she whispers. "I don't want to wake him. Where should I put him down?"

Her question catches me off-guard. The agents instructed me to get everything I can tonight—and if I'm successful, they'll ascend one floor and make an arrest. Not only are they recording our little get-together tonight via my cuffing microphones, but hidden cameras are also capturing the scene.

That added detail is making me sweat like crazy.

They've already set her father up with a fake real estate meeting, to lure him out of the house. The agents have enough evidence against him already, between his conversations with me and some forged records they'd discovered. We just need to seal the deal on Christina.

"Uh, there." I point to the sofa.

Christina shakes her head. "No. The bedroom."

Her eyes go to the other side of the room where the bed with the crimson duvet beckons. She walks away, the stench of her thick floral perfume and desperation settling in the air.

I make my way to the wet bar where I refill my glass with water while watching her lay Javi in the middle of the big bed. That poor, innocent child. He has no idea that this could be a pivotal night in his life.

Life is fucking unfair, Javi. I'm sorry.

She emerges and pulls the door to the bedroom half-shut.

"You look beautiful tonight," I remark, hoping I sound sincere. Truthfully, she looks a bit odd—she's wearing black heels and some sort of one-piece shorts-halter combo that I think is called a romper. I remember the name because I'd been forced to attend a charity fashion show last year. Christina's romper is black, embroidered, and shows way more leg, thigh, shoulder, and bronze skin than I'm comfortable with.

She perches on the sofa, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout. I'm guessing she's upset about the Justine photos.

"Drink?" I ask casually.

"Chardonnay, if you've got it."

I nod and pour her a glass from the minibar, then sit next to her. She holds the glass with both hands, like a child.

"Are you going to tell me about what happened with Justine?"

I clear my throat. Earlier in the day, I'd rehearsed this with the agents. I move closer to Christina, stretching my arm on the back of the sofa behind her. "I've invested a lot in that paper," I say, fixing her with a lazy, sexy gaze. "I had to go up and check on how the takeover's going. Justine wanted to talk." I shrug. "She's still not over me. But I'm through with her."

Fuck. Just saying those words seem a sacrilege, as if God will strike me dead from uttering such a lie. I grin at Christina and twist a strand of her hair, looping it around my index finger and giving it a tug. "I told her about you."

Christina moves closer to me. "What did you say?"

"I told her..." My voice trails away as I pretend to be enamored with Christina's pink lips. I push down a lump of bile in my throat with a swallow. "That I'd made my decision to be with you. That it's best we're together for Javi and that I want to make a life with you."

"Is she pregnant with your child?"

I nod, recalling what the agents suggested I say. "It is, at least I think so. Justine's a bit of a wild woman, so who knows? We'll find out. But we've got enough money to pay her off, don't we? I'm planning on closing her business so she'll be out of our lives soon. Unless you want me to sue for custody and we can raise the kid ourselves. Would you like that?"

She grins. "I might. Let me think about it. I want to have lots of kids with you, Rafael. But I understand why you're so concerned about her pregnancy. You do care so much about children. I love that side of you."

When she twists to set her glass down, her long, dark hair brushes my chest. Then she wiggles closer and runs a finger down the buttons of my shirt with her pink-tipped nail.

"I didn't want to bring Javi tonight because I knew you'd gotten this hotel room for us. You made that amazing promise to me on the phone," she whispers. "But my mom and dad had to attend a business meeting so they couldn't take him."

I rest my hand on her shoulder, smiling at the thought of Alberto Alonso getting dragged off in handcuffs. At least he'll be behind bars tonight. "I wanted us to have some alone time, Christi."

"I'm sorry. But we can be alone out here. Javi will probably be asleep for a while. He didn't have a nap today." She leans in and kisses my cheek. "We can do anything you want right here on this sofa. Or on the floor. Or on the coffee table. I'll do anything you want."

I groan, trying to sound turned on and interested. What I want is for her to confess. "I have a few things I want you to do." I stare into her eyes deeply.

"Oooh, you're giving me chills. I hope it's like the night we were together. Do you want me to get on my knees?"

This is insane. Be an actor, Rafael. I chuckle. "Not yet, babe. Tonight's going to be much better than our first time together. I promise. But first I wanted to ask you something that's been on my mind."

She kisses my neck. "What's that?"

"The other night, you mentioned that your father told you he blackmailed me into agreeing to marry you. Were you joking? I thought you were, because you laughed when I asked you."

"Kiss me. Please?" She gives me a seductive bat of her eyes.

Oh, Christ. I'd hoped to avoid this. I shut my eyes and lean into her. She seizes my mouth, and her lips attack mine, sliding her tongue into my mouth. She's a sloppy kisser tonight. She tastes brown and bitter, like espresso.

Unable to continue, I break away. "You're changing the subject. Remember: If you answer me, I'll give you what you want." To emphasize my point, I press the heel of my hand into my flaccid dick and shoot her a smoldering stare.

She gasps and squeezes my thigh. "One second, okay? I'll be right back. Where's the bathroom?"

I tell her, then watch warily as she rises. She has a little sway in her hips that some men would find irresistible. It makes me want to jump over the balcony rail.

The silence in the condo is uncomfortable and heavy, and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I can't turn on music because it would threaten to drown out our voices that my cufflink microphone is picking up.

I lean forward and scoop a magazine off the coffee table and thumb through it. Again I wonder why I'd ever wanted to fuck Christina in the first place. Why hadn't I just done what I'd truly wanted that week my uncle died? Why had I let my pride and ego get in the way?

I should have driven to Justine's home, told her my uncle had died, and wrapped my arms around her. I'd have sobbed like the child I never was. But I'd been afraid she'd reject me again, something I didn't think I could handle. I'd sought solace between the legs of a greedy woman who was all wrong for me.

And here I am.

Christ, how much longer is she going to be in the bathroom? Let's get this over with. My fingers idly flick the pages of the magazine, and I skim an article about body language. I will my facial muscles to relax and go slack. I'd been frozen in an irritated grimace for God knows how many minutes.

"I'm ready to answer all of your questions, Rafael." Christina's words slice through the thick silence, and I glance up.

That's when I stop breathing, because she's standing in front of me wearing nothing but a pair of high heels and the skimpiest black lace panties I've ever seen.

____

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