Page 12 of Cartel Rose (Jorge)

I get to watch him flirt with another woman all night. I get to examine why that bothers me until I make myself neurotic. And I have to pretend to care what Bastian says when I normally genuinely do.

“Good evening, Ms. Schlossberg.”

“Hello, Mr. Diaz. I’d like to introduce you to Bastian Klauss. Bastian, this is my firm’s new client.”

Jorge and the woman both rise. The men extend their arms, and I notice Jorge’s hand dwarfs even Bastian’s, who’s just oversix feet tall and built like what you’d expect a sturdy German to look. He played rugby at university. Bastian doesn’t flinch, but I can tell Jorge’s squeezing his hand tighter than Bastian expected. Jorge appears completely casual as he does it.

“Ms. Schlossberg, Mr. Klauss, this is my mother, Luciana Diaz.”

Mother.

His mother?

There isn’t a chance in fucking hell this woman is in her late fifties at the youngest.

I look between the two of them, and I can see the resemblance now. Talk about an amazing family gene pool. I doubt she’s had any work done. She’s just naturally that breathtaking.

My gaze meets Jorge’s, and he appears to fight the urge to smirk.

“It’s lovely to meet you both. Funny running into you here.”

Luciana’s comment forces my attention away from Jorge. Frankfurt is an enormous city and is the financial capital of not just Germany but central Europe. There are easily hundreds of restaurants in the city, yet we both wind up here. It’s not near my office or any hotel they’re likely staying in. This place isn’t exactly out of the way, but it’s more of a local choice.

“Small world.” What the hell else do I say?

“My parents used to come here whenever they were in town.”

Jorge’s explanation leaves me with more questions.Used to?Were in town?

Why the past tense? Doesn’t Jorge’s father travel with his mother anymore? Why did they come to Frankfurt? Was it business for one or both of them?

“That was a long time ago.”

There’s a wistfulness to the woman’s comment, and it makes me think she has fond memories of this place, but they’re tingedwith sadness. As though she catches herself, she turns to me and smiles.

“We don’t want to keep you from your dinner.”

“It was nice meeting you both.” Bastian offers them a nod before pulling out the chair that will force me to face Jorge throughout the meal.

“Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Diaz, Mr. Diaz.”

“It’s Jorge, Liesel.”

He’s standing beside me as he adjusts his mother’s seat for her. I barely hear him.

Liesel?

That’s not my name. Liese, maybe. But not Liesel. The English equivalent of my name is Anna Elise, not Anne Elizabeth. All three can be diminutives of Elizabeth, though, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.

Did it suddenly get warm in here? The heat rising along my neck tempts me to fan myself with the menu. This is definitelynotthe place to do that. Am I too young for a hot flash?

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” Maybe if I get the conversation going with Bastian again, I’ll forget about the brooding man sitting three feet from me.

“I think therouladen. What about you?”

Stuffed meat.

Sonotwhat I need on my dirty mind right now.