Page 10 of Wicked Intention

If he wasn’t so attuned to her, Finn might have missed the slight grimace that marked her capitulation. She ignored him until they were in the vestibule of the other café. “Table for two,” he said in Spanish to the man who greeted them.

“On the patio, please,” the woman added, also in Spanish. She shot Finn a look, as if daring him to countermand her request, but he shrugged.

While he might prefer to keep her under wraps, Finn needed to be on the patio.

His lunch companion was tense, maybe expecting him to start questioning her immediately after they were seated, but instead, Finn picked up the menu beside him and opened it. He didn’t look at it. Ten minutes before the hour and everything remained quiet atEl Arrecife.

Time to find out who she was and what the hell she was doing. Putting the menu aside, he held out his hand. “Tom Finley,” he said. Finn wanted to correct himself and give her his real name. He resisted the urge.

She looked down at his hand before meeting his gaze and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d say nice to meet you, but that would be a lie.”

Finn lowered his arm. “You’re not going to tell me your name?”

“Hell, no. You’re a mercenary.” There was a definite note of distaste in the word.

“So what?”

Her expression became contemptuous, and anger blazedin her eyes, but her voice remained low. “So what? So what! You come down here, destroy a country that isn’t yours, take your ill-gotten gains back to the US, and pretend it’s only a job. It’s not a damn job. You’re playing with people’s lives, their homes, their families.”

She took a deep breath, pressed her lips tightly together, and looked away. After a moment, her expression smoothed out, and she picked up her menu, ignoring him.

“You know, even if there weren’t mercenaries in Puerto Jardin, the civil war would still be happening, right?”

“I know.” Her sigh was nearly inaudible. “But it might be over by now if it weren’t for men like you.”

Finn shrugged. “The country had issues before the war broke out.”

“I know this, too.”

“Why are you following Silva?”

“I’m not following anyone. It’s your imagination.”

Finn leaned closer and glared. “It’s too late for that bullshit, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart,” she told him, snapping her menu shut and setting it beside her. “And even if I am following someone, it’s none of your business.”

It wasn’t. Unless she had something to do with Torres, Silva, and the illegal arms trade. He wished he didn’t feel so damn protective of her. Hell, he wished he could switch off the desire he felt. This woman was turning him inside out, and he didn’t know her name or anything about her except her dislike for mercenaries.

A waiter approached their table, stopping the discussion. Finn noticed he addressed her in Spanish and that she answered in kind. It wasn’t merely a short phrase, but a brief conversation. She sounded Puerto Jardinese, not like an American speaking a second language. Who was this woman?

“What would you enjoy, señorita?” the waiter finally asked.

“Chicharrón de pescado,”she said.

“Make that two,” Finn jumped in, not liking the interest in the man’s eyes as he looked at her. “And a coffee.”

“Señorita?”

“I’ll have coffee, too. Gracias.”

Finn handed the waiter the menu, adding a hard stare of warning. Protective and possessive. Fucking hell, he was in trouble. What was it about her that made him forget everything he was supposed to be doing?

It wasn’t her clothing. She wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt—nothing remotely provocative.

It wasn’t her appearance. Yeah, she was beautiful, but he’d dated women who were better looking and more glamourous than she was, and he hadn’t been tied up in knots like this.

And it wasn’t her strength or the intelligence in her clear blue eyes or the fact she was willing to confront him about being a mercenary. Maybe it was the sum of these things.