A long blink became a short nap, and when he opened his eyes again, morning was dawning. His body was stiff from the cold hayloft floor, and he stretched his arms and yawned long and deep before the prickling hairs on his neck gave him pause. He sat up and pushed himself back against the wall. The bleariness of his vision slowly gave way to reveal a dark–haired woman in black leather pointing a gun at him.

"Mierda."

She leaned against a roof support, calm and cold as ice, her hands steady around the gun's handle. Her brown eyes held a hint of impatience—as if she were annoyed at having to wait for his waking...at having to be there at all.

He poised to stand, but two things gave him pause: her grunt of "Nuh–uh" as she wagged the gun barrel at him, and the sudden surge of blood away from his brain to a part that seemed to have a mind of its own.

Bad timing, but damn, what a woman. He suspected the grin he wore had a tinge of insanity about it.

"Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy, Mr. Castillo," she said.

He didn't know what she meant, but he wasn't trying especially hard to parse her words, either. She had a nice voice. Sultry. There was an edge to her words and her tone was modulated, controlled, but he imagined that same voice whispering into his ear, telling him what to do to her...

He grinned.

She rolled her eyes. "Mr. Castillo, do you understand English?"

He raised his shoulders slightly. He wasn't saying a damned thing until she put down that gun or else used it. Didn't matter to him either way, but if he was going to go, he hoped she'd at least make it pleasant for him. His eyes trailed down to the lacy edging of her camisole. The black of the trim made her brown skin's ruddiness stand out in a lovely contrast. Peanut butter with a hint of chocolate. He felt his grin widen as he pondered how she'd taste if he dragged his tongue along that teasing collar.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Mr. Castillo."

He shrugged again, and this time let his gaze trail down her torso to the breasts squeezed together, mounded high from the way she held out her gun. Bit more than a handful. He bet they'd feel like a dream pressed against his naked chest. And when was the last time he'd been naked with a woman, anyway? Must have been a long damn time, because his temperature didn't usually go from a healthy ninety–eight–point–seven to incendiary in ten seconds flat.

"Your brother called my boss," she continued, and he struggled to focus on her words.

So, this was the help Fabian had acquired. Some help. Felipe's gaze trailed down her athletic thighs and slender calves to the black harness boots she wore. Good leather, broken in and not just for show.

He rubbed his thumb's pad idly over the long scar on his waist as he assessed her. By the time his stare made it back up to her face, her gaze had locked on his hand, fondling that naked skin near his waistband.

She didn't stop staring until he ceased rubbing. Given the location of his scar, if she'd noticed that, she very likely noticed the swell at his crotch as well. The room was bright with that hole in the roof, and he wasn't exactly trying to hide his aroused state. After all, she'd come after him. She deserved whatever eyeful she got.