Santerra's Sin: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  Santerra’s Sin is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1996 by Donna Kauffman

  Excerpt from Deep Autumn Heat by Elisabeth Barrett © 2012 by Elisabeth Barrett.

  Excerpt from Callie’s Cowboy by Karen Leabo copyright © 1996 by Karen Leabo.

  Excerpt from Just One Look by Linda Cajio copyright © 1990 by Linda Cajio.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Santerra’s Sin was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1996.

  Cover design: Dreu Pennington-McNeil

  Cover photo: Gettyimages

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53785-0

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1

  Dear Reader,

  Superheroes. At some point in our lives at least one of these “men with something extra” has sparked a fantasy … or two or three. But I’ve always had one favorite. So when my editor called to ask if I’d be interested in creating a superhero of my own, I chose my inspiration faster than you could slide a sword out of its scabbard. I wanted Zorro.

  In fact, I have always wanted Zorro. He had it all. Dashing good looks, a commanding presence, and a strong sense of right and wrong. This notorious avenger willingly and repeatedly laid his life on the line in the name of honor and justice—without ever taking credit for it. But best of all, to me anyway, he did all this without any superpowers. He relied solely on his physical prowess and his wits. Well, okay. His body, his wits, and a really big sword.

  Ah, a man after my own heart.

  I thoroughly enjoyed creating my own superhero. Like Zorro, Diego Santerra is not your typical do-gooder. He’s a reformed bad guy who doesn’t consider himself all that heroic. He also relies solely on his skills and wit in seeking justice. Well, okay, so maybe he has a sharp blade or two tucked away in there also. And he goes to great lengths to avoid revealing his true identity.

  There is one problem. You see, he thinks the life he repeatedly puts on the line isn’t worth a whole lot.

  I hope you enjoy your ride into the blazing hot desert. Diego Santerra will steal your breath … and brand your heart.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Elisabeth Barrett’s Deep Autumn Heat

  Excerpt from Karen Leabo’s Callie’s Cowboy

  Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s About Last Night

  ONE

  Diego Santerra made a killer salsa.

  He also made a pretty damn good killer.

  This was the first time he could recall getting paid to do both.

  He pulled the dusty green Jeep around the side of the small stucco building and parked next to the shiny black Harley Fat Boy he knew belonged to the cantina’s owner. Blue Delgado.

  He knew everything about Blue a person could learn from constant observation. The briefing he’d received in Miami three weeks before heading here to New Mexico had filled in the rest. Yes, he knew more about Blue Delgado than the Villa Roja residents who’d known her all her life.

  Except for one thing. When would Jacounda strike? That was why he had agreed to abandon his anonymous surveillance and step inside the dimly lit little bar in search of a job. As a cook, of all things.

  Diego hadn’t counted on the job being the one, and probably only, thing he did for himself, for whatever little pleasure there was in it. But he’d kept silent, agreed to the cover. He made it a rule to give away only what was absolutely necessary. And he had damn little to start with. So cook he would. Along with anything else that became necessary to get the job done.

  It was that unshakable personal code that had made him first choice for Seve “Del” Delgado’s elite tactical squad, known since shortly after its formation as Delgado’s Dirty Dozen.

  No one had to remind Diego that, almost ten years later, less than half the original team remained alive. And if Diego didn’t complete this mission successfully, the next to fall would be Del himself.

  He pulled his black Resistol down over his forehead a bit farther and pushed open the door to the bar. Even though it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, there were two men occupying barstools, sipping beer. Three more were playing pool on one of the two worn tables wedged into the space between the door and the bar. Several small vinyl-covered tables lined the wall by the front window, but they were empty.

  Diego glanced once at the men, then dismissed them. He strode over to the end of the bar, propped his foot on the rail, and pressed his hands on the teak surface.

  The bartender was an older Latino gentleman. Diego knew him to be Blue’s uncle, Tejo Delgado. The older man continued to wipe down a glass with the corner of his apron as he moved toward Diego.

  “Cervesa, señor?” he asked, his accent noticeable, but not overwhelming. “Coffee?”

  Diego shook his head. “I’m here about the job.” He nodded to the hand-lettered sign taped to the front window. It had been put up only two hours earlier. “You need a cook.”

  Of course, the old man didn’t have to know that Diego had known about the job opening yesterday. Del, or more likely another member of the Dirty Dozen, had seen to that little detail.

  “Sí, that is true,” Tejo said, “Señor …?”

  “Santerra.” Diego straightened and offered his hand. “Diego.”

  Tejo smiled, revealing one gold-plated incisor amid a host of gleaming white teeth. “Ah, Don Diego. Just like in Zorro.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been reminded of his fictional namesake, and would likely not be the last. He hated being back in the Southwest. “Something like that, yes,” he muttered.

  If the old man was aware he hadn’t exactly flattered Diego with the comparison, he didn’t show it. “Tejo Delgado.” He extended his hand. “My niece Blue, she’s the one you need to see, amigo.”

  Diego gave his hand a brief shake. He knew the man to be in his late sixties, a good ten years Del’s senior, but there was plenty of steel in his grip. Diego wasn’t surprised. Just as he wasn’t surprised by the intensity of the quick yet thorough once-over Tejo gave him before releasing his hand. Diego expected nothing less from Del’s brother.

  “She have an office?” Diego knew the layout of the cantina as well, if not better, than the owners did, but he waited patiently for Tejo to answer.

  He nodded to the side. “Past the end of the bar, third door to the left.”

  Diego nodded and pushed away from the bar.

  “Knock first,” the old man added.

  Diego paused at the sudden edge in the otherwise friendly tone. He respected that. He also knew that there were few women on earth who needed that protective instinct less than Blue Delgado.

  Until now, anyway.

  He looked over his shoulder, dipped his chin once, then headed to the back of the building.

  The door to the small office was old, scarred, warped from the heat … and standing open at least a foot. The room beyond was one large mass of clut
ter, in which the desk in the center seemed to serve as nothing more than an oversized paperweight. Keeping his word, he rapped the door once with his knuckles.

  The woman seated behind the desk, nose buried in a stack of what looked like old-fashioned record books, didn’t so much as flinch. He wasn’t surprised. As far as he could tell, nothing fazed Blue Delgado.

  “Enter at your own risk,” she said, not looking up.

  He’d heard her voice before, but only from a distance. Up close, there was a texture he hadn’t heard before. One that slid across his nerve endings like a taut bowstring. Not only was it warm and deep, but there was a rough quality, as if she’d used it once too many times the night before.

  He stepped inside and found a relatively empty space of floor near the front of her desk. Not in the least unnerved by her continued silence, he took the opportunity to run a once-over of the room in the daylight. The room was a bonfire of paper begging for a match.

  And the potential for that to “accidentally” happen—preferably with an unaware Blue inside at the time—didn’t escape him.

  “In a moment.” She flipped one book closed and shoved it aside to get to another one.

  The hairs on his arms lifted in pleasure. He allowed himself the luxury of the sensation. It was all he’d likely get out of this job, and he wasn’t a man to ignore life’s small pleasures. His life didn’t offer up any other kind.

  Watching Blue Delgado for the past three weeks had not been a hardship. She was an incredibly striking woman. And she knew it. Diego respected that too. He never understood why anyone wasted time pretending to ignore the obvious.

  Not that she flaunted the sleek waterfall of black hair that flowed down her back, or did anything to emphasize the prominent cheekbones and dark eyes handed down to her from her Spanish ancestors. She was of average height, but the rest of her body was a masterpiece of design. The clothes she chose were functional, not flattering, though he had to admit she could wear burlap and twine and still turn heads. Certainly his.

  No, Blue Delgado’s awareness of her fortunate genetics wasn’t obvious. He knew by the way she moved. The way she spoke. Laughed. The way she rode that Harley of hers as if it had been built to be put between her legs for her exclusive use and pleasure.

  She slapped the book shut and looked up. “What do you want?” The question was straight and to the point. Blue Delgado in a thumbnail description.

  “The job as your cook.”

  She looked him over. The examination was swift and thorough in a way that would be the envy of some officers he’d had the displeasure of being interrogated by in past years. He didn’t mind it in the least this time.

  He was tempted to ask what his appearance had to do with his cooking ability, just to hear her answer. But he knew her sharp observation had little to do with the label on his jeans and everything to do with assessing the man that filled them. Something else he respected.

  “You cook?” she asked.

  “Daily.”

  She didn’t smile, but the gleam that entered her black eyes was reward enough. “For more than one person at a time?”

  “When I’m lucky.” She was as sharp as she was beautiful.

  Oh, this woman would be fun to play with. He’d known that after less than twenty-four hours on the job. He just hadn’t expected to find that tantalizing bit of knowledge so difficult to ignore.

  But then he hadn’t expected he’d have to deal with her personally. Much less work for her.

  None of which changed the bottom line. He’d broken more rules than he’d ever followed, but one he kept sacred was the division between work and play. Playing on the job got people dead.

  She stood. He sighed inwardly. A damn shame, though. A real damn shame.

  “The kitchen is through that door.” She motioned across the hall behind him. “Lunch is in an hour. If you’re still here by six and no one has threatened to shoot me.” She paused to run her gaze over him again. It was totally impersonal and all the more erotic for the easy nonchalance. “Or you,” she added, “then you have the job.”

  Diego held her gaze for just a split second beyond what was acceptable. At the door he looked back over his shoulder. “No ID or tax information?”

  Her attention was already back on the open ledger in front of her. “If you’re still here at six, I’ll worry about it then.”

  “You don’t even know my name.”

  She glanced up and nailed him with a steady look that made him glad he was on her side.

  “You made it past Tejo,” was all she said, then looked down again. She flipped open another accounting book, shutting him out more completely, more effectively than anyone he’d ever encountered.

  Except perhaps her father. Diego’s boss.

  The man she and Tejo thought had died thirteen years ago.

  Diego wrapped the apron strings around his waist twice and tied them in front, leaving the fabric a bit loose around his hips. His new uniform made concealing a gun impossible. Which was why Diego had learned long ago to arm himself in other ways. Actually, that instinct was inbred. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he hadn’t spent each second fully cognizant of any and all potential threats.

  Unfortunately, long sleeves were also out, so he had to find another place to conceal his knife.

  He pulled a handful of datil peppers onto the chopping board and picked up the knife lying next to it. He’d been surprised and pleased to find the plump orange peppers in her stock. They weren’t all that common. Sweet, hot, and just a shade too spicy for most people.

  His thoughts turned to Blue. Yes, a shade too spicy for most people.

  And Diego didn’t believe in mild anything. Not salsa. And most certainly not women.

  But Blue was off-limits. Giving in to a brief but heartfelt expletive, he turned his mind back to his work. Balancing the long kitchen knife on his palm, he tested the weight, then ran the edge of the blade along his arm. Every hair still in place.

  He let out a disgusted sigh. “First thing we do is get your knives sharpened, Ms. Delgado.” He quickly located the steel and set about honing every blade he could find, until each one could shave a man without benefit of warm water or shaving cream. At least the ones worth sharpening, which were too few, but enough to get the job done. The rest he tossed in a tray and shoved on a shelf over the stove within easy reach.

  Never know when an extra knife or two might come in handy. And not just for cooking.

  He made short work of the peppers, then quickly set about chopping the remaining ingredients to his salsa. His mouth curved slightly as he scraped the jalapeños into the mix. His salsa and plenty of chips would keep Tejo busy serving up cervesa while he started the quesadillas.

  He had flour tortillas on the griddle and his mind on Blue Delgado’s voice when the woman herself pushed through the kitchen door.

  “Finding everything okay?”

  He didn’t look up from his place in front of the old grill. “You need new knives.” He turned to the counter and began swiftly chopping onions. For a moment the only sound in the room was the sizzle of the grill and the rapid tap of his blade on the cutting board. Finished, he balanced the knife in one palm and reached for the chicken thawing on the counter.

  “You don’t seem to be having a problem with them.”

  His fingers tightened instinctively around the base of the knife, feeling the weight, the uneven balance. Not designed for throwing, he thought, automatically calculating the adjustments he’d have to make. As a means of distracting himself, it was a dismal failure.

  “I sharpened the ones I could. You need a new steel too.” He slowly relaxed his grip, but not his control. He was the cook. That was all.

  At least that was what she had to believe.

  A fact he was rapidly realizing he couldn’t forget either.

  He felt her move closer, knew she was scanning his work in progress. The muscles across his shoulders tightened. It had nothing to do with
worrying about job performance.

  He knew he could cook.

  Just as he knew he could do the job he was sent here to do.

  She stepped closer to him, then plucked a chip from one of the bowls he had lined up, ready to go out. He continued working on the meat, but watched with interest when she scooped up a healthy amount of salsa and slid it between her lips.

  He began a mental count, waiting for the peppers to hit.

  She merely smiled over at him. “Good salsa. If the rest is as good as this, you’re hired.”

  She walked over to the industrial-size refrigerator and his chopping stilled as he found himself unwittingly caught up in the easy glide of her body. He welcomed the chill that swept briefly across the room as she pulled out a frosty bottle, taking her time popping the top.

  “Bring the forms back with you at six,” was all he said.

  She helped herself to a slow pull, then another healthy shot of salsa. Popping the rest of the chip in her mouth, she caught and held his gaze, the beer dangling as if forgotten from her fingers.

  “Quiet, confident,” she said, her tone more amused than flattering. “I like your style, Diego Santerra.”

  She drew him in far too easily. He wasn’t there to make friends. Or anything else, for that matter. He was there to save her life.

  “Just respect a woman who knows good salsa when she tastes it.”

  “Well, you might try some habañero peppers next time,” she said, naming one of the spiciest peppers grown. “Perk it up a bit.”

  “You got’em, I’ll use ’em. But I take no responsibility for your customers’ stomachs.”

  She smiled. “Oh, we like things hot around here.”

  Diego looked up at her again, but there wasn’t so much as a hint of innuendo in her expression or in her voice. No, that wasn’t her style.

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  She paused a moment before answering. “You do that.”

  Just then there was a loud commotion followed by the sound of at least two men yelling and glass shattering.

  Despite the noise, Diego heard Blue mutter a rather earthy expletive. He turned back to his chopping, hiding the sudden urge to smile. “Sounds like you’re needed up front.”