Chapter 1

Twenty-two.

That’s how many shots of Patron it took to level the idiot because only someone dull in the head would drink that much tequila. Luis, the name he had heard dropped earlier, seemed to be in charge of a group of soldiers belonging to the La Paz cartel and the one who had boasted he could out-drink anyone, no matter their size. So, when Ryder Kelley had walked into the little seaside tavern, Luis had been easy pickings. The man had no idea when he agreed to the bet to go shot-for-shot that tequila would have little or no effect on Ryder, his vampire DNA preventing him from absorbing much of the alcohol.

Ryder had spent the last six months working his way down to La Paz, Mexico, acclimating himself with the territory. His hair had grown past his collar and he now sported a half-assed beard that itched like hell. Even so, with his light brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes, he wasn’t about to pass for a local. Thanks to a cute little señorita, though, Ryder had managed to learn a spattering of Spanish along the way, just enough to give him an idea of the conversations going on around him.

Luis’s soldiers hooted and hollered over their fallen comrade, who now lay facedown on the wood-planked floor. He’d no doubt have one hell of a hangover when he came to, and maybe a knock to his oversized cranium. Ryder bet the fat bastard couldn’t find a decent hat to fit him. Hell, Luis would be damn lucky if he didn’t die from alcohol poisoning, the dumb son of a bitch.

Ryder had stopped by Salazar’s a couple of times, as it was a known hangout for Raúl’s men. The exterior of the building had seen better days, the paint peeling and chipping from extended salt water exposure. Inside, it reminded him of a typical seaside tavern and eatery. Salazar’s had the best seafood this side of La Paz. No wonder the cartel claimed it as their own. The crab broil with Spanish chorizo was some of the best he had eaten, while the shrimp fajitas with mango-lime slaw came in a close second. Frequenting Salazar’s would by no means be a hardship.

Some of the men had picked Luis’s sorry ass off the floor and hauled him from the joint, his booted feet making drag marks along the already scarred floor. The rest of the men went about their drinking and ignoring Ryder. It was obvious, even though Ryder had a serious alcohol tolerance and drank their boss under the table, they didn’t consider him deserving of their time. He’d need to find another way into their good graces.

The key would be in earning their respect.

These weren’t your typical seaside fisherman. No, the men from Raul’s camp killed for a living, assassinated a man without so much as a blink. Ryder figured it was about the only way a newcomer would earn their favor, for which he’d need outside help, someone who wouldn’t have a propensity for dying.

Gunner Anderson, vice president of the Washington chapter of the Sons of Sangue, came to mind. He wasn’t likely known by the cartel. Oregon had been the chapter on the cartel’s radar due to a long history of bad blood. Although his Sons of Sangue brethren were keeping their distance, Ryder had stayed in touch with Grigore “Wolf” Lupei from his own Oregon chapter, so he already knew Gunner was in the area. Several of the Sons from the Oregon and Washington chapters had followed him south for backup, should the situation get hairy. And Ryder trusted Grigore to have his back. Not that he didn’t trust his other brothers, but he and the large wolf-like man seemed in tune with each other.

“¿Cómo te va?”

Ryder had been so engrossed in his musings, he hadn’t noticed the man’s approach. A good way to get himself killed. “Excuse me? My Spanish is lacking.”

Although he knew what the man had asked, Ryder would rather they didn’t realize he understood some of their native tongue. Better to have them talking freely around him.

“I asked you ‘How’s it going?’” he repeated himself in English, his accent thick.

The man was a good five or six inches taller than the one they’d carried out. And Ryder would bet, by the way he held himself, he was also high up on the chain of command.

Ryder raised his bottle of water, then took a long pull. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink, but thank you, I’m holding my own.”

“Sí, I can see that.” He rubbed his well-manicured fingers across his whiskered chin. “Most men would be comatose. But you…”

Ryder shrugged, then took another swig of his water. “I guess I have a high tolerance for alcohol. Blame my upbringing. My father was feeding me tequila when I was nine.”

“Your father must have been muy estúpido.”

“You could say he wasn’t much of a parent.”

“¿Y tu mamá?”

“My mother? Dead.”

Ryder wasn’t putting much of a spin on the truth. Although his father had raised him alone, he hadn’t plied him with alcohol at an early age. Best to stick close to the truth so there would be less chance of a slip up down the road.

The man pulled out a thin filtered cigar from a red pack in his shirt pocket, then grabbed a pack of matches from the bar. He ripped one from the pack, then slid it across the strike pad. Sulfur filled the air as the match burned bright. He took it to the cigar now stuck between his lips and puffed until the end glowed red. He shook the match to extinguish the flame.

“What brings you here, señor, to La Paz? You’re not from around these parts.”

Ryder scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What’s your first clue?”

“Besides being a gringo?”

“Other than the obvious.” He chuckled. “I’m looking for work.”

“There’s no work for you here, señor.”

“Well, that’s not very neighborly of you.”

The man tilted back his head and laughed, the sound carrying through the room and catching the notice of his comrades. “Señor, you’re in the wrong town. We aren’t very neighborly, as you say, here. Finish your drink y vete ya.”

“What if I happen to like the food?”

The man stepped into Ryder’s personal space, and the vampire inside him started to take offense. “You’ll find another tavern in another town. This one isn’t for you.”

Ryder raised a brow. “Last I checked, this was a public establishment.”

He looked back at the men now paying them attention. “Estúpido Cabron! ¿Tiene un deseo de muerte?” Placing a hand on Ryder’s shoulder, he leaned in close enough Ryder could smell the stench on his breath. “Unless you wish to be carried out of here in a box, señor, I suggest you take your bottle of water and move on.”

Ryder leveled his gaze. “Unless you want to be carried out of here like your buddy, I suggest you take your hand from my shoulder.”

The man narrowed his black gaze, removed his hand, and chuckled again. “You either have a set of cajones muy grande o eres um imbécil. Which is it, señor?”

“I’m not about to argue over who has the bigger dick, if that’s what I believe you said, but don’t mistake me for a fool.”

“And if I do?”

“Then that would be your second mistake.”

“And my first?”

“Thinking you could order me around.” Ryder tipped back his bottle, finishing the contents, then slammed the plastic onto the old bar.

Ryder felt the man’s eyes on his back the entire way out of the establishment. He may have earned himself an enemy from his blatant lack of respect, but better that than allow them to think of him as anything other than a formable opponent.

Regardless of the man’s issued demand, Ryder planned on making another appearance. Next time he’d bring a show.

Stopping next to his Harley Davidson CVO Road King, he grabbed his skull cap from the seat when a shiny black Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking lot of the old tavern. Normally, back in the States, the vehicle wouldn’t have caught his notice. But here in La Paz? Not many could afford the extravagance.

He pulled out a small pocket wrench and kneeled beside the twin cam engine, feigning a mechanical issue. Stealing a glance in the SUV’s direction, Ryder hoped to finally catch a glimpse of the illustrious Raúl Trevino Caballero. The man had been harder to find than a fucking needle in a haystack. He supposed Raúl hadn’t risen to his position without being careful, as he no doubt had made many enemies along the way.

The Escalade rolled to a stop on the cracked pavement, just to the left of the entrance. The driver hopped out of the vehicle, quickly skirted it, and opened the rear passenger door. A slender hand reached out, definitely not one belonging to Raúl, or any man, for that matter. The driver helped the woman alight, a pair of red stilettos hitting the asphalt. Damn if those heels didn’t have “fuck me” written all over them.

Ryder’s groin tightened at just the thought of wrapping those muscular calves he viewed beneath the vehicle door about his waist, while those spike heels dug into his ass cheeks. Fuck, he had been without for too damn long. The woman probably had a body to die for and a face only a mama could love, using her bright red shoes to draw the attention south to her great pair of gams. The woman cleared the door of the SUV and Ryder dropped the small pocket wrench with a clatter. He also had to shut his gaping mouth.

Jesus, the woman was smoking hot.

Ryder took back his early thought about her being homely. Hell, this woman was a fucking goddess. Long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and down to the small of her back. The sun highlighted some of the strands, making her hair appear two-toned. She wore a black pencil skirt that hugged her womanly curves, curves that made his mouth water. Ryder had never been a fan of stick-thin body types, and this woman had a set of hips a man could grab onto.

His gaze slowly rose to a nice set of tits that swayed gently in her halter-style tank with each step she took. Fuck. If the sight of her ample breasts didn’t damn near give him a hard-on, imagining her full lips around his dick certainly did the trick.

What the hell was a woman like that doing here?

Her outfit and the way she carried herself screamed “high maintenance.” Salazar’s wasn’t the type of establishment that catered to the wealthy. The red soles of her shoes told him all he needed to know. This woman’s monthly allowance was likely more than he made in a year. She was out of his league, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a prime piece of ass.

Just before she entered the tavern, she paused and looked back at him, blessing him with a smile. One that socked him in the gut, leaving him desiring someone he had no business sharing oxygen with. Ryder winked at her nonetheless, his action causing her to wet her full lips.

If he were only in La Paz for another reason, he might be tempted to try and tap that. But he was on a mission, one that required him to romance Gabriela Trevino Caballero. Fucking any other woman was out of the question, especially should the kingpin’s niece find out about it. He couldn’t chance the bar full of Raúl’s soldiers being a bunch of gossips.

After pocketing his wrench, he strapped on his skull cap before stepping over the seat of his tribal orange Road King. He kicked back the stand and turned the key. The engine roared to life. Making a large circle in the parking lot, he took one last look back at the Escalade and saw the word “Gabby” printed in white vinyl lettering on the lower left corner of the dark tinted window.

Fuck me.

* * *

Gabriela Trevino Caballero, or “Gabby” as her friends called her, walked into Salazar’s, the little seaside tavern owned by her uncle. He rarely ate there, which was one of the reasons Gabby liked to eat here. Salazar’s had the best chef in all of La Paz, only surpassed by her uncle Raúl’s private chef. Eating at the fortress he called home, though, required her to sit down and share a meal with him.

It wasn’t that she hated her uncle. After all, had it not been for him, she might have wound up in foster care or worse. When her father had been viciously murdered by an American biker gang, it was Uncle Raúl who had taken her in and raised her as his own. Gabby lacked for nothing. The man overcompensated for her losing her father several years ago, and most likely because her uncle hadn’t been able to conceive children of his own.

Gabby appreciated all he afforded her, and to say she lived a privileged life would be an understatement. But most days, her home felt more like a glorified prison. She wasn’t allowed to leave without his express consent, or without an escort in tow. It wasn’t as if she was clueless when it came to what her uncle did for a living. Gabby chose to wear blinders. Uncle Raúl was never going to allow her to move out and live on her own, all for good reason.

Raúl Trevino Caballero had enemies, enemies who would love to get their hands on her. She shivered at the thought of what they might do to her in order to get to La Paz’s most notorious kingpin. So instead of the frightful alternative, she allowed herself to be catered to, held a prisoner in her own home because of the family she had been born into.

What choice do I have?

Today, she had been lucky to spirit time away with just one bodyguard. Going to Salazar’s, though, didn’t require her to be accompanied by an entourage, not when most of her uncle’s men frequented the place. None of them would dare touch her, fearing the wrath of Raúl, which made dating pretty much impossible. Gabby couldn’t help recalling the last disastrous date she had gone on more than a year ago. The poor man damn near lost his hand, all because he had dared to grab her ass. Her entourage had quickly reported back to Raúl and only her promise never to see the man again had saved him his appendage.

Coming to Salazar’s was a good escape and brought to mind the other reason she came here. Her uncle had put her in charge. This little tavern was not only her getaway, but her pride and joy. Her uncle’s lackeys were here most days, and usually well behaved. Any insolence on their part would be reported back to Raúl.

“Where’s Luis, Sergio?” she asked Raúl’s second in charge, meeting him just inside the entrance. “I thought he would be here. After all, we have salmón al pastor as the special today. It’s his favorite.”

“Some gringo drank his ass estúpido. We carried him out.”

“The American I saw outside a moment ago?”

Gabby’s heart skipped a beat over the handsome man she’d spotted fixing a motorcycle. The man had the face wet dreams were made of and the body of a gladiator. His T-shirt stretched over what looked to be a nice set of pecs and abs. Her mouth had watered at the sight of him, reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But dating an American?

His bike’s license plate had labeled him as such. Uncle Raúl would have her head … or more than likely, the American’s. She couldn’t help wondering what the hottie was doing this far south. What she wouldn’t do for just ten minutes unescorted with him.

Sergio nodded. “I chased him out of here just before you arrived.”

Gabby stopped short, her glare landing on him. “You did no such thing.”

“I did.” He squared his shoulders, not in the least embarrassed for his rude actions. “He’s not welcome here.”

“Says who?” She raised a perfectly plucked brow. “I run this establishment, Sergio, and I won’t have you chasing away my customers. This isn’t just a hangout for you losers. You got me? I’ve been working damn hard to make a name for this place ever since Uncle Raúl put me in charge. That means customers.”

“We’re customers.”

“Real customers, Sergio. Not those on my uncle’s payroll.”

He shifted his stance, his jaw hardening. “I’m sorry, Gabby.”

She pointed toward the entrance. “March out there and give that man your apology.”

Anger flared in the depths of his dark eyes. “I will not.”

“Sergio?”

“Maldición, Gabby. Next, you’ll be wanting to unman me. I can’t have tourists coming here and undermining my, Luis’s, or your uncle’s authority.”

“But you can mine?”

He gritted his teeth and squared his stance. “You don’t pay my bills, Gabby. I won’t grovel to the gringo.”

She stomped her foot, then turned and marched toward the kitchen entrance. The driver of the Escalade quickly followed in her footsteps, not allowing her from his sight. For the love of all that was holy. Just once it would be nice to go somewhere without being shadowed.

This establishment was hers to run and she meant to prove so.

Sergio had gone too far.

Just before clearing the double swinging doors to the kitchen, she caught sight of the large man’s lit taillight through the large front window as he slowed to a stop at the exit of the parking lot leading to the road. Not glancing back, he picked up his feet, turned the motorcycle away from town and pulled back on the gas. Thanks to Sergio, she’d likely never see the sexy American again. The thought shouldn’t bother her, but it did. For the first time in a very long time, a man had actually managed to make her heart trip. Now, she was left with nothing more than wicked daydreams and her battery-operated boyfriend, or as she liked to refer to it, B.O.B.

Deflated, Gabby made her way into the heart of the tavern. Rather than answer any of Sergio’s questions, she left the dumb ass in the dining area and passed through the double doors to bake. Making delicious pastries and cakes had become a favorite pastime of hers. Much better than sitting at home and manicuring her nails. Although she had a privileged upbringing, Gabby was far from a socialite. She much preferred getting her hands dirty and working at her restaurant.

After grabbing an apron with a Salazar crab printed on the front, she slipped it over her head and tied it loosely behind her back. Using a hair band she had circling her wrist, she pulled her heavy hair off her shoulders and fashioned it into a messy bun atop her head. Wearing her favorite pair of Louboutin’s wasn’t ideal to bake in, but then again, when she had stopped by, baking hadn’t been on her agenda.

She smiled at the chef. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Señorita, I am honored with your company. Besides, everyone loves your desserts.”

“Thank you, Francisco. I’m happy to hear my efforts pay off.”

Once she plucked a mixing bowl from an upper shelf and a bag of flour, Gabby went to work, hoping to purge her thoughts of Mr. Sexy Americano.