When my dad"s best friend, a cop, comes to the Caribbean I wasn"t expecting he would take me captive.
This older man already captivates me with a deep voice that"s more soothing than the sea, muscles like mountains, and a quiet confidence that comes from the judgment and experience that only an older man can possess.
But when he tells me he"s possessing me, as in literally taking me captive, this younger woman is deciding whether I should escape now or let this possessive policeman possess me for the first time"and forever.
And when my parent"s go missing and it looks like the bad guys are after me too, I realize the safest place is under my police officer protector"s watchful eye and in his arms.
But can he solve the case and rescue my family, and if so will he be able to convince my dad that I"m the only woman he ever wanted a family with"
Will my dad force him to jump ship, leaving me high and dry, or will we sail off into the sunset"his captive forever"
*Cop’s Caribbean Captive is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.Books by Author:Flora Ferrari Books
I shouldn"t have had those street tacos.
My hand goes to my stomach and my eyes quickly survey the establishments along Cancun"s Hotel Zone.
I see an open air place knowing that I can get relief before Montezuma can get his revenge and I quickly walk right in.
Both the waitress and the bartender give me surly stares as they turn their heads exposing their necks to me which I know as a sign of trust as a Chicago Police Department cop.
But the only turn I"m interested in now is the one I take straight down the steps and to the bathrooms. My Spanish is terrible but the sign on the door seems to say something about employees only, but I pull the handle anyways and it opens.
A couple minutes later I flip on the cold water handle to wash my hands so I can get out of here, and the dang thing squeaks like someone"s dragging their fingernails over a chalkboard so I quickly shut it back off and try the other knob.
But just before I hear the screeching sound again, but this time I swear I can hear a girl"s voice saying, "Help me! Please somebody help." I put my ear to the wall and hear the same girl"s voice say, "Ayuda!"
I don"t have to know Spanish to know there"s at least one girl in trouble on the other side of the wall and immediately my police training kicks in.
Serve and protect knows no borders and is never off-duty as far as I"m concerned.
I squat down low in case someone"s waiting for me outside and get ready to dive for knees or slide outside right into a sweeping kick if I have to. I take a deep breath and flip off the bathroom light as I open the door.
I pretend to tie my shoe and then stand up. Still nothing.
I exit the bathroom and look down the dark corridor. There"s a single light bulb at the end that resembles the nightlight I had as a kid years ago"when it was flickering on its last legs.
I walk briskly and confidently towards the door realizing that that"s the reason I got this far in the first place. My brash entrance, which was fueled by tacos way more than testosterone, told the staff that I belonged and if I"m going to find out what the hell"s going on in here I need to keep up the ruse.
I knock twice and the reinforced steel slab swings open.
If a pit bull was six foot seven and weighed about four hundred pounds with seven percent body fat this is exactly what it would look like.
"Who the fuck are you"" the guy says in perfect English.
"Joe," I say. No way I"m giving up my real name to this meathead. "Juan said it was cool."
The guy looks me up and down. I"m six foot five myself and tip the scale at about two hundred and fifty with five percent body fat, according to the mandatory yearly physical I took a few months ago at the station on my thirty-fifth birthday.
But this guy isn"t scared. I know the type. He thinks because he can bench press a Volkswagen bug that he can crush me. That"s the thing with those guys that shoot steroids. They"re long on testosterone and short on flexibility, stamina, agility, and just about everything you actually do need in a fight.
"You go tell Juan Fuckin" Valdez that we"ve got all the coffee we can handle, Joe Mama."
He goes to shut the door, but I slide my foot in.
He cracks all the knuckles of his right hand in his left as he starts to stand up from his bar stool placed right at the door, but before he"s got that ass full of needle holes from a lifetime of having his lifting partners shoot him up with dianabol, deca durabolin, trenbolone, anadrol, clenbuterol, and who knows what else halfway off the seat I hit him with the best kind of punch known to man.
The verbal kind.
"Do"a Lety," I say and his eyes open wide as his body freezes. "That mama will send someone down here to bend you over their knee and paddle your ass just the way I know you like if you don"t roll the red carpet out for me starting right fucking now."
He locks eyes with mine and I hold my ground in the all-important moment of truth.
"The bar is over to your left. The merchandise will be available in fifteen minutes," he says.
I walk right past him using a lifetime of training, including some years undercover, to play it off like everything I said is true.
The best part about it is that Do"a Lety has been locked up since last August and got indicted in April so to confirm what I just said is going to take some time.