Enemy Lover by Karin Harlow Page A

she’d read his mind, the woman in red half turned and looked over her shoulder at him, giving him enough of a view of her chest that his dick lurched against his slacks.
Damn.
He had to hand it to her—unlike the low-cut back, the front of her dress clung to but covered every inch of her tits, making him and every other man in the place fantasize about licking and sucking them.
    Son of a bitch! The last time he’d been this affected by a woman, he’d been thirteen and had lost his virginity to Ramona Steele, a cougar by today’s standards, but to a thirteen-year-old horn dog of a kid, she’d been a goddess. He would have stood on his head, naked in the middle of the rez, if she’d asked him to. He scoffed at the memory. Mona wasn’t his first lesson in manipulative women. Suspiciously, he eyed the woman in red.
    He shook off the heat. He wasn’t here to score, and he wasn’t a dumb kid to be led around by his hormones. He was here to reduce Chicago’s population by one. Dragging his gaze from the siren’s retreating backside, he cursed when he lost sight of his mark. Spinning, he scanned the dance floor again for Jaime Tuturo. He stiffened when he saw the punk, the little blonde struggling to keep up behind him, strutting up to the bar, his ever-present entourage flitting around him like flies on turd. Every one of them flying their colors with a black-and-red silk shirt. Even with his flashy threads, his slicked-back hair, and the flash of gold on his thick fingers andthicker neck, Jaime Tuturo still looked like the gang banger he was.
    Marcus smiled. He fingered the yellow bandana in his trouser pocket. All hell would break lose when he left it on Jaimito’s body. The Reza cartel boys would get the blame for what he was going to do to Jaimito, and what happened after that was none of his business. He watched Jaimito stop in his tracks, and his gaze fix and hold. The lady in red strutted across the dance floor toward the bar as if she’d been Cleopatra and everyone else in the room had been mere slaves to do her bidding.
    Although this chick was way out of Jaime’s league, the gangster was arrogant enough to think all he had to do was snap his fingers and she’d roll right over. Marcus was not surprised to see Jaime send one of his lackeys over to the lady in red. Marcus smiled. Coward. For all of Tuturo’s bravado, he was afraid of being shot down in front of his posse.
    Marcus grinned as the lackey stopped in his tracks, then turned back to Jaime when she snubbed him with an imperious air of disdain. A few minutes later, he watched another gangbanger attempt to plead Tuturo’s case to the lady in red.
    Cold as an icicle, she reached for her drink and casually let it tip and pour on the guy’s snazzy suit. Marcus growled when the prick raised a hand to her. She stood her ground, daring him with narrowed eyes to touch her. Slowly he lowered his hand, and as he did, she turned her lovely back on him. The dude stood for a long time, rigid, angry, insulted, his machismo squashed. Finally, the guy backed off. Marcus had to hand it to her. She had balls of steel. Most chicks would have scampered awayhappy to have been spared. But not this one. He liked that. He bet she was a tiger in bed.
    Before he could further contemplate her sexual prowess, the music changed abruptly from the one-two punch of hip-hop to a spicy salsa. Intrigued, Marcus moved around to the other side of the bar. She stepped onto the dance floor. And she did not disappoint.
    Marcus stood rooted to the floor and watched, mesmerized by the slow, seductive sway of her hips and the way the little fringes on the hem of her dress rocked back and forth. The crowded dance floor thinned as those around her stopped and watched her one-woman show.
    Her lush body swayed, offering illicit promises, then taking them back. Jaime materialized beside her, watching, his beady eyes blazing in lust. Turning toward him, she backed away from him. He stepped deeper