This Isn't You, Baby(4)

By: K Webster


“Pants.”

Swallowing, I slowly push the material down over my hips toward my knees. Thankfully I have on a pair of black lacey boy short panties. He stalks over to me and brushes some hair away from my face. His scent chokes me, and I nearly gag.

“So perfect,” he praises, his fingertips tangling in my hair. He presses a soft kiss to my mouth. My entire body freezes. Heath has kissed me but never on the mouth. Usually on the cheek, forehead, or the top of my head. “Please wear a bra with this dress.” His voice is husky. The heat from his body nearly scorches me although we are barely touching.

“Okay.”

“Now, Gabriella.”

I jolt away from him and scramble to find a bra. Once I’ve put it on in record speed, I start for the dress he’s laid out on the bed. When I bend over to grab it, he steps behind me. His large hands find my hips and he pulls my ass against his hard-on.

“Do you feel what you do to me?”

I swallow and try not to cringe. Embarrassment causes my flesh to heat. “I’m sorry?”

He chuckles and his thumbs rub circles on my hipbones. “I’m not.”

A shriek escapes me when he pops my ass softly with his hand before striding away from me. Before he exits, he turns to regard me with a sly grin. “What do you want for your birthday?”

My freedom.

I yank the dress quickly up my body to hide from him. “I don’t want anything.” From you.

Our eyes lock and he pins me with his heated glare. “Three more days, Gabriella. And then I’m going to give you something we both will enjoy.”

At that, he slips out of my room and disappears.

I have to get out of here.



Heath’s parties are something out of a fairy tale. He spares no expense when it comes to hosting such events. Everyone who is anyone is invited, the food is incredible, and the décor is impressive. I’ve met more celebrities than I can shake a stick at. Under normal circumstances, this might be cool.

But nothing about this situation is cool.

What people from the outside don’t see is the cesspool of the vilest criminals all dressed up and fancy as hell in one room making subtle and refined negotiations. Heath Berkley is not an honest self-made man. He’s heavily involved in the drug circuit. I know for a fact that his biggest alliance is with the Rojas family. Camilo Rojas is one of the richest men in Colombia. His cocaine empire is virtually untouchable by the American feds. He doesn’t come to the US much—he instead has his two eldest sons, Esteban and Duvan, do most of the overseeing for his drug trafficking. His alliance with Heath is what keeps the feds off his ass. Heath lines the pockets of politicians, influential police personnel, and our local government so they’ll overlook what comes through his shipyard via shipping containers.

So far the business marriage between these two families has worked out well. But about five years ago, the Colombian government began harassing Camilo. They’re as corrupt as he is and have been extorting a crap load of money in exchange for not blasting Heath’s name to the feds—the ones who actually do their jobs and aren’t dirty—the ones he can’t pay off no matter how much money he waves in their faces. Their mere “business” relationship makes their criminal activity that much more obvious. Why else would a wealthy Colombian family be so well connected with a rich American one? Especially since the American family owns a gigantic shipyard that primarily sends barges to Buenaventura from the Port of San Diego.

For the past several years, Heath and Camilo have slowed on both production of the coke and the distribution here in America to keep the Colombian government off their backs. However, when they finally have me married into the Rojas family, they can make a great show of the actual marriage of the two powerful families. Their relationship will no longer be a red flag.

Of course, I’m not supposed to know any of this.

But, like I said, Oscar, the youngest Rojas son, is actually my friend and has a really big mouth.

“Oh my God, Brie,” Vee whines and sips on the champagne we’re only allowed to have about eight times a year at these lavish parties Heath hosts. “Oscar looks so hot tonight. His hair is getting longer. He looks more like Esteban every day but a whole lot less scary.”

I laugh and scan the growing crowd for our friend. He lives and goes to school in Bogotá, just a day’s drive from where his father’s shipyard is located and apparently around the corner from where one of the warehouses is located. We don’t see Ozzy every time Heath has his parties so I’m glad to know we’ll see him tonight.