Carrera's Bride. Diana Palmer

      “My big sister, Barbara Cortero. She’s married to Barney Cortero. He owns hotels,” she confided.

      Marcus’s eyebrows lifted suddenly, and he smiled. His luck had just changed.

      She looked up at the big man with fascination. “I really appreciate what you did. I know a little self-defense, but I couldn’t stop him. I bit a hole in his lip, but it didn’t slow him down, it just made him mad, and he hit me.” She rubbed her cheek and winced.

      “He hit you?” Marcus asked angrily. “I didn’t see that!”

      “He’s a real charmer,” she muttered, glancing down at the drunk, who was still holding his stomach and groaning.

      Marcus pulled out his cell phone and pressed in a single number. “Smith?” he said. “Come down here and take this guy back to his hotel. In one piece,” he added. “We don’t need any more trouble.”

      There was a reply. Marcus chuckled and flipped the phone shut. He looked at Delia curiously. “You’re going to need to stitch that dress up,” he remarked. He slid out of his dinner jacket and slid it over her shoulders. It was warm from the heat of his big body and it smelled of expensive cologne and cigar smoke.

      She looked up at him with utter fascination. He was a handsome man, even with those two jagged white scars on his cheek, cutting through his olive complexion like roadmaps. He had big, deep-set brown eyes under thick eyebrows. He was built like a wrestler and he looked dangerous. Very dangerous.

      “Stitches,” she murmured, spellbound.

      He was watching her, too, with amused curiosity. She was small, but she had the heart of a lioness. He was impressed.

      The elevator opened and Smith walked out of it, powerful muscles rippling under his dark suit as he approached the small group.

      “Where shall I deliver him?” he asked in his gravelly voice.

      Marcus looked at Delia and lifted an eyebrow.

      “We’re all staying at the Colonial Bay hotel in Nassau,” she stammered.

      He nodded toward Smith, who put out one huge hand and brought Fred abruptly to his feet.

      “Let go of me or I’ll sue!” Fred threatened.

      “Attempted sexual assault is a felony,” Marcus said coldly.

      “You can’t prove that!” Fred replied haughtily.

      “I’ve got cameras everywhere. You’re on tape. The whole thing,” Marcus added.

      Fred blinked. He scowled and peered at the older man. Through the fog of alcohol, recognition stiffened his face. “Carrera!” he choked.

      Marcus smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “So you remember me. Imagine that. Small world, isn’t it?”

      Fred swallowed hard. “Yeah. Small.” He straightened. “I actually came here to talk to you,” he began, swaying unsteadily.

      “Yeah? Well, come back when you’re sober,” Marcus said firmly, giving the man a look that he hoped Fred would manage to understand.

      Fred seemed to sober up at once. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll do that. Listen, this thing with the girl, it’s all a…a misunderstanding,” he added quickly. “I had a little too much to drink. And she just kept asking for it…”

      “You liar!” she exclaimed.

      “We’ve got tape,” Marcus said again.

      Fred gave up. He gave Marcus an uneasy look. “Don’t hold this against me, okay? I mean, we’re like family, right?”

      Marcus had to bite his tongue to keep from spilling everything. “One more stunt like this, and you’ll need a family—for the wake. Got me?”

      Fred lost a shade of color. “Yeah. Sure. Right.” He pulled away from Smith and tried to sober up. “I was just having a little fun. I was drunk or I’d never have touched her! Sorry. I’m really sorry!”

      “Get him out of here,” Marcus told Smith, and he turned away while the drunken man was still trying to proffer apologies and excuses. He gave Fred a long look.

      “I’ll…call you,” Fred choked.

      Marcus nodded without Delia seeing him.

      He took Delia by the arm. “Come on, we’ll get a needle and thread and fix your dress. You can’t go home looking like that.”

      She was still trying to figure out what was going on. Fred seemed to know this man, even to be afraid of him. And strange messages were passing between them without words. Who was this big, dark man?

      “I don’t know you,” she said hesitantly.

      He lifted an eyebrow. “Repairs first, introductions later. You’re perfectly safe.”

      “That’s what my sister said I’d be with Fred,” she pointed out, tugging his jacket closer. “Safe.”

      “Yeah, but I don’t need to attack women in dark alleys,” he stated. “It’s sort of the other way around.”

      He was smiling. She liked his smile. She shrugged and her perfect lips tugged up. “Okay.” She managed a smile of her own. “Thanks.”

      “Oh, I was just there to back you up,” he said lazily, letting her go into the elevator in front of him. “You’d have done okay if you’d had a shotgun.”

      “I’m not so sure,” she said. “He was inhumanly strong.”

      “Men on drugs or alcohol usually are.”

      “Really?” she asked in a faint stammer.

      He gave her a worldly appraisal as the elevator carried them up to his office. “First experience with a drunk?” he asked bluntly.

      “Well, not exactly,” she confessed on a long sigh. “I’ve never had an experience like that, at least. I seem to draw drunks the way honey draws flies. I went to a party with Barb and Barney last month. A drunk man insisted on dancing with me, and then he passed out on the floor in front of God and everybody. At Barb’s birthday party, a man who had too much to drink followed me around all night trying to buy me a pack of cigarettes.” She looked up at him with a rueful smile. “I don’t smoke.”

      He chuckled deeply. “It’s your face. You have a sympathetic look. Men can’t resist sympathy.”

      Her green eyes twinkled. “Is that a fact? You don’t look like a man who ever needs any.”

      He shrugged. “I don’t, usually. Here we are.”

      He stood aside to let her exit the elevator.

      She stopped just inside the office and looked around, fascinated. The carpet was shag, champagne colored. The furniture was mahogany. The drapes matched the carpet and the furniture. There were banks of screens showing every room in the casino. There was a bar with padded stools curled around it. There were computers and phones and fax machines. It looked like a spy setup to Delia, who never missed a James Bond film.

      “Wow,” she said softly. “Are you a spy?”

      He chuckled and shook his head. “I’d never make the grade. I don’t like martinis.”

      “Me, either,” she murmured, smiling at him.

      He motioned her toward the huge bathroom. “There’s a robe behind the door. Take off the dress and put on the robe. I’ll get some thread and a needle.”

      She hesitated, her eyes wide and uncertain.

      He pointed to the corner of the room. “There are cameras all over the place. I’d never get away with anything. The boss has eyes in the back of his head.”

      “The boss?” she queried. “Oh. You mean the man who owns