Page 4 of No Sweeter Poison

Diego nods as he dries the last champagne flute and moves onto the wine glasses. “I told Joni to leave them. At first, I thought they were tourists, but he said the little one speaks Spanish. Has an accent though.”

“What kind?” I ask.

He shrugs and the tattoos on his collarbone move. I keep telling him that if he’s going to work the bar, he’ll need a proper uniform, but God help me if I try to take away jeans and t-shirts from Diego Narvaez; I won’t live to see my next birthday.

“Hard to say,” he tells me. “I couldn’t hear from here. You’d have to ask Joni.”

I return my attention to the only two girls sitting in my empty lounge. We closed a few hours ago to convert the space for nighttime, as it’s usually open for breakfast and coffee before one. We aren’t supposed to re-open until half past six and there’s still another hour to go. The kitchens aren’t fully up and running yet nor is the band set up. I wonder why they stumbled in here of all places…

I look at Diego. “Sandoval’s people?”

He shakes his head before the words are even out of my mouth. “No. Sandoval’s people are easy to spot. Besides, they’d never venture this far into our territory.”

It feels like this feud has gone on for ages but then again, in a way it has. It’s been passed from father to son, mother to daughter, our taste for vengeance inherited. I grew up learning to hate our rival clan until I made the mistake of falling in love with one of them and had to learn that lesson the hard way.

Three years and no word from Regina. I find myself wondering where she is and immediately scorn myself for doing so.

After a while, Diego says, “The redhead is cute for you.”

Only then do I realize I’ve been staring.

She pays me little mind, concentrated instead on taking photos of what’s around her. Definitely a tourist. Locals don’t marvel at the stained-glass ceiling or Moorish columns. By the way she examines them and the mosaics on the back wall I can tell she has a trained eye. It’s as if she’s looking for something but I’m not sure what.

Absently, I reply, “I thought redheads are your type?”

“Usually, they are but the little one across from her keeps giving me the eye.” He tilts his head and squints. “Do you think if I have Joni send her a drink she’ll come over?”

I shoot him a look, eyes narrowing to slits as I take him in. “Agentleman pursues. Abuelo would have a heart attack if he heard you were trying to bait a woman like some sort of animal.”

Diego tsks. “All right then, Casanova. Show me how it’s done.”

I look back, and the girl drops her camera into her purse again. She’s wearing a black skirt with dark red roses that’s tight at the waist and flares at the hips. Tucked into the waistband is a nearly sheer white top with long, angel sleeves. The light above her pierces through the fabric casting her curvaceous figure in dark shadows. Her hair is long, grazing her lower back, wild and wavy. The kind of hair a man would love to wrap his fist around and pull.

“Hm.” I drop my phone and keycard on the bar. “I just might.”

She turns again, once more ignoring any eye contact with me. Either I’ve lost my touch or she’s uninterested, both equally impossible and yet here I am. Not a single smile, wave, or wink in my direction. Not even a bat of the lashes, which is usually a woman’s demure way of saying, I know you’re watching me because I’m watching you.

“Watch those for me, will you? And check on Lettie in the kitchens.”

As I get closer, I stop by a few tables and flip over the chairs. No need to look desperate, especially since the redhead has made it a point to ignore me every time we make eye contact. She didn’t even look at Diego, which I found stranger.

Two attractive men make it a point to stare in her direction and she doesn’t bother to flirt back?

Diego and I have the whole gorgeous-half-brothers thing going on. Like that American show Lettie loved watching in junior high—The Vampire Deeds or whatever it was called. When I’m close enough to pick up bits and pieces of their conversation, I hear the redhead speak in an accent I know better than any other.

They’re from New York.

I can tell by the way she makes her r’s and the rapid fluidity with which she masters the English language. If I hadn’t lived there when I was a rebellious teenager, I wouldn’t have been able to understand what they’re saying. Or pick up when the brunette says, “Imagine he comes over here!” And the redhead replies, “Can you be any louder? Jesus Christ, Karina.”

I stop to turn over the chairs at the table across from them and as I move onto the next, I pass by their table, and say, “Everything all right here, ladies?”

The redhead ignores me completely. She finishes the last of her sangria while the brunette takes the lead. “We’re wonderful, thank you.” She replies in English.

I turn my attention to the redhead who’s suddenly focused on the menu. “Would you like another?”

Her head shoots up. Her eyes are wide and bright like burnt ember. “What?” It takes her a second to register. Her gaze drops to her empty wine glass. “Oh, yes. No, actually.” She shakes her head and a thick wave falls in front of her eyes. She has the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen. I wonder why she dyes it. “Water is fine.”

“You’re only having one?” the one called Karina says. “Who are you and what have you done to the real Dahlia?”