Thrill Ride by Julie Ann Walker Read Free Book Online

confused her for a man, for even a nanosecond, he’d never know. Because Vanessa Cordero had that quintessential Latina build. Her small waist flared dramatically to curvy hips and a high, round ass.
    Sir Mix-A-Lot was writing about her with, “ little in the middle but she got much back ,” because merde !
    And when she reached the top of the ladder and hoisted herself onto the landing, effectively shielding her world-class booty from his hungry eyes, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. Because even though he was now able to construct a thought that didn’t revolve around taking a bite out of each one of her ass cheeks, he knew it was only a matter of time before those ass cheeks would be warming his bed while he lay tossing and turning on a pallet on the floor.
    He may never wash his sheets again…
    “You need help with that pack?” She interrupted his prurient thoughts, her faux whisker-covered face appearing at the top of the ladder, which served as a reminder of something that’d been bugging the hell out of him.
    He shook his head, and she moved back so he could pull himself onto the landing. Straightening, he blurted, “Why the disguise? If the CIA has given up hope that you guys knew where to find me, why’d you need to go dressin’ up like ol’ Cooter Brown?”
    He watched her reach up to finger the tiny hairs still glued to her chin and cheeks. She grimaced and started yanking them off one patch at a time. “I wore the disguise just in case,” she told him, scrubbing her hands over her now hair-free face, scratching at a spot that still retained some glue. And, mon dieu, why did she have to be so damned beautiful? “Just because we think they’ve mostly given up doesn’t necessarily mean they have . You know the CIA. They’re nothing if not wily. So, I snuck out of San Jose a week ago as Ricardo Ramirez and have been in Santa Elena looking for you as Ricardo Ramirez ever since.”
    “And you didn’t approach me at the cantina because…?”
    “Are you that paranoid?” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you trust me? Do you really think I’ve come here to do anything more than help you?”
    He shrugged out of his pack, leaning it against the wall of the tree house. He’d unpack later. For now, he needed a cold drink and an even colder shower. Of course, since air-conditioning and refrigeration weren’t really part of the whole Tarzan theme he had going, the odds of getting either were pretty much non-existent. Still, he could dream…and wish . Then again, there was a saying that went something like wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up faster…
    Opening the door to the tree house, he motioned for her to precede him.
    For a brief instant, she hesitated, waiting for him to answer her last set of questions. And only when it became obvious he had no intention of answering anything did she shrug her shoulders and step over the threshold.
    He followed her in while not looking at her butt. Okay, maybe he snuck one quick peek. He was just a man, after all. Once inside, she glanced around curiously, and he knew what she saw. A slap-dash box-framed bed holding a thick blow-up mattress covered in tangled sheets. A rough-hewn table with one chair. A kerosene stove on a stand. Cooking utensils stacked on a shelf. A pyramid of canned food and MREs. A small water barrel…and a shitload of intel.
    Every vertical surface of the tree house was wallpapered with the information he’d been able to find out about himself, his missions, and his targets. And, unfortunately, even given all of that, he still felt no closer to discovering the true identity of Rwanda Don than he’d been six months ago. Maybe if he had his files…
    But no. Those files were the main reason he was in this mess. He should’ve destroyed them and then he—
    “You’ve been busy,” she murmured, walking over to the table to pick up a glossy eight-by-ten photo of Fred