Red Leopard (The Vistaria Affair Series) Read online

  Red Leopard

  by

  Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Book 1

  The Vistaria Affair Series

  A Stories Rule Publication

  If they give in to their desires a whole country will fall.

  Calli Munro, soon-to-be-economics-professor, arrives in Vistaria during La Fiesta de la Luna, a combination of Mardi Gras and Carnival, and is arrested for violently resisting the amorous advances of strangers. She’s sprung from jail by a commanding civilian the Loyalist military refer to only as leopardo rojo. Calli is inexplicably drawn to him.

  When Calli formally meets Nicolás Escobedo, the bastard half-brother of Vistaria’s president, she realizes she is in trouble for it is the mysterious leopardo rojo. Their attraction is powerful and mutual, despite everything they do to deny its existence.

  Vistaria totters on the very brink of revolution and anarchy. It needs only a tiny nudge to tumble the country into the abyss of bloody war. Then the insurrectos learn that the President’s brother is having an affair with a hated Americano…

  Praise for

  Red Leopard

  Great read that will have you glued to the pages!!! When our lovers finally get together it’s beyond steaming. Kristi Ahlers, Amazon.com

  This is a great suspense story. If you love those movies where you don’t know who’s side the hero is really on until the end, then you’ll love the intrigue of Red Leopard. Angel Brewer for TRS Blue

  Red Leopard is a fabulous read. The reader is thrown into a fictitious but surprisingly realistic Latin American country, and when they finally come together, it’s dynamite. Astrid Kinn for Romance Reviews Today

  An untamed, wildly exciting story of love and raw sexual desire. A love to rival the most notorious forbidden affairs in history, great writing, intricate plotting and tasteful yet extremely erotic sex scenes. Titania Ladley For Women on Writing

  Worth reading over and over. It just goes to prove two people from different countries can fall in love and be together even when the countries don’t want them to be. Ruby for Love Romances

  Pros: Fresh new idea. Cons: none. The unfolding of romance between Nicolas and Calli will keep you on the edge of your chair. For Romantica this is something new and fresh. Pat McGrew for About Romance.com

  I could not see how it would be possible for Calli and Nick to have a future together and worried that there might not be a happy ending. I am anxiously waiting to see what comes next from Ms. Cooper-Posey’s talented pen! Denise Powers for Sensual Romance.

  STORIES RULE PUBLICATIONS

  A sole proprietorship owned and operated

  by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  This is an original publication of Tracy Cooper-Posey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2013 by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Cover design by Dar Albert

  Wicked Smart Designs

  http://wickedsmartdesigns.com

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  FIRST EDITION: 2003

  SECOND EDITION: December, 2012

  ISBN 978-1-927423-43-1 Amazon ebook edition

  Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Red Leopard/Tracy Cooper-Posey—2nd Ed.

  1. Romantic Suspense 2. Erotic Romance 3. Erotic romantic suspense 4. Suspense 5. Thriller 6. Romance Novel 7. MF Romance 8. Vistaria 9. Acapulco 10. Mexico 11. Revolution 12. Political thriller

  Chapter One

  Calli gripped the prison bars and looked out upon the carefree people celebrating the festival fifteen feet below her, all of them totally ignorant of her plight. It was La Fiesta de la Luna, which Vistarian citizens celebrated for the three nights of the first summer full moon. Calli was not Vistarian, she was American. Twenty-four hours ago she had been sitting in her apartment in Butte, Montana. The glorious republic of Vistaria had welcomed her onto the main island a scant five hours ago and for the last three hours and twenty-five minutes she had been in this jail.

  She turned back to face the bars of the dingy cell she stood in. It wasn’t really a cell at all. Two short walls of bars keeping her penned in a cramped corner of the room. It was really a cage, not a cell. But when she looked out at the rest of the room, she welcomed the bars.

  The musty holding cells of the Lozano Colinas city police barracks were on the second floor of an adobe building on a large public square. The walls of the room, once white, showed a dirty yellow gray now, with the combined effects of years of dirt and smoke brushing against them.

  Five men occupied the room. All of them wore army green uniform pants with red stripes up the legs and white collarless dress shirts—their uniform jackets hung over the backs of chairs and one was hanging from a nail driven into the wall.

  It was clear they resented being on duty during the first night of the festival, for they were holding their own party. Bottles of whiskey and black rum with colorful labels dotted the big round table with the battered wooden top. Between the bottles half a dozen old tobacco tins sat. They were being used as ashtrays for the cigars and thin yellow cigarettes with the harsh tobacco they smoked.

  Four of them sat at the table playing cards, laughing and talking in loud voices. From their gestures and expressions Calli guessed their conversation was ribald. She could also tell that many of the comments were about her for they would speak and glance at her in her corner, then comment in the bastardized Spanish that was common here. A deep belly laugh would follow.

  Their thick cigarette smoke fogged the air and the big multi-colored Vistarian currency liberally cluttered the table.

  In the opposite corner to her cell the leader of the group, possibly a sergeant, sat on a stool with a woman on his knee, his big hands about her waist, as he whispered things into her ear. She was dressed like many of the women had been dressed that Calli had seen in the few short minutes she had been on the public streets tonight: a white off-the-shoulder blouse, a dark cummerbund about the waist and yards and yards of long skirt in panels of glowing, gloriously colored silk that floated about their legs. With their dark straight hair tied in buns low on the back of their necks, a spray of the odd blue-colored wisteria she had seen everywhere tucked behind one ear and hoop earrings, the women looked wonderful. They moved with the sophisticated confidence of sensual, mature women, their hips swinging invitingly. It was an art Calli had never mastered, that confident poise.

  The soldier’s hand slipped inside the neck of the woman’s blouse. Beneath the cotton Calli could see the shape of his hand cup her breast, the thumb moving as he stroked the nipple. The woman gave a small low laugh, her shoulders arching back as she eased his access to her breast.

  Calli swallowed dryly. It seemed La Fiesta de la Luna shared Mardi Gras’s lack of inhibitions.

  Then the thought struck her like a gun shot: Is that why the soldiers are staring at me that way? She looked back at the table again. Another furtive glance towards her. Another comment and the chuckle that moved around the table.

  Yes, she decided reluctantly. That’s what they were doing. Sizing her
up.

  She brushed at the jeans she wore, wishing mightily she had chosen to wear sackcloth for the journey. The jeans and tee shirt had felt perfectly respectable in Montana—the low rise waist-band that sat around her hips was far more conservative than the pants some of her students wore.

  But now she was uncomfortably conscious of the band of flesh that sometimes appeared between her tee-shirt and the jeans, and that the tee-shirt, even though it remained her favorite, fit a little snugly from too many washings.

  She turned back to the tiny window with the bars, willing to watch the endless carousing on the street for hours if it meant she didn’t have to look at the soldiers around the table. She didn’t know anything about Latin American countries except what she had read in books, but she knew in her gut that watching the soldiers would be inviting trouble.

  How the hell was she going to get out of this mess? They certainly hadn’t offered her a phone call before they’d thrown her in here and she hadn’t seen a single sheet of paperwork. Would anyone—Minnie, Uncle Josh—know she was even here? Surely some sort of alarm must have gone up when she didn’t show up on schedule. With the festival in full swing would they be able to trace her movements?

  For a long while she watched the dancing and merriment down below. The heart of the festival appeared to be in the square itself. The hundreds of people down there appeared to be ready to party all night.

  At least she would have something to look at while she idled her night away here. She certainly wouldn’t be sleeping.

  He entered the room so quietly that at first she didn’t notice him. It must have caught the soldiers off guard, too, for the first hint she got was an overly loud “Atención!” followed by the sound of men scrambling to their feet, knocking over their stools in their haste. There were strained grunts of effort and an alarmed cry sounded.

  She turned, alert.

  He wasn’t in uniform. He didn’t even look Latino. He had dark red hair and midnight blue eyes, with the pale skin that went with that coloring. He looked more Irish than her great-grandmother, who came from county Kildare.

  American? she wondered. Help, at last?

  But no, the soldiers all stood rigid, waiting. The sergeant, the big soldier in the corner, now stood with his hand locked into a salute, quivering with perfect attention. The woman next to him leisurely pulled her blouse into place.

  The man looked about the room, sizing the men up. What had the soldiers called him? Calli recalled the hurried words and tried to translate the little she had heard. It had sounded, amongst the gibberish of mongrel Spanish, like the name “Roger” had been spoken.

  He looked at the woman and gave a little shake of his head. “Rosali....” and he spoke to her.

  She gave a shrug and a smile and moved slowly to the door behind the man. He patted her shoulder as she went. She shut the door behind her while the man looked around again.

  Not one of the soldiers had moved an inch. He spoke a quiet word and they relaxed, but none of them sat down again.

  He spoke to the sergeant then, in the same quiet, understated way. He didn’t use his hands, either. In this land of flamboyant gestures and uninhibited volume, he was icily contained, controlled. His hands stayed relaxed at the sides of his dark, modern suit.

  The sergeant rattled off a stream of words. Explanations, she realized.

  They had been royally busted. So who was this guy?

  When the sergeant had run out of words and fallen silent, the man studied him for a thought-filled moment. Then he spoke a few words.

  The sergeant quailed and nodded eagerly. He spoke to the other men, who scurried to clear the table and go about their business.

  The man in the dark suit turned then, finally, to look at Calli for the first time.

  It felt like being pinned down by lasers. His direct gaze, the unflinching eyes, locked onto her face. The blue seemed almost black when he stared at her directly that way, as if a trick of the light made them appear that dark indigo blue only when reflected correctly.

  He slid a hand into his pants pocket. “You have been in the country for less than five hours, Miss Munro, and already you are in trouble. It does not augur well for the remainder of your stay here, does it?”

  His English was flawless. His voice had a gravelly quality that reached out and caressed the back of her neck. Calli shivered.

  “It’s not my fault I’m here. There were three of them and I kept saying no.”

  He considered this. “Then you very forcefully backed up your ‘no’ by breaking one nose and leaving various cuts and bruises for them to remember you by.”

  “How many times do I have to say no before it sticks?” she asked, trying to keep her voice sweet and reasonable.

  Again she got the thoughtful silence. “This is not Montana, Miss Munro. This is Vistaria, in Latin America, during the Luna festival. Americans here are treated with suspicion and prejudice. You should make allowances.”

  “Like they did for me?” she asked, appalled to realize her voice was rising. What allowances had the men who had come up to her tonight made? They had appeared out of a dark side street as she had been making her way toward lights and civilization and scared her silly. They had been in the mood to have some fun and now she thought about it, she recalled that “Americana” had dotted their talk as they had surrounded her, laughing and pushing playfully. She had shaken her head, repeated “no” a few times while trying to slip out of their little circle. When one hand had briefly cupped her buttock, she had reacted. Three years of karate had paid off...sort of.

  But the man did not appear to agree with her point of view.

  “You are a visitor, Miss Munro. Things are different here. You cannot demand the same rights that you are used to in the States.”

  “You’re not American,” she judged.

  He seemed a little amused at that one, for his mouth curled up at one corner. Just a little. “No, I’m not American.”

  “Don’t I at least get a phone call?” she asked.

  He once again appeared to consider her request seriously, carefully. He took a step or two closer to the cage. Calli already stood close to the bars and his paces brought him much too close to her for comfort. She didn’t like to have to tilt her head up to look someone in the eyes. But she held her ground, unwilling to show him by stepping backwards just how much he had disturbed her.

  His gaze dropped to the ground. He spoke barely above a whisper, but each word reached her with crystal clarity.

  “Miss Munro, you are an American and your nationality is declared by your hair, your skin, your very demeanor. You come to my country dressed in provocative clothes, during the festival when inhibitions are loosened and complain when you are subjected to unwanted attention.”

  She pushed at stray locks of hair that had fallen around her face, suddenly conscious of their golden wheat color and their wild disarray. Somewhere along the way they had escaped the long braid she normally wore. “I didn’t go looking for trouble,” she said, in the same whisper. The whisper seemed appropriate.

  “I know.”

  “Then—?”

  “You have to understand this country, Miss Munro, if you are to have a peaceful stay here. Americans are not loved. They are looked upon with suspicion and dread and you have been subject to some of the prejudice that fear engenders. You would do better to spend your time here being as insignificant as possible. The political situation in Vistaria verges on explosive. We have guerillas in the mountains just waiting for an excuse to swoop down on the capital and an incident would be all the excuse they would need.”

  She licked her lips. “You mean rebels, don’t you? They are rebels in the mountains.”

  He smiled a little and looked at her with that same direct glance. “Touché, Miss Munro. You have revealed my own prejudice.” The smile was deprecating, with a touch of wry humor. It reminded her that he was only a man, after all. A man with weaknesses...and passions.

  He st
ood much too close, she decided. Despite the bars barely two feet separated them, she could almost feel the heat of him washing against her. A masculine, strong scent curled around her, evoking a sense memory of being wrapped in a man’s arms, his warm long body against hers. A picture flashed into her mind—firm flesh, heat, moisture, the caress of a hand along her bare hip.

  The man stared at her through the bars of the cage, not moving, his gaze as fixed as a hunter’s.

  The pit of her stomach rolled over slowly and the old familiar ache awoke.

  “Do you know me?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “Yes.” The answer was low, a verbal caress as beguiling as his scent.

  Her heart gave a little leap and thudded hard against her chest. “I mean...” She cleared her throat a little. “You know my name.”

  “I know all about you, Miss Callida Munro.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket. Her passport was in it. He pushed it through the bars towards her. “Take this. Keep it safe. Keep it on you. In a while, after I’m gone, you will be released. Your uncle, Joshua Benning, will be waiting for you downstairs.”

  She took the passport with a small sigh of relief and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans. It was warm. Hot from his body heat.

  His hand had returned to the pocket.

  “Do you have anything else of mine in there?” she asked, nodding towards his pocket.

  “Should I have?” He seemed surprised.

  “They took my handbag, my luggage....”

  “They?”

  “The soldiers. The police. The men who arrested me.”

  “This country is run under a military junta,” he said politely, as if he informed her of the weather.

  “I’m sorry. I’m woefully ignorant of your country and I feel like I’m insulting you.”