Midnight Touch
IF WORD GETS out, I'm a dead man.
Alejandro Torres looked furtively behind him to make sure he wasn't spotted; then ducked into the backroom of After Hours. A real man wouldn't live this way, slipping into the darkness, blending with the shadows, unable to reveal to anyone what he did for a living.
He told himself that CIA operatives were in the same boat, but unfortunately there was one key difference: ops guys carried concealed weapons and cool gadgets. Alejandro carried a concealed pumice stone and very uncool purple foam toe separators.
CIA agents — in theory — sought to protect truth, justice and the American way. Alejandro sought to protect his machismo: keep his cojones from shriveling to the size of peas and dropping off into the dust.
His code name was Señor Manos. Not quite 007, but then, this wasn't MI6 — After Hours was an upscale salon and day spa in Coral Gables, one of the ritzier sections of Miami.
It was way too hot for a cloak, and he'd never needed a dagger yet, but the secrecy was urgent. Alejandro shuddered. If any of his buddies on the soccer team found ... read full excerpt from: Midnight Touch ebook
