Shifting her lower beneath the covers, he whispered under the veil, “Is this person safe from La Rocha?”
In the dark, her inhale shuddered, and a sheen of distress wet her eyes. “No.”
Fuck. “Where is she?” He could’ve kept his whisper flat, but his anger got away from him.
She heard it, blinking rapidly, and seemed uncertain how to respond.
He needed to explain away his concern, but this girl was too smart. Too perceptive. And maybe, seeing someone pissed in her defense was exactly the kind of thing that would penetrate her shields.
So he remained quiet, watching, waiting to see what she would do next.
It took a year and a day before she reached for him. Tentative fingers crept over his jaw and pulled back when she felt the rigidness there. He tried to relax, loosening the tension in his face.
Inching closer, she touched him again. His neck this time, her warm hand sliding to the hairline on his nape. Her eyes didn’t waver from his until she set her mouth against his cheek and breathed in and out, deeply, slowly.
She was testing him. Or testing herself. How long could she hold him like this before he flipped her over and fucked her? If he didn’t do what she expected, could she trust him enough to finish the conversation?
Maybe she wasn’t thinking any of this. She could be lying to him, manipulating him. Working for the cartel. His intuition disagreed, but he couldn’t do this job on gut instinct and emotion. There was too much at stake.
Her fingers twitched against his nape, almost caressing as if seeking the contact. Then she leaned back just enough to search his eyes. Her lips parted to speak, but her voice hid in her throat.
“Tell me.” He kept his expression unreadable and his gaze attentive.
“La Rocha…” She swallowed, her voice barely audible. “They took my mother. She’s a successful actress. Well-known and well-connected.”
“Who is she? Give me her name.”
She clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and head shaking side to side. “Don’t. Not that. I’ll shed every drop of blood in my body before I tell you.” She glanced up around the fold of covers, her gaze on the ceiling. “They might kill me anyway.”
Not on his watch.
He touched her chin, drawing her face back under the sheets. Then he guided her hand to his neck. “Is your mother connected to someone dangerous?”
“Lots of someones.” Her lashes lowered, and her fingers fell away. “I think I can sleep now.”
He missed the warmth of her touch instantly. When she rolled and gave him her back, he missed the feel of her body against his. But he allowed her some space to get comfortable.
Shutting off the TV, he blanketed them in a dark hush and waited.
Soon her breathing slowed into the even rhythm of slumber.
Slowly, careful not to wake her, he curled around her tiny frame, with her back to his front and his arm locked around her like an anchor.
Her chest rose and fell with a shuddering inhale before returning to a soporific tempo. She felt so fragile in his embrace, so sweet and sexy. He couldn’t stop himself from kissing the bare top of a graceful shoulder.
Breathing in the scent of her skin, he ordered his mind to shut off. But he couldn’t sleep.
Minutes blurred into hours, and he lay entwined with a stolen girl while thinking about another one.
Blonde hair. Glassy eyes. Strangling beneath his hand. Squirming. Dying. Unable to gasp. Everything inside him wrangled and twisted anew.
From this night forward, a nameless dead girl would be the only thought he took with him into the hinterland of sleep. She would forever haunt his dreams, breed his nightmares, and admonish him of the decision he’d made.
He would never forget.
She’d been watching him sleep for an hour. Long enough for the first light of dawn to form a glaring halo behind the curtains. His arm lay heavily around her, holding her against his hard chest. It felt horrible.
Horribly safe.
No, not safe. His strange behavior and little mercies were an illusion. A trap. This man had an agenda, one that didn’t include protecting her. Certainly not from himself.
With her face inches from his, she must’ve turned toward him during the night. Toward him. Why would she do that? Even unconscious, she knew better.
Why the fuck was she still in bed with him?
At any point, she could’ve lifted his arm and crept away. For a vigilant, calculating predator, he slept like the dead.
His hair, thick and tousled, glimmered differently in the morning. Metallic lowlights of ruby and brown threaded with strands of copper, creating a tapestry of red hues.
Not a single tattoo on his smooth fair skin, a body hardened to steel, and cold sharp eyes of emerald intelligence, which hadn’t cracked open yet.
Blondish-red fuzz roughened his chest and forearms, just a little. Just enough to remind her of his masculinity.
She didn’t need the reminder.
Last night was seared forever in her memory. The suction of his mouth between her legs. The deep rumble of his American accent in her ear. The taste of his whiskey breath that still lingered on her lips.
I need to get out of here.
Holding in her next inhale, she made her escape. Out from beneath his arm, down to the floor, she crouched low, waiting.
He didn’t stir.
Her muscles protested every movement, stiff and sore, but remarkably better than last night. She scrunched her face, testing other injuries. No swelling that she could tell. No hunger pangs, either. That was a novelty.
His luggage lay open behind her. From the large case, she carefully removed a button-up shirt. No reason to snoop through his belongings. The cartel would’ve already searched it and removed anything useful.
Backing away on tiptoes, she closed the buttons on the shirt and slipped into the main room. The door to the other bedroom stood open, giving her a view of Tomas’ bed.
The sheets lay crumpled on the empty mattress. No sounds came from the bathroom. The bodyguard wasn’t here. Perfect.
She hurried on silent feet toward the exit. By the time she gripped the door handle, her heart had clawed its way to her throat.
I’m not running.
That would be against his rules. She just needed… What? Clothes. Coffee. A morning walk. Space.
With her defense prepared, she swung open the door and gasped.
Brown hair, crooked nose, steroid-induced torso, and eyes as black as night. Hateful eyes, burning with manic rage.
“Alejandro.” She sucked down her panic and faced him with her chin raised. “What are you doing here?”
He’d been gone for several weeks, which meant he’d just delivered a new batch of trafficked girls. And not only to this property. The youngest La Rocha brother sold slaves all over California and elsewhere.
“Imagine my disappointment,” he said in scathing Spanish, “when I arrived this morning to discover that my whore was whoring for someone else.”
“Marco allowed—”
“I don’t give a fuck!” His hand shot toward her neck.
She ducked, slammed against the door in her attempt to escape, and tried to flee into the breezeway. He reached for her again, and she threw herself forward, knowing there was no way she’d make it past him.
Except he didn’t stop her.
Glancing back was a mistake. She should’ve kept running. Eyes forward. Always straight ahead. But stupidity swung her gaze around and slowed her steps.