If John was connected to the Colombian cartel, he had the means to gather a militia. But he didn’t know where to send them.
It all came down to the location of the compound.
She couldn’t help him with that, but she could tell him what she saw on the other side of the wall. Maybe it was nothing.
What if it was everything?
The thought slingshot her heart into the garage rafters. She jackknifed up, shoving the journal beneath the seat on her way out of the car.
She wouldn’t be naive, but being stubborn was just as bad. She could help him figure out the location without giving him her name. If his plan went south, or worse, if he betrayed her, her family would still have anonymity.
Decision made, she turned toward the door. But before she stepped into view of it, it creaked open.
She froze, her senses amplified as a single set of footsteps crunched across the dirt floor.
Heart thudding in her ears, she rounded the shelving unit and came face to face with Miguel La Rocha.
“Ven aquí, mi pequeño zorro.” He smoothed a hand down his tie, his Spanish a silken caress. “Are you hiding from me?”
“No. But had I known you were back, then yes, you bet your ugly ass I would’ve hidden somewhere you couldn’t find me.” She sidestepped, veering toward the door.
“Careful.” Graceful and deadly, he moved with her, blocking her escape. “I’m not in the mood today.”
“You’re never in the mood, pachuco.”
His lip curled with distaste. “Watch your mouth, or I’ll find a better use for it.”
A sting of fear knifed through her. “You didn’t come here for a blowjob.”
He would never force her to do that particular act. He knew better. But there were worse ways to hurt her.
“No.” He stalked toward her, dressed in a black suit, shiny shoes, and hair slicked back like he’d just stepped out of a salon. “Quiero tu coño.”
“Nope. No sex.” She eyed the door with longing as her insides tumbled through shards of ice. “Marco sold me to one of the guests.”
“Ah, si. He loaned you to John Smith. You still belong to us.”
She flexed her hands. If she didn’t make a break for it, Miguel would rape her. His intent smoldered in his eyes and filled her stomach with lead.
“Mr. Smith doesn’t share.” She inched toward the exit, her pulse careening into the red. “I don’t want to get in the middle of that, so I’ll just go find him and let you—”
“I saw him.” His mouth spread into a grin—the one she despised, for it promised a world of hurt. “I didn’t get an opportunity to talk to him. Not with his tongue shoved down my sister’s throat and his hands up her dress. They could hardly remain upright as they stumbled and groped like animals into her room.”
No.
No, John wouldn’t do that.
Except he’d told her that was precisely what he would do.
Agony like nothing she’d ever felt seared through her chest and wrenched a horrible sound from her throat. She rubbed a hand over her mouth, trying to conceal the shameful reaction. She didn’t have feelings for that man. She couldn’t. She fucking wouldn’t.
But her damn heart took a detour around logic and self-preservation and attacked her with everything it had. She couldn’t breathe against the onslaught. It hurt too badly—the pounding, caving, internal pressure. She gripped her throat, her chest, and raced for the door.
“What’s wrong?” Miguel was on her in a flash, an arm locked around her waist and a fist in her hair. Then he slammed her back against the wall. “You like this John Smith?”
He drew a featherlight finger down her temple, tracing the creases of her fractured expression, his gaze sharp and observant, seeing too much.
“You know how I feel about your sister.” She gnashed her teeth, bucking uselessly in his grip. “You also know how competitive I am with her. If she’s moving in on my turf, I’m going to fucking defend it!”
“Oh, sí, lo sé.” He flipped his hand over, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, making her shudder. “You were possessive of me once.”
“Until I saw the size of your dick.” She held up her pinkie finger and wriggled it. Delusional pervert.
His expression clouded over, and the cords of his neck strained beneath his collar. She knew the strike was coming before he reared back his hand.
Hard knuckles collided with her jaw, and she deliberately fell to the dirt floor. Pain ricocheted through her face, bringing tears to her eyes. But it was better than the alternative.
Miguel abused her either through sex or violence. Never both at the same time. She’d baited him and taken the hit because she couldn’t endure his rutting. Not after John.
John, who was currently fucking that bitch.
Her insides bled venom, and her vision tunneled in blinding rage. She had to go to him. She needed to see for herself.
Not once had she thought he would choose her over his mission. But had every touch, every look, every intimate whisper they’d shared been just a task for him? A means to gather information? Had he felt even a fraction of the beautiful chaos she felt when they were together?
Or was she just a stupid girl who continued to let herself be fooled by assholes?
“Are you finished?” She tipped her head up at Asshole Numero Uno. “Or do you want to hit me a few more times while I’m down?”
He scoffed and shook out his hand. “Not worth my time.”
That much was true. He could beat or fuck anyone he wanted. He didn’t care about her or his sister or any other woman in this god-forbidden place. He was motivated by money, plain and simple.
As he glowered down at her, she thought he might kick her for good measure. But instead, he adjusted his tie, brushed off his suit, and strolled out the door.
It shut behind him, and she let out a stream of shaky air. Then she ran back to the old car, where she kept a few medical supplies just for these encounters and cleaned the blood from her face.
Everything hurt. Not from the punch of Miguel’s hand, but from his words. From the images they evoked.
John with another woman.
She wanted his kisses to herself. She wanted his affection, his honesty, his story, good or bad. She wanted a shot with him because he was the first man in her life that made her feel significant.
She didn’t need anyone to validate her worth, but it was really something to spend time with someone who treated her like an equal.
He’d bought her, and not once had he made her feel like a whore.
Maybe he was just really good at deception.
Stowing the medical supplies, she made her way to the estate. She knew where to find him, her steady strides carrying her to a part of the compound she’d avoided since arriving.
When she reached the breezeway to those lavish private quarters, she stopped. Glared at the door. And waited.
If John was in there, he wasn’t having goddamn tea. If he wasn’t in there, he was resourceful enough to find her.
Minutes passed. Hours. Years. She waited long enough to lower to the floor and take the weight off her feet. Then she waited some more.
At last, the door handle jiggled. The door opened, and she rose, standing twenty paces away with a vise around her chest.