by Kim Karr
This is the feeling I’m seeking. The adrenaline. The high. The thrill. The one that reminds me I’m flesh and bones, and not a lifeless object. “After I shower, I’d like to get some breakfast,” I tell him over the whirl of the razor.
Switching the razor off, he turns toward me. I do my best to ignore the tiny droplets of water clinging to his rock-hard abs and the prominent veins in his arms that are sexy as hell. With mirth glittering in his eyes and the sexual tension rolling off him in waves, he says, “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Both determined to stand our ground, we hold each other’s stare. I can’t help it, though when my eyes drift down, down, down. I have to remind myself to keep my mouth closed and not allow it to hang open in the O I know it is forming when it lands on a certain something more than evident through his towel.
Forcing my gaze back up, I meet his once again, and for a moment I forget we don’t really know each other. That watching him shave isn’t really appropriate, that the tingling between my thighs should not be there. “Suggesting,” I concede.
Caleb’s lips twitch and then a low huff of laughter escapes his throat as he shakes his head. “That works for me,” he murmurs, his tone actually soft for once.
Feeling triumphant, I struggle not to smile. Enrique set this up. I’m not doing anything wrong by looking at what he put in front of me. With that in mind, I spin around and walk back to my room.
Meeting in the middle wasn’t so hard . . . but he was.
Chapter 18
Work
Caleb
I BOUNCE THE SUV down the rocky path to the piece of farmland I brought her to yesterday.
There’s a blacked-out Lexus parked alongside the barn and immediately my senses go on high alert. Pulling in front of the broken-down shack, I jam the car into park and jerk my head in her direction. “I’m going inside with you.”
If she had fangs, they’d be showing. “No, you’re not. There’s no way this guy will talk freely if he thinks I brought muscle along with me.”
“Be reasonable, Gemma. This could be a set up. If you have to, tell him I’m your referee from The Powers of the Higher Mind.”
Those chocolate-brown eyes that sometimes swirl with amber, but most of the time appear dead and lifeless, glitter with mirth. “You mean my life coach, and that will never work.”
“Why not?”
“Because, first of all, I don’t have one, Enrique does, and you look nothing like Lamar Trentworth. And second, this guy probably has no idea what The Powers of the Mind is.”
If he knows anything about Enrique Cruz, he knows about the cult-like uppity society he’s a part of, I think, but keep it to myself. “Well, come up with something that works because I’m going in with you or you’re not going in at all.” I practically growl at her to get my point across.
“Fine,” she tsks. “You can act as my business partner, but keep your mouth shut because you know nothing about art.”
Not that she’s wrong, but really, what the fuck?
Fighting to keep my temper in check and my poker face intact, I push my door open. “So, is this really about art?”
She opens her own door. “Yes, it is. A number of pieces that until recently weren’t exactly for sale.”
I lean into the vehicle and glare at her. “And by that I assume you mean they are stolen?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, I prefer not to know the details.”
“So you’re just here to secure them, regardless of how they were obtained?”
She raises a brow. “What are you, a boy scout all of a sudden?”
“Fuck no,” I tell her. “Just trying to assess the situation we’re about to walk into.”
“Maybe you should stay in the car?”
“Not happening.”
“You know, sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me who you really are.”
“Not the time or the place, sweetheart.” With that, I slam my door and march toward the rickety old porch.
In tight jeans and a black tank top with her Converse and Jimmy Choo sunglasses perched on top of her head, she somehow beats me. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I stride up beside her. She glances at me, and then pauses before ringing the doorbell. “You should probably know a little about the artist if we’re going to pull this off.”
I dip my chin and raise my eyes. “His name would be a great start.”
“It’s Andrés Baisden and he lives, or used to live, in Mexico City with his wife. He has dozens of pieces but his early paintings are worth the most. They revolve around repeated themes and techniques that incorporate real people into real life.”
I shake my head, absorbing the info. “You mean like a policeman or fireman?”
Her brows furrow. “Not exactly. Women mostly. Dancing. Singing. Cooking. Cleaning. Men plowing fields.”
“And that’s art?”
There’s no bell, so she pounds on the door. “Forget it. It’s probably best if you keep your mouth shut. Let’s just get this over with so we can head back to San Diego.”
What she doesn’t say is so she can go back to him, and the very thought has me wanting to end him any way I can.
Legal or not.
Chapter 19
Walk It Talk It
Gemma
THE DOOR OPENS with a creak and a tall, thin guy with gray hair wipes his mouth on a paper napkin before stuffing it in his pocket.
The man looks to be in his late fifties. He’s wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. Tan Dockers. Leather sandals. And he’s very tan.
Neat.
Clean.
Kempt.
Nothing like I expected.
“Welcome to the desert, Gemma,” he greets and then his eyes shift to Caleb before darting back to mine. “I was told you were alone.”
I can hear Spanish in his voice, but it isn't overwhelming. A slight accent covered by way of time spent in the United States.
I extend my hand. “Mr. Bermudez, nice to meet you. This is Caleb, my associate. I probably should have mentioned him to your wife when I was here yesterday. I’m sorry for the confusion.”
He does not accept my hand at first. “Is he here for your protection? Because if so, I want to reassure you protection is not needed.”
“Perhaps not here,” I offer, speaking honestly.
A few more moments pass, and then he takes my hand. “I understand,” he says, and then he offers his hand to Caleb. “It’s fine. And you may both call me Matías. Come in.”
He steps back and Caleb steps in front of me, assessing the surroundings before placing his hand on my back and guiding me in.
I hate that I shiver under his touch. That I can’t control my body’s reaction to him. It’s a weakness I have to try harder to hide.
As soon as I cross the threshold, I can smell bacon, eggs, and coffee. I glance around. The place isn’t exactly homey. It’s modestly furnished and fairly clean. On the table is a plate. One plate. Not two.
I can hear Family Feud in the distance.
Through the doorway to the living room I can see the American woman sitting on the couch with a look of excitement on her face, but she isn’t watching the television. She’s chopping cocaine into lines on a silver plate and using a platinum card to do so.
Is she like me?
Owned?
Is this how I’ll end up? Serving Enrique his breakfast so I can snort cocaine through a cut-down drinking straw?
“Have a seat.” Matías points to the table.
Caleb sits facing the door and I sit beside him. This is the first time I feel like he’s here for me, like he cares about what happens to me, and the thought makes me nervous. I don’t want anyone to care about me. It only confuses things and makes my life more complicated.
I can’t do complicated.
Matías takes his spot in front of his breakfast and lifts his fork. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
He’s n
ot hospitable in the least. There’s no offer for coffee, which means I’m to cut to the chase. “As I told your wife, Mr. Cruz wants to purchase the remaining pieces in the Andrés Baisden collection.”
The man frowns. “Sally only mentioned Mr. Cruz was interested in making a purchase. What he wished to purchase wasn’t mentioned. I’m sorry you wasted your time, but those pieces aren’t for sale.”
I cock my head sideways, unsure if he’s telling the truth or flat-out lying. “Mr. Cruz has been told otherwise.”
After chewing a bite of eggs, he deadpans, “Well then, he’s been misinformed. 20th-century Mexican art is hard to come by these days. There aren’t very many pieces commissioned by the post-Mexican Revolution government that go on the free market.”
Caleb makes a noise, and I shoot him a glare before sitting straighter. “Yes, I’m aware of this, which is why these pieces are so special.”
Matías raises his coffee mug to his lips. “Indeed. So I’m sure you must know that if they were indeed for sale, the pieces would come with a very high price tag.”
There’s a noise beside me. It’s Caleb blowing out a frustrated breath. “Look man, do you have the pieces in your possession or not?”
The dealer sets his cup down. “Yes, I do, but as I said, they aren’t for sale.”
Caleb opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head at him, warning him to shut-up, and surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything else.
“Mr. Cruz is willing to pay twice the market price for them,” I say.
The man shakes his head. “Tell Mr. Cruz I appreciate his generosity, but like I said, they aren’t for sale.”
The buzzer from the game show dings and when I look into the living room, the American woman is no longer sitting on the couch and the silver plate is completely empty. “Three times the market value,” I add.
He shakes his head.
I look around. The modest surroundings tell me this man makes enough to keep up with his wife’s drug habit and his own predilection for fine things, but not much more. “Ten times over market,” I tell him.
His brows rise in surprise. “You must be joking.”
I shake my head no.
“Ten million dollars for four pieces? That’s crazy.”
“No, Matías, that’s an offer you can’t resist,” I smirk.
He stands and offers me his palm. “Tell Mr. Cruz he has a deal. As soon as the money hits my account, I will have the paintings delivered.”
I shake my head once again. “I’m sorry, Matías, but I must insist on seeing the works, and then once I arrange payment, I want to take them with me.”
At first, he hesitates. “It isn’t safe.”
I glance at Caleb. “I’m not alone.”
Caleb stands with all his strength and brawn. “I’ll make sure they arrive without a scratch.”
Matías stares at Caleb for a long while.
Caleb’s expression is fierce, hard even. The brutality in him showing in his green eyes in a way I haven’t seen before.
“Yes, of course, follow me,” Matías finally says.
As I suspected, the pieces were in the climate-controlled barn. I never saw Sally again before we left. I suspect she was resting up for her next hit. I doubted she loved Matías, but I believe he truly loved her.
Perhaps Enrique wasn’t wrong—everything can be bought at the right price.
I look at Caleb and wonder if money can buy his silence or if he’s more like me—out for something money can’t buy.
Like vengeance.
Only time will tell, and we don’t have much of it.
Tick. Tock.
Chapter 20
Leave a Light On
Caleb
THE FBI FIELD Manual clearly states that if an operative is aware of illegal activity taking place, he must immediately make contact with base.
Screw the book.
It wasn’t written for situations like this. I’m an undercover agent, and my cover is everything. Making contact now, over something as trifle as stolen art, could compromise the entire operation and get me nowhere.
So I don’t.
Gemma and I spend the day in the motel room. Waiting. I want to ask her what she remembers from that night so long ago, but I never do.
Why open that can of worms?
Right?
I want to ask her what she sees in a guy like Enrique.
I don’t.
I want to ask her a lot.
I never do.
Instead, I do nothing but stare.
The place is quiet. A little too quiet, but I can’t find anything out of the ordinary to worry about. So, I stare out the open window, stealing glances of Gemma as she fans herself with a magazine. Stealing glances of a woman I don’t understand but want to. Stealing glances of a woman who isn’t mine.
It’s nearly seven p.m. by the time Bermudez calls to notify Gemma the wire was successful and the pieces are ready for pickup.
The drive to the farm was uneventful, and the pickup went off without issue.
Winding our way back to the motel with the ten million in art secured in the trunk, I find it odd to see a few local fishermen leaning against a dented truck bed with a pile of plastic-coated burlap bags this late at night but again, nothing that far out of the ordinary to warrant suspicion.
It’s still light and there is still traffic on the road and there are still people who need dinner.
Stop overthinking everything, I tell myself.
But I can’t.
I glance over at the passenger seat. “I’m thinking we grab our stuff and head back tonight,” I tell Gemma, unable to stop that uneasy feeling coursing through me.
“That’s not a good idea.”
“And why is that?”
“To begin with, I’m tired and need some sleep.”
“You can sleep while I drive,” I bite out, irritated that she can never go with the flow.
Never just do things my way.
I hate to admit, it turns me on, because it absolutely should not.
“And besides, it’s nearly dark and there’s no way you’ll be able to judge the condition of the road when you can’t see it,” she adds.
Just then I swerve to avoid a huge pothole and I have to admit to myself that she’s right. Ruts, rocks, cliffs, even the wind, are all road impediments out here, and none of them are visible in the dark.
“See what I mean?”
“Fine, but we are leaving as soon as the sun rises.”
“Whatever,” she tsks. “You do realize that no one knows we have these pieces. You have nothing to worry about.”
I sigh.
Famous last words.
Chapter 21
No Tears Left to Cry
Gemma
THE HEAT IS too much to stand.
Even with the window open and the ceiling fan oscillating on high, there is no reprieve.
In an attempt to cool myself down, I head to my bathroom and soak a washcloth with cold water. Bending forward, I draw my hair over one shoulder and place the cloth on the nape of my neck. Rivulets of water drip down my back, but it doesn’t help.
It’s close to midnight and I can’t sleep.
Caleb and I go back to San Diego tomorrow, and I go back to being the bird in a cage. This small amount of freedom has been like a long-needed vacation, and the end can’t come fast enough.
I swipe the cloth down my throat and over my collarbone, soaking the fabric of my thin ribbed tank top. It doesn’t help.
It’s probably cooler outside than it is in here.
Caleb forbade me to open my window, but I had to. I needed the air. I understand the need to be safe. However, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and as I said, no one knows we’re here.
For once, I’m actually not on edge.
Tossing the cloth aside, I shut off the bathroom light and step into my bedroom. Just as I do, a shadow casts over the moonlight shining on the floor and before I can scream, a palm clap
s over my mouth, muffling my shriek.
I’m spun face-first into the wall. Feeling off-balance, I try to twist my head to peer over my shoulder, but it’s too dark to see anything.
He moves quickly, gagging me with something that feels lacey and then he quickly takes my hands and ties them behind my back with a soft fabric that I recognize as satin.
He’s been through my things.
He’s using my undergarments.
Panic erupts through my body.
I try to mule kick him, but he’s too fast and wedges one leg between my thighs before I can. “Mamma, it looks like we meet again. This time though, you aren’t getting away so easily.”
The two men from the pawnshop must have followed us. This is the younger one.
Where’s the other one?
Planning on attacking Caleb?
I have to warn him.
Using my head, I pound it into the wall, trying to make noise.
The man laughs. “It’s no use, ma'am, your hero will be dead in a matter of moments. Don’t worry, I’ll let you see him before I kill you.”
Fear is an emotion I can’t suppress.
I hear noise from the other room and know I’m too late to warn Caleb. Sorrow fills me at the knowledge.
Trapped between this man’s body and the wall, I consider my options, but before I can do anything, he hauls me backward and throws me on the bed.
Licking his lips, he tears my panties from my body and my heart stops. Time is running out. I have to do something. I have to think fast.
“We missed out on all the fun last time. I’m not letting that happen again,” he breathes.
Ice-cold fear shivers up my spine.
In any other position, I’d have leverage. But like this, I have none. He’s on top of me, securing my legs with his own, and my hands are behind my back. When he yanks at his zipper, I try helplessly to escape his hold.
“This is going to be fun,” he taunts. “I like a wild one.”
Tears leak from my eyes. I haven’t truly cried in a very long time, but I’m crying now.
For the violence.