by Kim Karr
For Caleb.
For the free will this no-good man is taking from me.
For the fallout of this heinous night. Not only will I lose the paintings, but if Enrique discovers this man has violated me, made me impure, he’ll send me packing.
That is if I live through this.
The noise in the other room fades away and I fear what that means. I squirm and wiggle to free myself, to try to help Caleb, to help myself, but get nowhere.
When my assailant reaches for his cock, I know this is it.
Oh God.
Cold settles into my bones. I shouldn’t have left the window open. Caleb told me not to.
This is my fault.
When he positions himself above me, I close my eyes. Suddenly, I hear a crack and a scream, and it isn’t my scream. My eyes snap open just as the body of my assailant falls to the ground with a thud.
I can’t figure out what is happening.
It’s too dark.
Frozen in place, I’m trembling so much, I can’t move. And then large calloused palms raise me to a sitting position. “Gemma, are you okay?” It’s Caleb, and his voice is manic.
Lips and chin quivering, I stare at him as relief rushes through me.
His hands settle on my shoulders in a caring, tender way. “Tell me you’re okay,” he says in a shaky voice. “Did he hurt you?”
Looking into his green, crazed eyes, I shake my head no. He’s alive. He. Is. Alive. He’s cut and bruised but doesn’t look badly injured.
“We need to get out of here. Now!” Using the rays of moonlight, his skilled fingers are moving, working fervently to free my mouth and then my hands.
Shock overtakes me.
We almost died.
“Come on,” Caleb urges, flipping the light on.
Mere inches from my feet lies a body. Nausea becomes a vicious knot in my stomach.
“Gemma, get your shit together,” Caleb demands.
But I can’t move. I can’t stop staring at the man with the snapped neck lying on the floor.
Memories of my mother laying on the floor, dead, my father laying on the floor, barely breathing, my brother’s betrayal, the necklace stolen . . . they all flood me. I’m shaking so badly, I still can’t move. And then I hear my own sobbing, and I can’t stop myself.
Heavy shoulders and a broad chest pin me to his torso. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. We’re going to get out of here.”
I look up. “I’m sorry,” I manage.
“For what? This isn’t your fault.”
I point to the window. “Yes, it is.”
He gives the open window a quick glance. “No, this was planned. They’d have gotten in one way or another, Gemma. Now come on, we need to get out of here in case anyone heard anything.”
“We’re just going to leave?”
“Yeah, we are. Do you want to end up in a Mexican prison? Because I sure as shit don’t.”
I shake my head no and burrow into the safety of his arms. “Don’t leave me in here alone.”
“I won’t.” Stepping back, he grabs for my jeans laid over a chair and tosses them to me. Without another word, I pull them on and throw all of my things in my bag.
The living room area is a mess. Furniture turned over and broken. On the floor lies the older man, and there’s a knife plunged deep into his chest. Guttural sounds escape from his chest—small, gurgling, choking breaths.
My eyes travel over him, terror-ridden, fixing on the older man’s face. “He’s still alive. What should we do?”
“Leave him. There’s nothing anyone can do to save him.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Gemma. He came here to kill me. Kill you.”
His words are haunting.
“We need to get to the car, Gemma.”
I can’t stop looking at the dying man. “Is . . . is . . . is the knife yours?” I ask with a tremble in my voice.
Caleb grabs my wrist. “It’s his. He tried to cut my throat with it. I took it from him and we struggled. He lost.”
Oh, God, I feel sick. Inhaling slowly, I allow my lungs to fill with air and then force it out.
In a daze, I somehow make it outside. The villa grounds are dark. Not a single light on anywhere. We walk fast. Faster. Caleb’s entire body is tense.
“Something isn’t right,” he mutters.
We pass Villa Uno and I can see the parking lot. It too is dark.
“This had to be a setup.”
My mind scrambles. A setup. Carlos, from the motel? Matías Bermudez, the art dealer? Sally, his wife? Smith? Enrique? Which one would have colluded with the pawnshop men, and why?
When we reach the Range Rover, I know I should be hoping beyond hope that the artwork is still hidden beneath the floor in the cargo holder, but instead I’m thankful to be alive.
The Range Rover hasn’t been broken into, and once we’re safe inside and on the highway, Caleb chances a glance over his shoulder and then over at me. “Nothing looks out of place. They probably assumed we’d bring the pieces inside.”
It was Caleb’s idea to hide them in plain sight. At the time, I thought it was a terrible idea. Now, I’m thankful I didn’t outright object because hauling them across the hotel this late at night could have very well gotten us caught.
“Gemma? Did you hear me?”
I blink. “No, what?”
“Do you want me to pull over and check?”
I shake my head no. Right now I really don’t care about the artwork, the ten million dollars, or Enrique. I’m just thankful to be alive. “You saved my life,” I whisper into the darkness.
“That makes twice,” he says, and it’s the first time he’s openly admitted to being at Enrique’s that night so long ago.
“Tell me who you are?”
He stares straight ahead. “You know who I am.”
“Who you really are?”
Not a sound leaves his lips.
I don’t let up. “What were you doing at Enrique’s that night?”
Nothing but silence.
“Are you working for him or against him?”
Silence.
“Were you there as a test that I failed that night and just don’t know it yet?” I don’t believe this but want to be certain. I doubt Enrique would ever have let me into his life if that were true.
Caleb remains close-lipped.
“At least tell me if it’s safe to be around you?”
He sighs. “I would never hurt you.”
At that, I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.
I believe him.
I don’t have to.
I just do.
It changes nothing, but at the same time, I feel like everything has changed.
Even me.
Chapter 22
In My Blood
Caleb
MEXICO IS THE third-largest country in the world. It covers over seven hundred eighty thousand fucking square miles, and the drive back to San Diego makes me feel like I’m rolling over every damn inch of it.
In the still of the night, I can’t help but think back to the day the world thought all of this shit with Cruz was over. The day I knew it wasn’t. The day I wished so much it could be.
The news is flashing a picture of two men being escorted in cuffs to waiting police cars. Cruz is one of them. The screen alert reads “OPERATION CRACKDOWN COMES TO AN END.”
I focus on the woman reporting the news.
So far, she’s got it right.
Her commentary is as follows, “The last two members of the Cortez Family Cartel from Mexico have been arrested. Along with the bust—methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin were seized in the raid. Vice squad detective, Jason Holt said he estimates to have removed nearly five million dollars of trash from the streets. The almost five-year-long investigation culminated late last night when a long undercover operation targeting the remaining members of the Cortez Family was executed. The Department of Justice said they believe the trafficking org
anization run under this family is now completely shut down. In related news, Josh Hart, believed to be linked to the cartel, was found guilty of aggravated assault and battery and was sentenced to three years in prison.”
The news wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t right, either. The circumstances soon changed, or I changed them, and because of this, the last members of the Cruz Cartel got away with murder—literally.
The 50-kilogram shipment that was intercepted the night Josh Hart was caught after he attacked Dahlia London was only the tip of the iceberg. The thing is, I buried the rest of the information, for my brother, for my nephew.
The evidence Ben had uncovered clearly proved Cruz ordered more than one hundred murders, but I destroyed it. I left the deeds to the houses purchased to store the cocaine in its place, and the houses were empty.
It was like I left a phonebook.
I squeeze the steering wheel tightly. I hid it all. I had to. The routes, the houses, the people, the money trail, but now I’m going to get it back, and more.
And right from the demon’s lair.
From Cruz’s personal computer.
All I have to do is get inside his house. I glance over at Gemma, who is sleeping, and when I think, get inside that house with her help, I hate myself.
I really do.
Chapter 23
Pillow Talk
Gemma
HOME SWEET HOME, it’s not.
Still, I’m thankful to have made it back alive. Sitting on the sofa, I place my palms on my jeans and force a deep breath, inhaling long past the point of calming myself, before exhaling.
Leaning my head back, I allow the cool air of the condominium to swirl against my skin, relishing the almost-forgotten feeling.
I feel different.
Thankful.
Glad to be alive.
Saved in a way I never have.
A thud startles me. I jump to my feet only to discover Caleb has unloaded the entire Range Rover. A day or two’s worth of stubble accentuates his square chin and full lips, and for some reason it makes my heart pound.
“Where do you want the artwork?” Caleb’s voice is smooth and dense, like fine chocolate caramels.
I turn and point. “In my bedroom at the end of the hallway.”
Placing two paintings under each arm, he strides past me. With my body on high alert, a rush of goose bumps coat my arms. In his wake, I find myself staring at his black cargo pants and tight t-shirt, and then without thinking about anything, I’m following him.
In the doorway, I watch the way his muscles flex as he carefully sets the pictures against the wall. The heavy sunlight streaming through the east-facing window envelops his big, strong body like a coat of armor.
My hero.
When he’s done, he slowly turns around and catches my gaze. Like two lightning rods connected by the strongest of currents, we stare at each other in a way we never have.
A yearning that needs to be satisfied.
A point that needs to be sharpened.
An edge that needs to be skated.
His gaze is fierce. Hungry. Wanting.
Color heats my cheeks. I’m blushing. I can’t be blushing. It’s a stupid damsel reaction.
And I’m no damsel.
Taking a step back, I blink away the connection, thinking it will end whatever is happening between us. However, when my eyes meet his again, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he starts stalking toward me. My heart starts to beat like a jackhammer. Each step he takes causes that heat to spread through my body like an inferno.
Torrid.
Hot.
Blistering until my entire body is blushing.
His expression seems to have turned into a mix of broken, angry torment. This is wrong. I should turn and walk away. I should tell him to go, but I don’t. I won’t.
The closer he gets, the more I tremble. It’s not from fear though. Still, I find myself backing against the wall.
“What do you want from me?” he says, stopping only inches away.
“The same thing you want from me,” I answer, my voice nothing more than a breathy whisper.
He rests a hand over my head and lowers his face. “I can’t fight this anymore.”
The warm buzz of being so close to him is intoxicating. “Is it wrong that I don’t want you to?” I question, looking up at him.
There’s nothing but heat radiating between us. Wave after scorching wave of endless sexual tension.
“Tell me, Gemma. What do you see in him?” he murmurs low and rough.
I gasp a breath. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
Caleb inches closer and wedges a knee between my legs. “Tell me, I need to know.”
“Nothing like I see in you.” It’s honest and raw and real.
A strangled sound leaves him on a groan.
“It’s true.”
His rough fingers touch my cheek and he feathers them over my face. “I hate to think about what almost happened last night.”
Last night.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I whisper. The enormity of trying to figure out who wanted me dead is almost larger than the secrets Caleb harbors.
Leaning forward, his jaw tightens and bulges as if he’s trying to hold himself back and in pain because of it. “We need to talk about it,” he grunts, and I can feel his breath.
He’s close.
So close.
So tantalizingly close.
The bottled heat between us is too much. I need to cool down. A small sigh escapes my throat. “After I’ve taken a shower.”
He presses his hard body against mine. Before I have a chance to recall that Caleb is a threat as well, that he trespassed on Enrique’s property and was being hunted, that he tried to capture me at the warehouse without even knowing it was me, he hauls me just inside the bedroom and his hungry mouth crashes down over mine.
Hard.
Heated.
Demanding.
He’s a man taking what he wants, and although I am risking everything, I can’t help but love it, especially when his tongue pushes inward. In the hottest, most sensual way, he glides it over mine.
He isn’t just kissing me—he’s devouring me. In this kiss, there is no Enrique, no world where revenge is all I know, there’s just him and his hard body and soft mouth.
My heart is beating wildly.
His hands glide down my sides to my hips and I melt into him, becoming boneless and wanton. Wanton of him. A man I shouldn’t desire. Shouldn’t want. Shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t let take me. But I can’t live with shouldn’t anymore. I’ve lived with it for far too long.
I’m surprised at the way my legs wobble and shake when his teeth graze over my lips and nip at them. With him, I’m experiencing every sensation like it’s a first.
“I shouldn’t want this,” he says in a desperate, raspy voice.
Shouldn’t.
Shouldn’t.
That word, again.
My hands curl in his shirt and I block it out. Pretend I hear, I want this.
Rage and restraint bleed through his words when he speaks. It's like he’s a live wire. “You belong to someone else,” he breathes, his jaw clenching.
Belong. I despise the word. And yet, I pull back. Even with the space between us, it doesn’t break the teeter of desire we feel. Still, he’s right. I do belong to someone else. Belong. I belong. Yes, I belong to a man I don’t love but rather loathe. And to that man I’m an object. A thing. A possession. A toy, even.
In fact, I should tell Caleb the truth. Tell him that I don’t want the man who keeps me in this glass box.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, to spill the dark truth, I hear the front door open. “Gemma, angel, where are you?”
Fear stops my heart.
Enrique is here. And Caleb is in my bedroom.
Caleb’s gaze is shooting around the room for a way out.
I listen and hear the door close.
He’s closer.
<
br /> Shoving my disappointment to the side, I act quickly and shove Caleb toward the bathroom. “Go in there. Open the window and take the fire escape down. It’s narrow and small, so hold on tight.”
Suspicion seizes his expression. “Why do you have an escape route?”
Fear and determination tremble through my bones. “Just use it.”
His thick throat bobs. “I can’t. He’ll ask where I am,” Caleb hisses, unhappy with my idea.
“I’ll make something up. I’ll tell him I felt sick and sent you out for medicine. Now go. He’ll kill us both if he finds us together.”
“Gemma, angel, where are you?”
“In here,” I answer, trying to steady my voice.
Caleb moves quickly, and he quietly closes the bathroom door. Sucking in a breath, I turn around just as Enrique steps over the threshold to my room and freezes.
Does he know where Caleb is?
Can he smell him?
Sense him?
Oh, God.
Hoping, no praying, he doesn’t, I pat my hair and then smooth my tank top. “Enrique,” I manage, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
His gaze shifts around my room. “I had to come,” he says, his voice so low I can hardly hear him. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”
He knows about last night.
He knows about last night, not Caleb.
Either his expression is truly stricken or he’s a really good actor, like me. With a nod, I avert my gaze but can’t stop the strangled noise that erupts from my throat. This is too much. Everything is too much.
As if he can’t hold back a minute longer, he hurries across the room. Reaching for me, he pulls me into his arms and holds me tight against his chest. “Oh, Gemma, angel, are you certain you are okay?”
The hold he has on me is so tight, I can barely breathe. “I’m fine. Caleb saved me,” I offer willingly.
“Yes, yes, I assumed he did.”
I glance up. “How do you know?”
He pulls my head back and palms my face. “Maria called me directly. Don’t worry, I sent a team down there to clean everything up. There won’t be any loose ends.”
Loose ends.
I’m certain he’ll make sure there aren’t any.
“I was just about to phone you,” I lie.
His gaze is searching. “You should have called me last night.”