Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “But I will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes Myla, I promise, but even that means nothing right now.” His cell rings and he pulls it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. “Per the hotel staffer I have on payroll,” he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, “a couple of Juan’s goons are on their way up here,” Kyle tells me, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

  “Is Juan with them?”

  “No. Juan is not with them but I find it curious that the reason for their visit is less important to hear, than confirmation that Juan isn’t with them.”

  I blanch but recover quickly. “He’s difficult. You’ve seen that. Sometimes, I wish I had a warning bell for that man.”

  “You don’t need a bell. You have me. What did he do to you?”

  Now I need space, and I take a step backwards, hitting the desk. His eyes narrow, understanding in their depths that tell me, I’ve shown my hand. “What about the last sixty seconds made you want to run?

  “I wasn’t running. I just…he’s….” He arches a brow. “He makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “What?”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “Why are we talking about Juan?”

  “That’s a fucking “yes”. Did you tell Alvarez?”

  “I didn’t say he-”

  “We both know he did. Did you tell Alvarez?”

  “Juan said that if I did, he’d make it look like it was all me and he’s Michael’s half-brother and-”

  “Wait. Juan’s his half-brother?”

  “Yes and Michael trusts him like he trusts no one else, me included, obviously. Is this where you ask me-”

  “No. I’m not going to ask. Juan wants your fear and that is exactly what I see it in your eyes. Alvarez sees it too, and he knows he’ll never truly own you, as long as it exists. Be glad I took out the cameras. It would have shown even more on the film.”

  “It’s what doesn’t show that I fear right now. What’s left to his imagination.” There’s a knock on the door. “How do you know they aren’t coming to get rid of you?”

  “I’m not easy to get rid of, sweetheart. Especially when I decide I have a reason to stay around. And I have.”

  “And that reason is?”

  “The same one that made me take the job. You.”

  Chapter Five

  Myla

  “You took the job for me?” I ask, stunned by that declaration, and the many things I could read into that possibility dart through my mind.

  “You asked me to take it.”

  “I did, but you don’t know me, so why would anything I ask matter?”

  “I choose my jobs based on who I’m protecting, not who’s paying the bill.”

  “And you chose me,” I say, and it’s not a question. He did, and I want to be happy, but I am not in a position to accept what I don’t understand. “Why?”

  “Because you aren’t one of them.”

  “And yet you took a meeting thinking I might be one of them?”

  “And you just answered that without denying that I’m right.”

  I blanch at my mistake and then try to recover. “Different doesn’t mean I don’t belong.”

  He arches a brow. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Is this a test?”

  “No,” he says. “It’s not a test. It’s simply my answer. You wanted to know why I took the job. I took it because you’re different than them, and if I had any doubt of that, I would have declined the job.”

  “Then why even take the appointment?”

  “A million dollars is always a reason to consider a job. It’s not, however, a reason to take one.”

  A knock sounds on the door again, thundering louder this time, and I jolt, once again hugging myself, when I know better than to show a visible reaction. It says I’m on edge. It says I’m withdrawn, but I justify it because Kyle is new to me. Michael would, in fact, expect me to be nervous with any stranger, most especially one this close to me. And since my gaze somehow collided with Kyle’s green one, there is no question that he’s noticed, even before he says, “It’s okay. They won’t be here long.”

  “We hope,” I say. “We don’t know why they’re here.”

  “I told Juan if I saw anyone in my line of sight that hadn’t introduced themselves first, I’d shoot them.”

  “I could have about a million fantasies of you actually doing that,” I confess.

  “If that’s your best idea of a fantasy, we have a problem.”

  “I didn’t say it was the best.”

  “Is it?”

  Me killing a few of them myself, Juan especially, would be better, I think, but I say, “Should we be talking about fantasies?”

  Another knock sounds on the door, and he shocks me by shackling my waist. Heat rushes through me as he turns me toward the hallway. “I prefer live action fantasies, so be careful what you wish for.” I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about killing people, but if he is, he’s just made it sexy and guilt-free. “Let’s get rid of these assholes and then go to the gym,” he adds, gently urging me into the hallway, where I quickly pull away from him, but not without feeling the jolt of cold that is the loss of his hot hands.

  He, in turn, walks to the door, unzips his hoodie and settles his hand on the gun that’s returned as part of his gym wear. “Who is it?” he calls out.

  “Ricardo Martinez,” comes a familiar deep voice, one that conjures an image of a heavyset, broody Mexican with lots of muscles and a huge scar down his cheek. “Juan sent me.”

  “Who’s with you?” Kyle asks, the question making it clear that he’s one step ahead of Ricardo by knowing, or assuming, he’s not alone.

  “Marcus Chavez,” Ricardo replies, while Kyle immediately shoots me a questioning look.

  “Mid-forties, tall, lean but athletic with a mix of perpetual ice and hate in his eyes.” I shiver just thinking about it. “He’s right up there with Juan in my book.”

  He narrows his eyes on the “scary” description. “Then he won’t be back,” he assures me, adding an order of, “Stay inside,” before he opens the door, and disappears outside, quickly shutting it behind him.

  I’m there in a flash, my hands pressing to the door, my ear as well, but all I can make out are muffled voices that lift here and there, before there are footsteps. Then silence. Then some sort of beeping noise. Then the door opens and I have to double-step backwards not to get hit. “Well?” I ask as he appears.

  “They left,” he says. “And he won’t be back without calling first next time. Will that help you relax a little?”

  “Some. Thank you.”

  “The only thanks I need is for you to stop feeling like you have to hug yourself and hide.”

  “I…” I release my arms and then press them to my hips, before awkwardly folding them in front of me again, and just as awkwardly owning the action I knowingly keep repeating. “It is what it is.”

  His eyes soften with his voice. “We’ll get there,” he says, issuing another promise instead of the commands I’ve become accustomed to with Michael, and it does this funny thing to my chest and belly that I can’t quite name. “I’m here to protect you, sweetheart,” he adds. “Really protect you. Deep under all that fear you own, you already know that.”

  “I don’t know what I know right now,” I confess, but the truth is that there’s an energy and confidence about him that, despite just meeting him, makes me, as I suspect it does many around him, feel safe. “I still can’t be sure-”

  “That I’m not setting you up?”

  “I can’t ignore the possibility,” I amend. “You have to see that.”

  “I do see that,” he says, “and while I don’t like it, caution is smart, and something I’m going to encourage you to have every chance I get. Case in point.” He holds up another small chip between his fingers. “This was at the front door. Had I not been cautious, I would have miss
ed it. Let me get rid of it and we can go.” He disappears into the bedroom, and I follow him, appearing in the doorway at the same moment he enters the bathroom.

  “What did Ricardo want?” I call out.

  “To intimidate me,” he says, reappearing and moving in my direction, his strides long, confident, his body lean, hard, and powerful.

  “And what happened?” I ask, as he stops directly in front of me. Close. So very close and yet for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t step away. In fact, I inhale the masculine, autumn and spice scent of him, almost forgetting what I’ve just asked him, until he replies.

  “Ricardo and his puffed-up chest amused me,” he says, his lips quirking in a sexy smirk.

  Amused is not a word I expect in relation to Ricardo. “Does he know he amused you?”

  “Since I told him he did, he should, but that one isn’t going to start glowing from his IQ anytime soon. Whatever the case, he’s getting rid of Marcus. How do you feel about some asshole named Alfredo?”

  I’m stunned and pleased with this new development. “Better,” I say, but alarm bells replace my relief. “Why would they agree to that? Marcus is a long-term employee. Why are they doing anything you want?” I try to take a step backwards, and he catches my arm, our gazes colliding, and I feel that connection in every part of me.

  “Don’t run,” he orders softly.

  “I’m not running.”

  “We both know you are,” he says, and there is this charge in the air that steals my breath, and seems to radiate heat between us.

  “You can’t keep touching me,” I say, but my voice lacks the certainty it should possess, almost as if I want him to tell me he can, when I can’t let that happen.

  “They’re doing what I want,” he says, as if I haven’t issued the warning at all, “because I’m the best bodyguard money can buy, and I’ve convinced them that I’m the one who can protect you and them.”

  “By keeping me away from my sister,” I say, forced to dare down this taboo path in a hunt for his agenda.

  “Yes,” he says, his eyes, those too green, too observant eyes, narrowing before he releases me, folding his arms in front of that broad, perfect chest of his. “What do you want to ask me?”

  A hundred questions, all of which could hint at things I don’t want him to know. “I asked my question already.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Then I don’t have a question,” I say, and then amend, changing the subject. “Actually I do. What time is it?”

  He arches a brow. “What time is it? That’s your question.”

  “Yes. It is. I think I might have seen a note that the gym closes at nine.”

  He glances at a black Gucci watch with red stitching and then back at me. “It’s going on nine now.”

  I sigh. “No run tonight.”

  “It’s seventy outside despite it being February,” he says. “We can take an outdoor run, but be warned. The humidity here in Texas, even this time of year, is a bitch until you’re used to it.”

  “I could take the humidity, but I don’t want to deal with any game Juan or Ricardo might play with us. Not tonight.”

  “I can handle Juan and Ricardo if you want to run.”

  “Thank you, but no,” I say. “I don’t want you to have to handle them.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. And honestly, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since about six this morning. I’d have crashed and burned on the treadmill, anyway. Are you up for room service?”

  “One hundred percent in,” he says, “and we need to talk through your plans for the next few days anyway.”

  “The menu is probably in the living room,” I say, and despite making this suggestion, I’m suddenly, ridiculously nervous about sharing a meal with him.

  “The living room it is then, sweetheart,” he says, and the “sweetheart” endearment manages to do that funny thing to my belly that I experienced earlier.

  Afraid he’ll notice, and that I’ll fail some test he says he’s not giving me, I turn away, entering the hallway, where I walk toward the living area. And I know the moment Kyle is behind me, his presence heavy, but I wouldn’t describe it as uncomfortable. In fact, everything about him is a little too comfortable, too automatically familiar and safe, and I remind myself that making everyone feel this way could be his gift, thus rendering them vulnerable. Thus justifying his million-dollar payments.

  I hear the sound of his phone ringing from behind me, and I reach the living area, where I cross to the desk and open the drawer to find the menu that I flip open, focusing on the food choices, not the man I hear speaking to someone on a call I can’t quite piece together as anything that makes sense. I stop trying. I scan a bunch of fancy dishes that look less than appealing.

  “How does it look?” Kyle asks, stepping to my side and when I face him, I find him standing so near, I’m staring at his chest.

  “Good grief,” I say, and taking a step backwards, my neck stretching to even make eye contact, I quip, “How tall are you?”

  “Six-foot-four and two hundred and twenty pounds.”

  “And Ricardo’s like five-foot-eight,” I say, picturing him trying to act tough with Kyle, and finding it quite amusing, “and you’re big and intimidating. Maybe I do see why you’re getting what you want.”

  “Intimidating?” He arches a brow. “Is that what I am?”

  “You’re huge,” I say, setting the menu back on the desk. “I’m pretty sure just your size alone would be intimidating to most people.”

  “I’m not asking about what I am to most people,” he says, his tone serious, his expression unreadable. “I’m asking what I am to you.”

  “You don’t intimidate me,” I answer truthfully, thinking of the comfort level I feel with him.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t want to intimidate you, Myla.”

  “Because if I’m scared, you’ll never see the real me.”

  “That’s right,” he says, “but we’ll keep it between us. That way we both win.” He doesn’t give me time to question that or argue, tapping the menu. “Did you look at the menu?”

  “I did,” I say, reluctantly letting him move us away from the topic of trust, where we’d been headed. “And it’s limited, which kind of stinks since we’ll be staying here for a while.”

  “Luckily we’re in my hometown and I can tell you that we have the best pizza on the planet a few blocks up the road, and they deliver.”

  “On the planet? That’s pretty extreme.” I smile. “And I’m sold. Let’s get the best pizza on the planet.”

  “Made to order,” he says, grabbing the phone receiver. “What do you want on yours?”

  “Pepperoni for me.”

  “Good choice,” he says, punching in the phone number that he’s clearly memorized, while I sit down on the sofa, my palms flattening on my legs, nerves fluttering in my belly with a sudden realization. I’m alone with Kyle, and while yes, he’s a bit of a drug I can’t seem to completely resist, he’s also an outsider. The only person who isn’t part of Michael’s direct entourage that I’ve been around in a year. Tomorrow I’ll be at my new office, with other outsiders. It’s taken a year, but slowly, I’m gaining freedom I can’t afford to lose.

  “Thirty minutes,” he says almost instantly, crossing to sit down on the leather chair next to me, his elbows resting on his knees. “Just enough time for us to get that plan together for the immediate future, starting with tomorrow. Where are we going and why?”

  “Alvarez Clothing now has offices with a warehouse, business office, and a retail location, inside a high end shopping area. From tomorrow forward, that will be where I work, but we don’t open to the public for a month.”

  “Located where?”

  “About a mile away,” I say, and then recite the address.

  “I know that area,” he confirms, “but I’m going to want to go check it out in
advance. Is there a set time that you need to be there?”

  “Nine for sure. I have meetings with the design manager and then models coming for interviews at ten.”

  He removes his phone from his pocket and punches in a number before I hear, “I need access to the facility where Myla will be working tomorrow.” A pause. “Tonight.” Another pause. “I really don’t give a shit. I’m protecting her. I also need an emailed list of every staff member who works for the place.” A beat and then, “Just use the email we’ve communicated on in the past.” A pause, and then, “I’ll be waiting.” He ends the call and immediately focuses on me. “Do you know any of the staff you are working with?”

  “I’ve been dealing with a handful of them by phone for a few months.”

  “I need you to write down their names and everything you know about them.”

  “Of course,” I say, grabbing my sketch pad from where it’s resting on the coffee table and flipping it open to one of my favorite formal dress designs. The idea of seeing it come to life tomorrow comes with mixed emotions. I start to flip the page when Kyle reaches over and stops me, his gaze surveying the pencil sketch of a beautiful woman with long, striking hair, wearing my dress, before he looks at me again.

  “Did you draw this?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I need to envision a person wearing the garment I’m designing.”

  “Your artistic skill is incredible. You’re gifted.”

  “Oh I…thank you. Actually, a big thank you. Compliments are welcome tonight. The people I’m working with tomorrow have worked with some powerful people in the fashion industry, and I have done nothing before this.”

  “Surely if they didn’t believe in your work, they wouldn’t be working for you.”

  “They work for Michael,” I correct, “and we both know he makes things financially advantageous for people to take a job.”

  “But anyone as experienced as you say these people are would have a reputation to maintain,” he argues. “They must like your work.”

  “I’d like to think they do,” I say, appreciating the vote of confidence, which he doesn’t have to give me, more than he can know.