by Ophelia Bell
I can’t help but chuckle against her lips. Her eyes are bright when she pulls back from the kiss.
“I didn’t realize you made me that promise, but I am definitely going to hold you to it.”
26
Toni
I somehow manage to doze while Sam holds me on his lap. I wake to the sound of his slow, even breathing, his forehead resting on my shoulder, and realize he’s managed to prop himself up without leaning on any walls.
“Sam, honey, wake up,” I whisper, carefully extracting myself from his embrace. He clings groggily as he comes awake.
“Not letting you go,” he murmurs.
“I know. Nobody’s letting anyone go, but you’re going to hate life if you stay in the same position all night. Come here.”
I scoot to the wall and lean back against it, then pat my thighs. He stares uncomprehending for a moment until I say, “Lie down, okay? Stretch out on your side or belly so you don’t hurt your back.”
He nods and crawls over, kisses me, then turns, lowering himself to the floor facing away with his cheek resting on my thigh. My heart thuds as I drift a hand over his bare shoulder, raking my other fingers gently through the thick swath of hair on top of his head.
He’s so big, so warm, so solid. Such a bulwark of indestructible man, yet such a vulnerable boy at times. I hope he didn’t make a huge mistake trying to put himself between me and whatever Amador wants. I don’t care how deeply involved his family is, Sam shouldn’t factor into this mess at all.
The bright lights overhead make it difficult for me to doze again, so I just sit and watch him sleep, stroking his hair as I draw lazy designs on his arm and envision a tattoo that would fit along his shoulder and bicep, an extension of the design on his back. The artwork still amazes me. The fact that the two of us created such a stunning design together, and had fun doing it, feels like it happened in a dream.
The ink on his back is a little puffy in places, but no redness, and glistens from the usual fluid seepage that accompanies the normal tattoo healing process. Judging from the antiseptic smell in this place, he’s probably safe without a shirt, but I’d rather he was warm and comfortable.
I have zero sense of time passing without a window to the outside world. I haven’t needed to use the latrine, which is some small blessing, but my belly starts to clench with hunger after a while. When the sound of keys at the door reach me, my first irrational thought is about food rather than escape. Probably because deep down I know that if my capture is about getting to Arturo Flores—my father—then whoever it is doesn’t intend to kill me.
Sam jolts up and is on his feet in a second as the door swings open. Three armed men are on the other side, one holding a tray of food.
The blue-eyed man with the beard steps in first and points at me. “You. Come with me.”
“What about me?” Sam asks, his voice hoarse.
“Brought you breakfast. Eat up, because this is the only meal you get today.”
The man with the tray steps in and sets the food down on the floor just inside the door. One with a dark ponytail takes his place, holding out a pair of handcuffs and gesturing to me.
“Don’t make this hard on yourself,” the blue-eyed man says. “The boss just wants to have a chat.”
This is the guy Sam said would help us, so I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and nod, holding out my hands for them to snap the cuffs around my wrists. Then he takes me by the elbow and leads me out of the room.
“You two stay back and make sure he eats,” he says. “I’ll get her where she needs to go.”
“Sí señor,” they say in unison.
I eye the man leading me down the hallway, who clearly holds some position of authority here, but he looks just as rough and dangerous as the others. Even more so, if the angry set to his jaw is any indication.
When we’re out of earshot, he says, “Name’s Cal Logan, at least to the locals. I’ll get you out, but it can’t happen instantly. I need you to do everything I say if you want things to work out, got it?”
“I’m listening, but it’d be easier if I had pants.”
He glances down at my bare thighs and smirks. “You were in less when we took you. The boy’s a regular saint, isn’t he?”
“You have no idea.”
He returns his gaze forward, all business, but his grip on my arm is gentle. We reach a set of stairs that head up, turning once before stopping at a landing with another heavy steel door, which he bangs on until it opens from the other side.
We pass through and he grunts a greeting to the two guards, who close and lock the door behind him. We’re in a fortress, it seems, and I can’t help but wonder if there were other prisoners locked in cells down below. I saw at least three other doors besides the one for the cell they kept us in.
When we’re alone again, he says, “The man with the ponytail back there is going to join us eventually. He and the other one have been assigned to your cell. Flirt with him whenever you can. You don’t need to go too far with it, just enough to engage him in conversation once or twice for any of the other guards to witness. You don’t want him touching you. He’s a piece of work, but if I’m going to keep my cover and get you out, I need a fall guy.”
“What’ll happen to him?”
“Nothing you need to be concerned about.”
“If someone’s going to die because of a lie I tell, I’d like to know.”
“Trust me, he’s already earned it. You’ll just be giving our boss a solid reason to follow through for once.”
I grimace. “You want me to flirt with someone who’s already done shit bad enough to deserve execution?”
“Do you want freedom or not?” He turns his blue stare on me, and I blink for a second over the familiarity of those eyes.
“You look like someone I know.”
“No more talking,” he snaps.
We’ve reached another door, this one heavy wood with a wrought iron cage over a small, square window—a proper dungeon door. When we go through, the effect is like walking from the underworld up into the land of the living again. It’s chilly and crisp, and morning sunlight floods into the narrow hallway from several sources.
He leads me down the corridor and through an arched doorway into an even brighter room filled with bookshelves, then through a set of French doors and out onto a covered terracotta-tiled patio. A row of white columns extend several dozen yards to a corner, then turns, the patio running along another wing of the house.
Cold, salt-scented air flows over me and I can’t help but shiver even though the sun feels amazing in its wake. The white columns frame a view of a pool, at the far end of which are steps that go directly down to the beach and the blue waters beyond.
It’s a perfect corner of paradise, surrounded on all sides by the low, lush flora that abounds along this coast. But they had me tied up in the back of that car for more than an hour, so this place has to be remote. I have a feeling farther inland we’d be surrounded by nothing but jungle and ancient ruins.
“There is nowhere for you to go, Ms. Quiñones,” says a deep voice, and I whip around to find a suited man standing in a doorway farther down the long patio. He’s a clean-cut, brown-skinned man with black hair combed back from his forehead and a touch of silver at his temples. He looks me over with sharp, calculating eyes that glint when his gaze sweeps over my tattooed forearms.
“Turn her. Let me see the extent of these tattoos.”
Cal nods and urges me to turn. I hunch into myself as I feel his knuckles brush my hip, and cool air hits my back when he lifts the hem of my shirt and moves my hair aside. Goosebumps rise over my entire body, as much from awareness of the man’s sharp gaze as from the chilly air.
“If you like tattoos, I’ll trade you a one-of-a-kind design for our freedom. Did you see Sam’s? It’s a work of art.”
“Don’t tempt him,” Cal murmurs, a hint of warning in his tone.
“Yours are quite unique,” the older m
an says. “I am a collector, in fact, so I appreciate artwork that stands out. But I don’t think you’ve earned a place in my collection yet.”
Cal drops the back of my shirt, and I release my held breath as he turns me to face his boss again. He bends to my ear once more and says, “Trust me, it’s not a collection you want to be part of.”
My host narrows his eyes at Cal, who doesn’t seem to fear the other man in the least. “Don’t give our guest the wrong impression. I need her help.” He steps to the side and gestures to a table laden with food just behind him. “Which is why I’d like to offer you my hospitality while you’re here. Please sit. Eat.”
“You’re Amador, aren’t you?” I ask, taking a step closer before stopping. I feel a little like Persephone in the Underworld. Is it even safe for me to eat?
“I am the one and only,” he says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Though I imagine what you may have heard makes me out to be a monster, which is mostly untrue.”
He eyes me for a moment where I stand with my arms clutched around my middle for warmth, then says, “Cal, please fetch my guest a robe.”
“You got it, boss.”
A moment later, my bearded captor returns and drapes the softest, fluffiest robe over my shoulders. I’m unable to suppress a sigh as I push my arms through the sleeves and tie the belt. Warmth feels amazing after a night sitting in a cold cell.
“What do you want with me?”
“I want you to eat. Like I said, I’m not a monster. The fact that you are here should be enough to earn the favor I’m about to ask without actually torturing you. That’s only a last resort.”
“Well, aren’t you a model of humanity,” I snark, but finally allow myself to give into the draw of fresh bacon and waffles.
He watches me scarf down food for a few minutes, his apparent fixation on my tattoos making my skin prickle, but I’m too hungry to care. It really hasn’t been that long since I’ve eaten, but being terrified for one’s life tends to build up an appetite. I’m also used to being seen as an oddity. Most women aren’t covered in ink from their wrists to their clavicles.
I eventually slow my pace and nod when a maid offers me fresh coffee, then pours me a mugful. I inhale the aromatic scent and then take a slow swallow. The man has amazing taste in the finer things, that’s for sure.
“How much have you heard about me, Ms. Quiñones?” he asks when I finally sit back.
“Not all that much. At least not until very recently. I did have a vague idea that you and Arturo Flores aren’t friends.”
“Not lately. We were once as close as brothers. Closer.” He glances up at Cal, who just stares back stonily when I look over my shoulder at him.
“Getting screwed over by a loved one tends to hurt a lot worse, doesn’t it?” I ask, a bitter tone tinging my voice.
He chuckles. “Quite true. I take it you’ve discovered why you were a target. How long have you known Arturo is your biological father?”
“A couple hours.”
He narrows his eyes. “Your boyfriend told you. I should have guessed the Santos family had a bigger stake in this. I wonder what other secrets they’ve been privy to all this time.”
“You would have to ask him. I’m sure he’d love to share this spread.”
“In time. Right now, I’d like it if you would indulge me. I’d like to tell you a story. Afterward, I have prepared a room for you with clean clothes and will have a hot bath drawn. I’d like you to remain as my guest—unharmed.”
“For how long?”
“That depends on Arturo.”
I sigh and refill my coffee. “I’m listening.”
27
Amador
Arturo has always been free with his affections with women, and women have always responded—until one didn’t. This is why I believe the Santos family still has his attention. His world revolved around Marcella Thibault when we were young. She was a beauty; tall, graceful, refined. Everything he looked for in a woman.
I had yet to meet Lola, and I admit I resented Marcella for how much of Arturo’s attention she claimed. We were trying to build our business, and there was no place for a woman in the midst of it. Not when we were amassing enemies as quickly as allies and a woman would only be a vulnerability enemies could exploit.
But there was no changing his mind where Marcella was concerned, which was why I worked to change hers. Threats against a loved one are the purest kind of leverage. There was another man who wanted her—one Julian Santos—who was a fearless idiot, but also disliked Arturo enough to agree to risk going after his woman. So I put Julian in her path, then made sure she understood that if she accepted Arturo’s proposal, he wouldn’t survive their first year of marriage. No, I wouldn’t have been a danger to him, but I was positive his distraction would be the death of him. Julian was the safer option.
As I’d hoped, after Marcella rejected Arturo, he came running back here, heart bleeding. Lola and I were merely friends at the time. The Prietos—Lola’s family—own a resort in the area, Tierra del Mar. I would stay there on occasion when I wanted to do business locally, but not bring whoever I was meeting back to my home.
Our beginning was like a dance. The Prietos are a powerful family in Cancún and made for perfect allies. She wanted a piece of my business. I needed her family’s resort as a cover for mine. We started to negotiate behind her father’s back with the promise that when she and her sister Selena inherited, the resort would be at my disposal.
But working that closely with a beautiful woman takes its toll on a man. I can see that you understand what I mean, Ms. Quiñones. You are beautiful. That young man who came after you is deep under your spell the way I was under Lola’s.
We weren’t officially a couple when Arturo arrived, merely potential business partners with benefits, but I hoped for more, despite my better judgment. But when Arturo stepped through my doors, everything changed.
Somehow his broken heart endeared him to Lola. I can’t claim to be jealous because it brought him closer to me, the closest we’ve ever been. Lola engineered the relationship to include us both, and we both pledged our love and commitment to her.
As our business grew, Arturo eventually had to move back to Los Angeles. Lola insisted on being the go-between. She would be an equal partner to us both, in love and in the business.
When she became pregnant, we had to make a decision. Where would she have the baby?
She ultimately agreed with Arturo’s wishes. They would marry and the child would be born in Los Angeles. The child would be a US citizen and would inherit all the assets of the legitimate side of the business in the US. Lola promised that she would have another baby who would be set up as my heir in Mexico.
Arturo was becoming more possessive, even before she fell pregnant. He couldn’t always travel with her for visits, so they agreed on an open marriage when she was away. She would be with me, so naturally she gave him the freedom to explore relationships with other women.
I thought he would try to rekindle things with Marcella, but that didn’t happen. Instead he started sleeping with his housekeeper. Your mother Elena was his type, both strong-willed and nurturing, so it came as no surprise when he discovered she was pregnant.
I expected Lola to be hurt, the news coming mere weeks after she learned of her own pregnancy. The truth was she was happy. She’d never begrudged me my love for Arturo, and understood how to balance love and business. She admitted that she’d worried for her child having no one to play with when she was away. This gave her the freedom to return to me, she said. To try for another.
She made sure Elena was taken care of, because she didn’t want to leave her care in Arturo’s hands. He would have provided for her, of course, and kept her on his staff, as you know, but we needed him focused on business. Elena would be Celeste’s caregiver while Lola was away, giving the two of you the opportunity to grow up together.
Our arrangement continued, business thrived, and it was in no sma
ll part due to Lola’s careful balance between Mexico and Los Angeles. But she was spread too thin. Arturo allowed it because she was so effective, and nothing I said would convince him to allow her a break. Just one reprieve from the constant work, long enough for the three of us to be together, to try for another child, because she refused to risk it when it was just the two of us. It had to be all three, or things would fall apart.
I agreed, of course. I considered Celeste my own, despite the visits being few and far between. She is my daughter. She is the product of love shared between the three of us. Proof of what we once accomplished together. Proof that Arturo once held some small amount of true desire for me.
It only happened once—the night she was conceived. There was a summer thunderstorm that night and the tide was high, the water reaching the top of the steps.
The details are fixed in my mind like it happened yesterday. Lola was between us, which was how it always was—she was our buffer; both the grease and the glue. But that night, she became more, a facilitator for an affection that had burned since long before she entered the picture. One night, she said. Pretend the world doesn’t care for one night. We will be stronger for it.
It was more than I could have hoped for, making love to them both, and even greater was my elation when I learned she’d conceived. But he retreated afterward, barely speaking to me for weeks at a time, and only about business when we did talk. The distance became a chasm between Arturo and me, one that Lola struggled to span for the next decade until it finally broke her.
It’s his fault she’s dead. Whether she did it herself, or her distance invited an enemy to take advantage and finally exploit our one weakness, I don’t know, but what I am sure of is that Arturo does not have the right to claim Celeste as his. My love for him was destroyed the night Lola died, and I want back what is rightfully mine because he would have never had her if not for me.