Hunt Me

by Elodie Colt

  The next day, soft knocks on my door wake me in the late morning. Usually, Javier startles me awake with an annoying bark at an ungodly hour, so I’m surprised to feel sunrays warming the sheets, which means it’s already after dawn.

  Instead of a gray suit and a grim face, a chubby woman with a warm smile scrambles in. She looks probably in her late forties with black hair framing her head in a neat crown braid. Brown eyes and dark skin reveal her Mexican heritage. She wears a housekeeping dress in navy blue, completed with a white apron.

  “Hello, my child. You must be Leonara. I am Mariana, Señor DeLuca’s housekeeper. Nice to meet you,” she introduces herself with a throaty voice and a heavy accent.

  It suddenly strikes me that I didn’t know Daniel’s surname until now. Daniel DeLuca… Sounds as hot and forbidding as he is.

  “Uh, good morning,” I mumble, still groggy from sleep, trying to tame my hair while Mariana sets a tray on the nightstand. My stomach grumbles at the sight of what looks like an omelet with olives and avocado, along with five churro sticks and—finally—coffee! “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Mariana folds her hands over her apron. “Señor DeLuca apologizes, but he had to leave early and won’t return before late afternoon. He also wanted me to give you this.”

  She hurries out of the room for a brief second, then returns with a package. I forget everything about my yearning for caffeine as I stare at the black wrapping paper with a silver bow on top.

  “What’s inside?” I ask Mariana with a hopeful look, although I know the question is pointless.

  “Open it,” Mariana encourages me and sits down on the bed, still smiling and slowly infecting me with her excitement.

  A note flutters out after I unwrap the present, along with… a drawing set.

  Even before I open the rectangular box, I know it’s a professional one, and my mouth pops open when I see every utensil an artist can dream of—timber and carbon pencils, graphite sticks, charcoal, erasers, blending stumps—neatly arranged and sorted by size.

  “And he thinks he has no soul…” Mariana mutters while she watches me, no doubt seeing the glint of joy in my eyes, but her words surprise me. Taking in my confused look, she lays a hand on mine, telling me with a smile, “He has his heart in the right place.”

  I tilt my head studying her. “How long have you known him?”

  “Oh, since he was a child. My family worked for the DeLucas for generations.” Gathering from the pride in her words, I assume she’s not being kept here against her will.

  “So, you’re okay with his business?” Could it be that Mariana doesn’t know about what Daniel’s doing behind closed doors?

  This time, she inclines her head scrutinizing me. “What did he tell you?”

  “Uh, nothing, actually, but I assumed…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish.

  After a moment, Mariana leaves me baffled with, “There are many people who have an image of Daniel DeLuca, but only a few get the picture.” And with that, she stands up and says, “Come now. Eat your breakfast, and I’m going to bring you new clothes.”

  While Mariana is busy getting my things, I uncurl the note.

  To answer your question from last night—’fucking hot’ would be accurate.

  The grin on my face becomes so big it hurts my cheeks.

  ~~~

  As it turns out, Daniel gave Mariana permission to show me around and let me relax at the pool. It doesn’t escape my notice that barely any guards remain in sight. Only the two obligatory sentries at the gates are left.

  It seems Daniel trusts me not to do anything stupid. Granted, the thought of taking a second chance to escape this place crossed my mind, but really, where would I go? Everything outside these gates is a minefield.

  Come to think of it, I can’t complain as I stretch out my legs on the cushions inside the elegant pergola, the white curtains on all sides flapping in the wind and the roof shielding me from the sun. A margarita in a sugar-rimmed glass Mariana made for me stands on a table along with my new art supplies.

  I just finished a sketch of a cute little bird that made itself comfortable on a palm tree, chirping agitatedly. It’s a fascinating creature with the most extraordinary feather colors I’ve ever seen—a violet head, an orange stomach, and lime green wings. A pity I don’t paint.

  “Looking for some inspiration?” comes a familiar voice from next to me. I startle, glancing up at Daniel, who nods to the blank page on my sketchpad. Before I can answer, he takes the drawing on top of my already finished pile. “This is beautiful.”

  “The bird sat on that palm tree for over an hour.”

  “A Yucatan bird. There are hundreds of different species here in Mexico.” He folds his body gracefully on the seating area next to me, classy as always in a coal-gray suit, a drink in hand. I don’t miss his eyes roaming over my legs clad in comfy shorts, my floppy shirt sliding off one shoulder. Mariana offered me a bikini, but I declined quickly.

  When his eyes find my face, a smirk suddenly plays on his lips. “What?” I ask when his grin only widens.

  “You have charcoal streaks on your cheek. Looks like war paint.”

  “Oh.” To his surprise, I lift my hands, rubbing more of it into my face. “What about now?”

  Daniel laughs, and I can’t say I don’t like the sound. “Downright frightening.” His gaze swerves to the art supplies scattered around me. “Did I get you the right one?”

  “Uh, yes, I… it’s perfect, thank you, but… why do you give me gifts?”

  Another chuckle. “Because I can afford it.”

  This was not what I asked, but my brain already reels in another direction. “How much money do you have?”

  If he’s surprised by my blunt question, he’s not showing it. “A billion. Not counting the real estate I own here and there.” There’s no arrogance in his tone—he’s simply stating the facts.

  “Wow. Does it ever get boring? This kind of life?”

  “Depends. People with money don’t have friends, only allies and enemies. More of the latter, I should say.”

  “Huh.” I ponder over this for a second. Daniel doesn’t thrive in what he’s doing, and I wonder why. “You never told me what you do for a living.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Are you a drug dealer?”

  “No.” He watches me intently as if mapping my reactions.

  “So, what you’re doing is not illegal?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Watching my frown, he finally takes pity on me. “I work for the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime. I work on both sides.”

  Well, this changes things. He’s not a dealer as I thought. He hunts them. “So, all this,” I start with a gesture of my hand referring to everything he owns, “is just a façade?”

  He scrutinizes me for a long moment, and it seems as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I have the money to live a life in luxury, just as I have the money to build schools, hospitals, and shelters around the entire globe.”

  Hearing this relieves me knowing that Daniel is not the bad guy he makes everyone think. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and says in a low voice, “Half of Mexico’s drug lords rot in jail because of me. Multinational corporations destroyed, cartel networks liquidated, billions of cash drowned in the ocean… all my doing. What do you think they’ll do if they uncover my true identity? What do you think will happen to those who work for me, to those close to me?”

  I squint my eyes. “Why are you telling me, then?”

  He leans back, sipping his drink. “You gave me your trust. Now I give you mine.”

  I’ve canceled all meetings and conference calls for the next day, and my stomach makes a crazy drop when Mariana brings Leonara into my room. Her gaze drifts left and right as she takes in my private quarters with the teak furniture, designer tables, and a bed big enough for five people to sleep in comfortably. Her blue-check
ered flannel shirt over her black top reaches the rim of her cutoffs and flares as she turns around to survey the room.

  She freezes when something catches her attention, and I follow her gaze to the picture on the wall. It’s her drawing of the tarantula, which I’ve put in a black frame. Her mouth parts as if she wants to say something, then her eyes land on me, scrutinizing me.

  “Take a seat,” I say, pointing with my hand to the two Chesterfield sofas. I sit down opposite her, scrutinizing her just the same.

  Granted, I would have expected her to act differently after what happened two nights ago, but she appears to stay totally composed. I don’t know what to make of it considering I barely got any sleep, our kiss invading my mind ever since. The urge to pin her to the sofa and show her everything she hasn’t experienced yet is overwhelming.

  “How are you?” I ask in a soft tone, knowing her mother’s death is still a fresh wound.

  She nods slowly with a distant look in her eyes. “I’m… coping,” she answers truthfully, then nods to the art supplies in her hands I asked her to bring. “What do you want me to draw?”

  I drop the subject, knowing she’ll deal with it her own way. “Me.”

  She blinks, surprised. “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Uh, I… I usually don’t do frontal portraits,” she answers in a timid tone I’ve never heard from her before.

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the eyes,” she mumbles as if revealing a secret she’d rather keep.

  “What do you mean?”

  She gives me a daunting look, and for a second, I feel like drowning in shades of blue and green. “The eyes are the windows to the soul. Doesn’t matter if the rest is drawn in perfect detail. If you fail with the eyes, you fail with the art.”

  “This is not about failure or success, Leonara. Whatever you come up with, I’m sure it will be stunning.”

  Art is not just a hobby for this girl. She doesn’t draw faces, she draws emotions. She doesn’t draw people, she draws souls. She doesn’t draw worlds, she lives them. Every masterpiece of hers is an expression of her connection with the object, and I’m eager to find out about her connection with me.

  “Fine.” She huffs before pulling up her knees, setting the sketchpad on her thighs and getting to work.

  I grin inwardly as I watch her flee to a place only she knows about, her turquoise eyes glazing over with that sheen of undiluted attention and devotion. Every now and then, they dart up to mine, flickering over my face like an archaeologist exploring an antique, completely oblivious to me mentally undressing her the entire time. Everything about her intrigues me, every little secret of hers spikes a curiosity in me I’ve never known.

  “Do you also paint?”

  “No.”

  Her answer surprises me considering painting was definitely in her parental line. “Why not?” I press, but she shrugs.

  “I always loved shades more than colors. And I’m not into painting fantasies. I like to draw the raw truth. What I see with my artistic eye can’t be created with colors.” I nod, intrigued by her smart response. “My mother loved everything colorful. She was a fully devoted surrealist, dreaming up the most absurd things and creating pieces of art, completely freehand. My fantasy doesn’t range that far. Besides, I could never come up with the patience to paint a head of broccoli in accurate detail.”

  I bark out a laugh. “A broccoli?”

  “Yeah. My mother made this painting where a girl lies in the grass, reading a book in the shadows of a giant tree that looks like a head of broccoli with its massive, green stem as the trunk. I think it took her a month to get all these…” she pauses, searching for words and using her forefinger and thumb to indicate something really small, “… tiny green knobs of the broccoli’s head right. But it was a great picture for our kitchen,” she adds with a smirk.

  Another laugh comes over me as I listen to Leonara’s story but count on her to jump from one topic to the next within the blink of an eye.

  “Who is Natalia?” she asks out of nowhere, keeping her focus on moving her pencil over the paper. She must have seen my mother’s name on my phone when she called me.

  “Jealous?”

  “No… At least, I don’t think so.”

  My glass of rum freezes in the air as I process her answer. Her honesty intrigues me more and more because I trust Leonara to blurt it all out without a filter, but I also feel a pang of disappointment at not seeing a flicker of emotion on her face.

  No, stop. This is all sorts of wrong. Step one—get your shit back together. Step two—get that girl out of your fucking head. Step three—get that girl out of your fucking life.

  “She’s a woman I love dearly,” I say despite my inner voice, but she keeps her composure. “Seriously, you have the best poker face.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. Don’t tell me the kiss didn’t mean anything to you.”

  What the hell am I doing? The only thing I might accomplish is her slapping me and bolting out the door. But of course, that’s not what Leonara does because she just counters with, “I never said it didn’t mean anything. I just don’t know what it means, exactly.” And again, she won the argument. Just like that.

  “Natalia is my mother,” I clarify.

  On hearing this, Leonara turns her head left and right as if looking for something. “You don’t have any pictures of her anywhere.”

  “It’s for her own safety. I removed them after one guy came too close, breaking into the house and threatening to kill her should I not hand over the drugs I’d embargoed.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “He died in a mine explosion. Poor guy…” I jest, testing her. She gives me an evil smirk, one I can’t help but return.

  “So, where is Natalia?”

  “In Australia with my sister, Valentina.”

  “Why?” she asks in question as to why they live on the opposite side of the world and not close to me.

  “Valentina is ill. She was born with Mucopolysaccharidosis III, also called the Sanfilippo Syndrome. It’s an autosomal recessive disease that causes severe deterioration of the central nervous system.” Leonara sets down her art supplies, giving me her full attention. “The Sanfilippo Children’s Foundation in Australia is one of the best in the world. As the main donor, I fund the institution and the research.”

  “I think I read about it somewhere. It’s quite a rare disease.”

  I nod. “The approximate incidence is estimated between a hundred thousand and one million.”

  Her gaze drifts off as if she needs time to process. Unbelievable that a girl who feels joy when she’s told I blew up a guy shows so much grief after I tell her my sister is sick. “How is she?” she asks tentatively, as if dreading the answer.

  “Some days are better, some worse. She’s still young, but we know her condition will worsen over time.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Ten. Yes, there’s quite an age difference between us,” I add when I notice Leonara’s puzzled face. “My mother… she…” The words stuck in my throat, and I’m at a loss on how to continue.

  As if feeling my sudden distress, Leonara stands up and sits down next to me. She gives me time to gather my thoughts, all the while giving me comfort in silence.

  “Natalia was raped when she was fourteen, and I… I’m the result,” I end on a whisper. Unable to look at Leonara, I go on, “My mother married when she was thirty, and one year later, she got the child she always wanted. Now she has a son who carries the genes of a rapist and a daughter who is likely to die before she hits twenty-five.” Even I can hear the bitterness overlaying my voice, but I can’t help it.

  Finally, I manage to lift my head to look at the girl next to me who stares back with a firm expression on my face. No pity. Just sympathy.

  “This is why I do what I do,” I conclude. “This life is not what I wanted to live. I have to lie, I have to kill,
always walking on the edge of the law.” I pause to take a sip of my drink. “But it’s worth every asshole rotting behind bars. And it’s worth every fucking smile I plaster on Valentina’s face.”

  Leonara is quiet, and it slowly makes me worried. Her lip quivers as if she’s searching for words, but really, what is there to say? Your mother must be so proud of you. Or, you made the right choice. Or, it’s not your fault. Yeah, I don’t think so.

  A warm hand rests on my cheek, and I look up at her just as she eliminates any space between us, connecting her lips with mine without warning. My heart soars like it did the night I kissed her, but I know I have to stop this, so I set my drink on the table and pull away gently.

  “Leonara… Don’t do this just because you feel pity for me.” The words taste as bitter on my tongue as they are, but they are the truth regardless.

  Against my expectations, a smile curls her lips. “You really think I’m doing this just to comfort you? You won’t get pity from me. I’m selfish, Daniel. I take what I want and right now… that’s you.”

  Not waiting for an answer on my part, she pushes me down until my back is flush with the couch, then climbs on top of me, straddling my hips.

  God, this girl… I swear she blows my mind away like an atomic bomb leaving only destruction behind.

  Her tongue duels with mine as if we’re battling a war she wants me to lose, and dammit, if I’d been standing right now, I would have dropped to my knees, praising her as my queen and begging her to kill my body and take my soul.

  Her hand glides down my shirt, opening each button swiftly before flicking both sides of the fabric back. She interrupts the kiss to admire my body, moving her hand over my chest and stomach and leaving me panting as if I just took a hundred laps in the pool. Before I realize what’s happening, my belt comes loose, and her hand closes around the hardness inside my boxers.

  “What… Leonara, wait,” I mutter, trying to get my brain functioning again. She ignores me, so I shackle her wrist to stop her before this goes to a place she’s not ready to go. “Leonara, stop,” I order, but she just grins and bites her lip seductively. “You… you don’t want this. Not with me. Not your… not the first time,” I try to reason with her.