Santiago Sol

by Niki Turner

  “Listen…” She held her hands up, palms forward. “I’m sorry I ditched you at the restaurant. I—”

  “Who are you?” He cut off her explanation.

  “Who are you?” she demanded in return.

  The elevator door shut. He jabbed a finger at the number for her floor. How did he know which floor she was on? Her heart pounded behind her ribs. What if God had tried to warn her away from him at the airport and she’d missed His cue?

  Sebastian’s silver-gray gaze, darkened to the color of mercury, rested on her as the elevator lurched upward.

  Tansy flinched. Mercury was toxic in large quantities and she suspected if he kept staring at her that way she might begin to suffer alarming side effects.

  ****

  Tell her the truth.

  The inner voice was insistent. Sebastian shoved his hands into his hair. The elevator lurched to a halt, and the door slid open. Tansy darted past him and down the hall. She fumbled through the ugly sack she carried, and he added a note to his running to-do list: buy the woman a new purse.

  She was shoving the key card into the lock for the third time when he touched her arm.

  She jolted.

  “I have no intention of harming you.” He kept his voice gentle. “Please, hear me out.”

  Her kaleidoscopic eyes glittered green and blue and gold. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why should I trust you?” he countered.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and stood her ground.

  “If we just keep asking each other the same questions, this conversation won’t get very far.”

  “Then let’s go inside. I’d rather not have this discussion in the hall.” He pulled out his wallet and took out his master key, slid it into the lock, and opened her door.

  She gasped. “Why do you have a key to my room?”

  “Because I own the building.”

  That made her gasp again. “You what?”

  He motioned toward the open door. She moved forward on stiff legs, and he followed her inside.

  Tansy perched on the edge of a living room chair like a bird ready to take flight.

  Sebastian flicked on a lamp and took a seat on the sofa. He could see her pulse at the base of her throat. He resisted the urge to demand answers, to insist that she tell him why Diego had frightened her, and why and how Diego knew anything about her.

  Tell her the truth.

  He sucked in a breath. No. Not yet. “I don’t appreciate being lied to,” he said.

  “Well, we have that in common." She shot him a glare. "Nice building, by the way." Tansy rose and stalked to the balcony doors. "Now that we have all that out in the open, you can stop wasting time with me and go back to your real life, where you probably have a wife, or at least a girlfriend, waiting for you.” She pressed her forehead against the glass.

  Sebastian stared at her. Wasting time? Spending his days with her was definitely not a waste of time. “I wanted to spend a few days as someone who just lives here. Someone...normal, like me.” And I liked playing tour guide to a beautiful woman.

  “Normal?” Only a fool would have missed her sarcastic tone. “Normal? You think you’d ever pass for normal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She stilled, flushed. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

  She turned away from the balcony and returned to the chair. “I’ve told you. I’m Tansy Chastain. I’m a writer. End of story.” Her eyes seared him, wary and testing.

  Sebastian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “How do you know Diego?”

  “I don’t know him. I’ve just seen him before.” She slumped into the chair and averted her gaze.

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Tell me.”

  She shuddered. “In Colorado.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” Her jaw firmed. “He broke into a house.”

  “Yours?”

  “No. I was in the house at the time, that’s all.”

  Sebastian surged to his feet. “That’s all?” He stalked the space in front of the balcony doors. Up. Down. Up. Stopped. “Whose house?”

  Tansy let out a breath. “The woman whose memoir I’m writing.”

  His brows rose. “The missionary?”

  She nodded.

  Awareness hit him like a mule kick to the midsection. “What’s the woman’s name?” he hissed, though he already knew the answer.

  “What difference does it make to you?” She demanded.

  Sebastian took a deep breath and weighed his words before answering. “If Diego is involved with the woman in some way, there’s every possibility she’s in danger. I might be able to help. I know how he operates.”

  He watched awareness creep into Tansy’s face, followed by reluctant acceptance. For whatever reason, he presented less of a threat than Diego, in Tansy’s eyes.

  “Eva St. John. Her name is Eva St. John.”

  ****

  The color leeched out of Sebastian’s face shade by shade at her words. When his complexion approached the hue of plain yogurt, she lurched to her feet and dragged him toward the couch.

  He resisted, catching her wrist in one hand. “What do you know about her daughter, Darcy?” he demanded.

  Tansy jerked her arm free. Eva’s stories about the horrors of Pinochet’s reign of terror—the years of secrecy and subterfuge—sprang to life like monsters creeping out from under the bed. Her warnings about the walking stick gave the monsters a voice. “I’ve never met the woman,” she answered. It wasn’t a lie. “Do you know her?”

  Sebastian straightened and a mask fell over his features. “I know Darcy St. John lived in Chile for a time, and she had a son.” He resumed pacing. “A son she abandoned.” Palpable resentment tainted his words.

  “Did you know him?” Tansy asked, her words soft as a cloud in the air.

  Sebastian blinked at her. “Know who?”

  “Darcy’s son. He would be Eva’s grandson. She would...” Tansy’s voice caught. “Eva would want to meet him.”

  “Really? She never made much of an attempt, from what I understand. And now it’s too late.”

  Horror and sorrow flooded Tansy’s heart. He was dead, then, just like Darcy. “He was your friend, then?”

  Sebastian paused. “You could say that.”

  Tansy weighed her words with care. Sebastian might have been friends with Darcy’s son, but that didn’t mean he could be trusted. Violence, bloodshed, and murder stained the Sandoval family history, and Sebastian could easily be part of it all. He could have been the one to send Diego to Eva’s house. “What do you know about Darcy’s family?”

  “I’ve read her diary. I know her story right up until the time she left Chile.”

  Tansy inhaled. “You’ve read Darcy St. John Sandoval’s diary?”

  He glanced at her. “Yes. Why?”

  “Because it would be of great help to me in my research,” she said, attempting to keep her tone neutral.

  “Can it explain why she left her only child behind and took off to the U.S.?”

  “According to the letters she sent her mother, Darcy couldn’t take him out of the country with her. She knew that while she might not be safe in Chile, her son would be loved and cared for.”

  “The last few entries...” Sebastian turned to the glass doors to stare at the glittering city lights. “She sounded terrified, but she never explained why.”

  “I believe she thought it was the only way to keep her son safe.” Tansy recalled the tear-stained words of Darcy’s correspondence. She’d been so afraid for her son that she never revealed the boy’s name.

  Sebastian didn’t respond, and she reached out a tentative hand to touch him. “You must have been very close to him.”

  “You could say that,” he repeated, the words barely a growl.

  She brushed her fingers across his hand with caution, th
e way one might approach a wounded animal.

  “She loved her son...” she started.

  Sebastian resumed pacing. “She left him.”

  “She didn’t think she had a choice,” Tansy retorted.

  He faced her, the force of his fury making him both handsome and fearsome all at once. “There. Is. Always. A choice.”

  Tansy wanted to argue, but knew it would be pointless. Besides, she hadn’t read the diary.

  “And she stole something from the Sandovals.”

  Tansy suppressed a shudder. He knew about the walking stick. A topic she did not want to broach. No matter his connection to the Sandovals, he wasn’t the person to whom she could safely return the heirloom. She rubbed her face with both hands, suddenly bone-weary and desperate to change the subject.

  “I’m exhausted. And hungry.” She turned, walked into the kitchenette, and opened the refrigerator. She stared at the contents with blind eyes. Nothing tempted her, despite her growling stomach. She closed the door and sucked in air.

  Sebastian had followed her, and he was close enough she could smell his cologne, the sandalwood and leather scent tickling her nose.

  She steeled herself. He was tempting, but in a way she knew she should avoid.

  “Why was Diego in Colorado?”

  Tansy pinched her brows together. “How would I know?”

  “Did you speak to him? Did he contact you?”

  She shook her head, realizing when she backed into the counter that Sebastian was advancing, cornering her like a prey animal. That ticked her off. She stepped toward him and fisted her hands on her hips. “All I know is that he’s capable of breaking into a house.” That, at least, was completely true.

  Sebastian made a noise. A rumbling sound that reminded her of a Siberian tiger she’d seen once at the zoo. “Why were you there?”

  Tansy turned toward the cupboards above the sink. She opened them on pretense of finding something to eat. She had to keep the walking stick out of the conversation.

  “There’s nothing in that cabinet.”

  Tansy blinked. He was right. The cupboard was empty. Not even a box of stale crackers or canned goods graced its shelves. She closed it, turning to face him again.

  “Why were you at Eva St. John’s house?”

  “I was picking up things for the trip.”

  “What things?”

  A muscle between her shoulder blades twitched.

  “My airplane tickets, and the traveler’s checks that were later stolen, if you must know.” She flinched, feeling the weight of the walking stick and the frothy feel of the party dress in her arms. She sidestepped him, turned, and jerked open a different cabinet. This one held food. Or at least it held boxes with semi-familiar graphics. She reached for one with pictures that resembled cookies.

  Sebastian plucked it out of her hand.

  “I’ll have the restaurant send over our pizza.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I promised you a meal. We didn’t have it. We’ll have it now.” His mouth curved into that disarming smile and for a second she forgot the bizarre situation between them. He pulled out his phone and sent a message.

  “I don’t expect you to continue with our agreement,” she said.

  His brows rose until they nearly touched his hairline. He looked so affronted she almost smiled.

  “I vowed to introduce you to Chile. Now that I know what you’re writing about...” He shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. “Now I am compelled to show you all the wonders my nation has to offer.” He accented his words until he sounded almost comical.

  With difficulty, Tansy tamped down her visceral response to his charm. “Thank you, but I think...”

  “I don’t want to think, Tansy.” He leaned in, dipping his head toward her mouth.

  Tansy’s eyes flickered and her lips parted involuntarily, and then she remembered her assignment, and Diego, and that this man was, by virtue of those two facts, anathema to her, no matter how appealing she found him. She put up her hands to push him away, but met air. He’d already stepped back, out of reach. Humiliation washed over her.

  “I’m sorry. I took advantage,” he offered.

  She heard genuine remorse in his voice, and that made her angry. “I was involved, too.”

  He laughed, but the sound was harsh. “That makes me feel better.”

  Tansy was glad for the solid support of the counter behind her since her knees were trembling. “It takes two to tango,” she quipped. “Are you familiar with that saying?”

  He paused and then nodded. “Still, I overstepped my role.”

  “As tour guide?”

  He nodded.

  Tansy flushed, stomping hard on a silly wish that he could be more to her. No, her best bet was to accept his hospitality and use his connection to the Sandovals to find the patriarch, return the stupid walking stick, and get out of South America as fast as the nearest international flight could carry her.

  He followed her back into the living room.

  She moved her laptop and files off the small table while Sebastian watched her. Neither of them spoke.

  The knock on the door startled them both.

  He looked back at her with a blank expression she knew mirrored her own.

  “Pizza. You called for delivery,” she said.

  His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I did, didn’t I?” He moved toward the door. Sebastian accepted the food and two colas in paper cups from a housekeeper.

  “Gracias.” He nodded, closing the door.

  “Let me help you with that.” Tansy stepped toward him just as he turned, and the cups toppled. Ice and soda gushed across the box and drenched him from chest to thigh.

  “Oh!” Tansy gasped and grabbed for the cups, catching them before they tumbled to the floor, but the damage was done. “I’m so sorry. You’re soaked.”

  Sebastian grimaced. “It’s all right.” He pushed the box toward her. “If you would take the pizza? I’ll get cleaned up.”

  Tansy set the now-empty cups on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchenette from the living area, then took the flat box from his arms.

  “The bathroom is...” she started to point, but then remembered he owned the building. “Yeah, you probably know where it is.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, pretending to ignore the teasing glint in his eyes.

  ****

  Sebastian closed the bathroom door. He stripped out of his jacket, draped it over the shower curtain, and pulled his shirt over his head. He used a towel to blot moisture from the material. After a few seconds, he conceded defeat. It was beyond the aid of a towel. He glanced at the jacket. It had survived most of the deluge, but how absurd would it look to wear the jacket without a shirt underneath? He grimaced. The easiest thing to do would be to run upstairs to his own apartment, change, and come back, but then he’d have to admit he not only owned the building, he lived in it.

  He placed his hands on either side of the sink and looked at his reflection. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. Then he reached for the jacket, slipped it on, and wadded the shirt and towel into a damp, sticky ball for the laundry.

  “I called the concierge,” Tansy announced when he returned to the living room. She’d set out paper napkins on the coffee table with the pizza box. “They said they could bring up a shirt for you, and more drinks. I’ll pay for it, of course.”

  “You will do no such thing. I’ll just put this by the door to take with me.” He pulled a trash bag from under the sink and shoved the soggy wad inside. As he dropped the bag by the door, the buzzer sounded.

  The same housekeeper who had brought the pizza and drinks held out two bottles of soda and a shirt—one of his own—on a wire hanger.

  The night concierge was more observant than Sebastian had given him credit for. A raise was in order.

  Sebastian handed the sodas to Tansy and then returned to the bathroom. When he exited, he added the damp jacket to the bag by the front door, r
an his hands through his hair, and exhaled.

  “This is the pizza that may never be eaten,” he said.

  Tansy laughed. The lilting, musical sound made him want to make her laugh again.

  “Hurry and sit down before something else happens,” Tansy replied, dropping into the chair and reaching for a slice.

  A half-hour later, Sebastian wasn’t sure what was better: his favorite meal, or watching Tansy ooh and ahh over it. She was on her third helping, which pleased him. He hated when women picked at their food.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get to enjoy this at the restaurant,” he said between bites.

  “That’s one of the awesome things about pizza. It’s good no matter where, or when, or what temperature it’s at when you eat it.”

  “True.” It would be difficult to mistrust a woman with such an obvious affection for pizza, but Sebastian couldn’t ignore the niggling doubt in the back of his mind that she knew more than she was letting on. “How long have you known Eva?” The question felt stilted, awkward. The only abuela Sebastian had ever known was Chilean.

  Tansy used a paper napkin to wipe a droplet of garlic butter off her chin. “A year or so. She and I belong to the same church. Our pastor approached me about writing her memoir. I was...er...between projects at the time.”

  “Meaning you were out of work?” Suspicion rose. If she was out of work, she was probably struggling financially, and that meant she was a likely target for a Vargas family get-rich-quick scheme.

  “I’m a freelancer,” she explained. “I go from project to project.” Her skin flushed, and she averted her eyes, answering his question.

  “I assume she’s paying you well to write her memoir?”

  “Actually, no. I’m doing it for free.” She placed her crust on the paper plate and brushed crumbs from her fingers.

  “Free?” He choked, coughed, took a drink.

  “Yes, free. Gratis. No charge. Eva took care of my expenses to come here, but I’m not charging her to write her story.”