by Cindy Gerard
“Indications are that she is, yes.”
“Where? Where is she?”
Again, he glanced around, clearly afraid of being caught talking with her. He reached for her hand, pressed a folded sheet of paper into her palm, and closed her fingers around it. “Don’t look at it now. Wait until you’re clear of here and certain no one followed you. Please, tell no one I spoke with you, and whatever you do, do not contact me. My life will be worth nothing if you do.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Why are you taking such a chance?”
“I respect you, Mrs. Weber. I respect what you do. And I know the child’s abduction has wounded you. I want to help. And I want you to know that the majority of the GN do not condone violence.”
“Then what would you call the attack on the British contingent at the airport?”
“Deplorable,” he said with a sincerity that made her believe him. “I have to go before we are seen together.”
“Seen by whom? If someone here tonight is responsible for this—”
He shook his head. “I must go.”
She grabbed his arm when he turned to leave. “Please, if you know who’s responsible for abducting Lola, you must tell me.”
A look of such stark guilt and regret came over his face that for a moment, she thought he would tell her.
A shot rang out in the distance.
She jumped away from him, then realized it was just a car backfiring. It hadn’t only spooked her. Vega looked as if he’d been marched in front of a firing squad.
“Please,” she pleaded again as her heart went haywire.
“I’ve already risked too much. God speed you on your search. I pray you will find her.”
“Wait.” She reached out to stop him again, but he’d already disappeared into the shadows.
She was alone with her pounding heart and fractured breath.
“Let’s get out of here.” Wyatt’s voice startled another gasp out of her.
When she spun around, he was standing right behind her. “How do you do that?”
“Practice.”
“Did you hear?”
“Yeah.” He gripped her elbow. “We need to go.”
“I’ll have to make excuses.”
“Plead a headache,” he said, and steered her back to the theater.
By the time they made their way through the crowd—many of whom felt a need to express their concern over her “ghastly situation”—and a valet showed up with her car, she didn’t have to fake the headache. A dull, hard throb had settled deep at the base of her skull. Too much adrenaline. Too much drama. She prayed that it wasn’t also too much to hope that Vega had actually given them a lead on Lola.
“It’s a map.” Sophie studied the sheet of paper under the dome light as Wyatt sped away from the theater. “Looks like it was scribbled with a pencil, very crude. Also looks like it’s been through a war.”
“Or drawn under duress,” Wyatt said, glancing at the paper.
Oh, God. She held it closer to the light. The paper had been crumpled, sweated on, possibly bled on. “Torture? You think that whoever drew this was tortured into cooperating?”
He glanced at her, then looked back to the road. “I don’t think they got results with ‘pretty please.’”
Her stomach rolled. This was just too … real.
She couldn’t let herself think about how Vega had come by the information. She had to think about Lola. “It’s got to be a map to where they’re holding Lola, right?”
“That would be the best-case scenario, yeah.”
“And the worst?”
“It could be a setup.”
She shook her head. “No. I believe Vega. I’ve worked with him. Jorge has always been a straight shooter. His own sister was abducted and murdered when they were both children. He was responding to that. I know it.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
She ignored the skepticism in Wyatt’s voice, stared at the map for a moment then looked up at the windshield. “There’s one thing I don’t get. If Vega didn’t want anyone to know he was talking to me, why didn’t he simply mail the map to me? Even e-mail it? Or just give it to the waiter in the first place?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Mail or e-mail is easily intercepted. If Vega’s GN, then he’s no stranger to subterfuge. He’d never count on a waiter to deliver it. He’d rather take a chance that you wouldn’t show up than risk someone intercepting the map. There also might have been some pride involved or possibly a need for retribution. Whatever his reasons, he definitely wanted you to think that he and his GN buddies aren’t the bad guys in this.”
“I believe him,” she insisted, reflecting back on her conversation with Jorge. “He was scared to death.”
“That just tells us he’s a good actor.
“Okay,” he conceded when she scowled at his continued skepticism, “it could tell us that he’s not stupid. MS-13 takes no prisoners. If GN really isn’t responsible for Lola’s abduction, then Vega’s wise to be afraid that whoever is may have been at the benefit or that someone who was there could have been reporting back.
“Think about it,” he went on. “Everyone from the police commissioner to FMLN political heads to GN leadership was in attendance tonight. It was a who’s who of the wealthy and corrupt.”
“I can’t believe that everyone is on the take,” she said, feeling the need to defend. “Some of those people are my friends.”
“Like Montoya?”
His face was mostly in shadows, but it wasn’t necessary to see his expression to get his underlying message; the disdain in his tone pretty much told her what he thought about Diego. So had that little power play of a handshake.
Testosterone, meet my friend, Testosterone.
“You didn’t like Diego,” she surmised, shaking her head over the way the two of them had acted.
“I didn’t like him,” he agreed without a nanosecond of hesitation.
She was tired. And while she understood that it was his “job” to be suspicious, she was suddenly tired of his attitude about Diego. Especially after what Diego had offered to do tonight.
“So, because you don’t like him, that automatically slots him into the wealthy and corrupt category,” she said wearily.
“If the custom-made Italian loafers fit …”
“Come on, Wyatt. Diego’s wealthy, yes. But corrupt? I don’t see that.”
He had nothing to say to that. He just shifted his grip on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the street ahead.
She thought about her private conversation with Diego at the theater …
“Querida, it pains me to see how hard this is on you. I am here if there is anything you need,” he assured her kindly. “There is sure to be a ransom demand.”
She swallowed and nodded. “We’ve already received one.”
“How much do they require?”
She hesitated.
“Tell me, cara.”
“Half a million dollars,” she said, overwhelmed all over again by the staggering sum of money.
“I can help you with this.”
“Diego.” Stunned by his generosity, she touched a hand to his chest. He quickly covered it with his own. “I couldn’t ask that of you. You don’t even know Lola. For that matter, you and I …”
“Cara,” he interrupted sternly, “you did not ask. I offered. And now is not the time to stand on your principles or to question what does or does not matter between us. Now is the time for action.”
He was right. Lola was all that mattered. “I don’t even know what to say. Thank you, Diego.”
“There. See? There is no point in saying no to me. I always win.”
And that, Sophie thought as headlights from an oncoming car flashed through the windshield, might be the crux of her problem with Diego Montoya. He was a man accustomed to getting his way. In fact, sometimes she wondered what kind of measures he would take to get what he wanted.
She gla
nced at Wyatt, considered telling him about Diego’s offer to pay Lola’s ransom, but decided that little secret could wait until it was absolutely necessary to divulge it. He would only question Diego’s motives.
The truth was, she found herself questioning them herself. Was it really concern for Lola that prompted his generous offer, or was it another ploy in an endless volley of attempts to win her over?
She stared through the windshield. What did it matter? The fact was, she needed Diego’s help. She would deal with his persistence later. Figure out why she couldn’t shake the idea that he was just a little too smooth for her. Just a little too interested, a little too determined, and a little too inclined to believe he was irresistible.
Speaking of irresistible. She glanced at Wyatt, silent and steady behind the wheel. She couldn’t fight the notion any longer that he could easily become irresistible to her. For many reasons. The most striking one was that he didn’t know it. The last time she’d seen him in black tie and tux had been at her wedding. He’d worn both well then, but it had been Hugh who stood out. Hugh who captivated her.
Tonight, however, the man wearing the hastily rented and far from tailored tux had been the one to stand out in a crowd of polished dignitaries and politicians. Wyatt hadn’t even been aware of how many heads had turned when he’d walked by, how many women had given him long, hungry looks and attempted to attract his attention.
She shifted in the seat so she could see his face when they stopped at a red light. A huge security lamp hung over the busy intersection, pouring light into the car.
His white shirt looked pristine and stark against the beginnings of a stubble on his cheek; the hard line of his jaw juxtaposed against the loosened shirt collar was yet another contrast. Both held her in rapt fascination.
He’d loosened the tie she’d so carefully knotted, and she wondered now if he had realized her hands had been shaking when she’d tied it, if he’d been aware of the effect he’d had on her earlier, in the tight confines of the guest bathroom, when she’d treated his cuts. All that blood. All that bare skin and honed muscle. Her lower abdomen clenched again at the memory of his skin beneath her fingertips. Smooth, taut, hot. Wholly, tantalizingly male.
It had been a long time since she’d felt a sexual reaction to a man. Longer still since she’d felt one this primitive. And no one since Hugh had made her want to act on it.
She gave herself a little latitude. She’d been strung wire tight in those moments. So had Wyatt. If he’d had the same reaction, however, he hadn’t shown it. He’d been quiet.
The realization dawned on her slowly. Yes, he’d been quiet. Quiet as he was quiet right now. And now, he definitely wasn’t relaxed. In fact, the look on his face was exactly the same as when she’d tied his tie and cleaned his wounds. Then as now, he wasn’t smiling, and it was the absence of his easy smile—a smile that diminished the hard edges of his face with laugh lines around his eyes and mouth—that gave away his tension.
Did that mean he felt the sexual tension, too? She thought of that wild, ravenous kiss they’d shared long ago one sultry Sunday and not for the first time regretted letting that moment get away. One of many choices she regretted making.
She thought of Hope and prayed she hadn’t made another bad decision when she’d let the Reeds take her away. She checked her watch, wondering when she could expect a call from Johnny or Crystal, letting her know that they’d made it safely to Argentina. A sharp ache of loss seized her when she thought of her daughter. She didn’t realize how deeply she was immersed in missing her until Wyatt cleared his throat.
“So. You and Montoya. Are you two—?” He let his words trail off, lifting a hand as if waiting for her to supply the rest of the question as well as the answer.
She should make it easy on him and say it flat out. She wasn’t “with” Diego. But something stopped her. She didn’t understand why, but she felt a little provoked. Not with Wyatt. At least, she didn’t think so, but it looked as if he was going to bear the brunt of it.
Blame it on the day. The entire day had been a thousand-mile-per-hour assault on her senses, her emotions, her equilibrium. Seeing Wyatt again after all these years, the attack at the airport, coming home to a ransom note, meeting the BOIs, watching strangers take her daughter away, dressing to the nines, then playing not-so-super-spy with Jorge Vega. Maybe it was simply a case of adrenaline overload that got to her. Her fear and building sense of helplessness over Lola. Her worry about Hope. Her untimely and probably unwise attraction to this man.
It was all so crazy. She needed order; she had chaos. She craved control; yet in the last forty-eight hours, she’d lost power over everything important in her life. At least, it felt like she had.
But she could control this moment. At least she could try.
“If you have something to ask me about Diego, Wyatt, then ask.”
If the edge of bitchiness in her tone surprised him, he didn’t let it show. She was about to apologize for taking her foul mood out on him when he broke the silence.
“Forget it. It’s none of my business.”
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong answer. That window for apology slammed shut.
“For God’s sake, Wyatt. You’re risking your life to help me save a child you don’t even know, and you honestly think that you have no right to know my business?”
Another long, heavy silence followed before he turned to her. His eyes were hard. His jaw rigid.
“Two years.” His deep voice was hardly recognizable for the total lack of soft, Southern charm. In fact, there was so much anger in those two words that she recoiled in shock.
He looked back to the street, dragged a hand over his face, and breathed deep. “You’ve been single for two years,” he repeated, getting himself under control, “and you didn’t bother to contact me. So no, Sophie, I honestly didn’t think I had any right to know your business.”
Her own disjointed anger deflated in the face of his and another sudden realization. He wasn’t merely angry because she hadn’t contacted him after the divorce. He was hurt.
A horn honked, startling them both. The light had changed. He hit the gas and drove into the relative darkness again. While she could no longer see his face, she could still remember every nuance of his expression. It was the same expression he’d worn on the day she’d married Hugh.
He’d been hurt then, too. She’d known it then. Had lived with it since.
She’d never intended to, but it seemed she was always hurting this man. And that was the real root of her anger. She was angry with herself.
She stared at her lap. “I’m sorry.”
He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, an attempt to show an indifference she knew he wasn’t feeling. “No need. It’s just the way it is.”
She could tell him. Maybe she should tell him. God knew, she’d wanted to tell him over the years. She’d wanted to run to him even before things went totally sour between her and Hugh and confess that she’d made a mistake. That she’d married the wrong man. That Hugh wasn’t who she’d thought he was. That she’d lain in bed too many nights to count and thought about leaving Hugh and running to him.
She averted her gaze to the passenger-side window. Yeah, she could tell him all of that.
And accomplish exactly what?
Make herself feel better?
Make him feel worse?
Wyatt had loved Hugh. Just as Wyatt had loved her.
She’d always known that, too. Just as she’d always known that if she had gone to him again after that first time she’d cried on his shoulder, he would have let her cry again, told her everything would work out—again—and then, no matter how badly he wanted her himself, he would have sent her home to her husband. Again.
Because that was who he was. Loyal to the end to a man he called brother.
12
Juliana Flores stood back from the frilly four-poster bed with its pretty pink floral coverlet and lace-trimmed pillows and, for the first time in
longer than she could remember, felt something other than sorrow.
She’d decorated this room for Angelina. For a daughter she had adored. She glanced at Angelina’s portrait on the dresser, the last one she’d had taken, and felt pride to see so much of herself in her Angelina’s brown eyes and dark, curling hair.
“She’s a younger version of you, mi amor,” Armando used to say. “However did I get so lucky to have two such beautiful women in my life?”
Lucky. Sí. They had all been lucky once. Lucky to have each other for as long as they had.
She drew a bracing breath, could not allow herself to go to that dark place where she missed them both so much her heart could not bear the pain.
“It’s time for another pretty girl to enjoy this room,” she told herself, running her hand along the bedspread to smooth it. “It’s time there was life in this room again.”
“She’s going to love it.”
Juliana turned to see Nate Black standing in the doorway, his arms full of extra pillows she’d asked him to fetch from the linen closet down the hall in preparation for Hope Weber’s arrival. She suppressed a smile at the sight of this lean, rough-hewn protector, practically drowning in down.
Then again, it seemed she was always compelled to smile around Nate Black. Such a handsome man. A study in contradictions. His beautiful blue eyes were granite-hard and unyielding when he was deep in thought, yet when he smiled, they softened, and the most amazing dimple dented his left cheek. A tall man, more than six feet, both rugged and runner lean, he could easily be imposing, yet there was an innate kindness in his face that disguised the fact that inside his chest beat the heart of a warrior.
“Angelina loved it,” she said with a soft smile, and relieved him of the pillows. “I think she was ten or twelve when we decorated it for her. I always thought she’d outgrow it when she got older, and I think perhaps she did, a little.” She smiled, thinking of twenty-two-year-old Angelina sitting at the delicate Queen Anne dresser, surrounded by hair clips and makeup and perfume. “But she was always a bit of a princess in her heart, so she never redecorated it.”