I glance at the Rolex on my wrist and then back to the closed bedroom door where Emilia is hiding. The Target bags still sit in a pile just inside the front door, and her iced coffee is on the counter, becoming room temperature as the minutes pass. I watch the ice slowly dissolve and the condensation roll down the side of the plastic cup, pooling on the granite counter that it sits on. I decide to wait another thirty minutes or so before I force her out here to eat dinner. Rosa, my housekeeper, made lasagna and it’s almost done. I lean against the island as I sip on a beer, my eyes never leaving her door. I’m not a patient man, but I could tell she needed time to herself to calm down, and quite frankly, I needed to figure out what to say to her. What to tell her—or rather, what I can tell her—about me. Finally, I spot the nickel door handle begin to slowly turn, and Emilia peeks her head out.

“You’ve been crying.” My fingers grip the edge of the counter, rooting me in place. I want so badly to pull her into my arms and comfort her. Her sad, puffy eyes find mine, and I feel guilty.

She nods slowly. “I don’t understand—”

“You wouldn’t,” I cut her off.

She exhales loudly in frustration. “Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t.” I run my fingers through my short hair in frustration.

“You won’t,” she argues.

I laugh, setting the beer bottle on the kitchen counter in frustration. It clanks against the granite, echoing in the open space. She’s pushing me, and while it angers me, it’s that spark in her eye that excites me.

“You’re intuitive, Emilia.”

“You’re evasive.” She crosses her arms stubbornly over her chest.

“Because I have to be,” I insist. She doesn’t understand that this has to do with her safety. But I don’t tell her that. It’d scare her away.

She approaches and plants herself directly in front of me, her pink lips pursed, eyes narrowed. She’s angry. The strap of her tank top hangs off one shoulder, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to reach out and brush my fingers across her soft skin. She tightens the cross of her arms, lifting her breasts higher, and I can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like in my hands.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because of who I am.”

Her expression is simultaneously hurt, curious, and a little scared. “Who are you?”

I ask myself that same damn question all the time. Who am I?

I pause, searching for the words to describe exactly who I am. I knew she’d ask me. And for the last thirty minutes, I’ve sat here and wondered what I would tell her. I should tell her the truth. I’m evil. I run my father’s business. We smuggle drugs, guns, and people across the U.S./Mexican border.

Instead, I offer her lies. “I’m an international businessman.”

She cocks her head and raises her eyebrows. “Okaaaay…and?”

“My business is confidential. That’s all I can tell you. It’s for your own safety,” I finally add.

“Safety from what?” I can see her need to know in those eyes, those hazel eyes. “What is so dangerous about what you do?”

I let out a long and tired sigh. “Leave it alone, Emilia. You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me.” Another lie.

“I just don’t understand. Why would I be in danger? You and I are basically strangers.”

I tap my fingers against the granite, choosing my words wisely. “There are some people who will do anything to get to me, or hurt anyone who has access to me.” Now please drop it.

Her eyes grow wide as she absorbs this.

Time to move on. “Let’s eat dinner, and we’ll figure this out later, okay?” The lasagna has been ready for a few minutes, and the house smells of the fresh baked pasta and garlic bread.

We stand in silence, her expression still full of questions.

“C’mon.” I slide my hand into hers and guide her to the dining room off the other side of the kitchen.

“I didn’t know this was here.” Her eyes dance around the room, taking in the expensive imported paintings on the wall. My father spent a small fortune for those in Mexico City. I pull out a chair at the large, round table built just for this room, and she takes a seat.

“That’s because you’ve barely left your room.” I smirk at her.

She raises one eyebrow at me. I love her expressions. She can tell a story with just the expressions on her face. “Do you really want a stranger snooping around your house? I mean, you freaked out when you found me in your pantry.” She sets her cotton napkin in her lap.

“You’re not a stranger, and I didn’t freak out. I was curious. You were in my pantry…in the middle of the night…wearing nothing but a towel.” She drops her eyes to her hands, which are folded in her lap, and I add warmly, “I’ll give you the official tour after dinner.”

I bow my head and whisper a quiet prayer, thanking the Lord for the food before us, for protecting me…and for bringing me Emilia. And then we eat. For being Mexican, Rosa makes the most amazing lasagna I’ve ever tasted.

I eat while Emilia mostly pushes food around her plate. “Not hungry?” I ask her. It bothers me that she doesn’t eat when I know she hasn’t had a good meal in God only knows how long.

She shrugs. “It’s actually really good.”

“Then eat it.”

She picks at her garlic bread with her delicate fingers. “I might’ve found a job,” she says quietly, popping in a small piece of garlic bread. She takes one bite of lasagna, then sets her fork on her plate and pushes it away as if she’s done.

“That was fast. Where?” I want to scream at her to finish her food, but her eyes dance with excitement, so I’ll let this meal pass without badgering her.

She swallows and wipes her mouth. “That little coffee shop in the building next door. Café Au Lait.”

I nod. At least it’s close. I can easily have one of my guys watch her. Discreetly, so she doesn’t know, of course. And this solves the Saul problem, at least while she’s at work. I can’t help but smile.

“I have to turn in the application tomorrow,” she says with her own smile.

I’ll make sure she gets the job.

“Alex.” She hesitates. “I don’t know how much money I’ll make at a coffee shop, but I’ll pay back every penny of what you lent me and rent as well.”

“I’m not worried about the money.” I set the fork down in annoyance that she’s still worried about money and paying back.

“Well, I am,” she says, bothered. “I’ve never taken a handout, and I won’t start now.”

“It’s not a handout,” I make clear.

“Then a loan. I’ll pay you back.” She’s persistent, I’ll give her that.

“Okay,” I relent finally, adding, “But I don’t charge interest on loans.”

She shakes her head and laughs before going quiet again. “About Saul,” she says. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t have to like him. He’s there for protection only, not to be your friend.”

“I don’t trust him either.” She drops her eyes to the table when she tells me.

“I do.” I have to because my father does and I have very few people I trust.

She lets out an aggravated sigh.

Almost as if the words fall out of my mouth, I say, “If you stay, I’ll find someone else for you, Emilia.” If she stays…Now isn’t that a prospect? I hadn’t really thought about her leaving until now. What if she tries to leave? My heart sinks at the thought of her leaving and that irritates me.

Something flickers in her eyes, a fire pulling me from my thoughts of her leaving. Stubbornness maybe? But it looks like something else. “First of all, I don’t need anyone to protect me.”

“It’s not open for negotiation. I’ll find someone else for you.”

She narrows her eyes, cracking a small, suspicious smile. “Seems like a lot of work to keep a roommate. Maybe you’re better off without me here.”

Impossible, I think to myself. I have never felt more comfortable around someone, and I’ve never enjoyed spending my time with someone like I do Emilia. “It’s no problem at all,” I say without hesitation. “I like having you here.”

“I like being here,” she admits shyly.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “C’mon. Let me show you the rest of the place.” I push my plate to the center of the table next to hers.

I stand up, pulling out her chair for her, and she follows me out. Reaching over, I pull her hand into mine, and without hesitation, she lets me. Down the long hallway, I point out each room as we pass.

“My office is here on the left.” The glass French doors allow her to see inside. My oversized desk sits in the center of the room and computer monitors line the edge of the desk.

“That’s a lot of computers,” she remarks.

“Just monitors. One is my computer, and two are security feeds.”

“Security?” Fear flashes through her eyes.

I point to the obscure cameras outside each room. Emilia tenses as she sees the first one.

Trying to lighten the mood, I squeeze her hand and joke, “I have better security here than Fort Knox.” Sadly, it’s practically true.

Her eyes dance from door to door down the hallway, and her head turns to take in all the small cameras tucked carefully into corners. What she doesn’t see are the ones hidden meticulously behind paintings, artwork, and plants. This entire house is under twenty-four/seven surveillance.

“Are they everywhere?”

“Mostly. Not in bathrooms, not in your bedroom. But in the public areas and outside, yes.”

She nods. “For your protection,” she mumbles quietly.

“And yours.”

She shakes her head at my comment, and I squeeze her hand again, tugging her gently toward the open room on the right. “Game room,” I say.

She laughs. “You have a room for games?”

“Over the top?” I ask.

“Little bit.” She rolls her eyes and lets go of my hand as she begins to wander, running her hand over the felt of the large pool table in the center of the room. An enormous flat screen TV hangs from the main wall and an oversized plush couch sits in front of it.

“Where I watch football.” I shrug as she throws herself on the couch and stretches out.

“Are those autographed?” She jumps up from the couch and pads over to the wall full of signed photographs of professional athletes.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, Alex. These must be worth a small fortune.”

I shrug it off and move to the other side of the room. “And this is the bar.” I slide behind the long, wooden bar. The wall behind it is mirrored and stacked with liquor just like you’d find in a neighborhood bar.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles. And again, I’m reminded of the extravagance of my life.

I pull a beer from the small fridge. “Want anything?” I ask as I use a bottle opener to remove the cap from my beer.

She blinks up at the wall of alcohol. “I’ve only drunk twice in my life. Do you have anything fruity?”

I chuckle quietly. “I have wine. Pinot Grigio is pretty light and fruity.”

“Sounds perfect.” A look of shy pleasure crosses her face as she spreads her slender arms over the bar. “A glass of Pinot Grigio, please.”

I nod and pull out an expensive bottle from the wine cooler built into the bar. I’ll keep the price to myself. I uncork the wine and let it sit for a few minutes while Emilia walks every inch of the game room and takes in every picture, every detail.

“Do you play darts?” She runs her fingertips across the cork dartboard affixed to the far wall.

“Sometimes. I like pool better.” I nod to the pool table as I pour a small amount of wine into a glass and swirl it around.

She watches me…studies me as I walk across the room to meet her with the wine. “I’ve never played pool,” she admits. “But it looks easy enough.”

“It takes skill…a good eye. I’ll teach you sometime.” I’ve only played pool once in this house since I’ve lived here. Emilia is right. Everything is extravagant and over the top.

She takes a sip of her wine and leans against the side of the pool table. “I’d like that.”

So would I. I could teach her how to hold a stick, how to aim for the one ball you want, how to shoot in a way that you never miss a pocket. I imagine the feel of her soft body pressed up against me as I lean over her, my nose pressed into her hair, my lips skimming the top of her ear.

“What else do I need to see?” She ambles toward the hallway, cutting off my impure thoughts.

I clear my throat, regaining control. “Down the hall is the laundry room. But Rosa will do your laundry. Just leave it in your room.”

She pulls her head back as if that idea is preposterous. “I can do my own laundry.”

Of course this girl has never been spoiled before. I aim to change that. I keep my voice light. “That’s why I have Rosa. If she doesn’t have work to do, I’ll have to let her go.” I wink at her. “You don’t want me to fire Rosa, do you?” She narrows her eyes at me and rolls them again. I laugh at her. “And the end of the hall on the right is the gym, and on the left is my room.” I pause, but Emilia keeps walking. She twists the handle and pushes my bedroom door open, entering without hesitation. I follow closely behind her.

“Holy mother of…” She presses her hands over her mouth in shock.

“It’s not that outrageous,” I say somewhat defensively.

“Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me?” she bellows. “There’s a waterfall in your room.”

I frown. “It’s not a waterfall; it’s a water wall,” I correct her.

She laughs. “A water wall. Excuse me.”

I’ve never been embarrassed of my wealth, but having Emilia point out every over-the-top opulence has me feeling guilty.

“We didn’t have running water in our trailer sometimes, and here you have a wall of it!”

I swallow hard as she points out the absurdity of the large piece of glass that separates the bedroom from the bathroom. Water runs down the glass and creates a privacy barrier between the two rooms. I swallow hard as her reality weighs on me. She has a point. But I love my water wall. It’s soothing, helps me calm my racing mind and sleep.

She stands in front of it, closing her eyes as she listens. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. “I love the sound of water. Like a creek or a river. It’s naturally relaxing.”

I copy her, closing my own eyes and simply listening to sound of the water trickling down the glass and hitting the smooth river rocks at the bottom.

Then I startle when she shrieks, “And this bed! I’ve never seen a bed this big. What size is this?”

“Custom,” I mumble and run my hand over my face.

“No shit,” she says. “Look!” She sets her glass of wine on the nightstand. “If I reach my arms and legs out, there’s still at least a foot on every side.”

She lies down on the bed and stretches out just as she’s describing. My cock twitches as I look at her sprawled out on my bed. Her short jean shorts barely cover the most private areas, and her long legs are spread wide. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, and her long hair is splayed across the light gray bedding. Fuck, if I thought she was beautiful before, that was nothing in comparison to this image, right now.

She giggles and sits up. “I bet your girlfriend loves this.” She reaches for her glass of wine and presses it against her plump bottom lip. I want to taste those lips. The desire is almost too much that I have to clench my hands into fists at my sides. We need to get out of my bedroom.

She tilts her head back and swallows another sip of wine, the soft flesh of her neck calling me. Fuck me, I want to taste that too. I want to taste all of her.

My entire body is heating, and I take three breaths to cool down when I finally reply, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Why not?” She looks confused, as if someone like me would never be without a girlfriend.

I shrug. “Hasn’t been a priority.”

“Huh.” She swings her legs over the edge of the mattress and slides off, carrying her glass of wine with her across the bedroom.

Thank the fucking Lord.

But then she heads straight for the only sacred place in my room, the chest of drawers that holds everything worth anything to me. “Who’s this?” she asks, pointing to one of the picture frames along the top.

“My dad.” I exhale loudly. Can we leave now?

She doesn’t say anything, but studies the picture for a few moments before setting it down and picking up another one.

“Is this her?” She finds the one picture I keep of my mom. The picture of how I want to remember her—her smiling face, eyes full of love. Not the one of her lying on the bathroom floor, her skull littered with bullet holes.

I shake off the memory. “It is,” I say quietly.

“She’s…beautiful.”

“She was.” I nod in agreement. This picture represents the only good I ever had in my life. Life was good when my mom was alive. She knew how to make the bad good. I swallow hard.

“How old was she here? She looks so young.”

“About twenty-five in that picture,” I say, taking the frame from Emilia’s hands. “I think I was five when this was taken. She had us very young.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” she asks softly.

I pull another picture frame from the top of the chest and hand it to her. It’s a family picture of my dad, my mom, my brother, and me.

“You have a brother?” she whispers.

“Had,” I say bitterly. “We were twins.”

“Did he die too?” Instant regret fills her eyes. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“It’s okay. He’s not dead, but…he’s no longer a part of our family. He hasn’t been since we were seven. So he’s dead to me.”

“Jesus,” she hisses and sucks in a breath. “So you don’t talk to him?”

I actually laugh out loud. “Uh, no.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“I do.”

“Maybe you should—”

I cut her off. “Let it go, Emilia.” My voice is firm but gentle. She needs to know I’m not willing to discuss it. “The past is in the past. It’s dead—he’s dead to our family. Leave it there.”

Emilia sets the frame back on the chest before turning to me. “You know what I don’t understand? I would do anything to have a family. To have one person that loved me, and you…you write off a brother you haven’t seen since you were seven.”

My jaw hardens. “Emilia, it’s a very complicated story—of which I’m not about to go into detail. Just know that it’s what’s best. For my family and for him.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to be alone, do you? To have no one?” Her eyes fill with sadness, and her words strike me.

I’ve always had my father and our cartel “family,” although they’re not blood related. “No, I don’t know what that’s like.”

Her eyes sparkle with the slightest hint of tears, but her voice doesn’t waver. “Let me fill you in, Alex. It’s the worst feeling in the world. To have not one person I’m able to call or depend on. I could die tomorrow and who would care? No one. I have no one to celebrate birthdays with, or holidays, or call when something exciting happens. It’s just me. I’ve never felt so lost in a world full of so many people. I would kill to have a brother—hell, I’d kill to have one person love me—care for me.” Even though her words seem hopeless, there is strength behind them, behind that sadness, and passion behind that loneliness.

She stands close enough that I can smell the sweet wine on her breath, and I feel her vulnerability as her lower lip trembles. Before I use caution and think, I pull her to me and capture those lips with my own. I expect her to resist, but she doesn’t. Instead, she lets her head fall back as I claim her.

With just one kiss, I know I’ll never have enough of her. “I care, Emilia.”