Chapter 15
Feels
Gemma
BURNT-ORANGE REMNANTS of daylight brush across the darkening sky as I attempt to recover from the teeth-rattling three-mile ride off Baja's trans-peninsular highway.
The drive to the address the pawnshop duo reluctantly gave me turned out to be more than twenty miles south of the crappy motel and it was also in the middle of nowhere. I seriously thought I’d been had, and my heart sank.
Not succeeding means failure in the worst way as far as Enrique is concerned. And with failure comes the very real possibility that I could be shelved for something, no not something, but rather someone, shinier and new.
That can’t happen.
A broken-down shack with sheep and chickens roaming around didn’t look like the kind of place anyone would be warehousing very expensive pieces of art, but then I spotted a bright red barn in the far corner of the property and it was sealed tighter than a vault.
Bingo!
That’s when I knew I was in the right place.
After knocking on the farmhouse door for more than five minutes, someone finally answered. It was an American woman who looked strung out, wearing short-shorts and a dirty tank top.
When I asked for Matías Bermudez, she told me the broker, and I use that term loosely, wasn’t available, and she ordered me to get off her property. She insisted I was trespassing. I offered her a hundred bucks to hear me out. She took it. Turned out the woman was Matías’s wife.
After a long conversation with her about the benefits of working with Mr. Enrique Cruz, she told me to come back tomorrow morning, and she’d make certain her sorry excuse of a husband was home.
Obtaining the remaining pieces of the Andrés Baisden collection of 20th-century Mexican art hasn’t been as easy as Enrique thought it would be. Still, I am determined to purchase them, if only to get back into his good graces—where I need to be, which is why I had Caleb stop at a clothing bazar on the side of the road. Although I told him to wait in the car, he refused. I had to ignore the flaming blush of shame that crept up my cheeks when I purchased the white lingerie Enrique had instructed me to buy.
Another bump has me careening out of my seat. I glare to my left. My bodyguard, babysitter, security detail, or whatever you want to call him is behind the wheel with his lips pressed tightly together. Mine are as well. I haven’t told him anything about my conversation with the woman at the door, other than I’m to come back tomorrow.
The silence hangs between us like deadweight.
Whether it’s the secrets, the attraction, or the man between us, I don’t know.
I say nothing and neither does he. I have good reason to keep my mouth shut. He, if I had to guess, is simply brooding and moody all the time.
My suspicions about him have peaked and my need for answers is unrelenting. Luckily, we have twenty-four hours to burn and I plan to spend them getting answers. “I’m hungry,” I tell him.
Those emerald pools glance over at me and I swear he can see right through to my dark soul. “There’s a place about a mile up the road.”
“Does it serve tequila?” I ask.
Without Enrique around, I can allow myself the freedom of drinking with no worry that my mask of purity will slip or that my true intentions will bleed through the cracks of it.
“Is there any place in Mexico that doesn’t?” he smirks.
“Good point,” I laugh, and try to recall the last time I actually laughed and meant it. More than four years ago would be my guess. Maybe I needed this little getaway more than I realized, even if I am spending it with a liar.
A harsh word, I know, but he’s not here to protect me. He’s lying to Enrique, or to me, or to the both of us.
I mean, come on, he tried to kidnap me less than forty-eight hours ago. Yes, I think he was my attacker at the old cigar factory. Assuming it was him from the use of the word sweetheart alone, though seems a bit insane, even to me. Then there’s the fact that he’s been alone with me for more than twenty-four hours and I’m still untethered, alive, and breathing.
It’s as if he’s two different men.
Or I’m simply wrong and being overly paranoid.
There’s also a possibility that even if he was there, he might not know it was me with him. The sun was really bright, the hallways were really dim, and the chaos of the moment took place in a whirlwind.
The SUV comes to a stop in front of a lime green building painted with pictures of bottles of Corona and glasses of Margaritas. The flashing neon sign reads, “El Pescadoro.” There are a good number of cars in the parking lot, so I assume the place is popular, especially since it’s a Tuesday night.
Caleb gets out, but he doesn’t circle around to open my door. Instead he heads inside.
Shocked, I sit in the car for at least five minutes stewing. Sure, I told him not to talk to me or look at me, but I didn’t mean it. Not in the way he’s taking it.
Doesn’t he understand that?
He’s supposed to be protecting me, and he’s doing a really crappy job of it. Storming in after him to tell him so, I’m surprised how packed the place is. There are patrons at the bar, on the dance floor, and sitting at tables. It takes me a few seconds to spot him.
Mr. Caleb Holt, in all his broad glory, is sitting at a booth in the very back. His long legs stretch to one side and his unruly sandy brown hair curls up from the heat. Everything else about him is cold and composed. It’s the story of my life, and I’m sick of it.
Practically running in his direction, I can feel my body trembling as I flop down in the seat across from him. “Are you always such an asshole?” I ask him.
His jaw ticks and I can’t tell if he’s suppressing a smirk or trying to hold back his own anger. “I don’t know, that depends. Are you always such a bitch?”
The waitress comes to the table before I can respond. She places a bottle of beer with a lime wedged into the neck in front of him and a Margarita in front of me. “Here you go, and I’ll bring your food right out,” she says in half English, half Spanish.
“Gracias,” Caleb responds, and without looking at me takes a sip of his beer.
Somehow the drink in front of me diffuses my anger. I squeeze the lime over the frosty flakes of ice, lick at the salt, and then take a long sip. The heat out here is crazy hot, the air stifling, and the dangerous chemistry between my babysitter and I is suffocating.
After I finish half of my drink, I dare to chance a glance over at him. Whether I’m afraid he’s looking at me or not looking at me, I have no idea, but the fact that his eyes are on me, watching me, studying me, waiting for my response thrills me. I try to calm the throbbing pulse in my neck. “I’m not always a bitch,” I tell him, “but you seem to bring it out in me.”
Setting his beer bottle on the scratched, wooden surface, he crosses his arms over his chest. Skeptical, he arches both brows. “And why is that?”
I take another sip of my margarita. “I don’t know. Do you want to tell me the truth or would you rather continue with this game we’re playing?”
Caleb chuckles darkly. “If I were playing a game, sweetheart, you’d be lying under me right now and not sitting across from me.”
Three things shine bright from that comment. First, it doesn’t get past me that he just openly admitted he is attracted to me. Second, he has a dirty side that I want him to let out more often. And finally, I now know without a doubt, it was him at the old cigar factory.
Sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
A crazy laugh of unbelievability fizzes from my throat. “You do know that if Enrique knew you were talking to me like that, he’d fire you.”
He pins me with that dark emerald stare. “And I’m pretty certain you know I give zero fucks about what Enrique thinks.”
My mouth drops that he just admitted that freely.
Chips and salsa are delivered to the table along with another margarita for me, and this time it’s fishbowl-sized. Caleb must have told the waitress to keep the drinks coming.
Guess he knows I need the buzz.
Not certain if his motive is genuine, and not really caring, I grab a chip and dip it in the robust salsa. It’s spicy, and the chips are fresh from the fryer. With a chip in my hand, I point my finger at him. “That’s what I don’t get about you. He’s your boss and I’m his—” I stop.
“His mistress,” Caleb finishes for me, nursing his one beer.
I don’t bother to correct him. Technically, the definition of the word mistress is, “a woman having an extramarital sexual relationship with a married man.”
Enrique and I aren’t in a sexual relationship, but what we are engaged in might be even worse. It’s taboo. Wrong. Illicit. Freaky. And admitting it out loud is more than I can handle right now, so I let him believe I’m Enrique’s mistress.
It’s easier.
And I’m so over things being complicated.
Caleb grabs a chip, bites down on it, chews, and then licks the salt from his lips. “Here’s the thing, Gemma, I work for him.”
I raise a brow. “At least you’ve stopped calling me by my last name.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll call you whatever you want me to. It doesn’t change the fact that my job is to protect you. Here’s the thing, I can only do that if you let me. Going into buildings without me, knocking on doors without me, running away from me, telling me not to talk to you or look at you, none of that helps me do my job.”
I sip my margarita and then set the glass down. “I didn’t really mean the last two when I said them yesterday,” I admit. “I was just mad.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t tell.”
The invisible lines I’d drawn for us are blurring with each ounce of tequila I drink, and for once, I don’t care. I don’t care because I’m free of Mr. Enrique Cruz for a little while and it feels so good. I don’t care because I’m with a guy who’s more gorgeous than a man should ever be. And I don’t care because I know this man is hiding something and I’m pretty certain he knows I know that, and in his words, gives zero fucks.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask him.
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Protecting me.”
“Because it’s how I’m going to pay my rent this month,” he deadpans.
“So, money is the only reason?”
“What other reason could there possibly be for hauling your ass all the way to Mexico in the heat and putting up with your bullshit?”
“Some ulterior motive, perhaps? A reason you want to get close to Enrique?”
He lifts his brooding gaze. “Yeah, like I told you, money.”
The food arrives—baskets of tacos and burritos, and we both start eating, saying very little.
When we’re both finished and I’ve had another margarita or two, I say, “Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Where you went to school, if you have a girlfriend, or how you got that scar on your face?”
“Laguna Beach, no, and I got in a fight, and the knife won,” he replies flatly.
I blink, surprised he answered all three questions and shocked at the lack of emotion behind his answers. “Wow, you’re such a conversationalist, I can hardly stand myself.”
“You bring it out in me,” he says with a sly smile.
A smile that makes my heart beat wildly, even while it’s being held captive by the rusty cage in my chest.
A smile that makes me wet and wanton.
A smile that makes me feel safe.
He’s dangerous.
I finish my drink and hold up a finger for another.
The feeling is false, of course. It’s not real. But alcohol has a way about her, and tonight I give zero fucks about the reality of San Diego.
Tonight, my reality is Mexico. My reality is the mouthwateringly gorgeous, tall, dark, and handsome, boy-next-door with the rebel attitude.
Sure, he screams trouble. And yes, he is the kind of boy my mother would have warned me away from if she were still alive.
And she would be if Enrique hadn’t killed her.