Chapter 19
Walk It Talk It
Gemma
THE DOOR OPENS with a creak and a tall, thin guy with gray hair wipes his mouth on a paper napkin before stuffing it in his pocket.
The man looks to be in his late fifties. He’s wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. Tan Dockers. Leather sandals. And he’s very tan.
Neat.
Clean.
Kempt.
Nothing like I expected.
“Welcome to the desert, Gemma,” he greets and then his eyes shift to Caleb before darting back to mine. “I was told you were alone.”
I can hear Spanish in his voice, but it isn't overwhelming. A slight accent covered by way of time spent in the United States.
I extend my hand. “Mr. Bermudez, nice to meet you. This is Caleb, my associate. I probably should have mentioned him to your wife when I was here yesterday. I’m sorry for the confusion.”
He does not accept my hand at first. “Is he here for your protection? Because if so, I want to reassure you protection is not needed.”
“Perhaps not here,” I offer, speaking honestly.
A few more moments pass, and then he takes my hand. “I understand,” he says, and then he offers his hand to Caleb. “It’s fine. And you may both call me Matías. Come in.”
He steps back and Caleb steps in front of me, assessing the surroundings before placing his hand on my back and guiding me in.
I hate that I shiver under his touch. That I can’t control my body’s reaction to him. It’s a weakness I have to try harder to hide.
As soon as I cross the threshold, I can smell bacon, eggs, and coffee. I glance around. The place isn’t exactly homey. It’s modestly furnished and fairly clean. On the table is a plate. One plate. Not two.
I can hear Family Feud in the distance.
Through the doorway to the living room I can see the American woman sitting on the couch with a look of excitement on her face, but she isn’t watching the television. She’s chopping cocaine into lines on a silver plate and using a platinum card to do so.
Is she like me?
Owned?
Is this how I’ll end up? Serving Enrique his breakfast so I can snort cocaine through a cut-down drinking straw?
“Have a seat.” Matías points to the table.
Caleb sits facing the door and I sit beside him. This is the first time I feel like he’s here for me, like he cares about what happens to me, and the thought makes me nervous. I don’t want anyone to care about me. It only confuses things and makes my life more complicated.
I can’t do complicated.
Matías takes his spot in front of his breakfast and lifts his fork. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
He’s not hospitable in the least. There’s no offer for coffee, which means I’m to cut to the chase. “As I told your wife, Mr. Cruz wants to purchase the remaining pieces in the Andrés Baisden collection.”
The man frowns. “Sally only mentioned Mr. Cruz was interested in making a purchase. What he wished to purchase wasn’t mentioned. I’m sorry you wasted your time, but those pieces aren’t for sale.”
I cock my head sideways, unsure if he’s telling the truth or flat-out lying. “Mr. Cruz has been told otherwise.”
After chewing a bite of eggs, he deadpans, “Well then, he’s been misinformed. 20th-century Mexican art is hard to come by these days. There aren’t very many pieces commissioned by the post-Mexican Revolution government that go on the free market.”
Caleb makes a noise, and I shoot him a glare before sitting straighter. “Yes, I’m aware of this, which is why these pieces are so special.”
Matías raises his coffee mug to his lips. “Indeed. So I’m sure you must know that if they were indeed for sale, the pieces would come with a very high price tag.”
There’s a noise beside me. It’s Caleb blowing out a frustrated breath. “Look man, do you have the pieces in your possession or not?”
The dealer sets his cup down. “Yes, I do, but as I said, they aren’t for sale.”
Caleb opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head at him, warning him to shut-up, and surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything else.
“Mr. Cruz is willing to pay twice the market price for them,” I say.
The man shakes his head. “Tell Mr. Cruz I appreciate his generosity, but like I said, they aren’t for sale.”
The buzzer from the game show dings and when I look into the living room, the American woman is no longer sitting on the couch and the silver plate is completely empty. “Three times the market value,” I add.
He shakes his head.
I look around. The modest surroundings tell me this man makes enough to keep up with his wife’s drug habit and his own predilection for fine things, but not much more. “Ten times over market,” I tell him.
His brows rise in surprise. “You must be joking.”
I shake my head no.
“Ten million dollars for four pieces? That’s crazy.”
“No, Matías, that’s an offer you can’t resist,” I smirk.
He stands and offers me his palm. “Tell Mr. Cruz he has a deal. As soon as the money hits my account, I will have the paintings delivered.”
I shake my head once again. “I’m sorry, Matías, but I must insist on seeing the works, and then once I arrange payment, I want to take them with me.”
At first, he hesitates. “It isn’t safe.”
I glance at Caleb. “I’m not alone.”
Caleb stands with all his strength and brawn. “I’ll make sure they arrive without a scratch.”
Matías stares at Caleb for a long while.
Caleb’s expression is fierce, hard even. The brutality in him showing in his green eyes in a way I haven’t seen before.
“Yes, of course, follow me,” Matías finally says.
As I suspected, the pieces were in the climate-controlled barn. I never saw Sally again before we left. I suspect she was resting up for her next hit. I doubted she loved Matías, but I believe he truly loved her.
Perhaps Enrique wasn’t wrong—everything can be bought at the right price.
I look at Caleb and wonder if money can buy his silence or if he’s more like me—out for something money can’t buy.
Like vengeance.
Only time will tell, and we don’t have much of it.
Tick. Tock.