Cold air seared her lungs. Her heart hammered. Her arms ached. Sweat had long ago soaked through her undershirt and clung to her skin, creating a moist layer of damp heat between the still-frigid grip of late winter and her. Everything ached with fatigue and exertion, but Natalia went for another combination.
Jab, cross, left hook.
Right cross, left hook, right cross.
Jab. Jab. Jab.
The bag, old as it was and suspended from the ancient carport in the back, took the abuse without complaint. But it wasn’t enough. Not to banish the memory of Stephen’s last breath—or the way Ethan’s face had gone cold and dark and distant. Not anger. Not shock. Not even judgment had crossed those handsome features. Just . . . a quiet regard as he’d followed her out of the building. A casual glance—one that hadn’t lingered or cut or even really made an effort to look right through her. A single nod, a blank expression, and Ethan had dismissed her from his life as if he hadn’t systematically dismantled hers.
As if she hadn’t believed him.
Trusted him.
Slept with him.
He’d stripped her bare and inspected the pieces with nimble fingers and heated stares. Tasted her moans and devoured her pleas. And he’d believed, for an afternoon, at least, that she was something beautiful. Something wondrous. It had been in his possessive touch—the hand wrapped first around her neck and then around her heart—in the way he’d stroked idle fingers over her skin, tracing imaginary lines and wondering about all-too-real scars.
She’d known it couldn’t last. That sooner or later he’d see her for who she was instead of who he wanted her to be.
She just hadn’t expected the loss to haunt her. To hurt her when she woke, alone and cold and aching for something she’d only had once but would miss for the rest of her life.
So she attacked the bag, hoping that exertion and bone-deep fatigue would chase away the sense of loneliness that had been her constant companion but only now felt like an enemy.
And she ignored the handful of texts saying, “We need to talk” and “Call me” and “This isn’t over.” Because it was over, and she had no intention of dragging it out. If Ethan needed something—more access, different files, a password—then she’d do her best to give it to him. They’d made a deal, after all, and she’d hold up her end because even after everything, she still believed he’d hold up his.
But no more. If he needed something, he could just come out and ask.
Natalia took a break, grabbed a drink of water, and glanced up, counting lights. Second floor, two windows from the right, her uncle’s office.
The dim glow of his desktop lamp lit the window. Great. He’d been spending more and more time in his office. Drinking. Cursing. Yelling. Ever since Stephen’s bombshell revelation of stolen money, Hernan had been spinning out. She didn’t need to have her ear pressed to the door to know why. He’d lost millions, but not of his own money. Oh no, that would have been inconvenient, dangerous only in that it made it known he was vulnerable. Weak. But he’d lost millions of the cartel’s dollars—and now Colombia knew, too.
She tossed her water bottle to the corner and went back to the bag.
So many outlets to choose from. Her uncle’s stupidity. Ethan’s predictability. Her own stupidity.
She settled on the last one and put together a combination that would leave her aching tomorrow.
“So angry,” Carlos said, stepping in close to hold the bag for her. “But with yourself?” he asked, peering at her around the bag. “Or the accountant?”
“Milner was a complication. I killed him. End of story,” she huffed, wiping away the hair plastered against her forehead, and launching another volley of hits.
“You did not spread your legs for Milner.”
She stopped midswing to stare at him.
He laughed. “You confirm it.”
“Think so?” she asked, shifting her weight back and forth, wondering if she would ever have any secrets from this man.
“Always, your eyes go to him. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.” He grinned. “Passion and anger—always the same for you.”
Jab, uppercut, cross.
“I wanted to know who he was.” She shrugged. “I parted my legs, and he opened his mouth.” Nausea clawed at the back of her throat, the lie toxic, even if necessary, and close enough to the truth that he might believe it, because she had wanted to know Ethan. “Can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”
“You surprise me, gatita.”
She grunted.
“Bad time to become reckless.”
“Tell it to my uncle.” She exploded against the bag in a final combination, then stopped, the scent of the night and sweat and frustrated effort filling her nose as she pulled at the Velcro of her gloves with her teeth.
“Colombia sent the message.”
She paused in unwrapping her hands to stare at him. She wasn’t surprised. How could she be? The cartel had sent Carlos when it had been a missing accountant and stolen funds. But now there was another thief and millions gone.
“When will it happen?” she asked, forcing herself to start with the easiest, most straightforward question and not go racing headlong into all the others buzzing through her head like a swarm of angry wasps.
“He’s been given three days.” Carlos shook with silent laughter. He’d never been impressed with Hernan’s barked orders or general lack of respect. “Generous, no?” His white teeth flashed and bit through the dark like the warning of a predator circling in close.
“And Ana Maria?” she asked lightly.
He shrugged.
“No one cares for a pretty, harmless little girl,” he finally said. “Your sister poses no threat and holds no appeal. Colombia wants their money, gatita.” He measured out a look, one that carried the weight of a warning. “And no future threats.”
Message delivered, he turned and walked away.
Pretty, harmless little girl.
So the family might spare Ana Maria, at least.
But not her.
Any hope for Natalia rested with a man who could barely look at her. She snorted out a laugh. Karma had come to collect in the worst way.
She could roll the dice. Take Ana Maria and run. Spend the rest of her life in one anonymous hellhole after another, waiting for the day Carlos or someone like him finally tracked her down. She might last months. A few years, if she had money. But in the end, death would come—and charge her for the trouble.
It was an old reality, one that hovered constantly, right at the edge, waiting for the day she grew audacious enough to yearn for something more, something better.
Even if Hernan died, no one left the cartel without permission. No one ran—not if they expected to live. Colombia would chase her to the ends of the earth, if only to prove a point. Fear. Control. Penance. They were all absolutes in the cartel. Nothing had changed.
Except that wasn’t entirely true, she thought as she headed back to the house and slipped inside, climbing the back stairs—an old, twisting turn of creaky wood meant for unseen servants and careful feet. Ethan. He’d brought so much change to her life in the span of days that stretched to weeks if she was generous. But he had the resources, the money, the contacts—everything she lacked for a clean getaway.
But could she still trust him to keep his promise?
Where Ana Maria was concerned, yes. Ethan had given his word, and he wore how much that meant to him on his skin like a tattoo for the world to see. In his hands, Ana Maria would be safe.
But would he extend the same courtesy, the same protection, to Natalia—a murderer, a disappointment, a dream he’d taken—only to wake to the ugly reality? Maybe. At least if she had something to barter with. Problem was, she’d already given him everything he’d asked for. Help. Access. Sex. What could she possibly offer him that he didn’t have already?
Nothing.
She turned the knob to her bedroom, dropping her house key in the little porcelain dish on her dresser, and froze. For the second time that night, the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. But this time, the fear didn’t follow.
Just a vague sense of surprise and a punch of lust that raised a flush on her skin. As if she were one pulse point, one nerve ending, one single desperate thought, her body throbbed at the sight of Ethan sitting in the little wooden chair by the window.
“Shimmy up the drainpipe?” she asked, keeping her voice low. He had no business in this house—let alone in her room—and while he probably thought he could justify it, Natalia wasn’t willing to risk their exposure.
“Lattice by the window,” he explained, still and composed and utterly convinced of his welcome. “Sturdier than it looks.”
“My mother wanted climbing roses,” she said with a shrug. “Surprised it held your weight.”
Ethan shook his head, the glow of the porch light through the window catching his grin. “I used the stairs—you’re not the only one who can pick a lock.”
She toed off her running shoes and set her aching feet against the bare wood floors. “Why are you here, Ethan?”
“You didn’t answer my texts.” He watched, his electric-blue gaze a lightning flash of silver in the near darkness, as she pulled the zipper down on her fleece, revealing the skintight tank top and sports bra she wore beneath it.
“There’s nothing to say.” She tugged her hair from the rubber band, letting her ponytail spill down her back.
“I disagree.”
Of course he did. The man had been contrary from the first—completely implacable and utterly convinced he had all the answers. “Fine. Say it and leave.”
He rose and came toward her on silent feet, his head cocked to the side as he studied her retreat around the bed.
“You’re defensive,” he noted. “What is it you expect to hear, Natalia?”
Nothing good, that was for sure. That Ethan had come to her after the way they’d parted the other night could mean only one thing: he wanted something. But whether he needed her help or he just wanted to make sure she knew the score, she couldn’t be sure. Either way, she’d rather just get it over with. One way or another, her time with Ethan was coming to an end. And if it was selfish of her to want this one thing to go smoothly, painlessly, if she wanted to let go of him gracefully so that maybe, just maybe, she could preserve the memory of what it had felt like in his arms?
Then, fine. She’d be selfish.
Natalia turned her back on him, as frigid a dismissal as she could manage, and headed for the Jack and Jill bathroom that led to an empty guest room.
“I’m cold, tired, and hungry. Just tell me whatever was so important that you thought breaking into my uncle’s house was a good idea, and then get the hell out so I can take a shower.” She flicked on the lights and avoided the mirror, instead going straight for the shower, sliding open the old frosted door and turning the water to scorching—the steam would soothe her tired muscles, and the noise would hopefully drown out their voices.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Ethan said slowly, as if he was parsing out the words, discarding the majority, and stringing what was left into a sentence that made sense only to him. “And now you’re going for cold and nonresponsive. It doesn’t suit you.”
“And what does?” she asked, turning on him but keeping her voice low and level.
“Passion. Fire. Desire.” He toed the door shut behind him, then stalked forward, forcing her to step back, right up against the closed and locked door that led to the guest room. He crowded her in, his hands braced on either side of her head. “Me.”
She opened her mouth to . . . to what? To argue? To fight? To tell him to please, please, go away? Or to beg him to put his mouth on her skin, his fingers in her hair, his mark on her heart. Already she felt as if she wore him against her skin, as if he’d imprinted himself there, a clinging warmth that lingered even as life around her grew colder. It was torture.
She wanted more.
“Ethan—”
“You deserve so much more than this life, Natalia,” Ethan growled, his voice tumbling out of him like the roll of distant thunder, a gathering storm snapping at the horizon as if ready to devour everything in its way. “Why don’t you see that?” Agony pierced his expression, his face tightening and jaw flexing as he rubbed his cheek along hers, a lion greeting his mate.
He ran his palms along her shoulders, down her arms, his hands firm and sure where she’d expected a gentle slide of skin. But then, Ethan didn’t strike her as the careful, gradual sort. No matter what he’d thought of her, if he’d believed her weak or cornered or trapped, he’d never treated her that way. Not really. Never coaxed her with sweet words or gentle touches. Hadn’t seduced her with gradual, considerate regard.
When he put his hands on her, like now, his palms on her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, he made himself known. A firm touch, a steady grip, a hard mouth. He handled her, kissed her, came undone inside her without pretense or caution or restraint.
She wondered if he’d ever had that before. A woman he could be himself with. A partner he could pin down, stretch out, spread wide—a lover he couldn’t break, a woman who’d not only let him be rough and wild, demanding and controlling, but match him in intensity, ferocity, lust.
An equal.
“What will it take? How do I convince you? Make you believe that you’re more than your uncle’s demands or your sister’s keeper or your father’s daughter? How do I make you see yourself as I do?” he asked, his words as close to a desperate plea as she’d ever heard from him. He dug his thumbs into the soft flesh beneath the arc of her hip, nipped his teeth at the pebbled skin along her neck. Whispered, “Tell me.” He rubbed his hips against hers, breathed in the scent of her sweat-damp hair, and sighed as if it were the smell of home. “I’ll do anything.”
“Show me.”