by Pennza, Amy
Her mouth took on a stubborn slant he recognized. “No, you can’t. I want my things, Juan.” She twisted so she faced him more fully, one hand on the center console. “My things, not replacements.”
He put up a hand. “I meant I’ll retrieve anything you want from your apartment.”
She blinked. “You will?”
“Yes. Just make me a list.”
Some of the stubbornness faded. Then she doubled down. “I want to go, too. I don’t like the idea of you pawing through my stuff.”
Patience. It was a reasonable request. And he owed her an explanation, even if he wasn’t accustomed to justifying his actions. His employees followed his directions because he signed their paychecks. His clients took his advice because they paid top dollar for it.
That wouldn’t work with Catalina. Vow of obedience or not, he couldn’t just dictate and expect her to fall in line—not if he wanted to sleep without worrying about her slitting his throat.
The engine ticked and popped as it cooled down.
Catalina stared at him, an expectant look on her face.
“It’s not just surveillance I worry about,” he said, undoing his seat belt and leaning back. Leather creaked as he settled in his seat. “If Rafe has eyes and ears in San Antonio, he’s also got arms and legs.”
Her frown deepened, but it was one of confusion, not anger.
“Kidnappers,” he clarified. “Men who would carry you off the second you got near your apartment.” She started to protest, and he talked over her. “I know you don’t believe he’s capable of it, but you and I will just have to disagree. I don’t know how long it’ll take for him to learn about the marriage, but my guess is a couple of days.”
She seemed to think it over, then said, “What’s to stop him from grabbing you off the street? You start lurking around my apartment, he’s going to get suspicious.”
“Maybe I’m more stealthy than you think, bonita.” There. Let her consider that for a moment. “Besides, I didn’t just inherit—”
Something was wrong. She’d sucked in a breath, and shock glazed her eyes.
He leaned forward. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She unbuckled her seat belt and faced forward, her movements quick, almost agitated. “It’s just…”
“Yes?” He wanted to keep pressing, but he forced himself to stay silent. She was like a frightened animal. What had spooked her?
She averted her gaze, her long lashes like little fans on her cheeks. “It’s just been awhile since you called me that.”
In his mind, he replayed what he said. Bonita. He’d called her beautiful—the same thing he’d called her countless times before.
An ache shot across his heart, followed by another in his right hand. He looked at the steering wheel, and he couldn’t tell which pain was real and which was a phantom from the last time they sat in a car like this.
He let out a slow breath. “I called you that because it’s true. Nothing has changed.”
She looked up, her blue eyes blazing. “Everything has changed,” she said, her voice low and fierce.
“Catalina—”
“Don’t do this.” Pain crossed her face, there and gone so quickly he might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely. She bent and snatched the roses from the floor, then gave them a little shake. “Don’t pretend things can go back, Juan. Because they can’t.”
Fine. But she wasn’t being entirely fair. “You picked out the flowers, Catalina.”
“A mistake,” she said, dropping her gaze to the blooms. She was quiet a moment. Then, almost as if she couldn’t help herself, she asked, “Where did you get the twine?”
Emily had caught him as he entered the office. She’d taken one look at the plastic-wrapped flowers and hustled him into the mail room.
“My mom worked part-time as a florist when I was in high school,” she’d said, grabbing the bouquet from his hand. “She’d never speak to me again if I let you get married with these.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Catalina as much, but he held it back, saying only, “My office.”
She stared at the flowers. Silence stretched, filling the car. Dios, they couldn’t keep this up.
Begin as you mean to go on. It was a simple little phrase—something his mother used to say. There was so much baggage between him and Catalina, it was like a tangible weight hovering around them. What would it take to unpack all the anger, hurt, and betrayal?
He looked at the roses. Before today, he didn’t think it was possible to bridge the gulf between them. But the look on her face when she saw the flowers…
Then he’d ruined it by insisting she pledge obedience. Wasn’t that always the way with them? One step forward and two steps back? It was like they were trapped in a cycle of misery, each one trying to outdo the other.
No, he thought. Not outdo each other—punish each other.
She started it. The childish argument shot to the front of his mind. He lifted his gaze from the roses to her face. Time had done nothing to diminish her beauty. She still looked like the gorgeous, passionate, maddening girl who’d captured his heart eight years ago.
Hell, if he was honest with himself, she captured it long before then.
The problem was he couldn’t figure out why she flung it back in his face, bloodied and mangled. Then he’d found her in a strip club…
His mother’s voice whispered through his mind. “Begin as you mean to go on.”
He shoved the bad memories aside. Maybe it was time to stop puzzling over the past. There were no answers there—at least none Catalina was willing to give.
Maybe it was better to just…begin again.
“You’re right,” he said, and she looked up, her blue eyes so startled it took him a second to figure out why.
She’s surprised I admitted she’s right about something.
Well, it was a start.
“Things are different between us,” he said. “And we can’t go back to the way it was before.”
Memory filled her eyes, the surprise shifting to what might have been regret. But she dropped her gaze before he could tell for certain.
He pushed on. “But we don’t have to be enemies, Catalina…” He looked out the windshield, at the parking garage’s plain concrete wall. What more could he say? That he forgave her? Bitterness welled up, its burn thick in his throat.
No. Some wounds went too deep to ever truly heal. And anyway, he couldn’t lie to her like that. Even after five years apart, she knew him too well to believe it.
“A year is a long time,” she said softly, drawing his attention. Her head was still bent, and she traced a fingertip over the twine bundling the roses together.
He swallowed. “Yes.”
She looked up, then gave the slightest nod. “We don’t have to be enemies.”
As far as olive branches went, it was thin. But it was there.
Except what the hell did they do now?
Begin as you mean to go on. Maybe it really was that simple. He scooped up his keys from the center console.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you”—he stopped himself before he said my apartment—“the apartment.” He got out of the car and waited for her to round the back.
And Madre de Dios, she was worth the wait. She carried the flowers by her thigh, the red a vibrant splash of color that set off her tan skin and glossy dark hair. The white lace hugged her curves in all the right places, nipping in at her waist and hugging her high, firm breasts. A gentle wind tugged at her hair, and she pushed a strand off her face, her wedding ring gleaming a dull silver on her manicured hand.
The same primitive emotion he felt when they said their vows blasted through him. Something about seeing his ring on her finger was so damn satisfying, it almost made him lightheaded.
“This way,” he said, relieved he was still capable of speech rather than just a series of caveman grunts. He led her to a thick glass door and put his face next to a s
mall, black pad fastened on a nearby wall. White flashed across his vision, then the door clicked.
Catalina looked impressed. “Is that a retina scanner?”
“Facial recognition,” he said, holding the door for her. She slipped past him, trailing the scent of roses.
He followed, letting the door’s pneumatics ease it shut with a soft whoosh. It beeped as the building’s high-tech security system engaged once more.
Catalina turned in a slow circle, her gaze taking in the small, but elegant foyer. Like the rest of the building, it was decorated in a minimalist style, with smooth concrete walls and lots of glass. A single elevator was flanked by two potted ferns.
She watched him punch the buttons. “No facial recognition for the elevator?”
He smiled. “Just a code.” The doors slid open, and he stepped back so she could enter. “I’m the only person who uses this elevator, so I guess the security company thought one facial scan was enough.”
She nodded. As the doors shut, she hugged her middle, her expression reserved, almost shy.
He bit back a curse. Did she think he was flaunting his wealth? “The private elevator came with the apartment,” he said. “It’s one of the reasons I live here. With my work hours, it’s nice not worrying about disturbing other tenants when a client gets arrested in the middle of the night.”
Too late, he remembered she spent last night in jail.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened before he could say anything to buffer his words. Then she stepped into the hall outside his apartment, and the moment passed.
She looked up and down the hall. “You have the whole floor to yourself?”
“Yes.” He unlocked the door. “You won’t have to worry about noisy neighbors. Here we go.” He stepped to the side so she could enter. His stomach did a funny little flip. Holy hell, was he nervous about showing her his place? Abruptly, he realized he wanted her to like it.
She took a few steps inside and stopped, then met his gaze over her shoulder. “You have the penthouse.”
Pride of ownership surged in his chest. He walked forward, drawn as he always was to the big glass wall that dominated the living room. The apartment’s main space was an open concept, with a comfortable living room that flowed into a modern kitchen with a spacious island. Outside, the San Antonio sky beckoned, its hazy blue smeared with long, white clouds.
He stopped halfway to the window and motioned her forward. “The first time I saw the view, I knew I had to have this place.”
She placed the roses on the island and came to his side, her gaze taking in the sky. “It’s beautiful.” Almost to herself, she added, “I could write a guide on the entire city from here.”
He looked at her. “A what?”
Pink touched her cheeks, and her laugh had a nervous edge to it. “Oh, like a map or something. Because it’s so easy to see the city.” She gave him an apologetic look. “I’ve got to get these shoes off,” she said, bending and removing the white heels. Angry red lines marred the backs of her ankles and the tops of her feet. It looked painful.
That thought triggered his memory, and he dug in his pocket. “I have your Tylenol here.” He handed her the bottle.
Her eyes lit up. “Thanks. Between my feet and my shoulder, I’m having painkillers for lunch.”
“You hurt your shoulder?” Alarm shot through him. Had it happened when she jerked out of his grip in the drugstore?
She pressed her lips together, and for a second it seemed like she wouldn’t answer. Then she let out a little huff. “Yeah, during the arrest last night. Apparently, San Antonio’s finest aren’t above tearing a few tendons to make a point.”
Shock and anger warred for dominance in his mind, and it made him careless. “Which one?” he demanded. “Jones or Cavanaugh?”
She froze. In that moment, the enormity of his mistake crashed over him. “How do you know their names?” she asked.
He was used to thinking fast on his feet, so he barely hesitated when he said, “I read the police report.”
But Catalina shook her head. “No. You were angry when you said it.” She paused, and something dangerous glinted in her eyes. “You set me up, didn’t you?”
There was no point denying it. “Yes.”
In a blink, the cautious truce between them shattered, and all the old barriers shot up. “There was never going to be a prostitution charge, was there, Juan?”
“No.” He tensed, as if his mind knew he needed to prepare for battle.
She walked a few paces away, then rounded on him, a bitter smile on her face. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“You wouldn’t answer my calls.”
Her jaw dropped. She was speechless, but only for a moment. “So you had me arrested?”
He’d heard the expression “her eyes shot sparks,” before, but he always assumed it was a figure of speech.
Until now.
Catalina wasn’t just angry. She looked ready to launch herself at him.
“Do you know what it’s like to get booked?” she asked, hair flying as she tossed her head. “To get fingerprinted and photographed like a common criminal?”
His own anger sparked. “You weren’t exactly having a tea party in that room, Catalina. Rawlinson is one of your oldest clients.” A dark, ugly emotion churned deep in his gut—like a monster rolling over, exposing a slimy underbelly. As hard as he fought to scrub the idea of her with other men from his head, the images always shoved into his skull against his will.
She flung out a hand, making the pills rattle. “Did you know your friends probably gave him a heart attack last night?”
“They aren’t my friends.” Dios, he was losing this argument. Catalina had a knack for making him say stupid crap. He ran his hands through his hair, then rested them on his hips, his suit jacket gaping. “I’ll check on…” He had to work to get the name past his lips. “Walter.”
“Thanks.” She spat it, her gaze clearly wishing him dead.
“Don’t mention it.”
She tossed him another withering look, then turned and walked to the window, her bare feet silent on the concrete floor. When she reached the glass, she folded her arms, her body surrounded by brilliant blue sky, her long hair a tumble of soft brown waves down her back.
So here they were again, the distance between them both figurative and literal. His gaze landed on the roses she left on the island. The red blooms were just starting to droop, the petals curled at the edges. Water might help, except he wasn’t sure he had a vase—and she’d probably smash it over his head if he scrounged one up.
Weariness swept him. Was this what he should expect for the next twelve months? If that was the case, even the penthouse wasn’t large enough to contain both him and Catalina.
If he was smart, he’d open the door and let her walk out. Then he’d go to the courthouse and rip up the marriage certificate.
But that plan wouldn’t work because Rafe was still out there, and he was still dangerous.
So it was marital bliss for now.
He pulled at his tie, tugging the knot away from his neck. The clock on the microwave said it was half past noon, which seemed goddamn impossible. He’d been up since…hell, he didn’t even know when he last slept.
Considering where Catalina spent last night, she probably hadn’t gotten much sleep, either.
What he needed was coffee—preferably with tequila and Kahlua—but he didn’t want to prolong the current standoff between him and Catalina. He straightened his tie and walked to the window, stopping a few feet away from her.
She kept her gaze on the city street below, clearly determined to ignore him. The Tylenol bottle was still tucked in her hand, the red and white label pressed against her ribs.
“I’m going to my office,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back this evening.”
Without looking at him, she snorted. “I suppose I just have to stay here, locked away like some princess in a tower?”
“For now, yes.”
Now she did look at him, her lips parted on a gasp. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head. She wasn’t going to like this, but he couldn’t compromise on her safety. “There are only two ways to the first floor, and both the elevator and the stairs require a code.”
She faced him and spoke through clenched teeth. “You can’t keep me a prisoner in your apartment.”
“Until I know what Rafe’s next move is, I’m not taking any chances. And I’m not keeping you locked away. We have a gala tonight, a private dinner.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a fundraiser.” He paused, mulling over how much he should tell her. “There’s been talk of me running for office again, maybe state attorney general. A few wealthy supporters are throwing a small gathering to gauge interest.”
Her brows pulled together. “Well, good for fucking you, but I’m not going to some stupid party.” She shot him a challenging look. “Besides, how will you explain to your supporters that your wife is an escort?”
“I won’t.” He stepped toward her. She started to back up, then caught herself and stood her ground.
He stopped and smothered a curse. Jesus, was she afraid of him? Catalina wasn’t afraid of anything. At nineteen, she’d traveled from San Antonio to Venezuela on her own. She was the daughter of a teniente and foster daughter of a capo. And, as much as he hated to admit it, she knew her way around men.
But five years was a long time. If she was uneasy around him, he’d have to be more careful about respecting her space.
He tried for a calmer tone. “I won’t have to explain it, Catalina,” he said. “Because you’re not going to mention it, and no one needs to find out. I’ve spent eight years scrubbing arrests from your record and covering your tracks.”
“For your own benefit,” she said.
“And yours. As far as the general public is concerned, you’re Catalina Ortega Salvatierra, twenty-seven years old and newly married. The only shocking thing about you is that you eloped in a courthouse.”
She faced the window. “Please,” she muttered.
He waited for her to say more, but she kept quiet, her eyes once again on the distant street. Judging by her rigid body posture, she was done talking.
