by Pennza, Amy
“You’re not a prisoner here,” he said. “But I need to know you’re safe. Unless I’m with you, I want you to stay put. If I have to lock the door behind me to make that happen, I will.”
Her jaw tightened, but she stayed focused on the street.
So be it. He walked to the kitchen and pulled a flip phone from a drawer, then returned to her side. “This only makes outgoing calls. The first button is programmed for my office, and this one will reach my cell. You can also dial out for an emergency. There are no other phones in the apartment.”
Silence.
“I’ll be back by six. I’ll bring you something to wear.”
Her breasts rose and fell, her quickened breathing the only sign of her anger.
It would help to know what kind of dress she preferred, but something told him he’d get a reply from the window before Catalina.
In Spanish, he murmured, “Until later, then.” He turned from the window and walked to the kitchen, where he set the phone on the counter before heading for the door.
And he never once looked at the roses on his way out.
8
Catalina waited for the telltale ding of the elevator to let her know Juan had left for good.
After a few minutes of silence, she turned from the window and stared at the door. Somewhere in the apartment, an air conditioning system kicked on. She looked back at the street. Even this high up, she should still hear distant traffic sounds. That she didn’t meant the penthouse was probably well insulated, with thick walls that blocked outside noise. She rapped her knuckles on the glass.
Oh yeah, that shit was solid.
She leaned forward until her forehead pressed against the glass. On impulse, she blew air over the surface. White enveloped her vision, blurring the scenery below.
Is this how Rapunzel felt? Except her prince had rescued her from the tower instead of, say, locking her inside with a flip phone.
Not that Juan was a prince. Catalina lifted her head. If Disney ever optioned her life story, casting would immediately peg him as the villain.
She swiped a hand through the condensation and spun around, anger thrumming through her veins. His arrogance was staggering.
Even more staggering was the ease with which he justified his actions. Forcing her into marriage? Oh, that was to “protect” her inheritance. Holding her prisoner in his apartment? No problem. It kept her out of Rafe’s clutches. Threatening to expose her clients? Well, no one could possibly fault him for trying to make an honest woman of her.
Never mind that he resorted to threats to accomplish his goals. She gazed around the apartment.
Really, what was a little kidnapping as long as the accommodations were nice?
The headache from earlier returned, throbbing in the center of her forehead. She looked at the bottle of Tylenol, which had grown warm in her hand.
Time to put you bad boys to work.
She gave the pills a little shake and headed to the kitchen.
Like the rest of the apartment, it was modern without being cold or impersonal. Stainless-steel appliances melded seamlessly into black cabinets topped with marble countertops. An industrial stove looked like it came straight out of a high-end restaurant. Based on its gleaming surface, Juan didn’t do much cooking.
Or maybe he was just a neat freak. She found a glass and poured water from the tap, the splash leaving droplets in the pristine sink.
She popped the lid on the Tylenol, dumped two in her palm, and tossed them back. A second later, her stomach gurgled and lurched.
Yeah, she needed food—like yesterday. A quick search turned up fresh bread, lunch meat, and something that looked like hummus. She peered at the clear container, then opened the lid and sniffed. Yep. She found a sleeve of crackers in a small pantry.
No paper plates, though. Apparently, Juan dined on real china and ate with silver cutlery, because his cabinets were filled with neat stacks of expensive porcelain. As she assembled her sandwich, she pictured him sitting on the sofa in his underwear, eating cereal out of a Sèvres bowl.
Although what was she thinking—Juan would never do a regular human thing like watch television or eat cereal. Her thoughts darkened as she layered meat and cheese. He probably started his day bright and early with a little blackmail. Or maybe some extortion.
She settled on a barstool at the island and bit into her sandwich. After so long without food, it was ambrosia, and she polished off half of it without coming up for air. Slowly, the ache in her head faded.
As she took another bite, a blob of mustard dripped onto the plate with a splat. She leaned forward before more could fall, then looked down at her dress. Eating in white lace wasn’t the smartest move…
An angry buzzing sound filled the kitchen, and the flip phone shimmied a few inches across the counter.
She paused, sandwich halfway to her mouth, and stared at it.
Was Juan checking in on her already? He’d been gone for less than twenty minutes.
The buzzing continued, its vibration inching the phone closer to the counter’s edge. After a second, she sighed and put down her sandwich.
The phone went silent.
She waited. When it stayed quiet, she picked up her sandwich and took another bite.
The buzzing started up again.
Really?
Now the phone was in serious danger of taking a dive off the counter. She swallowed quickly, then caught it just before it fell. The basic digital display read “unknown.” For some reason, the little hairs on her nape lifted.
Don’t be silly. Juan was probably calling from his office. A lot of lawyers had an unlisted line for private calls.
She opened the phone and held it to her ear. “Paranoid much?”
“Felicidades.” Rafe’s voice was unmistakable.
Her heart lodged in her throat.
“I hear a celebration is in order, sister.” His accented English was low and rich, the auditory equivalent of dark chocolate. “Or is it sister-in-law now?”
There was no point feigning ignorance. “Juan said this phone only makes outgoing calls.”
“Did he?” Rafe’s tone held an undercurrent of amusement. “Hmmm.”
Typical Rafe. He only explained himself when he felt like it. She pushed her plate away and straightened her spine, her toes on the stool’s footrail. He might be thousands of miles away, but he was more than capable of outwitting her over the phone.
There was a sharp squeak, which meant Rafe had leaned back in his chair. His study was on the first floor of Casa Grande, literally the “big house” on the Salvatierra compound. She pictured him sitting behind his massive desk, a thick Oriental rug under his feet. According to Arturo, it had been a gift from Simón Bolívar to his great-great-something-grandfather. Catalina suspected he bought it from an antique dealer in Maracaibo, but she let him have his story.
At last, Rafe spoke. “I also hear Juan wants to put us both out of business.”
Her nape tingled. Eyes and ears, indeed. She licked her finger and touched it to the scattering of crumbs on her plate. “How do you know that?”
“Catalina.” The amusement was still there, but now there was something else, too.
A warning.
Juan’s voice echoed in her head. “You have a rosy view of the Salvatierra men.” He’d meant Arturo and Rafe, and he used “rosy” as a euphemism for “naive.” But he was wrong about two things. First, she didn’t fool herself into thinking Rafe was kind or gentle. Drug lords didn’t go out rescuing kittens or escorting little old ladies across the street. No matter how charming his packaging, he was ruthless at his core.
And the second thing Juan was wrong about? She knew that same core ruthlessness ran through all three brothers. Juan liked to think his law career redeemed him, but no one got where he was without cutting a few throats. So what if his “kills” were figurative? Just today, he proved he was willing to ruin people’s lives if he didn’t get his way. He’d say the men on that list d
eserved whatever they got, but who appointed him the morality police?
Even Smith possessed a bit of the same core. He might be a small-town police chief now, but he was a trained killer. He never said as much, but it was obvious he used his skills overseas.
In their own way, each brother was just as dangerous as Arturo. The apples might look a little different on the surface, but none fell far from the tree.
So when Rafe mixed amusement with a warning, she knew it was the warning that merited her attention.
He chuckled. “You shouldn’t think so much, Catalina. It lets your enemies know you’re afraid of them.”
She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, dusting off crumbs. “Are you my enemy?”
“Nunca jamás.” No, never. “I think I’ve proved that much, haven’t I?”
He had. More than once, he’d been there when she had nowhere else to go—or at least a place where no one asked uncomfortable questions.
“Yes.” But that was before Arturo gave her the entire Salvatierra fortune. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t know about the inheritance, Rafe.”
“I know.” Another creak, followed by two soft thuds. He must have put his feet on his desk—something Arturo would have never done. “I don’t begrudge you the money.”
“You don’t?”
He made a sound—like an auditory shrug. “I’m content to let Juan run through his little attempt to take me down. It’ll be fun to watch him fail.”
The ache started up between her brows again. She leaned on her elbow and rubbed the spot. How could anyone be so nonchalant about losing eight hundred million dollars? Did he have more money stashed away somewhere? Before she could puzzle over it, he spoke again.
“Of course, he’s determined to shut down your business, too.” Another sinuous thread of amusement wove its way through his words. “Or are you sitting in that tower because you enjoy the view.”
She swiveled on the barstool and looked at the blue sky out the window. “Do you have someone on a hang glider with a camera or something?”
He laughed. “Nothing quite so obvious.”
Despite his assurance, she couldn’t help searching the sky. “I don’t like being spied on.”
For the first time since they started talking, he was abruptly serious. “I know. My men are professional. Respectful. They have eyes on Juan, chiquita, not you.”
She looked at the ring on her left hand. “Yeah, well, that distinction doesn’t mean much after today. He’s taking the whole ‘bonds of matrimony’ thing literally.”
“Ahh.” There was a pause. Then, “Would you like my assistance?”
Her pulse spiked. She slid off the stool. “What kind of assistance?”
There was another creak, and Rafe sighed. “Catalina, Catalina. You and I have different problems, but the cause is the same, no?”
Juan. Juan was his problem? If so, what did he plan to do about it?
She gripped the phone. “I thought you didn’t care about the money.”
“Money is one thing. But I have my reputation to consider.”
Her head throbbed again. If he kept talking in circles like this, she was going to get dizzy. “I don’t understand. You said it’ll be fun to watch him fail.”
“I did. And it will.”
“Watching implies inaction.”
He gave another heavy sigh. “Life in the States has muddled Juan’s mind. He tells himself he’s doing a good deed by eliminating my operation. But he forgets that removing power creates a vacuum. With the country the way it is now, that sort of thing can be…unsettling.”
“So you won’t let him do it?”
“I’ll do what I have to do.”
It was his most Rafe-like statement yet—saying everything and nothing at once. She bit her lip. Was he talking about hurting Juan?
He would never hurt Juan.
So why was her heart pounding so hard?
“Rafe won’t hesitate to strike against either one of us…” This morning, Juan had seemed certain Rafe was more than capable of ordering a hit on him or Smith.
She walked forward, stopping in the living room. Sunlight from the window splashed across the floor and onto her feet.
“There you go thinking again,” Rafe murmured.
“I don’t want you to hurt Juan.” She held her breath, ready for him to gasp and scold her for even suggesting it.
Instead, he seemed thoughtful. “He hurt you, with his insistence on this…arrangement. Wouldn’t you say?”
Her heart sank. Not a denial. She’d given him a chance to promise he wouldn’t harm his brothers, and he’d sidestepped it.
His dark voice dropped to a purr. “Wouldn’t you say, Catalina?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes, but…” She took a deep breath. “I hurt him first.” Now that Rafe had steered the conversation elsewhere, there was nothing to do but go along with it—even if she hated this new direction.
“The Americans have a saying for this…” There was a faint click. He’d snapped his fingers. “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Is that it?”
She opened her eyes, and blue sky filled her vision. “They say that, yes.”
“That’s why I like English. So many useful expressions.”
She skirted around a sofa and sat on a plush ottoman. “If you believe that, then you can’t hurt Juan.”
“Really?” He sounded genuinely curious. “Why not?”
“He forced this marriage so I wouldn’t give you any money. But you can’t kill him because of it. Two wrongs don’t make a right, remember?”
“That only works if you believe it’s wrong to kill Juan.” He said it like they were discussing the weather instead of stone-cold murder.
She put as much passion in her voice as she could. “It is wrong. Juan is your brother!”
“I’m not going to kill him.”
Relief poured through her, the rush so powerful she would have plopped on the ottoman if she hadn’t already been sitting. “You’re not?”
“No, Catalina.” The amusement was back.
Relief turned to anger. “You could have just said that from the beginning. And this isn’t funny.”
His chair squeaked, and his breathed hitched, indicating he must have stood up. There were faint footsteps, and she pictured him pacing around his study. Or maybe going to one of the long, narrow windows and looking out.
He switched to Spanish, his speech rapid and smooth. “I wouldn’t call it funny, no. More like interesting. Very interesting.”
Muy interesante. She waited for him to elaborate, as he no doubt intended her to.
“You plead so prettily for Juan’s life,” he said. “Even after he took your freedom and your livelihood.”
“He hasn’t taken my livelihood,” she said in Spanish.
Rafe spoke as the last word left her mouth. “Ah, but he doesn’t know that, does he?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He still had that stupid list.
“Then why haven’t you told him?”
She stood. He couldn’t see her, but it felt better standing up to him. So to speak. “Maybe I have.”
He laughed—a real one this time, not his cultivated chuckle. “You haven’t.”
“Well, I will.” How had they landed on this subject?
He went back to English. “Like I said. Very interesting.”
Was he ending the call? “Rafe, wait—”
“Chao, Catalina.”
“Rafe—”
The line clicked.
“Dammit!” She looked at the phone, then tossed it on the sofa and glared at it. Just yesterday, she’d been minding her own business, going about her normal day. Now she had two Salvatierra brothers meddling in her life.
At least Juan was straightforward about his intentions. When he decided to be an asshole, he was unambiguous about it.
Rafe, on the other hand…
She went to the kitchen and dumped the remains of her sandwich in the trash ca
n under the sink, then put the empty plate in the dishwasher.
What was that conversation about, anyway? She leaned against the counter, her thoughts tumbling over each other. As a kid, Juan and Smith had taken her to one of those giant pizza arcades for her birthday. Armed with a plastic cup of tokens, she’d spent at least an hour at the whack-a-mole game. No matter how many times she slugged the little suckers, another always popped up.
Talking to Rafe was like that. Just when she got into the rhythm of one subject, he came up with another one, twisting and turning so often she couldn’t be certain where he stood on anything.
Case in point, he promised not to kill Juan, but he also said “I’ll do what I have to do” when he spoke of Juan’s effort to shut him down.
She looked toward the sofa. Should she call Juan and warn him?
No. He’d just accuse her of conspiring with Rafe. He might even extend her house arrest.
Of course, that would get her out of his silly fundraiser. She clenched her jaw. Did he really expect her to hang on his arm and pretend everything was normal while he rubbed elbows with his political friends?
She snorted. Staggering arrogance. Of course he expected it, just like he expected her to sit in the penthouse until he was kind enough to let her out.
She started the day in jail, and here she was in yet another prison.
Rafe’s mocking voice floated through her mind. “You plead so prettily for Juan’s life…”
Yeah, well, just because she didn’t wish him dead didn’t mean she had to go along with his “model wife” bullshit.
She pushed away from the counter and left the kitchen, renewed anger pumping through her veins.
Juan wanted a wife? She smiled as she turned down the hall off the main living area. Oh, he was going to get one.
It wasn’t hard to find his bedroom. The California king bed was a dead giveaway, its dark gray linens pulled taut over the mattress, which sat on a low platform. The whole effect was very zen. Maybe he sat cross-legged on the floor at night and meditated or something.
“Not likely,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
She grabbed a handful of comforter and trailed it behind her as she walked the room, searching for a bathroom.
