“Your artistic skill is incredible. You’re gifted.”
“Oh I…thank you. Actually, a big thank you. Compliments are welcome tonight. The people I’m working with tomorrow have worked with some powerful people in the fashion industry, and I have done nothing before this.”
“Surely if they didn’t believe in your work, they wouldn’t be working for you.”
“They work for Michael,” I correct, “and we both know he makes things financially advantageous for people to take a job.”
“But anyone as experienced as you say these people are would have a reputation to maintain,” he argues. “They must like your work.”
“I’d like to think they do,” I say, appreciating the vote of confidence, which he doesn’t have to give me, more than he can know.
“Will your name be on the labels at all?”
“No, but that’s okay,” I say, and before I can explain why, he’s already rejected my answer.
“It’s not okay.”
“It is,” I assure him, and not because this is Michael’s decision. “Designing someone else’s brand is how a lot of people get started and honestly, they get credit. For instance, Marc Jacobs is renowned for his work at Louis Vuitton.”
“Louis Vuitton is not even close to the same as a Michael Alvarez label, for reasons we’ll leave unspoken, and I’ll leave it at that for the moment.”
“For the moment? If you have something to say, then say it.”
“I don’t want to overwhelm you on my first night here.”
“I don’t get overwhelmed easily,” I assure him, “and frankly, I’d rather have you speak just as freely.”
He does one of those several second, intense stares, and then asks, “Your sister’s FBI. Your father was FBI.”
“And you want to know how I ended up with Michael Alvarez?”
“Yes, but we both know your frank conversation isn’t going to be frank on that topic, and you’ve already given me an answer.”
“That you don’t like.”
“That I don’t accept, but like I said, we’ll leave it alone tonight. I want to know about you and your design work. How did it become your passion?”
My gaze narrows on him. “Do you really still know nothing about me or are you just trying to see what I will tell you?”
“What you tell me is what I’m interested in.”
“So you do know things about me now?”
“Yes. I know many things about you, Myla, but what I don’t know is the person beyond the statistics and history.”
“You don’t need to know those things to protect me,” I argue.
“You’d be surprised how knowing you helps me protect you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to keep a professional distance?”
“What I’m supposed to do is keep you safe,” he says, “and you’re about to be working in the fashion world, where I’m going to be shadowing you and protecting you. That means every single person around you influences you, and your actions, in some way. Knowing your history helps me predict your actions and reactions to situations around you.”
Predicting my actions and reactions isn’t exactly what I want anyone doing right now, but it’s clear he’s going to keep pushing for an answer. “I don’t talk about me,” I say. “I don’t talk about my past.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s the past.”
“The past is a part of the many layers that make us who we are now.”
“The past is buried with my family that I know you know were murdered.”
“Your sister’s alive.”
“And thinks I’m dead.”
“Myla-” There’s a knock on the door, and his jaw clenches with obvious irritation at the timing, while I’m simply worried that Juan or Ricardo have returned. “That can’t be the food that fast, can it?”
“The restaurant’s literally three blocks down from us,” he says, removing his cellphone from his pocket, “but since I paid Les to warn me of all visitors, he’s obviously going to require training.”
“Or someone stopped him from telling you.”
“Don’t be paranoid, sweetheart. I have more control than you’re giving me credit for.”
His cellphone rings in his hand and he eyes the number, “It’s Les,” he says, and answers the call, and listens a minute before saying, “All visitors mean all visitors.” He ends the connection at the same moment more knocking begins. “The pizza,” Kyle says, standing, the news delivering a welcome rush of relief. “And I was right,” he adds, his lips thinning. “Les is going to require training. Maybe too much.” He lifts his chin toward the hallway. “I’ll be right back.” I push to my feet, turning to watch him disappear. The way he moves is confident, graceful, the control clinging to him like a second skin that is simply who he is, not what he demands. And it’s hot. So very, dangerously hot, but even more dangerous is him asking too many questions.
Somehow, I have to make it through tonight without giving this man everything he wants, and I already know he wants too much. The problem is, that despite any worry I have about Kyle, he makes me want too much, too. He makes me need things I promised myself I’d never need again. He makes me shiver and he makes my body tingle, while my heart races. All those things, and I’ve only just met him. How am I going to survive two months of this man? But then, I’m pretty sure that’s the point in our shared living quarters. I either resist Kyle or I won’t survive. He’s the apple in the Garden of Eden, and Michael Alvarez is the snake tempting me to take a bite.
Chapter Six
Myla
Is Kyle a friend or an enemy? That is the question I have on my mind as I watch the apple in my line of sight disappear into the hallway to greet whichever hotel staff member brought us our pizza. A friend is what comes to my mind. He’s a friend. But I do not know why my gut says this, when it’s said it about no one else in a year.
I don’t want to be a fool. I can’t be a fool and survive, but a friend would be really well timed right now. An enemy, on the other hand, could be my demise at a time when I’m finally earning freedom with Michael. I cannot forget that Michael is a man of passion. He hates as viciously as he loves, and outside of his odd affection for me, what he loves is money and possession. If ever he feels that I’ve betrayed him, I have no doubt he will lash out with the wickedness of a finely sharpened sword.
Inhaling, I turn and walk to the shiny, light brown credenza where the flat screen TV sits, and grab several bottles of Ritz Carlton-branded water, lingering there a moment, with my mind awhirl. No one knows what Michael is capable of better than me, and if Kyle is a friend, albeit a capable friend, I still have to protect him. If he’s the enemy, I have to stay the hell away from him. And if that’s not possible, I have to prepare to destroy him before he destroys me. Destroy him. My God. What has this life made of me? A survivor, I remind myself. I’m surviving, something most in my position could not, and that is nothing to feel guilty about, especially since I have a plan to make it count. And no one, Kyle included, can be allowed to get in the way.
I turn to face the living area again, and I’ve just set the waters on the coffee table when Kyle reappears, with our food in hand. “Where do you want to eat?” he asks. “In the dining area or here?”
“Here in the living area works for me, if it’s okay with you?”
“Comfortable is always better for me,” he approves, reclaiming the chair and setting the box down on the table, while I sit down on the couch, cautiously choosing a neutral spot that is close enough to talk to him but not too close for comfort. “We have napkins and paper plates,” he adds, “unless you require something fancier than paper?”
“Are you kidding? Paper can be thrown away. Paper is good.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he says, setting a plate in front of me, his green eyes becoming a shade paler with amusement. “I’m a single guy who doesn’t like dishes.”
“Have you ever been married?” I ask b
efore I even think about what I’m asking.
“Never even proposed,” he says. “You?”
“Never even close.”
“Not even with Alvarez?”
“Michael isn’t a marrying kind of man,” I say, trying to shift things back to him. “Apparently you aren’t either. I mean, how old are you?”
“Thirty-five next month,” he says. “And I was in the FBI for a decade, most of which I was always undercover, and unavailable. I wouldn’t do that to someone, even if I’d have had time to even meet anyone, which I didn’t.”
“That’s actually honorable,” I say, thinking of the many dinner tables with an empty seat for my father. “It was hard on us when my father was undercover.”
“It is hard on the families and I swore I’d never have one as long as I was inside the agency.” He starts to open the box and pauses. “Damn. I didn’t order any drinks.”
“I got us waters, but they aren’t cold,” I say, hating that we were sidetracked before I found out more about his family. “I have diet Pepsi in the fridge but nothing else.”
“Water is fine by me,” he says, proving once again to be pretty easy to please, and eager to get to the food. “Are you ready for the best pizza of your life?”
“I’m ready,” I say, rubbing my hands together, saying to heck with the questions, and deciding to just live in the moment and enjoy a really good pizza. “Bring it on.”
He holds up his hands, like he’s preparing us both. “I’ve been traveling so much that it’s been years since I got to enjoy this piece of heaven.” He lifts the lid and then grimaces. “They burned it. I don’t fucking believe they burned it.” He drops the lid. “I’ve been eating at this place since I was a kid and never once have they burned my damn pizza.”
“If it’s been around that long, maybe they sold out or the owners retired?”
“Impossible,” he says, and then amends his words with, “Holy shit. The owner isn’t exactly a spring chicken. Maybe I’ve lost my favorite pizza place.” His brow furrows and he reaches into his pocket and punches in a number. “Is Adam there?” He listens a minute and grimaces. “When? Right. Well, it shows. I’m the guy from the Ritz. We just got our pizza and for the first time in twenty years of ordering there, I’m not happy. It’s ten degrees of hell it’s so burned. When can we get a new one?” He scowls. “You’re three blocks away. Yeah. No. Forget it.” He ends the call and returns his phone to his pocket. “You were right. Adam retired, and despite getting us our pizza in twenty minutes, he says it will be an hour for a new one.”
“You look so disappointed,” I say, trying not to laugh, and failing, which earns me a scowl this time. “I’m sorry,” I add, forcing a straight face. “Pizza is sacred. I’m joking around, but I get it. I love it. I need it in my life. Let’s eat it. It can’t be that bad.” I flip open the lid and stare down at the black edges of the crust. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. It’s bad.”
“But,” I say, holding up a finger. “The cheese and sauce is the best part. Let me get us some forks.”
“No need,” he says, grabbing the bag. “We have some.” He reaches inside, and hands me one, though he doesn’t look pleased about it. “It’s ridiculous to eat pizza with a fork.”
“Hey, hey,” I say. “I object to that statement. Really cheesy, saucy pizza is messy and a fork keeps me from embarrassing myself by wearing it.”
“Men do not think of such things,” he says, puffing up his chest. “That’s my Ricardo impression. You like?”
I laugh, imagining Ricardo’s mannerisms, and pointing my fork at him. “That was good. You should have been an actor.”
“I was an actor. That’s exactly what undercover work is, but now,” he holds his hands out, “what you see is what you get, and that’s exactly what I tell my clients. Unfortunately, your pizza is the same. I promised you the world’s best pizza and a man should not go back on a promise. A man says what’s he’s going to do, and then does it.”
“Per my mother, that’s actually true, but this wasn’t your fault.”
“But I’m responsible for what I promise,” he says, and suddenly, the air has shifted, thickened, and I’m not sure we’re talking about pizza.
And suddenly, I have to force air out of my lungs. “What are we talking about, Kyle?”
“Many things,” he says, his eyes lightening again, the serious moment gone without answers. He lifts his fork. “Which is why I have to save face now.”
“Save face? Over pizza?”
“Pizza is sacred. You said it yourself.”
Now I laugh. “I did say that and it is. So I guess you defiled the pizza process by not using magical powers to know that it would suck tonight.” I straighten. “I challenge you. How are you going to save face?”
He deepens his voice. “We will begin a hunt to find the best pizza in the world. A new sampling will occur nightly.”
“Nightly? And an extra hour on the treadmill will occur nightly.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he promises.
“On that you’re right,” I agree. “Pizza is actually one of my favorite things in the world, and honestly, I can’t remember the last time I ordered it at all.”
“No?”
“Michael is not a pizza guy.”
“Another reason to dislike him,” he says.
“Another?”
“He’s a kingpin, Myla. I won’t pretend to like him.”
“But you’re working for him.”
“I’m working for me. Not him. And right now, I’m working for you. We should order a new pizza from someplace else, and let you enjoy it.”
“I’m way too hungry to wait,” I say, glancing down at the pizza, “and the sauce and cheese really do look good.” I pick up a slice and glance at the bottom. “It’s not really that bad on the bottom. Just a little brown so you can skip your fork.” I take a bite and the cheese and sauce explode in my mouth with delicious results. “It’s actually really good, Kyle. Really good.”
He looks skeptical, but reaches for a slice and tries it, and nods. “Okay. Well at least they kept the recipe. Maybe I’ll buy the damn place just to save it.”
“Just like that? You’ll just buy it? Are you serious?”
“I actually might. I have a few investments that need to keep growing.”
“What kind of investments?”
“Real estate mostly,” he says. “It’s easy to hire management and just forget about it.” He opens his water, gulps a drink and then reaches for a slice. “My security work keeps me busy.”
“So you just take random bodyguard jobs?”
“I take random jobs that pay well, and don’t require a long-term commitment, but we were talking about you and your sister before the pizza arrived, not me.”
So much for fun and laughter. “What’s wrong with talking about you?” I ask, taking another bite to ensure I have an excuse to process whatever question he throws at me next.
“Nothing,” he surprises me by saying, finishing off a bite of pizza. “You need to trust me and I’ll be glad to give you every reason I can to make that happen.”
I set the burned crust of my slice down and straighten. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, tossing his crust onto a plate. “The sauce is still damn good, right?”
“Very. Sweet and still spicy. I love it.” And eager to take advantage of his invitation to ask him questions, I get back to the topic of him. “Why’d you leave the FBI?”
“Quid pro quo,” he says softly, a rasp of suggestion in his tone. “You give me something I want and I’ll give you something you want.”
Is this where he tells me why he really took this job? Or what he’s really after? “What do you want?”
“Many things, it seems, but I’ll settle for hearing about two sisters who are birds of different feathers.”
He’s back to Kara, which seems to support his claim that he’s been hired to keep her away from me, or me from her,
but I want every tidbit of confirmation I can manage. “Tell me again why this is important?”
“Considering the biggest fear Michael Alvarez seems to have is your sister-”
“I get it,” I say, considering he’s just repeated my thoughts from moments before. “You need to know if she’s a problem that could bite you in the ass. She’s not. She thinks I’m dead. I told you that.”
“She’s resourceful and you’re no longer underground.”
He’s right.
“You’re right,” I concede, and I suddenly want to tell him whatever I can to ensure she doesn’t find me. “She is very resourceful and if you’re the one who’s going to make that happen, then you do need to understand the dynamic between us.”
“Which is what?”
“Kara and I were really very much alike. Our mother was a highly successful fashion model, who retired to open her own clothing line, and both me and my sister were helping her prepare for the launch when she died.”
“But you ended up holding onto her dream, while Kara followed in your father’s. It’s hard to see the likeness in that.”
“Our reactions to the murder of our parents was the great divide. Kara got angry and wanted to fight crime, and I got angry at my father.”
“Why were you angry at your father?”
“He was always gone, and when he was around, he wasn’t the father I remembered in my younger years. He was a hard person, even mean, and ultimately he ended up getting my mother killed. He almost got us all killed.”
“He’d been undercover for years inside a notorious motorcycle club,” Kyle says. “I’m sure it affected him. And you were young. I’m sure that made it harder to deal with his transition back to the real world.”
“Yes,” I say. “And logically as an adult, I believe that to be true, but at the time, it had a lot to do with how I responded to the murders, and my future. And to Kara. I mean, he brought those criminals to us, and she wanted to join the same agency, and do it all over again.”
“She wanted the control, not them,” he supplies.
“Staying off their radar was the control I wanted, and she refused,” I say, trying not to think about how stupid I sound considering I’m in Michael Alvarez’s bed.
Deep Under Page 8
