Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  He glances down at the bill, and gives me a short nod. “With pleasure, sir.”

  I leave him and make my way inside, then to the elevator, where Juan waits on me, sans his sister. “You didn’t need your chick bait this time?” I ask.

  He punches the elevator button and arches a brow. “Chick bait? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You wanted to know if I could be bought or bribed with pussy, which I assume is because of certain aspects of your business.” In other words, their sex trafficking operation.

  “Among other things,” he concurs, and when the doors open we both step inside the car, where he sticks his key in the slot and punches in a floor. “You are here for business. You get your pleasure elsewhere unless you’re offered compensation outside of cash.”

  “By the powers that be.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which would be who?” I ask, since he’s yet to tell me Alvarez is alive.

  “To you, that’s me. You get all your instruction from me and through me.”

  “And this person I’m protecting is important to you or your boss?”

  “Whatever, and whoever, is important to my boss, is important to me. Enough for me to bleed.”

  “No one bleeds when I’m around, unless I want them to,” I assure him, but of course, I want him to, and a perk of no longer being with the FBI is that there’s no longer any paperwork and reviews to follow when he does bleed.

  His eyes narrow on me, as if he’s reading my mind, the intelligence in his stare declaring him a dangerous and worthy adversary, poorly placed between me and the powers that be. The elevator stops moving and he steps forward, expecting that I’ll follow, and it’s then I decide he’s not all that smart after all. You don’t put a man you’ve indicated you don’t trust at your back. I damn sure wouldn’t.

  But he has, and I follow, falling into pace with him as we find our way to a double-door entrance into a suite. “You have fifteen minutes to decide if you want the job.” He slides his card and opens the door, making it clear that I’m to enter alone.

  “That should be plenty of time,” I say, stepping into a long hallway that seems to walk a path through a massive suite, which must be bigger than many houses. The kind I’ve stayed in as a protective guard for a few elected officials and a movie star, compliments of Walker Security.

  I shut the door behind me and flip the bolt shut, ensuring my fifteen minutes is alone, and extended, should I wish to stay longer. Instinct has me sliding a hand under my jacket, just below my gun, and the one at my ankle is more cool comfort. I start down the hallway, cautiously inspecting an empty office, several bedrooms and bathrooms, before finally reaching the end of the path, opening to a living room wrapped in windows. It’s there in the archway that I pause, sucking in air, at the sight of a woman with her back to me, staring out of the window, her petite body silhouetted in a fitted black pant suit. Adrenaline surges through me at the realization that, even without her ever turning, I know her identity. A year of searching and I’ve found Myla, but I don’t shout for joy, nor will I grab her and just get her out of here, because nothing too good to be true, is ever true. For all I know, she’s one of the Alvarez clan now and that could make her lethal to everyone in the Walker family circle, including me.

  Chapter Two

  Kyle

  I step behind a lounge-style chair that frames the living area while Myla seems to sense me, or hear me, turning to face my direction. Her eyes, that I know to be a pale green, land on me, and the realization that this really is Myla, who had become real to me in ways I can’t begin to understand or explain, downright punches me in the chest. She’s in the room with me, alive, rather than the one place I couldn’t have saved her from, which was death. And beautiful. So fucking beautiful, and while I knew this, she is far more striking in person than in her photos, or even on the security feeds I’ve replayed of her, over and over again. But she is thinner than she was, her cheekbones more defined, and oddly, somehow softer and yet stronger than I expect in the same moment. It’s a contradiction I do not completely understand, nor do I try. Not yet, but I will, when I have time and space to process this moment and this event.

  She grabs the back of one of the sofas, and the entire living room of furniture divides us. A square table. Another couch to the left. Two chairs to the right. She is uneasy, seeming to welcome the separation while I do not.

  “I guess you’re my new bodyguard,” she says, as if this isn’t her first rodeo.

  “If I decide to take the job.”

  “Why wouldn’t you take the job?”

  “Surely you know protecting you and failing is equivalent to a death wish?”

  “Why would you fail?”

  “Why would I fail?” I ask. “Not why is this job a death wish?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” she asks, laughing, the sound a nervous but somehow musical note. “If you die, I died first.”

  My lips quirk. “That is a good point.”

  “I’d prefer neither of us die at this moment in time,” she says, “but of course, I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

  “In other words, you might prefer me dead tomorrow?”

  “Or you me.”

  There is a rebellious lift to her chin with those words, the action not quite echoing the far more uncertain look in her eyes. “I won’t want you dead, unless of course you’re actually trying to kill me.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, though she makes no promise not to try to kill me, which I assume is because she believes I work for her captor. “You wanted to interview me,” she adds. “I assume you have questions?”

  I do, but I don’t immediately reply, my mind still on her motives, on her living in luxury. Perhaps she’s been swayed by the money and power to embrace the dark side. It’s not an idea I relish, and I shove it aside. “Let’s sit,” I say.

  “That’s a yes to questions,” she concludes, rounding the couch to claim a seat on the chair.

  I join her, but choose to sit on the table, directly in front of her, our knees a few inches from touching, her perfume teasing my nostrils with some tantalizingly floral scent, while her eyes go wide. “You’re sitting very close to me,” she says, sounding confused, and a bit breathless, a detail I’m man enough to admit, I fucking love.

  “I want to look into your eyes,” I declare.

  She purses her lips and when I expect her to scoot away or cower, she surprises me and leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “What do you want to know?”

  I mimic her position, leaning in as she has, the space between us narrowed to a margin that without question, sizzles between us. “Why am I protecting you?”

  “Because someone hired you to do so.”

  “What’s your story? What’s your name?”

  “I know they told you my name.”

  “They didn’t,” I assure her.

  Surprise flickers in her eyes, several beats passing before she finally says, “My name is Myla,” and we linger there, our bodies a reach or a sway from touching, while questions sway and swerve in the air, and they are not just mine. She is sizing me up, looking for something indefinable in me that I try to understand and never get the chance.

  She leans back abruptly, while I stay where I’m at, offering her no further distance and reprieve. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Your story,” I say. “Who you are. What you are. Why you’re important enough to pay me the insane amount of money I’m being paid.”

  “Who am I? What am I? Those are questions people ask about themselves all their lives, and often can’t answer. Why is that important?”

  “That death wish connects us. I need to know you aren’t a loose cannon about to explode in my face.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Prove it,” I challenge. “How did you come to be where you are at this moment in time?”

  “I was down on my luck and this rich, handsome, older man stepped into my life, a
nd everything changed.”

  “That man is who?” I ask, looking to confirm the identity of the powers that be.

  “Alvarez, of course,” she says quickly.

  “Of course,” I say, though it’s not quite the absolute confirmation that he’s alive that I’m looking for. “Am I protecting him as well?”

  “He has his personal guards,” she says, giving me my confirmation, and telling me he travels with more than one security person.

  “Why aren’t they guarding you?”

  Her eyes become wise. “Did they really tell you absolutely nothing or are you testing me?”

  “They really told me absolutely nothing.”

  “Then maybe Juan is testing me.”

  “Why would he test you?”

  She cuts her gaze and then looks at me, her stare and voice steadier. “I’m here for my own personal business, while Michael is tied up with his.”

  It’s not an answer, but the use of Alvarez’s first name in an intimate, familiar way, is another punch in the chest, and now I sit back. Her eyes flicker a moment, telling me she’s noticed and questions why, but I give her nothing, while I work to extract what I need. Proof she isn’t a willing part of this world. “What business?” I ask.

  “I’m starting a clothing line. I’m hiring models for a show and setting up my first store here. It’s all very exciting.”

  Only her voice doesn’t say it’s exciting, when it should be. “Why in Dallas, Texas, rather than New York?”

  “Texas is economically strong.” Her answer is quick and practiced. “And it’s becoming quite the fashion expo here,” she adds.

  “And this is your dream?”

  “Yes,” she says softly. “And if you’re guarding me you’ll get to have models and share the excitement with me.”

  “I don’t care about models or excitement. If I’m guarding you, it’s you I care about.”

  “I guess Michael can make that worth your while.”

  “Once I take a job, it’s no longer about the money. It’s about the person.”

  “Until you’re told otherwise.”

  “That’s not how this works.”

  “Yes it is, but luckily Michael wants me protected.”

  “Others want you dead?”

  “Everyone is always after Michael and looking for any weakness.”

  “Like getting to his woman,” I say, looking for her to declare herself no such thing, but that isn’t the answer I get.

  “Anyone close to him,” she amends, and I’m not sure if it’s meant to broaden my thinking or because she doesn’t like to be called his woman. And I damn sure can’t reveal myself to her until I’m certain she hasn’t actually formed a loyalty to Michael that supersedes her love for her sister.

  “What about you?” she asks. “What’s your story?”

  I arch a brow. “Are you interviewing me now?”

  “The death wish thing,” she says. “I’d like to know you’re not a loose cannon about to blow up in my face.”

  My lips quirk. “I’m not.”

  “Prove it. What’s your story?”

  It’s my opening to connect me to her sister. “I’m ex-FBI.”

  Her eyes widen and her delicate little throat bobs. “FBI?”

  “Is that a problem?” I ask, when I hope instead it’s a solution, and her out of this.

  “No,” she says quickly, giving me the wrong answer, but the only one possible considering she doesn’t know me as anyone but a man Alvarez has hired. “Why would that be a problem?”

  “You look shocked.”

  “Michael doesn’t radiate toward law enforcement inside his inner circle, and I would think the reverse would be true for you as well. You’re working for a criminal.”

  “And you’re sleeping with a criminal.”

  Her spine stiffens, her expression turning thunderous. “And you’re an asshole.”

  Her reaction is fierce and real, but once again, I can’t be sure where that reaction originates. Guilt? Fear? A feeling of being trapped? I hope like hell it’s one or all of those, not defensiveness because she really is into this life and Michael Alvarez. If that is a real part of this equation, or even if she’s developed Stockholm syndrome, which would complicate the hell out of this, it doesn’t matter. I still want to save her. No. I’m going to save her, whether she likes it or not, but if it’s against her will, it’s going to gut Kara and become a blow to the entire Walker clan, who have become my family. Who am I kidding? This isn’t just personal for the Walker clan. It’s personal for me and that makes it dangerous.

  I stand and she scoots to the edge of the chair, almost as if she wants to grab me and keep me from escaping, but instead presses her hands to her legs. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m going to talk to Juan.”

  “And?”

  “And what, Myla?” I ask, sounding short. I feel it, too, considering I expected Juan’s head games, not hers, and I think she might be playing me.

  “Are you going to take the job?” she asks, and there is just a hint of urgency in her voice that I’m not sure she intends.

  I stare at her—a beat…two—trying to figure out her motives. “Do you want me to take the job?”

  “Yes actually,” she says quickly. “I do.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It matters.”

  “Because now I know you.”

  “Neither of us know each other any more than we did a few minutes ago when you said we didn’t.”

  “I know you well enough to know I want you to take the job.”

  “Why?” I repeat, hoping like hell it’s the FBI-Kara connection. The doorbell rings. “Why, Myla?” I press, looking for a hint of something, anything that tells me she’s looking for help.

  “The devil you know,” she says softly.

  “Some call Alvarez the devil.”

  “Yes. They do.”

  “Do you?”

  “Everyone does,” she replies, doubling down on the comment, and when I want to demand that she explain, that she give me just a little more, the knocking thunders ten times faster and louder, followed by a doorbell.

  My lips thin. “Obviously Juan is an impatient man, which is not a virtue.” Ready to get rid of him, and get back to the work ahead of me with Myla, I start to move away, but never get the chance.

  “Wait,” she says, grabbing my hand, and suddenly she is standing in front of me—close, really damn close— and there is this dart of electricity between us that is like a shot in the arm. It’s unexpected when perhaps it shouldn’t be, after a year of looking for her. A year of hearing stories about her. A year of those green eyes that are just as vulnerable in this moment as they were on the video tape, which only makes me want to keep her alive more.

  I lift our now joined hands between us. “If there are cameras in here,” I warn softly, “you’ll get us both killed.”

  “You were sitting-”

  “Too close, but I did it, not you.”

  She pales, looking visibly shaken. “Oh God,” she murmurs. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.” She sits back down, proving she knows the danger this world represents and I sense the fear in her. But does she welcome it? I know people who do. Certainly those with Stockholm syndrome forget who and what they are, and even what normal feels like.

  “Open up!” Juan shouts. “Open up now!” I turn on my heel, intending to go deal with the piece of shit, when I hear, “Wait,” again, and the plea in that word stops me in my steps.

  Pausing, I face her, hoping some grand confession will follow that tells me she’s still on our side. Instead, she asks, “What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I say, when of course I’m taking the damn job and I hope like hell she wants me to for the right reasons. Because she does want me to take it. That much is clear.

  I turn and start walking again, my stride long as I head toward the door that jerks and hits the
resistance of the deadbolt I’ve latched.

  “Open the fuck up, Kyle,” Juan growls.

  “Impatient much, Juan?” I demand. “Let go so I can unlock it.”

  He does as I say and I pull my gun, opening the door and shoving it at his chest at the same moment he does the same with his, to me. “What are you trying to pull?” he demands.

  “I wasn’t aware that conducting the interview you invited me to was pulling anything.”

  “And yet you dead bolted the door and pulled a gun on me.”

  “If this was a test, which I suspect it was, I assumed you’d want to know that I actually thought of things like locking the door and that I was smart enough to open it with my weapon pulled.”

  His teeth grind together, eyes glinting hard. “What took so long?”

  “Holy fuck, man. I barely got the woman to speak to me until five minutes ago. You didn’t tell her shit about the man who’s supposed to be protecting her.”

  “That’s your job. Put the gun down.”

  “Not a moment before yours is down.”

  “On three,” he says, sounding and looking exceedingly irritated.

  “One, two, three.”

  I give him a beat of movement before I lower my weapon, both of us re-holstering at the same time. “I’ll be needing a down payment,” I say, playing the game.

  “Let’s go inside and step into a private room.”

  I back into the hallway, letting him go first, and he stupidly strides forward as if he owns the world, when all I see is a man who, once again, freely places me at his back. No wonder Alvarez needs to hire help. Shutting the door, I lock it to maintain the façade of it being about safety, when I’d really like to pin him against the wall, and beat the shit out of him. If that wouldn’t blow my chance of getting Myla out of here alive, by her own free will or not, while still rescuing the women in Alvarez’s sex trade operation, I would. I fantasize instead about a moment not far down the road. One where I either make him do that bleeding I’d wished for earlier, or at least, help the FBI cuff him and take him to a steel cell with all kinds of new friends to welcome him by bending him over in all kinds of intimate ways.