Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I already do,” I admit, before I exit the elevator, and enter into the dimly lit space to do the other thing I always do, and immediately scan for danger, and activity I don’t find.

  Kyle is instantly beside me. “This way,” he says, clicking his keychain, the rear lights of the vehicle flashing.

  “What kind of car is that?” I ask, noting the sporty, slightly lifted back end, and thick tires.

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that,” he says. “Because not knowing what this car is, is an absolute sin against man and metal.”

  Expectantly, considering all I’ve been through, I’m laughing, the tension easing from my spine, his way of making pizza and cars life-altering events is actually quite adorably sexy. “It’s a Mustang,” I say as we stop at the passenger door. “See? I know what it is.”

  “Not just a Mustang,” he amends. “A 2008 Shelby GT500KR Mustang. I should have it parked and protected but that just seemed a waste.”

  “How much does a car like this cost?”

  “You can’t put a price tag on a car like this,” he says. “I won it in a bidding war.”

  “So a lot.”

  “It was worth it.” He reaches for the door. “Stay out here a minute.” He opens the door, sets my briefcase in the backseat, and then slides into the passenger side of the vehicle before shutting me out and him inside.

  The odd action dissolves the final remnants of my laughter, replacing it with a mix of confusion and worry. Is he looking for bombs? Does he think someone wants me dead? That’s ridiculous, I chide. If there was a bomb threat, he’d have made me stand back, and if he thought someone was going to grab me, he’d never leave me out here alone. But this thought process is enough to remind me of the many threats around me, not just from inside my new world, but from those who hate Michael, and want to hurt anyone close to him. I’m starting to come up with even more ways to run with my horrid thoughts when the door pops open, with Kyle on the phone. “Right,” he says. “Keep an eye on him.”

  I’m thinking he might actually have left me out here to make a private call when he stands, showing me another of those little recording chips for my viewing. “How did they get into your car?”

  He chucks the chip across the garage. “Les is fired.”

  “As in the doorman?”

  “He’s the only one who had my spare keys,” he confirms, stepping away from the car to allow me to enter this time.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’d like to throttle the bastard, but I won’t. At least, not yet. We’ll let him think he’s still considered a friend, and watch what he does next.”

  Let him think he’s a friend? Considering I’ve just hoped and prayed for him to be a friend, those words hit me like a freight train. Is that what he’s doing with me? I don’t think he is. I really don’t, but what if my hormones are confusing my instincts? I do not like where this is leading me, and afraid he will read my reaction, I quickly slide in to the car.

  But Kyle doesn’t allow me shelter. Nor does he immediately shut my door, compelling me to look at him, to confirm what he senses in me, which I know is distrust, but I do not do as he bids. I stare ahead, his unnamed questions and mine once again heavy and hard between us. Finally though, an eternity later, he shuts me inside, and rounds the rear of the Mustang, climbing inside with me, but he doesn’t start the engine.

  More seconds tick by like hours, until he faces me while I hold steady and face forward. “Look at me,” he orders.

  “No, I-”

  “Look at me, Myla,” he repeats, his voice a command, compelling me.

  Damn it. I do it. I turn and then we are close, a small space between us, as I blurt out, “Is that what you are doing to me? Pretending to be my friend to see what I do next?”

  “No,” he says firmly. “It is not and I know on some level you know that, but you refuse to trust your instincts.”

  “Would you trust you in my position?”

  “So you admit that you want to trust me?”

  “Of course I want to trust you, but I can’t. I won’t.”

  “You can,” he promises, and oh how well he does promises. They touch his eyes. They touch his voice. They touch me. “But I’ve told you that I approve of your caution, and understand it, but sitting here right now, it occurs to me that we haven’t discussed the obvious, so let me make this easier on you. Alvarez has some doubt about you or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “He doubts everyone,” I argue, before I let him go on.

  “Does he pay someone a million dollars to look after them like he did me?”

  “No,” I say. “He does not.”

  “Okay then. Because of him hiring me, I’m now in a position to either protect you or destroy you.”

  “No,” I say, rejecting that idea. “No. You can only destroy me if I let you.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s not true. If I wanted to destroy you, I could have already asked for a bonus for making your true self show so quickly and then be done with this. Juan could do the same. Anyone could. You’re exposed whether you like it or not, and I’m your buffer.”

  “If Juan, or whoever, could do as you say, why haven’t they?”

  “In my book, that means someone either thinks Alvarez is worse to deal with without you by his side, or they’re afraid he’ll shoot the messenger if they turn on you. But that doesn’t mean they won’t turn on you.” He settles further into his seat. “Whatever the case, we need to go before they come looking for us.”

  He sticks the key in the ignition and before he can turn it, I say, ‘”Why haven’t you turned on me for a fast payday?”

  “That was where I was leading you, sweetheart. I haven’t and I won’t, because like I’ve said over and over, and will continue to say: I was never here for the money. That’s not what I’m about or who I am.” He cranks the engine to a deep roar.

  I lean against the seat, staring forward, and all I have is what I already knew. Kyle isn’t what he seems, but then neither am I, and I’m not sure what that makes my next move, or his.

  Chapter Ten

  Myla

  It’s a short drive and we are at the new Alvarez Clothing location, where a shopping center frames the left side of a two-story red brick warehouse, while the front door is hugged by enough space to hold two hundred cars. “It’s very large,” I comment as Kyle parks us next to the front door, in a reserved spot, while no more than fifteen vehicles scatter the rest of the lot.

  “Not what you expected?”

  “We aren’t doing mass distribution right now, so no,” I say. “It’s not what I expected.”

  “Alvarez is doing plenty of mass distribution, and opportunist that he is-”

  “He told me he wouldn’t-”

  “You talk to him about his business?” he asks, and suddenly he is facing me, looking at me; disapproval in those fierce green eyes.

  “No,” I say, “but I’m no fool. I know who he is. I know what he does and I don’t want to be connected to that.”

  “You’re connected to it as long as you’re connected to him.”

  “He promised me this would be legal.”

  “Of course he did,” he says dryly. “But in case you didn’t know, money laundering is not legal, even if the clothing in the warehouse is.”

  My defenses bristle. “I’m pretty sure you working for him isn’t either.”

  “I’m guarding you, sweetheart. There is nothing illegal about that.”

  “What else are you doing?” I ask. “Because you still haven’t told me who you really are and what you want.”

  “What am I doing?” he asks, once again avoiding a direct answer. “Getting us the fuck out of the car before Juan nags me again and ends up dead sooner than I plan.” He reaches for his door.

  I blanch. “Wait. What? Sooner than you plan?”

  “He’s a dead man walking, of that I can promise you, but right now, he’s a buffer between us and Alvarez, so he lives another
day. Stay here. I’ll come around for you.” He gets out of the car.

  Okay. New direction here. He can’t be FBI. He wouldn’t be planning on killing Juan if he was. Would he? Wanting a chance to ask something else, anything else, before I can’t, I grab my purse and open my door. Twisting to get out, I find Kyle towering over me, so close I can’t stand up, the warm Texas sun lifting his spicy scent in the air, while I’ve apparently stirred his temper. “What part of “wait” do you not understand?” he demands.

  “I can get my own door.”

  “And get out of the car, just in time for someone to grab you?”

  “Oh, I-”

  “Oh is right,” he says. “You wait when I tell you to wait.”

  “Right. Asshole mode now in full force.”

  “You haven’t seen asshole yet, sweetheart. This is me keeping you alive.”

  He’s taken me full circle back to my worries in the garage. “Is there a threat to my life I don’t know about?”

  “You’re his woman. Isn’t that the only answer you need?”

  That jolts me and I react instantly. “Fuck you, Kyle,” I say, before I can stop myself. “And move so I can get out.”

  “That was a test,” he says.

  “Isn’t everything with you?”

  “Don’t react to anything I say like it matters to you,” he warns, taking a step backward and giving me space.

  The test was not the test I thought it was, and I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. “Damn it,” I murmur, inhaling and shutting my eyes a moment, envisioning myself stepping into the invisible box that I live in when I am her, when I am his woman.

  “Myla,” Kyle says, and I open my eyes, standing to face him.

  “I get it. I failed the test.”

  “You failed one, but you passed the one that matters.”

  “What? No, I-”

  “Passed.”

  “What test?”

  “Think about it,” he says, taking yet another two steps backwards, aligning himself with the door, but I am thinking about his second test and the meaning hits me. I reacted with honest distaste to him calling me Michael Alvarez’s woman, I’d fret that, but really, he was right. If he wants to hang me out to dry, he could do so with little or no, facts.

  I inhale a calming breath, that isn’t calming at all, but I don’t let nerves delay my departure. I step out of the Mustang and walk toward the door, by the time I’m there, Kyle is with me, holding the door. “Don’t look at me,” he warns softly, and the very fact that he a) needs to tell me this, and b) knows what I will do already, is compelling proof of…I don’t know what. But it’s big and I’ll figure it out later. I have to figure it out.

  Entering the glossy white lobby, I observe the pictures of stylish, bright colored clothing painted on glass windows, unbidden, the elation of a dream realized, if only for these few fantasy moments, washes over me. “It’s beautiful,” I murmur, turning in a circle to take it all in.

  “Myla!”

  At my name, I face forward and blink the pretty blonde behind an oval stainless steel desk into view, finding her standing up to greet me, her suit dress as white as the leather chairs and couch behind me. It’s also mine. Mine. Mine! “It’s your creation,” she says of my dress, speaking as if she knows me.

  I have a rock star kind of moment, like I’ve made it to the top, and a thrill slides up and down my spine. “Do you love it?” she asks, rounding the desk. “I love it!”

  I do love it, but just as unbidden as the misplaced joy I’d felt entering the lobby, I find myself assessing her in an unwelcome way, finding her twenty-something, model-gorgeous, and exactly the kind of woman that would be a target for the cartel for very bad things. All elation is gone and it’s all I can do to maintain my smile. “It’s stunning on you,” I say. “You are beautiful and I am honored to have you wear it.”

  She beams. “Okay now,” she says. “You are officially so very nice.” She glances at Kyle as he steps to my side, a tiny hint of admiration in her face, which bugs me. “Hi,” she greets, flirtiness in her tone. “Can I help you?”

  “No help needed,” he says.

  Her brows furrow, her admiration starting to turn to discomfort. “But…who are you, please?”

  “The bodyguard,” he says flatly, and the rush of awkwardness in the room is instant, as is his success at turning her admiration into intimidation, which has me feeling guilty for my hint of jealousy. She is young and he is older, good looking, and overwhelmingly…him. Just him. That’s all I have to say or think on the topic.

  “I’ll let Barbara know that Myla and her bodyguard are present,” she says, heading back to the desk, and seeming like she wants a barrier from the awkwardness, she nervously adds, “And my name is Heather if you need anything.” She flicks Kyle a look that gets her nothing but a hard stare.

  Trying to ease her discomfort, like I have others before her, like I want to do for so many more, I say, “He’s Kyle, and a robot actually. He looks very real, right? That’s why he’s so big. It takes a lot of space to make it look like he has muscles when he doesn’t.”

  She gives him a curious look and Lord help me, she inspects him like I might not be joking. The man has rattled the poor girl and he and I will be chatting about that, very forcefully. “He’s very authentic, right?” I ask, holding out my hands as if presenting my specimen and Kyle either doesn’t care or play along, just standing there. Finally, she gets it, and bursts out laughing. I laugh, too, while Kyle says, “I need to do a walkthrough of the building with Myla in a secure location.”

  “Our building is secure, I assure you,” comes a female voice and now I have a genuine thrill with no guilt because I am staring at The Barbara Van Gleek, who is sixty, silver haired, and somehow elegantly sexy. She’s also been the assistant to some of the biggest names in fashion.

  I want to gush. I want to hug her. I want to act like a school girl, but I know, that won’t get me respect, which I need at all levels to keep surviving.

  “Forgive me, ma’am,” Kyle replies, “but my responsibility is to Myla’s safety and I will be making that assessment myself.”

  Barbara purses her pink-painted lips. “Men. They’re all the same. They have to be in charge. Well, you’re not in charge young man, but if it makes you feel better, do whatever you need to do. I’ll take Myla into my office. No. To her office.” Her gaze lands on me. “Why am I talking to him and not to our superstar? Come.” She holds out her arms. “I must hug the future of fashion.”

  Oh god. I’m having a mixed moment of fan girl and dream girl, both of whom want this to be real, not a money laundering operation for a drug cartel. And I let myself. Just for these few beats, when time stands still as I’m wrapped in Barbara’s arms. I mean, she is hugging me, after all, and she smells like cinnamon of all things, and I really like cinnamon.

  She pulls back and looks at me. “You look uncannily like your mother.”

  “I do?” I don’t give her time to answer because I’ve never met anyone who knows my mother. “You knew my mother?”

  “I did. She was a beauty with quite the eye for design work. Which brings me to the surprise I have for you.” She takes my hand, Barbara Van Gleek takes my freaking hand, and leads me down a curvy artsy stone encased path, but there is a sudden, odd fizzle of unease in me, and I don’t know why. Where is it coming from? Why am I so on edge that I can feel Kyle behind me, close, connected, and yes, looking out for me? Once again, he makes me feel safe. No. He always makes me feel safe, and despite knowing I am responsible for my own safety, I welcome the sense of not being quite as alone with him around. I revel in the cold steel between my breasts, and it hits me then that even having it, should equal trust in Kyle, a detail so obvious, that I don’t know why it hasn’t registered.

  Our travels, and my fizzle of unease, continue to the right and down another hallway, this one’s walls layered with fashion magazine covers as if they are embedded in the stone, I love it, but that fi
zzle is becoming a bubble. I try to tame it by reminding myself that thanks to Kyle I could shoot any enemy that attacked me if I had to do it, and it’s that thought that brings us to a halt at a corner office.

  “Your castle, madam,” Barbara says, motioning me forward and bowing dramatically.

  I smile, but I don’t quite feel it, aware this isn’t the dream. Aware now that the bubble is a well of emotions over wanting, but not wanting, so many things. I know then that these feelings had been building with today’s approach, and I can no longer blame Kyle for last night. I’d been ripe for that cry.

  “Go in!” Barbara urges when I still stand in the hallway, aware of Kyle behind me, wishing she was gone, and he was the only one here now. I don’t analyze why he’s okay. He just is. He’s the only one that is or has been for a very long time.

  Forcefully, I step forward, entering my new place of work, and when I do, I feel nauseous, not elated, at the perfection of the space. I take it in, try to comprehend it and form the positive reaction it deserves. I mean, it is fabulous. Not only is the desk this stunning, shiny dark wood, the floors are a pale tan contrasted with walls that mimic their color. But what steals my breath, what guts me, are the life-sized fashion shots of my mother lining those walls.

  Barbara steps to my side, sliding her arm over my shoulder. “Do you love it?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, unable to find my voice, that bubble of emotion now in my throat. “Yes, I do. I love it.” And truly I do love it, just not what surrounds it. Not what got me here.

  She turns me to face her, her hands on my shoulders. “Soon this place will be filled with the visions I am certain she inspired.”

  “She did. Very much so.”

  “I see her in your work.” She releases me and eyes her watch. “How about a tour in thirty minutes? I moved our meeting back to give you time to be settled, so we start in an hour.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “Great,” she says, “then make yourself at home and you will note that there is a Keurig right here in your office.” She indicates an adorable round glass table in the corner right next to a bookshelf and a cozy looking brown leather chair. “And,” she adds “I hear we stocked your favorite chocolate coffee.” She turns and stops in her tracks at the sight of Kyle standing in the doorway, his shoulders all but touching the frame. “Is this a safe stop for her?”