And it was cathartic. He made me feel so at ease with my body. How could I not let loose with someone like him?
I’m sore, there’s a definite achiness between my legs, but God, it was worth it.
Cade was my first.
Part of me wishes he could also be my last.
But I can’t think too much about that right now, so I grab a quick shower, leave my hair wet but brushed, and slip on a pair of jeans and a tee I picked up yesterday. In gold letters, it says, I left my heart in Havana.
As I head to the door, I catch sight of my dress from last night on the floor. The memory of being in Cade’s arms resurfaces. Heat gathers in my stomach as I think about his broad chest and the feel of his muscles beneath my palms.
It takes me a minute to compose myself and reel in the red in my cheeks before I exit and pad down the stairs slowly, my quads on fire.
At the bottom of the steps, I halt at the sight before me.
Cade’s sitting in the floral lounge chair in the living area, with his ankle crossed over his knee, and there’s a distinct scowl marking his face.
Owen is hanging back behind the chair, arms crossed, and an equally pissed-off look replaces his normally carefree one.
“Sit,” Cade commands.
My shoulders flinch at the tone of his voice.
What the hell happened this morning?
I do as he says, taking a seat opposite him, welcoming the space between us, since his dark mood is occupying plenty already.
And that’s when I see it.
A small black object is pressed to his thigh beneath his palm, and I swallow as unease spills through me.
“Is that my phone?”
Cade takes a long, deep breath. The silence is almost too much. His stare nearly cuts through me as I wait for him to speak. I look at Owen when Cade remains quiet.
Owen grumbles then says, “At what point were you going to tell us that this was never about the McCullens, that this was about putting yourself—and us—in some serious shit by trying to take down a goddamn human trafficking organization? A little heads-up about what we were dealing with would’ve been nice.”
“What—how . . .?” I’m all blank thoughts and misplaced words. My stomach squeezes, knotting hard and fast. And Cade is looking at me as if he’s disappointed.
“Mya called,” Owen says as my eyes sweep back to the phone, his words confirmation that it’s mine.
“Were you snooping through my things?” I stand and plant my hands on my hips, staring down at Cade, but his face remains the same: a clenched jaw with normally soft blue eyes that have gone dark.
“Mya called in the middle of the night. I heard it vibrate under the bed.” Cade’s voice is like hot water pouring over an open wound, but my eyes widen in recognition of what his words mean.
“What—what’d she say?” My emotions are all mixed up right now, but I have to focus on what matters.
Mya must have news.
Cade lifts the phone and tosses it at me. He rises and hides his hands in his pockets, but he can’t hide his emotions. He’s pissed.
I stand and go to him. When I reach for his arm, he doesn’t pull away, at least.
The way his eyes drop to my fingers has me worried that I don’t have much time to explain. But, damn it, he still hasn’t answered my question.
“I, um, this is still about getting away from Rory.” I lift my hand from his arm and back up a step. “It was you who demanded I run. You sped up my timeline to get away. I didn’t ask—” I stop myself, knowing that’s not the point. I should have told them the truth as soon as we ran, but everything happened so fast, and then I was afraid they’d try to stop me if they discovered the truth, and so . . .
“What’s this really about?” Owen asks.
“Her mother,” Cade says in a low voice.
Breathe in through the nose; exhale through the mouth: that’s what my yoga instructor always says. Yeah, well, right now I can’t follow his advice because I’m taking so many short and rapid breaths, I’m lightheaded. “Give me a second.”
I drop the phone on the chair, even though I want to use it and call Mya for answers this second.
But I also need them on my side, so I turn before they can say anything and run to my room. There’s something I need in order to help them understand.
When I return, their backs are to me and they’re talking, but too quietly for me to hear.
I clear my throat to alert them to my presence, and I hold my sketchpad out once Cade faces me. His brows draw tight as he tries to put two and two together.
It’s complicated, but I’m going to try.
Cade strides toward me and takes the pad, but he doesn’t open it. He lowers it, resting it against his outer thigh as he waits for me to speak.
“When Richard McCullen got sentenced for life, I decided it was finally my chance to try and get free. It was my chance to find my mother.” My hand presses to my abdomen to ground myself, to maintain the strength I need for this confession.
His attention flicks to my wrist, to the angel wings there.
I point to the sketchpad, and he lifts it but still doesn’t open it. And his eyes take forever to work back up to mine.
“My mother used to sell her art in a café in Rio. She was an artist, too. Her work sold better in an area that mostly had tourists—a lot of gringos. Uh, non-Brazilians.”
The first image in the sketchpad is now open, and Cade is looking at it. It’s a sixteen-year-old girl.
“A lot of those girls worked the streets. I used to sit in the café and sketch what I saw. The faces of these girls—their haunted eyes, their sadness . . . My mother finally told me who they were when I was fifteen. She called them os tomadas, which means the taken ones. Some were poor and saw it as a chance to make money, but most were forced into the life.”
“By traffickers,” Owen bites out like he wants to rip someone’s face off.
I nod. “There was a trap door in our home beneath the kitchen, and Mother said if anyone ever came to our home to try and take me, I should hide there.” My eyes fall shut as the darkness of my past blankets my mind. “She thought we’d be safe since we lived outside the city, but we must have been followed home one time. A dark SUV had rolled up outside. She told me to hide, that she’d be down with me in a minute.”
“But the room wasn’t big enough for two,” Owen says, his voice grave. It’s as if he’s experienced a massive pain before, too.
“I should’ve gone out to help her.” My voice quavers. “She shouldn’t have been taken because of me.”
“You both would have been kidnapped. She sacrificed herself to save you,” Owen says, but it’s Cade I’m looking at, wondering what he’s thinking and feeling.
He’s staring down at the last paper, the one of my mother. The one I drew of her once I arrived in New York with my father.
I rest my fingertips on her drawn face, a face that looks so much like mine.
“It’s been ten years. That’s a long time,” Owen says.
“I know, but I’ve been trying to find her all my life. This is the closest I’ve ever come to getting answers. I have to know what happened to her. What if she’s still alive?” My eyes connect with Cade’s.
“Who told you she wasn’t?” Owen interrupts my intense focus on the man who made love to me last night, the man whose very soul feels like it’s bleeding into mine right now—keeping me safe, even if he’s angry at me for hiding the truth.
“After my dad brought me to New York, he disappeared the very next day to go and find her. He had no choice but to leave me with Richard McCullen, I guess.”
Owen asks, “And if a notorious hitman couldn’t find her, what makes you think you can?”
Cade remains silent, and I wish he’d say something.
“He said he found her, but it was too late. She was dead.”
“I don’t get it.” Owen falls back onto the couch.
“I didn’t believe him. I t
hought—I still think . . . maybe he lied to try and keep me from going back to Brazil. And with Rory taking over the business, I knew I had to find a way out soon, before he—” I let the words die on my tongue when I notice Cade’s grip tighten on the pad, the anger flaring hotter within him. “It made sense to try and get away while also discovering the truth about my mom.”
“Mya never came to you about Rory. You went to her.” Cade hands me the pad, and I close it, pressing it between my palms. “The art classes were your idea.” He’s not asking questions; he’s making statements, and now I have to wonder how long of a conversation he had with her because it sure as hell sounds like he knows a lot.
“Did she tell you that?” I ask.
“I know her. She’s the daughter of a friend, and she came snooping around my office for information last Monday.”
“She never mentioned she knew you.”
“Would it have mattered? She only cared about you getting away, right? It didn’t matter how it happened.”
“Hey, you only just showed up in my life. Mya and I have been going at this for weeks,” I snap.
“Yeah, well, at what point were you going to ask me to take you to Brazil?” Cade’s face is unreadable now as he looks at me. “And did you two plan on taking down traffickers by yourselves?” He turns his back and curses beneath his breath. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
I drop the pad on the chair to rest my hand on his back. But this time, he jerks away and stalks across the room, an icy path in his wake.
He presses a palm to the glass door, but he could be miles away right now; that’s how it feels, at least.
“I approached Mya because she’s one of the best investigative reporters in New York, and she covers a lot of international stories. Plus, when we spoke, she said she had a lot of connections to people who could help.” I clear my throat to try and get rid of my frustration. “Again, you are new to my life. We were going to figure this out before you arrived with your cape.”
My defensive walls are locked and loaded, and a burst of adrenaline has me unable to back down, even if it’s not the best idea right now.
“What’d you promise her in return for the help?” Owen leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Rory?”
“I was planning to get away as soon as Mya found out who took my mom, but then Cade changed everything.”
“Sorry, did I screw up your plan to get killed?” Cade keeps his back to us.
“Well”—Owen shoves up to his feet—“Mya not only found out who took your mom but also the buyer. Both of those men are dead.”
My stomach drops, and so do I. I fall to my knees, pressing a hand to my mouth, trying to understand what this means. It takes me a moment before I ask, “Is anyone connected to this alive? Anyone who might know what happened to her?”
Cade’s before me now, crouched down and offering a hand to help me rise. His face is still expressionless, but there’s less tension between us now.
I gather the strength to take his hand and stand.
“Jess sped up the process and hacked into the Rio police records. The group who kidnapped your mom . . . well, the main guys were killed within a week of taking her, and the rest were arrested right after. Your mom had already been sold before that happened,” Owen explains.
“My father,” I whisper and release Cade’s hand. “He killed them, didn’t he?”
“I’m thinking it’s not a coincidence,” Owen says. “And the guy who, uh, purchased your mother—he died a few days after the others.” He scrubs a hand down his jaw. “There’s no record of death for your mom.”
“So she could be alive,” I say.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Owen’s brows drop. “We don’t know anything for sure yet.”
“You’re going to help me, right? You’ll help me find her?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” Owen says. “We’ll look into it, but I’ve asked Mya to back off. It’s too dangerous, especially with Carlos Perozo alive. He’s the brother of the man who bought your mom.”
“So there is someone connected to all of this.” My hands tighten into knots at my sides.
“Perozo took over his brother’s business, and from the looks of it, he’s even more dangerous.”
Carlos could have my mother.
My mother could be alive.
“I know what you’re thinking, but we still have to worry about your father and Rory’s men coming after us. Let’s handle one thing at a time.” Owen releases a deep breath. “I need to get back on the phone with Jess. Is there anything else you think we ought to know?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I finally say.
He studies me for a minute, and I can’t quite get a read on what he’s thinking. “Listen, I’m sorry about your mom and what you went through, and I get you want to find her, but you let others die at Rory’s and your father’s hands for years until it was convenient for you to do the right thing.”
“Owen.” Cade’s eyes narrow, and the muscle in his jaw ticks. He crosses the room and faces him. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“But he’s right. You know he’s right. This is my fault.” I look toward the windows. “I need air.” I head to the back door and slide it open. Then I take off in a run. My legs might hurt, my stomach might be a shaky mess, but I need to get away.
The sand is soft between my toes, and there’re no people in sight. The CIA must own at least a mile of this beach.
“Gia.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Cade jogging behind me.
“Leave, please.” I look back ahead, pumping my arms at my sides to go faster, but I catch sight of him out of the corner of my eye not even a few seconds later.
“I’ll stay quiet, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fine,” I mutter and continue to run until I see people up ahead.
I stop and face him, my hands on my hips to catch my breath. He’s not even the least bit winded.
“He shouldn’t have said that to you. He doesn’t know you like I do. He’s thinking like a soldier.”
“But you’re angry with me, too.”
He blows out a breath and hangs his head forward. “I’m angry that someone could have gotten hurt. You left us in the dark, which put us all at an even greater risk.”
“I was afraid you’d make me back down.”
“You’re damn right I’m going to make you back down.”
“What?”
He braces me by the elbows. “Do you really think I’ll let you run off to Brazil and get yourself killed? Are you insane? I care about you. I made the commitment to keep you safe back in New York, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“No.” I try to break free of his grip, but he won’t let go. “Cade,” I beg.
“I never said I wouldn’t find your mother; I’m just saying you won’t be risking your neck to do it.”
I sniffle, trying to hold back a sob.
He shifts his hands up to cup my face. “I’ll go to the ends of the fucking earth to give you what you want. You know that, right?”
At his words, I stumble forward and into his arms, allowing the tears to scroll down my face.
* * *
“I was a dick. I’m sorry.” Owen extends an open beer bottle my way.
“Cade send you out here?” I rest my sketchpad on my lap and take the beer.
He plops down in the chair next to me on the patio and directs his focus out on the beach as the dark water glimmers beneath the moonlight. “No.”
“Liar.”
The side of his mouth curves up. “He’s right, though. I was out of line.” He swallows some of his beer, and I do the same, even though there’s an intense pressure working at my temples.
His fingertips drum his thigh as an uncomfortable silence stretches between us.
“So, uh, what are you drawing?” he asks a few minutes later.
A breeze nips my shoulders and blow
s strands of hair into my face.
“Nothing. Just staring at a blank page.”
“Well, what do you want to draw?” He lifts a brow as our eyes meet.
“I was kind of hoping for some inspiration. I thought maybe drawing would take my mind off things, but my creativity is jammed up right now.”
“Yeah? I work better under pressure.”
“In your line of work, that’s probably a good thing.” I glance over my shoulder, wondering where Cade is, and Owen reads my thoughts.
“He’s on the phone with his brother-in-law, Noah. Checking on his sister.”
My lips tighten as I consider how many lives I’ve messed up.
“So you and Noah were on the same team in the SEALs?” I don’t know much about the military, aside from what I’ve seen on TV.
“No, we ended up on different teams, but we trained together.”
“Cade said Noah left the service for his daughter. What about you? Um, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Owen presses a hand beneath his chin and pushes up on it, cracking his neck. “Classified,” he says. I almost expect him to wink like usual, but instead, I realize he’s dead serious.
“Oh.” I take a sip of my beer, the tangy sour flavor kicking up in the back of my throat. “Can I try a different question?”
He grins. “You can try.”
“Fair enough.” I set the beer next to my chair and shift to the left to better face him. “Did your team ever go after human traffickers?”
The rim of the bottle rests near his lips, but he doesn’t drink it. He holds it there for a moment before lowering it to his lap. “We’re usually only sent on ops that involve American lives. That, or a threat to American soil in some way or another. You take Panama, for instance, back in the late eighties, and—” He stops himself, and a smile flickers briefly across his face. “To answer your question, I’ve dealt with traffickers before.”
“And?” I swallow a lump in my throat.
He rests his head on the back of the seat and closes his eyes. “The objective was a rescue mission, and we rescued the asset.”
“And the people who took the, uh, asset?”
“It wasn’t about them. We got our person, and we left.”
My Every Breath Page 14
