CHAPTER 6
Mateo
Son of a bitch!
If he’d had any idea that El Jaguar had been planning an execution, Mat never would’ve let Imogen come to the party.
Behind him, he heard her gasp and grab the bottom of his costume jacket in her fist. Mat reached back and squeezed her hand without taking his eyes off the spectacle. He’d leave with her right now if it wouldn’t put them both in danger. His heart raced in panic. He felt trapped—useless—but he couldn’t let it show on his face.
Not when the lieutenant watched him as two enforcers dragged a hooded man toward the pyre. His fancy shoes scraped against the flagstones in desperation as he thrashed, uselessly hoping to escape. The man’s cries sounded muffled and unintelligible; he likely wore a gag under the burlap sack on his head.
The group had made it halfway to the lieutenant when the hooded man stumbled, falling to his knees with enough force to topple one of the men restraining him. Before Mat even had a chance to blink, flash bangs rocked the ballroom behind them, and pandemonium ensued. Screams, gunfire, and smoke filled the air.
With the pall over the crowd broken, chaos erupted; he pulled Imogen close to keep her from getting trampled as people pushed forward. His ears rang from the explosions, making it difficult to tell where the fight came from. While he tried to orient himself, people rushed the courtyard exits, desperate to flee what could only be some form of law enforcement.
Dammit!
Mat couldn’t afford to get picked up and squander over a year of undercover work if this was a raid. Not when he was so close to finishing it. If he lost his connection to the lieutenant now, he’d never find the Lazcano’s chemist. But how could he maintain his cover to protect the lieutenant and get Imogen to safety at the same time?
He had no idea. Thankfully, he didn’t have to face that problem because El Jaguar was gone. Searching the courtyard and the sea of people, Mat noted the hooded man and the men who’d escorted him were nowhere in sight either.
Probably fled through his tunnel.
But the lieutenant’s tunnel wasn’t the only one leading out of the house. He’d had plenty of time to find all the mansion’s escape routes, and he was pretty sure El Jaguar didn’t even know about the one he planned to use.
Smoke had filtered into the courtyard, obscuring everything, but Mat knew where he needed to go; he could’ve done the trek in the dark. Dragging a frozen Imogen, he pushed through the mass of frantic bodies.
They’d nearly made it out of the courtyard when someone slammed into them from behind. His heart stopped when Imogen’s fingers ripped out of his with a cry.
Whirling around, all he could see was smoke. “Gen!”
Mat dropped to his knees and searched for her with his hands. When he connected with her legs, he found her prone on the stone tiles. Relief tore through him as he pulled her up, hugging her to his chest. She was lucid, if a little stunned.
People still trampled around them, and they had to get the hell off the ground. Pushing himself up with Imogen in his arms, he fled from the raid down a dark hallway that ended in a fork.
“Which way?” Her agitated cry broke through the silence that had settled over her since all hell broke loose.
A soft light filtered in from the left branch, giving Mat a glimpse of the state she was in. When he set her on her feet, her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths while her hands twisted the dress of her costume into knots. This might be merely another day on the job for him, but Imogen had never had to deal with anything like this—fleeing for her life.
Tilting her chin, he brushed a feather off her cheek and murmured, “Everything’s gonna be okay, vida mía .”
Her eyes softened at the endearment. He’d called her my life, but it hadn’t been a slip of the tongue. There was a time when she had been his whole life. He still loved her, and even if they weren’t together, he didn’t want to contemplate a world without her in it.
He’d always admired her strength. Watching her calm down, deliberately slowing her breathing, it would be all too easy to let her fill that space in his heart again.
And he’d start by capturing that saucy mouth of hers. It was extra enticing with the bright orange lipstick she wore. The color contrasted with her caramel skin, luring him in.
Though he desperately wanted to kiss her, they needed to put some distance between them and the chaos they’d left behind. Instead of going right or left in the hall, Mat tapped a spot on the wainscoting in front of them, and a door swept in.
It wasn’t much wider than a foot, but he’d traversed the hidden pathway before and knew he could fit—sideways. Although not in this getup. He tipped his sombrero off his head so that it hung on his back, held by the string around his neck. When he reached for Imogen’s headdress, her eyes had become as big as saucers, and she trembled under his palm.
“Gen?” he asked as he removed her feathers.
When her gaze focused on him, fear clawed at its edges. “I can’t.” The words, barely a ragged breath, broke from her lips.
She started to back away, twisting her head. He held her in place and felt tremors shake her frame.
Is she claustrophobic?
He racked his brain but couldn’t remember her ever telling him that. Trying to soothe her with his voice, he told her softly, “It’s the safest route.”
“Please.” With her eyes, she begged him not to make her go in there, but if he wanted to keep her safe, she had to conquer this.
Cupping her face, Mat bent and kissed her softly on the lips. It was meant as comfort, nothing more, but the desire to delve deeper tempted him something fierce. “I’ve got you, Gen.” Stepping back, he clasped her palm, lacing their fingers together. “I won’t let go.”
When she gave the barest of nods, he pulled Imogen through the doorway and quickly shut it behind them. He untied his sombrero and dropped it on the floor with her headdress. Leaving them in the hall would’ve been suspicious, but he didn’t expect anyone to find them there. Especially when it was pitch black in the narrow space they’d just entered.
“Where are we?” she whispered wheezily. Her staccato breaths severed the quiet, stirring the stale air with the force of their movement.
Mat squeezed her hand as he started to move forward. “This leads to the servant’s wing. There’s a tunnel there that’ll get us outta the house.” Her tiny palm gripped his so tightly he could feel her nails digging into his skin. “Deep breaths, beautiful. You’re safe with me.”
She half gasped, half hiccupped over her erratic breaths. “I really don’t like tight spaces.”
Though she couldn’t see it, a frown tugged at Mat’s lips. “You never told me you were claustrophobic.”
Her voice was so tiny he had to strain to hear it. “I thought I’d gotten over it.”
Making her talk might help her breathing drop into a regular rhythm. “Wanna tell me about it?”
A heavy pause before he heard her sigh. “Not now.”
Mat nodded in the dark. “Probably best. Think about somethin’ else. How ’bout . . . what you want to eat when we get out of here. Because I’m starvin’.”
She had a smile in her voice when she answered, and relief knocked some of the stones out of his gut, “Tamales.”
That made Mat grin. Many of their dates in the past had ended with a cold cerveza , tamales . . . “And tacos.”
◆◆◆
Imogen
This wasn’t a punishment. Deep breath in.
She wasn’t trapped in a confessional. Let it out.
Deep breath. The air didn’t smell of incense. Dust, nothing more. Exhale.
They were moving; she’d be able to get out.
Imogen reminded herself to breathe as she repeated those facts over and over while letting Mateo drag her through the dark. His rough hand wrapped around hers lent her the strength she needed to keep her legs from buckling—barely.
As it was, the high heels weren’t helping. She should’ve kicked the shoes off, but being unable to see the floor made that idea less than enticing. Who knew what was in this corridor with them. She refused to think about things like spiders or . . . cucarachas .
Madre mía!
Thinking about cockroaches completely grossed her out, and she struggled not to gag. If there was one thing she hated, it was cockroaches. A shudder raced down her back, and she barely resisted brushing her hands over herself. Even though she knew there weren’t any, it felt like the insects crawled all over her skin.
At least she’d managed to distract herself from one fear by conjuring another. Internally, she rolled her eyes. But that was a mistake. Her breathing shallowed out when the old fear came rushing back.
Imogen became afraid of tight, dark spaces as a child. It started when she was only eight years old. That was the first year she spent at the boarding school in Spain. One of the sisters liked to lock children who misbehaved in a dark confessional—for hours.
The box had been modified; it had no screens for light to shine in. The school used the confessional as an obedience tool, claiming the isolation of solitary confinement would help children reflect on their actions while the darkness would help them seek repentance with God.
Imogen supposed it worked because she always came out of the confessional apologizing and begging not to be put back in ever again. But her contrition came from fear—and fear alone.
Deep breath in.
Exhale.
As much as she tried to simply focus on her breaths, thoughts of the past intruded. Hermana Dolores had been particularly fond of that form of punishment. The first time Imogen had wound up in the confessional was for rolling her eyes at the nun. She could still see the woman’s disapproving gray stare and upturned nose. For being a godly woman, Hermana Dolores seemed to despise children . . . or maybe she just hadn’t liked Imogen. Either way, as a young girl, she learned very quickly to stop the impulse to roll her eyes whenever it arose.
At almost thirty, Imogen didn’t like to think of herself as claustrophobic. It had been years since she’d had an episode like this, and she’d thought she’d conquered the fear. Though, perhaps she just hadn’t tested it in too long or the stress of the current situation brought it back to the surface. Either way, she was more than ready to get out of there.
How long is this corridor, anyway?
As if he could read her thoughts, Mat murmured, “Not much longer.”
Good. Because she was about thirty seconds away from losing it. Maybe counting would help calm her. Wasn’t that a thing?
Treinta, veintinueve, veintiocho . . . She started from thirty and worked her way backward, all while trying to take deep breaths over the racing of her pulse. She’d made it to twelve by the time Mat stopped moving.
He squeezed her hand. “Stay here a beat. I’m gonna make sure it’s clear.”
Imogen’s heart leaped into her throat at the thought of him leaving her alone in the dark. She opened her mouth to yell no but only managed a squeak. After a swallow, she got out the word, “No.” Another swallow and she managed, “Please, Mat.”
Her death grip on his hand became her lifeline. Absolutely not. He could not leave her alone here.
She felt him turn to face her. He might not be able to see her expression, but there’s no way he missed how loud her breathing had become. Her lungs and her heart were in a race. She wasn’t sure which organ was winning at the moment. “Please.”
Her head started to feel funny as if she was getting dizzy because she couldn’t get enough air. Then a roaring filled her ears. She shook her head, but the noise didn’t go away.
Where is that coming from?
“Gen?” She barely heard Mat over the roaring. Her legs grew weak, and she had the strangest sensation. It seemed like her vision blurred even though she couldn’t see anything but darkness.
“I think I need to sit.” Her words came out in a mumble right before her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body collapsed into Mat’s arms.
“Gen!”