Chapter Twelve
Deer Valley, Montana
Her head throbbed as the drowsy haze dissipated. Dryness coated her throat like she’d swallowed sawdust.
Christina opened her eyes. Stared at a dark hardwood ceiling. Her palm glided over plush fabric. Soft amber light from a lamp illuminated the room. She was on a bed.
Sitting up, she put her feet on the floor. A familiar room whirled, slowly settling in place. Alvaro came into sight.
He sat in a leather midcentury lounge chair, his ankle resting on his thigh, his hands folded in his lap. A glass of wine and a bottle of Chateau Pétrus were on a small table beside him.
Taking in the spacious bedroom she hadn’t been in for four years, she reoriented herself.
Noted the open door to the hallway, windows and French doors to a balcony.
If memory served her correctly, there was a rocky drop.
The mountainside house had floor-to-ceiling glass spanning the rear of the home with sweeping views of the valley below.
The back side, where Alvaro’s bedroom was located on the second floor, was cantilevered over the steep slope.
In the daylight, it offered immersion into the surrounding treetops and a holistic connection to the valley with direct views of the shoreline below.
It also meant the only way out of the room was through the door that led to the rest of the house.
Alvaro had several pieds-à-terre all over, but he’d chosen to bring her here, to his house. It was the most secure. But it was also where they’d spent many nights together if they weren’t at her place.
Her gaze fell on a water bottle on the nightstand. Picking it up, she wondered how effective the lamp would be as a weapon. She opened the bottle and chugged some water. If he wanted to drug her again, she couldn’t stop him. She estimated the odds were in her favor that the water was safe.
“Tell me something,” Alvaro said. “Whose clothes are you wearing?”
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she choked on the water. “That’s what you want to know?”
He was unarmed. At least, she didn’t see his gun. Was it to lure her into a false sense of security?
“Among other things,” he said, “but let’s start there.”
“They belong to someone who was kind enough to loan them to me after I made it out of the river.”
“Don’t you mean after you and Jackson Powell made it out of the river?” he asked, staring at her, gauging her response.
She put the water bottle up to her lips and sipped slowly.
“I set out fresh clothes for you.” He gestured behind her.
Glancing over her shoulder, she looked at the light blue sweater and jeans that were neatly folded on the other side of the bed. The tags were still on. “You bought me clothes?”
“I figured if you survived the river you’d need them.”
It would’ve been easy to see the action as thoughtful, but she recognized it for what it was. Strategic. He’d probably bought the clothes before he tried to get her out of police custody.
“I’m eager to know if I remembered your size,” he said. “Try them on.”
She glanced at the tags. “The size is right. You have an excellent memory.”
He poured more wine in his glass, drawing her gaze to the tattoos across his fingers and the ink scrolled on the back of his head that was only visible when his dark hair was shorn close, like it was now, accentuating his attractive Latin features.
“You’ll be more comfortable if you get out of those rags. Change.”
Squirming on the inside, she didn’t so much as blink. “I’m fine. Really.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
She felt like she was swimming for her life in shark-infested waters. Waiting to be attacked and ripped to shreds.
“Okay.” She picked up the clothes, plucked the tags off and started toward the attached bathroom. Each step she took, she expected him to stop her and force her to change inside the bedroom. In front of him. But he didn’t.
For some reason, he allowed her the small courtesy of going to the en suite. Any dignity she was afforded was given by his grace. It was all about power.
She grabbed the knob to shut the door.
“Leave it open,” he called out.
Staring at him, she removed her hand from the doorknob.
A chime resounded through the house, a sensor letting him know someone was coming down his driveway. The house was tricked out with security features.
Alvaro pulled out his cell phone and checked the screen. “Hector is here. He’s dying to see you.”
“Great. He’s not my biggest fan since our last encounter.”
“Never has been. The only thing that ever stood between you and Hector was me.”
That statement couldn’t be more accurate.
Was she supposed to thank him? Part of her felt as though she should. But how did one thank the devil for his protection and all the strings that came attached?
Alvaro glanced at the screen. “He’s parking. Should be up in a couple of minutes.” He set his phone down. “Unless you want him to watch you undress, I suggest you get to it.”
Her anger spiked. Anger hid the fear, so she clung to it.
The front door opened with a beep. “Where are you?” Hector yelled.
“Upstairs,” Alvaro said. “My bedroom.”
The door slammed shut. “You better not be having fun with her.” Hector’s tone was furious as he cursed her, calling her foul names. “This is serious business.”
“Serious business can be fun.” Alvaro sipped his wine, not taking his eyes off her. “All a matter of perspective. It’s important to enjoy one’s work.” He tapped his watch, indicating time was running out for her before the toad was in the room.
Footfalls started up the steps.
Quickly, she ducked out of sight, going deeper into the bathroom, removed her shoes and stripped off the ill-fitting clothes.
Gathering her thoughts and trying to formulate a plan, she shoved her legs into the jeans, the luxurious denim hugging her thighs, and fastened them.
Threw the cashmere sweater on. Then she pulled her boots back on without bothering to tie the laces and looked around for a weapon.
She opened the linen closet. Bypassing the towels and sheets, she grabbed the small storage bin where he kept extra razors. It was empty.
There was nothing in the closet that she could use and if she tried to rummage through the cabinets under the sink, Alvaro would see her.
Hot bile burned the back of her throat.
“I suggest you hurry up,” Alvaro called out.
She shut the closet gently and hurried back into the bedroom.
Hector reached the top landing. His gaze met hers, and he glared at her.
Christina widened her stance and curled her fingers into fists. She couldn’t take on Alvaro. Hector was a different matter. She was going to give it to him as good as he gave it to her.
Hector limped down the hall and into the room.
“Don’t touch her,” Alvaro said, his voice calm, borderline indifferent.
“How’s the leg?” she asked Hector. “Sorry I hobbled you. I was aiming for a femoral artery and was hoping you would do the world a favor and just bleed out.”
Alvaro chuckled, the sound of that disarming laugh reminding her of their early days.
“Did you check her for weapons?” Hector asked Alvaro as he eyed her with caution. “She’s always armed.”
A hard lesson Hector had learned one night, years ago, when he’d cornered her outside at a party and she’d dared to pull a microcompact gun from a thigh holster under her dress and pushed the muzzle against his groin.
She’d drawn a gun on Hector Ibarra—an Estrada lieutenant.
An offense that would’ve gotten her killed if not for someone far worse intervening.
No one crossed the Reaper. Not even lieutenants.
Christina wished she had her Springfield Hellcat, fully loaded, on her now. But she would’ve settled for her solid steel baton.
“I’m pretty sure she’s clean,” Alvaro said, staying seated.
He didn’t sound certain, which meant he hadn’t searched her for weapons when she was knocked out cold.
“Pretty sure?” Hector muttered. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t need a weapon to handle you,” she said. Her fists and feet would do just fine.
Shuffling toward her, Hector called her another dirty name. “You cracked a tooth and I’m going to have this limp for the rest of my life.” Anger engraved every line in his craggy face. “You’re going to pay for that.”
She flicked a glance at Alvaro. His hand clenched and his eyes narrowed as Hector closed in on her.
Reevaluating the situation, she braced for the incoming blow that she could’ve easily dodged.
Hector struck her across the face. The force sent her stumbling backward, but she let momentum take her down to the floor. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.
In a blink, Alvaro was on his feet and in motion, crossing the room. Lean and powerfully built, he moved with the smooth, lithe grace of a predator as he grabbed Hector by the throat, shoving him away from her. Then Alvaro seized Hector’s right hand, the one the lieutenant had used to hit her.
The sound of bones snapping echoed in the room.
Hector howled in pain. “You broke my hand!”
“A bit of an overstatement,” Alvaro said. “Only a few fingers. I did warn you. Don’t touch what belongs to me. Only I get to damage or break my property.” He pushed Hector out of the bedroom. “Go wait downstairs.” He slammed the door and turned to her. “See. Serious business can be fun.”
“You knew he would do that,” she said, standing up. “Hit me even after you told him not to.”
A grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “And you knew that if you didn’t strike first, I would take care of him.”
“I didn’t know.” But she’d suspected. Hoped. “Why the game? Why did you want to hurt Hector?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“No, but you have one.”
The half grin spread into a smirk. “You and Hector have always had such a contentious relationship. He rubbed me the wrong way one too many times when it came to you. Consider it my last gift to you,” he said. “Sit.” He gestured to the king-size bed in an easy-breezy manner, but it was a command.