Chapter 6 Suave Mateo
Suave
Mateo
Ithought you were supposed to be suave,” Rolland whispers as I pace across the kitchen floor.
“I am suave. I bought charcuterie, for fucksakes.” I wave a hand toward the wooden table, where there’s a spread of meats and cheeses and hummus. There’s even a brand-new decanter filled with red wine, polished glasses waiting next to it.
“If you were suave, you would have let her shower at her own place, not bought her clothes and half the world’s supply of beauty products. She only needs one bar of soap, not twelve. You look like a psycho kidnapper.”
My gaze tracks toward the bathroom door as the shower turns off. “Christ. You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right.” Rolland pours a glass of wine and slides it toward a place setting, jamming a finger at the empty chair. “Sit.”
I do as he says, running a hand down my face before I take a long sip of my wine.
I’m desperate to grab my laptop and start looking up this poisoner in my bathroom.
Isla Castillon. As soon as she ducked into the restroom, I searched her on the database.
Employed by the Juniper Guild. Eighty-two confirmed kills.
No bounties. But I didn’t let myself dig beyond that—at least, not yet.
I want to savor the discovery just like I do this glass of wine.
The same glass I gulped down and am now refilling as the bathroom door opens, releasing a burst of steam.
Isla steps into the room and my breath stalls completely.
Her wet hair is piled in a loose bun, her skin glowing. She’s wearing the jeans and black cashmere sweater I bought her, the fit perfectly draping across her curves. It’s just a simple outfit. Nondescript. But she looks beautiful, and I struggle not to tell her that.
“Thank you for the clothes,” she says quietly with a glance down at her body. “You didn’t have to. I could have changed at home.”
I shrug. “I thought we’d get to work faster this way.”
“He thought you’d run,” Rolland pipes up, and I shoot him a dark glare that says, “Shut the hell up.” Which, of course, he does not. “You know, on account of you poisoning him and taking off the last time.”
My guts churn as I hiss a whispered warning at the old man, but Isla merely looks amused. She rolls her eyes and strides to the table to start filling a plate. “I gave him the antidote. So you’re welcome.”
Rolland chuckles and shoots me a glance that tells me he likes this woman. Probably more than he likes me. “So,” I say as she takes a seat across from me. “What do you need to get started?”
“This is probably a good start,” she mutters, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Uhh, let’s see. Lots of sodium hypochlorite, for one. Materials to make a triggered diffuser. I’ll make a list—most of the chemicals should be easily accessible if they’re not already in your lab. Got a pen?”
I rise from the table a little too quickly to retrieve a pen and paper for Isla. I can nearly feel Rolland’s judgments nipping at my heels. You’re so not suave.
Sliding the notepad and pen her way, I say, “Rolland can find whatever we’re missing and bring it to the lab tonight while we get started. How much time can you spare on this? We don’t have long to prepare.”
“Well, I’m off tomorrow and the next day, so I’m all yours.
” She’s got the training to tamp down her expression, but she’s not able to subdue the flush that climbs her neck and infuses her cheeks with a pink glow that brightens the green hues of her hazel eyes.
I could do the same—control my micro expressions, force my lips not to lift in a smile.
But I let it shine in my eyes. Maybe I want her to know I don’t mind the little slip of innuendo.
It might be nothing more than a single moment that passes between us, but I don’t mind at all.
Isla seems to log my reaction before she darts her attention down to her paper, taking a long sip of wine as she scribbles out a list of items. “Anyway,” she says as she passes the paper to Rolland, “we’ll have a lot of work to do. We’d better not waste any time.”
She jams some meat and cheese into her mouth and washes it down with the rest of her wine, and then she’s up and getting ready to leave.
I feel bad about it too. She’s probably still hungry.
Exhausted and sore. The kitchen must be hot and loud and stressful—especially as she’s doing two jobs at once.
I’m used to imagining what people are doing and thinking.
What they want and need. It makes me good at my job.
But imagining Isla’s life feels different.
And I realize that it’s the first time I’ve really put myself in someone’s shoes and thought about what I could give to them, rather than what I could take away.
We take the old elevator with Rolland, who leaves us when we’re out of the building to retrieve the items from our list that aren’t in the lab’s inventory. Isla watches him go, folding her arms against the cool breeze before turning her attention to me. “So? Where’s your lab?”
“Calle de Goya,” I say. Perhaps against my better judgment, I lay my hand on the small of her back and guide us toward the family grocer wedged between two clothing stores across the street.
She looks up at me, her brows drawn, but she still matches my stride even though she waves a hand down the road we’re crossing. “It’s that way.”
“I know. But you haven’t had a proper meal, so we’re getting something to bring with us.”
I catch the glimmer of interest in her eyes, a blush rising in her cheeks before she looks away.
This isn’t me. I don’t bond with people in this business. Feelings are ephemeral. Dangerous. Coveting a connection, even briefly, can become your demise.
I shouldn’t do this.
And as I keep my hand at the small of her back, I wonder if that’s what she thought when she saved me.
But she still did it anyway.