Bulletproof
ESTELLE
The ragu simmers in the pot, the alluring aroma of beef, wine, and spices filling the air. I lower the heat and get started on the bechamel sauce for the lasagna.
Pushing thoughts of Carlos from my mind requires full brain capacity.
It’s been three days since he ravaged my mouth in the hallway outside my door, and he hasn’t said a word to me.
Three days of him walking into the kitchen, looking at me intently, and walking out without saying anything.
I’m still not going to accept his proposition, no matter how many times he asks, kisses me, or puts his hand down my pants.
The kitchen door opens, and I look up, half-expecting it to be him.
Grayson walks in without looking at me, heading straight for one of the sinks near the windows. He begins to take off his jacket, wincing as he pulls one sleeve down his left arm.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping.
His white shirt is splattered with blood around his cuffs, collar, and all the way down the front.
He sets the jacket on the counter next to the sink and begins to unbutton his shirt, pulling it off carefully, wincing again. He sets it down on top of his jacket and starts washing the blood off his arms.
I layer the lasagna slowly, trying my best not to make it obvious that I’m watching him. I had assumed he was a burly man with a wide chest, but I can see now the bulletproof vest widened the appearance of his torso considerably.
The kitchen door opens again.
Ross walks in with a garment bag and sets it down on the counter next to the bloody clothes. An angry red line runs down the side of his forehead, but it’s not bleeding.
“Boss wants to see you when you’re done,” he tells Grayson.
The other man nods, wiping his arms with a towel, then removing a clean white shirt and black jacket from the garment bag. He gets dressed quickly and walks out.
I feel Ross’s eyes on me, but I pointedly focus on spreading the ragu over the pasta sheet.
“Estelle,” he says finally. “Mr. Fuentes will have his dinner in his room tonight. 7 p.m. Bring enough for two, including a bottle of wine from the cellar. He prefers Cabernet Sauvignon. Any vineyard.”
I try not to show my surprise.
“Okay. Noted.”
He leaves the kitchen without another word.
The last time Carlos asked me to make enough for two was the day he interviewed me.
I’m not desperate enough to think he wants to have dinner with me in his room, but I can’t help the thrill that runs through me, betraying my mind’s attempt to dismiss the possibility.
The wine cellar is impressive. Racks of expensive wine fill the entire room. I walk down the rows, unsure of the right choice. We were taught about the best wine pairings with food at culinary school, but the names of most of these vineyards are completely foreign to me.
I grab a familiar bottle of 1974 Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon and hope for the best.
Ross leads me to a private elevator at the back of the stairs. He holds the doors open as I roll the food cart inside.
“His bedroom is the first one on the right. Don’t go sightseeing,” he says and lets go of the steel door.
I have a moment to compose myself, unsure of what to expect. Both Grayson and Ross seem off. It’s hard to pinpoint what, since they are trained not to show any emotions, but I can still see the tension in their postures.
The doors slide open smoothly.
I roll the cart toward the door on the right. Beautiful, expensive-looking paintings hang on the walls down the long hallway.
I steady my nerves and knock twice.
No answer.
Twice more.
Again, no answer.
He must be in the shower.
I turn the doorknob and roll the cart inside Carlos’ bedroom.
It’s exactly what I expected his room to look like—large, with high ceilings and a breathtaking chandelier cascading down in the center, a king-size bed, and a round dining table that seats four people near the high windows.
Sleek and elegant with a touch of classical decor.
The bathroom door opens when I’m setting up the table.
I almost drop the expensive wine.
Carlos stands in the doorway in nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist.
His lean, well-defined muscles tense when he sees me, and I have half a second to look appreciatively over his hard body before a horrified gasp leaves my mouth.
I’m walking toward him before I realize what I’m doing, eyes trained on his torso.
Three circular blue-purple bruises mar his perfect chest, each one bigger than a coin.
One is exactly over his left pec—over his heart.
The other two are on his stomach—over his lung and intestines.
He got shot.
I reach out my hand dazedly, carefully touching the angry purple one over his heart.
He flinches even at my slight touch. I look at his face, his damp hair curling around his ears.
“Carlos,” I whisper. “You got shot.”
The deep green pools of his eyes run over my face for a few heartbeats before he nods tightly.
“Are—are you okay? Did you see a doctor? You could have internal bleeding even though it’s just bruising and—”
“Estelle,” he says gently, his large hand covering mine over his chest.
I realize my hand is shaking.
I’m shaking.
He runs his thumb over my cheek, down to my jawline, before caressing my mouth.
“I’m fine. Bruised and tender for a few days, but I’m fine.”
The few times our bodies were pressed together, I never felt a bulletproof vest underneath his jacket, not like Grayson’s. I would have felt it, right? He must have worn one this time.
I have so many questions that I know I can’t ask.
“I should go,” I say.
His hand tightens.
“Have dinner with me. You are my guest,” he says. “A date.”
“A date?”
He nods, letting go of my hand. “Let me go change. Sit, make yourself comfortable.”
He disappears inside the bathroom again, closing the door halfway. I sit at the table numbly. I don’t know what’s more shocking, the three gunshot bruises or the fact that he’s agreeing to one of my terms.
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