Chapter 22
Cal kept his focus on who and what was around them, but he was irritated. They’d been moving nonstop since leaving Rusty at the café earlier today. It wasn’t the heat, humidity, or crowds that put his temper on edge. It was the argument he and Io had last night.
The one where she reminded him that the Russian mob IDing her changed nothing.
Damn it, he knew that. They’d shot up the house where she’d been held prisoner because they wanted her that badly. His heart didn’t fucking care. All it wanted was for the woman he loved to be safe. To remain safe.
Io scanned, too. She wasn’t slacking. Wasn’t relying on him to monitor. He hated it. Hated that she had to keep watch. Hated that she was at risk.
They stopped at a traffic light, waiting for the walk sign, and Cal nearly vibrated with pent-up energy.
He tried to pull it back. Having another argument wasn’t going to convince her to give up and go to the safe house.
She was hell-bent on protecting her sister.
He got it. Really. No one understood that motivation more than he did, but fuck.
Io was his to take care of. His to protect. And she didn’t want to be shielded.
The light changed and they crossed with the throng. His gaze continued to sweep, taking in the side street, the alley they passed, the storefronts. Io matched his pace. Matched his vigilance. It reassured him that she could handle this.
He should feel relieved. He didn’t. Cal didn’t want to lose her.
A small voice in his head reminded him that he lost her when he told her to leave him and go back to LA. But there was a big difference between their marriage ending and being listed as her next of kin when the inevitable call came that Io was dead.
“Slow down,” she said.
Only then did Cal realize he was power walking and calling attention to them. He had to be better. He couldn’t be responsible for them finding Io. “Sorry.”
She caught his sleeve and held on. “What has you agitated? Did you spot something?”
Io spoke quietly, her voice measured, and Cal sighed. She was behaving more professionally than he was. “No. I was thinking.”
“More like worrying.”
Cal grimaced, but only for a moment. “I hate how easily you can read me.”
“You’re not easy to read at all,” she disagreed, keeping their pace at a leisurely stroll. “Most of the time, I have no idea what you’re thinking or feeling.”
“I don’t know. You nailed it just now.”
Io shrugged. “One of the few times I could tell. Want to share what you were worrying about?”
“You. The danger. Why the fucking hell you’re so protective of your sister. I get wanting to keep someone you love safe. How could I not? But you’re intense about it to the point of being willing to risk your own life.”
They were stopped at another traffic light and Io stayed quiet until they moved again. Even then, she didn’t immediately speak and he had a sense she was debating what to tell him. Why did things have to be so complicated between them?
“Give me the truth,” he said. “If I could tell you about my sister, you can share, too.”
Io glanced up at him for a moment, surprised, before her gaze returned to sweeping the area. She was still debating what to tell him and Cal frowned.
“I’ve always taken care of her.”
“Why?”
“I’m the tough twin. I’m the one who fights the battles so that she doesn’t have to. That’s the way it’s always been.”
Cal shook his head. She was saying words and sharing nothing. “Why?” he asked again.
He let the silence lengthen. Now wasn’t the time to push for answers. They both needed to keep their focus on who and what was around them. But if she opted to remain secretive, he’d question her tonight at the hotel. There was too much he didn’t know about Io.
And probably too much she didn’t know about him either.
“Because,” Io said at last, voice quiet, “someone had to do it. Ay is gentle, she’s vulnerable. I’m not.”
He wanted to argue with her, but Io was speaking of emotional vulnerability, not physical, and after meeting her sister, she was right.
She was stronger. Ayla was willing to stay back at the safe house, willing to let others protect her, while Io was out on the front lines, fighting the fight for her.
“Yeah, the tough twin. Where were your parents? Why weren’t they taking care of your sister? Why weren’t they taking care of you?”
Io made a snorting sound and went for a diversion. “It’s too bad Ay is spoken for. She’d be your perfect woman. Looks just like me and is totally happy with her boring nine-to-five job.”
It was Cal’s turn to snort. “There’s another big problem with your idea besides the fact that she’s the Wizard’s woman.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not attracted to her. That’s how I knew she wasn’t you the first time I met her. Now, let’s get back to my original question. Why didn’t your parents fill that role?”
“I already told you, Cal. My parents didn’t want children. They didn’t change their minds after we were born.”
“I remember.” Cal scowled. He’d heard her talk about it.
Then she brought up his family and he shut down the entire conversation.
More focused on himself than on what Io shared.
She told him about her mom and dad, about her grandparents dying when she was nine, and he missed the significance.
Too wrapped up in his own scars to see hers.
He should have asked. Should have realized.
He was a selfish idiot. A fucking moron.
No wonder she wasn’t opening up to him. Why would she? She’d tried once and he had snuffed out the chance. I’m the tough twin. How many times had she told him that? Why didn’t he understand before this what Io was really saying?
His Wild Thing had spent her life making up for the parental support her sister never had—the love they both missed. Ayla hadn’t been as aware, hadn’t given Io back the same level of care she received. His wife was the twin who survived on crumbs of affection.
The memory of her face when he told her to leave Germany hit him hard.
For a moment her expression had faltered—raw, unguarded—before she smoothed it away.
He’d wounded her, but she’d pulled herself together fast. The tough twin.
The one who didn’t expect love. Who convinced herself she didn’t need it.
Cal’s stomach twisted. Another reminder of his selfishness. Of thinking only of himself.
She’d trusted him—believed in his love enough to marry him. And to her, he’d tossed it aside like it meant nothing. Io had grown up never expecting much from her parents. But she had expected more from him. He was the man she risked loving—and he hurt her worse than they ever had.
He needed to—
Io stopped short, and Cal realized he wasn’t paying attention.
He scanned quickly and saw what halted her.
Two men headed their way with intent. Turning, he checked their tail.
Another pair closing in from behind. He recognized this duo from the intel briefing before inserting. Jorge Torres’s messengers.
Damn it, he’d fucked up again. The first time, he’d hurt Io. Now he’d gotten her cornered by men who worked for an arms dealer. Yes, they’d wanted to attract their attention, but getting outflanked by four of his enforcers?
Cal scowled. Io probably wished she never met him.
Io studied Senor Hernandez as he gave their coffee order to the waiter.
The man was in his fifties, slim and fit, with salt-and-pepper hair.
His mustache and goatee appeared freshly trimmed and she suspected he saw a manicurist to get his nails that perfect.
She couldn’t name who made his suit, but it had clearly been tailored specifically for him. Bespoke, that was the word.
The restaurant they’d been escorted to was called La Brisa Griega. It was delightful with white stucco walls, brick arches, and mural landscapes of Greece. If she wasn’t seated at a table with someone who worked for an arms dealer, it would be charming place to eat.
Senor Hernandez looked at her and asked in Spanish, “Would you care for cookies with your coffee?”
“No, gracias,” she said calmly.
Nodding, he turned back to the waiter.
Hernandez had claimed a corner table and there was a buffer zone of empty seating between him and the few other diners in the café.
Cal was being guarded to her left, out of earshot.
That was just as well. He was edgy, and the instant he saw their escort, he’d become overprotective.
As if this wasn’t the outcome they’d been working toward for days.
Despite her answer about the cookies, Hernandez ordered alfajores anyway. Maybe he wanted them, but they were filled with caramel and coated in powdered sugar and she’d never be able to eat them without being dusted in white.
As the waiter left, Hernandez returned his attention to her. “We’ll wait for our coffee before we begin speaking anything of import,” he said.
“Sí, Senor Hernandez,” Io said. Made sense. Why start, stop when the waiter returned, and begin again?
They discussed the weather until the waiter returned.
Io used the interruption to glance over at Cal.
He was seated at a table on the edge of the buffer zone and one of his guards had a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from standing.
She gave him a sharp glare. That stubborn man was going to get himself killed if he didn’t stop trying to rescue her.
She drank her coffee black, but Hernandez added cream, stirring it in with controlled precision.
It was his show. She’d wait for him to start the conversation.
Io sipped from her mug. Hernandez helped himself to a cookie, and ate it without a speck of powdered sugar landing on his dark suit.
If he was trying to impress her, he managed it.
It wasn’t until he wiped his fingers on his napkin and sipped from his own coffee that the conversation began. “The Paladin League seems to be interested in La Convento de Madres Fieles. You’ve visited there three times,” he said in Spanish.
Answering in the same language, Io said, “I’m a photojournalist for the donor magazine. The convent is historic and our contributors would love to know more about it. The Reverend Mother is reluctant to allow me to photograph it.”
An angry look settled on his face and Io heard Cal stir.
This time, she couldn’t spare the time to look away from Hernandez.
It took her a moment, but she realized he wasn’t mad.
It was an act, a staged response meant to rattle her.
She wasn’t shaken, though, and any man who ate a sandwich cookie covered in powdered sugar without dusting his suit was far too controlled to be infuriated by her lying. He’d expect it.
Lifting her coffee cup, Io took a sip as calmly as if she were sitting on the balcony of her apartment building.
“Senorita Desmond, do not play me for a fool. It is common knowledge that the Paladin League wants to recover the Treasure of Trujillo.”
“The Lost Treasure has been missing for more than two hundred years. Many have wanted to recover it. None have located it.”
Hernandez’s expression sent a shiver down her spine.
He might be wearing a custom suit, but this man climbed the ladder to reach the top of the arms dealer’s hierarchy.
He didn’t attain his position by being a good guy who was easy to work with.
In her peripheral vision, she saw Cal try to get to his feet again, and the two guards press him back into his seat. Damn it, why couldn’t he trust her?
“Senor Torres has reason to believe the Paladin League does have an idea where the treasure is. He also believes that you are open to negotiation.”
The mole. The story Archer circulated about her loyalty being suspect had reached Torres and he believed he could buy her cooperation.
It gave her a clear role to play and Io embraced it.
“What sort of negotiation?” she asked, putting an edge of avarice in her voice.
She tamped down the surge of adrenaline.
Hernandez’s lips curved. “In exchange for your assistance, Senor Torres is prepared to offer you a ten-million-dollar finder’s fee for locating the treasure.”
“That’s one percent of the treasure’s estimated value. I might be open to negotiation, but I don’t come cheap.”
The smile disappeared from the older man’s face. “Senor Torres does not negotiate. He makes offers. You take it or you suffer the consequences.”
“I don’t scare easily.”
“No? How about your sister?” He rattled off Ayla’s address in Los Angeles. “Does her life matter to you?”
Io kept her expression calm, but she couldn’t stop her fingers from squeezing the mug.
She forced herself to meet his gaze without fear, but Torres had dug deep enough into her life to know she had a sister, to know where her sister lived, and Hernandez delivered the threat as easily as he’d ordered the coffee.
Taking a moment to corral her racing pulse, she sipped from her cup and ignored the sounds of Cal struggling to reach her.
He’d read something in her demeanor. She could only hope Hernandez hadn’t spotted it as well.
The situation was too tenuous to look at Cal. She was op leader. This was her fight.
Hernandez leaned forward, and while his face remained pleasant, there was something threatening in the gesture. “Ten million US dollars, Senorita. That is the offer. Refuse, and Torres will take everything—including those you love.”