Chapter 24

24

Bea

T he boat should have felt safer than the safe house. At least, they were no longer in Cartagena. Or in Colombia. They were somewhere in international waters, and Slate would supposedly keep them there until they were near Colon, their destination.

Fear and excitement warred within Bea. She’d never been out of Colombia. The thought of traveling had always been a far-away dream, especially since her father had died. Now, after so long standing still, she was going places. Panama first and then, if everything went as planned, Switzerland. And then wherever she wanted. Rogue had made it clear that he didn’t want her to stay with him. And that made sense. The poor man had done enough. He was too honorable to leave her here but, once they got to Switzerland, he could let go of the responsibility he’d saddled himself with. He could get on with his life.

Bea breathed in the salty sea air coming in through the open porthole of her cabin. There were two cabins on the boat. One for her and Rogue, and one for Dark and Slate. But they’re out there most of the time, and I’m the one cooped up in here.

She wasn’t locked in, of course. She wouldn’t have stood for that and didn’t think Rogue would have even considered it. But they had asked her to stay downstairs, in the cabin or in the main kitchen area.

Dressed in colorful bermudas and T-shirts they’d bought on the harbor just before leaving Cartagena, the men were up on the deck most of the time, pretending to fish. That’s what anybody seeing their boat would see—three friends on a fishing trip.

Nobody would imagine Emiliano Cruz’s niece could be hiding downstairs. Or, at least, that’s what she hoped. If anybody found out, it would be the end for all of them. And Bea knew her uncle well enough to know he would make Rogue and his friends beg for death before he granted it. So she stayed downstairs, breathing in the cool, sea air, enjoying a freedom that felt fragile as eggshells.

Two nights left. The trip could have been done faster, but the men didn’t want to look like they were rushing. In the evening, Slate had come downstairs to cook dinner. Bea had offered her help—not that she’d ever cooked before, but she’d watched other people do it, and she wanted to learn. She wanted to learn about everything she’d never had the chance to learn about. She wanted to pull her weight—now and always.

She watched as the tall, blond man pulled down can after can from the pantry. Food in her uncle’s house had been cooked fresh every day. The only canned food Bea remembered seeing was condensed milk, and that was because Emiliano had a sweet tooth. Everything else was flown in fresh.

She sat down at the small table, a glass of water in front of her, wondering what he was going to do with all those cans.

“What are you making?”

“Look and learn, Bea,” Slate said. At least he was calling her Bea now, rather than the more formal and hated Beatriz . Every time somebody called her by her full name, she could hear Emiliano in their voice. She didn’t want to hear that name again. From now on, she was going to be Bea. “This is going to be my famous one-pan vegetarian spaghetti.”

Right. “One-pan because that’s all we have, and vegetarian because it’s all vegetables?”

“You catch on fast,” Slate boomed. “Want to help? Pass me the peas, please. And the mushrooms.”

While they cooked, Slate told her of all the other one-pot meals he’d made in the past.

“You were in the Navy?”

He nodded but didn’t share any more details. And Bea knew there was a story there. The previous evening, she’d opened the door just as Slate was going back into his room after a shower and had seen the scars on his back. Scars that made what Rogue had gone through pale into nothingness. Wherever he’d been, he’d suffered horrific injuries. Still, it wasn’t her place to ask.

“Is that where you learned to cook?”

He shook his head. “I spent a lot of time with my grandmother in the kitchen when I was young. She taught me everything I know.”

“That’s nice.” She wished somebody had taught her to cook. Maybe she could still learn. “When did you join your current team?” she asked.

“We’ve been working together for six months,” he said.

“And before that …”

Slate stopped what he was doing. “If you want to know where Rogue was before, ask him. We’re all pretty private people, but I have the feeling he will tell you if you ask him.”

She nodded. “Sorry. It’s one of my character flaws. There’s a saying in Colombia, la curiosidad mató al gato .”

He listened carefully to her words. “Curiosity killed the cat. It’s an American saying, as well. I think being curious is good. It means we care. We die when we stop caring about things, even if we’re still alive.”

“Stay down,” Rogue said, from above. “We’re passing another sailboat.”

Slate continued cooking, but the tension in the small galley was palpable until, several minutes later, Rogue confirmed everything was alright.

“Relax, Bea,” Slate said, emptying yet one more can into the pan. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Bea locked her gaze on his. “You know what you’re risking by bringing me along, right? My uncle will not stop searching for me. Because he loves to win. And because my disappearance will make him look like a fool, and he can’t allow that. He will do anything, to get me back; I don’t want any of you to get hurt on my account.”

“We know what we’re risking. And leaving you here is not an option.”

“That’s what Rogue said.”

“What did I say?” Rogue asked, coming down the steep steps. “Man, that smells delicious.”

“It’s Slate’s famous one-pan vegetarian spaghetti,” Bea quipped.

Dinner was a surprisingly distended event. The three men came down to eat, so the four of them were together, if only for a few minutes. It seemed to Bea they were doing that for her benefit, as an attempt to bring some normalcy to a situation that was all but normal, and for that she was grateful. The three prodded and joked with each other like men who knew each other well—like men who trusted each other.

Trust. There goes that word again.

Bea realized she was jealous of the easy trust between them. More than anything, more than safety even, she wanted to be able to trust, and to be trusted in return.

After the meal, Slate brought out dessert—a Colombian coffee cake, cut into slices as thick as three of her fingers, which he placed on four plates and slid in their direction. Bea looked at the plate in front of her. Her throat constricted, and suddenly she wasn’t getting enough air. Because, intellectually, she understood this piece was for her, that she could eat it, but the instinct to push it away was so strong, it was hard to keep her hands steady.

She looked up, and found Rogue staring at her, his jaw clenched tight. The expression on his face grew determined as he picked up his slice of coffee cake and took a bite, daring her to do the same. Bea swallowed through the lump in her throat and imitated him, taking a small bite. The taste of coffee, cinnamon and sugar exploded in her mouth, but her real reward was Rogue’s smile, which lit up the room.

“Slate and I will take watch tonight,” Dark said as soon as the dishes were clean. Slate stood up to go with him.

Rogue made as if to stand up as well. “Hold on. I can?—”

“No. You’re still not back to full strength, Rogue. You and Bea should get some rest.”