Chapter 3

3

Rogue

F uck.

Rogue pressed his palms against the shower wall. The hot spray felt great on his tense neck and shoulders but did nothing to soothe his mind—or the problem down below.

He sighed.

This is so wrong.

He’d never been a cradle-snatcher, yet here he was, getting hard over a girl who couldn’t be a day over twenty.

Not a girl, a voice inside him said. A woman. Very much a woman. He shook his head, spraying water everywhere. A woman who’s close to a decade younger than you.

He could still hear her breathy, tremulous voice, which seemed to hold on to a million secrets. She’d been lying about the towels, of course, and damn if that didn’t make her even more interesting.

Rogue groaned, unable to help himself, and palmed his thick cock with his right hand. He pumped a few times, remembering the soft lines of her body, the cloud of golden hair surrounding that smooth heart-shaped face, and those dark, unfathomable eyes, the image as vivid as if she were standing in front of him right now. He held on to the image until he sprayed his come all over the white tiles.

Shit.

This was bad. The last thing he needed was to be obsessing over some random woman now. He should have gotten laid before leaving Zurich, but now it was too late. He had to get his head screwed on right and focus on the job.

Now that he knew Emiliano Cruz had inherited his brother’s throne, Rogue had a choice to make. He could leave now, go out the window and foot it to Sincelejo. Get in touch with Slate and Thorne and end this charade. Or he could stay.

Cruz wants something from you. Find out what it is. Help bring him down.

It was tempting. Payback for what Ricardo Cruz had done to him. He’d ended Rogue’s career. He’d almost ended his life.

Another voice inside him spoke up.

Ricardo Cruz didn’t do that.

You did that to yourself.

Pissed off now, at himself and at the world, he stepped out of the shower and picked up a towel, drying himself brusquely. The soft white fabric once again reminded him of the woman. As if he’d needed the reminder. His dick threatened to wake up again. Who was he kidding? His curiosity was piqued but he still couldn’t figure out her end game.

Who was she?

Did Emiliano send her?

If so, what was he thinking about, sending a young woman alone to meet him?

The thought soured in his belly.

She’d looked worried, standing there—almost scared. And the thought of that luminous young woman afraid—even worse, the thought of her afraid of him —made him ill.

Rogue wrapped the towel around his hips and walked out into the bedroom, the terracotta floor cool against the soles of his feet. Lifting his backpack onto the white, king-size bed, he noted it was lighter than it was before. He’d expected them to rifle through it but hadn’t imagined they’d be bold enough to take his laptop. Which they had. As well as his cigarettes.

Fuck, but he needed a cigarette just about now. It was a disgusting habit, but one his doctors had agreed was probably the lesser of all evils, in his case. They’d almost encouraged him to keep smoking, as a way of occupying his thoughts and his hands. Anything to keep me away from harder drugs.

He finished going through the backpack.

At least they were kind enough to leave me my spare underwear.

He picked up a clean pair of boxer shorts and slipped them on quickly, then put on his old jeans. If he stayed longer than a couple of days—and if he stayed alive—he was going to need to do some laundry.

From the left side pocket, he brought out his phone and pressed the button to light up the screen. No connection, which explained why Cruz’s men hadn’t bothered taking it. If there were no cell towers in the area, they knew he wouldn’t be using it to get in touch with anyone.

He wondered if they’d cloned his phone before putting it back in the bag. He wasn’t worried. The phone was clean. He had a few contacts saved and a fake email address with a few hundred equally fake emails, in case Cruz wanted to waste time reading those.

Other than that, there was nothing of any interest for anyone to find, except that the phone was able to connect to an experimental phone-to-satellite service. But there was no way for Cruz to know that. Twice a day, at three a.m. and three p.m., Colombian time, Rogue would be able to launch a command to access a test satellite as it passed overhead. When they’d tested it earlier this week, Rogue had been able to exchange two text messages before the connection had been severed.

Rogue had agreed to connect at three a.m. the next day. If he didn’t, there was every chance his team would storm the place looking for him now that he’d activated the tracker in his boot. He most certainly didn’t want that. Not until he figured out what was going on.

He put on a clean black T-shirt. Though it was cooler now that the sun was coming down, the T-shirt still stuck to his body as if he hadn’t just showered. He pulled on his boots and went downstairs, not bothering to close the door to his room behind him.

He passed the main courtyard, with its large, incongruous-looking pool, and made his way into a back room that he assumed was the library. He wouldn’t have pegged Emiliano as a big reader, but every available wall was lined with books.

Rogue walked out into another long hallway and back to the large living space where he’d originally met Cruz. The man was still there, looking as if he’d never left. He had a fresh drink in his hand. From the red tint on his cheeks, it wasn’t his first one.

“Rogue. How’s the room? Everything to your liking?” he asked expansively, playing the gracious host.

“Everything is great, Emiliano.” Rogue paused for an instant. “Except I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.”

“ Tiempo al tiempo, as we say in Colombia. Patience, my friend. Wait till you taste the food my chef has prepared for us tonight.” Rogue followed Cruz through a large arched doorway into the dining room. Unlike the cluttered living area, this room was bare, almost empty save for an enormous oval oak table.

Rogue eyed the three formal table settings set on one end.

Alarm bells went off in his head.

“Is somebody else joining us, Emiliano?”

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Just in time, as always,” Cruz said, turning to the doorway. Rogue’s eyes followed. And time stood still.

I’m nobody.

The young woman’s words still resonated in Rogue’s ears as she floated through the doorway and into the dining room. She’d changed into a dress of the palest green, with a pleated skirt that fell past her knees, and long cuffed sleeves. It was a strangely old-fashioned piece, but fuck if she didn’t look beautiful in it, with her blond hair falling in soft waves down her back. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out quietly.

“Have you met my niece, Beatriz?” Emiliano asked. He pronounced the name the Colombian way, ending in a soft s sound.

Beatriz.

Rogue caught the fearful look in her dark eyes before she lowered her gaze, as if something on the ground between them held her full attention.

“Your niece?” Rogue asked woodenly, forcing himself to take his eyes off her.

Fuck.

“She is Ricardo’s daughter.”

Double fuck.

Rogue didn’t remember any daughter, and he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten someone who looked like her. With her straight, blond hair, she didn’t look like Ricardo’s daughter. Ricardo’s hair had been black, like Emiliano’s, his coloring several shades darker than the girl’s.

Emiliano nodded. “Her mother was Austrian. She didn’t live long, unfortunately. My brother sent the girl to a convent school years ago. I had her brought here when Ricardo left us.” He spoke casually, not appearing to notice—or not caring—the impact of his words on the young woman.

She pulled her trembling hands at the front of her dress, lacing her fingers together until her skin went white.

“Eyes up, girl,” Emiliano said. “You’re not a mouse. This is Rogue, my guest. Say hello.”

She looked up then, as if the thought of disobeying Cruz was inconceivable to her. Her dark eyes met Rogue’s, a beseeching look on her face.

And just like that, Rogue understood Cruz hadn’t sent her to his room. She’d gone there on her own initiative, and was now regretting it.

He wanted to reassure her, to let her know he wasn’t going to say anything but schooled his features instead. She was just going to have to trust him.

“How do you do, Mr. Rogue?” she asked. Though she had to be a Colombian native, her English accent was almost flawless. He should have noticed that when they’d first met.

You’d have noticed if you’d been thinking with your head instead of your cock.

Instead of replying to her, Rogue turned to Cruz. “Why is she here? I thought you and I were going to talk.”

Beatriz looked up again. For an instant, something hot and sharp and reckless shone in her gaze. He’d made her angry by dismissing her. Rogue was glad to see that fire inside her.

Cruz laughed raucously and sat down at the head of the table. As soon as his ass hit the chair, a male server appeared as if out of thin air, a decanter of blood-red wine in his hands. He poured two glasses, offering one to Cruz and the other one to Rogue, not asking the young woman if she wanted any.

“Relax. We will talk after dinner. For now, enjoy this. Ah, foie gras ravioli,” he said, watching as a server appeared carrying a large, silver tray. Cruz served himself first, a heaping plateful. “Wait till you try this, Rogue. My chef is from Buenos Aires. German-Italian grandparents. Probably Nazis, but who cares? She can really cook.” He laughed loudly at his own joke. Across from Rogue, Beatriz paled further, until her skin took on a shade eerily similar to her dress.

Rogue was offered the food next. He served himself, though his hunger was all but gone, watching out of the corner of his eye as the young woman served herself two ravioli then spent several minutes cutting each one into six tiny pieces, her mannerisms almost manic. Next, she drew a straight line down the plate with her fork, separating the plate into two neat halves.

“Is this your first time in Colombia, Mr. Rogue?” she inquired. Her tone managed to sound polite and at the same time let him know she had no interest whatsoever in his answer. Good for her.

“Rogue and our family go way back,” Emiliano said, before Rogue could say anything. “He helped your father with something important, and now he’s going to help me.”

Some of the fire died in the girl’s eyes but she kept forking tiny bits of ravioli into her mouth. When she’d eaten exactly half of what was on her plate, she pushed it away from her.

Jesus.

That wasn’t enough to feed a bird, let alone a person.

No wonder she’s so thin.

In the dim lighting, her skin looked almost translucent, and Rogue wondered if she was sick. He looked up at Cruz—not that there was anything he could say, this wasn’t his business —expecting to catch a look of concern in her uncle’s face, and instead caught a satisfied nod.

Rogue’s hands tightened against his own knife and fork. The food stuck in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow once—then again and again, until his plate was finally empty. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. The man he was pretending to be wouldn’t concern himself with anything other than the health of his bank account.

As soon as the men finished, the server floated by with clean plates for all of them. The second course was some kind of meat, served almost raw and smothered in a thick red wine sauce. Again, Cruz served himself first. When the server offered Rogue the silver platter, he noticed there was only one piece of meat left. He raised his eyes questioningly, but Cruz urged him on.

“Beatriz isn’t hungry,” Cruz said. The young woman didn’t raise her eyes from the empty plate in front of her.

Rogue clenched his jaw so hard his teeth felt like they might pop. He wanted to wrap his hands around Cruz’s neck and show him what power imbalance felt like. But, once again, he placed the meat on his plate and forced himself to chew.

Luckily, Cruz didn’t notice. The man had no difficulty keeping the conversation going on his own, talking about his own exploits until, finally, Rogue was done with his meat.

A portly woman—Rogue had to assume she was the chef—came out next, followed by the two servers, their muscles straining under the weight of the trays in their arms.

The cook took her time placing the dishes on the table, like a baker decorating her shop window. When she was done, pastries in all colors of the rainbow covered the entire surface. There were cakes in different shapes and sizes, tiny croissants, alfajores dusted in a thick layer of icing sugar, something that looked like rice pudding, a plate of crispy fried bananas, and a thick meringue topped with fresh fruit.

Even Rogue, who’d never had much of a sweet tooth, had to admit it looked tempting.

Cruz’s eyes shone as he reached out and stuffed an entire alfajor into his mouth. “Ah, this time you have outdone yourself, Sofia.”

Or at least, that’s what it sounded like he said.

The woman nodded and retreated quickly, but not before Rogue caught the look of stark relief in her expression.

Cruz’s eyes closed in rapture as he chewed. Rogue took the chance to look at Beatriz again. Her attention was on the food in front of her, though she made no attempt to reach for any dish.

Finally, Rogue picked up a plate of pastries and took a ridiculously small croissant for himself, then passed the plate to her. Beatriz looked at the dish in her hands, then at her uncle. Whatever she saw in her uncle’s expression made her shake her head quickly before placing the dish back on the table. If Rogue hadn’t been so attuned to her every reaction—and he couldn’t explain why he was—he would have missed the little shove she gave it, as if needing to move it further away.

Rogue took a bite of the croissant, tasting burnt cardboard.

“Mmmm,” Cruz moaned, spooning some rice pudding onto the meringue on his plate.

And Rogue didn’t know exactly what he’d walked into, didn’t fully understand the dynamic between them, but he’d seen enough to know Cruz was a sadistic asshole who got off on torturing his niece.

In his mind’s eye, Rogue saw himself standing up and slamming his fist into Cruz’s mouth, saw the man fall right onto the pastries he so clearly loved. It took every ounce of willpower he had to stay sitting.

“I have a headache, Uncle,” Beatriz said, her voice barely a whisper. “May I be excused?”

Cruz nodded. “Of course, mi florecilla . Get some rest.”

Florecilla. Little flower. Rogue clenched his teeth together as an unexpected fury filled him. He forced himself to relax his jaw and put on what he hoped was a gallant, dumb expression.

Beatriz didn’t look at him as she turned and left the room, walking slowly, as if even putting one foot in front of another was an effort.

Cruz continued eating. When he was finally done stuffing his face with sweets, he dropped his napkin onto his plate and led the way to an adjoining sitting room. One of the servers appeared as if by magic and placed a tray with two tiny coffee cups in front of them, then left the room. The smell of dark espresso filled the air.

“Ah,” Cruz said. “Colombian coffee. Almost our finest export,” he said, laughing heartily at his own joke.

Rogue leaned back against the velvet armchair. “Let’s get down to business, Emiliano. What is it you think I can do for you?”

“Always in such a rush. You Americans are…”

“I’m Australian,” Rogue corrected. This was something Cruz would already know, so he wasn’t giving anything away.

“Of course, of course,” Cruz said, his expression making it clear it was the same to him. “But still, so impatient. I want to help you, Rogue.”

Rogue arched an eyebrow. “Help me?”

Cruz laughed. From an ornate, wooden box, he brought out a cigar. He offered the box to Rogue. “Straight from Cuba. A good friend brings them for me.”

Rogue shook his head. “I prefer cigarettes.” He only just stopped himself from referring to his missing pack. “What’s going on, Emiliano?”

Cruz closed the box, setting it carefully back on the coffee table, and spent an inordinate amount of time cutting the tip off the cigar before lighting it. “Let’s put it this way. Maybe we can help each other. I’ve done a bit of research on you.”

“I’m flattered,” Rogue said, forcing himself to remain calm. He was certain his cover would have stood up to scrutiny.

“You’ve led a boring life since you arrived in Toronto. A boring job at the municipal library, an even more boring salary. You keep a fucking fish, for God’s sake.”

Rogue nodded, impressed despite himself. That was some good detail Carrie had added to his bio. “Dogs are expensive,” he said with a shrug.

“What happened with all the money you made here?” Cruz asked, sighing in satisfaction as he puffed on his cigar.

This time, it wasn’t hard for Rogue to fake the anger. “I spent it. It turns out one makes really stupid decisions when one’s high all the time.” He shrugged. “I was lucky my sister paid for rehab.” In reality, the Australian military had paid. He’d been lucky. If the end of one’s career could be called lucky. It wasn’t a time he wanted to think back on.

“Ah. But you must wonder how different your life would be if you still had that money.”

Rogue watched the red and orange glow for an instant, allowing a greedy look to cross his expression.

“Sure I do. Sometimes,” he said, then shrugged. “But I have a comfortable life now.”

He couldn’t make this too easy for Cruz.

“ Comfortable ,” Cruz said, his lip curling up in contempt. For an instant, he looked so much like his brother, Rogue felt was like he was traveling back in time.

“Admit it, Rogue. If your life were really so comfortable, you wouldn’t have come back to Colombia.” Cruz clasped his hands in front of his body. “But, you do this one small thing for me and I will change your life.”

Keeping his expression steady, when he wanted to hoot with laughter, was another exercise in self-control. Rogue raised an eyebrow and smiled wolfishly. “Just how much cash are we talking about, Emiliano?”

C ruz leaned forward in his seat, like a fisherman about to reel in his biggest catch of the day. The cigar lay forgotten on the ash tray in front of him. “You remember the system you designed for my uncle?”

Rogue kept his expression carefully neutral. “How could I forget one of my finest pieces of work?”

Come on. I’ve got you now.

Hook.

Line.

And sinker.

Emiliano licked his lips. “You’re going to re-design it for me.”

So fucking predictable. Like one of Ash’s games of chess.

“I don’t do that kind of work anymore, Emiliano. It took me a long time to get clean.”

“My uncle made a mistake when he exposed you to … other sides of the business. I won’t make the same mistake; you don’t have to worry about that.”

Rogue took a deep breath and stood up. “The answer is still no. Call me a car, Emiliano. And give me back my laptop and the cigarettes your men stole from me.”

Emiliano’s hand disappeared under the coffee table. There was the sound of ripping Velcro; a gun appeared in his hand.

Interesting.

Rogue had expected Emiliano to try to cajole him or bribe him. But this, this was unexpected. It was a good reminder that Emiliano wasn’t the same man he used to know.

“Sit your ass back down and let me tell you how this is going to work,” Emiliano hissed. His lips curled into a thin smile.

He’s enjoying the power rush.

Rogue did as the man asked, raising his hands and forcing his shoulders into a hunched position.

“I don’t want any trouble, Emiliano.”

“You’ll do this for me, and you will leave here a very rich man … or not leave at all.”

“My sister will come looking for me.”

Cruz barked out a laugh. “Don’t underestimate me. I’ve seen your phone records. You speak to your sister once a week, at most, and you called her when you landed. Your mutilated body could appear in Cartagena, victim of an unfortunate random mugging, long before the next call.”

There were few things that scared Rogue, and death wasn’t one of them, but he forced himself to cower.

Finally, Cruz breathed out an alcohol-filled breath and lowered the gun. When he opened his mouth again, the cajoling tone was back. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Rogue. You and I … we can work well together. I will make it worth your while.”

Rogue sniffed. “And if I can’t do what you need?”

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Rogue. All I’m asking you to do is what you already did once before. You make this happen for me, and I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t end up in an unfortunate accident. How does that sound?”

Rogue straightened his spine. He had to balance the fear with that other, very natural, emotion that Cruz would understand. Greed.

“How much cash are we talking about?” He sniffed.

“Two million U.S. dollars.”

Rogue’s mouth hung open, as if he hadn’t expected such a large figure. “Cash?”

Cruz laughed. “Cash or transferred to any account of your choice. Completely legal.”

I doubt that very much.

“So. What do you say? Are we in business?”

Rogue allowed himself a small smile and pulled out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Emiliano. For two million, I’ll do anything you need.”