Chapter 5

5

Rogue

T he next morning, Rogue stayed in his room until he was sure Beatriz would have finished her morning swim. He didn’t want to see her in her bathing suit again. The image of her lithe body was already imprinted on his mind. He could see her every time he closed his eyes—those long, elegant legs, narrow waist, and those small perfectly shaped breasts. Cold had made her nipples pebble as she left the water, and Rogue was an asshole for having noticed, and an asshole for recalling the instant now, particularly because he’d felt her discomfort from where he was sitting.

Beatriz.

Something about her fascinated him, and it went way beyond what she looked like in a bathing suit. There was something in her wide, dark eyes called to him, in a way he couldn’t verbalize.

Don’t put it into words. You should stop thinking about her altogether.

He was spending too much time thinking about her, and it wasn’t right. For several reasons, not least of which was the fact that Cruz would cut off Rogue’s balls if he knew.

Rogue had made many mistakes in his life, but he’d never put an operation at risk over a woman. And he wasn’t about to do so now. But it was best to avoid her, just in case.

He made his way down the recently waxed stairs, across the courtyard, with its ridiculous pool, past the dining room and the main living area. His host was nowhere to be found, which Rogue took as a good sign. He wanted time to explore the hacienda , and he couldn’t do that with Emiliano breathing down his neck. Luckily, he seemed to understand Rogue needed some time to program, and was staying out of his way.

A movement behind him startled him.

Fuck.

He flattened himself against the wall as Beatriz came out of the library. Today she was dressed in a flowing skirt in the lightest blue and a cream-colored blouse. Butterflies— fucking butterflies —fluttered in his stomach at the sight of her. What the hell is wrong with you?

Rogue was about to turn away when he noticed the strange way she moved, her hand over her belly. Gentle. Cautious. Stealthy. Like she didn’t want anybody to see her. Of course, Rogue followed. Because Beatriz might seem innocent, but innocent people didn’t sneak around in the middle of the day. Whatever it was she was doing—and whatever it was she was hiding under her blouse—Rogue needed to know.

It was hard to imagine her involved in the drug trade. And yet, she lived here. At the very least, she had to know what her uncle did for a living. And if she knew , she condoned it. Something squeezed tight inside him, like a vise.

Rogue waited until she was out of the house, then followed at a safe distance, speeding up only after he watched her disappear around the hedge, towards a row of smaller one-story houses dotted around the hacienda .

Staff houses, he’d assumed. Or maybe labs.

Perhaps—and the thought sent a stab of something that could only be called pain through his chest—perhaps Beatriz worked with her uncle.

Shit. He’d lost her. He stepped behind a bunch of magnolia trees and stared at the empty path in front of him. She’d been there one moment, then gone the next. But there were only three small houses she could have gone to.

Rogue knew he should go back to the main house. If Cruz caught him, he’d be hard-pressed to explain what he was doing here. But he couldn’t leave until he knew what Beatriz was up to. He tried to convince himself it was important for the operation, though deep inside he knew it had nothing to do with that. He simply had to know.

He stepped up to the first house, looking in through the window, and found himself staring into an empty room. Dust covered the mud floor. Nobody had been inside for quite some time. He made his way casually to the second house, checking behind him to make sure he was alone before stepping up to the window to look inside. It was a room just like the other one, but this one looked like somebody lived there. There was a rickety table with three chairs and, in the far corner, a modest kitchen with a stove, a sink and a small fridge but still no sign of Beatriz.

Rogue made his way to the third house. He was about to peek inside when a shadow moved from within the house. Moments later, a thick curtain obscured his view of the inside. Rogue swallowed a thick growl of frustration.

Short of knocking on the door, which would defeat the point, there was no way for him to see what was going on inside. So wait. It’s not like you have anything else to do.

He stretched out on the dry grass as if enjoying the sun, far enough from the house not to call attention to himself if somebody were to walk by but not so far that he could miss it next time the door opened.

In his mind, he counted the time. Almost forty minutes later, the door to the third house opened and Beatriz came out, carefully closing the door behind her. She didn’t notice him, even as he stood up and made a big show of wiping grass off his jeans. Whatever else she might be, she was shit at this stealth business. Eventually, he coughed. Beatriz lurched sideways, her features contracting in fear.

“Mr. Rogue,” she stammered.

“Just Rogue,” he said automatically.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said. First rule of interrogations, be the one asking questions.

Her cheeks blushed dark pink. She looked guilty as hell. “I was …” She stopped, hesitating for an instant as she realized she did not have to answer his questions. Her jaw clamped together. “It’s really none of your business what I was doing.”

Rogue’s heart told him to leave her alone, but his brain reminded him he had a job to do. He took a step forward, using his greater height to crowd her and feeling like shit as she took the tiniest step back.

“What are you feeling so?—”

The door to the house opened, and a boy bounded out. He was young, couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, gangly like a newborn colt, with inky black hair and eyes that seemed too large for his serious face.

“Ms. Beatriz, you forgot …” The words, spoken in halting English, died out as he saw Rogue standing there. His hands went to his back—fast as lighting but not fast enough for Rogue to miss the small package.

“What do you have there?” Rogue growled, stepping around Beatriz and grabbing the boy by the elbows, pulling his arms out from behind his back. The boy snarled—actually snarled—at him. “And what have we?—”

“Don’t hurt him!” Beatriz stepped between Rogue and the boy, her look ferocious. Her fingers wrapped around Rogue’s hand, her touch searing him. Something in Rogue’s belly tightened. Fuck, but she was hot. Rogue released the boy. But not before he’d seen what was in his hand. Now it was his turn to be speechless.

It was a book. The shape and size of the object she’d been hiding under her blouse when she’d first left the house. The Three Musketeers.

He grabbed it out of the boy’s hand and shook it, half expecting drugs to fall out of a hidden compartment. But it was just a book, the pages well-thumbed and stained with time. An expression of disgust crossed Beatriz’s pretty face. “Give that back to him.”

“I’m sorry,” Rogue told the boy, quickly pushing the book back into the boy’s shaking hands.

“You can keep it until next time, Manuel,” Beatriz said. “It’s okay. Go inside.”

Next time. Suddenly, it all clicked in Rogue’s mind. The curtains closing, the boy’s halting English, the hidden book. She was secretly teaching the boy English.

The boy didn’t need to be told twice. With a quick, apologetic look at Beatriz, he sped back into the house, the book clutched tightly in his hands.

“You were reading together.”

“Be quiet,” Beatriz hissed, her expression still disgusted, with him, he assumed. He studied her frown, as another idea hit him. Is that disgust, or fear? The thought tore him up inside.

“Listen, I don’t…” But he was speaking to her back. Because she’d turned, with a flair of her skirt, and left him standing there, feeling all sorts of foolish.