Chapter 7

7

Rogue

R ogue stood up and cracked his back. He wasn’t used to sitting still for so long, but over the last two days he’d had to pretend to work hard on Cruz’s assignment—an impenetrable encryption program that would allow him to run his entire drug trafficking empire from a single laptop, so he could do so from anywhere in the world.

What Rogue had discovered, as he analyzed the documents Cruz had made available to him so far, was enough to chill his blood. Cruz’s cocaine business had grown exponentially in the last years, but he wasn’t simply growing and exporting drugs as his uncle and others before him had done.

He’d begun innovating on the distribution and logistics and had managed to become a kind of Amazon of the drug business. Anybody who wanted to deal had to go through Cruz’s network and pay a hefty fee for doing so. In exchange, they received Cruz’s protection and operational support.

Rogue still didn’t know how far Cruz’s reach went. He’d taken the risk and requested more data, arguing he needed it to get the program to work. While Cruz decided what to share with him, Rogue put the finishing touches on the dummy program he’d designed. He had no intention of actually making it work, but it had to look like it was doing the right thing, which was a challenge in and of itself.

Rogue checked his watch. Two minutes to three. He closed his laptop and made his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him before turning on the shower. Instead of getting under the spray, however, he pulled his phone out from under the towel and opened the hidden app to connect with the satellite.

It was a risk, but one he had to take. He’d already told the team what he was doing but had yet to hear back from them. For all he knew, they were getting ready to storm Cruz’s hacienda .

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the message: We’re on standby. You have until midnight on Wednesday. That gave him a little over thirty hours. If he was honest, it was more than he’d expected. He held the phone in his hand an instant longer, tempted to send another message to ask his team to look into Cruz’s niece. He didn’t do it, because he was ninety-nine percent sure by now that she wasn’t working with her uncle. He’d smelled her fear as she’d joined them for dinner the other day, afraid to look him or her uncle in the eye—afraid that he might have told Emiliano he’d found her teaching one of the local kids to read in English. Not just afraid. She’d been terrified. The thought made his stomach clench.

She’d picked at her food that night. It was the first time she hadn’t even looked hungry. And as the evening progressed, and it became clear from Emiliano’s good humor that he’d heard nothing about her morning escapade, her entire being had deflated into a sort of airy relief.

So yes, Rogue was ninety-nine percent sure by now that she wasn’t involved in Emiliano’s business. And he was one hundred percent certain that his reasons for wanting to know more about her were not altogether professional. Fuck.

He was surprised by the level of awareness he felt whenever she was near. This morning he’d once again found her swimming countless laps under the watchful attention of her uncle, who insisted on eating his breakfast while she swam. If Rogue hadn’t already hated Cruz, he would have hated him anyway, simply for the way he looked at his niece.

Then he’d seen her in the garden, a slim white notebook in her hands. He’d wondered, after that fateful dinner, if she’d come back to his balcony. He would have liked to talk to her—to tell her that she had nothing to fear from him. But she hadn’t, of course.

At first, he’d assumed she was simply shy, but now he didn’t think that was the case at all. She wasn’t shy—she was afraid. And the thought of her fear caused something to burn inside him—more than that, it made him want to burn whatever, or whomever, was making her feel that way.

Of course, there was more at stake here than Rogue’s personal dislike of Emiliano Cruz. Much, much more. The work they were doing here could save lives—but only if he finished the job and took Cruz and his empire down. Rogue couldn’t afford to get distracted by thoughts of a woman, no matter how beautiful or intriguing she might be.

He sent a quick message to the team to acknowledge theirs and powered the phone down. He showered quickly, then made his way to the walk-in closet. Yesterday, an armful of new clothes, all brand new and in Rogue’s size, had appeared as if by magic. There were several black T-shirts much like his own, a couple of fine linen shirts, a pair of dark slacks, some cargo pants, and even a dark suit. When he’d tried to return the clothes to Cruz, saying he didn’t expect to be here that long, his host had thrown him an impatient wave.

At five minutes to six, Rogue walked into the dining room. Cruz seemed to value punctuality, and Rogue needed to stay on the man’s good side for a little while longer.

Cruz was already inside, staring at a painting on the wall, hands behind his back as if strolling through an art gallery. Unlike the paintings in the living area, which were all religious in theme, the paintings in the dining room were what Rogue supposed passed as modern art. To him, it looked as if somebody had dumped buckets of paint on a white canvas.

“Such bold strokes,” Cruz said, admiring a piece in a particularly puke-worthy shade of green. “Wouldn’t you agree, Rogue?”

Rogue made a noncommittal sound. Cruz hadn’t hired him for his art critiquing capabilities.

“Ah, and here is the lovely Beatriz,” Cruz said, eying the clock on the wall. Relief filled her features for an instant, before she schooled her face back into a neutral expression. The pulse on her neck fluttered with every stroke of the clock.

She ran to get here on time.

Today she was wearing a soft, flowing dress in a pale color, with a round neckline and sleeves that fell half-way to her elbows. It was the kind of dress that belonged in an earlier century, and she shouldn’t have looked so fucking desirable in it.

Rogue realized he’d never seen her wear anything other than pale pastels. Every day, a different dress, each in a washed-out color, even though the clothes themselves looked brand new. He couldn’t help but wonder what Beatriz would look like in bright colors—a brilliant blue, or vibrant red. The answer came to him in a flash. Like herself. She’d look like herself, instead of this drawn, fearful shadow.

Rogue shook himself. He had a job to do. He wasn’t here to concern himself with any woman, no matter how enticing she might look.

Beatriz inclined her head towards them but said nothing as she sat down, her hands primly on her lap, waiting for the meal to begin.

Tonight’s meal was veal marsala, served with crisp green beans and curried cauliflower. As usual, Cruz was offered the tray first. He piled the scaloppine high on his plate, chattering the whole time.

“I tell you, Rogue, if you haven’t had scaloppine marsala , you haven’t lived,” he said, waving his fork in the air. “You’re going to need to find yourself a chef who knows how to make it.”

Rogue looked up. For once, Beatriz wasn’t looking down at her plate, but rather straight at him. Her expression was cautious, wary, and something else. It took Rogue a moment to figure it out. She’s disappointed. Because I’m going to take her uncle’s money?

Cruz’s phone rang before Rogue could ponder it further. “I’m eating dinner,” the man barked, as if it’d been the responsibility of whoever was on the other end of the line to know that. His expression changed in the next instant as he listened to the caller, his hand whitening as it gripped the phone.

“ Cabrón. ?Se cree que puede joderme? ” Does he think he can fuck with me?

Rogue kept chewing, acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but didn’t miss the way the young woman’s hands shook around the glass of water as she raised it to her pale lips. She’s seen her uncle lose his temper before.

“ Espérame. ” Wait for me. With that, Cruz hung up the phone and threw his napkin onto the table.

“Is everything okay, Emiliano?” Rogue asked mildly, not letting on that he’d understood a large part of the conversation.

Cruz grunted. “A grower thinks he can fuck with me. I need to go sort this out. I’ll be back.” He put on his ridiculous hat, which made him look like he was going on safari, and stampeded out of the room.

Beatriz went back to picking at her food. Once again, she’d divided the meager contents of her plate into two sections and was busy picking at the left half. If that wasn’t a sign of an eating disorder, Rogue didn’t know what it was. Worry filled him. He gripped his fork tighter as she placed her fork sideways on the plate and pushed it gently away from her, signaling she was done.

Rogue battled with himself for a long instant. Not your problem. Don’t make it your problem. Dammit, he couldn’t help making it his problem. “Eat some more,” he said, in what he hoped was a kind tone.

Beatriz shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

And I’m not an addict. Rogue had met lots of great liars. He was a pretty decent liar, himself. Beatriz, however, wasn’t great at it. He knew he should let it go, but something inside him didn’t allow him to. “You’re lying,” he breathed. Her eyes held his for a moment, then moved beyond him to the open doorway, where a male server stood stoically.

So that’s how it is. Rogue’s hand slipped, making the untouched wine glass in front of him tumble off the table. It shattered into a million pieces, leaving a trail of burgundy on the white linen tablecloth and the wood beneath.

The male server shot forward.

Rogue picked up a piece of glass and cursed loudly. “Grab something to clean this mess, quickly,” he ordered. “And a first aid kit,” he said, pointing to a non-existent wound on his index finger. In his haste, the man slammed the door shut as he left.

“Are there any cameras?” Rogue asked quietly.

The young woman’s eyes met his. “Cameras?” she asked, uncertainly.

“On us, right now,” he clarified.

Beatriz shook her head. “My uncle doesn’t like cameras. Anything can be used against you in a court of law nowadays, he says.”

“Smart man,” Rogue nodded. He picked up his plate, stepping around the stain as he walked up the long dining table, sitting down on the empty chair next to her. “We don’t have long before he gets back,” he said, picking up his fork, a small bite of marsala veal dangling from it.

He raised the fork towards her slowly, so as not to spook her.

“I said I’m not hungry,” she whispered. The look she gave him reminded him of a stray dog that’d been beaten too many times. In the tight line of her neck and shoulders he read her pride, her fear, her distrust.

“It’s just food. No strings attached.”

She looked at him in a way that made him think there probably wasn’t much in her life that didn’t come with strings attached. She’s going to run. He could stop her, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. He still remembered the sparks from the last time she’d touched his hand.

But she didn’t run. He saw the moment she decided to trust. And fuck if it didn’t feel like a victory. Her body moved forward and her mouth opened and her lips wrapped around the fork. Under the table, his cock got hard. You’re such an asshole.

Her eyes closed in delight as she chewed and swallowed. He forced himself to look away, and by the time she opened them again he was ready with another, larger, forkful. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She took it, chewing and swallowing quickly.

“Why won’t he let you eat?” Rogue asked quietly, offering her some green beans next.

This time around, Beatriz chewed for longer than strictly necessary, as she pondered her response.

“My uncle treats me well,” she finally said, her voice thin and thready. Something tightened inside Rogue’s belly.

“That’s not what I asked.” He cut another piece of veal and offered it. She leaned forward and took it in her mouth.

“This is so good,” she muttered.

His cock hardened further, and he was glad for the table between them. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” Rogue said, stabbing at another piece. “Maybe then you’ll start trusting me.”

This time, Beatriz leaned back, away from the fork, rather than towards it. “I don’t want to know your secrets.”

“Okay. Then you tell me one. Tell me why you don’t eat.”

“I eat,” she said defensively.

He didn’t think it made sense to tell her he’d been watching her. He offered her another bite. This time, she took it, staring at the door. She was right. The server had been gone a long time. He would have found a band-aid by now and would be on his way back.

“I don’t think my uncle would like me to talk about this with a stranger,” she said.

Rogue smiled. Bit by bit, she’d finished the entire plate. He didn’t remember a meal ever giving him this much pleasure before. He placed the knife and fork down on the plate and looked up.

“We’re not strangers. I’m a friend, remember? Your cousin and I go way back.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and Rogue knew it as soon as the words were out. Beatriz’s face paled. She swallowed convulsively, and for an instant he wondered if the food she’d consumed would make its way back up. He watched as she struggled, then finally took control of herself. “I have to go,” she said, standing up quickly.

Rogue stood up as well, a reflexive action, even though he’d already seen how nervous she got whenever he was near. He forced himself to remain where he was, as she left the room. By the time the server came back, Rogue was back in his original seat, staring at the empty plate.

“It stopped bleeding. I don’t need the band-aid anymore,” he said. He felt a stab of regret at seeing the man’s sweaty brow, but it’d been worth it. Something was wrong with Beatriz, and he had to find out what it was.