Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Esmeralda is smaller, with auburn hair and freckles. Her green satin robe brings out the color of her eyes.
So here I am. In the kitchen of a brothel with three stunning women watching me. And Cruz standing with a pink heart-shaped mug in his hand.
The good news is he doesn’t seem to have eyes for either Mercedes or Esmeralda.
His gaze is locked on me.
Not that I care.
I don’t care if Cruz looks at beautiful women.
He can look at whoever he wants. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not my lover in any sensible, normal, emotionally stable definition of the word. He’s not mine.
He’s my captor turned rescuer turned temporary protector turned—
No.
Absolutely not finishing that sentence.
It’s too early in the morning for mental gymnastics, especially before coffee.
“Thank you for the robe,” I say to Señora Valentina.
Señora waves a hand, her own red-and-pink robe swishing. “Of course. I knew it would flatter you.”
Mercedes leans forward, chin propped on one hand. “So where did you come from?”
I go still.
Just slightly.
Probably not enough for Mercedes to notice, maybe. But Cruz notices.
Señora Valentina definitely notices. Her smile doesn’t waver. “Family trouble,” she says smoothly before I can decide whether to lie badly or say nothing at all. “Her family does not accept Cruz.”
Mercedes lifts her eyebrows. Esmeralda looks from me to Cruz with immediate interest.
I blink at Señora.
She continues without missing a beat. “Because he is the son of a…working girl.”
Cruz closes his eyes. “Valentina,” he says.
“What? It is the story.” She turns back to the women. “Her father threw her out in the middle of the night. It was quite the drama. So they will stay here a few days while he cools off.”
Mercedes wrinkles her forehead. “Her father threw her out because of Cruz?”
“Men with money think bloodline is more important than love,” Señora says.
“Money?” Esmeralda asks.
Oh, God… “Not much money,” I say quickly. “I mean, my family isn’t uber wealthy.”
“Uber?” Esmeralda asks.
“Sorry.” I tighten my grip on my mug. “It comes from German. It means super.” I stare into my coffee.
This is absurd.
Cruz and I are not star-crossed lovers thrown into the street by my disapproving father because he’s the son of a prostitute.
My father is in a hospital bed back in Texas recovering from brain damage. My brothers are probably tearing apart the earth looking for me. Cruz and I are here because he helped kidnap me and then helped rescue me, and now neither of us knows what the hell we’re doing beyond not dying.
But I am grateful Señora made up the story.
Mercedes and Esmeralda don’t need to know who I am. They don’t need to know Vega wants me. They don’t need to know my last name. Knowing those things will only put them in danger, and while I don’t love the way they’re eyeing Cruz, I also don’t want to see any harm come to them.
I don’t want anyone else in harm’s way because I’m sitting in this kitchen drinking from a pink heart mug and pretending this is a complicated romance instead of a freaking disaster.
I look up and force my mouth into a tired smile. “My father is very dramatic.”
Cruz looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes. Gratitude? Grief? I have no idea.
Mercedes snorts. “Fathers usually are.”
I glance toward the counter. “Is there more coffee?”
Cruz is already moving, grabbing my mug. “I’ll get you a refill. Cream and sugar?”
“Black is fine. That’s how all my family—”
I cut myself off.
Too late.
Cruz’s gaze sharpens.
Señora keeps her expression perfectly neutral. She’s probably had a lot of practice in her line of business.
Mercedes and Esmeralda don’t seem to notice anything beyond the flow of conversation, but I know better than to trust that. These women probably notice everything. They live in a house where survival depends on hearing the difference between a drunk man laughing and a dangerous one smiling.
Cruz hands me back my mug, and I take a sip of coffee. It’s strong, bitter, and perfect.
I sit down at the table. Cruz sits next to me. His knee is close to mine under the table. Not touching. Just close enough that I am aware of it.
Annoying man.
Mercedes smiles at me. “So you don’t come from money?”
I nearly choke.
Señora Valentina arches a brow at me.
Cruz goes very still.
“We weren’t poor,” I say carefully.
Definitely not a lie.
“Even a little money can sometimes make family life difficult,” Mercedes says.
“You sound like you know,” I say, trying to move the conversation away from me.
She laughs. “Oh, I know.”
Esmeralda rolls her eyes. “Here we go.”
“What?” Mercedes asks. “She asked.”
“I did,” I say. “And I’m interested.”
Mercedes leans back in her chair. “I came from a good family in Bogotá. Well-to-do, as they say.”
“As rich people say,” Esmeralda mutters.
Mercedes narrows her eyes. “Jealousy is unbecoming.”
Esmeralda smirks. “I’m not jealous of your family. They sound awful.”
“They are awful. But very nicely dressed.”