Flawed ~ Kim Karr Page 10

  Breathing in deeply and willing any emotion threatening to surface away, I search deep to be able to speak as evenly as possible. “I’m, I’m . . . not sure,” is all I can manage.

  He speeds up so he can weave in and out of traffic. “Those guys aren’t the kind of people you have business with, so who the fuck are they?”

  I shake my head, saying nothing because I still can’t push the ball of tears down my throat.

  Breaking me from the brink of hysteria is the sound of my cell phone ringing through the car’s Bluetooth system and the name Enrique flashing across the dashboard screen.

  With a deep breath, I reach across to the steering wheel and my shaky fingers press the answer key. “Hello.” I wipe the stray tear away that I couldn’t stop from falling.

  “Gemma, were you able to secure the paintings for me?” His voice is cold. He’s still mad.

  I can feel Caleb’s eyes on me. If I tell Enrique what happened, Caleb will undoubtedly be fired.

  In my mind I know that is what I should do, but in my heart, I can’t. The thought of not having him around now that Enrique is bordering on madness makes my chest feel like two fists unfolding.

  I don’t understand the draw I have toward him or my need to protect him. All I know is his presence has breathed a semblance of life back into my body and I don’t want to lose that feeling. I can’t allow it to vanish just yet. So I answer with what is the truth, just not the whole truth. “No, the broker wasn’t there, however I was able to secure his information.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Baja.”

  “Where in Baja?” Enrique asks, slightly annoyed that I didn’t just let him know the exact location to begin with.

  “San Quintin,” I tell him.

  “That’s five hours away.”

  “I have his number,” I let him know.

  He sighs. “I’m sure you know the broker undoubtedly won’t discuss the transaction over the phone.”

  “Yes, I figured as much.”

  “You’ll need to take your security detail and make a trip down there. I’ve had to extend my time away, anyway. Penelope decided to join me with the kids, so I won’t be back until later in the week. You should plan to leave first thing in the morning. That gives you a few days to make contact and seal the deal. I’d like you to return to Oceanside by Thursday afternoon.”

  Caleb guns the engine. I try to keep my eyes on the road but the sudden movement causes them to drift over to him. With gritted teeth, he has one hand on the steering wheel and the other thumping against the smooth leather of the console between us. He weaves in between cars and then pulls all the way over to a rest stop overlooking the Pacific.

  The voice over the speaker rings out. “Gemma, did you hear me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I heard you. I’m sorry we must have a bad connection.”

  “I have to go but take the checkbook I left on the desk for you. Whatever it costs, I don’t care. I want those paintings.”

  “I understand, Enrique.”

  “And Gemma,” he whispers.

  My stomach knots at the tone of his voice. “Yes?”

  “Buy yourself something sexy that you know I’ll like while you’re there. And make sure it’s white. I’ll send word as to when you should be ready for me.”

  I swallow, trying not to choke on the embarrassment rising up my throat. “Yes, of course.”

  And just like that, the line is dead. Orders given, no need for niceties or goodbyes. So true to form for Enrique Cruz, especially as of late, and even more so when he’s upset with me.

  Then again, I gave up caring about his lack of attention to anything but himself the day I decided it was time to turn the tables—so why did it burn so much now?

  Caleb hits the end button on the steering wheel and we both remain silent in the parked car.

  Then suddenly he opens his door and bolts out of the car. I watch him move to the back and kick the toe of his black work boot in the stones as he walks in circles. After a few minutes, I exit the car and step toward the overlook to gaze out toward the calm of the sea. I don’t hear him approach, but I can feel his presence behind me before he speaks.

  “We need to get a few things straight,” he says, his voice void of any emotion.

  I wheel around. “And what would those be?” I ask tersely.

  “First of all, I’m here to protect you. I’m not your driver and I’m sure as shit not your babysitter.”

  My babysitter.

  My babysitter!

  My jaw hangs open. Is this arrogant badass of a man for real?

  “Second,” he sneers, “I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to listen to your personal calls while I’m driving. Take him off speaker from now on.”

  A red flush creeps up my neck, and that I agree with him on.

  “Third, you need to listen to me. I want you to stop ignoring me and do what I tell you to do.”

  Fire and ice, in equal measure, soar through my veins. “Are you finished?” I ask, my eyes filling with anger.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and the flexing movement of his biceps momentarily distracts me.

  I blink away the sight of his sexy body and focus on my rebuttal. With my finger pointed, I press it into his hard, muscular chest and ignore the searing feeling at my fingertip. “Now, it’s my turn.”

  He cocks a brow.

  Ignoring his egotistical response, I say, “First, I am not a child. You cannot manhandle me whenever you want.”

  His brow rises even higher.

  Pressing my finger deeper into the muscular wall of his chest, I finally allow my eyes to meet his. “Second, you cannot tell me what to do. You can ask me nicely and I will decide whether or not to listen to you.”

  Breaking the connection, Caleb steps back.

  I follow, poking his chest once more. “And finally, by me not informing Enrique about the situation you let me walk into, I just saved you from getting fired. You could show a little bit of appreciation.”

  His head is down and he slowly raises his eyes before lifting his chin. The smirk on his face makes my heart go haywire, jackhammering everywhere. But when a chuckle leaves his throat, I’m more than shocked. “You’re a piece of work.”

  I press my finger as hard as I can into him. “This isn’t a joke. I’m dead serious.”

  He snatches my wrist to remove my finger from his body. The rough edges of his callouses send tingles up my arm all the way to my scalp. “I know you are.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “For now,” is all he says before he turns and walks toward the car.

  I keep my feet planted right where they are. I watch him as he throws open my door and then strides around to the driver's side and gets in. I stand here stunned at what just happened. That wasn’t a conversation. Nothing was solved, and yet I think we’ve settled our issues. Those ones, anyway.

  Now I want to shout, “Don’t you remember me?” and at the same time I want to cry, “How can you not remember me?”

  I do neither, because you know what they say about opening Pandora’s box.

  Impatient, he beeps the horn and again my mouth drops open. He is unbelievable. I take my time walking to the SUV and when I get in, I slam the door closed. “You know what, how about you don’t talk to me or even look at me.”

  Chewing on his lip, he says nothing.

  Exasperated, I huff, “Take me home. And I’m sure you heard, you’re expected back in the morning.”

  He has his sunglasses on and he lowers them slightly. “Oh, I heard. Now, sit back and don’t forget to buckle up.”

  After everything, he’s still ordering me around, and the elephant between us is only growing larger.

  It’s going to be a long week.

  Chapter 14

  Wild Thoughts

  Caleb

  THE PLACE IS a shithole.

  Then again, when you’re this far south into Mexico, it’s considered five-star acc
ommodations.

  The long winding drive down the coast and through inland valleys landed us in San Quintin. The small town sits in the middle of farm country as is evidenced by the fields upon fields of tomatoes, strawberries, and watermelons lining the two-lane Highway 1.

  Dust from the dirt road clouds the car as I turn off onto the pothole-ridden path. When I pass an abundance of overgrown palm trees, I wonder if we should have pulled over at one of the painted shacks selling seafood cocktail and mangos we passed hours ago to get something for lunch because this place is seriously in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  Beyond where the eucalyptus joins the vegetative mix, I can see brick and mortar. Soon, the main building comes into sight. Not exactly the same visual I got online.

  Most of the thirty-four rooms ring a courtyard overlooking the inner leg of the U-shaped San Quintin Bay. I can’t see on the other side of the Spanish-style motel, but I know there’s more there from the recon work I did last night.

  It’s a bit nicer than what I expected for the $60-a-night rate, but nowhere up to par for the prima donna sitting beside me.

  A motel dolled up with the name villa.

  Gemma stares open-mouthed at the two-story pale-pink stucco walled motel with its cheap plastic chairs and umbrellas set haphazardly around the concrete patio. “This is where Enrique instructed you to bring me?”

  “Welcome to paradise, sweetheart,” I offer darkly as I pull the SUV into the shabby asphalt parking lot.

  Looking over at her, she’s staring at me with those big amber-brown eyes fringed with long lashes like she’s trying to figure something out, but then she blinks it away when she notices I’m watching her. I swear the words, “fuck you,” are sitting on those pretty pink lips every time I attempt to knock her off her high horse and fail.

  “Actually, Smith emailed me the itinerary,” I let her know. “And to his credit, it’s the most luxurious accommodations in a two-hundred and fifty-mile radius,” I tack on, because I’m nice like that. “If you prefer, we could drive back to Ensenada and get a place there?”

  Her head jerks in my direction. “That’s almost three hours away, and besides, Enrique doesn’t like it when his directions aren’t followed.”

  “Do you always do everything Enrique tells you to do?” I challenge in the dickly fashion I’ve taken up since meeting her.

  “Do you always forget your place?” she retorts, opening her door.

  Touché.

  To my right are three golf carts in spots labeled, “Reserved,” but surprise, surprise, there’s not a single valet in sight.

  Following her out of the vehicle like the puppy dog I’m becoming, I hastily grab our luggage and then take the lead. The broken sidewalk ends at an attached tile-roofed building with a faded sign above the door that reads, “The Hacienda.”

  Pulling the marred wood open, I step aside and let Gemma go first. Inside, I hustle past her and stride up to the haggard-looking reception desk.

  An older woman with chestnut-colored hair, wearing a white cotton top and long colorful skirt, looks up from the Spanish gossip magazine she’s reading. “Puedo ayudarte?”

  Shit, my Spanish is a little rusty, and I struggle to respond. Pushing me aside, Gemma sets her elbows on the counter and smiles.

  “Estoy registrando,” she responds. “Gemma.”

  My Spanish isn’t great, but I know how to conjugate verbs and I know she’s saying I, not we. “Estamos,” I clarify, making room for myself beside her.

  Gemma rolls her eyes.

  “Sí, soy Maria,” the woman replies and then holds up a finger. “Un momento, déjame buscar a mi hijo.”

  When she returns, a middle-aged distinguished-looking man is with her. Her son has dark hair, dark eyes, and beneath his suit jacket he is most definitely sporting a gun.

  Immediately, I tense and ready myself to draw my own weapon.

  “Welcome.” He greets us with a handshake. He seems friendly, and I relax. “I’m Carlos. I’ve been expecting you,” he says. "Your rooms are ready. Please follow me.”

  With luggage in hand, I stay behind, watching him, watching her. Watching the way her caramel-colored hair bounces in the long braid, the way her ass sways in those tight jeans, the way her shoulder blades peak out from the spaghetti straps of her flowy top. One thing is for certain; today she isn’t dressed like she was yesterday.

  A free-spirited SoCal girl has replaced the uptight woman, but don’t get me wrong, the bitchiness is still full-blown.

  The question is—which one is she really?

  And will I ever know for certain?

  On the other side of the small building is a hidden walkway I hadn’t seen from the road or online either. It leads down to a private area with a number of freestanding buildings. All are pink stucco with tar roofs.

  A sign above the first one reads, “Ocho.” The countdown continues to identical structures through, “Dos.”

  Number one is at the very edge of the property overlooking the cliff and is set on a raised foundation with three steps leading to a screened porch. A roof pitched higher, more windows, and green shutters set it apart from the others.

  It must be this place’s version of a VIP suite.

  Carlos unlocks the door and then hands me the key. “If you need anything,” he says, “please ask for me.” I give him a nod and push the door open to find a brick fireplace, tile floors, and mismatched décor.

  The two-bedroom suite isn’t the Ritz. Still, it’s clean and more than amenable, which I can’t say for Gemma, who is standing in front of one of the bedroom doors staring at me once again like I’ve grown two heads. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” she tells me and then slams the door to what I assume is going to be her room before I can even set the luggage down.

  I bite down on my fist to keep my mouth shut. I’m playing babysitter to a woman who may never get me what I want. A woman, who in fact, could very well get me killed with what she knows, and to boot, she’s acting like a spoiled child.

  Fuck my life.

  Chapter 15

  Feels

  Gemma

  BURNT-ORANGE REMNANTS of daylight brush across the darkening sky as I attempt to recover from the teeth-rattling three-mile ride off Baja's trans-peninsular highway.

  The drive to the address the pawnshop duo reluctantly gave me turned out to be more than twenty miles south of the crappy motel and it was also in the middle of nowhere. I seriously thought I’d been had, and my heart sank.

  Not succeeding means failure in the worst way as far as Enrique is concerned. And with failure comes the very real possibility that I could be shelved for something, no not something, but rather someone, shinier and new.

  That can’t happen.

  A broken-down shack with sheep and chickens roaming around didn’t look like the kind of place anyone would be warehousing very expensive pieces of art, but then I spotted a bright red barn in the far corner of the property and it was sealed tighter than a vault.

  Bingo!

  That’s when I knew I was in the right place.

  After knocking on the farmhouse door for more than five minutes, someone finally answered. It was an American woman who looked strung out, wearing short-shorts and a dirty tank top.

  When I asked for Matías Bermudez, she told me the broker, and I use that term loosely, wasn’t available, and she ordered me to get off her property. She insisted I was trespassing. I offered her a hundred bucks to hear me out. She took it. Turned out the woman was Matías’s wife.

  After a long conversation with her about the benefits of working with Mr. Enrique Cruz, she told me to come back tomorrow morning, and she’d make certain her sorry excuse of a husband was home.

  Obtaining the remaining pieces of the Andrés Baisden collection of 20th-century Mexican art hasn’t been as easy as Enrique thought it would be. Still, I am determined to purchase them, if only to get back into his good graces—where I need to be, which is why I had Caleb stop at a cloth
ing bazar on the side of the road. Although I told him to wait in the car, he refused. I had to ignore the flaming blush of shame that crept up my cheeks when I purchased the white lingerie Enrique had instructed me to buy.

  Another bump has me careening out of my seat. I glare to my left. My bodyguard, babysitter, security detail, or whatever you want to call him is behind the wheel with his lips pressed tightly together. Mine are as well. I haven’t told him anything about my conversation with the woman at the door, other than I’m to come back tomorrow.

  The silence hangs between us like deadweight.

  Whether it’s the secrets, the attraction, or the man between us, I don’t know.

  I say nothing and neither does he. I have good reason to keep my mouth shut. He, if I had to guess, is simply brooding and moody all the time.

  My suspicions about him have peaked and my need for answers is unrelenting. Luckily, we have twenty-four hours to burn and I plan to spend them getting answers. “I’m hungry,” I tell him.

  Those emerald pools glance over at me and I swear he can see right through to my dark soul. “There’s a place about a mile up the road.”

  “Does it serve tequila?” I ask.

  Without Enrique around, I can allow myself the freedom of drinking with no worry that my mask of purity will slip or that my true intentions will bleed through the cracks of it.

  “Is there any place in Mexico that doesn’t?” he smirks.

  “Good point,” I laugh, and try to recall the last time I actually laughed and meant it. More than four years ago would be my guess. Maybe I needed this little getaway more than I realized, even if I am spending it with a liar.

  A harsh word, I know, but he’s not here to protect me. He’s lying to Enrique, or to me, or to the both of us.

  I mean, come on, he tried to kidnap me less than forty-eight hours ago. Yes, I think he was my attacker at the old cigar factory. Assuming it was him from the use of the word sweetheart alone, though seems a bit insane, even to me. Then there’s the fact that he’s been alone with me for more than twenty-four hours and I’m still untethered, alive, and breathing.

  It’s as if he’s two different men.