Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(12)

But I don’t let her escape, my fingers snagging her waist, my hand remaining firmly at her shoulder. “You will,” I assure her, “and when you do, you won’t feel the fear I see in your eyes when I’m with you. Of that, I can promise you.” I release her, taking a step back, and she turns to walk away but not before I see the wash of unreadable emotion over her face, which has me wishing I could grab her and pull her to me and promise her things I don’t even know if she wants to hear.

But I can’t and I don’t, because even if we weren’t being recorded, nothing I can say or do at this point changes the fact that she doesn’t know or trust me. The truth is, no matter what fear or panic she’s shown me, no matter how much hate she has for Juan, I can’t count on the Myla that Kara remembers still truly existing. I can’t even count on the spark I feel between her and I, indicating she’s not in love with Alvarez, but loyal to him, be it real or because she has Stockholm syndrome, which in and of itself could make her irrational and dangerous to both of us. And right now, I have to focus on drawing lines in the sand with the Alvarez clan, and creating a free zone for her and I to communicate.

Reaching into my pocket, I remove a small electronic box, flipping the device on. It begins to beep and I turn in the direction it guides me, letting it lead me back to the desk. Reaching for the phone, I flip it over and remove the pencil head-shaped microchip I find there that could easily be mistaken for a battery. Resetting the scanner, I turn toward the room again, and find Myla now facing me, a question in her eyes. I hold up the chip between my fingers, showing it to her. Her chest slowly rises, her gaze lifting skyward, her reaction clearly indicating that she is not pleased, though I’m not sure if it’s about the room being bugged, or about me removing the recording devices.

Whatever the case, I slip the microchip into my shirt pocket, and resume my search, locating two more devices. By this time, Myla is sitting on the couch watching my search, her expression emotionless, as I switch gears to begin a sweep of the air vents, and pretty much every nook or cranny where a camera might be hidden. “This room’s clean,” I announce, now certain that my two up close and personal encounters with Myla, though easily played off as attempts to test her loyalty to Alvarez, have not been recorded. I point to the master suite. Is that yours?”

“Yes,” she confirms. “That’s mine and…” She seems to reconsider whatever she is going to say, before repeating, “It’s mine.”

“We’ll inspect it last and end with a bang,” I say. Not giving her time to argue, I walk to the opposite side of the room and enter the dining area, where I find a single chip. Exiting back into the living area, Myla is back to staring out the window, and I can only hope she’s wistfully imagining escape, which I can give her, not my demise. I leave her there, heading down the hallway, where I search an office, a bathroom, and two more bedrooms, collecting only three more devices. I’ve just reached the junior suite by the door where I’d met with Juan, which is a perfect location for me to set up my room, and an electronic monitoring center, when the doorbell rings. I flip the “off” button on my scanner, stick it in my pocket, and step into the hallway, finding Myla hovering several feet away, her expression stark.

“It’s my luggage,” I assure her. “You heard me call for it.” She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she looks pretty damn certain that we’re both about to have a gun pointed at our heads, which I find doubtful, but not out of the question.

Giving us both a little peace of mind, I slide my jacket back, exposing the Glock at my ribcage. “If it’s Juan,” I comment, “I say that I shoot him.”

She doesn’t laugh. “What if it really is him?” she says worriedly.

“It’s not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Even if it is, I have several big guns and I know how to use them.”

Her eyes spark. “You think it’s that easy?”

I sober quickly, and don’t even hesitate to shackle her elbow and walk her to me. “I do not think dealing with Juan is easy,” I assure her. “But I can handle him and I’m not going to let you get hurt. I promise.”

She pulls away from me, as if my touch is fire, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. “You can’t make that promise,” she says, “and you know it.”

“I can and I am.” Another knock sounds and I turn my attention to the door, calling out, “Who is it?” and receiving an immediate reply of, “Les, from the bell desk, sir.” I refocus on Myla. “See? Everything is okay.”

“For now,” she concedes. “But he’ll be here soon.”

I’m not sure if she means Alvarez or Juan, but either way, I can’t leave Les waiting. I flip the lock and then erring on the side of caution, crack it open, confirming Les is indeed alone. Opening the door, I greet him, and step into the hallway to help him deal with my half a dozen equipment-heavy bags. By the time I’ve returned, Myla is walking toward the living area.

Eager to get back to my work before Juan does indeed show up, I help Les gather the remainder of my bags, deposit them in my room, and then walk him to the exit, where I palm him a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be here with Myla on an extended stay,” I explain. “I need a man on my side and I’ll be generous in exchange for loyalty. There will be five of those a day for you.”