Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(15)

She inhales and takes a step backward, leaning on the wall directly across from me, several beats passing before she asks, “Why did he choose you over someone else?”

“My FBI background.”

“Because of my sister,” she says, her voice turning raspy.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Because they think I’m the right person to keep you away from her.”

“Well then, you’re going to impress them because I have no intention of contacting my sister now or ever,” she declares, her fingers curling into her palms. “She thinks I’m dead. I’m not going to give her any reason to start a new mission to find me again.”

“Because she won’t approve of Alvarez?”

“Of course she doesn’t approve. She’s FBI. Or…I guess you are too, and it doesn’t matter to you, but it would to her.” She hesitates. “Do you know her?”

There are equal parts hope and fear in that question, and I know that this is a moment of truth or lies that I will have to live with later, a decision thankfully delayed when a phone starts ringing in her pocket. She reaches inside her dress pants, removing it, but all too aware of the potential of Stockholm syndrome controlling her actions, I close the space between us and catch her wrist before she can answer the call. “Are you crazy?” she demands, her eyes and voice sparking with anger. “That’s going to be Michael, and the last thing either of us wants right now, I promise you, is for me to ignore him.”

“Tread cautiously,” I warn. “He wants to trust you and I’ve given you the resources to ensure he does. Understand?”

“Yes. I understand, so let me go before he starts thinking the wrong thing.” I want to know what the “wrong thing” is, but right now the content of her conversation with Alvarez is all that matters. Her phone stops ringing. “Damn it,” she hisses. “That’s bad. Let me call him back.”

“He’ll call back,” I say, “and we need to get our facts in line.”

“I heard the call with Juan. I know what to say.”

“You tell him that I told you that I was instructed to remove the recording devices.”

“I know,” she insists, and her phone starts to ring again. “I have to take his call.”

I study her for several more beats, assuring myself we’re on the same page, before I release her and when I expect her to quickly answer the call, she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze drops to her phone, and she stares down at it. One second passes. Two. “Answer it,” I urge softly, instinctively settling my hand on her waist. “You can handle this.” For the briefest of moments, that “something” that keeps passing between us is there again, a magnet pulling us together.

It jolts her. I see it in her eyes, and she reacts, cutting her stare, to murmur, “I hope you’re right,” before with a trembling hand, she answers the call. “Hello,” she says, pushing around me to exit the bathroom and enter the bedroom. Seeing this as an opportunity to assess her relationship with Alvarez, I stay where I’m at, listening and observing, in search of the true heart of Myla. “Sorry,” I hear her say. “I had to run to the bathroom and left it on the bed. Yes. I know. I was just a minute.” There are beats of silence, then, “Of course I knew you monitored me. I didn’t know it was a secret, but I do wish that you knew that wasn’t necessary. Not with me, Michael.”

It’s exactly the right thing to say to feed the narrative I’ve set up. She wants his trust. He can give it to her and with it, enough freedom for me to walk her out of here without gunfire, but then there is silence. And more silence, and without seeing her face, I can’t know if that’s trouble I need to be ready to handle. Standing, I exit the bathroom, bringing the bedroom into view, finding her sitting on the couch, her body angled away from me, the phone at her ear, as if she’s trying to shut me out. I lean on the wall, listening, waiting. And watching.

“He’s fine,” she finally says. “He’s better than Juan. You know how I feel about Juan.” She hesitates. “I want you to trust me. You can trust me. I know it’s hard for you to believe it anyway, but you won’t be sorry for this.”

The sincerity in her voice grinds along my nerve endings with such force, it damn near crushes bones. Maybe she’s gotten really good at faking it with this man. Or maybe she’s actually come to care for him, even if it’s Stockholm syndrome, or simply her mind’s way of letting her survive. But if I assume she’s just surviving, when she might really be in love with Alvarez, the people who care about her, and that I care about, could end up dead.

“I will,” she promises. “Yes. I’m very excited about my meetings tomorrow and about how this helps you, too.” There is more silence. Then, “Yes. Goodnight.” She ends the call and stands, whirling around to face me, steel in her eyes. “You’re playing with fire. You’re missing the big picture and you need to get a view right now.”

“It sounded to me like the call went well.”

“A call means nothing,” she says. “It’s a temporary reprieve for both of us but we’re in the same hotel room around the clock for weeks. Those recording devices made sure he didn’t have to use his imagination about what’s happening when we’re alone. The minute he decides we’re sleeping together, we’re dead.” Somehow we’ve moved to the middle of the room, standing toe-to-toe again, as if a magnetic pull wants us together, and she realizes it at the same moment as me. I see it in her eyes. Feel it in the shift in the air. “This is dangerous,” she whispers, and it’s clear she’s talking about us.