Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(25)

“Why?”

“Why? Because it’s the past.”

“The past is a part of the many layers that make us who we are now.”

“The past is buried with my family that I know you know were murdered.”

“Your sister’s alive.”

“And thinks I’m dead.”

“Myla-” There’s a knock on the door, and his jaw clenches with obvious irritation at the timing, while I’m simply worried that Juan or Ricardo have returned. “That can’t be the food that fast, can it?”

“The restaurant’s literally three blocks down from us,” he says, removing his cellphone from his pocket, “but since I paid Les to warn me of all visitors, he’s obviously going to require training.”

“Or someone stopped him from telling you.”

“Don’t be paranoid, sweetheart. I have more control than you’re giving me credit for.”

His cellphone rings in his hand and he eyes the number, “It’s Les,” he says, and answers the call, and listens a minute before saying, “All visitors mean all visitors.” He ends the connection at the same moment more knocking begins. “The pizza,” Kyle says, standing, the news delivering a welcome rush of relief. “And I was right,” he adds, his lips thinning. “Les is going to require training. Maybe too much.” He lifts his chin toward the hallway. “I’ll be right back.” I push to my feet, turning to watch him disappear. The way he moves is confident, graceful, the control clinging to him like a second skin that is simply who he is, not what he demands. And it’s hot. So very, dangerously hot, but even more dangerous is him asking too many questions.

Somehow, I have to make it through tonight without giving this man everything he wants, and I already know he wants too much. The problem is, that despite any worry I have about Kyle, he makes me want too much, too. He makes me need things I promised myself I’d never need again. He makes me shiver and he makes my body tingle, while my heart races. All those things, and I’ve only just met him. How am I going to survive two months of this man? But then, I’m pretty sure that’s the point in our shared living quarters. I either resist Kyle or I won’t survive. He’s the apple in the Garden of Eden, and Michael Alvarez is the snake tempting me to take a bite.





Chapter Six





Myla





Is Kyle a friend or an enemy? That is the question I have on my mind as I watch the apple in my line of sight disappear into the hallway to greet whichever hotel staff member brought us our pizza. A friend is what comes to my mind. He’s a friend. But I do not know why my gut says this, when it’s said it about no one else in a year.

I don’t want to be a fool. I can’t be a fool and survive, but a friend would be really well timed right now. An enemy, on the other hand, could be my demise at a time when I’m finally earning freedom with Michael. I cannot forget that Michael is a man of passion. He hates as viciously as he loves, and outside of his odd affection for me, what he loves is money and possession. If ever he feels that I’ve betrayed him, I have no doubt he will lash out with the wickedness of a finely sharpened sword.

Inhaling, I turn and walk to the shiny, light brown credenza where the flat screen TV sits, and grab several bottles of Ritz Carlton-branded water, lingering there a moment, with my mind awhirl. No one knows what Michael is capable of better than me, and if Kyle is a friend, albeit a capable friend, I still have to protect him. If he’s the enemy, I have to stay the hell away from him. And if that’s not possible, I have to prepare to destroy him before he destroys me. Destroy him. My God. What has this life made of me? A survivor, I remind myself. I’m surviving, something most in my position could not, and that is nothing to feel guilty about, especially since I have a plan to make it count. And no one, Kyle included, can be allowed to get in the way.

I turn to face the living area again, and I’ve just set the waters on the coffee table when Kyle reappears, with our food in hand. “Where do you want to eat?” he asks. “In the dining area or here?”

“Here in the living area works for me, if it’s okay with you?”

“Comfortable is always better for me,” he approves, reclaiming the chair and setting the box down on the table, while I sit down on the couch, cautiously choosing a neutral spot that is close enough to talk to him but not too close for comfort. “We have napkins and paper plates,” he adds, “unless you require something fancier than paper?”

“Are you kidding? Paper can be thrown away. Paper is good.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he says, setting a plate in front of me, his green eyes becoming a shade paler with amusement. “I’m a single guy who doesn’t like dishes.”

“Have you ever been married?” I ask before I even think about what I’m asking.

“Never even proposed,” he says. “You?”

“Never even close.”

“Not even with Alvarez?”

“Michael isn’t a marrying kind of man,” I say, trying to shift things back to him. “Apparently you aren’t either. I mean, how old are you?”

“Thirty-five next month,” he says. “And I was in the FBI for a decade, most of which I was always undercover, and unavailable. I wouldn’t do that to someone, even if I’d have had time to even meet anyone, which I didn’t.”