Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(8)

“I guess you’re my new bodyguard,” she says, as if this isn’t her first rodeo.

“If I decide to take the job.”

“Why wouldn’t you take the job?”

“Surely you know protecting you and failing is equivalent to a death wish?”

“Why would you fail?”

“Why would I fail?” I ask. “Not why is this job a death wish?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” she asks, laughing, the sound a nervous but somehow musical note. “If you die, I died first.”

My lips quirk. “That is a good point.”

“I’d prefer neither of us die at this moment in time,” she says, “but of course, I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

“In other words, you might prefer me dead tomorrow?”

“Or you me.”

There is a rebellious lift to her chin with those words, the action not quite echoing the far more uncertain look in her eyes. “I won’t want you dead, unless of course you’re actually trying to kill me.”

“Fair enough,” she says, though she makes no promise not to try to kill me, which I assume is because she believes I work for her captor. “You wanted to interview me,” she adds. “I assume you have questions?”

I do, but I don’t immediately reply, my mind still on her motives, on her living in luxury. Perhaps she’s been swayed by the money and power to embrace the dark side. It’s not an idea I relish, and I shove it aside. “Let’s sit,” I say.

“That’s a yes to questions,” she concludes, rounding the couch to claim a seat on the chair.

I join her, but choose to sit on the table, directly in front of her, our knees a few inches from touching, her perfume teasing my nostrils with some tantalizingly floral scent, while her eyes go wide. “You’re sitting very close to me,” she says, sounding confused, and a bit breathless, a detail I’m man enough to admit, I f*cking love.

“I want to look into your eyes,” I declare.

She purses her lips and when I expect her to scoot away or cower, she surprises me and leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “What do you want to know?”

I mimic her position, leaning in as she has, the space between us narrowed to a margin that without question, sizzles between us. “Why am I protecting you?”

“Because someone hired you to do so.”

“What’s your story? What’s your name?”

“I know they told you my name.”

“They didn’t,” I assure her.

Surprise flickers in her eyes, several beats passing before she finally says, “My name is Myla,” and we linger there, our bodies a reach or a sway from touching, while questions sway and swerve in the air, and they are not just mine. She is sizing me up, looking for something indefinable in me that I try to understand and never get the chance.

She leans back abruptly, while I stay where I’m at, offering her no further distance and reprieve. “What else do you want to know?”

“Your story,” I say. “Who you are. What you are. Why you’re important enough to pay me the insane amount of money I’m being paid.”

“Who am I? What am I? Those are questions people ask about themselves all their lives, and often can’t answer. Why is that important?”

“That death wish connects us. I need to know you aren’t a loose cannon about to explode in my face.”

“I’m not.”

“Prove it,” I challenge. “How did you come to be where you are at this moment in time?”

“I was down on my luck and this rich, handsome, older man stepped into my life, and everything changed.”

“That man is who?” I ask, looking to confirm the identity of the powers that be.

“Alvarez, of course,” she says quickly.

“Of course,” I say, though it’s not quite the absolute confirmation that he’s alive that I’m looking for. “Am I protecting him as well?”

“He has his personal guards,” she says, giving me my confirmation, and telling me he travels with more than one security person.

“Why aren’t they guarding you?”

Her eyes become wise. “Did they really tell you absolutely nothing or are you testing me?”

“They really told me absolutely nothing.”

“Then maybe Juan is testing me.”

“Why would he test you?”

She cuts her gaze and then looks at me, her stare and voice steadier. “I’m here for my own personal business, while Michael is tied up with his.”

It’s not an answer, but the use of Alvarez’s first name in an intimate, familiar way, is another punch in the chest, and now I sit back. Her eyes flicker a moment, telling me she’s noticed and questions why, but I give her nothing, while I work to extract what I need. Proof she isn’t a willing part of this world. “What business?” I ask.

“I’m starting a clothing line. I’m hiring models for a show and setting up my first store here. It’s all very exciting.”

Only her voice doesn’t say it’s exciting, when it should be. “Why in Dallas, Texas, rather than New York?”

“Texas is economically strong.” Her answer is quick and practiced. “And it’s becoming quite the fashion expo here,” she adds.