The Vargas Cartel Trilogy (Vargas Cartel #1-3)(27)

“?Por supuesto!”

”Look, Hattie. He brought you food,” Ryker said, glancing over his shoulder before he returned his attention to Ricardo. “Gracias.”

The man smiled at me, a wide welcoming smile, displaying a gold-capped front tooth. “Su novio es hermosa.”

“Si, gracias.”

Ryker pivoted to me again. “Say thank you to Ricardo.”

“Why?”

“He said you’re beautiful.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “I guess he’s into the dirty, unkempt look.”

“You look fine. I cleaned you up last night.”

I gawked at Ricardo. He had a huge smile on his face. He probably thought he’d earned a lifetime of favors by accommodating the son of the head of the Vargas Cartel and his girlfriend. “Gracias,” I muttered, trying to smile, but I think it came out more like a grimace given the look on his face.

Ryker handed me the tray of food. “Will this work?”

“I prefer a lighter breakfast, but it will work.” It was a lie. I’d eat my hand if I had to, but I hated accepting anything from him, even if I was desperate.

Ryker raised one eyebrow. “Lighter?” he questioned.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I usually eat yogurt with chia seeds and fresh fruit.”

“I don’t think they have that,” he snapped before accompanying Ricardo out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The room didn’t have a table, so I sat down on the bed and surveyed the food—eggs, toast, ham, and freshly squeezed orange juice. It would do just fine.

By the time Ryker returned, I had scraped my plate clean. As he sat next to me on the bed, I kept my eyes lowered, staring at my bare plate and empty glass like the answer to the universe would be found somewhere in the crumbs or film of orange liquid coating the bottom of my glass.

He held out a bottle of water. “Here,” he said. “You’re probably still thirsty.”

I nodded my thanks but never met his eyes. My unease vibrated through the room, taking on a life of its own. So many issues dangled in the air: my escape, my capture, my future, but most disconcerting was the fact that I practically begged him to touch me again. All of it hung around my neck like a noose waiting for the right moment to squeeze the life out of me.

As my mind raced, his cold, gray eyes never looked away. I squirmed under his knowing stare. I considered what he saw. I questioned what he was thinking. I wondered what he planned to do with me. I debated what happened to the gun I stole from his room. I couldn’t take the silence any longer. “Why don’t you have an accent?” I finally said, blurting out the first inane thought that entered my head.

“My mother is an American. I lived with her during the school year, and I lived with Ignacio during the summer.”

“They weren’t married?” I asked, fidgeting with my hands.

“No.” He didn’t elaborate.

“What about your brother? Where did he live?”

“With Ignacio and his wife. We don’t have the same mother.”

“Oh. Where does your mom live?”

“Connecticut now, but New York when I was younger.”

“How did they meet?” I didn’t have a clue why I wanted to ask these questions. Maybe I wanted to avoid heavier topics. Maybe I hated the charged silence, or maybe I wanted to know something about the man who repeatedly frayed my self-control and inspired my hate and lust in equal measure.

“At a photo shoot at a hotel owned by Dad’s family. My mom was a model. He saw her, and the rest was history. She fell in love. He had a wife. He refused to leave her.”

“Even when she got pregnant?” I shouldn’t have continued the interrogation. It wasn’t my business.

He paused, not answering for a prolonged second. “She gave him an ultimatum and he let her walk.”

“Oh.”

“Is that enough personal information for you?”

“Sorry.” My eyes shot up. The minute my eyes met his, I was sorry I didn’t have more control over my body. He held his stubborn jaw on an angle, and his faint smile parted his deceptively seductive mouth, exposing a hint of his white teeth. He was shockingly handsome, and the fact that I even noticed at a time when my life was dangling from a thread unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” I said glaring at him, battling every disconcerting emotion with every last bit of willpower I had buried in the depths of my soul.

“Now, that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.” Before I had the opportunity to move, two of his surprisingly gentle fingertips brushed across my mouth, and I tensed, refusing to allow my body to respond. Despite my intentions, the heat of his touch spread like an inferno through my body, and I wanted to move away. I really did, but I didn’t do a thing.

He bent his head toward mine until less than an inch remained between our foreheads. For some reason, the lingering distance was more lethal than if our skin actually made contact. Maybe it was the anticipation of his touch, or that his steely gray eyes were mesmerizing. I couldn’t explain it, but his mere presence paralyzed me.

He slid the handmade headband from my hair, dropping it on the bed. “Better,” he whispered, his eyes searching mine. “I like the way your hair frames your face.”