Dutch awoke the next morning with Isabel in his arms, her head nuzzled between his neck and shoulder, her breath warm on his cheek, their legs tangled.
By nightfall last night, they’d both been famished. He’d whipped up spaghetti carbonara with the ingredients he had handy in the fridge. They’d eaten, made love again and went back to sleep.
Without a doubt, he knew in his heart he wanted to make her happy, give her everything she needed and asked of him and more. She deserved that and nothing less. It was staggering to realize how long he’d lived without ever knowing this feeling of rightness, completeness with another person. He never wanted to be without her again.
There were no presumptions on his part. She’d needed comfort and it didn’t have to mean anything more to her. She was entitled to stay angry, but he hoped she’d agree to the trip he’d promised and then they could take it from there. No pressure. No stress. Give her time to sort through everything, and when she was ready, figure out her feelings for him. He’d be patient and wait, no matter how long it took.
First, he needed to keep her safe and get them both through the next couple of days unscathed.
Isabel roused, stretching. “I feel like I’ve been drugged. What time is it?”
He kissed her forehead. “Late. Almost ten.”
“I can’t believe I slept so long.”
“You were exhausted and needed the rest. I crept out around dawn and took McQueen for a quick walk.”
“Thank you.” She rubbed his chest and sat up. “About last night. I needed to feel better, to lose myself for a little while, and you were there for me. I appreciate it. But I haven’t made a decision about us and what I want to do.”
“That’s understandable. I don’t want you to feel rushed, but you’ll need to know by the time we take the hard drive.”
She nodded. “I’m going to shower and dress. I want to go to the hospital and see Brenda.”
“You need to call your uncle and give us a reason to go down today.”
“My uncle’s turf war has given us the best excuse. I’ll need to finish the preparations on-site since I can’t work from the office. Come to think of it, you should speak to him. If he knows about the attempted hit on my life, he’ll welcome us with open arms.”
“All right.” He waited until she was in the shower and dug out the card that Vargas had given him at the club. Punching in the number on his cell, he considered whether to tell her uncle about Chad Ellis. The man was a threat but sharing that with Vargas had to be Isabel’s choice, not Dutch’s. The last thing she would want was for him to make decisions for her.
“Who is this?” her uncle answered.
“Dutch Haas. I’m not calling with good news.”
“My niece hasn’t pushed back on you being her bodyguard, has she?”
“No, it’s not that. Unfortunately, she learned why she needs one. The Guzman cartel made a move on her. They sent her a pig’s head with an ace of spades. Then they shot up her art gallery. Her best friend, Brenda Reaver, survived, but had to go through surgery.”
“Damn it,” Vargas growled over the line. “Is Isabel all right?”
“More or less. Physically she’s fine, but she’s quite shaken up. After what’s happened, she wants to come to San Diego to take her mind off things and finish the preparations for your event.”
“Yes, of course. Shall I send a helicopter for you?” Vargas asked.
“No, thanks. We’ll drive.” Dutch rubbed his forehead. “You said you were going to handle the Guzman problem.”
“And I am. I’ll move up the strike I have planned to tonight. Going after Isabel won’t be tolerated. Retaliation must be swift and brutal and leave no doubt in the minds of my enemies what the consequences are.”
No need to ask for the particulars to know that a lot of blood was going to be shed.
“There’s something you need to understand,” Vargas said. “Once Isabel is finished with the final preparations tomorrow, I want the two of you sequestered in the west wing of my villa. The individuals coming in for the auction aren’t the sort I want Isabel consorting with. That’s the reason I didn’t want her here for the event.”
“Okay. I’ll come up with a reason for us to stay in the west wing.” They needed to be out of the villa well before the auction, not locked inside. “We’ll see you later.” Dutch disconnected and looked at the clock.
The auction was set to take place tomorrow evening at eight. If they got on the road by three at the latest and didn’t hit too much traffic, they’d have plenty of time to get the hard drive.
Dutch got ready as quickly as possible once Isabel was out of the bathroom. They boarded McQueen at the day care facility and swung by the hospital.
Brenda was sleeping when they arrived, perfectly natural according to the nurse and the best thing to help her recovery.
They sat quietly at Brenda’s bedside. He held Isabel’s hand, lending his strength, doing his best not to hurry her along.
Time ticked away, one hour slipping into the next. They were losing the day.
The USMS couldn’t pull this off without her, but Dutch was painfully aware that few people in her life had put her first. There was no changing the fact that she was an asset the Marshals were exploiting, but he had to find a way to balance the constraints of the mission with Isabel’s needs. He wouldn’t let her become collateral damage.
Brenda stirred, her head moving from side to side. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked around, wildly, disoriented.
Isabel gently took her hand that bore the needle from the IV. “The doctor said you’re going to be fine. I called your parents.”
Brenda’s gaze settled on Isabel. Her dry lips mouthed, You okay?
The woman had been shot twice, spent four hours in surgery fighting for her life and had slept nearly a day. Once she finally opened her eyes, her concern wasn’t for herself. It was for Isabel.
Watching the two of them broke Dutch’s heart.
Isabel nodded as a tear slipped from her eye. “I’m okay. Thanks to Dutch.”
Brenda flashed a weak smile. Then her eyes closed, and she slipped back into unconsciousness.
A sob broke free from Isabel. She turned to Dutch and he brought her into his arms.
“I hate him,” she said in a harsh whisper, her voice brittle. “I hate Emilio so much.” She wept, her body trembling with what he guessed was a mix of sorrow and loathing.
Dutch shushed her, stroking her hair. The cold, hard truth of her words made something in his chest clench.
Would Isabel be able to face her uncle, hide what she’d learned, disguise her feelings? She wasn’t an actress, a professional trained in deception.
Could she still be the asset they desperately needed? Or was she about to become their biggest liability?
THEY ARRIVED AT Vargas’s place well after sundown, but there was no mistaking the villa was in fact a fortified compound crawling with guards.
Dutch had done his best to prep Isabel on the ride, guiding her in how to behave around her uncle. He hoped it’d alleviate some of his worries, but he’d only reinforced his concerns.
She was too sad, too angry, too volatile—an emotional powder keg waiting for a spark.
The best thing to do was abort, but they were down to the wire. He had to roll the dice, have faith in Isabel and pray this worked out.
After the front gates opened, he drove his truck up the long path.
“I need to know why my uncle killed my father. How could he do such a thing? Over business? They were close. They loved each other. I don’t understand.”
“Money and power are strong motivators. They can make people do ugly, regrettable things.”
Isabel trembled, rubbing her palms on her thighs. She looked fragile, on the cusp of breaking. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
With all the new information thrown at her, he could only imagine how she felt.
“You can do this. You’re going to be fine.” She had to be, or he was as good as dead and there was no telling what Vargas would do to Isabel.
He drove around the elegant circular driveway with a large fountain in the middle.
Rodrigo stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to the main building and greeted them. He opened Isabel’s door, and helped her from the vehicle.
Dutch cut the engine and came around the front of the truck.
“Keys,” Rodrigo said to him. “I’ll have it parked.” He gestured off to the side where several black SUVs sat in front of a four-bay garage. “We’ll have your things brought up to your rooms.”
Dutch tossed him his keys.
“Rooms?” Isabel asked, emphasizing the s.
“Your uncle would prefer if you two didn’t share a room. It’s old-fashioned, I know, but he won’t bend on it.”
Rolling her eyes, she crossed her arms. “I can’t wait to give him a piece of my mind.”
Great. One more thing to poke the bear, Dutch thought.
“I’ve got to pat you down,” Rodrigo said.
Nodding, Dutch extended his arms. Since he’d expected a pat down and to have his things searched, he’d given Isabel the degausser and the forensic lifting tape to get her uncle’s fingerprint. She’d stashed both in her purse.
Once Rodrigo was satisfied, he said, “Your uncle is waiting in the courtyard to have dinner.”
Isabel marched off, her heels clacking against the stone steps, spiking Dutch’s trepidation.
He hurried after her. When he caught up, he took her arm, encouraging her to slow down. “Don’t forget the objective. Dinner is perfect. He’ll have something to drink and we can pull a print from the glass. Please, try to remain calm.”
A guard opened the front door. They entered a palatial foyer, chandeliers glittering. He followed Isabel past a grand staircase. They crossed a room with a wall of windows thirty feet high that faced the ocean and went out through another door.
The courtyard was breathtaking, plucked straight from an Italian villa, and had a multimillion-dollar view of the ocean. Torches blazed and candlelight gleamed, bouncing off the silverware and crystal on the table.
“Mi hija,” Vargas said, standing with his arms outstretched to Isabel. “How are you?”
She went to her uncle, allowing him to kiss both her cheeks. “I’m fine.” Her voice was cold and sharp, her face stern. She sat opposite him and draped her napkin across her lap.
“Mr. Vargas.” Dutch shook his hand.
“Please, call me Emilio.” He gestured for Dutch to sit to his right. “Your fortitude is remarkable, my dear. Dutch told me about the crazy, random drive-by shooting at your gallery. I’m sorry to hear your friend was injured. It’s unfortunate such things happen in this day and age. How is Brenda doing?”
Isabel clenched her jaw. “She’s going to recover, thankfully. Her parents will fly out as soon as they can.”
“I’d like to pay for her medical bills as well as her parents’ expenses. We have so much good fortune. It’s the least I can do to help someone you’re close to.”
“Yes. It is the least you can do,” Isabel said, her tone scolding.
Vargas narrowed his eyes, giving her a strange look.
“What’s for dinner?” Dutch asked. “Isabel has low blood sugar and we’re starving.”
Isabel stared at her uncle, and Dutch could feel the animosity emanating from her.
A perplexed expression crossed Vargas’s face, but he picked up a bell and rang it. The tinny sound grated on Dutch’s nerves.
Seconds later, servants came outside in a single, orchestrated file and placed salads in front of them. Another poured chardonnay in their wineglasses.
“Let us toast.” Vargas raised his glass and waited until they had all done likewise. “To you, Isabel. May you have a long, happy, healthy life, mi hija. And to you, Dutch, for protecting her when I could not. Thank you. I owe you a life debt. Salud.”
They sipped the wine and set their glasses down.
Dutch dug into the salad, but Isabel pushed the food around on her plate with her fork.
Vargas stared at her, noticing her preoccupation, too. “What’s wrong? I know yesterday was difficult for you, probably terrifying. But you seem off. Like you’re angry with me for some reason.”
Isabel glared at her uncle, saying nothing.
Tension mounted, growing so tangible it had taken on a pulsing beat in Dutch’s head. Tick. Tick.
“It’s nothing,” she finally said, lowering her gaze.
“Don’t lie to me.” Her uncle’s voice was warm and loving. “Whatever it is, tell me.”
“You should try the salad,” Dutch said. “Eating will help.” Though he wasn’t sure if anything would make this situation better.
“Dutch, please,” Vargas said and then looked at Isabel. “There’s obviously something troubling you. I want to know what it is.”
She threw her fork down and it clattered onto the plate. “I can’t do this. Pretend like everything is all right when it isn’t.”
Tick. Tick.
“Then don’t pretend.” Vargas cocked his head to the side. “What can’t you do? Tell me what you mean.”
“You’re upset,” Dutch said taking her hand, but she pulled it away into her lap. Tick. Tick. “It’s being away from Brenda when you feel she needs you.” His heart ached looking at Isabel, seeing the internal struggle evident on her face.
“Is that it?” Vargas asked. “Or is it something else? Talk to me. I love you. I’m here for you. No matter what it is, you can tell me.” His tone was affectionate and coaxing, his eyes pleading.
“I’m talking about how you killed my father,” Isabel said, reaching her breaking point.
Uncomfortable silence reigned for the longest moment. Dutch schooled his expression and tried to think of a way out of this situation, but nothing came to mind.
“Why would you say such a thing to me?” Vargas asked, his voice so pained, it’d make anyone who hadn’t seen the evidence of a feud, the pictures of her father and a witness both gunned down, doubt the accusation.
“Don’t try to change the subject.” Isabel tossed her napkin on the table. “I know you did it. How could you? Your own brother?”
Dutch’s ears rang, clear and sharp and loud as the bell had earlier. Sitting at the table, he felt like he was watching a six-car pileup, helpless to stop it.
Vargas leaned back in his chair, picked up his wineglass and drank. Maybe he was stalling for time, but he appeared composed, as if he wasn’t the least bit worried. “This subject is Pandora’s box. If you insist on removing the lid, you’ll never be able to put it back on. It’ll change everything for you. I ask you, as someone who has loved you from the day you were born, to let this go.”
“Why did you kill him?” Isabel pressed, ignoring the warning. “For power? For money?”
“Who told you this?” Vargas asked.
“You don’t get to ask me questions. Not until you’ve answered mine.”
“Isabel, I’ve only sought to protect you. Let me do so now. Drop this.”
“Tell me. Why did you kill my father? I have a right to know.”
“I didn’t kill your father,” Vargas said.
“Damn you to hell! May God strike you dead for lying to my face. I loved you, looked up to you, when all along...” Her voice trailed off as tears fell from her eyes.
Vargas sighed and clucked his tongue. “My brother and I reached an impasse, where only one of us could survive, yes, but I didn’t kill your father. Because...I’m your father.”
Silence. Complete and total silence.
Isabel blinked at Vargas. The shock in her eyes was palpable.
It was one of those surreal, precarious moments. Dutch was too stunned to move, afraid the tiniest action on his part could tip the scales in the wrong direction.
“Your mother and I had an affair. It’s the reason my wife left me,” Vargas said, the words flowing unpolished, tripping over one another in a rush. “It’s not something I’m proud of. When she got pregnant, Luis suspected the baby wasn’t his. After you were born, the doctors found cancer in your mother. Metastatic. Stage four. She was gone so fast. The day we buried her, Luis sat me down, told me that you were the last piece of your mother that he had left. Then he recounted a story from the Bible. The judgment of Solomon.” Vargas’s eyes turned glassy and the heavy emotion in his voice was undeniable. “He told me that either you were his and all would be forgiven between us. Or he would cut you in two like the baby in the story and we could each keep half of you. He claimed you, and I let him, to protect you. It was the price for peace that he demanded I pay. But I’m your father.”
“No.” The clipped reply emanated disbelief. “This is just another lie,” Isabel said, shaking her head. “You never answered my question. You’ll never tell me the truth, will you?” She shoved her chair back and stood. “You’re not even sorry that you killed him. Are you?”
“I have no regrets.” Vargas got up and came around the table. “It’s no lie.” He wrapped her in a bear hug. “I’m your father.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, lifting her hands away from him as if disgusted that they were touching. “Are you the leader of Los Chacales?”
He lowered his head but didn’t let her go. “Yes. I never wanted you to find out. I wanted you to build a life free from the dangers of my world.”
“Well, you failed. Horribly.” She disentangled herself from him. “I almost died, and my best friend is in the hospital because of you.”
His head snapped up. “How do you know any of this? Who told you? Who is trying to turn you against me?”
Reflexively, she glanced at Dutch. Vargas’s gaze followed hers.
Dutch sat still as stone. His ears weren’t only ringing now, they were burning. His entire face was on fire, but he kept his gaze soft, almost questioning.
“The playing cards. There was an incident in a grocery store I didn’t tell you about.” She stepped back. “A man from the Guzman cartel followed me in a grocery store. Put a queen of spades card in my basket. He spoke to me. You wouldn’t believe the things he said. Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Did you really think I’d never find out?”
Vargas raked his hair back with his hands. “I’ve worked very hard to keep you in the dark about my affairs.”
“And it almost cost me my life.”
“You’re safe,” Vargas said. “I’m taking care of the Guzman cartel.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“The head of their cartel and all their top lieutenants will be dead before sunrise. Their cartel is like a hydra—many new heads will sprout, and they’ll be too busy fighting among themselves for power and control to worry about me.”
“I can’t do this with you right now.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’ll finish organizing your event tomorrow. Then I’m leaving.”
“I know you doubt me and question whether I’m your father but give me the chance to prove it.”
Isabel backed up with tears welling in her eyes. “I need time away from you. To clear my head. To think.” She turned and rushed off into the house.
Dutch slumped in his chair, his head pounding, and noticed Isabel had left her purse.
The tape was inside. A glass with Vargas’s fingerprint gleamed in the candlelight.
Groaning, Vargas pressed his fists on the table. “Why didn’t you warn me and tell me she knew all of that?”
“I didn’t know that was going to happen,” Dutch said, letting his natural shock over Isabel’s admission come through. “She told me the man who left the queen of spades in her basket spoke to her, but she didn’t tell me what he said. Then everything at the gallery happened.”
“I’ve spent three decades protecting her from the truth. Damn it!” Vargas swept his hands across the table, knocking his dishes to the floor. His glass shattered. He paced back and forth in front of the table, then caught himself and regained his composure. “Go to the kitchen. They’ll give you a plate to take to your room. Get some rest. The sun will rise on a new day.”
And it would be their last chance to get the hard drive. If they let emotion stop them from succeeding again, a lot of innocent people were going to die.
Dutch stood. “Let’s hope tomorrow is better.”
“One more thing. Respect my wishes. Stay away from Isabel’s room tonight.”
Isabel needed him. She needed comfort, a compassionate ear to listen, now more than ever, but under the tenuous circumstances as they were, what choice did he have? “Yes, sir.”